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“Is… is there really any point to this,” you pant.
You’re hunched over with your hands on your knees, struggling to gasp in another breath.
For such a pretty day, you hadn’t planned on spending it getting sweaty, much less sparring with someone. If you’d wanted to drip sweat and ruin your hair, you would have preferred to go for a jog or hit the gym… but you certainly hadn’t asked to sink your fists into your boyfriend’s hands today.
Fushiguro adjusts the collar to his white button-down shirt and sighs, “I already told you, yes.”
There’s hardly a drop of sweat on him.
If anything, he looks refreshed after an hour of gentle sparring. The only sign of physical exertion is a slight cherry-pink tint shown on his cheeks - even then, it could just be the product of a little too much sun on his pale skin. In comparison to the dark-haired boy’s youthful stamina, you feel like a feeble, old lady; maybe you should invest in a cane so that you look like one too.
“But why now? You’ve never asked to teach me before.”
You don’t usually whine around Megumi - he’s too practical to take your complaints very seriously anyway - but today, you just can’t seem to help it. It’s a gripe that’s been sitting at the tip of your tongue all morning.
For someone so reserved, he really had a way of working you to the bone. Why does he feel the need to drag you out to a random field to punch and kick and fall down when you likely couldn’t even outmaneuver a child? It’s counterintuitive and a big waste of your time.
But he doesn’t seem to think so.
“I don’t want you to be defenseless.”
You stand back up, your lungs having finally recovered.
“I wouldn’t call this defense. You’re literally teaching me how to slug a guy in the face,” you say flatly while looking down to examine your hands.
“Don’t try to punch someone in the face, y/n. You’ll-”
“-end up breaking fingers, yeah, I know. You already told me that…” you glance back up and roll your eyes. “Don’t take everything I say so literally.” A smile plays at your lips.
Fushiguro sighs in response. He wears his usual frustrated frown (which he maintains is just his resting face) and trudges toward you.
You eye him and swipe a bunched-up fist across your forehead before dropping it back to your side.
In a few short strides, he’s in front of you, blue eyes hooded and lips drawn into a firm line.
He gives you a once over, probably measuring how well you’re holding up so far. You just hope that he’ll call it a day… but it’s not looking like that’s going to happen anytime soon.
Then, without warning, Fushiguro reaches down and wraps his fingers gently around your lowered wrist. You let his warm hands guide your movements until your arm is perfectly parallel to the ground.
Slowly and meticulously, he trains his eyes on your positioning.
If you weren’t already acquainted with his inscrutable stares, you might’ve been battling a blush right now, but you’ve grown used to your boyfriend’s habits.
But, for someone who’d just been blocking your kicks and tripping you up, Fushiguro is being awfully careful with you. His fingers, scarred and rough, are delicate on your skin.
He steps back, eyes searching and sharp, and scans your body once again to find the next part in need of adjustment. He taps the top of your shoe with the sole of his own.
“Your feet need to be further apart.”
You comply, shifting your stance by a few inches. In doing so, your shoes crush lush, cool grass.
You look down longingly.
The earth beneath your feet would be far more enjoyable without your shoes on. If you could just get him to drop this whole “training session” idea, maybe you could convince him to lay down on the verdant hill instead of fighting on it.
But he’s already interrupting your thoughts with more instructions.
“Keep your fists clenched but don’t tuck in your thumb,” he explains, “that’s gotta stay out or you could break it.”
Instead of letting you adjust your own hand, he’s already got a hand on yours, spreading your fingers individually. You let him. He’s acting a little peculiar today and it may be best to wait and see what’s up.
“Your arms and shoulders should be loose right up until you’re actually throwing a punch. Also, try to remember-” he gently pushes your upper arm back to your side, “-it’s the rotation of your hips that gives this kind of punch power.”
It’s like you’re about to enter a boxing ring with the way you’re standing right now. Feet spread, knees slightly bent, and fists held somewhere between your face and your chest.
You’re a fish out of water.
Sure, you’re not flopping and flailing around on the ground, but even if you are learning some moves, nothing about this so-called “training” feels natural. Tense is written in thick, black letters all over your expression. You weren’t exactly built for close combat… or physical fights in general. Mentally you could argue your way out of most situations, but you would really rather leave the ass-kicking to the actual Jujutsu sorcerers.
