Chapter Text
Megumi Fushiguro's life ran on a schedule so tight it left bruises. Monday through Sunday. The only difference was he started it differently than everyone else.
His day starts at 9pm every night at the convenience store. Nine hours of fluorescent hum and the beep of the register and drunk salarymen buying canned coffee at 11pm and teenagers loitering near the magazine rack and the low electric buzz of the slushie machine that hadn't worked properly since last February.
The shift ran from nine to six in the morning, sometimes later if his colleague called in sick again, which he did at least twice a month with the theatrical flair of someone who had never actually experienced illness.
Then he clocked out. Walked sixteen minutes to his apartment. A quick shower, a change of clothes. Ate whatever could be assembled in under ten minutes. And left again for his other shift at seven.
The second shift was at the library. It opened at eight, but the morning shelving had to be done before that, and the head librarian liked the returns sorted by NDC and sub-category, not just dumped in the right section. Megumi didn't mind, he liked the order of it, the decimal points, the logic.
He spent seven hours in the quiet—processing returns, re-shelving, managing the digital catalog, helping old women find large-print mysteries, helping college students who couldn't figure out the database search. He ate lunch at his desk because the breakroom smelled like microwaved fish and someone else's perfume and he couldn't do both at the same time, unless it was Thursday.
The shift ended at 3pm, he’d get home by three twenty. Shower again, brush his teeth, and set the alarm.
Do it all over again.
The money went to three places: rent on a one-bedroom apartment in a building where the hallway always smelled faintly of mildew no matter how much he cleaned. Groceries—he was efficient about it, weekly list, no impulse buys, seasonal produce because it was cheaper. And the rest—most of it, the vast and merciless bulk of it—went to a medical center, Room 412, Long-Term Care Ward.
He didn't complain about it.
There was nothing to complain about. It was just what was.
It was 2:47am on a Friday when the car pulled up.
Megumi heard it before he saw it—a low, aggressive growl of an engine that had no business being in this neighborhood, the kind of sound that came from something European and probably worth more than every apartment on this block combined. Bass thudded through the closed windows. Not music he recognized. Something heavy and grinding and filthy, the kind of song that sounded like it was written in a hotel room at 4am by someone who didn't believe in god but liked the aesthetics.
The engine cut. The music didn't—not right away. It bled out into the parking lot and into the store for another few seconds, obscene in the quiet of the street, before it stopped too.
Megumi didn't look up right away from the inventory clipboard when the door chimed, just focused on finishing tallying the energy drink shelf before he went to the counter and glanced at the customer.
The man was tall. That was the first thing Megumi noticed. Not because it mattered—just because it didn’t fit. It made the doorway look smaller when he stepped through, and second was the coat.
Megumi’s gaze caught on it for a second longer than it should’ve. The coat was… fur. Dark. Heavy. Draped over him like an afterthought, like it belonged somewhere else entirely. Not here. Not under fluorescent lights that hummed and flickered and made everything look cheaper than it was.
Underneath it was a black button-down. Not worn properly. Not even close. The top buttons were undone—too many to be accidental, too few to be careless. The fabric hung open just enough to expose the line of his collarbones and the start of something inked at his throat.
But it was his hair that caught Megumi off guard.
Pink—but not loud. Not soft. Muted. Dusty. Like the color had settled into him instead of sitting on top. The sides shaved clean, the top longer, pushed back in a way that exposed everything—forehead, bone structure, expression.
A flicker of recognition Megumi couldn’t place at first. Something about the shade—too close to something familiar, something he’d seen in better lighting, in easier spaces. The thought came and went as quickly as it came.
The man didn’t browse. Didn’t glance around like someone unfamiliar with the space.
He walked straight to the fridge like he’d been here before, like he knew exactly what he wanted and where it would be. The glass door slid open with a soft, complaining creak. Cold light spilled over him as he reached in and pulled out a six-pack of imported craft IPA—not the cheap stuff, not even the mid-range, the one that sat on the top shelf and that Megumi had literally never seen anyone buy.
