Work Text:
Winter tasted bitter on Fushiguro Megumi’s tongue. The ice-cold kiss of snowflakes descending from the bleak midwinter sky melted on his outstretched hand, glacial blue on pale white skin.
These last few days, the navy mercury in the glass tube of his thermometer had regularly dropped into the negatives, causing the student to grab his dark beanie, the black glasses with the round frames (Kugisaki thought they looked good on him), and a thick padded winter coat that Gojo had gifted him a long time ago. He would shoulder his heavy bag containing his equipment and head to work.
Megumi used to work for a small magazine that published an issue every blue moon, but nevertheless entertained a dedicated readership that was more than eager to clear the entire stock. He never understood the appeal of his work, but people liked it, and he earned a fair sum, and to him, it didn’t matter anyway.
Yet, Gojo Satoru thought differently.
The white-haired, eyes-frostier-than-glaciers man had barged into his office one day, unannounced as was his sudden adoption of young Megumi and his darling sister Tsumiki and had demanded Megumi to work for him instead.
At first, the black-haired student could only sigh, fingers pressed to his temples, pupils nearly rolling out of their sockets. Seldom he could think of anything more infuriating and bothersome than a bored and pestering Gojo Satoru who insisted on getting his way.
In the end, he relented. Not because he liked his guardian or preferred the higher salary (it was more akin to pocket money because Gojo was paying his rent and expenses and really, everything), but because the way to work was significantly shorter and the noise and stress that came with public transportation wasn’t something Megumi was enthusiastic about.
Gojo also gifted him a set of work equipment that cost more than anything Megumi was ever fortunate enough to own, telling him that finally, Megumi was able to see the light side and stop working for a rivaling publishing house.
Megumi didn’t have enough patience to explain that his so-called publishing house was but a bug trembling in front of the elegant lion of Gojo’s multinational corporation. It wasn’t like Gojo listened to him.
Transferring to one of Gojo’s branch offices meant a less flexible schedule and stricter work ethics. But with discipline came prestige, and Gojo had plenty of that. Born into what was essentially modern nobility (the Gojo Clan had long since been a pillar in Japan’s economy alongside the Zenin Clan and the Kamo Clan), the man knew nothing but riches and splendour. Getting accustomed to living with someone as otherworldly and tactless as Gojo Satoru was hard at first. His guardian had the most distorted worldview Megumi had ever seen. Sometimes he idly wondered if the man harboured a god complex. It certainly seemed like he did.
But because Gojo was breathing and living money and power, he had allowed Megumi and his sister to grow up in a show of exuberance and opulence. Megumi knew all the influential politicians and important people of the country – stars, singers, actors, athletes and so many more that have started to shape the landscape of Japan’s modern culture; thus, he could easily navigate his way through his life without lifting a single finger, bless the mystical powers of nepotism.
Yet he refused to because he was prideful and still held onto his childhood desperations, in which poverty and absent parents made his future tremble with uncertainty. He wouldn’t forget where he came from. Never.
“Oi, Fushiguro! You’re finally here!”
It wasn’t difficult to make out Kugisaki’s louder-than-necessary voice amidst the steady stream of chatter that vivified his workplace. Megumi made his way to his personal cubicle that was located right next to Kugisaki’s own.
The difference in decoration could not be more striking. The girl’s cubicle was ornamented with cute and stylish accessories and stationery items littering her desk, while Megumi’s held the bare minimum of pens and papers as well as a stack of sticky notes.
The only personal item was a small picture frame of his two dogs that were currently taken care of by his sister. Gojo had suggested a fancy and up-scale dog hotel, and Megumi had never slammed a door so loudly into someone’s face.
As soon as he had placed his bag down, Kugisaki leaned over. “Morning.”
He nodded a short greeting in return. “Good morning.”
“Gojo-san came over a while ago,” Kugisaki informed him while spinning her coral pen between her middle and index finger. “He wants you to go to the award ceremony next week.”
“The award ceremony?” he repeated, a little stunned. “Why me?”
Kugisaki shrugged without much thought, her orange hair spilling all over her shoulder as she dipped her head. “Hell, if I know. Just go talk to him… it’s not like management can stop you.” Then she wrinkled her nose. “Spoiled kid.”
Megumi only rolled his eyes in return and pulled out a folder where he had jotted down a quick overview yesterday evening. “I’ll finish my draft by today and upload it later this afternoon. Don’t accidentally overlook it again, alright?”
“No promises.”
“You’re such a shitty co-worker.”
