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It’s raining.
It’s raining, it’s cold, and there’s a dead body lying right in front of Megumi’s shivering frame.
Well, not just any body. It’s Itadori’s body to be exact. Cold, lifeless, and every bit not what is to be typically associated with Itadori Yuuji when someone thinks of Itadori Yuuji.
Yet the daunting image is very much the current reality for Megumi.
Megumi stares at Itadori. He looks at the rain pooling on either side of him. He watches on uselessly as raindrop after raindrop pelts the skin of Itadori’s exposed back.
Cold. Oh yeah, the rain — that’s why Megumi’s shivering. Itadori’s probably cold, too. The rain’s hitting him as well, is it not? Megumi thinks so, there’s a considerable amount of water pooling around the edges of his rapidly cooling body.
He should cover him, shield him from the cold perhaps.
Would his uniform jacket be enough? It’s pretty soaked though…
He can’t move anyway. Try as he may, there’s nothing Megumi can do except stare at Itadori’s body as though there’s a chance that if he stares hard enough he’ll come back to life and this would never have happened.
But he doesn’t. Itadori doesn’t rise from the dead as part of a multistage fucked up joke and Megumi forces himself to pull out his shattered phone, mess around with it until the screen flickers to life, and hope he can get a call through to Ijichi.
All the while, his cloudy eyes never leave Itadori.
It’s pretty fucking cold. The grass beyond Itadori’s body is a dull green stained a murky red with congealed blood. It all looks awful, like a dreadful painting meant to evoke nothing but nausea. Nothing goes together — everything is thrown into the frame without a forethought.
Megumi suffers through the displeasure of having no other choice but to view and contextualise every stroke.
Itadori’s dead. That’s the context. Itadori is dead and Megumi finds that he doesn’t quite appreciate the silence left in the wake of his departure.
That, and the steady rhythm still echoing in his head. A taunt. A reminder. A comfort.
i. reach.
Megumi’s resolve first cracks during the exchange event.
His hands are wet from the cool stream flowing around his palms. They’re shaking somewhat all the way up to the elbow where they’re on the cusp of giving out and sending the rest of him down to the water.
Before him are the towering figures of Itadori and Todo. Both have their fronts turned to the curse, giving it their full undivided attention.
Todo says something, probably to Panda, but his words are naught to Megumi.
He thinks about the curse’s flowers implanting themselves onto him. He thinks of the throbbing pain as their roots crossed the uncharted waters of his innards. He thinks of the blood oozing out from the corners of his mouth, drying against his chin while more of the foul tasting stuff flows over his lips.
As his mouth opens of its own will, Megumi never once tears his gaze from the back of Itadori’s head.
“Wait! Even you won’t—”
For a second Megumi doesn’t care if he sounds pathetic. His vision grows jagged at the edges. A splintered pane of glass he’s been handed to observe the world with. The impending dusk does nothing to help: a vignette has placed itself above the glass’s surface and is growing darker by the minute.
Regardless, the image projected to him is unmistakably clear.
“Fushiguro.”
Itadori turns to him, eyes aflame in a fascinating blaze that freezes the blood in and out of Megumi’s veins.
No. Absolutely not.
The last time Megumi saw that face a heart glistened beautifully beneath grey skies.
A one sided promise to live a long life was made before all that could be heard throughout the world was the thud of Itadori’s lifeless body against the cold, wet pavement.
Please.
He wants to reach out, to stop Itadori from fighting the damned curse but the pain in his abdomen is too sharp and it has Megumi reeling back with a sharp inhale through gritted, bloody teeth.
His hands are forced to remain holding him upright. The only indication that the Itadori silently pleading with him at the moment is real being the sunlight hitting his cheek at an irreplicable angle.
There’s nothing obscuring the inappropriately content expression sitting on the other boy’s scuffed face. All Megumi can do is freeze, composure faltering for a fleeting second as he so belatedly realises exactly what Itadori Yuuji is willing to do for other people.
Last time Itadori sacrificed himself he died. He departed the world happy to know his sacrifice hadn’t been for nothing.
Something fractures in Megumi as it dawns upon him that Itadori will leave with the same satisfaction all over again.
He doesn’t know if he can helplessly — uselessly, even, considering the wretched flora sprouting up and out through his abdomen — witness it for the second time.
Megumi wants Itadori alive and walking this earth. He wants nothing more than for this stupid kid to stop considering himself a hero and just live. The kid desires a proper death surrounded by others, so why can’t he wish for a long life with those who will be with him at his deathbed?
The stream dances around the minute, yet painful shift of Megumi’s body; the water glitters much like the honey eyes settled on him from above.
“Don’t worry,” Itadori says, and there’s about a million words wanting to pour out of Megumi’s mouth upon hearing those two.
Megumi’s not fucking worried he’s—
There is nothing in the world that could ever make him want to relive that day. Nothing.
Not even the grin stretched wide across Itadori’s lips. Too wide, too confident. No shaky last minute promises to be made.
Death’s hands have shaped him. He’s changed.
“You see it, too,” Todo suddenly mutters. He’s positioned himself next to Megumi, arms free of Maki. “He’s beginning to spread his wings.”
And as much as he doesn’t want to, Megumi does nothing but see it.
He clenches his jaw almost painfully, a litany of colourful curses and pathetic pleads sitting at the very tip of his tongue and waiting all too patiently to spill over and become one with the stream below.
His previous conversation with Itadori had been taken by the downpour, rainwater seeping through the crevices of the cracks littered all over the surrounding pavement until they inevitably found a drain. The stream was to take Megumi’s desperation and have it be swept far, far away to a basin where no one would ever know of Megumi’s misstep.
But all that comes out of Megumi is another promise. A vow of consequence should Itadori die again. Being in the midst of such an urgent moment it’s all he can think of to keep Itadori with the living.
It’s not enough. Promises can be broken.
Megumi spends the majority of his recovery time staring at his hands.
The hands that could do nothing except tremble in the face of danger, otherwise unmoving and unable to grab Itadori. The hands that remained soaking wet for days after the attack — no amount of scratchy paper towels being able to get the cool stream out from the crevices of his fingers.
(The hands that couldn’t reach out and keep Itadori from touching the unkind pavement.)
Water droplets stick to his palms like oxidised blood. It doesn’t matter how long he sits upright and shakes his hands out; they’re as wet as ever by the time his wrists start to flare up and he’s forced to delicately lay them across his blanketed lap.
Funnily enough, the fabric never dampens.
Gojo visits him for a moment that may as well not exist. He says he can’t linger around for long, that the cleanup is taking up a considerable amount of his time. It doesn’t stop him from lounging around on the few pieces of furniture Megumi’s filled his dorm with, however.
The man’s presence has Megumi narrowing his eyes in something between disgust and annoyance. And a third thing he doesn’t feel like delving into. Gojo has responsibilities to tend to so why is he insistent on hovering over Megumi while his designer cologne funk stinks up the place?
Familiarity surrounds them both, but there’s something invaluable missing from the scene.
“Don’t look at me like that. You know I’ll always make time for Megumi-chan,” he smiles something not quite a grin. Lithe fingers trace the back of the chair he’s leaning against. “How are you holding up, kid?”
Megumi shrugs, nose wrinkling. “What’s it to you?”
“Hm?”
“You lied to me. To Kugisaki.” He says, voice hoarse. “Why didn’t you at least tell me he was okay? Would that have been so difficult?”
Through his blindfold, Gojo frowns. The space between his eyebrows creases significantly, darkening the area where his eyes hide.
“It was necessary,” he replies. “Believe me on that.”
Megumi knows. There’s nothing to believe when it’s already universally acknowledged. He knows the higher-ups will always want Itadori dead. However that doesn’t make his and Gojo’s deception any less cruel.
“Kugisaki cried,” Megumi looks at his hands. They’re as drenched as ever. “Hadn’t even known Itadori for long and she still cried.”
Gojo doesn’t reply. He does, however, shift in his chair. The creak of the wood perhaps would have been the loudest sound Megumi’s ever heard if it weren’t for Itadori’s exposed heartbeat echoing in his ears.
The sun casts dozens of unseen rainbows across his baby blue sheets as its rays shine through the water droplets glistening over his pale skin.
“He died in front of me, you know? His heart was gone but he still had that stupid smile on his face. He died smiling so why did Kugisaki cry?”
(“Why did I cry?” remains unsaid.)
“You could’ve told us anything,” he continues, hands fisting the blanket tight, tight, tight. “Did you really think either of us would’ve run to the higher-ups? I thought—” He cuts himself off, turning his face away from the man’s line of sight. There’s something stuck in his throat. It hurts.
“You two are shitty, shitty idiots.” He stiffly finishes, words barely making it past the lump in his throat.
An unfamiliar silence resonates throughout the room. Outside, a branch tap, tap, taps on the window in lieu of whatever more Megumi wishes he could choke out.
Then, Gojo heaves a heavy sigh. About ten years of his life are shed with it.
“Where is this coming from?”
“Why do you care?”
“I care,” Gojo’s voice gets softer, placating, “because your hands are bleeding.”
Stupidly, Megumi blinks and spares a glance to where his hands haven’t released the baby blue blanket from their impossibly rigid hold.
Or would be baby blue, had it not been for the unmistakable crimson hues of fresh blood staining the fibres. There’s a bit of oxidation at the edges with the stuffy air of his room already going ahead and ensuring that the stains don’t come out easily.
Distantly, as though he’s a mere spectator, a pulsating pain makes itself known in either of his palms. It’s pathetically less than having to experience being a living garden.
He makes no move to relax his hands. Instead, Megumi looks from a perfect, crystalline droplet to a darkening bead of Zen’in blood and squeezes harder.
“I blamed myself, Gojo,” he finally grits out. The water droplet runs down the back of his hand in a tear-like manner, landing on the ever-growing crimson of the blanket.
Gojo’s jaw cracks. “All right.”
There’s some shuffling from Gojo’s side of the room. A light rustling of the designer pants he’s wearing, the click of his heels against the polished flooring of Megumi’s room. There’s a barely audible huff from the man and that’s all the warning Megumi receives before the awful, piercing sound of the chair scraping against his floor overpowers the steady heartbeat in his ears.
It goes on for an eternity. Gojo, the lunatic that he is, has seemingly decided that he’s above standing from the chair and carrying it closer to Megumi’s bed like any other normal person would’ve done.
The floor was polished.
Megumi is given no time to mourn because as soon as Gojo is close enough, he reaches out and pulls Megumi’s still bleeding hands from their entanglement with the blanket.
Strange, it is. Knowing infinity has been switched off for such an impractical gesture.
Steady meets trembling and Megumi finds himself marvelling at the battle-caused roughness of his teacher’s skin. He’s warm, blood flows beneath the stretch of pale skin in contact with his own. Red, red, red blood connected to a heartbeat connected to a glistening heart as safe as can be within its vessel.
Green eyes flicker up to Gojo’s face. He sees nothing but a man. The same man he’s watched grow up for longer than he’s been without him.
Who would’ve known — the strongest is like any other human.
From the impossibly light values of his hair to the way his lips stretch into one of his many stupid grins, the titanium evidence of one sleepless night too many catching the sun’s rays, Gojo very well could have been the one laying in a pool of his own blood, hand readily poised to knock on death’s door.
And it still would’ve been Megumi’s fault.
He gives a small hiss of pain as the man is forced to practically peel a double layer of dried blood and tiny fibres away from the open wounds nestled deep in his palms. If Gojo is any bit apologetic there’s nothing in his still furrowed brow that gives it away.
He has half a mind to pull himself out of the special grade’s hold. But he doesn’t; Gojo would make a fuss.
“What are you doing?” He asks instead, knowing all too well what the man was up to. Countless training sessions as a child run through his head.
“You’re hurt,” is all Gojo says before turning his full attention to Megumi’s palms.
“But you can’t—”
Gojo chuckles softly. “I know, Megumi. I also know that you’ve got some bandaids in this drawer over here. Do you mind if I take a look?”
“I can take care of myself, old man.”
A hum. “Then why do you let yourself believe such lies?” There’s now a slight edge to his voice, a hint of a long forgotten protectiveness taking over that has Megumi’s stomach rolling unpleasantly.
“Would it be a lie if it happened?” Megumi mutters, not caring if Gojo heard or not.
“It happened—” Gojo snaps, letting go of Megumi’s left hand to reach for the bedside drawer “—because of Sukuna. You’re not Sukuna, are you?”
He doesn’t look at Megumi. Gojo’s usually not good at this kind of stuff so he doesn’t look at Megumi.
Gojo busies himself instead with tearing the bandaids open and sticking them wherever Megumi’s nails left red, crescent shaped indents. Megumi silently watches, having just listened and brushed off Gojo’s words.
Feelings are awkward for them both.
“What possessed you to buy tiger bandaids?” Small talk. Megumi can do that. He’s done it loads of times in the ten years he’s known the man.
“They were the only ones left in stock.”
“Funny.” Rough fingers smooth a bandaid where Megumi’s pinky left a particularly shallow wound. Cool titanium is pensively slotted between the man’s teeth. It looks like it should hurt, but the action is smooth enough to be considered second nature.
“Did you know that Yuuji’s name has the kanji for ‘tiger’?”
Megumi tears his eyes away from the now irritated piercing. He looks to the wall, gaze settling on an imaginary crack sprouting from the floor.
The moment his hands are released he wastes no time in tucking them beneath either of his arms. He still doesn’t think about looking at Gojo or at the stupid, stupid grin he probably has sitting on his face.
Gojo makes an amused sort of noise; one that has an aborted growl itching the back of Megumi’s throat.
“One thing I can tell you, dear Megumi, is that Yuuji never once blamed you.”
Megumi pauses, incredulous.
“He’s an idiot.”
At his words, Gojo releases an impossibly loud “HA!” It has Megumi flinching away from the sheer volume, a scowl easing itself onto his face as the edges of the man’s blindfold crease from his now too gleeful expression. It’s unnerving. Any other human would be incapable of such a smile.
He particularly does not appreciate how it’s directed at him. Almost as if Gojo has figured out something Megumi has yet to do as much as consider.
But that’s impossible: Gojo sucks at whatever this is. Megumi too. Out of the three of them, Tsumiki had been the only one capable of actually talking.
(“Boys,” she’d say, shaking her head. She always said it with a smile.)
“He’s a good kid,” Gojo then says, uttering nothing but the truth right into the shared space between himself and his pupil. He sobers somewhat. “You don’t meet people like him often.”
No, no he doesn’t. That’s what is so jarring about watching the life gradually, in a near hesitant manner, ebb away from Itadori’s amber eyes.
There’s nothing in the world that could possibly make Megumi forget the dimming of the other boy’s spirit, his massacred body beginning to struggle keeping itself upright with nothing there to tie all pieces together.
There also wasn’t anything preventing him from reaching out and allowing Itadori a final gentle caress of humanity instead of the cold, cold, too fucking cold pavement.
“Please.”
He could’ve done more. He should’ve done more.
“He’s an idiot,” Megumi repeats, stresses. “Getting his heart torn out like that.” Dying like that. Dying when I wanted him alive.
Like many years before from the heated driver’s seat of the Aston Martin, obscured sky blue eyes stare ahead with one of the few unreadable expressions he’s seen settle on his teacher. His lips are pulled to a straight line, piercings having lost their shine and simply rest now as an empty grey.
Then, a destitute hum heavy with something Megumi can never seem to name.
“I’ll get you a new blanket.”
His hands are drenched.
ii. grab.
It began inconspicuously.
It began as a barely there brush of Megumi’s thumb against the back of Itadori’s hand. The lightest of touches, and yet enough to feel the smooth spread of warm skin with red, red, red blood rushing beneath the precious barrier.
Alive. Sporadic.
The touches were occasional. Itadori’s all too familiar bouts of weightless laughter had been evidence enough of his continued existence on this too terrible planet. He was alive — he was laughing, dead people don’t laugh. He was breathing, sharing the same curse-drenched air with Megumi as though nothing had ever happened.
Though neither the dead nor the living forget, and so Megumi's vision is continuously filled with Itadori dropping gone, gone, gone.
He smiled with heavy relief as he so openly accepted death’s arms and Megumi wishes he caught him so that he wouldn’t have felt the unpleasant pavement before departing from this too harsh world.
