Archive of Our Own

1

    A low growl rumbled through the room, and Fushiguro and the demon dogs raised their heads. Demon dog white sniffed the air, then chuffed softly and sank its head back onto Fushiguro’s pillow. Fushiguro knew he shouldn’t treat the dogs like pets, that he should release them back to the shadows when he didn’t need them to fight with him, but he couldn’t help it. He liked the companionship, the brush of fur against his fingers while he studied or slept. Now he reached over and rubbed one of its ears, listening intently. He sniffed the air, too, and a delicious, warm, rich scent filled his nose. He hadn’t noticed it before. But the growl rumbled through the room again, and he realized with a flush of embarrassment that it was coming from his stomach. 

    “You’re supposed to remind me when it’s time to eat,” he said to the dogs, chuckling. The black dog rolled its eyes at him and snorted. 

    “I know,” Fushiguro said, “you have no concept of time.” He checked his watch. Dinner time. Did I eat today at all? He tried to remember. I guess not. Whoops. He released the demon dogs back to the shadows with a flick of his fingers and stood, stretching his arms overhead. He had been reading about the other shikigami, the ones he hadn’t tamed yet, studying the theory of summoning and taming each one. Of course, knowing the theory was no substitute for actual practice and familiarity with the ritual. But it couldn’t hurt. 

    Fushiguro tugged a hoodie over his bare chest and cracked his door open. The delicious smell wafted into his room more strongly, and his mouth watered. He padded down the hallway and knocked on Itadori’s door, which stood ajar as it always did. 

    “Itadori,” he called quietly, “I’m going to go eat. Have you eaten?” 

    No response came from within, so he pushed the door open a little further. Itadori was nowhere to be seen, only the usual untidy smattering of discarded clothes and manga and shoes strewn across every flat surface. Fushiguro rolled his eyes at the mess, but his lips twitched into an involuntary smile as he shut the door behind him. 

    He followed his nose to the kitchen, instead, chasing the warm, rich smell that filled the whole dorm. Maybe whoever was cooking would share with him. 

    It took him a minute to process the chaos that met his eyes when he pushed open the door — bowls piled in the sink, meat and vegetables strewn across the countertop, an overturned bottle sluggishly weeping dark liquid. The involuntary smile twitched the corners of his mouth again. Even before he saw the dusky pink hair, even before Itadori turned and noticed him, he knew who the chef was. 

    “Megumi-kun!” Itadori beamed at him and waved a large knife in greeting. “Hungry?”

    Fushiguro nodded and fought back the broad smile that threatened to split across his face. He was grateful that Itadori never called him by his given name in front of other people, but something about the way he said it in private made Fushiguro’s stomach twist pleasantly. But he could never let Itadori know that, so he scowled instead.

    “You’re making a mess, Yuuji-kun,” he grumbled. “But yes, I’m starving.” 

    Itadori looked around and a little touch of pink rose to his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. 

    “Oops.” He rubbed the back of his head and righted the overturned bottle of soy sauce. 

    Fushiguro shook his head at him and crossed over to the sink. 

    “I guess I can earn my dinner by cleaning up your mess,” he teased. Itadori laughed, set down his knife and wrapped his arms around Fushiguro’s waist from behind. Fushiguro kept his eyes firmly on the bubbles filling the sink and fought back the heat rising to his face at the unexpected affection. 

    “Thanks, Megumi-kun,” he murmured, his warm breath sending shivers down Fushiguro’s spine. “I owe you one.” 

    Fushiguro shrugged him off and started on the dishes, trying to ignore the heat pooling in his stomach. He knew Itadori didn’t mean anything by it. He was just like that — bubbly and oblivious and — and touching me all the time. And so cute and — Fushiguro shook himself and dried his hands on a towel. 

    “Wow, done already?” Itadori smiled at him and waved the knife around again. “Can you make the meatballs? Everything else is basically done and I just need to chop the rest of these scallions.” 

    He gestured at a bowl full of ground meat and Fushiguro looked down at it, completely at a loss. He’d never cooked anything more complicated than instant ramen before. But he had seen plenty of meatballs — he picked up a lump of ground meat and started trying to roll it into a ball. 

    “Not like that!” Itadori laughed and smacked Fushiguro’s hand. “Here, let me show you.”

    He picked up a small bowl that sat nearby and dumped its contents into the bowl of meat; Fushiguro’s nose picked up the earthy sting of ginger. Itadori added garlic, too, and scraped in the scallions that he’d been chopping. 

    “There you go,” he said finally, giving the contents a final stir. “Now here, do it like this.” He picked up two spoons and showed Fushiguro how to use them to roll the meat into neat, uniform balls. Fushiguro tried not to be too obvious as he admired Itadori’s dexterous hands and the ease with which he created perfect spheres. He tried not to let his own fumbling clumsiness show as he took the spoons from Itadori and tried it himself. But when he looked up from the bowl with a passable meatball sitting on one spoon, Itadori grinned broadly at him. 

    “Perfect,” he said. The praise made the heat in Fushiguro’s stomach pulse and throb, then race upwards into his throat. He felt his face flush red, but Itadori didn’t seem to notice; he just turned back to the broth on the stove, humming tunelessly to himself.

    When the broth was boiling, they dropped in the meatballs. Itadori added vegetables, while Fushiguro cleaned the last of the hundred bowls he’d used to prep everything. The smell of the broth made Fushiguro feel lightheaded with hunger — or was it the brush of Itadori’s hand against his as they’d put the meatballs in the soup? The glances that he kept throwing at Fushiguro from underneath his long lashes? Stop it, Fushiguro warned himself. It doesn’t mean anything. You’re just friends. He’s just like that. His stomach rumbled again; Itadori giggled and the sound made heat rush back to Fushiguro’s face. 