The man cracked one of the beers open before he reached the counter. Took a long drink. Didn't rush. Didn't look remotely concerned about the fact that he hadn't paid for it.
Megumi watched this happen with the flat, unmoved expression of someone who had worked retail long enough to be surprised by exactly nothing.
The man set the open beer and the rest of the six-pack on the counter. Leaned one hand on the edge. Now upclose, Megumi can see his face properly.
His face wasn’t pretty, or soft. It was sharp, almost mean. Jaw carved clean, cheekbones high, the kind of structure that made shadows look intentional. And his mouth—there was something wrong about it. Not in shape, but in the way it held itself. Like it knew exactly what it could get away with.
He was full of piercings. A ring through the left lower lip. A barbell through the right eyebrow. His ears were worse—lined with metal, multiple studs climbing up the cartilage, gauges stretching the lobes. It would look too much for most people, but on him, it looked complementary.
"Condoms," he said. "And Seven Stars." His voice was smooth and low. Not quiet—low. The kind of voice that didn't need volume.
Megumi thought he might have caught the glint of a tongue piercing. He turned, pulled the cigarettes from the rack behind him. Set them on the counter. Reached under the register for the condoms and paused.
"Size?" Megumi asked, because it was the job, because there were three options and the man hadn't specified.
The man smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. It was a smile that knew exactly what it looked like and was weaponizing it. "Large." He said it like it was obvious. Like the question was cute.
Megumi placed the box beside the cigarettes without blinking and scanned everything. Scanned the open beer too.
“Total’s on the screen.” he said as he bagged the items.
But he did notice the man pulling out a black card—not a credit card, one of those matte, heavy things that didn't even have numbers on the front—and tapped it against the reader without looking at the total.
Must be nice.
Megumi held the bag out without ceremony and the man took it. Their fingers didn't touch. But he held Megumi's gaze for a beat longer than necessary, longer than any transaction in a fluorescent-lit convenience store at three in the morning warranted.
"You always this fun?" the man asked.
"You always drink things before you buy them?"
That smile again. Slower this time. Like Megumi had done something interesting.
"Only when the company's worth staying for."
Megumi said nothing. Held the stare. Didn't blink, didn't flush, didn't fidget. Just waited with the patience of someone who had been standing behind this counter for six hours and would be here for thirteen more minutes regardless of whether this man left or burst into flames.
The man laughed. Short, low, almost private—like it had surprised him.
"Goodnight, sweetheart." He left. The door chimed. The engine started—that same obscene growl—and the car peeled out of the lot trailing bass and exhaust.
Megumi looked at the clock.
2:53am.
Three more hours.
He wiped down the counter where the beer had sweated a ring onto the surface, finished his shift, locked up, and walked home.
He didn't think about it.
Saturday was the one day off he got out of the week.
Megumi woke up without an alarm because his body automatically wakes him at 6am anyway, because it was a traitor, but he lay there in the gray morning light and refused. Stared at the ceiling. Breathed.
He finally got up at 7:42am. Which felt obscene. Luxurious. Like sleeping in at a resort.
He made coffee. Real coffee—not the instant stuff he usually choked down while standing at the kitchen counter with one shoe on. He used the French press that had been a birthday gift from Yuuji two years ago that he almost never had time to use. Then he sat at the small table by the window and drank it slowly.
After that, he cleaned.
Not because the apartment was dirty. It wasn't. He kept it ruthlessly clean despite barely being in it—dishes washed immediately, surfaces wiped nightly, shoes aligned at the door. The apartment was small and old and the linoleum in the kitchen was peeling at the corner and the bathroom fan made a sound like a dying animal, but it was neat. That mattered. The world outside could be chaotic and stupid and unfair, but inside these small four walls, things were where they belonged.
Still. Saturday cleaning was different. Saturday cleaning was thorough. He stripped the bed and put the sheets in the wash. Wiped down the baseboards. Cleaned the inside of the microwave. Organized the shelf in the bathroom where his products lived—face wash, moisturizer, the one good shampoo he allowed himself because his hair deserved at least one non-negotiable luxury. It was already unruly as it is.