But Itadori stands before him now, high sunlight hitting his skin as if to cleanse him from the lingering coldness of death.
There was no sun when Itadori died.
He tries not to think about it. He tries to forget the cold patter of the rain against the shoulders of his uniform jacket. The way the frigid drops gradually seeped into his shirt underneath, contrasting greatly against the shock of having Sukuna’s hand plunge itself deep into Itadori’s chest and tear at his heart like some kind of fucked up ripened fruit.
Megumi wishes for nothing more. He wants to forget.
He needs to forget the way Itadori’s heart glistened beneath the cloudy skies, how the sunlight miraculously managed to reach the still pulsating organ through the few cracks in the heavy blanket above.
He needs it all gone.
The beating of Itadori’s heart echoes all too loudly in his ears and Megumi knows there’s no forgetting such an intricate rhythm.
Neither the dead nor the living forget and Itadori walks with a bounce in his step as he and Kugisaki delve into their usual antics. Something about a drama airing on TV. Or a sports event. Or Gojo’s homework assignment that he’s already done and will inevitably help the other two with.
Whatever it is Megumi wouldn’t know; the brush of Itadori’s shoulder against his causes for his mind to temporarily zero in on the touch.
It’s sunny out. There isn’t a cloud to be seen. Itadori’s shoulder is warm. He’s fine. They’re all fine and they’re currently on their way to grab a quick bite.
But—
With a piercing remark Megumi was too preoccupied to pick up, Itadori is shoved by Kugisaki and thus makes contact with Megumi once again before nearly tripping over his own feet.
Kugisaki laughs, a too nice sound. Megumi sucks in a harsh breath but nonetheless moves to keep the boy from dirtying his uniform.
He reaches out, hands latching onto Itadori’s shoulders, and manoeuvres his body upright not unkindly, but also not gently.
“Uniforms aren’t free, Itadori,” he mutters, completely knowing who covers the costs anyway. He gets a small, pitched “Oh!” in response to his pull; it’s a marvelled noise and one Megumi ignores.
Itadori gives him a quick smile. It’s nothing like the one permanently embedded in Megumi’s eyelids. “Thanks, Fushiguro!”
Megumi grunts in response, sending Kugisaki a look over the mess of pink hair.
She grins back, all parts unashamed of having nearly sent Itadori into an impromptu date with the autumn leaves scattered about the pavement. Below him, Itadori gives his own small laugh at God knows what. He’s strange like that.
Personally, Megumi finds no issue in it.
Once the other boy is properly back on his own two feet and not in any immediate danger of falling face first, Megumi is quick to pull his hands away and shove them back in his pockets.
Though not before running his right thumb over the back of Itadori’s hand. A light touch. One Itadori was unlikely to feel because he had already gone back to his passionate sermon over some Western franchise.
(Megumi hasn’t indulged in any of that ever since the mess that was Gojo taking him to see one of those dumb superhero movies. It was an awful evening; the theatre had been in complete disarray towards the end and Megumi had his serving of popcorn chucked at the screen when he’d hardly made a dent in it, wanting to save some.
A downright terrible, terrible evening. He had only indulged Gojo so that Tsumiki wouldn’t have had to sit through three hours of comic book nonsense.
Not that it had mattered because his sister sheepishly admitted to already having promised to attend her friend’s birthday party that same night. Megumi and his popcorn were doomed from the moment Gojo walked into the apartment with that stupid, no-good grin on his face waving two tickets to—
“Megumi-chan. I want you to never let go of what is precious to you, yeah?”
—to a nine-something in the evening lecture in the passenger seat of an all too expensive car Megumi was hesitant in checking the price of.
“What?” He asked, incredulous. “Where’s this coming from?”
Gojo shrugged. It was a move that only annoyed him further.
“Just some words of advice.”
“Oh. I mean, why would I ever do that? That’s stupid.”
That clearly hadn’t been the anticipated reply because Gojo stayed silent for a moment, eyes firmly on the road ahead. Then he gave a destitute hum heavy with something Megumi could never seem to place a finger on.)
Unlike Gojo’s lecture, however, Itadori’s rant is bearable, jovial. His voice is rough at the edges with boyish enthusiasm as he goes on and on about Star Wars and yet oh so light for the air to carry his words pleasantly to Megumi’s unlistening ears.
Kugisaki, meanwhile, listens to Itadori with an unimpressed expression on her face. Megumi distantly wonders what’s so great about this “Darth Vader” guy to have sparked such a passionate discussion.
The autumn wind tickles at his cheek. Summer is long gone and Kugisaki gets happier and happier as more winter coats are added to her closet. Itadori’s arms suffer more and more as not even resurrection can stop him from being the designated bag carrier. But the boy, being all parts of his glistening heart, carries them regardless.
Megumi doesn’t pay mind to the breeze aside from a small huff at the odd sensation of his hair dancing out of his sight. Kugisaki begins to whine about passing by the shopping district for yet another coat and Itadori immediately jumps in with nervous protests.
It’s become Megumi’s new normal. He doesn’t know if he should start waiting for his own heart to bleed openly under the blue skies and pulsate against the cool air.
Ah, he’s trying not to think about it.
It’s difficult. Neither the dead nor the living forget and Itadori’s heartbeat is a constant beyond the shrill voices of his friends. A cassette incapable of running out of tape while the play button is permanently jammed in.
The back of Itadori’s hand is warm and alive. The rain of his death was too cold.
But here in the present Itadori is warm, very warm, and Megumi shifts his focus back to the other two, deciding to join in with an agreement on Kugisaki’s behalf that has Itadori gasping in exaggerated offence and loudly begging in Megumi’s ear to please reconsider, his poor arms have already gone through so much—
Megumi gladly lets Itadori obliterate his eardrum. Anything to muffle the perpetual rhythm.
It began inconspicuously. The tentative swipe across the back of Itadori’s hand was the first of many.
Megumi found it kind of pathetic. His ever growing dependence on touching any small patch of Itadori’s skin was stupid when all he had to do was look at him: Dead people don’t ferociously scarf down udon noodles.
He did it anyway, finding that more and more water droplets rolled off his skin with the slightest hint of warm contact.
But of course it would only be a matter of time before the source of Megumi’s compulsion took notice.
Perhaps it had been a slip of judgement, maybe Itadori hadn’t been paying any actual attention to the movie Kugisaki selected at Itadori’s insistence before promptly falling asleep in a pile of blankets and pillows gathered by him and Megumi.
Whatever it was, Megumi’s careful tracing of Itadori’s bruised middle knuckle elicited a hitch in the other boy’s otherwise steady breathing.
There hadn’t been a mission that day. All the free time they’d been graciously blessed with was instead spent training with the second years on Yaga’s concealed suggestion.
Panda opted to take on Itadori, raising his paws (hands?) for the boy to practice his delayed punches.
Between dodging Maki’s extensive array of weaponry and throwing in his own moves, Megumi took notice of how much Itadori was pushing into every hit. Enough to have Panda wincing every now and then, enough to leave his knuckles in a mess of purple hues.
His gaze never left Itadori’s hands. There was an urge, a feeling he could only smother for so long, to take his hands and tediously map out every bruise and scratch. Itadori was still alive and walking in step with Megumi — the bruises were more than enough proof.
Nonetheless, the urge never went away.
So through the sounds of Kugisaki’s soft snores and George Clooney’s smooth voice coming from the too nice flatscreen, the hitch of Itadori’s breath reaches Megumi when the flat of his thumb crosses the crest of his knuckle.
Fuck.
Quickly, as though burned, Megumi jerks his hand away.
There’s a second — probably an eternity — in which Itadori’s gaze remains fixed on the soundless images in front of them. A low cast of ombré orange light crawls up to his chest, softly illuminating everything above the cutoff. The slow rise and fall from his breathing stutters a bit, as though he has words building up to the tip of his tongue.
Words Megumi doesn't know if he wants to hear.
Heaviness floods his mouth, his own array of words pooling uselessly at the edge of his lips. An apology, an excuse, anything that could possibly make this situation less difficult to explain to both himself and Itadori.
The lighting from the television is so, so soft and Megumi scuttles away from it. Darkness envelops its abating arms around his frame, providing him temporary solace in the shadows.
Temporary, because a particular warmth seeks him out with an approach bordering on the thin edge of diffidence.
Not hesitant — there’s no minute retracting of calloused fingertips. They instead linger on the miles of worn sofa space separating them from where Megumi’s fingers are curled into themselves.
Green eyes flicker from the still hand to Itadori’s face. Nothing has changed.
The darkness is toying with his mind — surely it’s playing an awfully mean trick on him — because there’s no way the other boy can maintain the gentleness of what features are made visible by the low light of the television. It’s obvious there’s a consequence sitting somewhere within the delicate slope of his nose.
Megumi blinks. He feels the shadows tug on him, coaxing his body further back.
Then, Itadori’s hand curls itself over his. Pulls him out. Megumi follows wordlessly, like an idiot.
“Don’t skip out on Fantastic Mr. Fox now, Fushiguro.”
“Right,” Megumi replies, wishing his voice isn’t as rough as it sounds, “sorry.” His throat is dry, it clicks when he swallows.
The touch, however, is divine. An oasis among the desert he has the displeasure of calling life. Water droplets roll off with laughable ease. He hopes they don’t bother Itadori too much; if they do, the pink haired boy doesn’t say anything.
Instead, he tilts his head in question when he finally turns to look at Megumi.
“Are you still mad at me?”
“Huh?” He says rather dumbly.
Itadori gives his hand a squeeze, “for lying to you. About not being…you know. I know Kugisaki’s still angry about that but… Are you?”
Suddenly there’s a new, red hot urge to turn his hand over and lace their fingers together. Megumi pointedly ignores such foolishness with a sharp lurch of his chest.
“Dumbass,” his voice is steady, “you’re not forgiven.”
“Not yet.”
“Not ever.”
In their shared periphery, Kugisaki flips over onto her right side. The television light just barely reaches past her upper arm; her face is enshrouded now, sweater rumpled somewhat.
Megumi moves to fix the blankets for her but is stopped by another squeeze from Itadori. It’s faint, had he stood a second earlier he would’ve missed it, but he instead decided to spend another second syncing his every breath with Itadori and now he’s tethered.
On the television, Mr. Fox’s voice acts as a saving grace. While the character speaks, there’s less of a chance for Itadori to pick up on the abrupt, embarrassing staggering of his breathing.
He shifts again, and Itadori squeezes once more. Firm, but not enough to hurt yet sufficient to have him slowly sinking back against the old sofa cushions.
A plea of sorts and for what? Itadori doesn’t need to beg him.
“Fushiguro.” And something nasty jolts within him before he’s able to suppress it. Still, Megumi is ever helpless and unable to keep himself from facing the other boy.
Itadori’s smiling, easy and boyish as it always is with him. Megumi’s anchored. “I’ll do it.”
Before he gets the chance to refute, a mess of pink and brown hair flashes past him and over to a still sleeping Kugisaki.
In an instant the oasis is gone and some part of Megumi silently wonders if the droplets managed to secure themselves onto Itadori. Megumi could’ve easily adjusted Kugisaki. Why was Itadori so determined to be the one to do it?
The answer to his question is immediately answered when he spares a glance to his now barren hand and finds it still curled into itself. A curiously tense grip, the knuckles appear translucent as they’re illuminated by the television.
(Tiger bandaids prod at the back of his mind — they really had been the only ones left in stock.)
He’s given no time to mourn the loss of Itadori’s warmth, however, because said boy wastes no time in fixing another blanket over Kugisaki before sliding back into his previous position on the sofa with relative ease. Fluid with it, seemingly practiced over hundreds of thousands of lifetimes and Megumi can’t help but ingenuously hope he’s met him in every one.
Itadori’s hand envelops Megumi’s again, and a million questions flood the cavern of his mouth.
“Doesn’t…” he falters, looking at nothing but the way the bruises on Itadori’s knuckles provide a great contrast to his own.
Amber eyes bore into his, and there’s a shine sparingly dusted over his irises, illuminating them to a soft hazel. It’s pretty, so pretty, yet there’s nothing Megumi can contrast it with since he’s never seen Itadori’s eyes without their perpetual brilliance.
That essence of life he stubbornly retains, refusing to let go until his final breath. It’s all so pretty.
“Fushiguro,” Itadori interrupts his thoughts, “are you mad at me?”
“Do you want me to be?”
He laughs. “Honestly no, but I deserve it.”
“I don’t think I’m angry with you,” Megumi replies solemnly. “Gojo yes but…” He shifts in his spot, breaking eye contact to look over at the television instead.
One of the foxes speaks, she looks sad, but her words are rendered unintelligible due to him being devastatingly aware of the too gentle pressure ever present on his fist.
That insane urge from before flares up, hotter than ever, and Megumi’s sure his knuckles will burst any second. It should hurt, his palms should be burning, yet by some miracle he feels nothing.
He’s angry with Gojo. He’s absolutely, positively angry with his benefactor for allowing Megumi and Kugisaki to silently wallow in their grief over Itadori while practically having the boy behind his back the entire time.
That anger will take plenty of time to leave. If Gojo’s lucky, Megumi will have tossed any residuals over his shoulder within five years from now.
But he also understands — in fact, he knows everything all too well. He gets the immediate danger that could’ve presented itself to Itadori had Gojo taken no time in parading the miracle boy from Sendai and his unprecedented ascension from the grave.
There’s no guessing what the higher-ups would’ve done in such a situation and Megumi, quite frankly, would prefer not to think about it as Itadori’s hand continues to lay atop his.
As Itadori’s gaze remains on him, a wave of absurdly cold apprehension overcomes him. It's brief, but a shiver runs through his spine regardless.
His nails dig further into the sofa, bunching up the fabric against the skin of his palms.
It’ll definitely get ruined further. Mercy is an unknown against the sheer strength embedded in his grip.
An unintentional barrier inserts itself between him and another round of tiger bandaids. He feels the soft, worn fibres rub against already healed wounds; thin white crescents are what little evidence of his impropriety is left.
Or they would be if it wasn’t for his ridiculously tight fist at the moment.
It should be nice, perhaps even a comfort, but all Megumi feels is a conflicting entrapment between the furniture and Itadori’s being.
He feels everything.
“I was mad at the start—” a simple (watered down) truth, one he can get out without the painful clench of his jaw “—but now? I don’t know what to think.” A complex sentiment.
There’s a hum, it hardly graces the air before fizzling out into nothing. It’s pitched, nonetheless, in an affirmative tone. Thoughtful.
Megumi’s hand might snap in two should the impromptu one sided staring contest with Itadori continue. Fantastic Mr. Fox is still playing in the background, but the movie’s thousands of kilometres away from where he and Itadori share the most minimal space. Forgotten, becoming nothing more than a citrus reminiscent hue and nonsensical noises neither of them cared for now.
And to think Megumi was supposedly the one skipping out on it.
In, out, the steady rise and fall of his friend’s chest proves they’re sharing more than the stupid sofa. The glow of the screen blankets them both and yet Megumi can’t imagine the softness ever claiming him as it does the other boy.
“I was gone for months.” Yes, he was and Megumi doesn’t appreciate the reminder. “I missed you guys so much, y’know. Gojo-sensei always told me you were doing okay when I asked.”
His hand’s going to snap — the sofa curls up even further against his palm and the hot, searing edges of his nails are beginning to show themselves. But there’s no pain, no pain to distract him from the way Itadori swoops his head down to meet his eyes again.
“I don’t think you were okay.”
Megumi sharply inhales; there’s something odd and meddlesome lodged at the highest point of his chest.
“What makes you think such things, Itadori?” He asks, nearly forgetting himself as he watches his friend’s eyes shift towards something close to despondency.
Instead of answering, Itadori continues to look at him. There’s a twist to the corner of his lip, one Megumi’s hardly seen. Much less on a bubbly individual such as Itadori. Because of that, his hasty attempt to place a name on it is in vain.
In the end it doesn’t matter anyway. An easy smile finds its way across the river. The twist is gone. Megumi never saw it.
“Always so grumpy,” Itadori chides. “Have you ever thought about smiling, Fushiguro?”
Yes, Megumi thinks, you died after.