“Punching a curse isn’t gonna do much damage y’know?” you chuckle.
“Well, I’m not really training you to fight curses right now. There’s a lot of other shitty people and things out there to worry about…”
“Right, but if you’re with me, I shouldn’t have to worry about that,” you say lightly, not thinking through the implications of your words.
But they’re not lost on Fushiguro.
It sounds like you’re assuming that he’ll always be around.
Not that he’s planning on dying anytime soon, but that’s not something he can control.
This isn’t some fairytale world.
You know that better than most humans.
He stops puppeteering your arms into different postures. Instead of his usual bored expression, you note the furrow in his brows. Fushiguro’s eyes grow dark and something of a dark cloud, a murky shadow, hoods over him.
“And what if i’m not there,” he murmurs.
You tilt your head, caught off-guard. What?
“I said what if i’m not with you,” his voice is noticeably louder.
You take a step back. In all your years of conversation, you’ve never once heard him say something like this.
“Then what will you do?”
He takes a step toward you, eliminating the gap you’d just created.
Though you’re sure he doesn’t mean to be challenging, the words cut through you. There’s friction in his tone; a battle between keeping his thoughts to himself and telling you what he’s been longing to say. Not that you’ve ever been able to tell what he’s thinking, but you know that there’s something lingering under the surface.
“I just…-” he tilts his head back and runs a stiffened hand through hair, letting it linger there, “-you’re important to me. I need to know that I at least tried to help you.”
You stand silent. Ah. He cuts his thoughts short, but you think you’re finally catching on to what he’s referring to.
It’s a part of his job description, to move on and forget. That mindset, though seemingly heartless and inhuman, keeps people like Fushiguro safe and sane. If you’re too invested in the people you’re trying to save, if you get too close to other students or teachers, you’re setting yourself up to be shattered like glass.
But maybe he can’t leave everything in the past like you’d once thought he could. Bloodstains and blurry vision mar your first encounter with him… but he’s never left you behind or forgotten about you. Why?
---
Bodies and blood, lifeless and scarlet, are scattered like confetti on the linoleum floors.
You’re bleeding and voiceless. Your legs must have given out some time ago because your back is pressed up against a cold school locker.
If you weren’t already hanging your head low, you would’ve given in to its weight anyway - you’re beaten down and exhausted with not even enough energy to let out a whimper.
The dull ringing in your ears is one of the only things confirming that you’re not quite dead yet.
What kind of fifteen-year-old has to confirm that they’re not dead?
But that’s the position you’re in. Stuck in a dark building and dangling between here and a swiftly approaching after-life… if there even is such a thing. With the hell you’re currently encountering, you may as well already be facing divine judgement.
Just how many gashes could a human body sustain?
It hurts-- no, it burns and a searing pain tears through your body. It’s only a matter of time before you’re unconscious, which seems even more appealing as the minutes roll by one by one.
There’s a clang and a thud somewhere in the distance and your body braces in re-invigorated panic. You force your eyes shut, but the image of that... that thing doesn’t fade. It only grows sharper and more realistic the more you think about it.
Could you stand up and run if that thing came back? Was there something you could fight it with? Would it even matter if you tried? Survival seems improbable, if not impossible, at this point.
I mean, look at your friends just down the hall.
Most of them didn’t make it. Mangled, bruised, and broken, there are some kids you grew up with that you probably couldn’t even recognize anymore if you tried to. But you can’t even bring tears to your eyes to mourn them.
Terror has seized your body, constricting your movements and, apparently, your emotions too.
Your shirt is tattered at the edges and clings to your skin. Sweat trickles down your face and onto said shirt. It’s already drenched in red, so at least you don’t have to think too hard about gross sweat stains.
You try to chuckle at that thought, but instantly regret the attempt.
Instead of soft laughter you find yourself coughing and hacking and in a desperate search for oxygen.
Your eyes snap open when you realize how loud you’re being. The strangled noise travels through the cinderblock-lined hallway and eerily echos back to you. You bring a weak hand to your mouth, cupping it to muffle the sound.
