Chapter Text
Curse you, Reggie Star, and curse you, Higuruma Hiromi, and most of all, curse you, Fushiguro 'So start by saving me' Megumi.
Yuuji follows Mei Mei and Ui Ui down fluorescently lit stairs, the flashlight-pale light almost ghostly in the subway station. It's a mindless routine, almost soothing like a melody of buzzing nothing and floating clouds through sky, like rippling sheets of ice settled on bright, frothy waters, unbothered and serene even as the world around them crumbles.
But Megumi's alive, alive, alive, his mind sings like a jaunty tune, melancholic in the way that normally precedes everything. And so is Gojo, alive, outside, thin and how he wants to remember his sensei, not the hulking mass of muscle and sinew that popped out of the cube and waved with a jawline that could probably cut the thickest block of iron imaginable.
First pre-Shinjuku, then the Culling Games, and now he's in Shibuya, Yuuji reflects absently as he follows, leaping over metro gates and landing softly on his feet, catlike and more agile than Hisha. Is this the final run, the one that'll lead to everything fixed? Is this the version where Megumi lives and everything works out, and everything can work like a jigsaw puzzle sliding every piece into perfect place?
It isn't, he learns, when Mahoraga's cries shake the earth, and Megumi bleeds.
"There's a supposed curse of Special Grade level around the northern forests of Kyoto. We're sending you there. Provide results by tomorrow at noon."
Not even 'please' or 'thank you', Yuuji notes with a tinge of bitterness in his tongue, nodding once and stepping out politely. The scarf around his neck tickles the sensitive skin and brushes against his mouth, rubbing at his lips like some hand caressing his mouth. He takes the thin, not even three sheets of wide-spaced, fifteen-font Arial printed paper of information, flipping through them and raising an eyebrow at the sheer amount of wholly unhelpful, irrelevant information.
It's summer already, he realizes, walking out of headquarters like a caveman might have walked into the modern world, eyes squinted and everything. Summer enough for a heat haze to buzz in his ear, enough for something to blanket him in overwhelming warmth and heat, enough for his footsteps to weigh five kilograms more than without.
He completes it.
And Megumi watches.
"Dismantle," Yuuji mutters under his breath, crouching and tapping the ground below. The battered ground from Hollow Purple explodes into millions of neat cubes, exploding dust flying every which way under his fingertips. Sukuna's foot stumbles, unused to such ground — Gojo catches it, of course, and takes advantage, a cursed energy-fistful punch coming to slam into Sukuna's chest, catching him off guard.
Gojo's eyes swing to him, wild and confused — though there's not much time before Sukuna's back up again, his fingers coming forward, pinky holding pinky, middle and ring pressing together, forming a formation not unlike a house of old. His voice, when he speaks, is bewildered but also disbelieving, confidence mixed into the recipe as well.
"Domain Expansion," Sukuna's voice comes, liquid spilling from his feet, soaking into all of their feet as Gojo's hand also comes up, crossing over each other in a mudra of connection. "Malevolent Shrine."
"Infinite Void."
"Bloodsoaked Reliquaries."
It's a triple domain clash tentatively held out for about half of a second before Yuuji's own domain overpowers the other two, barriers crashing down in a shower of shadowed shards, dissipating in an instant as a park envelopes them, sunlight floating through the air in a weaving of picture-perfect childhood, soft and light.
Something sticky trickles down Yuuji's fingertips — popsicle juice, the sweetness trickling down his skin, sticking it together — the scent of flowers, waving in the breeze. A bench, lining the park — a simple one, nothing more, nothing less. No universes exploding into a million stars, stardust forming the blood that prevents one from being anemic, no temples adorning oceans of raging bodily fluids colored crimson by violence. Just what Yuuji considered home, all the way back then.
"We'll give the details to you, Fushiguro, and you can head off."
Megumi takes the meager stack of papers handed to him by an intern, more sliver than stack, font written neatly but surely bigger than the standard twelve, single-spaced Arial font he so meticulously despairs over regularly. At least he can help Yuuji out now; he's finally learning to take a damn break for once, and the higher-ups surely don't care as long as the work is done.
Details, details…Megumi scans the paper, flipping it over to read the back carefully. Somewhere in Kyoto…Arashiyama? That one big bamboo forest?