After submitting the outline of his newest article, he packed up his pens and loose papers before fishing out his phone. He had some unread messages but no unanswered calls, so he unlocked it and took it upon himself to seek out Gojo. His call went through after seven consecutive rings.
“Megumi-chaaan!”
“Wrong number, sorry.”
“Stop! No hanging up on me!”
Gojo’s childish and demanding attitude couldn’t even be concealed by a simple call. Megumi sighed inwardly and flexed the sore muscles in his hands, reaching for his pen to vent his upcoming frustrations. Gojo tried again.
“What’s the matter, Megumi? It’s not like you to call like this.”
The student took a fleeting look over his calendar. “You want me at the award ceremony next Saturday?”
“Indeed,” Gojo confirmed without missing a heartbeat, tone as light-hearted as ever.
“Why? I don’t write about celebrities.”
The white-haired man clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Didn’t Kugisaki tell you anything? You’re not coming to write something. You’ll be the paparazzi! My personal photographer!”
Gojo’s tone was so incredibly blood boiling that Megumi didn’t think that he had to spare him an answer at all. As if sensing his question, Gojo explained leisurely: “I am one of the sponsors. Of course, they will expect me to attend. And I want you to train your photography skills! I didn’t gift you that set for fun after all. So, my sweet little Megumi-chan, do me a favour and get some nice pictures, yes?”
He hung up without a second thought.
You can’t hang up on your boss (:
Megumi read the message, eyes glued on the emoji, and decided to ignore it. They both knew that Megumi would be there on Saturday. The student was a reliable and consistent worker and no matter what assignment, he would do what he considered his best.
Anyway, see you on Saturday <3!!
Saturday came in the blink of an eye, winter still descending over Tokyo like a dark curtain devoid of light. Thick coldness hung in the air, made it painful to breathe, and left Megumi a shivering mess. He didn’t have enough time to look for the scarf he had lost a few days ago, and the area around his throat was burning. Still, he called Kugisaki on his way to the meeting point that Gojo had forwarded him. A driver would pick him up.
The girl’s voice sounded a little rough and tired. “What’s the matter?”
“Is- is Ijichi-san already there?” Megumi was breathless as he ran to the bus station.
“I don’t know, why?”
“Please call him and tell him that I am running a little late.”
“You don’t have his number?”
He could hear the bus arriving at the station, so he picked up his pace, storming against the cold winter winds. His heavy equipment made it hard to balance his weight. With his glasses fogged up and a mind muddy with thoughts and worries, he forgot to answer Kugisaki and promptly hung up.
The bus driver was kind enough to wait a few seconds for him, and he hastily entered the bus, thanked him, and swiped his card. Then, he leaned onto the nearest chair, attempting to subtly catch his breath. His phone rang and he picked it up.
“Don’t hang up on me, asshole.”
“Sorry, I almost missed my bus,” he explained, still breathless.
“Anyway, Ijichi said he was waiting at your front door and never heard of your meeting place.”
Megumi wanted to curl up and scream at Gojo. It was like the man wanted him to run late and miss the ceremony.
Both Megumi and Ijichi managed to find each other at the end, and they quickly arrived at the packed-up entrance of the Tokyo Exhibition Centre. The scene that was blooming in front of Megumi’s eyes was almost surreal.
A mass of people was moving like waves, with hundreds of people walking and talking and shouting at each other. Flashlights came from everywhere, and the sheer overstimulation on both his eyes and ears was almost too much to bear. So many voices, faces and lights.
Ijichi was kind enough to help with his equipment and camera bag. He fished out his reporter card with the bold words PRESS printed on the front, neatly laminated, and attached to a thick black cord. He ran his hand through his hair to make himself look passable, took a deep breath and walked into the mass of people.
Megumi elbowed his way to the area where the reporters were gathered, each with their own team and cameras readily available, just waiting for the celebrities and sponsors to arrive.
Megumi was never one to be excited about the sight of a famous person. He was a professional through and through, so when the first actors made their grand entrance, he calmly stayed back and observed how the other photographers lined up their cameras, took pictures, and adjusted their positions.
Shutters and lights went off the entire time, and the young woman standing on the red carpet was striking poses with a bright smile. She bowed her head and waved at the audience as she took her leave, making way for the next person to arrive.
Taking a look at his watch, Megumi assumed that Gojo would be here soon, so he carefully sneaked past the others until he was at the front with a nice view at the red carpet. The next car rounded the corner and sure enough, it was the black Mercedes-Benz that Gojo liked to play with, so Megumi positioned himself, hands tracing the edges of his camera. Would Gojo smile at him? He hoped the man wouldn’t. He didn’t like the attention of the media.