Then he showered and put on a clean shirt. Dark. Simple. Comfortable in a way he rarely let himself be during the week, when everything was chosen for function and speed.
The flowers were already bought—he'd picked them up yesterday on his lunch break. White carnations and one pale blue hydrangea, wrapped in brown paper. He'd kept them in a glass of water on the counter overnight so they still looked fresh.
He picked them up. Checked his wallet, his phone, his keys. Did the three-point tap—pocket, pocket, jacket—and reached for the door.
His phone buzzed.
Then buzzed again.
Then started ringing.
YUUJI flashed across the screen with the contact photo of Yuuji mid-bite into a comically large sandwich, grinning around it like a golden retriever.
Megumi answered.
"Yuu—"
"MEGUMI."
The volume was immediate and catastrophic. Megumi held the phone two inches from his ear.
"MEGUMI. ARE YOU BUSY. WAIT DON'T ANSWER THAT. COME OVER. COME TO THE CEMETERY. RIGHT NOW."
"I'm going to the hospital."
"I KNOW—BUT—AHHH—OKAY LISTEN—"
Megumi waited. Yuuji's voice was always loud, always running, always falling over itself like a dog going downstairs too fast. But there was something under it today. Not quite anxiety. Something vibrating and raw and barely contained.
"He—he’s… here," The energy shifted just like that. His voice dropped half an octave and the words came out quieter, almost careful. "My brother. He—he actually came."
Megumi leaned against the doorframe.
"I don't want to be with him alone," Yuuji said. Almost embarrassed by it.
Megumi looked at the flowers in his hand. He was going to sit with Tsumiki for two hours. Talk to her about nothing—the weather, a book he'd been reading on his breaks, that the library had gotten new chairs and they were worse than the old ones.
She wouldn't hear any of it. She hadn't heard anything in four years. But he always went. Every Saturday. It was the one thing that was his. In normal circumstances, he would have said no, because he couldn’t care less about other people’s life or the bullshit that came with it.
But saying no to Itadori Yuuji had never been easy or an option.
Not since the beginning. Thirteen. First day. A classroom too loud, too bright, too full of people Megumi had already decided he didn’t like. He’d taken the seat by the window, bag on the floor, head down in a book, fully prepared to exist there quietly until the day ended.
Until—
“HEY.”
Megumi had barely looked up. There was a loud idiot standing right in front of his desk like he belonged there, like they’d already agreed to this arrangement. Pink haired. Bright. Smiling like the world hadn’t given him a reason not to.
“I’m Itadori Yuuji!” Pink haired had said, sticking his hand out without hesitation. “We’re gonna be friends!”
Not can. Not should.
Gonna.
Megumi hadn’t taken the hand. Yuuji hadn’t put it down either. Just stood there, arm extended, grin unwavering, like patience was something he had an endless supply of.
Megumi had taken it eventually.
That had been it.
From that point on, Yuuji existed in his life constantly, unavoidably.
He dragged Megumi into things. Clubs Megumi didn’t care about. School events Megumi would’ve skipped. Study sessions that turned into Yuuji talking and Megumi pretending not to listen while still doing all the work.
When Tsumiki started working part-time and the apartment got too quiet, too empty—Yuuji filled it. Homework at the table. Instant noodles. Noise. Presence. Like Megumi being alone was a problem that needed solving and Yuuji had decided he was the solution.
And when Tsumiki got admitted. That night hadn’t been loud. It had been quiet in the worst way. Hospital lights too bright, everything smelling like antiseptic and something underneath it that felt like fear. Megumi sitting in a plastic chair, hands clenched, not knowing what to do with them, not knowing what anything looked like after that point.
Yuuji had shown up without being asked. Sat down next to him. Didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t pretend it wasn’t happening. Just stayed. And when things got harder after that—money, time, the slow, grinding reality of hospital bills, rent, bills stacking up faster than Megumi could handle—
Yuuji helped.
Not in a way that made it feel like a debt. Not in a way that made Megumi feel small. Just… quietly. Like it was obvious. Like it was what you did. Like Megumi was someone worth showing up for.
