Chapter Text
The butterfly counts not months but moments,
and has time enough. — Rabindranath Tagore
Megumi had spent most of his life trying to understand things. He never intervened, he had never said a word. He had simply accepted every single thing that happened to him with resignation, tucking the pain away into different corners of his anatomy. Sometimes it was his stomach, other times his neck. He had always suppressed the pain until it became an extension of his being, making it just as undetectable as he considered himself to be.
He had understood that, after several days alone in the apartment with only two eggs and a carton of milk, his father wasn't coming back.
He had understood that suppressing everything and pretending he was fine gave him a false sense of security; but sometimes, pretending is the only thing that saves you. And so, he and Tsumiki had survived for over six months: stealing from local markets, pretending an adult was still there, being efficient.
He had understood that the probability of being separated once social services took them under their wing was incredibly high.
He had understood that his talent could be useful.
He had understood that that eccentric idiot—that art patron—could keep them together.
However, right now, he didn't understand anything. Absolutely nothing. And he had spent at least a week trying to make sense of this absurd fixation—because he had no other way to define it. That brainless idiot he had set out to scare off from the very beginning just wouldn't stop orbiting around him. He had no way to prove it; at least, not one that wouldn't make him sound like a complete paranoid.
As a general rule, he walked the dogs three to four times a day. With the nice weather, he had increased both the frequency and duration of their outings. He needed to train Kuro to be a good guide dog; it was a top priority since Shiro was getting older.
And suddenly, Yuuji Itadori always seemed to be there. On the stairs, in the lobby, holding the elevator door open for him... Every single time. And the worst part was that both Shiro and Kuro seemed to go completely wild in his presence. Megumi had to suppress the overwhelming urge to lunge at him and snatch away whatever was hidden in those pockets. He knew he was giving them something—his sense of smell didn’t lie. And it wasn't just that, obviously not, but rather that relentlessly positive attitude in the face of every single one of his snubs:
“Good morning, neighbor!”
“How’s it going, neighbor?”
“It’s brutally hot today, have fun out there!”
He just didn't get it.
But it didn't stop there, no; there was more. His sense of smell hadn't just picked up on the scent of the smuggled dog treats, now, that specific fragrance was always lingering in the air—that smell of melted sugar and orange cinnamon cake. It was persistent and overwhelming. the space around him was no longer like a black hole.It no longer felt like something he had absolute control over.
And what could be said about seeing his vital space invaded time and time again. He had never been a fan of human contact, he didn't even want to imagine the mere fact of being pampered like that, only to watch his body experience withdrawal symptoms later on. He had learned that to need was to lose, and he detested both scenarios. The fact that this wall of muscle kept finding any excuse to touch him was driving him completely insane.
He defined the first contact as accidental. He had gone downstairs for just a second without the dogs, he was walking back up, holding onto the handrail, and before he could even register the notes of the perfume, a jolt of electricity shot up through his fingers. Before he could pull away as if burned and apologize, he recognized the neighbor's voice through a clean laugh, and that large hand, with callouses over the metacarpal region, caught his own. As Megumi gritted his teeth, he discovered that his neighbor’s fingers were slightly crooked, that his skin was warm, and that his thumb reverently brushed against the small scar on the back of his hand. He felt that, once again, this intruder was sabotaging the few anchor points he had left in his small world.
Then came the run-ins at the corner store. At first, he tolerated the comments out of sheer social courtesy, but then came the brushes: the same tomatoes, the same sandwich, the same carton of milk. Once, he had taken a damn step back and bumped right into that insurmountable wall, causing him to go rigid, holding his breath for a few seconds longer than necessary. That guy had a physical presence that seemed to saturate the space around him, and Megumi was no small guy himself. Then, the absolute bastard had snatched the last pack of cookies he wanted:
“Sorry, neighbor, but these are my favorite.”
So, yes, he didn't understand this damn fixation that stranger seemed to have with him, and Megumi was incapable of not overthinking it. He was occupying, without meaning to, a large portion of his thoughts, and Megumi was reaching the conclusion that he had to do something about it—because ignoring him wasn't having the desired effect.
When he sat down, it was barely five in the afternoon. He had opened the large window. A breeze with traces of the sea ruffled his hair. The rumble of engines reverberated against the metal railings; voices bounced off the corners and reached him like static. The sunlight tangled around his ankles.
He extended his arms, closed his fists, and rotated his wrists. Then, he gently pulled his fingers back. He repeated the steps for three minutes. He began to play with slow tempos, scales, and arpeggios. He practiced an octave with both hands, honing his synchronization.
