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Pain slipped through his fingertips, wet and viscous, dripping the colour of passion and fury. It covered every inch of skin, staining the once pure flesh, creating a melancholy rose.
Regret splattered like a kaleidoscope of patchwork memories on the stone ground where tragedy had happened once before. Yet another person had succumbed to their own twisted morals, choosing a fate benefitting none.
Eyes watched, some curling upwards in sickening pleasure, thankful for the world returning back to blissful ignorance. Others looked away in fear of their own skin being stained with that same crimson hue that was so often compared to loss.
Yes, this was loss. A loss so profound that tears were mixed in with those drops of agony, wet and hot and mirroring the emotions of the vibrant hue they touched.
The blood was so hot, burning and complete and so infuriatingly final it tore at the skin of Megumi’s hands, burned through his fingertips. Even with such visceral heat, the sorcerer felt frigid and cold.
Warmth was someone he had killed, and it had drenched him in red. All he could do was stare, plainly and absently, at hands he would never be able to use again. Megumi would never let himself use them again.
Eyes that didn’t dare look up turned with the summoner’s body, refusing to acknowledge the worst, most necessary thing he’s ever done. They met an embrace that was supposed to be comforting but felt so horrifyingly foreign the boy had to pull away.
He saw the quiet clenching of fists, not in anger, but in pure sympathy and pity from a man who had experienced the same thing. Megumi pursed his lips, willed himself not to cry. He wouldn’t cry; he already did that last time.
Ripping off the clothing that identified him as a killer, the sorcerer stopped in front of a mirror. He didn’t recognise himself without the warmth. Was he this cold before that blissful, honey sweet feeling?
Life’s absence continued to drop steadily onto the wooden floor of Megumi’s room, staining the unpolished wood. He didn’t want to wipe it off yet. It was the last part he would ever be able to feel, ever be able to be in contact with.
Bringing his traitorous hands that were covered in passion he himself never shared to his face, he screamed. A heartbroken, empty, hollow yell that sounded like bittersweet memories and happiness that was now decayed.
Warm body and cold floor met as Megumi slumped down, his legs betraying him just like everything else had, and he pressed the fleeting fire that burned through the red on his fingertips to his lips.
Disgust surged through his body as he retched at the taste of rotten, dead love that still burned brightly in one and was killed in another. He heaved, a dry sob leaving his lips as he choked on his own dead feelings.
Up until the very end, that warmth had chosen to share his kindness, never once giving it all, endlessly, to the selfish boy he loved. Megumi knew it was unrealistic and mean of him to ask that, but he still did, when the sorcerer knew it might be the last time to receive such care.
He’d felt rage, vivid and incessant, for weeks. Anger at himself and the world in which he inhabited, the life he lead. More importantly he was furious at fate for severing something so perfect.
There were few things in Megumi’s life that he could definitely say were good. His sister, and that now unreachable warmth were the top two. Both of them were gone.
When he realised the blood had finally gone cold, Megumi’s eyes widened in fear and a deep lament. Rushing to wash the horrible feeling off of his hands, he doused them in water that was growing hotter by the second.
Soon, steam rose from the scalding faucet that was wiping Megumi clean, returning that burning feeling to him. Just a little more, and maybe he could experience warmth again. Hotter and hotter, the faucet burned as the water doused Megumi’s raw skin.
That warmth was ripped away from him as the faucet was forcefully turned off and he was dragged away from the sink. Grasping at it, his fingers burning bright red, numb and throbbing, another sob left his lips.
A familiar but vacant embrace smothered him, the tall and feminine frame doing little to ease the gaping absence he felt. Quiet whimpers, crying gasps, and ‘oh God’’s were muffled behind him. Nobara hated people seeing her cry.
Maki brought her hand up to stroke her cousin’s back, her heart throbbing when she realised Megumi’s arms were hung limply around his sides. He was refusing to hug her back, or he didn’t remember how to.
Sliding away from the hug, the powerful Zen’in firmly placed her pure, unstained hands on Megumi’s shoulders. “You don’t get to hurt yourself, Megumi. He wouldn’t want that.”
Nausea mixed with anger rolled through the boy’s body, paralysing him and causing him to glare at the floor. His mouth, no matter how he willed it to speak, remained sealed in a vow of spiteful silence.
That warm person loved his voice, so why should he speak with it anymore? There was no one who could hear it. Shoving himself away from Maki and Nobara, refusing to acknowledge their pitiful gazes, he returned to his room.
Warmth lingered in every corner, every crevice. He hated it. He hated that his room was allowed to have that warmth, but Megumi himself wasn’t allowed to. He couldn’t gather up all the traces and rebuild his happiness, instead he would have to live in those lingering memories until they disappeared.
Crumpling against the wall, he could feel his spirits call for him, wishing to comfort him. Unbeknownst to them, Megumi would never see them again. He refused to.
His hands would never again do something good for him, never again participate in the world that had taken so much from him. Hugging himself, longing for that embrace he cherished, finally a tear slipped past his long lashes. Even then, it felt cold.
“Yuuji,” he whispered. So softly, so quietly, and filled with such painful agony it burned him up all over again. He tried to imagine the face of the person he would have given his life to, only to realise he was the one who took that life away. “God, why me?”
Yuuji wanted it to be Megumi. Being executed by anyone else felt cheap, insincere. Unkind. Yuuji was none of those things, and as such he did the only selfish thing he’s ever done.
He asked Megumi to kill him. There was a lot of yelling, crying, and soft, sad kisses that eventually led to the boy with messy hair agreeing. His insides ached for days realising what he must do, and even still he committed such an act.
But Megumi was selfish; he didn’t care if the king of curses threatened to kill the entire world. Yuuji was strong enough to control Sukuna, and even if he wasn’t Megumi didn’t care. He longed for that warmth so greatly, as long as he got to experience it, he didn’t care about anyone else.
Looking back, it’s painfully ironic how everything turned out. Yuuji adopted Megumi’s way of thinking, and vice versa. The boy who was filled with smiles and goodness decided to do something selfish, and the boy who looked out only for the ones he loved decided to look out for the world.
A soft knock came from Megumi’s bedroom door, causing him to raise his head and get up from his slumped position. He opened it, seeing a man who reflected himself standing in front of him with bright white hair and a forlorn expression.
Silently, the boy let the man in and they stood for a while, simply experiencing one another’s presence. They understood each other better than anyone else could.
Gojo sat down first, placing himself on the edge of Megumi’s bed. The boy decided to remain standing, refusing to touch any piece of furniture that had lingering good on it.
“I know, Megumi,” was all the teacher said. “It’s ok to hurt.”
With that, the boy finally allowed himself to break. He sobbed, burring his palms in his eyes as if trying to gouge them out. He didn’t deserve to remember that warmth, that loving gaze. Everything was so empty now, grey and lifeless.
Loneliness, pure and naive, seeped from his very being. Innocence cried with him after it was forcefully ripped away from his heart, his love being twisted and used for something so corrupt.
As he watched the boy sob on the ground, the child he had raised and mentored, the god shed a tear of his own.