But it’s probably too late anyway. There’s no way that went unnoticed.
And you’re right, because soon after, something that sounds like footsteps is headed in your direction.
Your blood, or the rest of it anyway, drains from your face and you clench your jaw.
Those tears you couldn’t seem to cry for your friends are now spilling out in haste, broken and pleading.
If these really are your last moments, you ought to be allowed to cry like a baby. At least no one is around to watch as you keel over in a mess of salty tears.
And of course, as the universe would have it, the thought of having no one around makes you cry harder. Because you really are alone right now. You’ll die alone just like everybody else.
Those footsteps come closer. You make one final effort to stifle your sniffling and ragged breathing.
But something is off.
You turn your head, shaking and exhausted, toward the sound because somehow those steps sound… human. That, or you’re just hallucinating. You can’t trust any of your senses right now.
But it wasn’t wishful thinking.
A man… no, a boy - one no older than yourself - turns the corner. His uniform is all black and his hair is hardly a shade lighter. This dark-haired boy scans the floor and studies the bodies until his focus lands on you. You lift your head.
His dark expression tells you that he’s well-acquainted with the situation at hand.
Without a word, he’s at your side and scooping you up slowly. You wince instinctively, but you can’t actually feel much of anything anymore; your body is too numb to even use its senses and your eyes are growing heavier by the second.
But before you succumb to the sweet lure of sleep, you do notice a few things.
For someone who’s almost your size, he’s quite strong - you’re tucked neatly and cautiously into his chest.
He’s warm.
You feel a fraction safer.
He hardly takes his eyes off of you. As if his gaze were your only life source, they flicker back to you every few moments. You’re sure he must be scared too, but at least he seems to know what he’s doing.
And you also notice that he’s speaking softly to you.
Short sentences.
The words are awkward and slow, as though he’s not used to the concept of comfort (just like most other fifteen-year-old boys.) You’re not complaining though. You can hardly make out what his voice sounds like as your hearing fades in and out…
But you do catch his name. Fushiguro Megumi.
He’s warm.
Tense.
Quiet.
And he’s trying desperately to get you out of this undeserved hell.
---
You’re the first person he’s ever saved from, what seemed like, imminent death. Or at least that’s what he’d told you.
Most other people since then have slipped through his fingers like grains of sand. He’s able to leave those people, their faces and their last words, in the past.
But, unlike Fushiguro, you’ve never seen anything like a curse before.
It used to haunt you, the memories of your lifeless friends and the reality of these monsters. You’ve re-lived that day countless times. Nightmares, racing heartbeats, collapsing to the floor in a cold sweat at the sight of a looming shadow. Leaving things in the past wasn’t something you grew up doing nor was it something you could readily implement into your life.
But for some reason, Fushiguro took to you after that incident.
He doesn’t look like someone who would care much. There’s a coldness to his demeanor and almost always an impassive look on his face. Even the jaggedness of his hair could be seen as a measure to ward off any unwanted interactions. Fushiguro isn’t what you would call soft or sweet or even remotely sensitive.
However, he showed up for you.
He was there at the end of the day to walk you home from your new school; after all, your old school was practically decimated after the curses revealed themselves. Fushiguro took you to parks and quiet spaces to let you voice your fears - to sort through and cry over the hell that you had somehow lived through.
Even now, Fushiguro has strange reasons for why he sticks around you. Absurd grounds for why he chooses to be in a relationship, of all things, with you. Fushiguro is calculating and reasonable - dating someone under these circumstances is illogical at best and feels almost opposite to his character… but, at the same time, being with him makes sense.
He was - is - the only person who understands what it is that you saw that day.
No counselor or psychiatrist could’ve come close to comprehending what it was that you’d witnessed. No trauma quite relates to that of seeing many of your friends, teachers, and bullies torn to shreds in a single day. No one else could have believably set a hand on your shoulder and said, “I understand what you’re going through.”
Thus, you attribute much of your healing to him… and you like to think that you’re a steady and calming factor in his life. Because now you understand just a fraction of what he goes through daily.
But it’s been four years. Have you really become so important to him that old and faded memories have come back to haunt him? You’ve since distanced yourself from that day, but had he?