    “Here, Megumi-kun.” Itadori handed him a bowl and Fushiguro accepted it gratefully, curling his hands around the warmth and inhaling deeply. When he opened his eyes again, Itadori was still watching him; a smile played around his lips as their eyes met. He raised one hand towards Fushiguro’s face. 

      Fushiguro’s breath caught in his chest, his eyes locked onto Itadori’s, his feet frozen to the floor. Itadori’s smooth, warm fingers brushed against Fushiguro’s cheek, tracing his cheekbone and trailing up into his hair. It took all of Fushiguro’s self-control to stop himself from dropping the bowl and wrapping himself around Itadori, nestling his fingers in that spiky, dusky-pink mess that he called hair. He willed himself to keep his lips closed against the gasp that threatened to escape them. He cursed the flush that he felt rising to his cheeks and forehead. He couldn’t look away. 

    Itadori’s fingers stopped halfway up the side of Fushiguro’s head and he tugged something free from Fushiguro’s hair. He giggled and showed it to Fushiguro. 

    “Scallion-head,” he laughed. “Now who’s a mess?” He tossed the scallion in the trash and Fushiguro let out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. 

    “Still you,” he returned, “that scallion didn’t get in my hair by itself. You must have been flinging them all over the place.” 

    Itadori giggled again and slurped up a mouthful of noodles. 

    “True,” he admitted when he’d swallowed. He wiped his mouth and beamed across the table at Fushiguro. “Thanks for helping me with the meatballs, Megumi-kun. And for cleaning up. I always feel like less of a mess when you’re around.” 

    Fushiguro rolled his eyes. 

    “You’re just as much of a mess,” he retorted. “But I guess we do make a pretty good team.” 

    Itadori nodded his agreement, and they finished their noodles in a comfortable silence, only broken by occasional slurping and the clinking of spoons against bowls. When they’d finished, and put the leftovers in the fridge, and put the last dishes in the dishwasher, they trailed back down the hall to their rooms, the companionable silence unbroken. Itadori walked close to him — too close — Fushiguro felt their hands brushing with every step, sending sparks tingling up his forearm. He didn’t notice when they walked by his room until Itadori stopped in front of his own door and looked up at him. 

    “You okay, Megumi-kun?” He murmured. He brushed gentle fingertips across Fushiguro’s jaw and tilted his chin up. Their eyes met again and Fushiguro’s breath caught in his throat. He caught Itadori’s hand in his own and pulled it away from his face, clasping it against his chest instead. 

    “I’m fine,” he whispered. “I should go.” 

    Itadori shook his head. He splayed his hand out across Fushiguro’s chest, and Fushiguro felt his heart thudding against the warm palm. His own hand still covered Itadori’s, crushing it against him as though his life depended on it. 

    “You could come in,” Itadori said. He darted a glance up at Fushiguro from beneath his eyelashes. “And, uhhh — you know. Help me tidy up my room. Since we make such a great team.” 

    Fushiguro couldn’t get his brain to work right. His heart thudded against Itadori’s palm, and his mouth felt very dry, and he couldn’t figure out if Itadori meant more than he was saying, or if he was just being his usual, oblivious self. Or — am I the oblivious one? He searched Itadori’s eyes and the heat blazing there made his stomach twist again. He’d never seen Itadori look so serious before. 

    “I could do that,” Fushiguro managed to say. “But what do I get in return?” 

    Itadori’s eyes dropped to his mouth, darted to their hands, clasped against Fushiguro’s chest, then dropped lower for just an instant. He met Fushiguro’s eyes again and smirked. 

    “I’m sure I can think of something,” he said. And he shut the door behind them.

2

      Fushiguro’s soft breathing filled the quiet of the room, and Itadori smiled down at him. His hair splayed across Itadori’s chest, tickled his nose. Itadori matched his breathing as closely as possible to Fushiguro’s, so that the rise and fall of his chest wouldn’t disturb his sleep. But Fushiguro’s hair tickled his nose again, and Itadori giggled. Fushiguro shifted and sighed against his chest. His breath tickled down Itadori’s stomach, and Itadori giggled harder. Fushiguro rubbed his eyes and looked up. 

      “Yuuji?” His sleep-slurred voice made Itadori’s heart flutter. 

     “Sorry, Megumi-chan,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Your hair and breath were tickling me.”

     Fushiguro nodded sleepily and shifted again, nuzzling into Itadori’s ribs. He wrapped an arm around Itadori’s stomach and his hands tickled up his ribs on the other side. Itadori gasped and laughed louder. 

     “Megumi!” He gasped out. He grabbed the other boy’s hand and dragged it away from his ribs. Fushiguro raised his head and grinned mischievously. 

     “What happened to ‘Megumi-chan?’” He teased. Itadori’s eyes widened in surprise. 

     “I didn’t know if you’d be okay with it,” he said. Fushiguro grinned again and interlocked their fingers, rolling Itadori back onto his back with Fushiguro on top of him. 

     “I’m okay with it,” he said. “Actually, I really liked it.”

     Itadori beamed. “Who is this guy with feelings?” He joked. “Aren’t you supposed to keep those all bottled up, or something?”

     Fushiguro rolled his eyes and sat up, trailing his fingers gently down Itadori’s chest and to the ridges of his stomach. 

