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It’s not love.
Fushiguro grew up with everything – wealth, prestige, power. He was cradled in the lap of luxury, and if he wasn’t treated with dignity, well, what child needs dignity? His innate ability had him marked down as a sorcerer by his third birthday, one who would bring honour to the family name and all that shit.
It is shit. Inheritance, reputation, ability. They’re all just the toys of fate, strewn unequally to grasping hands, some luckier than others. The world is ugly, full of selfish people looking inward. He grew up surrounded by them, crammed in a cluttered house full of them, people who thought only of themselves.
Fushiguro knows he’ll recognize love when it finds him, because he’s never seen it before. Like a man raised in a monochrome landscape, it will be as colour to him, bright and fresh and unmistakable.
Which is why he knows, as Itadori speaks his last words, blood pouring from his chest and mouth, that this isn’t love. This cold, twisting, biting anguish in his gut – this isn’t tenderness, isn’t need. It’s pity, pure and simple. Itadori deserved better than dying in a prison yard with a curse inside him. But it was always bound to end this way, surely, and that’s that.
Simple, done.
He just wishes he could stop crying.
***
The memories slither into his thoughts at inconvenient times, like when he’s trying to write his shopping list, or study for the lessons Gojou-sensei so infrequently attends, or calculate how much change he’ll need to buy a coffee from the vending machine. They’re insistent as Orochi – now dead along with Itadori, dead because of Itadori, and that should hurt but somehow there’s not a lot of room left in him right now to mourn his shikigami – they wind their way around his thoughts and squeeze.
***
He remembers:
“Okay, but, you’ve gotta have some posters in your room!” Itadori’s forced his way in again, like the smell in the drains that won’t seem to leave no matter how much bleach Fushiguro pours down the plug hole. He seems fascinated by Fushiguro’s space, by the order, by the number of text books and note books and old relics Fushiguro isn’t technically supposed to have checked out of the library but Gojou-sensei gave him permission and the librarian just sighed and threw up her hands when he relayed it.
“Like here – picture of Emily Blunt. Here, Gal Godot. Here, Jennifer Lawrence!” He’s standing in the space where Fushiguro places his futon at night, gesturing at the wall.
“I don’t know who any of those people are,” drawls Fushiguro, without getting up. He’s in the middle of cataloguing some interesting Warring States Period curses that have never been officially dispelled and which might still be lingering in some school or hospital’s store room like the one Itadori ate.
Hopefully there aren’t any more morons like him out there.
“You don’t know?” Itadori sounds deeply shocked, and also deeply disappointed. “Dude. Live a little. We’ll rent some DVDs, have a movie night. Pig out on cola and popcorn the way students were intended to.”
“There’s no microwave in the student dorms,” replies Fushiguro, who can’t imagine a worse fate than having his room smell of cola and popcorn for the rest of the semester when Itadori inevitably spills it on the tatami.
“Is there one in the cafeteria kitchen?”
“…Yes.”
“Great! I’ll get Sensei to okay us borrowing it.”
And Fushiguro groans because he knows Gojou-sensei will, too. Horrific thought: what if he decides to join them? Anything to avoid that. “Look, I’ve got an allowance, and it probably would be useful to have one. I’ll buy one if you promise that we only watch the movies in your room.”
“Deal!”
Which is how Fushiguro ends up carrying a 50-pound microwave back to campus in the heat of summer, only to discover that Yuuji has told Gojou-sensei anyway and he does insist on joining them.
And on spoiling the ending.
***
He remembers:
Riding the bus home from a job way out in the middle of nowhere, he and Itadori the only ones on the bus as night slowly seeps into the sky beyond the windows, all shades of pink and purple. Itadori is listening to music on earbuds, his fingers occasionally tapping the beat against his thigh.
They’re sitting at the back, Fushiguro’s long legs stretched out in the aisle. He busted his ankle in an awkward dive to avoid being crushed by a tree the curse uprooted, he can see it swelling through his sock but there’s not much he can do about it until they get back to campus. The pain is aching, pervasive, throbbing in time with his heartbeat.
He had been forced to lean on Itadori all the long way back to the bus stop, Itadori’s firm arm wrapped around his waist, hand splayed against his side. Fushiguro already knows that he’s freakishly strong – he saw the stunt with the shotput – but it’s something else feeling his casual strength holding him up, surrounding him like an exoskeleton. There’s a sense of confidence, of security – Itadori never once lets him slip or falter, his hip rubbing gently against Fushiguro’s so that he can feel both their bones through the stretch of cloth and skin. It should be a reminder that they’re both the same, boys on their way to becoming sorcerers, but in fact all Fushiguro can think of is the differences between them. One raised his whole life in the traditions of sorcery with the only goal of destroying curses, one nothing more than a curse on legs.