“-you’re important to me. I need to know that I at least tried to help you.”
So maybe you’d spoken too lightly… but it’s starting to sound like he’s anticipating your unforeseeable death date. You’ve already dealt with enough heavy things to last you a lifetime and you’re not about to entertain this gloomy conversation as though it were some sort of cutesy, Tuesday-afternoon banter.
“Are you already planning my demise, Megumi?”
He frowns and drops his hand from his hair, “I- What? No-“
“Do you have some other power that I don’t know about? Can you see my future?” You press.
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying that I know you’re anxious.”
Fushiguro opens his mouth, but you’re right. He shuts up.
You smile softly; comforting others may not be his forte, but you’re pretty different from the blue-eyed boy. In slow, steady motions, you step towards him.
Glancing down at his long, slender fingers, you reach toward them and grasp both tenderly. And as you bring them upward, you pull them ever-so-gently toward your chest. You move your hands to his wrists. He opens his palms and you press them both lightly to the upper part of your sternum. They rest just firmly enough that, if he isn’t too distracted by other much softer anatomy, he can feel your heartbeat.
Your eyes, previously trained on his hands, now look to his face. Fushiguro’s seems a little pinker, but his eyebrows are no longer painfully pinched together. You appear to have successfully diverted his attention.
“I need you to listen to me...” you speak softly, hoping to keep his focus solely on you.
“You’re not responsible for what happens to me when I’m alone. Or even when I’m with you.”
The words float like a feather through the air, though they’re anything but light. Maybe you should’ve said this long ago. You never once believed that it was his job to care for you. If you’re being completely honest, you never once thought he’d even felt obligated to protect you.
With the reality you’re both living in, it would be wrong to place that kind of responsibility onto another person. No, it would be cruel to do such a thing.
“How can you say that?” Fear in the form of irritation curves his voice.
Though his words are punchy, you can almost visualize an internal barrier breaking down inside of him. These thoughts have rested heavily on him for far too long.
“Megumi, I’m well aware that we live in a dangerous world,” you begin, clasping his wrists tighter, “but I’m going to be okay. And so are you.”
Fushiguro’s mouth gapes just slightly. You wish you could say that this look of disbelief was priceless. These expressions are few and far between, so you try to savor them when Fushiguro reveals them. But, with just a glance, you feel something inside of you crack.
The closer you’ve gotten to him, the more precious you’ve become. That, in itself, might be a curse.
“I know you don’t believe me… and it is a little unrealistic…”
(You refuse to say “impossible.” It’s such a hopeless way of framing your situation.)
You remove his hands from your chest and instead wrap your arms around his back, pulling yourself into his chest. It’s way too warm for a hug, but you’re pretty sure he could use one even if he would never admit to it.
And you’re right. He probably did need one, because there’s a lithe hand threading through the roots of your hair. The touch tickles and soon you feel a weight on the crown of your head. Fushiguro’s chin rests gently atop your head.
“But we’ll be fine.”
Even if you’re lying through your teeth, you can’t stop yourself from saying it. Of course you don’t know if you’ll be okay. Nobody does.
But what’s the point of anything if you can’t hope for the best?
“And,” you sigh reluctantly, drawing yourself away from his chest, “if it’ll make you feel better…”
You make a face to lighten the mood, “I’ll learn how to kick someone’s ass.”
Without another word, you’re pulled back into his hold, this time much tighter. It’s almost uncomfortable, but you can’t keep a small, somber smile off of your lips. You’ll both have to be okay.
But whatever happens, happens. If one of you dies, you want the other be able to leave the past behind. Resting on something with such blatant finality would only serve to tear the lone survivor apart.
So you choose not to rest on this conversation anymore.
Anyway, there are only a couple of truly important things you’re thinking about right now.
You’re thinking about that boy from all those years ago. The one who carried you out of those blood-drenched hallways. The one who whispered to you, just so that you could hear someone’s voice. The one who walked you home from school because you couldn’t do it alone anymore. The one person who really understands.
And you’re also thinking about how much he’s gonna hate it when he realizes that most of your sweat just soaked into his shirt.