     “Yeah, well, this wouldn’t be the first time I let my personal feelings get in the way of making a smart decision,” he said. His meaning — that he should have let Gojo kill Itadori to exorcise Sukuna — flashed between them and Itadori winced. He shifted uncomfortably under Fushiguro’s hips, and Fushiguro slid off and to one side. They looked at each other in silence for a long moment. 

     “I’m sorry,” Fushiguro said finally. He looked down at his hands. “That’s not the same. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I guess I’m just having a hard time with this. We’ve only known each other a few weeks. And so much has happened in that time.”

     Itadori nodded and tugged him back down onto his chest.  

     “I get it,” he said. He poked Fushiguro’s stomach affectionately. “But it’s okay. You just have bad judgment.” He put on a deeper voice to mimic Fushiguro’s. “I’m a very serious sorcerer and I saw a hot boy break a world record in shot-put and something just came over me…”

     Fushiguro laughed and started to protest, but Itadori cut him off. 

     “Sure, he was in mourning and carrying a dangerous cursed object in his backpack and later had to eat it to save my serious sorcerer ass…but something about him just made me so horny…”

     Fushiguro laughed harder and Itadori joined him, their sides jostling together in the small bed. 

     “Shut up,” Fushiguro said finally. “Or I’ll make you.”

     Itadori opened his mouth to reply and Fushiguro kissed him again. When he pulled away, Itadori grinned up at him. 

     “Make me,” he said. 

****

     When Itadori woke the next morning, Fushiguro was gone. He stared up at the ceiling, wondering if it had all been a dream. A good dream, he decided. His phone chimed. Ijichi? He tapped on the message and threw himself out of bed immediately. 

     <Emergency situation developing at a detention center. No one else around so they’re sending you three. Hurry.>

     Itadori slid into the car beside Fushiguro. Fushiguro didn’t smile; Itadori didn’t really expect him to. There were other people around, after all, and they were going out on an assignment, and Fushiguro was a serious sorcerer. But as Ijichi drove and briefed them, Fushiguro’s hand pressed hard against Itadori’s leg, and he knew that it hadn’t been a dream. His stomach churned with nerves. I don’t even know how to use cursed energy, he thought. But Fushiguro’s hand was warm and comforting against his leg. Megumi knows what to do. He’ll be with me. How bad could it be?

3

     Itadori watched from behind his own eyes as Sukuna attacked Fushiguro. He struggled to get back in control, but Sukuna’s determination outmatched his own. The fervor that Sukuna felt, the delight, echoed sickly through Itadori’s own mind. He supposed that maybe that’s why he couldn’t change back — in a way, he was enjoying seeing Fushiguro fight. He enjoyed seeing him in his element. But Fushiguro was clearly overpowered, and Itadori didn’t want him to get hurt, so he struggled against Sukuna anyway. 

     “…Eight hands long sword,” Fushiguro chanted, and Itadori saw him glow with cursed energy. Sukuna’s sick delight crescendoed, and Itadori nearly lost himself in the wave of it. When he recovered enough to see what was going on, Fushiguro had lowered his hands. He looked straight through Sukuna’s eyes as though he could see Itadori behind them. Itadori saw a softness in his eyes, the same softness he’d seen the night before when they were in each other’s arms. 

     “…and that’s why I’ve never once regretted saving you,” he finished. Itadori pushed his consciousness out as though he could run into Fushiguro’s arms, and Sukuna faltered. Itadori overpowered him easily and slid back into his damaged body.

     He met Fushiguro’s ocean-dark eyes and smiled. His mouth said something — he wasn’t sure what — the pain in his chest was overtaking him, now. But he pushed it aside. He had to tell Fushiguro that he understood, that it was okay. When the blackness claimed him, he smiled again. At least we had last night. 

4

     “Live a long life,” Itadori said, and he fell into the pool of his blood at Fushiguro’s feet. Fushiguro choked back the flood of tears that threatened to pour from his eyes and pulled out his phone. 

     “Gojo,” he croaked. “Itadori — he’s — he’s gone.” 

     “Gone? Gone where?”

     “Dead, you idiot,” Fushiguro said flatly. Gojo laughed at his disrespect, then sobered.

     “Oh. Shit. Where are you?” 

     Fushiguro told him the location and Gojo hissed a sharp breath over the phone. 

     “They sent you three to deal with that? They could have called me! I could have warped there! What —“

     Fushiguro hung up on him and stared down at the body at his feet. Just last night, his hands had been tangled in that hair, had traced the muscles of that back. Just last night, he’d told Itadori that killing him would have been the smarter choice. At least today I got to tell him I didn’t mean it, that I didn’t regret saving him. Not — not that it mattered anyway. His blood congealed at Fushiguro’s feet. 

     Fushiguro knew he should cover the body, move it, show it some respect, but he couldn’t bear to. He couldn’t bear to feel the chill of death on what had been warm and smiling and laughing in his arms only the night before. 

     Then why did you bother saving me? Itadori had asked him, less than an hour ago. Fushiguro was glad he’d at least gotten to answer, that he’d been able to bring Itadori back to him, even for a moment. Even if it had killed him.

     Gojo appeared from thin air next to Fushiguro and whistled low through his teeth as he took in the scene. Fushiguro recounted the day’s events impartially, impersonally, until he got to the end. 

     “Casualties were five inmates. Demon dog white,” he said. His voice cracked, and tears welled in his eyes. “And Orochi. And — and Yuuji.” The tears overflowed, then, and Gojo folded Fushiguro into his arms. Fushiguro’s shoulders shook against him. 