“Whatever,” he grunts, voice tactfully low. “Don’t you have a movie to watch?”
For a breath, Itadori considers the television. He then shrugs, lips sticking out somewhat. “It’s about to end. Let’s rewatch it another day when Kugisaki’s awake.” He suddenly brightens. “But we can watch The LEGO Movie! I think you’ll like it, Fushiguro.”
“Don’t be so sure about that, Itadori.”
At his words, said boy lets out a snort. It’s nothing like the egregious laugh Gojo gave way back when in that moment out of time. “Ha! Come on, let’s make some hot chocolate before I switch the movie.”
Megumi blinks rather stupidly.
“I don’t like sweet stuff.”
(He speaks rather stupidly, too.)
“I know,” Itadori huffs. It’s not a noise of annoyance, or at least it shouldn’t be if it’s released through the crevasses of an unfading simper. “I’ll just make it with dark chocolate, yeah? Gramps taught me a good recipe a couple years back.”
Honey eyes, wide and beseeching, keep him trapped between the arm of the sofa and the palm of Itadori’s hand. It’s safe to assume that he’s being given no choice but to consider following the other boy’s waltz into the kitchen. He knows could go into the shadows if he so wishes, but that’s stupid — Itadori could never give him a reason to hide, vessel of a thousand-year-old curse or not.
Besides, someone has to supervise Itadori and make sure he doesn't set the kitchen on fire. Not that he would ever, as he’s proficient at even the most mundane things, but just to deter the slightest possibility.
Plus, his hold on Megumi’s hand is not letting up.
Worrying his lip with a too rigid jaw, Megumi supposes he could have a go at the dark chocolate. First time for everything, right? Even dark hot chocolate.
“Fine,” he says, feels his hand go tighter, “but if it’s too sweet I’ll fucking kick you.”
“You won’t kill me?”
“There are more honourable reasons to die.”
Itadori slips off the sofa, knees popping as he stands. “Well I think that making a nice cup of hot chocolate for you is pretty noble. You should be thankful, Fushiguro, for getting cooking lessons from me.” He cocks his head to the side, eyebrow lifted playfully in a way that has Gojo’s vestige fluttering in Megumi’s vision. “Only people I really like get this opportunity.”
“What an amazing opportunity,” he dryly replies. Although he’s still sitting down, his arm is now stretched out and his hand remains snug within the warm confines of Itadori’s.
He’s starting to feel as though it’s Itadori who doesn’t want to let go. And for what reason he doesn’t know and he doesn’t think he wants to know. At least not at this moment.
“Fushigurooo,” and fuck if Megumi doesn’t want to kick his ankles right then and there, “stand up.”
He sneaks a glance over to Kugisaki, wondering if their destitute conversation has somehow dragged her out of the embrace of sleep. The movie selection screen is only spared a passing glimpse.
She’s still asleep. Itadori’s heartbeat drowns out the light snores coming from her, but her relaxed expression tells all.
Itadori looks over his shoulder, past the screen displaying previous search results for Fantastic Mr. F, and eyes the sleeping form of Kugisaki.
She shifts a bit with quiet murmurs slipping from her lips. One of the many blankets spread over her slips off her shoulder low enough for the edge of her old shirt sleeve to peek over the fuzzy hem. Itadori watches, lifts his free hand, considers, then lets it hang at his side again.
He breathes out something akin to an airy laugh and goes: “Do you think we’ll have to make her a cup, too?”
Megumi lifts a brow. He’s not even sure if Itadori can see in the low light. “It’ll be cold by the time she wakes up.”
If she wakes up. Kugisaki looks awfully at peace where she lies and a tiny part of Megumi knows that the chances of her getting up anytime soon are slim to none. And knowing Itadori, he’ll definitely not want to leave her alone in the common area when he and Megumi finally go off to bed.
He could carry her, but the boy’s infuriatingly considerate and would want to ask for permission before lifting her and to ask for permission would mean having to wake her up. One glance at Itadori tells Megumi that neither of them wish to disturb her when she’s clearly so snug in her current position.
“Let’s have a sleepover,” he finds himself saying, asking. Tongue darting out to swipe across his bottom lip, Megumi bites the tip of it before it can fully retract.
At his words, Itadori stills. Pain flares up within his mouth.
Then there’s another breathy laugh escaping Itadori’s chest, deep and yet so carefree that it has Megumi releasing his tongue with a hint of iron following.
“We’ll have to share the sofa, Fushiguro.”
“That’s fine.”
Itadori does a sort of half shrug that basically says if you say so. “Then come on, let’s make that hot chocolate and get back before you fall asleep on me too.”
“Would that be such a bad thing?”
“Yes,” is the grating whine he gets in response, “watch The LEGO Movie with me, pleaseee.”
“All right, all right.” Megumi lets himself get pulled to his feet, nearly sways from having sat down for so long, and sends his friend a firm look. “This hot chocolate better be good, Itadori.”
Itadori grins and brings their joined hands up in the limited space between them. “Trust me.”
Deciding to be brave, Megumi takes what was supposed to be a quick peek at their hands that immediately turns into aeons of dumbfounded staring when he feels another point of his already compromised resolve splinter.
Their fingers are laced together.
It’s unimaginably different to the measly, beyond timid grazes of his hand against the other’s. Afoul. Part of him wants to manoeuvre out of the hold, reject it as he always has.
But he doesn’t. Instead, a huff escapes him. It’s nothing alike to a laugh yet not quite a scoff either — just a rush of air that has him surrendering to the rough edges of a too gentle hand.
It’s stupid how easily he finds himself relinquishing all the fight within his body, allowing Itadori this one moment to outsmart him instead of listening to his body’s usual defensive tirade.
If it’s Itadori, then it’s fine. Megumi did it first anyway.
Alive, warm. Warm, alive. The now blue television light deflects off their skin, showcasing a blend unlike anything he’s ever seen. Sunkissed skin against his own, warm and alive all over. Much, much more than what he could allow himself to feel as he balanced on the dangerously thin ledge of self-interest.
The water droplets fall, fall, fall, to the ground in moderate succession. Once they hit the floor, their sounds of impact are borderline pathetic.
Plop, plop, plop. Then, they’re no more.
Megumi’s gaze lingers on his now dry hand for a beat. A second in which he takes a breath and focuses on the feeling of Itadori’s palm against his. It’s foreign, it should be unwelcomed, Megumi only wanted what he could allow himself, yet he cannot pull away.
He meets Itadori’s eyes once again. They’re…oddly soft.
With a voice bordering on nothingness, he says: “I’m not helping you make it.”
“You are so helping,” Itadori replies, dragging Megumi over to the kitchen almost effortlessly, “and you’re going to learn.”
Megumi rolls his eyes. “Why would I learn when you’re here to make it for me?”
There’s an odd twist of Itadori’s lips. A grimace, maybe. A despondent, aborted attempt at a grin. Whatever it is, it disappears after a second and is replaced by tranquillity.
“Just in case.”
Itadori lets go of Megumi’s hand to get a pot from the cupboard. He wills himself to not bemoan and show his dismay over the loss of contact. Foolish it would’ve been, to even entertain the mere thought of it being long lasting.
And so he busies himself with watching as Itadori finds the pot he’s looking for with a satisfied noise and straightens up before heading over to the sink. There are some dirty dishes leftover from dinner resting at one side, but they’re pointedly ignored in favour of turning on the faucet and running the pot beneath the water.
Back turned to him, Itadori throws a glance over his shoulder and says: “While I rinse this, can you get the milk from the fridge?”
Megumi looks over to the refrigerator sitting at the opposite side of the kitchen.
“Milk?”
Last time Megumi had taken a look into their shared refrigerator, it was barren with the exception of a couple tangerines and a pack of stale, rock solid oreos. When had Itadori found the time to go grocery shopping? Their schedules that week had been packed with mission after mission. Until now, there’d hardly been time for leisure.
There’s a laugh from the sink. “I’m not a heathen, Fushiguro. I don’t make my hot chocolate with water.”
Megumi presses his lips together. “I never suggested such a thing.”
“No, but that tone of yours said everything.” Itadori’s voice gains a teasing lilt, almost singing. The smile can be heard from miles away. “I know you, Fushiguro, and I know when you’re judging me. So mean, you know?”
“I was wondering when you had the time to go shopping. That’s all.”
“Still right~”
Ignoring him, Megumi goes and wraps a slender hand on the refrigerator handle. Pulling the door open, he finds the shelves fully stocked with plenty of food to last them for the next couple of weeks. It’s a shocking sight, especially since the last time Megumi bothered to look for anything to eat there’d been a pitiful display waiting for him behind the stainless steel door.
Itadori hadn’t even answered his not-question question.
He scans the contents of the refrigerator, eyes flitting over to where the dairy is mainly kept. There, between a jug of apple juice and the side wall, sits a full carton of whole milk, unopened.
Clicking his tongue, he reaches in and grabs it.
“Whole milk,” he announces with a thud of the carton hitting the counter once he’s back by Itadori’s side. “As you’ve requested.”
A snort. “I sure hope it’s whole. Can’t do much with half of it.”
The morbid part of Megumi that never wants to shut up can’t believe this is the same boy whose heart had been torn out from his chest right in front of him. The other part really wants to punch him for his stupid joke.
So he does. On the arm.
Itadori reacts to it pretty much like how Megumi imagined him to. With an exaggerated wince and a boyish grin, Itadori grabs the milk carton and pops the cap open.
“I thought you liked my jokes, Fushiguro-kun.” He says while tipping the carton and pouring the milk into the still cool pot. “I saw a smile—don’t say I didn’t see one.”
Megumi did not do anything of the sort.
But instead of further encouraging Itadori’s antics with his denial Megumi does the exact opposite and remains silent. He focuses on the swift movements of Itadori’s hands, well practiced in the craft of hot chocolate confectionery, and eyes how one moves the pot over the stove and the other turns the heat on.
The flames do a little dance, individual blue tips dragging across the bottom of the pot. Medium heat is what he assumes judging by their minuscule height.
Well, there go the chances of burning down the kitchen. Not that Itadori, master chef that he claims to be, would have ever allowed that to happen.
A hand reaches past over his head and pries open the cupboard above. Reeling from the sudden gesture, Megumi takes a step back and finds Itadori grasping a bag of bitter chocolate powder. Next to it is a regular bag of hot chocolate mix which is also brought down to the counter.
For some reason, probably due to lingering around an open flame, Megumi’s face rises in temperature.
“So, what are Fushiguro’s thoughts on Fantastic Mr. Fox?” Itadori, with his gaze set on the milk, breaks the temporary bout of silence.
“Interesting. I like that it was separated into acts. Overall it’s not bad for someone of your taste, Itadori.”
“My taste?”
“Does wormo-man ring any bells?”
“If you’re referring to the best thing to ever hit cinema,” honey eyes shift to find green, “then absolutely.”
Megumi coughs, fist coming up to his mouth. There’s a fucking twinkle in Itadori’s eyes as he looks at him. It’s mortifying. He knows exactly what that glimmer means and it’s nothing good.
“Was that another smile, Fushiguro-san?”
The milk appears to start steaming right then; wispy, dairy-scented tendrils rising up from the pot and curling in the air between them before dissipating into nothing. Megumi follows the path of the largest coil until Itadori’s bruised hand comes to swipe it away from existence.
With a grunt, Megumi grabs the wooden spoon from Itadori’s hand and gives the milk a stir to keep it from clumping together. He rolls his eyes at the amazed “Fast learner!” he gets and unceremoniously leaves the spoon to swirl around in the pot.
“Not much to learn if there’s two steps,” he belatedly replies. “And don’t call me that.”
Itadori shrugs. “I might’ve told a small lie about gramps teaching it to me. But tell me you’re not enjoying this.”
“I’ve had lunches with Gojo-sensei more interesting than this.”
“Fushiguro.”
“Itadori,” Megumi finds himself whining back, doesn’t stop himself from whining back. “The most interesting thing about this is the spoon going in circles right now.”
Itadori bites the inside of his cheek. “Did you at least enjoy learning how to make meatballs?”
Right. That had happened before Itadori’s untimely demise at the detention centre. Before the pestilential thoughts had adhered themselves to Megumi and all he could think about was a red streaked pavement that never was because the rain had washed away what further evidence of Itadori’s life could be aside from his unmoving, cold body.
He only left the kitchen that day with flour on his face and tousled hair from brushing it against the oven (cinnamon muffins for dessert, apparently) after walking in on the other boy furiously chopping away at the chicken meat he’d picked up the day before.
One simple question of what on earth was he doing to that poor chicken and Megumi had been wrapped up in an apron handling said chicken with the utmost delicacy as if it were the kikufuku Gojo tossed at him just weeks prior.
“It’s easy,” Itadori told him with that stupid grin. “Just follow what I do, yeah? And don’t hold the chicken like that — I doubt it’ll run away now.”
Megumi had looked at him, horrified, but rather than take back what he said Itadori just considered his reaction and threw his head back with a crazed laugh.
It was a nice sound. Better than the pitchy ones Gojo would let out when he wanted to be annoying.
Better than — he would later realise one sleepless night, pillow thrown across the room in frustration — the silence that followed him home from the detention centre.
Not that he would openly admit it. Especially not to Gojo, who’d hovered around Megumi for the first days following Itadori’s death with a pensive frown (which he now knew why he had such a ridiculous expression on his face) and words of comfort (they sucked) that fell flat upon seeing Itadori jump out that stupid box like nothing happened in the first place.
Anyway, the point is—
“I guess I did,” he says, the admission escaping him in one breath.
Itadori beams.
“Here,” he grabs Megumi’s wrist, shameless with it, Megumi’s dizzy, “stir the pot like this.”
Megumi eyes the candy sitting in the palm of Itadori’s hand.
“Peppermint?”
Itadori’s face falls. Sukuna’s eye slits seem to elongate when he frowns.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never had peppermint, Fushiguro!”
“Nope,” Megumi snatches the candy and dunks them into his steaming cup of hot chocolate. “And I switched from oil lamps to electricity last week.”
Itadori brightens, “you scared me for a second there.”
He puts his own portion of peppermint into his mug and gives it a stir before grinning down at his chocolatey concoction which Megumi doesn’t know why he does since there’s nothing remotely scenic about the specks of peppermint crumbs floating on the surface.
Sparing a glance to his own drink, Megumi decides to blow on it a bit so he can take a sip and finally find out why Itadori had been so insistent on making hot chocolate with him.
“Stop looking at your cup like that,” he says over the rim, “it’s weird.” He looks like Gojo-sensei after getting served a slice of light cheesecake.
He receives a hum in response. Then there’s the clatter of a spoon hitting the kitchen sink followed by the sounds of running water and a quick sponge scrub.
“I think—” Itadori places the spoon on the drying rack and grabs his cup of hot chocolate with both hands, whirling around to face Megumi again “—we should watch The LEGO Movie now.”
“You’re still on about that?”
“We’re having a sleepover on the sofa, Fushiguro,” Itadori chuckles. “It’s the least we can do. Don’t worry, I won’t be mad if you fall asleep.”
Megumi has no idea how he’s actually meant to share the sofa with Itadori but whatever. They’ll figure it out as soon as the sleep creeps up on them and starts to lull them into a slumber.
If anything he’ll just sleep on the floor; he’s done it loads of times anyway. Gojo hadn’t necessarily been one to refuse Tsumiki’s requests in having a sleepover in their living room when they were younger.
Although, Itadori is probably more persistent than she’s ever been. Maybe because it didn’t take much for Gojo to cave in and Megumi prides himself in being somewhat of a fighter.
Somewhat.
Because when Megumi finds himself back in the comfort of the sofa, television projecting lego-esque hues onto both himself and Itadori (who now sits closer than before), he realises that the floor may not be the familiar haven he’s thought it to be. For one, it’s cold — a blanket will not be enough to cushion and warm him.
And, for two, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to part from Itadori’s orbit. He’s close, very close, and that’s all Megumi can think about.
The soft bouts of laughter that escape Itadori at some points of the movie; the slight dip of the backrest as he sinks further and further in, getting as comfortable as possible in his position before taking a long sip of his hot chocolate; appreciative hums at the taste despite it going tepid a long time ago. Megumi hears and feels everything Itadori does and his own cup remains tightly held by both hands.