A long tongue flicks through the air, and Megumi hands it to it absently, allowing the tongue to wrap around the papers and take them into his shadow. He'll leave after getting a lunch and coffee from home, maybe leaving a note so Yuuji knows where he's gone, then he'll be off to Kyoto.
There're silvering hairs falling over his eyes, allowed to grow out just the tiniest bit, shards of silver lying on a black-sand beach. He's amazed his head's not gone completely gray, with the amount of stress he has to deal with on the daily — must be Yuuji working his magic, maybe.
Megumi likes to think about retiring sometime. He's what now — fifty six? Most sensible people would have retired already, relaxing on a beach either in peaceful solitude or with a loved one. Higuruma had the right idea — but Megumi's never been one for the beach, maybe a garden, well-kept and nice and clean with someone holding the broom for him as he sweeps up the debris into a dustpan.
Maybe carrots, he thinks lightly, strolling down the stone-paved street idly. Broccoli, zuchinni, all the easy-to-grow stuff, like herbs. Mint, catnip if Yuuji ever decides to raise another cat. They can leave sprigs of it at Hisha's grave, plant it to grow around the stone placed on top like a hug that lasts even after death.
Megumi didn't fall in love slowly and surely, like the romance novels he sometimes reads describe it as. He fell in love like how he falls asleep — slowly, and then all at once.
He reaches the front stairs of their shared apartment within ten minutes of walking idly, ambling more than walking, really. He unlocks the door, heads up three flights of stairs, then unlocks the door again with a key dangling from a keychain wrapped in little paw-printed fabric. He takes off his shoes, tapping them on the carpet to shake off dust, then goes to the kitchen and opens the fridge to a lunch packed neatly in a glass container along with a thermos of chilled black coffee — no milk, no sugar, just how Megumi likes it.
He packs it in a bag, depositing it into his shadow, the inky depths welcoming it as warmly as a shadow can. The strain on his muscles is just barely noticeable; a little pull on the tendons of his shoulders and nothing else. When he slips his shoes on, the faintest phantom mew follows, and he pauses before allowing a soft smile to dance on his lips before heading out, locking the door behind him.
It's on the second flight of stairs down when something tugs at his gut, and he stops in his tracks, clutching the railing.
Oh, shoot.
I forgot to leave Yuuji a note.
"I'm sorry for your loss, Itadori-san."
He blinks at Hirose, confused. "What?"
Hirose stares at the floor, fingers knuckle-white, paler than the ghosts of curtains fluttering around his home. "I'm sorry for your loss," he repeats, and Yuuji blinks again, confused. Sorry for what? "For Fushiguro-san, right? I'm really sorry."
Yuuji frowns, lips twisting into a perplexed coil. "What do you mean, Hirose? Sorry for what? What happened to Megumi?"
Hirose's eyes widen before he bows, a perfect ninety degree bow before he dashes off, feet slapping the floor as Yuuji stands stock-still, confused and extremely bewildered. "I'm sorry, Itadori-san!" he yells behind him, voice cracking like he's still a teenager, young and small. "I'm sorry!"
Lips pursed, Yuuji pulls his phone out, tapping on Megumi's name. He presses call, listening to the buzz for forty-five long seconds before no one answers, and his voicemail echoes from the audio like some sick broken record on repeat.
"You've reached Fushiguro Megumi, the one to reach out to for any important documents relating to the Head of Affairs. Please call back later at your earliest convinience, and thank you. Sorry for being unavailable."
It's fine. Megumi'll be back before tomorrow, surely. A curse in Kyoto is bound to be strong, sure, but surely no trouble for him. Worst case, he can call Yuuji, though there's no way in hell he will, and he can arrive before dinnertime if it all goes well.
The lunch being taken will be more than enough for him.
Megumi eats lunch on the train ride there, five hours of pure silence. He manages to go through three books during that time, sipping from his thermos and enjoying the pleasant chill it leaves on his tongue, careful not to spill any on the pages of his books as he eats. The meat, microwaved, is still hot and nice and the best thing he's ever eaten, sauce merely an additive, an exponential multiplier to enhance the already juicy, delicious taste of the meat.
It's breaded perfectly.