     “They should never have sent you three on this assignment,” he said. “You did as much as you could, Megumi-kun.” 

     Fushiguro knew that wasn’t exactly true, but he nodded anyway. He straightened and wiped his eyes. Gojo looked down at the body. 

     “Were you two — together?” He asked. 

     The question ripped open the hole gaping in Fushiguro’s chest. He fell to his knees and his hands clenched, his fingers sinking into the mud and the blood. He knew he shouldn’t tell anyone, because it didn’t matter anymore, but he needed someone else to know that his heart had been ripped from his chest, too. That it was lying there in the grass next to Itadori’s. He nodded. 

     “Yes,” he choked, “it was new, but I — I —” 

     “Oh,” Gojo said. “Oh, Megumi.” He knelt too, and wrapped the boy in his arms again. “The first time is always the hardest,” he said. Through his own grief, Fushiguro wondered how many partners Gojo had lost over the years. Wondered how much grief was buried beneath his teacher’s constant, irritating playfulness.

     “I say that,” Gojo said, “but there’s only ever one, really.” He sat next to Fushiguro, the mud spattering the Infinity around his clothes. “I’ve lost many friends. And colleagues. With that, the first time really is the hardest — you get used to it, eventually, and the sting wears off. We have to get used to it, in our line of work. But, with someone like Yuuji, or…” he cleared his throat and Fushiguro waited. 

      “It was my second year,” Gojo continued. “I didn’t lose him in the same way you’ve lost Yuuji, at first. That — that came later. It hurt both times.” 

       Fushiguro nodded silently. As long as they’d known each other, he had never really thought about who Gojo had been before he’d become Fushiguro’s teacher. They’d never really spoken about his personal life — Fushiguro had assumed he didn’t have one.

     Gojo turned his blindfolded eyes skyward. His voice took on a dreamy tone that surprised Fushiguro. “You know that my techniques are all about repulsion and attraction. But him — by whatever gods there are, he was like the sun — he created gravity I couldn’t escape. And then he was gone.”

     Fushiguro stared. It hadn’t occurred to him that Gojo —detached as he always seemed — would have loved like that. He was like the sun. Itadori’s smile swam in front of Fushiguro’s eyes. He was like the sun. And now he’s gone.

     “It was all my fault,” Fushiguro sobbed. “My fault he swallowed Sukuna’s finger. My fault I couldn’t fight hard enough to make Sukuna regrow his heart. My fault he switched back and died.”

     “Megumi,” Gojo said, “Yuuji wouldn’t have swallowed that finger if he didn’t want to. He wouldn’t have switched back if he didn’t want to. He knew it was the end, and he wanted to be with you.” He said it to himself as much as to Fushiguro.

     “So you’ll be the one to take me down?”

     “Suguru, you should at least curse me at the end,” he had said then. But Geto had refused. 

    He knew it was the end, and he refused. Love manifests the most distorted curses. 

     “What did you do, then?” Fushiguro wiped his eyes. “I feel like there’s a hole in my chest, too. How —what do I do?” 

     Gojo sighed. “You carry on,” he said. “Because you have to. You get stronger, so it never happens again. You stay out of that gravity. You will save other people, and all of them will have his face, and it will hurt every single day until it doesn’t.” 

     “That sounds terrible.”

     “It is.”

     The silence stretched, and Gojo rose and turned the body onto its back. Fushiguro couldn’t bear to look at that empty face, that had been alive with pleasure and joy just the night before. Another sob racked through his chest and Gojo straightened with the body that used to be Itadori in his arms. 

     “Let’s go, Megumi,” he said. He shifted the body just slightly, so he could put a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. The world dissolved and re-formed around them. 

     Fushiguro took one look around at their sterile, stainless steel surroundings and burst into tears again. Gojo laid the body gently on a table and Fushiguro collapsed forward onto his hands and knees. No. No. No! That table is too cold, and Yuuji is too cold, and just last night….just last night…his lips were so warm on mine…just…

     Gojo sank onto a bench and put his face in his hands. Fushiguro’s sobs echoed around the big, empty room, and his grief echoed inside Gojo’s empty chest. He’d forgotten how it had felt to lose Geto, when it was fresh. The first loss was more than a decade ago. The edges had softened with time, but he had never stopped trying to save young, doomed sorcerers. Each one with Geto’s face.

     Now, he was reminded of the double loss. Just last year, he was in my arms for the last time.  He still saw Geto everywhere, still looked for him, even though he’d held the body until it had grown cold. His heart ached for Geto, for his own loss, as well as for Fushiguro’s. The renewed grief nearly cracked his chest — what was it Fushiguro had said? I feel like there’s a hole in my chest, too. He would have done anything to spare Fushiguro that pain. He’d saved Itadori for just that reason, for the look he’d seen in Fushiguro’s eyes when he’d pleaded with Gojo to save him. And here the pain was anyway. Gojo had failed them both. 

     When Gojo heard Ieri coming, he pulled Fushiguro to his feet and wiped his face with a clean corner of his sleeve. He never kept Fushiguro on the other side of Infinity.

     “On your feet, sorcerer,” he said, but gently. “These things happen and happen again, and there are still curses out there, and your other partner needs you.”

     Fushiguro remembered Kugisaki for the first time since he’d shoved her into the car with Ijichi. 

     “Right,” he said. He drew himself up and squared his shoulders. “Right,” he said again. Gojo saw them both at once: the little boy he’d rescued years ago, and the man he was becoming. Pride for the man and pity for the boy warred in his heart. 