His left hand began tracing an arpeggio; his fingers measured the distance, stretching his pinky and thumb from the tonic to the fifth. He created a cyclical background, something that brought him a sense of security. He was comfortable, he had the rhythm, and his right hand ventured into the higher register. The notes flowed in syncopation; the stiffness in his fingers had vanished.
Then, his right foot pressed the sustain pedal, and the concrete mass around him seemed to shrink. That suffocating tension that had accompanied him for so long—the block that turned every attempt into mere noise—simply let go.
Click.
He startled at the sound, it hadn’t come from the piano but from the center of his chest.
The melody moved forward on its own, fluid and effortless, as if something trapped deep inside had finally found its way out.
It lasted barely two minutes, but it was the best thing he had played in a year. He stopped the recording on his phone; he sent the track to Geto first, then to his label agent. He picked up his stylus and, before transcribing the notes, wrote down the title: Cherry Blossom. He had always liked flowers. The petals. The pastel pink.
When his phone rang, he ignored it. Before climbing into bed, he regretted it. Megumi had sent him a message first. Not his usual, brief replies like “I’m fine, thanks” or “Yes, sure, I’ll be home”; no, this time it was a voice note nearly two minutes long.
His heart accelerated, and he froze on the edge of the bed, the sheets tangled around his waist, a cold sweat broke out across his temples. A two-minute audio from Megumi Fushiguro was an anomaly—practically an alarm. The first thing he thought of, with that chronic pessimism that had settled into his bones since Satoru’s departure, was an accident.
A tumble down the stairs, the stove left burning, or perhaps, that the razor-thin thread holding Megumi's sanity together had snapped entirely.
He could remember the exact day they met: Megumi was in the living room with Gojo, side by side, playing the piano. There was something in Satoru’s eyes when he looked at the little boy—something far beyond the mere duty of someone who had adopted two children just to line his pockets a bit more. He knew then, even if it went unsaid, that Satoru considered them an extension of his own bones, of his own flesh. Because—as Gojo would tell him later—blood doesn't make you family; love does. In that way, he became one of them. The family photos were no longer of three, but of four. He received Father’s Day cards, combed tangled hair, and wiped runny noses. And for a long time, everything seemed perfect.
He ran his tongue over his dry lips and, with a racing pulse, pressed play. But what broke from the speaker was not a broken voice.
Geto knew nothing about music. He couldn't tell a good note from a bad one, and he didn't care about time signatures. But he knew how to count the months. He knew exactly how many days that massive block of wood had been gathering dust in the living room, turned into a funeral monument. What he was listening to was something that moved forward without stumbling. The notes fell slowly, spaced out, filling the silence of the recording with a strange lightness that Geto couldn't remember ever hearing.
Geto slowly lowered his hand, letting the phone rest on the mattress while the audio kept playing in the dark. The screen illuminated the ceiling with a dim, bluish glow. He rubbed his eyes with his index finger and thumb, exhaling a long sigh that emptied his lungs.
The audio ended with a sharp click, as abrupt as everything Megumi did. Silence returned to the bedroom, but this time it no longer felt so heavy. There, in the middle of the night, he caught himself smiling into the void.
“I’m so proud of you, Megumi. See you tomorrow.”
When he woke up, the sound of his own coffee maker alerted him. Only Megumi and Shoko had the keys, so he assumed it would be one of them.
“Do you look disappointed to see me?”
“I thought you were Megumi.”
“Megumi? Has he been going out lately?”
“The usual amount. You have to listen to this.”
He saw how Shoko’s lips trembled slightly. The corners of her mouth curved upward. The sea seemed to pool in her eyes for a moment. Then, she let out a laugh.
“He’s playing again.”
“Yeah. He sent it yesterday afternoon, and I didn't listen to it until I went to bed.”
“We should go see him after lunch. Should we take him out to dinner? He’s getting thinner and thinner.”
“He’s eating better.”
They ended up taking refuge in the living room, empty plates still sitting on the side table and a movie blurring on the television at a ridiculously low volume. Shoko had fallen asleep at one end of the couch, her head tilted back and an unlit cigarette resting between her fingers. Geto, his body heavy and his mind floating in that post-lunch daze, was not long in joining her.
The awakening was violent.
A shrill, sharp, metallic beep ripped through the apartment's silence. It wasn't a ringtone; it was the government's emergency broadcast alert. The sound bounced off the walls, relentless, forcing Geto to bolt upright, his heart hammering against his ribs. Beside him, Shoko startled, dropping the cigarette to the floor.
“What the fuck…?” she stammered, rubbing her face roughly.