"Megumi?" Yuuji’s voice brought him back to the present.
“…Fine,” He exhaled. “I'll meet you there. Text me the address."
"IT'S THE CEMETERY. THE ONE ON—WAIT I'LL SEND A PIN. OH MY GOD MEGUMI THANK YOU. I OWE YOU. I OWE YOU LIKE FOURTEEN FAVORS."
"You already owe me fourteen favors."
"THEN TWENTY-EIGHT. I'M DOUBLING. I'LL BUY YOU LUNCH—"
"Just send the pin."
"SENDING. SENT. LOVE YOU BYE."
The line went dead. Megumi looked at the flowers again. Then at the door. "I'll come this afternoon," he said to no one. To Tsumiki. To the quiet apartment.
Put on his shoes and left.
He took the bus to the cemetery. It was a twenty minute commute from his place and on the other side of town, which means it would take thirty minutes to get to the hospital later. Megumi sighed quietly and looked out the window. All these just because some guy decided to show up years after disappearing.
Megumi knew, loosely, in the vague and peripheral way you know things about your best friend's life that never quite become full stories, that Yuuji had an older brother. It had come up exactly the way things like that come up—offhandedly, in the margins of other conversations.
My brother used to say that.
My brother's weird about that.
Always past tense. Always quickly moved on from.
There were no photos at Yuuji's grandfather's house. Or—there was one. Megumi had seen it once, years ago, half-hidden on a low shelf behind a stack of old newspapers. Two small boys in a backyard. One of them was unmistakably Yuuji—same round face, same enormous smile. The other was taller. Not smiling. Looking directly at the camera like he was daring it to take the picture.
Megumi had asked about it once. Just once. They'd been sixteen, maybe seventeen, sitting on the floor of Yuuji's grandfather's living room eating convenience store onigiri, and Megumi had nodded toward the photo and said, "Your brother?"
Yuuji's face had done something complicated. The smile didn't leave—it never fully left with Yuuji—but it thinned. Got careful.
"Yeah. Sukuna."
"Older?"
"Yeah. Six years. Same dad, but he—" Yuuji stopped, bit his lips. Started again. "Grandpa raised us both. But Sukuna left when I was ten. He was sixteen.”
Megumi had nodded, thinking that was the end of the story, but unexpectedly, Yuuji had went on.
“They—they fought. I don't really know all of it. Grandpa wanted him to stay in school, stay in Sendai, be—" He made a vague gesture, like the word normal didn’t quite fit in his hand. "—something. And Sukuna wanted to do music. And it got bad. Like, really, really bad. Like, things were said that couldn't be unsaid bad.”
There was a long, painful pause.
“And then he just—”
Yuuji stopped again.
It wasn’t the stop of someone who didn’t know what came next. Megumi had heard that kind before; it came with a searching look, a hand moving, a word half-formed. This one was flatter than that. Closed. Megumi noticed it instantly. Registered it. Filed it. Let it go. Grief did that to sentences—he knew that better than most.
He didn’t ask what was in the middle.
“—he left,” Yuuji said. “And never came back.” Quietly. In a way that didn’t belong to him.
“Grandpa took the photos down after that. All of them. Like if he couldn't see him, it wouldn't hurt." A small huff of strained laughter. "He kept that one though. He thought I didn't know it was there."
That had been the only real conversation. After that, Yuuji never brought him up again. And Megumi didn’t ask.
The grandfather had died three years ago.
Megumi had been at the funeral.
The brother had not.
The bus eventually stopped at his station and it took another ten minutes of walking to locate the grave.
The cemetery was the kind of quiet that had texture—wind through old trees, the soft click of branches, the distant hush of traffic that felt miles away even though the road was right there. The sun was out but thin, pale, the kind of March light that couldn't quite commit to warmth.
He eventually found Yuuji kneeling in front of the headstone. Sleeves rolled up. A cloth in one hand, a bottle of water in the other. He was cleaning the stone with the focused, careful attention he usually reserved for cooking—slow circles, getting into the carved letters, wiping away the fine layer of grime that winter left behind.