     Ieri pushed open the door and sighed at the sight of Fushiguro’s bloody face. Then her eyes fell on the body on the table. 

     “Oh.” She said. “Oh, no. So this is Suku—”

     “Itadori Yuuji,” Fushiguro snapped. Ieri looked startled at the correction, but her eyes whisked over him, his red eyes, his tear-stained face, and she nodded. 

     “Okay,” she agreed. “Itadori.” 

     She patched Fushiguro up first; the instant that she laid the last bandage, he stormed out and went in search of Kugisaki. The door slammed shut behind him, and Ieri turned to Gojo. 

     “That poor boy,” she said. Gojo nodded agreement, but his face turned towards the body on the table. 

     “Not him,” Ieri said. “It’s those left behind who are broken. You know that as well as anyone, Satoru.”

      The hollow place in Gojo’s chest yawned wider. He nodded his agreement again, unable to speak past the lump in his throat. 

5

    Fushiguro showered and pulled on his most worn-in pair of joggers, tugged the first shirt he found over his head. He stepped out into the hall and, without thinking, turned left. The door stood ajar, as it always did. 

    “Yu—“ he started to call out. Then it hit him that Itadori wasn’t there, would never be there again. The image of Itadori lying on the cold steel of the autopsy table swam in front of his eyes. His mind cruelly followed it up with another image, of Itadori warm and laughing and tangled up in his sheets.  Fushiguro crumpled to his knees, striking them hard on the ground. He barely noticed the pain, but through his grief he started to feel a little ridiculous. You knew this guy for three weeks, he chided himself. You fooled around with him one time. Get ahold of yourself! 

      But then he heard Gojo’s words again. He was like the sun — he created gravity I couldn’t escape. 

     “He was like the sun,” Fushiguro whispered to himself. He clutched at the doorframe and pulled himself to his feet. Through the cracked-open door, he could see the usual detritus of clothes and manga and shoes and discarded snack wrappers. I always feel like less of a mess when you’re around. The memory, bittersweet now, still brought the barest smile to his lips.  Itadori had always been a mess.

    He forced himself to push open the door. Everything was just as it had been when he’d left it two days earlier, except for the most important thing. Numbly, he crawled into Itadori’s bed and wrapped the sheets around himself. The smell of them, together — Itadori’s bright, clean-but-warm smell and his own dark, spicy-sweet deodorant — washed over him; he pushed his face into the pillow to muffle his sobs, but the pillow smelled like them too. He curled around it, clinging to it like a life raft.  

    When he finally raised his head, it was nearly dark outside. Slowly, he straightened, and his breath stopped coming in heaving gasps. He clicked on the lamp and his eyes fell on the poster on the wall next to Itadori’s bed. 

    “I thought you liked tall girls with big butts,” he’d teased Itadori as he tugged his sweatshirt over his head. He’d gestured up at the poster, kissed Itadori deeply, pushed him down onto the bed and knelt above him.

    “I do,” Itadori had replied. He’d looked puzzled. “But that’s something else. That has nothing to do with this." 

    Fushiguro’s eyes roved the room, each item bringing with it a fresh wave of grief, knotting his stomach and tearing at his chest. But eventually he dragged himself to his feet. Reflexively, he turned and made the bed. There. It looks less like Yuuji’s, now. He picked up two volumes of the manga Itadori had tossed aside and stacked them on the bedside table. Mechanically, he worked his way through the debris on the floor. The less of a mess it was, the less it looked like Itadori’s room.

    I always feel like less of a mess when you’re around. 

    Fushiguro sank onto the ground and rested his back against Itadori’s bed. Absentmindedly, he pulled out the “secret” shoebox where Itadori hid all of his snacks. Itadori had called it a secret stash, but he’d also readily shown Fushiguro and Kugisaki where it was. Fushiguro smiled and unwrapped a Kit-Kat. Selfish wasn’t really a word in Itadori’s vocabulary. He imagined how Itadori would react if he walked through the bedroom door right now, finding it half-tidied, Fushiguro eating his secret snacks. 

         “Those are mine,” he’d say. He’d slide onto Fushiguro’s lap, facing him. 

    “You have to at least let me have a taste,” he’d laugh, and he’d press his lips against Fushiguro’s and kiss him until their laughter made them break apart, gasping for breath. 

     He was like the sun. 

     Fushiguro finished tidying up and collapsed back onto the floor, the last shirt in his hands. It was the one he’d pulled off of Itadori himself, and it still smelled just like him. Fushiguro pressed his face into it. When he crept back to his own room, he couldn’t leave it behind. 

****

    In the following days, Fushiguro flung himself into training with the others and improving himself. He studied harder, worked harder, sparred harder, than he ever had before. He tried new techniques, studied the ritual that would allow him to tame the next shikigami. The days were busy, so they were easy. 

    It will hurt every day until it doesn’t.

     Fushiguro stared up at the ceiling of his room for the third sleepless night in a row. His body ached from the beating he’d gotten from Maki and Kugisaki earlier, but his brain wouldn’t slow down to let him rest. He couldn’t close his eyes without replaying that first day in his mind. “There are plenty of other empty rooms,” he’d grumbled to Gojo. Now, he wished more than anything that the one wall had never been between them in the first place. They’d only had one night, but it could have been so many more. 

    “Gyōkuken,” he whispered into the dark of his room. Demon Dog Totality curled around him, and Fushiguro clutched its warm fur in his fingers. He knew he shouldn’t treat the dog like a pet. But for the first time in days, he slept. 