Geto already had his phone in hand. On the screen, a text box flashed with warnings from the meteorological system. A typhoon was hitting Tokyo. The alert demanded immediate shelter indoors; destructive wind gusts and historic rainfall levels were projected within the next three hours.
Outside, as if the sky had synchronized with the satellite, the afternoon light had completely died out. The sky was a thick, greenish-gray blanket, almost nocturnal.
“The rain,” Geto murmured, his voice catching in his throat.
The first blast of wind hit the living room windows with a dull crunch that made the glass vibrate. This was no ordinary summer storm; it was the prelude to a monster. And then the water began to fall: a violent roar, as if thousands of stones were pelting the asphalt all at once.
Geto’s blood ran cold. Megumi hated the rain. He hated it with a visceral, physical phobia that drove him under the blankets with the dogs, trembling in a darkness he hadn’t chosen.
“I have to go get him,” Geto said, rushing off the couch with a clumsy urgency. His hands shook as he fumbled for his keys in his pockets.
“Hold on, slow down, Suguru. Wait,” Shoko stood up, intercepting him before he could reach the hallway. “Call him first. The dogs are with him. He’s not alone.”
Geto dialed Megumi’s number in a rush. Three short, sharp beeps. Nothing. The call cut off abruptly. He tried again. The phone didn’t even ring; the screen displayed “No Service.”
“The lines are down,” panic began to surface in Geto’s eyes. “I have to go.”
He lunged for the denim jacket hanging from the coat rack by the entrance, but before he could slide his arm into the sleeve, Shoko planted both hands on his chest, shoving him back with a medical firmness that brooked no argument.
“Wait the fuck up!” she shouted, raising her voice above the roar already bellowing outside. “Listen out there. The typhoon is right on top of us. You won’t even make it to the car; the gusts are over a hundred and twenty kilometers per hour. If you go out, a metal sheet or a tree is going to hit you in the head before you even cross the avenue.”
“I can’t just let him die of fright up there!” Geto roared, unhinged, gripping Shoko by the wrists—not to hurt her, but to try and force his way through.
“And he’s not going to die!” she shot back. “Megumi is strong. He’s not the kid we took out of the hospital anymore. If you go out there and something happens to you, you leave him completely alone in this world. Is that what you want? For him to be left without you, too?”
Shoko’s words hit Geto like daggers to the chest. The grip on her wrists loosened bit by bit. He froze beneath the flickering bulb of the entryway, his jacket only half on, listening to the water battering the building with implacable fury. He was trapped. The lines were dead, the streets were a death trap, and the only thing left to do was wait.
He lay on the floor, writhing like a maggot until he was curled almost into a fetal position. He had tolerated the first drops, but now the din against the windows was unbearable; every impact of the water outside translated into a lash of a whip inside his head.The coldness of the tiles slightly relieved that faintness that overwhelmed him every time his body decided to torment him.
He felt his heart, far from calming down, stop its wild galloping only to begin throwing violent, erratic thuds, like an animal trapped against his ribs. He gripped the front of his shirt tightly, twisting the fabric between fingers gone white from the pressure, as if that desperate gesture could make the chest pain stop immediately. But it didn't stop. Air wouldn't come in; it remained stuck in a strangely narrow throat. Saliva, thick and bitter with fear, filled his mouth until it overflowed, trickling down his chin in a warm thread that cooled the moment it touched the tiles.
The tachycardia was extreme. Without realizing it, his head constantly struck the floor in a rhythmic, dull spasm, causing the first bruises to bloom on his scalp beneath his messy hair. He couldn't see anything—it was all his usual darkness—but now that blackness weighed tons, crushing his lungs. He didn't know if he could stop it or if he would lose consciousness for a few minutes first, but in that moment of pure agony, either option would be acceptable to him. He just wanted the noise to stop. For the rain to go away.
“We should pull over, it’s raining too hard. Just for a few minutes.”
“It’s not necessary, there’s visibility.”
“Megumi… Tsumiki is right, just a few minutes. You don’t have anywhere to be.”
“I want to get there as soon as possible!”
And he arrived much later than expected. He was unable to remember why he had decided he wanted to get home so early; he was just exhausted from the recital, from the cameras, from people invading his personal space, from the musical scholars and their empty chatter. He always ended up pissed off, disgusted; there was nothing out of the ordinary.
The drops kept falling outside, a distant echo that no longer felt real, and Megumi felt his body turn into warm wax, melting against the tiles. It was a ghastly sensation: as if skin were peeling away from bone, losing its shape, turning liquid. The pain in his chest subsided all at once, replaced by an artificial lightness. Soon, his head detached from his shoulders and began to float through space, filled with air, completely empty of consciousness.