There were fresh flowers already placed. Bright ones. Sunflowers and something orange. Yuuji flowers.
He looked up when Megumi approached and smiled, the usual beaming smile like the world had never done him wrong.
"Hey!" Yuuji waved. "You made it!"
Megumi nodded. Stood beside him. Read the headstone for the hundredth time and said nothing, because nothing needed to be said about it.
Yuuji looked over behind Megumi and yelled, “SUKUNA, COME HERE!”
Megumi looked over as well. A man was standing about ten feet back, leaning against a tree, smoking a cigarette and typing on his phone. He was dressed simply. Black t-shirt, black jeans, leather jacket that probably had a name Megumi didn't know and a price tag he didn't want to. He was also wearing expensive looking sunglasses, the shades were so dark it looked like they were designed to keep the world out rather than the sun.
That face.
Megumi registered.
The same piercings. The same pink hair. Yesterday. 2:47am. Fluorescent lights. The same cigarette. The soft crack of a can opening before it had been paid for.
Megumi's expression didn't change. But something behind his sternum went very still.
The guy flicked the half-finished cigarette off somewhere lazily, slid his phone into the back pocket and pushed himself off the tree. He walked towards them with the same confident laziness.
He stopped in front of them and pulled his sunglasses down just enough to look over them. His gaze swept from Yuuji to Megumi and stopped. Megumi saw the recognition hit. It was subtle. A fractional pause. Then the corner of his mouth shifted—not quite a smile, more like the beginning of one.
"Huh," the man said.
That was it. Just: huh. Low, amused, and private.
“Megumi, this is my older brother. Sukuna,” Yuuji, oblivious, said. “Sukuna, this is Megumi, my best friend, I've told you about him—"
"You haven't," Sukuna said.
"I have, you just don't listen—"
“Mmm, I don’t.”
Megumi met his gaze. Steady. Flat. Giving nothing.
"We've met," Megumi said.
Yuuji blinked. "Wait, what? When?"
"Last night. He came into the store."
Yuuji's face did six things at once—confusion, surprise, delight, suspicion, and then a grin that was pure, uncomplicated Yuuji.
"NO WAY. Small world! Wait, was he weird? He's weird sometimes—"
"He didn't pay for his beer before opening it."
"That is weird. That's shoplifting. Sukuna, that's literally shoplifting—"
"I paid," Sukuna said, sounding profoundly unbothered. "Eventually."
"That’s still illegal!” Yuuji said, pointing at him with the cloth like it was a weapon. “You can’t just—whatever. Here.” He shoved an extra cloth toward Sukuna. “Since you’re here, help.”
Sukuna glanced at it. Then at Yuuji. He didn’t take it. Instead, he crossed his arms. “I think you’ve got it handled.”
“You’re actually useless,” Yuuji groaned, turning back to the headstone.
Sukuna didn’t respond. His attention shifted slowly back to Megumi.
Megumi exhaled softly through his nose, and crouched down. He set down the flowers he’d brought beside the stone carefully, the motion mattered more than anything else in the moment; he reached for the cloth Yuuji had intended for Sukuna and took it without a word.
He wrung it out once, voice even. “He didn’t seem like the type.”
Yuuji snorted. “Right? See, Megumi gets it.”
Sukuna’s gaze lingered. “You’re already forming opinions,” he said lightly.
Megumi didn’t look up. “You made an impression.”
Sukuna stilled next to him, just slightly, then let out a short laugh under his breath. “Hm.” His head tilted, studying him more openly now. “You buy flowers for everyone’s dead relatives, or am I looking at something special?”
Megumi’s hand paused mid-motion. Not long. Just enough.
Yuuji straightened immediately. “Hey—don’t be an ass. They’re not for Grandpa.”
Sukuna’s brows lifted, faintly. “No?”
“They’re for Megumi’s sister,” Yuuji said, sharper now. “He actually took time out to help.” Then, pointed at Sukuna. “Some people don’t show up at all.”