6

    Itadori crept past a snoring Ijichi and up the stairs. He hated being locked in this basement except for missions. And he knew he had a stash of Baby Star and Baum Rolls and maybe even a few of the sakura-mochi-flavored Kit-Kats still left in his room. They were limited edition, and he wasn’t about to let them go to waste. Plus, the snacks that Gojo gets for me are always so boring! And Ijichi is worse! Who eats plain popcorn? There’s never even any butter!

    He crept along the outside of the dorm building, between the wall and the trees that framed it. The benefit of having a magical barrier guarding the school was that there was nobody patrolling the grounds, but he hugged the shadows anyway. This is just like James Bond. He raised his hands in front of him like imaginary guns and tiptoed past several dark, glass doors. Wow, Megumi was right. There are so many open rooms, he laughed to himself. As he thought it, his eyes slid across another door and he stopped in his tracks. 

    The moonlight illuminated the spikes of dark hair, threw shadows on the thin nose, the high cheekbones, the new hollows under the eyes. Itadori drew in a breath, sharply, and in his mind, Sukuna chuckled and urged him forwards. He stepped closer to the glass, until he was nearly pressed against it. A large dog curled around Fushiguro, its leg twitching as though it was dreaming of chasing down curses. Fushiguro’s chest rose and fell softly, and a strong ache in Itadori’s chest rose to match it. 

    “Why don’t you go in there?” Sukuna suggested sweetly in his mind. “He would probably think it was a dream, anyway.” 

    He was right. Itadori put his hand on the door’s handle. He could go in there, right now, and curl up next to Fushiguro and just sleep, with Fushiguro’s arms around him. He could leave before Fushiguro woke up. Fushiguro would think it was a dream. 

    “Exactly,” Sukuna hissed. His delight surged through Itadori, and it reminded him of the fight at the detention center. He drew back from the door as if stung. 

    “I’ll never let you hurt him again,” Itadori told Sukuna firmly. He turned from the door. As he did, his eyes fell on something clutched in Fushiguro’s hand. A t-shirt of his own, the one he’d been wearing the night they cooked together. He smiled at the memory. 

    “Yuuji.” 

    He yelped quietly and turned to see Gojo standing behind him, arms folded. 

    “I thought we agreed to make it a surprise,” he said. 

    Itadori nodded sheepishly. “Sorry, Gojo-sensei. I wasn’t going to wake him — I just wanted to go to my room to get my snacks, honest! But, you know, then I saw him, and —“

    Gojo’s heart wrenched at the softness in Itadori’s eyes. He couldn’t let on that Fushiguro had told him what had been between them before Itadori died, but at the same time, he couldn’t resist meddling a little. 

    “Were you and Megumi-kun together?” He asked casually as he pulled Itadori back towards the basement where he stayed. Itadori’s big, honest eyes darted away from him. 

    “No,” he said. Gojo knew it was a lie, but he didn’t know what motivated it. Itadori wasn’t really a liar, and he didn’t seem offended by the question.

    “You still don’t remember what you talked about with Sukuna, while you were dead, do you?” Gojo pressed. Itadori shook his head.

    “Nope!” He said brightly. He picked up the punching doll and started concentrating on his cursed energy. “Actually, I can’t remember the few days before that mission, either. I guess being dead made me even dumber.” 

    He laughed, and Gojo laughed with him, even though he knew it was another lie. 

    “Okay, then,” he said. “All good. Keep at it, Yuuji-kun. Just two more weeks and you can see your friends again.” He heard the soft whirr and click of the DVD player as he shut the door behind him. 

7

    Gojo had been avoiding him, Fushiguro was sure of it. Not that he minded — it meant that his phone wasn’t ringing every ten minutes with some ridiculous joke or question or mission or idea for the next great viral video. But it was suspicious. Maybe he’s embarrassed at how much he shared with me, he mused. But it seems much more likely that he’d just pretend it never happened. He didn’t give himself too much time to worry about it. Gojo was just like that — he cared about you until he didn’t; he was around until he wasn’t. The only thing Fushiguro could really count on him for was to look out for his own interests. 

    By the day of the exchange event, Fushiguro had all but put Gojo out of his mind entirely. He’d tamed a new shikigami. He’d honed his skills with weapons, thanks to Maki and Kugisaki. Even though he knew he probably wouldn’t win, he really wanted a re-match with Todo. He’d pull out all the stops on that pineapple-headed idiot. He’d do well at the event and get promoted to Grade 1 and take on more challenging missions and build a name for himself. Maybe along the way, he would even be able to break the curse on Tsumiki. And he’d certainly be able to forget Itadori. 

    Gojo had reappeared just in time for the event; Fushiguro ignored his antics with the Kyoto students, choosing to tune him out entirely. But now, he was saying something to Fushiguro. He tuned back in just in time to hear “…departed friend Itadori Yuuji!” 

    Fushiguro’s eyes slid from Itadori to Gojo and back. His chest burned as though he was being strangled, his throat tight with tears that he thought he wouldn’t have to shed anymore. He didn’t tell me? He cursed Gojo roundly in his head. So that’s where he’s been for the last two months? He’s been avoiding me because he’s been with Yuuji? Even though he knows how I feel. 

    Fushiguro moved through their strategy session in a daze. He heard himself saying things, planning. He understood the plan. But throughout it all, Itadori didn’t meet his eyes. Otherwise, Itadori was the same oblivious, happy, energetic guy that he’d always been. He had smiles for everyone, he pouted when they made him hold his funeral picture frame over his face for an hour, he marveled at the fact that Panda talked and Inumaki didn’t. But there was no hint of recognition of what had been between him and Fushiguro. 