He believed his heart had stopped. There were no heartbeats.
The thread binding him to reality finally snapped, and the true miracle of madness occurred: he could see. After so much time plunged in twilight, his mind recreated the space with a cruel, cold, and perfect sharpness. He felt he could observe himself from another angle, he was no longer the boy trapped in a fetal position on the cold tile floor , choking on his own saliva. Now he was a spectator floating in a corner of the ceiling, contemplating from above, with an icy and detached indifference, that wreckage of flesh trembling in the middle of the living room. He saw his ribs starkly outlined beneath his shirt, his messy hair plastered to his temples, and the humiliating posture of someone who had surrendered.
He didn't know how much time had passed, but those persistent knocks on the wood seemed to pull him out of his trance. Shiro and Kuro were whining frantically. They had been all around him, licking his hand and his cheeks, and Shiro had even nudged his own head beneath Megumi's to keep him from striking the floor. His heart splintered a little. He adored those dogs. His life would be hell without them.
He stumbled to his feet, pulling himself together bit by bit, feeling the taste of bile still coating his taste buds. He suspected they were coming to complain about the noise again. The dogs had only been trying to call for help, but to the human eye, they would just look like a pack of uncivilized beasts. The only good thing about it was that the stranger on the other side of the door had broken the spell. If Megumi hated anything with all his being, it was appearing vulnerable in the eyes of others. A sword could pierce him straight through, and he would still bow if there were people watching.
Before he could fully open the door, the hand on the other side pushed with such speed that it forced him back a few steps. The dogs happily lunged at the intruder; Megumi hadn't doubted for a second who it was.
“Hey, I’m sorry. The dogs get tense with the rain.”
“Are you okay?”
Megumi hesitated for a few seconds.
“You look awful.”
“Thanks?”
He didn't know how, but that stranger was already inside his apartment, the dogs surrounding him, ready to play.
“There's blood on the floor. Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself?” he inquired, starting to inspect him with his hands. Megumi pulled away, furious.
“I tripped and fell. The noise of the rain and the dogs... I got disoriented.”
Yuuji didn't seem to give his comment a second thought; he either believed him or pretended to. It was the main problem with being blind: he couldn't catch those small gestures—that twitch of the mouth, that glint in the eyes... those tiny elements of human language that give away a lie. He hated not being able to see it. He only heard him walk, stepping deeper into his den, and Megumi didn't offer any resistance because the water was still out there, and right now, having someone there sealed every crack.
“Your place is amazing, it’s huge. Are you rich?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“It looks like one of those catalog homes.”
“Do you need an architect?”
“No, but I do need a couple of candles. I don’t want to break my neck in here.”
“I don’t use them much lately.”
Megumi heard the other man catch his breath and knew he was one step away from fleeing. He wouldn't have cared if that dumbass had left again and for good, but he needed him there. His body wouldn’t survive another onslaught.
“The side table next to the couch. Second drawer.”
It was a strange sensation, entirely out of his control, and after a couple of thuds against his furniture, Yuuji seemed to find the candles. The dogs wouldn't stop following him, while Megumi remained like a statue on the couch, not knowing quite what to do or say.
Suddenly, he felt warmth on his skin. It was minimal, but the scent of burning wax cleared any doubt he might have had. Then, he felt a weight sink down to his right, and that damn bakery smell. The scent of fear became incompatible.
“You’re bleeding.”
Megumi tensed.
“I fell.”
“Do you need…?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Okay. Have you eaten?”
He shook his head. Megumi had always been a man of few words, but right now he felt more self-conscious than ever and didn't quite know why, though he suspected his lack of social skills worked in his favor. He had never been particularly skilled in that area—it seemed like a waste of time—and although he had made a few friends during his conservatory years and had been popular enough to be surrounded by people, after the accident he had distanced himself from any human being who wasn't Geto or Shoko.
“Then I’ll whip something up.”
Megumi grunted at the audacity; he didn't want a stranger snooping around his kitchen. He stood up after him, determined to put a stop to it.
“Salmon rice? No, there’s no fresh salmon... Wait, is this dashi powder?”
Megumi’s ears were ringing. The noise of the storm outside was still deafening, but the real whirlwind was currently inside his kitchen, opening and closing drawers with a lack of respect that made his blood boil. He listened to the clinking of pots, the scuffling of the dogs' paws as they seemed to have found their new spiritual leader, and the incessant chatter of that intruder.
“Hey, neighbor, where do you keep the pans? Never mind, found 'em. Your drawers are way too organized, it’s honestly kind of creepy. Oh! By the way, did you eat the cookies?”