The air shifted. The brothers stared each other down while Megumi scrubbed the stone like nothing had happened. Steady breaths, precise movements, controlled emotions.
When they were finally done wiping the headstone, Yuuji sat back on his heels. Pressed his palms together and closed his eyes for a moment, a small, private thing, then stood, brushing grass off his knees.
"Okay," Yuuji said, and his voice was almost normal again. Almost bright. "Ready?"
Megumi nodded and picked up the flowers as he stood up. The three of them walked out of the cemetery together.
Whatever had settled over Yuuji earlier burned off fast—like it always did. By the time they reached the parking lot, he was already talking again. Food. A ramen place he’d found. Whether Megumi had eaten yet.
Megumi had. Coffee. Yuuji reacted like he’d just confessed to a minor crime.
"Let’s get actual food! We can go to the beef place you like—Oh, wait, you’re going to the hospital, right?"
Megumi nodded. “I’ll head to the bus stop,”
Yuuji waved it off immediately. “No way! It’s on the way anyway. We’ll drop you off.” He turned, walking backward in front of them with an easy grin. “I’ll drive! I can get you there in, like, ten minutes—”
“You’re not driving my car,” Sukuna said, voice level.
"Come on—"
“No.”
They reached the car. The same one from last night. Low, black, sleek—like it existed in a different tax bracket than everything around it.
It was a two-seater.
Yuuji stopped. Looked at the car. Looked at Megumi. Looked at Sukuna. Looked at the car again.
The math was happening visibly on his face.
"Oh," Yuuji said. "Um… It's fine. It's only five minutes—"
"No," Megumi said.
"—you guys can squeeze—"
"Absolutely not." Megumi grimaced. He would rather die.
"Megumi, it's five minutes, and the bus doesn't come for another—"
He didn’t correct Yuuji’s ten minutes that somehow shaved off to five.
"I'll walk."
"It's like three miles—"
"And I have legs."
"You have Tsumiki waiting—"
That landed. Yuuji didn't even know he'd done it—he said it with the same breathless, barreling energy he said everything, already moving on to the next argument. But the name hit Megumi somewhere behind the ribs, in the place where his schedule lived, where the math of his life was calculated down to the minute.
He had two hours with Tsumiki. He'd already lost fifty minutes at the cemetery. The bus was—he checked, the next one wasn't for fifteen minutes and it’ll take another thirty minutes to get to the hospital. Walking would eat into the visit even more. A taxi would cost money he'd already mentally allocated elsewhere.
Yuuji was already opening the driver door with the confidence of someone who had never once considered that a problem might not have a solution.
Sukuna exhaled through his nose. Not quite a sigh. Not quite resistance. Then he circled the front of the car and folded himself into the passenger seat instead, like the outcome had never really mattered. Which—somehow—was worse.
Megumi was still standing outside. Looking at the car. At the space. At the complete lack of a third seat. At the fact that Sukuna didn’t close the passenger door. He was leaning back instead, his gaze lifted to Megumi.
“C’mon,” Sukuna said, like it meant nothing.
But Megumi saw it—the slight smirk. It sounded off all sorts of alarms in his head, because nothing about Sukuna suggested he was a man who conceded easily.
“I’ll walk—”
“FIVE MINUTES,” Yuuji cut in impatiently, as if it was his sister that was in the hospital.
Megumi closed his eyes for half a second. Ran the math again. Lost either way.
He took a deep breath and held it for five seconds.
"Fine," The word tasted like defeat.
Yuuji cheered, actually cheered and Sukuna didn't argue, he just shifted slightly in his seat, making room. Not much and definitely not enough. His knees parted slightly, one arm resting on his head, looking at Megumi with an expression that was almost polite.
“Well?”
Megumi stared at him. Then back at the available space, which was none. At Sukuna's lap, which was—
He wasn't going to think about that.
He got in.
It was exactly as bad as he'd anticipated. Worse, because anticipation had the mercy of abstraction, and reality was…this.