He gets off at the final stop, the last one to leave. He takes his time to pack up his lunch. Container, wrapped like a parcel, corners crossing over each other neatly to form triangluar connectives. Thermos, slipped into a sling. His books, stacked on each other with satisfying thumps, cheap paperback that go in as well. They all go into his shadow, packed neatly and wrapped with Gamma tongues as ribbons to hold them all together.
It's a local station, outside and vending machines stocked with only the essentials. Megumi heads out of the station, up the stairs, and out into the tourist area, bustling with people and the scent of mitarashi dango wafting through air. He goes through a bridge, ending up on the other side, where tourists rarely go for fear of getting lost in the endless towers of bamboo.
He flashes his ID card to the people standing at the entrance, and they let him pass. He heads into the groves, inwardly marvelling at the years, decade, centuries held within this forest of trees, leaves hanging from the trunks like skin peeling off them, ripe for the picking. It's fragrant in the way candles are, waxy and woven with a floaty, vague scent like mangoes.
Divine Dog manifests beside him, a growling guardian that follows him into the forest. It smells wet and fresh, like rain poured on the dirt not five minutes ago, Divine Dog's nose twitching at the scent like it wants to roll around in the wettened ground.
There's no iron, no scent of blood coating his tongue. It's strange. There's nothing.
Except for a blade sticking out of his chest.
Yuuji taps his shoes on the floor before entering, loosening the dirt buildup on them before coming in. The flat is empty, rooms unoccupied, no trace of anything disturbed. He checks the fridge first, pleased to find the lunch he'd made in the morning gone along with the chilled black coffee — no milk, no sugar, like the madman his husband boyfriend is.
He checks the bedroom next. In his dresser, the black box remains, and he opens it, revealing a sparkling diamond with blue-green tints sparkling in their depths, like a coin sunk to the bottom of the Atlantic. Tomorrow's April twenty-third, the day of their anniversary, marking five years together. He hopes Megumi comes back for tomorrow. Might not be the most romantic gesture, but proposing on their anniversary won't stir up any issues, right?
There's no note telling him where Megumi went, and he waves Hirose's words off, despite the creepy cold clutching his spine tight, wrapping to his heart and sinking its fangs to the delicate flesh. Probably just him off on a mission, taking some of Yuuji's workload. Just like him to leave without anything but the abscence of lunch in the fridge, he thinks amusedly.
There's not much to get done today. He did the missions required a long time ago, and the new flow should be held off until around Sunday. Paperwork's done, filed away for later. Maybe he can get a head start on dinner — no, it's too early. He'll go for a walk.
The blade sticking out of his chest, held by human hands.
The blade sticking out of his chest, leaking blood from the wound.
The blade sticking out of his chest, yanked out as Megumi stumbles forward, Divine Dog gone.
The blade gone from his chest, gone.
And so is Megumi.
The walk is finished, gone to headquarters, the nearest grocery store, looped around ten times for good measure. Yuuji's starting on dinner, boiling some water in a pot and compartmentalizing everything in the fridge, thinking about what to make. Something that can keep cool in the fridge when Megumi comes back, but something still nice enough for a good follow-up meal to a mission. Maybe gyudon should work. Yuuji nods, reaching for the dashi and beef to begin simmering.
Soon enough, the scent of cooking meat and spices wafts through the air, every instrument cutting into vegetables neatly. Although he has a technique specialized for cutting, Yuuji notes ironically, the slice of knives going down in such a motion, dicing as well as any Dismantle can, relaxes him like no other motion can.
He flips through a book Megumi'd recommended him while waiting, Hound of the Baskervilles by the famous English author Arthur Conan Doyle about Sherlock Holmes. He thinks the dog might be high on some kind of steroids, personally — he said so to Megumi the night before, and watched as Megumi allowed laughs to fall from his lips. The cover is more than intimidating, ruby eyes set in obisidian fur with a perpetual snarl lifting the flabby lips.
The timer goes off — a little painted egg, simple smile face made up of two black dots and a crescent below. Yuuji taps it, allowing it to stop before lifting the lid, stirring the liquid inside slowly, watching the soupy food bubble beneath his rotating chopstick. Little flaps of meat catch his utensil as he stirs, deeming it ready for plating — er, bowling? — after a minute or two, laying it overtop rice like a blanket over sleeping white.