As he saw the door being opened by the driver, he lifted the camera to his face and adjusted his lens. But as he stood there, heart beating slowly, he hesitated.
Had Gojo always been this short? Megumi squinted against the camera until the driver finally moved and the person stepping out was in full view of the sea of lights and shadows.
It wasn’t Gojo. No.
Megumi felt a strange pull in his chest, softly aching as if calling out for something far, far away. His head was starting to feel a little dizzy and there was want sending shivers down his spine, and the tingles in his throat made him thirsty for ice and water and everything in between. It was a desire as old as time, ancient to him, but as transient and ephemeral as the iridescent bubbles of his childhood. He knew the man. Knew that he did.
He knew the cherry blossom hair, the breeze of spring that came with it, and the bittersweet scent of flowers and the petrichor of the northern downpour. He knew the sanguine eyes, piercing and electrifying, eyes of a ruler with blood smeared on the tips of his fingers and absolute dominance guiding the motions of his body.
The man never moved because the world did it for him, knees on the ground with heads sunk into their garments and their tiny hands burning with fear and anxiety, digging into the soils of war-torn battlefields. He commanded terror like a dog leashed to its master, with that maddening grin of cold amusement and terrifying hunger for more and more and more, stretching his face until it looked as inhuman as his soul.
But most of all, he knew the dark lines sphering the pale skin of the man. He could feel a twitch in his fingers, felt the tender sensation of his fingers tracing the familiar markings darker-than-the-night, but oh, it was so nice to the touch. His cheeks were heating up and there was the ghost of a soft kiss on his neck, a rough and calloused hand raking through his hair and a dangerous whisper against his skin.
Megumi. Fushiguro Megumi, my beloved, my soul, my northern star. I will find you and love you again, be it a hundred or a thousand years. For you are mine and mine you shall remain.
His breath became ragged, uneven. He continued to stare at the man, wonder sparkling in his own dull eyes. There was an ardent fascination in the way the man moved, so out-of-this-world and from a bygone time, that it made Megumi’s heart pound with yearning. And suddenly, there was a name ringing in his ears and its sound told of battles, ancient and archaic in their ways, baptized in blood and bones of all those who dared to defy him.
Ryomen Sukuna. Sukuna. Sukuna. Sukuna.
Megumi didn’t know when he did it, but the shutter went off, a flash of light reflecting those red-ringed pupils scintillating with the radiant brilliance of a true ruler. His head felt so light, he couldn’t look at anything but Ryomen Sukuna.
He knew him. But how?
Sukuna had an easy grin on his lips as he faced the reporters and lifted his hand as a greeting. Not once did he meet anyone’s eyes, but still for Megumi at this very moment, there existed only the two of them.
The air was dancing, humming to Megumi’s song of longing for something he wasn’t sure existed, but still, it made his heart sing and scream for it. The feelings welling up in his chest like a tidal wave felt so foreign and strange and yet – yet so achingly familiar. Megumi desperately wanted to know where this flux of emotions came from.
Megumi, Megumi. My blessing, my curse. Run too far and I won’t find you.
Seconds felt like lightyears and Sukuna moved, hands gracing the locks falling into his forehead and pushing them back, making his way from the carpet.
Megumi wanted to scream at him, wanted him to stay, let him take just another look at these eyes of his that seemed to devour Megumi’s innermost desires. His fingers were trembling, the pulse under his skin surging.
And just like that, Sukuna left.
The door of the next car was already being opened by yet another driver and maybe this person was taller than most with hair of frosty magnificence and eyes the colour of snow melting and the waves billowing around arctic ships sailing the seven seas. And maybe Megumi was too lost in his own dreamscape to notice Gojo Satoru flashing bright smiles and glittering flutters of his long lashes, eyes always searching the crowd. Maybe he wasn’t paying enough attention to realize that the white-haired man was staring at him with an unfathomable depth in his eyes.
For Megumi, there was only the single picture he had captured with his camera earlier. He sensed that he knew Sukuna from somewhere yet couldn’t explain the cluster of thoughts storming in his head.
They knew no shared past and certainly no shared future. But for as long as he had this picture of Sukuna, dressed in a white suit with those light-as-the-night-darker-than-the-moon eyes, Megumi would keep their infinite present as the two of them remained lost in a bygone time.
And maybe soon he would come to realize as he wrote an article about the art gallery featuring works from the Heian era, that maybe, just maybe, the eyes of the monster and the hand that held the boy that was his blessing and maybe his curse, looked a little too familiar and that the soul trapped in his body was longing for its other half.
One thousand years of yearning and five minutes of an infinite present.