    “Okay, everyone,” Maki said finally. “There’s an hour left before noon. Go eat, rest, meditate — whatever you need to do to get ready. Meet back here in forty-five minutes.” 

    Fushiguro walked back to their dorm with Kugisaki and Itadori. 

    “I’m going to grab some food,” Kugisaki said. “You guys want anything?” 

    Itadori shook his head. Kugisaki nodded, and to both boys’ surprise, wrapped him in a hug. “I’m so glad you aren't dead,” she said. “Even if you are a brainless moron.” 

    Itadori laughed. “I missed you, too, Kugisaki,” he said. She nodded and turned abruptly away; Fushiguro thought he saw her brush the back of her hand across her face as she left. 

    “Oh, wow!” Itadori said when he pushed open his door. “It’s so clean! This must have been you, right, Fushiguro?” 

    Fushiguro nodded curtly and followed him inside. He shut the door behind him with a snap. 

    “How could you?” His voice was low, but it cracked through the room like a whip. “You were dead, and we mourned you. We lit incense for you.” He said ‘we’ as though to distance himself, to spread the hurt around, but his eyes blazed with anger. 

    Itadori rubbed the back of his head and shuffled his feet. “I'm sorry,” he said. “We thought it would be a good surprise. And it gave me time to train with Gojo-sensei and Nanamin properly, without distractions.” 

    Fushiguro looked away from him. His anger turned to pain, rippling through his throat into his chest and out into his limbs. His eyes blurred with a screen of tears, but he blinked them away and swallowed hard. 

    “I had to watch you die,” he said. “And you were alive, and you said nothing.” 

    “He wants you,” Sukuna hissed in Itadori’s mind. “You should hold him.”

    “Yeah, right,” Itadori snapped back. “You’re just trying to get him to be vulnerable around me again, so you can hurt him.” 

    “I’m sorry,” he said aloud to Fushiguro. “I didn’t mean for you and Kugisaki to be hurt.” 

    Fushiguro swallowed hard again. His eyes met Itadori’s, and Itadori’s resolve wavered. He didn’t want to let the king of curses have his way with Fushiguro, knew it was better that Fushiguro and Gojo and everyone else think that he had forgotten the few days prior to his death. But those deepest blue eyes fell on his, and he wavered. 

    I missed you the whole time, he wanted to say. Please stay with me tonight. But instead, he bit his tongue until he tasted blood, coppery and sharp in his mouth. 

    “I made your meatballs again, while you were gone,” Fushiguro said carefully. “Everyone loved them.” 

    Itadori knew it was a test. He rubbed the back of his head again, the picture of confusion. “Meatballs? Huh. I don’t remember teaching you to make those.” 

    The hurt and disappointment flooded Fushiguro’s chest, and Itadori saw it reflected in his eyes. Fushiguro gulped again. 

    “Oh,” he managed, “well, you did. Okay. Maybe we can make them together again, sometime.” 

    Itadori wanted to pull Fushiguro into his arms, kiss away the pain in his eyes. He knew exactly what Fushiguro meant, and he had to pretend to have no idea what he meant. 

    “Sounds good to me, Fushiguro-kun,” he said cheerfully. 

    Fushiguro turned on his heel and left, shutting the door behind him.

    “You can’t keep him from me,” Sukuna snarled in Yuuji’s head. “One way or another, I’ll break both of you.”

8

    Fushiguro made it into his own room before he fell apart. He turned up the volume on his speaker and played the first thing that popped up on his phone, loud enough to drown out any other noise. Then he flung himself facedown on his bed and screamed into his pillow as loudly as he dared. He doesn’t remember. We were finally together, and now he’s alive again and he doesn’t even remember. It’s like losing him all over again. He was furious at Gojo for keeping Itadori hidden from him, furious at Itadori for going along with it. But he was angrier at Gojo, because Itadori didn’t remember what had been between them, and Gojo did. 

    The music started rattling through his ribs, thumping along with his heart, and he rolled over and turned it down. He heard a knock on the door under the thudding rhythm of the music. 

    “Fushiguro,” Itadori said when he opened it. “Your music sounds like you’re upset. I’m really sorry.” 

    Fushiguro sighed and passed a hand across his face. He wondered whether Itadori remembered having feelings for him at all. If he had only forgotten the few days before he died, maybe they could just start over. He reached out a hand and tentatively brushed Itadori’s cheekbone with his thumb. It was as much as he dared to do. 

    A flush of pink rose to Itadori’s cheeks, and he ducked away from Fushiguro’s hand. 

    “You’re acting weird,” he said. 

    Fushiguro’s heart sank into his feet, and Gojo’s words floated to the top of his mind. Stay out of that gravity. Fushiguro decided that’s what he had to do. He had to just move past it, get over it, act as though the Itadori that had loved him was dead. This new Itadori was a friend, a colleague. Nothing else. 

    “Sorry,” he said. “I’m not upset. The music is me trying to psych myself up for this fight. And you — uhh — you had something on your face.” What a lame excuse. Only a total idiot would believe that. Then again — Itadori nodded. 

    “Okay,” he said. He waved Fushiguro out into the hall. “It’s time. We gotta go meet the others.” 