Itadori’s gravity is strong, overwhelmingly so that at one point during the movie where Emmet gets interrogated in prison with the good cop bad cop character causing him a mild headache, a rough hand seeks him out and Megumi does all but reject it.
He wants to jam his eyes shut when he feels how delicately Itadori’s fingers move to envelop his. Slow, unsure, yet nonetheless precise as if Megumi’s hand is uncharted territory for him to map out.
And Megumi can’t believe he once managed to satiate himself with a coward’s touch. Discreet, spineless touches that only further reflected on how much he had failed Itadori that horrible day.
This, having been granted the privilege of lacing his undeserving fingers with Itadori’s kind ones — is incomparable. Incomprehensible.
He doesn’t want to let it go to waste.
“You’re tense again,” Itadori says over Emmet et al’s prison break plan. “Is this bothering you, Fushiguro?”
The reserved part of Megumi wants to say that yes, this is very much bothering him and he would like for the touch to go away. The newborn, pathetic piece of him wishes for the exact opposite. Warmth, life, all being handed to him and who is he to deny it?
So he takes it. For once, he listens to Gojo’s words from years before and takes.
“No,” there’s a lump wedged in his throat, “it’s not.”
Itadori, who’d been looking at him with an unbridled intensity, almost gouging his reaction, falls back against the sofa again and hums softly. His hand resumes its movements.
“Little far-fetched, isn’t it?”
“Huh?”
“The prison break,” Itadori clarifies, “it’s a bit silly when you think about it.”
“You’d come up with worse.”
There’s a laugh and Megumi’s hand receives a firm squeeze. He ignores the urge to squeeze back. Nevertheless, his fingers curl around Itadori’s.
“Maybe, but with a brilliant mind like yours around I think we could come up with something better.”
Megumi lets a breath escape him, the corners of his lips threaten to lift: “Don’t have so much faith in me, Itadori. There’s a reason we’d be in prison in the first place.”
“You’re right,” Itadori concedes. “Why’d you land us in prison, Fushiguro?”
“Me?”
“Yeah,” Itadori sniffs, “you.”
Stunned at the sudden attitude, Megumi opens his mouth to retort and when nothing comes out except for an awkward uh, he promptly closes it with a click of his teeth. For a beat all that can be heard are Kugisaki’s continuous snores and the film’s facetious soundtrack.
Then, a series of giggles muffled by the sleeve of Itadori’s shirt. He wears a wide, awfully proud smile on his face and — from what Megumi is allowed to see — his cheeks are flushed with a healthy colour. Sukuna’s eye slits are nearly nonexistent from where he sits and for a split second he catches a glimpse of the boy he met months, maybe aeons ago. Back when he was viewed as human first, followed by whatever came afterwards.
However, it’s abundantly clear that here in the comfort of the common area sits Itadori Yuuji: first year student and an ever present essence attached to his side, mind, and sight all red and glistening and cold and warm and dead and alive—
With a steady hand, Megumi lifts the hot chocolate to his lips and takes a long sip. It’s cold now.
“You’re awful,” he says over the rim. “If anything it would be Kugisaki’s fault that we’d land in prison.” He spares a glance towards her, fully aware of honey eyes remaining solely on him.
Itadori scrunches his nose. “She wouldn’t even bail us out.”
“Well, no. It’s prison, not jail.”
“What would we be guilty of anyway? The worst I’ve done is—” Itadori immediately cuts himself off, the flush returning to his face tenfold. The hand grasping Megumi’s gets a bit clammy. Interesting. “I’ve done nothing, actually.”
He lifts a brow, “you know I can feel your hand, right?”
“Well…”
(Nonetheless, Itadori makes no move to let go of his hand. Megumi, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, is relieved beyond measure.)
As much as he’s intrigued by whatever act of delinquency Itadori committed in the past, Megumi doesn’t have the energy to pressure an answer out of him. It’s an involuntary mercy. One forced by the hot chocolate coursing through his system and the staple storybook flow of Wes Anderson movies and whatever the hell The LEGO Movie is.
He blinks, swears he’s just blinking, but when the cup’s being carefully removed from his hold Megumi can do nothing except surrender and let the bandit take the elixir.
The bandit being a chuckling Itadori and the elixir being the stupid hot chocolate — which he hasn’t even finished — but at least their hands remain intertwined throughout all of it. The movie’s coming to a close, he can tell by the music, and so with a small frown Megumi turns his head over to where Itadori is and asks: “Are there any more blankets?”
“Um,” there’s a pause, “just one.”
“Fucking toss it over here then.”
“Are you sure?”
“Itadori,” Megumi opens one eye, making sure to glare extra hard which is hard to do while fighting a losing battle with sleep. “We’re literally holding hands. I think we can share a blanket, yeah?”
Itadori tilts his head as though to combat his glare. “If you say so.” He reaches out with his free hand and grabs the blanket from the sofa arm. As soon as it’s within reach Megumi pulls on the end closest to him and wriggles his way under the softness. Great, now he can sleep.
He lets his eye slip shut, turning on his side as best as he can with Itadori’s hand still in his and tries to even out his breathing.
But before slumber can fully take him in its arms, there’s a surplus of warmth and Itadori’s serene heartbeat suddenly triples in volume.
“Goodnight, Fushiguro,” Itadori hums right by Megumi’s ear.
With a stifled gasp, Megumi stiffens by a fraction. His mind wastes no time in connecting the dots and delivering a bewildering realisation. Instead of moving away, however, he forces himself to relax and try and even out his breathing again. Whatever. The last thing he wants is to hurt Itadori.
Every inhale is accompanied by the remnants of an earthy cologne.
“Goodnight, Itadori.”
“So, Fushiguro.”
Megumi doesn’t look up from his book, and doesn't stop reading. “For the last time I don’t have any secrets to divulge. And even if I wanted to help I’d just be regurgitating whatever that weirdo has already told you about lash care.”
“I wasn’t even going to ask about that shit, smartass,” Kugisaki snorts. She takes the spot next to him and points a manicured finger in his direction. “You’ve got some nerve, you know that?”
“If you say so.”
She huffs. “I can’t believe you’re getting a boyfriend before I get a girlfriend.”
Megumi violently tears his eyes from the page, zeroing in on Kugisaki’s look of annoyance without wasting a single thought.
“What?” He asks, whispers, breathes. His blood’s running horridly cold. “What are you talking about?” He sure as hell hasn’t done as much as hint anything about any of that to her. And he’s absolutely disregarding that time centuries ago when Todo asked for his type. That was a fluke: Any sensible person would be caught off guard by such an abrupt question.
Kugisaki looks unimpressed.
“Do you really take me for an idiot? Yah, I’m hurt.”
He reels. “How the hell—”
“Maybe I’m crazy but Itadori has taken a great liking to holding your hands whenever he can.” Kugisaki sharply cuts him off before he can rise to his feet. “And you’re letting him.”
“Easier to let him than telling him to fuck off.”
Not that he would. It was quite…nice to wake up to his hand still tangled with Itadori’s all those days ago. Even if it was clammy, even if their shared grip was loose enough so that he could slip away without rousing the other boy, who was Megumi to deny the constant reassurance of Itadori’s continued existence?
So, Megumi surrendered. Not entirely, but enough to quell the lingering unpleasantness to a bearable degree.
He’d rather not share any of that with Kugisaki, though. Worst case scenario she’d pressure him to tell some adult like Gojo and then he would never hear the end of it. Same lecture, different car, same look in his eyes as Megumi tells him that he’s fine and this is all stupid, stupid, stupid.
Itadori is obviously alive, Megumi’s the one being stupid this time around, and Gojo doesn’t need to cast a line to fish him out of this as he’s done countless times before.
The Zen’in clan, that fateful night at the junior high — his hand holding with Itadori is a harmless endeavour and therefore Megumi is more than fine with conceding.
Megumi closes his book and slowly exhales through his nose. He wills his blood to flow again. “Don’t think you can start holding my hands too, Kugisaki.”
There’s a nasty glint in her eye. “You’ll tell me to fuck off?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Ooh,” she grins, “noted. Are you sure there’s nothing going on, though? See, Sensei’s starting to notice and I want to know all the details before he starts asking me.”
Megumi squints. “Why would he ask you ?”
“Are you seriously asking me that?”
“Right,” he replies wryly. “Well, is that all? I was at the chapter where a girl died because she couldn’t mind her business.”
“Har har,” she says, extending an arm out with her hand open, palm up. “Give me your hand.” There’s a lilt to her voice that dares Megumi to protest, to keep both his hands close to himself and he, as always, takes the challenge without missing a beat.
However, seeing as it’s Kugisaki who has posed the challenge, Megumi already knows it’s a battle lost from the moment he slips his book into his shadow and gives the girl his undivided attention. No hand yet, just his front turned towards her and either hand tucking itself beneath his arms as he crosses them over his chest. Her own hand is still expectantly hovering in the air and in the other sits a small, shiny bottle.
Megumi inwardly sighs, feeling some of the fight slip before he could even say his piece.
“Again? Can’t you ask Itadori this time?”
Kugisaki looks at him as if he’s stupid. “I already ask too many things out of him, Fushiguro. Besides, your nails are pretty and who knows — maybe Itadori will like them.”
Slowly, since he hasn’t even stated an agreement, he unfurls a hand and she wastes no time in snatching it. Okay. No agreement needed then. “And why would that matter to me?”
“Well,” Kugisaki has the audacity to give an exaggerated shrug, bottom lip jutting out as if in deep thought. She flips Megumi’s hand over, exposing five blank nails all neatly filed and free of grime. Huh. They do look nice. “I’ve got no idea.”
Fuck.
Hard soil, starry sky taunting him above, blood running down his face and congealing in the dirt below. There’s nothing on Megumi’s body that doesn’t hurt to the point of knocking him out along with the sheer exhaustion.
His head, continuously bleeding from God knows where, pounds a thundering storm behind his eyes, making it impossible to differentiate between what’s dancing in his vision and what twinkles in the distance.
His grip on Sukuna’s finger remains as tight as he can get it. There’s no telling where Itadori has run off to and Megumi hasn’t the slightest shred of strength to pick himself off the ground and trudge along the riverside. He’ll just have to begrudgingly keep it close.
As a wave of pain overcomes him, he wonders if Tsumiki was in any discomfort when she first fell into her coma.
Probably not. Even in unconsciousness, his sister is every bit the benevolent being he’s always regarded her as. There’s been nothing written on her face apart from serenity, a misplaced comfort on display for whenever he visits.
He supposes it’s her way of reassuring Megumi that she’s okay. Comatose, obviously, but okay. She’s not in pain, and she’s not going anywhere.
He should visit her.
But not tonight. His body is at the point where it’s protesting his breathing.
Lifting Sukuna’s finger, Megumi mutters an apology. He’s aware it’s naught against the years of his immaturity Tsumiki had to endure and he wishes she’d just wake up so he can make it up to her properly. To actually show his remorse instead of uttering it to the hazy sky with a childish hope that one of the stars will take his message and deliver it to her.
The finger seems to dim the stars somewhat. It’s an odd sight; a part of him questions how Itadori’s shine is never stolen by them yet, in some way, the sky falls victim.
With a stifled groan, his hand falls to the ground.
He hopes the others are okay.
At least Kugisaki is there to keep Itadori from doing something stupid.
Still, that one idiotic part of him is highly eager to pipe up and speak its mind right into his ear.
Itadori probably shouldn’t eat the finger immediately.
Eyes slowly slipping shut, all that’s running through the rest of his mind is pure pain and exhaustion. Maybe he won’t wake up. It’s unlikely, but it’s a possibility that is, ironically, impossible to shake off.
He’s just tired.
As he finally succumbs to his fatigue, everything is replaced with one thought:
Itadori.
Worry is what he’s met with when his eyes pry themselves open.
He blinks once, twice, and finds Kugisaki and Itadori both fussing over his previously unconscious form. A slew of ridiculous words escapes the two, things such as “dead” and "oh God what is Gojo-sensei going to say!”
He lets his eyes slip shut again, hoping they’d shut up and let him rest in peace if they believed him dead already. But as soon as he does the other two fall silent and Megumi’s body suddenly gets heavy with the shared intensity of their gazes.
There’s no point in making his breathing shallow when his chest already hurts. He keeps quiet.
Then, an unexpected hitch slips out of his mouth.
It’s at the stutter of his name that Megumi is forced to sit up despite all his muscles begging to remain glued to the ground, eyes darting from either of their concerned faces with a strained mutter of: “Oh, you’re back. Glad you two are okay.”
That, of course, is met with a wave of relieved cries at his supposed evasion of death. Itadori and Kugisaki jump back, hands pressed together in sheer joy.
“You scared us half to death!”
“We thought you were dead!”
Megumi groans, resting his head between his knees in a half-assed attempt to block out the sky, the river, the trees, and the celebration of his survival. His body tries to reject the position he’s contorted himself into and he gives a small hiss in response.
“Keep it down—” he can barely keep himself from whining “—my head hurts…”
Thankfully, they listen and sober up within the minute it takes for Megumi to lift his head up and brave the pain.
When Kugisaki points out the fact he’d passed out with Sukuna’s finger in his hand, Megumi can’t help but glance over to Itadori, whose eyes haven’t moved from him. They’re wide, almost as if he’s trying to not blink, and very bright — likely from the leftover adrenaline of the fight that took Kugisaki’s uniform sleeve.
Megumi tries not to squirm.
Itadori only takes his eyes away to ask if he should simply eat the finger. Both Megumi and Kugisaki answer in the negative; although Megumi’s response is more firm and hers is slightly crass.
But he decides to hand it over to him anyway because he’s, amazingly, the most put together of their small trio at the moment. Kugisaki’s missing a sleeve, Megumi is experiencing the worst pain since having a fucking garden sprout from his abdomen, and Itadori stands above him every bit alive and okay.
So he goes to slip it into Itadori’s hand, but not without stressing that he shouldn’t eat it whatsoever.
He eats it anyway.
Megumi, in pure disbelief, looks up at the other boy only to be met with the same stupid expression of bewilderment.
One second turns to two, three, then there’s a brief screaming match between all three of them. Two against one; Itadori is quick to vehemently defend himself. “It was Sukuna who ate the damn finger! Why are you yelling at me, Fushiguro? You saw!”
“I shouldn’t have given it to you,” Megumi scoffs, looking at the ground again. Itadori shifts but before he can say anything, Megumi continues: “At least you’ve still got control. That’s good.”
There’s a flush of colour on Itadori’s face. The starlight hardly does it any justice.
Nitta arrives soon after with a colourful vocabulary at the tip of her tongue and waving her phone senselessly in the air. It’s then that Megumi mentally curses himself for running into the unknown without throwing a text beforehand.
“She looks mad,” Kugisaki says simply. Megumi can’t help but snort at her perceptiveness.
He goes to get up but a wicked shot of pain stops him before he can even allow for a fraction of the atmosphere to insert itself between him and the soil. He sits back down, focusing on a particular crease of his uniform slacks.
Amidst Nitta’s yelling, Kugisaki responds by throwing her a nervous smile and putting her hands together as a silent apology.
Itadori grins as well, the colour still not having left his face. “Okay,” he says, turning to Megumi and extending his hand out. “Let’s go home.”
Megumi, without much thought, looks up and accepts his hand as soon as it hovers above him. It’s unsurprisingly warm, better than the cold soil even, and yet Megumi frowns as he observes how the smile on Itadori’s face fades somewhat, his honey eyes glued to their joined hands almost wistfully.
Just as he’s about to ask if he’s seriously pouting over some dirt, Itadori tilts their hands a bit so that Megumi’s nails are on full display. “Aw, the colour’s chipped.”
Megumi looks and sure enough, Kugisaki’s flawless handiwork has been ruined. No doubt from the night’s only fight.
He doesn’t think he would’ve noticed if it wasn’t for Itadori.
Itadori, who, for some reason beyond Megumi’s understanding, just happened to pay particular attention to the colour of Megumi’s nails and didn’t even vocalise it until it was time to mourn.
“Maybe Itadori will like them.”
As Megumi is slowly helped up from the ground, Kugisaki’s casually spoken words come back to him at a nauseating speed. Was she right? Did Itadori…like the nail polish?