He sets the bowl on the table, wrapping the first bowl with saran wrap and setting it in the fridge. He places a pair of chopsticks, a bottle of chilled water, and his book, a slip of yellow paper set between page eighty-seven and eighty-eight to mark his place. After making a cup of black coffee and setting it to chill, he sits down, starting to eat while reading the book carefully, trying his utmost best not to skim it for fear of Megumi quizzing him on it.
When he finishes his gyudon, it's ten o'clock. Megumi's still not back, despite his never being back after nine o'clock — perhaps it's a particularly hard mission or something. He's not answering Yuuji's texts or calls, probably phone on silent for stalking a curse or whatnot. With a sigh, Yuuji sets his bowl and chopsticks in the sink, returns the water to the fridge, and settles on the sofa, opening his book once more and preparing himself to wait some more.
He reaches page one hundred and ninety-three when he looks at the clock, seeing the numbers tick up further than zero. It's tomorrow, and Megumi's still not back.
Yuuji returns to his book.
It's tomorrow, and Megumi's still not back.
It's the day after tomorrow, and Megumi's still not back.
It's three days after, and Megumi's still not back.
Four days after Megumi's gone, Yuuji goes to headquarters to ask the higher-ups and the higher echelon about it. It's a normal Saturday, April sun warm on his back as he enters the building, one day before the set date for him to check up on affairs and such. He usually comes with Megumi, seperating at the offices — one to the office, one to the battlefield, both to home afterwards.
It's a normal Saturday, nothing out of the ordinary. April twenty-seventh, twenty seventy one.
It's a normal Saturday, the day headquarters goes up in flames.
Megumi manages to have three thoughts when his body falls to the ground, displacing leaves in a flurry of storming debris, shadow unresponsive along with his hands.
The first is, I fucked up.
The second is, Why isn't Ten Shadows working?
And the third is, Damn, Yuuji'll be waiting for me at home, and dinner will get cold.
A flash of silver catches his eye, piercing through the blood dripping from his lashes, a playful smirk fixed on someone's lips in front of him as they crouch down. A single prong, extended from another, held daintily by fingers that seem to treat it like china, though soaked in Megumi's blood.
"You were too much trouble for Itadori, Fushiguro," the voice sighs regrettably in a distinctive Kansai dialect, mocking and low. "The higher-ups wanted done with you, and I ain't one to say nah to them, ya get me? Nothing personal, man, but they gave me a shiny toy to play with. Ma bad, ma bad. Ya know?"
His words don't quite register in the floaty haze that's his mind right now. Bad? Toy? Are they even words?
Hope Yuuji didn't make something that's meant to last only a day.
Wonder if he finished that book?
"You what," Yuuji repeats, voice edged with disbelief and something on the precipice of falling to pure insanity, confusion fading away to subtle coldness. "You what."
"Fushiguro was a distraction to you, and he long since reached his peak," Konoe waves him off, flipping through a black-embossed folder absently, attention not even focused on Yuuji as he speaks flippantly. "We made sure he had a quiet death, don't worry. Izumi's the best in the business; rest assured, he didn't suffer. Wouldn't you rather he died peacefully, rather than following someone who could never return his affections, Itadori?"
Not even the -san remains.
"Listen to him," Nakatomi chimes in, stifling a yawn as his gaze wanders across the floor, meeting Yuuji's eyes for just a moment before swivelling to the young new intern, eyes sharper that prior. "You've been distracted, Itadori. You should always be at your peak, thanks to your heritage — have you forgotten whose legacy you have to carry on?"
"Did his legacy entail killing his student?"
Nakatomi sighs, rubbing his forehead in frustration. "Gojo Satoru was an anomaly. You, Itadori, are the second coming of such. You have a moral obligation to both jujutsu as a whole and to the man, to follow our orders and slice down any threats in our path. You understand, Itadori? Fushiguro was an obstacle to the world we work towards, something that kept you from working on a daily basis."
"Right," Yuuji mutters, eyes fixed on the ground, frozen. "So you killed him. You killed him. You killed Megumi."
Konoe raises an eyebrow. "That's right," he grumbles, tapping the desk impatiently, not even giving Yuuji the time of day. "Not like he was contributing much though, eh, Itadori? His technique and finesse was impressive, sure, but not to warrant such distractions in your mind. Now, considering the next task we have piled up…"
Yuuji laughs, something hollow and ugly and cold. "I'm fine, thanks."