Megumi sat rigid, perched on the edge of Sukuna's thighs, one hand braced against the dashboard, every muscle locked in the full-body clench of someone trying to take up as little space as physically possible.
The door closed. The car was suddenly very small and very warm and smelled like leather and something else—cologne, maybe, cigarettes, definitely, or just him, something dark and a little musky.
"Seatbelt," Sukuna said, low, right next to Megumi's ear.
Megumi didn’t flinch.
Sukuna reached across him. His arm pressed against Megumi's side, his chest against Megumi's back, and for a brief, horrible second, Megumi felt the full heat and breadth of him—solid, close—as Sukuna pulled the seatbelt across both of them and clicked it into place.
"Safety first," Sukuna said. Megumi could hear the smile.
Yuuji started the car. The engine roared. Yuuji yelped at the sound of it, laughed, and pulled out of the parking lot with the enthusiasm of a puppy.
Five minutes. Megumi stared at the dashboard. He could do five minutes.
He held himself carefully—weight forward, core engaged, thighs squeezed together so it doesn’t touch Sukuna’s. Minimal contact. That was the goal. Sit in between the man's lap like it was a chair. An unfortunately warm, breathing, cologne-scented chair.
The problem was physics. And Yuuji’s driving skills.
Every turn Yuuji took—and he took them fast—shifted Megumi's weight. The first left turn pressed him into Sukuna's thigh. Megumi corrected immediately, shifted back into position. The next right pushed him sideways, and Sukuna's hand came up casually, almost instinctively, and settled on Megumi's hips.
It stayed there.
Megumi felt each finger like a point of heat through his clothes. The grip wasn't tight. Wasn't possessive. It was just there, resting against the jut of his hip bone with a familiarity that hadn't been earned. Sukuna's thumb moved—once, a single slow stroke along the edge of Megumi's hip.
Then the light turned red.
Yuuji stomped the brake pedal like he was trying to kill a spider, and the car lurched forward with a violence that would have sent Megumi into the dashboard if the seatbelt hadn't caught him.
But the seatbelt was across both of them. Which meant it locked them together.
Megumi's careful posture, the braced core, the forward lean, the disciplined distance, all of it collapsed in a single second. His weight slammed backward, and his back flat fully against Sukuna's chest and his ass pressed—directly, completely, with zero ambiguity—against Sukuna's crotch.
Every thought in Megumi's head went white.
"Shit, sorry!" Yuuji laughed, adjusting the mirror. "This brake is sensitive—wow—okay, noted—"
Megumi tried to shift forward but Sukuna's hand had moved to his waist, tighter than when they had been on his hips. His other hand came up to frame Megumi in place, but it wasn’t hard or forceful.
"Careful," Sukuna whispered, lowly, against Megumi's ear. "Don't want you hitting the dash."
Reasonable. Practical.
Except his hips shifted. Subtle. A slow, rolling adjustment—like he was just getting comfortable. The movement pressed him up against Megumi with a deliberateness that had nothing to do with comfort and everything to do with the fact that Sukuna was hard. Not fully. Not obscenely. But enough. Enough that Megumi felt it. The heat and the pressure and the unmistakable shape of him through the layer of denim.
The light turned green. Yuuji accelerated.
The forward motion pressed Megumi back again, and Sukuna rocked up into it—just barely, just enough, a motion so small it could have been the car, could have been the road, could have been anything except what it was.
Megumi’s fist clenched around the flowers.
Sukuna's thumb traced a slow line along his waist. Up and down. Lazy, as if petting a cat. His breath was warm and steady against the back of Megumi's neck. While Megumi's pulse hammered with simmering anger he could feel it in his teeth.
Another turn. Megumi shifted with the momentum and Sukuna used it—tilted his hips up another fraction, grinding against him so controlled and brief that if Megumi accused him, Sukuna could deny it. Could look at him with those dark red eyes and say what are you talking about?
Because that was the game. Making it deniable. Making Megumi the one who'd have to name it.
He didn't name it. He sat there with his jaw clenched, staring at the dashboard, feeling Sukuna behind him like a slow fire, and said nothing. Because Yuuji was right there. Because admitting he felt it meant admitting there was something to feel.