The other boy keeps up their unspoken arrangement and mercifully doesn’t release Megumi’s hand once he’s on his feet and an acceptable distance from the dirt. He does, however, lift their hands to his face and bite his lip as if in thought.
“Is this the first time you’ve painted them, Fushiguro?”
“No,” Megumi replies, voice small. He’s scarily aware of Kugisaki standing a few feet away from them, aimlessly looking through her phone. Nitta’s gone quiet. “I had them painted sometimes during your absence.”
He hums. “Kugisaki?”
“Well it couldn’t have been fucking Todo.”
“Ha,” the stupid smile returns. “They’re nice. You should try dark red next time.”
Kugisaki was fucking right.
Megumi thanks everything within him and beyond him that Itadori possesses his ridiculous endurance because he’s sure that he would’ve broken every bone in his hand from how tight his grip becomes for a passing beat. He hates how Itadori can say such things with relative ease while Megumi has yet another stone thrown at his resolve.
“Dark red?”
“It’ll go well with your eyes. They’re very green, did you know that? Wait, that's stupid — they’re your eyes, of course you’d know.”
Something within him shatters. Megumi doesn’t think about entertaining it.
iii. hold.
Megumi entertains it.
He doesn’t mean to, but there’s only so much he can do in the confines of his dorm before that stupid, unbearable part of him resurfaces tenfold.
So Megumi finds himself sitting at the edge of his bed, hands in his lap and his phone to the left with Do Not Disturb on to deter any possible ‘check-in’ messages from Gojo. Or anyone else for that matter. His body still hurts and he’s still reeling from Itadori’s unabashed comments on both his nails and his eyes.
“They’re very green, did you know that?”
He’d always thought of Itadori’s irises to be coloured in a sweet honey shade. Stray splashes of an amber watercolour made themselves known here and there but Megumi had only ever often regarded Itadori’s eyes to be like the cells of a honeycomb.
Pearls of amber surfaced on rare occasions but considering the boy’s nature, honey seemed the more accurate description.
Megumi wonders, through a slow intake of breath, what very green could possibly mean to a honey-amber lens.
It’s embarrassing how much Itadori’s silly words have affected him. Before, he hadn’t considered the possibility of Itadori being as attentive as he’s proven himself to be in recent weeks. He thought he could get away with his small swipes against the back of his hand. And he didn’t place a lot of thought into their hand holding because Itadori hadn’t treated it as something to make a spectacle of.
Up until that night, he hadn’t done anything apart from the occasional swipe of his thumb against the back of Megumi’s hand while chatting it up with Kugisaki. A way to include him, Megumi realises belatedly, when he isn’t in the headspace to contribute verbally.
Itadori can be scarily astute at times. Is that why he, despite the severity of the situation at the Goodwill event, decided to throw Megumi a smile? Is that why? To subdue the rain in his mind?
Megumi stills. The silence in the room stands no chance against the static that fills his ears.
No. Itadori can’t be that perceptive…
Yet he was the one to first initiate their hand holding when Megumi himself hadn’t even thought of it before.
…can he?
He doesn’t know for how long he sits there but by the time a quick sequence of knocks on his door breaks the static in his ears, his bedside clock flashes 19:15 in bright red. It’s past dinner time. That’s fine, he doesn’t have much of an appetite anymore.
“Fushiguro?” Ah, he shouldn’t be so surprised by the voice at the other side of his door. “You still in there?”
Taking heavy eyes off the clock, Megumi clears his throat and gets up from the bed. It only takes one, two, three strides for him to reach the door and pry it open to be met with Itadori’s curious eyes.
They’re amber this time, partially dimmed by the doorway but magnificently bright as always. His hair comes to cover the tips of his ears and Megumi muses on whether he’s booked a haircut yet.
As soon as the door opens Itadori flashes a wide smile and waves his hand. “There you are! Have you been here all day?”
Megumi nods, words failing him before he can even speak.
“Well,” Itadori bites down on his lip. “You missed dinner but I saved some food for you. Sensei made tonkatsu but if you don’t want that I can make some shogayaki? We have enough ginger and—”
This boy. This kind, considerate boy who’s all too aware of Megumi’s preference for ginger.
Megumi saved Itadori only for him to save others at the expense of his life. Megumi lost him for months, convinced that it was entirely his fault for letting someone so warm fall from his cold fingertips.
Then he returns, forever warm and as unselfish with his actions and as selfish with his words as he’d been that terrible day.
And here he stands, rambling about ginger for a dish Megumi isn’t sure he can stomach at the moment.
He can’t lose him again. He can’t. He can’t he can’t he can’t. He’s alive, sure, but Megumi can lose Itadori at any given time. He doesn’t want to lose him again, again, again — he didn’t want to lose him in the first place.
Hand holding isn’t enough to keep Itadori anchored to him.
“Never let go, yeah?”
Megumi doesn’t want to lose everything.
He won’t. He won’t, because his stiff arms reach out and grab fistfuls of Itadori’s shirt collar to pull him close, closer than that night on the sofa. He’s close enough to see the widening of now honey coloured eyes, to see the parting of Itadori’s lips as he lets out a questioning noise from the back of his throat.
“F-Fushiguro? I thought you liked ginger?”
His voice breaks halfway through. Megumi isn’t in the mood to tease him for it. Not when Itadori can slip from his grasp the longer he wastes time just standing there like an idiot with bits of his idiot’s shirt ruined by his fists.
With a scowl, Megumi stops Itadori from saying anything else by surging forward and gracelessly crashing their lips together.
It’s nothing life changing. There are no sparks. Nevertheless, the storm inside Megumi finally shuts up. It's not gone, no, but at least it’s quiet and bearable.
Beneath him, Itadori freezes.
He doesn’t push away. Not when Megumi finally tears his hands away from his shirt. Not when hesitant, gelid hands find purchase on either side of his head and bony fingers entangle themselves in the expense of his hair, pulling him closer than either of them could’ve ever allowed themselves to get.
Itadori’s arms remain hanging limp by his torso — Megumi knows because he can’t feel anything clinging to him as he pathetically keeps Itadori rooted to the floor.
He doesn’t want to open his eyes. There’s no point in trying to drink in the honey-amber when he’s already taken so much.
The hand holding wasn’t enough. The hand holding wasn’t enough.
“Why would I ever do that?”
A noise of frustration rumbles through the back of his throat and Megumi finds himself pulling away from the other boy, breaking the kiss without as much as a smack.
Itadori doesn’t make to leave, much less move. Not even when Megumi takes a step back and pointedly keeps his eyes fixed on the green slippers he’s wearing.
Now that he’s put a bit of distance between them, Megumi takes notice of the tremble that takes over his body. Weird. How long have his hands been shaking?
That’s not important. Seeing Itadori’s rigid legs, glued to their place, is important.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he murmurs. He’s not sure if the apology is to himself, Itadori, or both. “This is stupid.”
For a minute, there’s no response. Only Itadori’s soft breathing and Megumi’s stunted inhales fill the room. Inhales that get shorter and shorter with every passing second until he isn’t sure if he’s even breathing anymore.
“I don’t think it’s stupid,” Itadori gently says. It’s as if Megumi never kissed him in the first place. “Why would it be stupid?”
Megumi takes his lip between his teeth, biting down harshly.
The distance between them lessens. “You’re really good at that, did you know? Maybe I’m just saying it because this was my first but you’re incredible, Fushiguro.”
He releases his lip, getting a taste of copper on his tongue.
“I—What?”
(Why is it that Itadori is still capable of stealing the words out of Megumi?)
Itadori bends forward a little, making an inquisitive noise. Megumi has no choice but to meet his gaze. Astonishingly, expectedly, irritatingly, there’s nothing but saccharine benevolence swimming in his irises. He scowls again, rivalling the concerned crease between Itadori’s brows.
Itadori only sighs, straightening up. “Come here,” he cajoles. “Your lip’s bleeding.”
“It’s fine.” Megumi retorts, ignoring the urge to give in. “I’ll just get a tissue.”
“Or you could let me help.”
“How could you possibly—?”
There’s a brief and uncertain shuffling sound followed by the slightest creak of the floor. Megumi can hardly hear both through his words but whatever he has left to say is forgotten as soon as his left cheek is graced by the delicate touch of Itadori’s ever lingering hand.
A terribly gentle gesture. One that forces all the words out of him in a single breath because why on earth is Itadori handling him as one would a wounded creature?
Megumi’s frown deepens. “I’m not going to crumble to bits, y’know.”
“Maybe not,” Itadori agrees, “but I’d put you back together if that were to happen.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means—” his other hand lands on Megumi’s right cheek, caging him in “—let me help, Fushiguro.”
“And you’re not going to let this go until I say yes.”
“Pretty much!”
With a slow blink, Megumi relents. He gives a lopsided nod and a shrug, bloody lip stretched into a thin line. Consequently, it starts to bleed again; Megumi has half a mind to roll his eyes. Everything could’ve been fixed minutes ago with that tissue.
Upon seeing the fresh blood Itadori clicks his tongue in dissatisfaction.
“Here,” he says, concentrating on Megumi’s lips, not his eyes. “This should fix that.”
That’s the only warning Megumi gets before a pair of balmed lips press themselves against the corner of his.
At first, he can only huff against Itadori’s mouth because of course he would indulge in a gummy bear flavoured lip balm. It’s sweet, not unlike the pastries he’s taken bites of when Kugisaki would wave a piece in front of him, unwavering despite his protests.
But it’s also horribly artificial, worse than the flaky croissants and a thousand times better all the same.
Maybe because it’s coming from Itadori. Or maybe Megumi has finally lost his mind and with it, his disdain for sweets. Whatever it is, Megumi wants it over and over again. No amount of hand holding could possibly substitute for this. Not when he’s had it twice already.
“Never let go—”
His restraint is put to the test when Itadori pulls back and examines Megumi’s face. Megumi nearly explodes from the heat that rushes to his face when he tentatively swipes his tongue across his bottom lip and catches a taste of what remains of the gummy bear lip balm.
He can’t fucking believe—
“I’m going to punch you,” he says flatly. “You’ll be in orbit with the moon.”
Itadori laughs, head thrown back and somewhat unsteady. “Consider yourself healed, Fushiguro! All thanks to my amazing healing powers, of course.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Aw, come on.” His cheeks are pushed together. “Do I suck at kissing or something?”
“You’re absolutely ridiculous.” Megumi swats at Itadori’s hands, finding himself dismayed by the loss of warmth and thus regretting everything once they fall to his shoulders. “And you don’t. What the—don't look at me like that!”
There’s a shit-eating grin on Itadori’s face. No doubt that he’s proud of himself for being an adequate kisser. Ridiculous. Megumi wants to kick him.
But Megumi doesn’t kick him. Instead, he swipes his tongue across his cold lips again and allows for Itadori to keep him from falling to the ground and joining the jagged shards of his resolve.
He’d already been on the ground once, back during the Kyoto Goodwill Event.
Water had rushed around his still body, a mockery of a caress and nothing like the measly grazes of his hand against Itadori’s. Nothing like it, not when there was life beneath his knuckle and not the uneven pebbles of the riverbed.
Then Megumi was given the privilege to hold a life within his hands. To do what he couldn’t do at the detention centre and keep Itadori tethered to him. Tethered to the living.
And now he’s been granted Itadori’s very breathing.
Why?
He decides to bite the bullet right then and there. “Why?”
Itadori tilts his head. It would be adorable had Megumi’s mind not gone elsewhere. “Why what?”
“Why didn’t you push me away, Itadori?”
He’s considered for a second, then he receives a sheepish sort of shrug. Slow and irritating. “I didn’t want to? You just surprised me a little.”
“A little?” Megumi echoes, incredulous. Is there a weird pitch in his voice? He hopes there isn’t a weird pitch in his voice. He really fucking hopes there isn’t a weird pitch in his voice. “You should’ve pushed me away.”
His lip slots itself between his teeth again, a habit passed over to him after watching Gojo fiddle with his piercings for years.
He brushes away Itadori’s hand as it comes up to pry his lip out. Too gentle. Itadori is being too gentle.
Megumi couldn’t keep his body away from the pavement and somehow — not by some measure of contempt, but instead sincerity — he’s being repaid for his disservice with a kindness he hasn’t known since…
It’s been a while.
“Do you regret it, Fushiguro?”
Itadori’s question has Megumi’s eyes widening. Not comically wide, yet enough for additional light to be let in.
“No,” he wastes no time mulling over it because it’s the honest truth; Itadori’s question is stupid. “I think I’m still mad at you.”
“Really?” Itadori’s voice takes on an enlightened tone. “Did you kiss me because of that? I thought that only happened in the dramas Kugisaki likes to watch…” He then smiles, smooth and sweet. “Does that make me the handsome guy everyone chases after?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Am I not handsome to you, Fushiguro?” And dear God Megumi wants to kick him so fucking badly. Instead of kicking him, however, he rolls his eyes at Itadori’s absurdity, at the way he so effortlessly shifts the room’s atmosphere. “How cruel!”
“That’s not what I meant, Itadori—” Wait.
Megumi cuts himself off, realising what he’s said. Unfortunately, the realisation comes aeons too late and the smile on Itadori’s face grows impossibly wide.
Bright, bright, bright, Megumi has half a mind to raise a hand and shield his eyes from such an expression.
He resorts to turning away, hand coming up anyway to rub his temples. His face is too hot and most likely flushed in a horrid shade of red; Itadori is still so, so close, his cologne earthy and embedding itself everywhere; and his lips can’t seem to stop tingling.
Megumi wonders through the lingering taste of candy: How much can he take before everything inevitably falls?
“Never let go of what is precious to you.”
Saving Itadori was a selfish decision. Accepting his hand was a selfish decision. Kissing back was a selfish decision.
Saving Itadori was a precious decision. Accepting his hand was a precious decision. Kissing back was a precious decision.
“Never let go. Be greedy.”
Gojo’s words, both recent and old, resonate in his mind.
“Weren’t you offering to make me dinner?” He asks, revelling in the slow blink he receives.
It’s almost laughable how Itadori had come to his room with the sole intent to determine his dinner preferences; an offer to make whatever he wanted ready and armed at the tip of his tongue. Eager, considerate, and all things Megumi desired to preserve when he’d first asked Gojo to go against the higher ups and help not just the boy from Sendai, but his longtime pupil as well.
He’s not hungry but if it’ll make Itadori happy then he supposes he could go for something small.
Itadori finally releases his shoulders. “I was but then someone kissed me. Isn’t that crazy, Fushiguro?”
“Scandalous,” Megumi says solemnly. He’ll play along for the hell of it. “What will you do about that?”
The other boy taps his chin, seemingly in deep thought. “It depends on the question I have for him.”
Megumi stills. “And that would be..?”
Honey eyes zero in on him, equal parts intense and tender. Megumi bites the inside of his cheek in anticipation. It hurts, just a bit, but it’s nothing he isn’t already accustomed to thanks to many years of training under Gojo.
“What does this mean for us?”
A frown immediately overtakes Megumi’s previously passive expression. “Does it have to mean anything?” He’s more curious than anything, but the question nonetheless has his stomach rolling unpleasantly.
He won’t entertain it. Not this time; he’s not going to make the same mistake twice.
“I mean,” he lets his eyes flutter shut for a second. “It can mean whatever you want.” But not that. Megumi isn’t prepared for that. He doesn’t know what that entails, even.
Nothing or everything, it’s futile to dwell on regardless. Itadori more likely than not does not feel a bothersome churn of his stomach whenever such thoughts arise.
That is, if they even occur to him. For all Megumi knows this could be some lingering personal idiocy from that day beyond time.
It could be.
Megumi looks up to find a smaller, albeit tender simper gracing Itadori’s lips. Gummy bear lip balm, sweetness overflowing. Megumi isn’t particularly fond of sweets.
“I’ll let you take the lead this time, Fushiguro.” A tongue darts out to swipe across the gummy bear sweetness. “This can mean whatever you want.”
He can make an exception.
It turns out that Megumi doesn’t know what he wants when it comes to Itadori.
He wants the boy alive, obviously. There’s an innate need to have him breathing and not risking his life for the sole purpose of exorcising curses and saving as many people as possible for a fifteen year old. However, Megumi can only ensure one above the other even if it’s through a measly promise.