"What?" Nakatomi frowns, as if he'd heard him wrong, as if he doesn't believe the one who served them like their little lapdog for so many years would dare to refuse them something. "What was that, Itadori?"
Not even the -san remains.
What were you thinking when you died, Fushiguro?
"Fugue."
A screech comes from a flaming bird, a phoenix serving divine wrath upon those who wronged their master. Slimmer than Nue, just as fiery, just as deadly — wings alight with pyres roaring, hungry for the crimson blood to douse its rage, swirling into existence from his fingers like an accursed shikigami of pure destruction and rage and hunger for their bodies mauled to absolutely nothing but piles of ash to float away in the distance.
What were you thinking when you died, Megumi?
Did you consider my dinner? What if I'd cooked something meant to eaten the same day? What would you have done then, huh?
Did you think about the book? Who would I have talked to it about with? Who would have laughed when I said Watson reminded me of Ieiri and Kugisaki slapped into one monstrous companion of a doctor? Who would have stared at me with judgemental eyes when I said Holmes was kinda stupid, he should have headed into the mire no matter what the servant said? Who would I have handed it to to return it along with the slip of paper hastily shoved into it? Who would have taken it, and along with it, a black box? Whose hand would I have slipped a band onto? Whose hand would have the twinkle of stars placed upon it? Who, who, who, who, who? Who, Fushiguro Megumi? Who?
Yuuji walks from the building's exit, pillars crumbling behind him. Hirose's probably somewhere in there. He doesn't care.
It's April twenty-seventh.
It's spring.
There's sun.
And there's no one beside him.
Yuuji taps Sukuna's chest, feeling the ripples of some sort of soul within him. "Dismantle," he says, ignoring how Gojo's voice becomes strangled, how Sukuna's face contorts. He just focuses on the faintest whispers of Megumi's soul inside, praying for him to be fighting, praying for everything to go as well as his dreams hope to be.
Something happens. It's the best way to describe it. Something happens, something like one of the Fates taking the strings that make up the tapestry of the world and pulling on them, shifting the weaving to their own twisted desires. Something like their wrinkled fingers sifting through string, finding new bursts of color to paint on the tapestry and make anew once more.
Something happens.
And Yuuji dies.
Again.
He dies.
But darkness doesn't meet him.
More like nothing awaits him, clear and set like a path of hell laid out, a little black brick road worthy of Wizard of Oz.
He's happy.
Happy, joyful, ecstatic with the idea of dancing with death, finally falling to its arms.
Yuuji steps forward, darkness pulling at his feet instead of eyes, feeling empty yet full all at the same time. They strangle his ankles, pulling forward, but a pair of arms wrap around his torso, warm in contrast to the coldness that creeps at his legs.
"I need to go to hell, Megumi," he pushes at the arms around his torso, feeling the hair of the person who owns them. "I need to die. You did nothing wrong. You should go to heaven, Megumi. See Gojo-sensei, and everyone else. Tsumiki."
Megumi's breath, when it comes, is warm on his skin. "I'll follow you, idiot," he pushes back at Yuuji's hands, pushing them away. "Even if you didn't ask. I'll follow you to hell."
"Tsumiki—"
"Is dead. Away. You're dying. In front of me."
"I'm going to hell—"
"And so am I."
"Idiot," both of them say at the same time.
Yuuji pulls Megumi forward, grabbing his hand and yanking him close, fingers lacing together. "Fine," he concedes. "Fine. Come with me. We're going to hell, Megumi. Hell."
"I know," Megumi walks with him, forward into nothing alongside him. "I know. We're going to hell. At least curse me out at the end, why don't you?"
"Hell'll do that for me. I hear it's awfully torturous."
"Sure, Atlas."
"Orion."
Megumi blinks. "What?"
"Orion."
"Idiot. Wrong one."
"Nah, it's the right one," Yuuji says with a shake of his head. "It's pretty in the sky, isn't it? And he fell for someone who would outlive him, but his story was still immortalized in the sky. Sounds like you."
"Fine then, Artemis."
"Would Gojo-sensei be Apollo?"
"More like Koalemos."