Nothing more? Well. Perhaps something more. Annoying, yes, but also brave. And, unusually: Innocent. Fushiguro doesn’t remember what it’s like to be innocent, to believe that good things happen to good people and bad to bad, to believe that the good guys beat the curses without cost of life or limb.
But Itadori is innocent, in a way that everyone around him can’t help but recognize. Can’t help but want to protect.
And now on the bus they sit thigh-to-thigh, Itadori’s heat seeping through the black cotton pants and warming Fushiguro. He leans over as the bus bumps, reaches up to pull out an ear bud. “Wanna listen? I’ve got some slapping tunes.”
No way would have been his response two weeks ago, even last week. Now he thinks of Itadori’s broad shoulder under his arm and his unfailing hand against his side, and shrugs. “Okay.”
So they sit together and listen to Hootie & the Blowfish (WTF Itadori) until Fushiguro falls asleep with his head on Itadori’s shoulder.
***
He remembers:
Waking up on the couch in the back of the shared kitchen/lounge on the first floor, trying to remember how he got there and why his mouth feels like a small rodent died in it, and hearing Itadori speak.
“Shhh, Sensei – Fushiguro’s sleeping on the couch.” He sounds like he’s mixing something, metal scraping softly against metal every now and then.
He should get up, should stretch, should make a sound. Instead, he just lies there with his eyes closed. Listens.
“Oh? Did you get him all tired out, Yuuji?” There’s a wet, sucking sound which Fushiguro identifies as a fake kiss.
“Sensei,” Itadori sounds scandalized. “I did not.”
“My first-years are so pure,” gushes Gojou-sensei. “He’s quite ravishing, you know.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to say that about your students, Sensei. And anyway, he could hardly take his eyes off that poster I got him of Gigi Hadid.”
“The one with the…” clearly Gojou-sensei mimes something, Itadori choking quietly. “He tossed it two days ago. I think he just kept it to make you happy.”
“Since when does Fushiguro care about making me happy?”
“Well he did save your life,” points out their teacher.
“He would have done that for anyone.”
“Mm, I think you misunderstand him. Megumi isn’t in the habit of saving people he thinks are undeserving. And given that you stole a curse, then gave it away, then broke into a school against his express orders, I’m frankly surprised he was willing to save you.”
“He’s a good guy,” says Itadori, defensively. “Of course he was gonna save me.” He says it like it’s a given, like Fushiguro is a hero, like Fushiguro is him. What does he think he know about Fushiguro that makes him believe that insanity?
“I’m curious as to why you’re so quick to defend him if you don’t think he likes you.”
“Because he’s a good guy,” repeats Itadori, as if it’s obvious. “He works harder than any of us and gets beaten up for his trouble but he doesn’t quit. And he treats his shikigami kindly, not just like mindless slaves, and tries to be a good master. And… he’s all alone. No one should be all alone, Sensei.” He puts down whatever it is he’s stirring, the metal bowl clanking on the countertop.
On the sofa, Fushiguro blinks unintentionally. Catches sight of Itadori standing facing Gojou-sensei, his sharp face clean-cut, sincere.
He closes his eyes.
“Anyway, this has to chill in the fridge now. I’m gonna go grab something to read. Don’t wake him up, ‘kay? He just got back from a mission.”
Footsteps disappearing. And, simultaneously, footsteps drawing nearer.
“He’s sweet, isn’t he?” says Gojou-sensei. “I know you’re awake, Megumi.”
Fushiguro opens his eyes and glares up at his teacher. “You just like tormenting him.”
“Correction: I like tormenting both of you. You’re so well suited for each other. Boy with nothing from the country meets big-city Fushiguro heir.”
“Walking curse meets exorcist,” replies Fushiguro harshly.
Gojou-sensei puts a finger up to press against his chin, head tilting to the side. “Oh, it’s like that, is it? You know, forbidden romance can be the hottest kind, Megumi.”
Megumi rises rapidly, eyes stormy. “There is no romance, there is no attraction. There’s just you meddling, Gojou-sensei. Please stop.” He pushes past his teacher and walks out of the kitchen.
One of these days he’s going to get strong enough to beat Gojou-sensei. And then he will make him regret every minute of his education.
***
He remembers:
It’s dark. Late night, moon shining overhead. The walls in the dorm are thin, thin enough that he can hear Itadori moving around.
Thin enough that he can hear him talking. His voice is quiet, like it is when he asks Gojou-sensei what he imagines will be a dumb question, when he asks Fushiguro how he got the scars on his back.
Innocent enough to believe that the good guys beat the curses without cost of life or limb, Fushiguro remembers thinking, but Fushiguro was never that innocent. He was raised on tales of chaos and carnage, and his experience has pretty much held true to that.
He wonders what it would be like to believe the world was fair.