Beyond his inane promise is an empty field. The grass sways to one side as the wind blows in the opposite; a juxtaposition that muddles his senses.
It’s unpleasant. Megumi’s foot remains half a step from the field. It’s intriguing. Megumi’s foot remains a step and a half from the field.
Gummy bear lips press themselves to the corner of his mouth, a featherlight peck with everything and nothing written all over it.
Megumi hums, tracing Itadori’s smile with his eyes as his friend stands from his bed and bids him a warm “Goodnight, Fushiguro.”
“Try not to snore so loud tonight?” Megumi says, pretending his mouth isn’t on fire at the moment. “We have a test tomorrow and I’d like to be well rested for it.”
Itadori feigns consideration — actually goes as far as tapping his chin with a rough finger, a texture Megumi has assured him he doesn’t mind time and time again — before shrugging.
“I’ll try. But I think you’ll be fine, Fushiguro. You’re so smart, y’know?”
“But what about you?”
“I’m not too worried,” Itadori replies. There’s a confident lift at the end of his sentence. Megumi inclines his head.
“And why is that?”
Itadori leans forward, hand against his mouth, and says in a stage whisper: “Because you’ll give me a kiss if I do good, right?”
Megumi, admittedly, feels his face heat up. “I never made such a promise.” He looks to the side then back to the other boy. “And you kiss me all the time so this won’t be any different.”
“Oh I don’t want it to be different. I just really like kissing you.”
“Then why don’t you just study like a normal person? I’m not a replacement for a Pinterest board of motivational quotes, Itadori!”
He laughs, cheeks round and full of colour and Sukuna’s eye slits thinned. It’s late, near ten, but if Megumi didn’t know any better he’d swear it was high noon. Clouds are unfathomable.
The wind blows one way and Megumi’s hair the other.
Itadori hiccups, probably from laughing too hard. “Your face is really red, Fushiguro! Like your nails, kinda!”
(Not really. Megumi’s nails are a dark, almost blood-like, red but whatever. There’s nothing to achieve by correcting him.)
“Go to bed, Itadori.” He grumbles, arming himself with a pillow to shoo him out if he doesn’t move within the next few seconds. “You’ll end up falling asleep after writing your name if you don’t.”
“Fine, fine.” Itadori makes for the door, then pauses. “I didn’t know you cared so much about my education, Fushiguro! Kiss for good luck, then?”
“With sleeping? Fuck no.”
“But—Ah! ”
The pillow is thrown, whacking the mess of pink hair atop his head.
The wind blows.
Another week passes before, out of the blue, Megumi is approached right in the very room where many unnamed secrets have been exchanged.
He’s on his bed, body facing the glass of the sliding doors as a way to soak up what rays of sun reach him through the overcast sky. To his right sits his laptop with multiple tabs open — all of them are set to the starting page.
There’s nothing to do; Itadori’s out on a mission with Kugisaki and Megumi’s been benched for whatever reason. It’s fine though. He can at least summon Kuro for company.
“I don’t mean to interrupt your Wikipedia browsing time,” a grating voice comes from Megumi’s left, “but I’ve got something I need to discuss with you, kiddo.”
Megumi wasn’t even thinking about going on a Wikipedia binge.
He sighs far too heavily for a fifteen year old. “There are better times to tell me I failed the test.”
“Well you didn’t,” the left side of his bed dips somewhat. “Also, I lied — I just want to check in on you.”
“Check in on me?” Megumi repeats, tone incredulous.
Gojo shrugs. Megumi can tell by the sound of his shirt bunching up. “Did you and Yuuji manage to talk it out yet?”
“Talk what out?”
A blithe chuckle. “What you told me after the attack on the school. Seemed like really heavy stuff to just carry around, y’know? And, well, Yuuji’s been really clingy with you lately so forgive this old man for wondering, Megumi-chan.”
“Old? You’re prehistoric,” Megumi says. He ignores Gojo’s affronted gasp and reaches out to close his laptop. “But if you must know, I didn’t tell him much. Just said I’m still pissed with both of you.”
Gojo’s cologne tickles the back of his throat. It’s nothing like the earthy scent of Itadori’s unknown brand. The man’s ridiculously expensive wood fragrance is a smell Megumi’s grown terribly used to over the years. Itadori’s is newer to him and therefore better.
“That’s unfortunate,” Gojo murmurs. “But that doesn’t explain why the kid can’t seem to leave you alone.” He then smiles slyly, as if he’s realised something Megumi hasn’t.
“Ah, he missed you. Don’t know why I’m surprised, actually. He talked about you a lot.”
“Your piercings are stupid.”
Gojo mutters something like “I knew it” but plays along regardless.
“You wound me. I remember how you demanded that I get you one, stomped your little foot down and all.”
“I was ten.”
“Yeah! And I told you that these were for super cool people and absolutely not for brats who wouldn’t listen to his sensei when he told him to keep his rabbits in his room because Sensei couldn’t find any place to sit down.”
Megumi scoffs. “As if you ever stayed long enough to sit down.”
Gojo pulls a face. Eleven years of grimaces condensed into a deep, semi-distorted frown. Megumi finds that he doesn’t quite appreciate it.
“Summon one.”
“You want me to summon a rabbit.” Megumi deadpans, hands already beginning to position themselves. “Not all of them, but just one.”
He gives a tight smile. Authentic. “The space in this room is terribly limited.”
Megumi lifts an incredulous brow but summons the rabbit anyway. It’s not a gruelling task, but something about having an eavesdropper hopping around has him depositing the shikigami onto Gojo’s lap as soon as he can pick it up from the ground.
Its ear twitches, nose rubbing against the palm of Gojo’s hand that he’s lifted to run over its back as he’s done with the dogs.
“Your rabbit, as ordered.”
Gojo’s piercings glitter with the wide grin that takes over his features. “I’m so jealous of your technique.” The rabbit seems to appreciate the slow petting motion. Megumi fights a smile at the sight. “Do the rabbits have names or is it just Shiro and Kuro who have them?”
“Just the dogs,” Megumi answers, chest contorting something awful at the mention of Shiro. “I can’t name all the rabbits.”
“Sure you can! Name them all Gojo Jr.”
“Absolutely not.”
The man sticks out his tongue. Megumi wonders what holds him back from giving him the finger. Eleven years and Gojo still hasn’t dared to do more than call him a brat.
“Say, does Yuuji know of the rabbits?”
Here we go again. “No. If he did I’d never hear the end of it.”
“Would that be such a bad thing?” Gojo asks, rubbing between the rabbit’s red eyes. Its ear twitches again. Megumi promptly looks away. “That boy really does like you a lot, Megumi-chan. Nobara too, but that’s a different kind of like.”
Megumi wonders if Gojo used RCT for his piercings. He left the Fushiguro household one night and came back the next morning with twin fangs of titanium emerging from his top lip.
After her initial surprise had worn off Tsumiki asked if they hurt to which the man proudly said that no, they practically healed overnight.
Meanwhile, Megumi only stared at the foreign objects with a frown and a question readying itself on his tongue.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“You like him a lot — and don’t tell me you don’t; you were practically glowing when I told you his execution had been postponed — he likes you tons, it’s not hard to connect the dots here Megumi. You’re not top of our school for nothing, figure it out.”
Megumi thinks of that; thinks of the empty field with the dichotomy of its wind; thinks of stupid, genuine words from weeks before. Whatever Megumi wants, Itadori will follow. Whether Megumi wants more from him or not, Itadori will follow regardless.
The wind blows, the downpour intensifies, and Megumi stands with his uniform jacket in hand as he hesitates on whether to cover the body below him.
He kneels, ignoring the wet pavement on his knees, and drapes his dirty jacket over the top half of Itadori’s body. Whatever Megumi wants, Itadori will follow.
He grits his teeth and looks anywhere but at Gojo. “How do you know?”
From his peripheral comes a half shrug. “I saw it once. Before I met you, that is.” Then there’s a hefty inhale. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed Yuuji hanging out in your room a lot recently. You should tell him to move in already!”
Megumi goes to take full advantage of infinity being down and deliver a punch to Gojo’s arm but stops just short of his rabbit’s ears.
They’ve laid themselves down on the flesh of Gojo’s bicep, inadvertently shielding him. Long fingers continue to card themselves through the white fur of its back.
Biting the inside of his cheek, Megumi lets his fist fall to the mattress with a silent sigh of defeat.
“Kugisaki said the same shit to me. More crass, though.”
“Did she? Smart girl.” He cradles the rabbit to his chest, overly affectionate towards the shikigami in a way that makes Megumi want to dispel it. Tsumiki, on the other hand, would have loved to take a few pictures of the display. “I know I’m your mentor and all, but I thought you’d be smarter than me about all this—” he waves a free hand nonsensically “—feelings stuff.”
Megumi pulls a face at the self-proclaimed title. A mentor would not insist on picking Megumi up from school back in 2009 while singing “Gasolina” for everybody to hear but whatever. Gojo clearly views himself differently.
Feelings. Is that in the uncharted territory beyond Megumi’s periphery?
“Megumi,” Gojo’s voice goes stern, “you do know what you’re feeling, right?”
“Everything.” The answer comes easy to him and it’s nearly automatic. It’s all a terrible, terrible mess. It’s an empty field with the grass swaying one way and the wind blowing in the opposite.
It’s water droplets clinging to his skin like beads of blood, all too stubborn and tainting. It’s the incessant beating of Itadori’s heart living on in his mind despite him being away.
“Are these personal feelings?”
It’s Megumi on the rooftop in Sendai, battered, bruised, and clutching Gojo’s kikufuku to his chest.
Every bone in his body protested his very blinking and yet Megumi found it within himself to plead for Itadori’s life to be spared. The idiotic boy in Gojo’s hold, knocked out and unknowing of the conflict scribbled all over Megumi’s face.
“Yes, they’re personal feelings.”
“Satoru—” said man’s eyes widen at his given name, Megumi never having been one to be so casual with him “—you said you saw it once. What happened?”
He’s quiet for a moment. His piercings seem dull, lips pressed to a thin line as the caresses of the rabbit’s fur slow by the slightest fraction. It’s the very same expression Megumi has seen twice before albeit graver in this circumstance. Far too grave.
“Nothing good,” comes the slow reply. “Neither of them said anything until the last second and by then it was already too late.”
Megumi considers him for a second. Then, it clicks.
“They let each other go.”
“And it was a stupid choice, but no one can ever tell with this. Maybe if they had been more selfish they would’ve spent more time together. But that’s not how the cards played out.”
“I don’t think it was stupid,” Megumi echoes Itadori’s words. “They at least got to know by the very end.”
A bittersweet smile, equal parts benevolent and sad. “Like how Yuuji got to know before he died?”
Megumi stills, very much reminiscent of a deer in the headlights.
“But that’s a bit different,” Gojo continues, “Yuuji’s back with the living so why do you keep holding back, Megumi?”
Be greedy. A flick to the forehead and the sudden overflow of red, red, red blood dripping from brow to floor. Never let go.
Before Megumi can think to correct Gojo and kindly inform him that he’s been plenty selfish in recent weeks, a knock from the door pulls the both of them out of the solemn bubble they’ve created.
Gojo arches a brow, his hand on the rabbit stopping its movements. “Come in!”
The door opens to reveal a slightly befuddled Itadori. Upon seeing him, Megumi takes his bottom lip between his teeth and slowly gnaws on it.
Gojo, however, seems to take great pleasure in seeing Itadori’s still form by the doorway as he instantly brightens. He could probably illuminate the room in his newly revealed state.
He stands from the bed, peeling the rabbit from his chest and extending it out towards Itadori as a parent would with a puppy. There’s a millisecond in which vibrant blue eyes meet Megumi’s green, a warning written within the swirling hues to not release the shikigami.
Megumi remains seated. His spine begins to yell at him as it continues to be contorted.
“Yuuji-kun!” Gojo exclaims. “Here, take this little guy. Careful now — he’s Megumi’s so let’s not be rough with him.”
“Uh, okay,” Itadori collects the mass of white fur and too long ears into his arms. He’s horrendously gentle while adjusting his hold and cradling the rabbit as one would an infant.
The attack on Megumi’s lip ceases.
There’s a wonderment swimming in his eyes as they regard the shikigami. They brighten considerably when one of its ears twitches. It’s all childlike, it’s every bit innocent, and Megumi was fucking right.
It’s only when Gojo starts for the door does Megumi find his voice: “Satoru—Where the fuck are you going?”
Itadori makes an inquisitive noise at Gojo’s given name but neither mentor nor student pay him any mind.
“I’ve got a meeting to attend!”
Liar. He’s grinning, teeth on display and piercings glimmering. He’s lying. Megumi could punch him now that he’s not holding the rabbit.
But he’s too far and Itadori stands in the way. Gojo’s shielding himself again.
“You’re unbelievable,” Megumi rasps. “Absolutely unbelievable.”
“Does the rabbit have a name?” Itadori pipes up, seemingly oblivious to the idiotic simper Gojo sends his way. Megumi spares a look to his friend and immediately wishes that he hadn’t.
There, pressed close to Itadori’s chest, rests the rabbit, red eyes nowhere to be seen.
The rabbit fell asleep within less than a minute of being in Itadori’s hold.
“They do not,” he tightly replies.
“They?”
Satoru snorts at the slip up. “Well you kids have fun.” He pulls the door open and takes a step out, only stopping to throw a glance in Itadori’s direction. “And don’t forget your report, Yuuji. Or is Nobara taking care of that?” There’s a sort of cheekiness to his tone that has Yuuji vehemently shaking his head in defense.
“I wrote mine on the way back, Sensei!”
He tosses a wink over a pitch-black lens, satisfied. “Good kid.” Then, with a final look at Megumi — who’s taken to bunching up his fists in his bedsheets, pointedly looking at him with a glint of betrayal — he fully steps out and firmly closes the door behind him.
Megumi only relaxes after a minute of tight silence.
“I’m going to punch him,” he mutters, falling back against his bed.
“You know,” Itadori mumbles, voice deliberately low so as to not wake the rabbit, “I really like your technique, Fushiguro-kun.”
“You like my technique,” Megumi repeats.
“I do. It’s something beautiful.” The sincerity in Itadori’s voice has Megumi wanting to explode right then and there. It’s incredibly unfair how the other boy can say such things without stumbling over his words, much less a tremor.
His gaze remains fixed on the ceiling. “You’re only saying that because you’ve got my rabbit in your arms.”
Itadori laughs.
“Do you want it back?”
Megumi lifts his head a little, regards the shikigami, then lets his head plop against the bed again. “Nah. Sit down though, you’ll meld with the fucking floor.”
“Ha,” Itadori takes Gojo’s former spot, tucking a leg beneath himself. “What was Sensei doing here anyway?”
“Pushing me closer to jumping off the ledge,” Megumi says. At Itadori’s flustered look, he snorts and just barely hides the twitch of his lips. “Kidding. He just wanted to catch up.” And dissect me like some specimen sitting on Ieiri-san’s desk.
“Catch up? That sounds nice, actually.”
“Mm, it’s definitely a treat whenever he’s able to sit down for longer than a minute. He always has somewhere to be and it’s so annoying.”
“You’ve known him for a while then?”
“Nosy,” Megumi remarks. “But yes, I’ve known Gojo for years now. He was just as weird then as he is today, believe it or not.” He almost snorts at the memory. “Aneki warmed up to him immediately — said something about being able to read people. I just thought he was stupid. And weird.”
Itadori chuckles, low and fond. “Well I’ll take your word on Gojo being weird but you think everyone’s stupid, sweetheart. I don’t think that counts as a good assessment.”
Megumi chokes on his inhale.
All the air in the world is both inside him and far, far away from his airways. A cough tears through him, hot and dry.
It’s forceful. It’s enough to have his upper body lifting off the bed somewhat and he has no choice but to humiliate himself further by letting his head bounce on the bed as if he were some kind of rag doll in a toddler’s merciless grip. Another cough and his concentration breaks.
There’s a high, high, high yelp from Itadori followed by the wet sound of his shikigami reverting back.