    The adrenaline of the fight cleared Fushiguro’s mind somewhat. He barely thought of Itadori, besides trying to protect him from being murdered by the other students. He was just a friend, and a colleague. But then he and Todo leapt into the fight that Fushiguro had been losing. He marveled at the difference in Itadori, the way he moved and struck, his ability to channel cursed energy so powerfully. It would have been breathtaking even if the cursed plant wasn’t taking up too much space in Fushiguro’s lungs. 

    Itadori faced off with the special-grade, Todo by his side. Jealousy bloomed for an instant in Fushiguro’s stomach, followed by a rush of panic. It replayed in his mind, Itadori falling facedown into a pool of blood. Live a long life. He knew that he would spend the rest of his life resisting the gravitational pull around Itadori. He had to. 

    “If you die again, I’ll kill you myself!” Fushiguro shouted as Panda dragged him away. He watched over Panda’s shoulder as Itadori laughed and cracked his neck. His voice floated back to Fushiguro. 

    “I guess I’d better not die, then.”

9

    Itadori escaped from Todo and dashed back to Fushiguro’s room to rejoin the others. 

    “Megumi-chan!” He sang out, without thinking, as he flung the door open. Kugisaki looked up at him and giggled, hand over her mouth. Fushiguro looked horrified. Oops. He decided it was better not to address it, so he just flung himself back down in the chair he’d vacated earlier. He shoved a slice of the now-cold pizza into his mouth. 

    “I just realized,” he mumbled as he chewed. “We’re totally like Goku and Vegeta, Fushiguro. You’re Vegeta, of course, because you’re gloomy and huffy and you’re all like ‘ooh I’m gonna get stronger and surpass you.’”

    He got blank stares from both of them. 

    “I’m not gloomy,” Fushiguro said. He realized too late that he hadn’t argued about being huffy. “And I don’t really know who those people are.”

    “Of course you do!” Itadori protested. “Everyone knows Dragon Ball.”

    Fushiguro rolled his eyes. “Not everyone had time to just sit around reading manga or watching anime all the time, Itadori. For one thing, that’s so lame.”

    “Yeah, some people have lives,” Kugisaki laughed. “Not either of you two, but some people.”

    Fushiguro glared at her. “I have a life! And I had responsibilities, even as a kid.”

    Itadori giggled. He covered his mouth with one hand, his fingers spread slightly apart. “I was raised in the gloominess, molded by it,” he said, distorting his voice. “By the time I smiled for the first time, I was already a man.”

    More blank stares. 

    “Oh, come on! Bane? Batman? No?” He sighed. “Junpei would have laughed.”

    Fushiguro’s eyes narrowed. “Who’s Junpei?”

    Itadori avoided his eyes and rubbed the back of his head, and jealousy flared again in Fushiguro’s stomach. Just a friend, he reminded himself. 

    “It doesn’t matter,” Itadori said finally. “He’s gone now, anyway.” His eyes glazed momentarily, and then he shook himself. 

    “Well, there’s only one thing to do!” He said brightly. To Fushiguro’s horror, Itadori climbed under the covers beside him. He moved Fushiguro easily to make room for himself and raised his phone in front of their eyes. 

    “Let’s start at the beginning,” he said. 

    “Hey!” Kugisaki protested. “What about me?”

    Itadori rubbed the back of his head again. He lifted the covers. “The more, the merrier,” he laughed. Fushiguro scowled. 

    “Itadori, I have a TV.” He pointed at the wall. “And get out of my bed.”

    “Oh, wow! They gave you a TV?”

    He scowled more deeply. “No, I bought it myself, with money I earned from missions. I’m a —“

    “Very serious sorcerer,” the other two interrupted in unison. Fushiguro rolled his eyes. 

****

    The end credits rolled, and Fushiguro looked around at the others. Kugisaki shook her head at him in the blue glow of her phone. She had barely looked up from it during the movies. 

    “Those movies were dumb,” she said. “I can’t believe we stayed up all night for that.”

    He laughed. “Yeah, and Itadori didn’t even stay awake, even though it was his idea.” He let his eyes fall on Itadori. His legs were vertical against the wall, his torso cutting across Fushiguro’s bed. His head lolled to one side, his mouth open, a little damp spot underneath it. Fushiguro’s heart fluttered in his chest. Without thinking, he reached out and brushed a lock of hair out of Itadori’s face. 

    “What’s the deal with you two?” Kugisaki asked him. 

    “Uh. What do you mean?” 

    “I mean, you couldn’t answer Todo about what your type of woman is. Then, one second it’s “Megumi-chan,” and the next it’s “Fushiguro?”” She quirked an eyebrow at him. “And then he gets in your bed and you blush, and now…”

    Fushiguro flushed. “You’re wearing his sweatshirt!” He snapped. 

    She didn’t answer, just looked at him, smirking. He sighed. “It’s nothing,” he said. “He’s just like that. And I’ve just never really had close friends before. Just senpai and Gojo.”

    Kugisaki still looked suspicious, but she nodded. “I know the feeling,” she said. She spared an affectionate glance at Itadori, who was now snoring lightly. “Maybe his technique somehow forces people to care about him,” she laughed. “What an asshole.” She curled into a ball at the foot of the bed. 

    “‘Night, Megumi,” she yawned. He opened his mouth to protest, but realized that if she slept there, he could let Itadori stay, too. He arranged himself around Itadori’s sprawling limbs and closed his eyes. The last thing he remembered before he fell asleep was Gojo’s advice ringing in his ears again. You stay out of that gravity.

    Not everyone can defy gravity, Gojo. For the first night since Itadori died, he didn’t have to call the demon dog.