"Relax," Sukuna murmured. So quiet it existed only in the inch between his mouth and Megumi's skin. "It's just a car ride."
Megumi shot a glare over his shoulder. Sukuna just smirked innocently back at him.
The hospital appeared on the right and Yuuji swerved to the curb.
"Oops! Sorry—okay! We're here!"
Megumi had the seatbelt off and the door open before the car fully stopped. He wrenched himself free, tore away from the heat of Sukuna's body, and stood on the sidewalk. Breathing in fresh air that didn’t cloud his mind or his space.
"Thanks for the ride," he said. Flat. Normal. At Yuuji.
Yuuji leaned across the console, grinning. "Tell Tsumiki I said hi! I'll bring her those mochi she likes next time—"
"She can't eat, Yuuji."
"I know, but I'll bring them anyway. For when she wakes up."
Something in Megumi's chest cracked, very slightly, in the way it always did when Yuuji said when instead of if.
"Yeah," Megumi said. "Okay."
He glanced at Sukuna and Sukuna was already watching him. Not his face. Lower. Racking slowly up his body with the unhurried entitlement of someone who had already touched what he was looking at.
Then it flicked back up at Megumi, their eyes met. Sukuna’s smirk widened slightly, like he was impressed. Megumi didn’t react, didn’t even bother rolling his eyes. He just turned and walked into the hospital.
The nurse at the reception desk smiled at him the way she always did, warm, familiar, gentleness reserved for regular visitors to the long-term care ward. He'd been coming here every Saturday for four years. They knew his name. They knew his flowers. They knew to leave the curtain by the window open because he'd mentioned once, offhandedly, that Tsumiki had always liked natural light.
He signed the visitor log and walked to Room 412.
Tsumiki lay in the bed. Small and still. The machines beeped their steady, indifferent rhythm. The light was soft. Her hair had been brushed. It was getting long again.
He set the flowers on the bedside table before throwing away last week's dried ones and arranging the new ones carefully. Frowning when he realized some of the petals had bruised and some of the stems were broken somewhere during the car ride.
He sighed. Tsumiki wouldn't mind, but he promised to bring nicer ones next week. Then he sat in the chair, took her hand. Warm, which always surprised him. She was warm. Her heart was beating. She was in there, somewhere.
"Hey," he said. "Sorry I'm late."
He told her about the library. About the new chairs. About the book he was reading for the third time. He told her Yuuji said hi. That he was bringing mochi.
He didn't tell her about the man from the convenience store.
He didn't tell her that his hips still burned where a stranger's hand had been, or that the stranger was his best friend's brother, or that the stranger had looked at him like he was something fascinating.
He held her hand and talked about nothing until the hour was up. Then he kissed her forehead, straightened her blanket, and left.
On the drive home—bus, thirty-two minutes, window seat—Megumi's phone buzzed.
YUUJI: hey sorry about the car thing lol that was kinda awkward
YUUJI: sukuna's weird but hes not like
YUUJI: idk hes a lot but hes not mean
YUUJI: ok hes a little mean
YUUJI: ok hes a lot mean
YUUJI: ANYWAY im glad u met him!! he actually said u were interesting which is like
YUUJI: the nicest thing hes ever said about any of my friends
YUUJI: he usually just says "i don't care"
YUUJI: so thats basically a compliment!!
YUUJI: 😊😊😊
Megumi stared at the messages. Read them twice.
he usually just says "i don't care"
Usually.
The word sat there in the middle of all that noise like a stone in rice. Usually was a pattern. Usually meant it had happened enough times in the past to have a shape, a frequency, a history. It sat wrong for some reason.
Megumi looked at it for a long moment.
The bus took a corner. Someone's shopping bag rustled. Outside, the gray went on being gray.
It wasn't his business. Yuuji's family was Yuuji's family, and Megumi had exactly enough hours in the week to manage his own, and none of it changed a single thing about anything.
Then he typed something. Deleted it. Typed something else. Deleted that too.
He put his phone down.