“Fushiguro!” Itadori’s hands help him onto his side. His right hand reaches over and drags itself across his back in a soothing manner.
Unsurprisingly, it works. Megumi is able to earn himself a shaky inhale by the second swipe of Itadori’s hand.
Shaky, because his lungs are still recovering from his sudden coughing fit. And because he’s unable to fathom what he’d just heard slip through Itadori’s lips as if he’s been calling him endearments for months, years even.
This boy — this unbelievable being of a boy sitting on his bed with the most beautiful expression of concern painted on his already impeccable face — this boy will be the death of him.
It won’t be the worst way to go, honestly.
When Megumi’s wheezing subsides Itadori wastes no time in fussing over him.
“Are you okay? What happened?” His face hovers dangerously close to Megumi’s flushed own. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“No, idiot. You did this.”
“Me?”
“Sweetheart,” Megumi weakly deadpans. “You called me sweetheart.”
Itadori pauses, frowns as if rewinding one of those cassette tapes Gojo had given Tsumiki for Christmas, then lets his mouth fall open in a little ‘o’ of astonishment. Or embarrassment, going by the way his cheeks earn more than enough colour to rival his hair.
“I-I didn’t mean…” Crestfallen, he trails off. Honey turned amber.
“He likes you tons. Figure it out.”
“It’s fine, you just surprised me.” He actually almost killed him but Megumi couldn’t give less of a shit about that. Again — it would not be the worst way to go.
It’s quite ridiculous how Itadori instantly perks up at his words, quite childlike. Yet something fond stutters from the back of Megumi’s chest.
The same stuttering he felt as Sukuna’s marks faded from Itadori’s complexion; his sinister smile morphing into one of warmth — not like the suffocating blanket of a summer’s day at its peak but one like that of a mellow spring afternoon, impending shower on the way and nothing more — while red eyes reverted to the honey-amber that he’d never found sweeter.
He knows what Gojo meant by figuring it out.
It’s simple, really. Friends don’t do what they’ve been doing for the past few weeks. Maybe friends hold hands, perhaps they cuddle. However, they most certainly don’t exchange kisses under the pretence of friendship.
Stolen kisses. Quick kisses. Light, light, light kisses that have Itadori smiling against Megumi’s lips as if he’s said something funny. Secretive kisses behind a too thin tree, trunk thick enough to lean against yet terribly thin to a point where neither of their shoulders (or Itadori’s bright red hood) are hidden from sight.
Kisses that leave Megumi, as much as he doesn’t want to say it, weak; kisses that have him wrapping his arms around Itadori’s neck to keep himself steady because he knows that for all he wants to take, take, take there is only so much Itadori can give him before he inevitably rejoins the pavement.
Megumi knows what this is. He’s known. Its acknowledgement has been by far the most gruelling task of his short life.
But he doesn’t want to ruin everything.
Well he didn’t, then Itadori had to swoop in and quite literally steal all the breath from his lungs. An endearment. Friends don’t usually do that, do they?
“He likes you tons.”
No fucking kidding.
“Itadori, I’m fucked up,” he says, voice soft. It’s the truth and he lets it slip past no matter how much his body tries to protest with the wicked heat surging through his cheeks. “I am so fucked up.”
“What—?”
A wheezy hah of comical upset leaves Megumi. Less a laugh and more a cry, except no tears accompany it.
He cannot bear to look at Itadori’s face, much less his hand. Megumi pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath:
“It was so quiet during your death. I couldn’t sleep; Gojo had to knock me out at some point because it was too fucking quiet. Do you know that your heart beats really loud? It’s pretty fucking loud, Itadori. It’s so loud, and annoying, and I can’t stop hearing it even when you’re not here so tell me why even when you were dead and gone I could still hear your stupid, stupid heart? You were dead but in some weird way you stuck yourself to me.”
Another dry sob escapes from his chest, heavy. It’s a sigh. It’s just a sigh. “I don’t like the quiet, Itadori. I don’t like being alone. I don’t want to be alone — that’s why I saved you in the first place. That’s why all of this is happening. I figured, if everyone leaving was out of my control, why couldn’t I do something about it? Why can’t I save that idiot boy who ate a cursed object? Make sure he stays?”
There’s a hand on his shoulder. He can’t bring himself to shrug it off. Not when his body can barely move under the pressure of Itadori’s gaze.
Itadori wants to say something. That much he can tell from the way his breath hitches as though words have suddenly been placed on the tip of his tongue, ready to be heard.
Megumi continues to mindlessly ramble, however.
“Then you fucking left. But now you’re back and I want you to never leave me again. I’m not asking that you don’t leave — I’m begging. Stay this time. Please.”
He finishes with a slow exhale, temples brewing something painful. Holding onto Itadori — being greedy — has given him a greater headache than the many months he’s spent not putting much thought into this.
This being his dependency on Itadori — both emotionally and physically. An infatuation with the other boy falls closely behind, only having made itself known after honey eyes turned to him, aflame with a blazing confidence he’d never seen before.
The river ran cold, cold, cold unlike the wetness slowly passing over his cheek, rolling off the swell of it and hitting the fabric of his pants with a barely audible plop. It’s hot, almost burning, and when Megumi looks up to find the source he finds that he can’t see: his vision is completely blurred and fragmented from the reservoir of tears pooling into the edges of his eyes.
Shit.
Megumi grits his teeth hard and tries to hide his face from view. Tries, but Itadori’s hands take hold of his wrists before he’s able to press his palms against either side of his face.
“Fushiguro,” Itadori breathes, “don’t do that. Look at me, please.”
For some ridiculous reason Megumi can’t bear the idea of looking at Itadori. Probably because he’s half a second away from wailing a lung out, or maybe because he’s being ridiculous himself in being half a second away from wailing a lung out. Either way, Megumi silently and timidly shakes his head.
Itadori’s heartbeat stops then picks up. A pang of disappointment. He’s disappointed with Megumi’s refusal.
“I’m sorry,” Megumi whispers. “I’m sorry, Itadori.”
Itadori inhales. It’s shaky. “Why the fuck are you sorry? You have nothing to apologise for. Nothing. Just look at me, please.”
But Megumi is as stubborn as ever. He refuses to do as much as turn his head towards the other boy. With his wrists in Itadori’s grasp, he can’t do much except keep his head down.
A beat of silence. Hesitation is written all over it — Megumi recognises it by the sound of Itadori’s mouth falling open in a deep inhale, followed by a rushed exhale.
“Megumi.” And oh it’s a miracle how he doesn’t die right then and there. Itadori’s voice is wet, and the shock of hearing it has Megumi daring to take a peek towards him.
He reels at the sight of unshed tears glimmering in the honey-amber. To juxtapose them is a toothy smile, undeniably and unbearably sweet.
“Itadori,” Megumi says, more breathy than anything. “Why—?”
Itadori cuts him off. “Yuuji,” he says, pleads, has the audacity to laugh wetly. “We’ve kissed a few times so it’s Yuuji now.” Has the audacity to try for a joke.
“Yuuji,” Megumi tests the waters, immediately likes it. “Why are you crying, Yuuji?”
“Why are you crying?” Ita—Yuuji, it’s Yuuji now — counters.
“I don’t know.” He knows. He knows that he feels everything.
The wind blows one way and his hair moves in the other direction. One foot settled onto the uncharted ground while the other hangs behind, an anchor to the life he’s always lived.
The ever persistent beating of Yuuji’s heart resonates in his ears, as much a curse as it is a blessing: a reminder of Yuuji’s death yet also a reminder of his existence.
Yuuji makes a face. It looks funny when his eyes are brimming with heavy, heavy tears.
“I wasn’t completely honest with you. The day I came back, I mean. You asked if something happened and well, yeah, something pretty bad happened while I was gone. A friend of mine died and, um, he begged me to help him but I couldn’t. I couldn’t help and I lost him just like that.”
Lips parting, Megumi all but automatically allows his hands to fall into Yuuji’s hold. He grasps either hand delicately, thumbs running across his bony knuckles with a fond, but sad stare fixed on his fingers.
All the while, Megumi keeps his gaze on Yuuji’s mess of pink hair.
“And I thought about it, y’know? Losing someone I had just met was hard. Pretty fucking hard, actually, but I don’t know how bad it would be if I lost, say, you. Don’t get me wrong I’m still not over gramps and I probably won’t be for a while but you — you’re different. Really different.”
Yuuji blinks and that’s all it takes for his tears to come out. It’s a foreign sight compared to his usual bubbly demeanour.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is that I get it. I don’t want you to leave me as much as you don’t want me to leave you.” He leans down, pressing his lips against the skin of Megumi’s little fingers, right where his hands meet. His chest stutters. Again, again, again. “And I won’t. You’re stuck with me, Megumi.”
Megumi sucks in a breath as another wave of tears falls over. He goes to say something, but Yuuji beats him to it with a stifled chuckle that he feels against his skin before his forehead replaces the soft caress of his breathing.
“Don’t say that this is stupid.”
“You don’t think it’s a bit stupid?”
“A little, maybe.”
“Then it’s stupid.”
Yuuji laughs, more a rush of air through his nose than anything, and shakes his head. “It’s not. You’re adorable, really, but we need to get that word out of your vocabulary.”
“Adorable,” Megumi repeats, “don’t call me that.”
Yuuji lifts his head. “I can’t call you adorable? Ah, you wound me. It hurts — it hurts I say! — to be denied such privileges.”
“Shut the fuck up, Itadori.” Megumi takes one of his hands from Yuuji’s hold to wipe at his face. “And stop crying so I can stop crying.”
“It’s Yuuji, don’t forget that–” he cups the right side of Megumi’s face and studies him, making Megumi look off to the side to avoid his scrutiny “–and you look really pretty right now, actually. Wow – your lashes are so long. How’d you get them like that?”
He looks what?
Megumi flounders, mouth opening and closing without sound for a minute before he finally finds his voice again.
“Idiot, stop that. Me spitting my guts out wasn’t meant to be permission to start flirting with me. And did you just notice? Kugisaki’s been bothering me about them for months.”
“Actually, I noticed them when we first met. I just never said anything because I thought it would’ve been awkward coming from another guy. Not that there’s anything wrong with that it’s just that–”
“I get it, Yuuji.” Megumi meets his eyes. “And for your information they’ve always been this long; if you want eyelash secrets you’re going to have to go to Gojo for that.”
Yuuji smiles. “Is that what you’ve been telling Kugisaki? Cute.”
Megumi swallows. When the hell did he get so bold? “I said to stop flirting, Yuuji. You’re embarrassing.”
“Okay, okay,” Yuuji swipes at Megumi’s eyelashes with a knuckle. Megumi scrunches up his nose at the feeling but otherwise he lets the other boy do whatever. “How do you feel though?”
He can still hear Yuuji’s heartbeat. In an ideal world he wouldn’t have to hear the never ending ba-dum-ba-dum-ba-dum even when prefectures apart because in such a world Yuuji would have never died in front of him.
But this is the reality they were fated for and all Megumi can do is take Yuuji’s heartbeat, hold it close, and hold him even closer.
He keeps his promise at a distance; time and time again he’s faced disappointment after disappointment when it comes to permanence and although Yuuji’s words hold a sincerity that has left him winded, Megumi knows promises can be broken.
But Yuuji sounded so genuine — looks so genuine, his eyes wide and bearing varying values of honey — that Megumi can have some hope in the solidity of his words.
“Warm,” he says, “I feel warm.”
Yuuji blinks, one, two, and tilts his head.
“You make it so hard to not call you adorable.”
With a groan and a rush of heat to his face, Megumi aims a punch to Yuuji’s shoulder. Unlike with Gojo, he meets his target and is rewarded with a sharp yelp. Exaggerated, no doubt, but nonetheless an overdue reaction.
To contrast (or rather, apologise for) the hit he leans forward, pressing a kiss to the edge of Yuuji’s cheek. Close enough to his ear and close enough for him to softly mutter “Idiot.”
When Yuuji grins, the apple of his cheek rubs against Megumi’s. It tickles, making him huff involuntarily.
“Your idiot though, right?” He’s teasing, it’s obvious in his tone, but Megumi is more than familiar with the unspoken sincerity hiding behind every word. A second layer of sweetness only Megumi has the ability to discern.
He pulls away, hand coming in his place to trace the edges of Yuuji’s smile. A surprisingly tender gesture and yet through his astonishment the other manages to catch Megumi’s hand and give the pad of his thumb a peck.
And oh fuck there’s that stutter again.
“Yeah,” he says. His voice is tight, his words are greedy. “I think you’re mine.”
Yuuji makes a little noise, eyes widening somewhat. Stutter. The stutter has a name. He knows that. He’s neither afraid nor ignorant of it.
“Then does that mean you’re mine, Megumi?” He’s sly with it, grin morphing into a boyish smirk. Megumi spares him a small smile.
“Obviously.”
Yuuji laughs, pretty and light. “I like you so much, y’know.”
Like. The stutter goes beyond the boundaries of like. The wind and grass sway one way when it comes to like. Dichotomy comes from complexity, which is every bit what like isn’t. Nevertheless he’ll wait for Yuuji to vocalise it.
“I like you too.” He means it. Megumi means every word of it, but there’s something heavier weighing down the tip of his tongue.
When Yuuji brings him close, their noses touching, Megumi distantly wonders if his heart will ever stop racing around him.
iv. never let go.
“That is so not your colour.”
“Is it not?” Yuuji holds the sweater up, hand running over the fabric. “I didn’t know you were as fashion conscious as Kugisaki.”
“If you consider me telling you that a neon green sweater would look ridiculous on you as fashion conscious then yes, I am.” Megumi makes a face at the sweater. It really is atrocious. “Horribly, in fact. Worse than Kugisaki.”
(Not as bad as Gojo, though. Words aren’t enough to describe the absolute menace the man is when it comes to couture.)
“Doubt it,” Yuuji replies, putting the sweater back. “But we love her for it.”
“I guess she’s all right when I’m not getting spammed with links to shirts and shit.”
He receives an unimpressed look. “Then what are those packages sitting in your room?”
In response, Megumi waves a hand nonsensically and lets his gaze flutter over a select few items hanging beside him and opposite to the awful sweater. A variety of sweaters all in cool, desaturated tones ranging from sage to a pink-ish beige.
They’re all of a very nice material, undoubtedly as smooth against the skin as the neon green sweater a few hangers away. From a single glance Megumi can tell that they’d look a thousand times better on Yuuji.
He reaches for the sage crew neck, pulling it off the rack and shoving it into Yuuji’s unexpecting hands.
“Megumi what are—?”
Megumi shushes him with a finger to his lips. Cliché, but it has him closing his mouth relatively quickly. He presses the sweater closer to Yuuji’s chest, making him stumble back a little from the force.
“Dressing room is behind you and to the left. Just… Just try that on and tell me what you think. Don’t even look at the price — just put it on and see how you like it.”
Yuuji blinks, looking at the sweater with wide eyes and parted lips. It’s as if Megumi’s given him a billion yen in cash instead of a sage cashmere crew neck with the tag hanging haphazardly over the trim.
“Sweetheart,” Megumi promptly glances to the side, ignoring the surge of heat in his face, “I can pay, you know?”
“I don’t care,” he says. “Go try it on before I toss you into the dressing room myself.”
“Can I at least know why you want me to try this on so badly?”
“The colour will look good with your hair.”
“Oh you are terrible,” Yuuji grins, “but okay. Where’s Kugisaki? I want her opinion too.”
Megumi sucks in a breath and cranes his head, catching sight of a copper-painted head of hair relatively quickly. “She’s coming. I don’t think she found much.”
That earns him an enthusiastic hum. “Barbecue for dinner then?” Megumi rolls his eyes and bites down a smile but otherwise doesn’t reply. Instead, he turns to give Kugisaki a nod as she approaches them with a small bundle of clothing in her arms.
“You two,” Kugisaki greets, putting her selection into the basket by Megumi’s feet. “Nothing caught your interest?”
As Megumi silently shrugs, Yuuji thrusts the sage crew neck in her direction and gives it a firm shake. “Kugisaki, our dear Kugisaki, what do you think of this sweater?”
She blinks. “You’re asking me?”
“Megumi picked it out,” Yuuji sniffs, “said it’ll look good with my hair. Can you believe this guy?”