Megumi gritted his teeth. He wanted to tell him to go to hell. But the memory of the paralysis from just a few minutes ago—of skin peeling away from bone—was too fresh. He needed him there. Even if he was a pain in the ass.
“Yes, ginger…” Megumi muttered, his voice still a bit raspy. “It’s my favorite.”
“Seriously?! You should’ve said so!” Yuuji’s voice boomed with enthusiasm, accompanied by the rhythmic click-click-click of the gas stove. “Settled, then. I’m gonna make you the best ginger meatballs you’ve ever had in your life. My grandpa’s recipe. They’re gonna bring your soul right back to life, you’ll see.”
“Don’t bother, I don’t want you to—”
Megumi was about to put a stop to his new personal chef before he set the penthouse on fire, but he didn't even manage to lift a foot off the ground.
That sweet scent flooded his personal space before he could even process it.
“Don’t move.” That baritone voice shifted, suddenly turning strangely soft.
Before Megumi could protest or raise a hand to defend himself, something damp and freezing made contact with his forehead. It was a dish towel, coarse but clean, wrapped around a chunk of ice. With astonishing gentleness, Yuuji’s fingers brushed away the stubborn locks of hair falling over his face, grazing his temple, to press the towel firmly against the massive lump he had given himself.
Megumi froze completely. It was the first time in months that someone other than a doctor at the hospital or Geto had touched him with such disarming familiarity. Without asking for permission, without offering explanations.
Yuuji’s proximity magnified in an almost violent way: he could feel the heat radiating from his body, the vibration of his rib cage, and the presence of that chest beating just inches from his own face. He could hear, over the howling wind outside, the steady rhythm of the other man's heart—a secure, rhythmic beat that, in a stupid and annoying way, began to sync with his own.
“You’ve got a hard head, you’re lucky,” Yuuji murmured, not pulling the ice away, keeping just enough distance so Megumi wouldn't feel completely cornered. “Hold still for a bit. Otherwise, you’re gonna look like a unicorn tomorrow.”
He felt like a stranger in his own home and had the distinct feeling that, between bites, Itadori didn't take his eyes off him, examining him thoroughly. Maybe this is how laboratory frogs feel, he thought. He had a sense that the other man was waiting for something.
“Thanks for the cookies and for this. These are the best meatballs I’ve ever tasted.”
He knew he was smiling; he knew those words were more than deserved and that, to be honest, he had been rude. However, he was completely unaware of what those words had unleashed. He had signed a contract without knowing it.
“I can teach you how to make 'em. How about tomorrow? We can hit Hanegi Park with the dogs first. You take them there, right?”
“That won’t be necessary, thanks. And I have to work; I’m very busy composing…”
“Oh, right, the piano. I heard you the other day.” Megumi felt Yuuji get up from the floor and set his bowl down on the glass table without a care in the world. “It’s amazing. You could teach me, couldn’t you?”
He heard the keys thrum and wanted to strangle him. He couldn’t stop imagining greasy fingers leaving a sticky trail behind.
“Get your hands off my Steinway.”
“The thing is… my shoulder is completely trashed. The doctor says I need to do light mobility exercises, move my fingers, not lose my coordination… boring stuff like that. Come on, teach me a song. Für Elise? It’s easy, I’ve heard it a thousand times.”
By the time Geto arrived at the penthouse, it was almost midnight. The rain was nothing more than a rumor, and his anxiety was an absolute certainty. The power hadn't come back on, yet that home, always shrouded in shadow, seemed to condense all the warmth of a sun that hadn't shown itself all day. He felt as if he were stepping into another world.
The piano echoed from the back, completely out of time; he swore he heard Kuro hit the exact same high note.
“No, not like that. E, G-sharp, B, high C. Are your fingers even awake?”
“It sounds exactly the same.”
“For God's sake, it sounded like you were dusting the piano.”
Geto cracked the door open. Megumi was sitting next to someone he didn't recognize. The room was illuminated by candles on the verge of burning out. He felt something flutter in his chest and, in spite of himself, he smiled.
“C, B, A, A! The key right next to it!”
“Hey, you’re being a pretty demanding teacher.”
“If Elise had heard this, she would have pierced her own eardrums. Maybe we should practice something easier.”
“Like what?”
“Twinkle, twinkle, little star is the most viable option for you.”
“Hey! How can you say that to me?”
He heard Megumi’s laugh for the first time in longer than he could count, completely unfiltered. It arrived the way mundane things do, without warning. And Geto sensed that those brown eyes looking at Megumi with something akin to offense were just as surprised as he was. He could see the slight curve of the stranger's lips as he kept his eyes fixed on Megumi.