Fushiguro’s window is open because even though it’s nighttime it’s still hot as hell, and after a few minutes he hears Itadori’s window open. He can hear him more clearly now, can’t understand the words, but he can read the tone.
He hears the sudden silence, too. And then the quiet sob.
Should he do something? Itadori’s just his fellow-student, just his dorm neighbour.
Just the boy who ate a curse to save his life.
Fushiguro stands, walks out into the hall and pauses in front of Itadori’s door. After a minute, he knocks.
“Yeah?”
Fushiguro pushes the door open and steps in. The lights are off, the wide windows open, moonlight pouring in. Itadori’s sitting at his desk facing the window, a single picture on its surface. His eyes are a little puffy, but not red.
“I – uh…” he suddenly realises how terrible an idea this was. He scrambles for an excuse. “Can I borrow a pencil?”
Itadori blinks. “Sure.”
Fushiguro walks in, crosses the room to stand beside him while he unzips his pencil case and pulls one out. The picture on his desk is of an old man with Itadori’s cheekbones, his expression menacing. He’s seen it before, of course, but never really thought about it. But of course it’s Itadori’s dead grandfather, the one who had just passed away when Fushiguro burst into his life. He hadn’t even been able to collect his bones in peace, Gojou-sensei there bullying him into becoming Sukuna’s vessel while he packed them away in the urn.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
Itadori looks up, surprised. “What for?”
Fushiguro waves an ineloquent hand. “Everything, I guess. Your grandfather, and pulling you into the search for Sukuna’s finger, and being too weak to handle that curse and getting you involved. I wasn’t strong enough, and now you’re stuck with this shitty life.”
Itadori puts down the pencil slowly. “Hey. None of that’s your fault. It was Gramps’ time to go, and it was my fault for stealing the finger in the first place, and you should never apologize for not being strong enough. You should just work to get stronger – and you are, every day, while Kugisaki and I fuck around. And I mean, yeah, I get a bit sad about it – mostly about Gramps – sometimes, but who doesn’t?”
I don’t, thinks Fushiguro. He can’t remember the last time he cried. “Right,” he says instead, because it sounds better than my childhood ruined my capacity to feel. “You know Itadori, you’re a good guy.”
Itadori blinks. Then his face splits into the biggest grin Fushiguro’s seen from him. His joy is contagious, Fushiguro’s lips slipping upwards without conscious thought. How is someone so simple so good at making him feel things? Especially things that, before meeting Itadori, he never felt.
“Thanks man!”
“Yeah, whatever.” He turns to leave, face unaccountably hot.
“Hey, your pencil!” He hands it to Fushiguro, their fingers brushing. Fushiguro’s heart leaps like a rabbit in his chest, thumping painfully into his ribs.
Itadori just grins.
***
And now all those things are nothing but memories, and Itadori’s joined his dead grandfather because, once again, Fushiguro was too weak to make a damn difference.
He tries to work to get stronger – he does – but for some reason he can’t sleep at night, can’t eat at meals, can’t concentrate on Gojou-sensei’s disorganized lessons.
When stupid, useless memories of Itadori aren’t busy pushing their way into his head, he just feels empty. Cold, like a freezer that’s been stripped bare and is nothing but a hold for dead air.
Late at night he goes to the roof of the dorm and stares down at the darkness below. Itadori’s in that black emptiness somewhere, and Tsumiki too. He pulls in a breath and screams, screams until he’s hoarse, until he can’t scream anymore.
It doesn’t really help.
***
The Goodwill Event feels like a distraction. A chance to get away from the school, from the memories that seem infused into its very walls.
It ends up, as always, in student vs student combat. Well that’s fine, he’s ready to crack some skulls, and they’re just announcing the roster when Gojou-sensei speaks up from his place beside Principal Yaga.
“Don’t you think you’re forgetting someone?”
The ceremony grinds to an awkward, limping halt, the students lined up on the outdoor field in their sweaty summer uniforms looking around in confusion. The staff seem equally confused, although better at disguising it.
Like a magician – a proud, insufferable, shitty magician – Gojou-sensei snaps his fingers.
And like that, Itadori is there. Itadori in his school uniform, Itadori with his pink hair and sharp cheekbones, Itadori who doesn’t have a hole in his chest.
Several people gasp. Kugisaki shouts, “Shitting fuck-balls!”
Fushiguro chokes silently, breath caught like a marble in his throat. Itadori looks around at the small crowd once, eyes big and awed, then catches his gaze. Steps over.
“Breathe, Fushiguro,” he says, and slaps him on the back, and feeling floods back into the world like the sun coming over the horizon. Like colour flooding a black-and-white landscape.
This, thinks Fushiguro, is love.
(What he says, though, is, “I am going to murder Gojou Satoru.”)
END