Megumi allows himself the slightest upturn of his lips.
The sweater is taken from Yuuji’s hold by Kugisaki, lips pursed in thought as she studies the material in her hands. Megumi watches over Yuuji’s shoulder, feeling a bit of satisfaction when she glances at him with a raised brow and a sparkle in her eye.
Good material, good colour, good price — that was what attracted Megumi to this particular sweater and from the pleased look on her face Kugisaki apparently agrees with his observation.
Without taking her eyes off him, the sweater is returned to Yuuji.
“You’ve got a good eye, Fushiguro.” Then, to Yuuji: “Surprisingly, I can believe him. Try it on so we can go.”
It’s Yuuji’s turn to blink. Then, without saying anything else, he promptly turns and heads towards the men’s dressing room. Kugisaki snorts, giving Megumi a jab to the side with her elbow before following the other boy.
Megumi grunts and grabs the basket. He falls into step with Kugisaki relatively quickly.
“What was that for?” He asks, eyes fixed ahead on Yuuji.
Kugisaki hums, shrugging. “You really picked that out for him?”
“Yeah? Isn’t that what people who’re dating do?”
“Oh?” She flounders somewhat at the realisation of what he’s saying. Her hair swishes when she looks at him. “Wait what the fuck — you two are dating? Since when? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Megumi switches his hold on the basket from one hand to the other, heaving a sigh. “We figured stuff out three days ago and if it makes you feel any better, not even Gojo knows.”
“It doesn’t, actually, but whatever.” She smiles, half mischievous and half tender. “You really got a boyfriend before I got a girlfriend. Good game, Fushiguro.”
Boyfriend. A word that so far hasn’t failed to make Megumi a bit lightheaded.
Whether out of happiness or befuddlement, having a boyfriend is something that he, despite never spending much of his time thinking of romance, has been enjoying so much for the past three days. A title to claim Yuuji as his and only his, while Yuuji himself prefers to refer to Megumi as his Megumi.
When he had first coined the name, Megumi snorted and called him ridiculous. Yuuji had only grinned in response and tapped the tip of his nose with a cold finger.
“The way I see it is that there’s one Megumi for me, and there’s one of me for you.”
Yuuji has an incredible way with words. Or maybe Megumi’s easily swept off his damn mind now that Yuuji’s kissed him more times than he’s breathed.
“Ha,” he gives himself a slight shake, mentally cursing himself for going quiet. “Just talk with Maki-san. I swear she won’t bite, Kugisaki.”
“Nobara. And maybe I will; I can’t let you one up me again.”
“Megumi. And is that a challenge?”
“It’s been a challenge, idiot.”
Megumi only hums in amusement. They’re nearing the dressing room, passing by various haphazardly arranged displays to which Nobara regards with an unimpressed look on her face. Megumi takes a second to gaze at her before hoisting the basket higher up on his arm.
“You were right, Nobara.”
Said girl stops glaring at one of the mannequins to tilt her head at him. “Of course I was right, I'm always right.” She pauses. “Right about what exactly?”
“The nails. Yuuji liked them.”
“Oh. Of course he did,” she grins. “Have you seen the way he looks at you? Itadori could never not like anything about you. It’s kinda gross, actually, but cute too I guess.”
They stop just short of the dressing rooms. Yuuji, sweater in one hand and the other shoved into his pocket, strolls into the men’s side with a small smile briefly tossed over his shoulder to Megumi and Nobara. He ventures further into the entryway and as soon as his hood is out of sight Megumi lowers the basket back onto the floor to give his arm a break.
He turns to Nobara, who has taken to crossing her arms over her chest while they wait for Yuuji. “The way he looks at me?”
Nobara angles her head towards him, face serious. “Oh Megumi, you’re hopeless. I think everyone except you knew that he’s had this huge crush on you for a while.”
“It’s pretty fucking difficult to think about any of that when you’re the one who saw him die right in front of you.”
“And I saw his corpse. I get it. It’s not as horrific as literally watching him die but I still saw him dead. Dead, cold, big fucking hole in his chest, heart gone—”
“Okay,” Megumi croaks. “Okay.”
Nobara studies him for a second then sighs.
“I get it, Megumi. Shit like that is bound to mess you up but have you ever thought about why?”
Of course he has. Why belongs somewhere in that field, in the very territory he still only has one foot in.
The other, though not as firmly rooted to the ground as it had been a week before, is nonetheless hesitant to cross the invisible line drawn between negation and acceptance.
An invisible line drawn between being honest with himself or avoiding his feelings until they inevitably come spilling out, unable to not embarrass himself in the process.
Nobara, sensing his hesitation, says: “Look. For me it was because he was so kind. He was funny, he helped me move in, I finally had someone to talk to about Hayden Christensen. Itadori just has that charm that never seems to fade away. Seeing his body was… Well, who was going to argue with me about his outfit choices?”
She tucks a few strands of hair behind her ear, shrugging. “I never once thought he’d leave my life. Same goes for you, idiot. So don’t? Leave, I mean?”
Megumi falters, taken aback by her sudden vulnerability.
“I don’t want you to leave, either. Both of you.”
“But for Itadori it’s something more.” She doesn’t ask. Her words are a fact that hangs between them, words clear as day and implications even clearer. Megumi opts to look through them to gaze at her.
More, more, more. The word taunts him.
More and like are of the same heaviness that weighs on his shoulders. The same, stifled feelings he pours into each kiss he shares with Yuuji. Stifled, because Yuuji has only said that he likes Megumi so much and Megumi, having already taken too much from his too kind boy, has fallen into reticence.
(He’s waiting — he’s waiting for Yuuji to take the next step this time.
But Megumi, much to his dismay, is not as patient as he wishes himself to be this time.)
“It’s funny,” he says, gaze going from Nobara to the dressing rooms. One foot in the field. “I think I fell in love with him the moment he jumped through the fourth story window to help his friends. He didn’t have any cursed energy and yet he still did that.”
“Ugh, gross.” Regardless of her words, there’s a smile sitting on her face. “You should tell him.”
He should.
He really should.
Yuuji ends up loving the sweater. So much so that he doesn’t even try to protest when Megumi pulls out his card at the register and hands it to the cashier without a second’s hesitation.
Well, he does protest but a curt “let your boyfriend do what he wants” from Nobara — paired with a sharp stab to his side with her elbow — has him stepping aside and watching the transaction with his lip between his teeth.
He must’ve been biting pretty hard because Nobara takes one look at his face as soon as they’ve stepped out of the store and hurriedly ushers both boys into the nearest restroom.
Megumi, in his struggle to put his card back in his wallet and his wallet back into his pocket, doesn’t catch a glimpse of Yuuji’s face until they’re both leaning against the granite countertop of the sinks with the lights above acting like a spotlight specifically for Yuuji’s lips.
Very much reminiscent of another time, Megumi sighs and turns to grab a paper towel.
“I’m not kissing you, by the way,” he says as he grabs Yuuji’s chin with his other hand and tilts his head up a bit. “That’s gross.”
Yuuji has the audacity to pout. More blood oozes out and Megumi bites back another sigh at the sight.
“Not even a peck? Just a little one?” He raises a finger and taps the corner of his mouth. “Here?”
Megumi dabs at his lip, earning a poorly acted out grimace. “Not even that. And don’t do that when I know that you can handle worse.”
The side of Yuuji’s lips not being prodded at by paper quirk up in a half smile. “Worth a shot. How about a cheek kiss, then? That’s not gross, I think.”
“If you stay still I’ll consider it.”
He’ll pretend to consider it. There’s nothing in the way of Megumi delivering Yuuji’s requested cheek kiss so why would he abstain from it? However, Megumi also likes to tease his boyfriend when possible and when the opportunity presents itself he takes it.
It works. Yuuji, with his shoulders set straight, allows Megumi to clean his bottom lip without any further fuss.
Honey eyes follow the movement of Megumi’s slim hand, blinking rapidly when a bit of pressure is put on the injury to clog the flow of blood.
“Baby,” Megumi jumps at the name, but doesn’t comment, “you take really good care of me. Thank you for that.”
Pulling away, Megumi swallows. He pointedly ignores the smooth, calm beating of Yuuji’s heart.
“Idiot. I said to stay still.”
Yuuji waves his hand dismissively. “It’ll be fine. My Megumi has a magical touch, I’m practically healed already.” He smiles, careful to not reopen his wound. “Thank you, baby.”
“Baby,” Megumi echoes, paper crumpling in his hold. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah?” Yuuji says as Megumi turns to dispose of the bloody paper. “Admit it — you like my ridiculousness. It’s part of my charm, I’m so irresistible. And don’t say that I’m not because you’re here, are you not?”
“Ha, real funny.”
“Oh? Does that mean you don’t like my ridiculousness, Megumi?”
“No, dummy,” Megumi says, dispensing some soap into his hands. “I actually love it.”
Yuuji chokes.
He continues, mindless, running his hands under the tap meticulously to avoid looking at Yuuji. It’s almost as if his body has given up in trying to contain his feelings. “Ever since you jumped through that fucking window. That’s when I fell in love with your ridiculousness.” He pauses, lifting his hands to shut off the tap. “And, by consequence, you.”
Waving his hand over the sensor, he tugs the paper towel granted to him and hastily dries his hands with it.
He still doesn’t look at Yuuji, unsure if the effect of his greed will be too much to bear in the limited space of the mall restroom.
Both feet are now in the field.
Still, Megumi doesn’t take a step forward.
It’s Yuuji, however, who dares to voice the truth hidden in the wind.
“You love me.” A statement. Not a question, not a suggestion. But a statement that is as pristine as the triple set of mirrors projecting their images back onto themselves.
Megumi hardly moves. The words aren’t delivered softly. They’re not loud, either. They’re somewhere in between, like a rush of air mixed with a firmness that has Megumi biting the inside of his cheek. A confirmation.
“I do.” He says, plain and simple and every bit of an admission. There’s a spike in Yuuji’s heartbeat. It doesn’t struggle, not as it did aeons ago; it’s instead smooth with excitement and a million other good things neither of them can name.
When he finally faces Yuuji, he finds that his eyes have gotten impossibly bright. Adorably so and nothing like the daunting dimming of that day.
“Megumiiiii,” he sings with a pretty smile tugging at the corners of his lips, injury be damned. Selfishness be damned. “You love me. My Megumi loves me.”
Megumi, despite the horrible burning sensation crawling over his face, nods jerkily. “Yeah, I love you. I really love you.”
The smile that overtakes Yuuji’s features nearly renders him breathless. Eye slits forgotten, temporarily lost to the volume of Yuuji’s red-dusted cheeks.
By some miracle his lip doesn’t start to bleed again, almost as if Megumi does have some sort of magic touch. Almost, if it wasn’t for the fact that the cut is still very much an angry red.
It’s there, against the counter of the mall restroom, that Yuuji grabs Megumi’s hands and gives each set of knuckles a kiss.
It’s there, in the field with its dichromatic wind, where Yuuji stands. His hair blows one way, the grass sways in the other direction. Megumi’s hair blows one way, the grass sways in the other direction.
“I love you too.” Yuuji says, “You’re something else, y’know? Always taking me by surprise. I love that about you.”
“Well surely you don’t love me for my cooking.”
He snickers, a boyish sound. “I’ve been wanting to tell you that I love you for such a long time, actually.” With his grip on Megumi’s hands he pulls him closer. Megumi goes loosely. “Ever since I jumped out of that stupid box.”
Oh. Megumi’s chest stutters at that. “I’m glad you didn’t. I would’ve punched you.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t think I’m mad at you anymore,” Megumi says. “But back then I would’ve sent you to space.”
“And I’d be in orbit with the moon,” Yuuji recites. “Not that I would complain about that, at least you’d literally be my whole world.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
Yuuji tilts his head, lips sticking out cutely. “Hell if I know.”
They stare at each other for a moment. Just them and their breathing reverberating around the restroom. They’re in sync, most likely subconsciously, and even their blinking starts to pick up a shared rhythm.
Megumi can’t help it — he smiles. It’s almost painful with how the muscles have been sparingly used but whatever pain he feels is all worth it when Yuuji brightens considerably. Brighter than a full moon, even.
“We’re ridiculous,” he says, falling forward and resting his face on his boyfriend’s shoulder. “So fucking ridiculous.”
Yuuji’s hand comes up and threads itself in his hair. “Megumi, I love you so much.”
“Mm—Let’s not make this a competition.”
In response, a kiss is pressed to the top of his head. He buries his face further into Yuuji’s collarbone. The scent of his cologne is strong, so strong, and Megumi likes it. He really likes it.
He could stay like this forever. Here, in this too clean mall restroom with the fluorescent lights above shining down on them like artificial suns. Ones that’ll never amount to the shine Yuuji brings to his life by simply existing.
His own sun sits in his hold, equal parts warm and loving as his hands and being alike caress Megumi as if he’s the most precious thing to be created.
Normally, Megumi would hate the touch. But since it’s Yuuji, he finds himself nearly melting into it.
Nearly, if it weren’t for the fact that they’ve left Nobara outside with all the bags.
“Yuuji,” he mumbles as best as he can in his current position, “Nobara.”
“What about her?” Then, his eyes widen. “Oh fuck.” They get even wider. “And why is she Nobara to you? Why can’t I call her Nobara?”
Megumi snorts, pulling away to press a chaste kiss to Yuuji’s cheek. “Just ask her. And that was your promised cheek kiss, by the way.”
“No way. That was too short; do it again, stay there, and I’ll tell you when to stop.”
“No, I don’t think I will.”
Yuuji gasps, scrambling from the sink and catching up to Megumi — who’s already making his way to the door — in a few strides. “Megumi!”
There’s a hand on his wrist and Megumi grins. “Love, we can’t keep Nobara waiting. It’s rude.”
Yuuji immediately flushes another layer of red at the name. “J-Just one more. Please.”
With a sigh, Megumi reaches and cups Yuuji’s face, savouring the warmth that flourishes beneath his palm. He runs his thumb over the roundness of his cheek, methodically avoiding grazing the eye slit beneath the pretty honey-amber aimed at him expectantly. He wonders if they ever hurt, has a small pang of guilt, then promptly remembers Gojo’s words from that nonexistent moment in time.
“Yuuji never once blamed you.”
Megumi’s selfish in the way that he takes another breath to simply hold Yuuji’s being.
He’s selfish in the way that when he finally does press a kiss to Yuuji’s cheek it’s close to the eye slit. Close for Yuuji to freeze in his hold yet far enough so that he doesn’t have to worry about accidentally touching the wretched thing.
He’s impossibly selfish in the way that he grabs Yuuji’s hands and places them against either side of his face. Warmth spreads all over him, the euphoric warmth that reminds him of not only Yuuji’s continued existence, but also that he’s truly, definitively not going anywhere.
A promise that can’t be broken. Not when they’ve tethered themselves to each other.
When Megumi tries to pull away, he finds that Yuuji doesn’t seem too keen on letting him go.
“Sweetheart,” Yuuji starts, “you know that I have never once blamed you for the juvenile detention centre, right?”
And here goes Yuuji’s perceptiveness again.
“I know. Gojo told me.”
“But did you believe him?”
Megumi hesitates. Yuuji frowns, a sad sort of expression. He doesn’t quite like it.
“It’s just been so hard,” he says, finally admitting it through the lump in his throat. “But I’m starting to believe you both, trust me on that.”
Yuuji stares at him for a minute. He kind of can’t breathe for a minute. He swears that all other people in the mall cease to exist for a minute. There’s no commotion, only the weight of honey-amber on his person.
Then, Yuuji leans in and gives him a kiss.
“Okay,” he softly smiles when he pulls away. “Okay, baby. God, I love you so much — you have no idea how happy I am to be able to tell you that.”
“I love you too,” Megumi smiles back, blushing when Yuuji coos at him. He’s then alerted to a faint buzzing coming from his pocket which makes him roll his eyes, although fondly. “Come on, our darling Nobara’s waiting for us.”
“Our darling,” Yuuji parrots.
“Our darling,” Megumi confirms with a nod.
His boyfriend considers it for a moment, then shrugs. “You’re right. Come on then, it’s rude to keep her waiting.”
Megumi takes the hand offered to him and squeezes.