Work Text:
“Itadori,” says Fushiguro.
“Yes, Fushiguro?” says Itadori.
“You can’t see the sode boshi anymore,” he replies, pointing up at the sky where Orion should be. The only thing Fushiguro remembered from childhood was his father telling him that the stars of Orion were really the kimono sleeve stars — a cascading rectangle like the sleeve of a lady’s gown. Until then, Fushiguro hadn’t known the sky could mean something so pretty.
Itadori, however, only sees Fushiguro. He sees the olive face hidden in the shadows of nighttime, the curve of the arm pointing towards the darkness. He sees the ripped sleeve of Fushiguro’s uniform. He sees his own hand grasping his.
Itadori runs a thumb over that rough skin, feels warmth underneath the cool exterior. He feels the wind on his face. His other hand smooths over the cotton of his pants. If he were still at his old high school, he would have switched to his summer uniform by now.
He pays attention to Fushiguro’s voice, which is soothing in the midst of the gushing of the wind and the sounds of crashing from far away below the mountain. Itadori tries to think of what he can smell now, ignoring the distant stench of burning. Ah yes — Fushiguro’s smell. Even beat up, Fushiguro still smells very comforting. The scent of boyish antiperspirant that Itadori’s always enjoyed whenever it wafted through the air. There’s no point in asking which brand it is now. Neither of them will ever have use for it ever again.
Then there’s the smell of the wind, the air; it really has only just now turned into the warmer months of the year. Itadori recognises it clearly now: the air just smells different in summer. It coats your body in a different way than winter air. It’s Itadori’s favourite time of year, mostly because he can go on runs in the mornings with a refreshing feeling, and because iced water always tastes best when it’s blazing hot out.
Itadori’s hand clenches tighter around Fushiguro’s when he realises the two of them cannot share the rest of this summer together. At least, he thinks, they’d had summer when they first met. Making hotpot, teaching Fushiguro how to make meatballs in the best way. Dying in front of Fushiguro. Coming back.
Itadori forces his mind to focus on his task again. After naming two things you can smell, you name one thing you can taste. The therapist Jujutsu High had assigned to him after the Shibuya incident had said that instead of naming one thing you could taste, you could instead name one thing you like about yourself, or something you’re really proud of yourself for doing that day.
Itadori has to laugh at the irony, if you could call it that. He can taste the blood in his mouth. That was easy. Any time someone asked him, he would say that he liked his own athleticism, or that he was able to be there with his grandpa until the very end.
But there is nothing to be proud of himself for today. The reason why the sode boshi is fading, and the reason for the crashing and burning, is all him.
Today is the first day of summer. The day of Yuuji Itadori’s execution. The last of Ryomen Sukuna’s fingers ingested and destroyed.
Itadori hadn’t wanted to die but he was ready for it anyway. Fushiguro had been acting strange that entire month leading up and, over breakfast — rice with eggs and miso — Fushiguro had said the strangest thing Itadori had ever heard him say in their year of knowing each other — “Hey. Screw all this. Let’s run away and destroy it all.”
Itadori had thought he was joking. “Okay, then. Let’s do it. Let’s destroy it all. I’ll wait for you over the mountain.”
Fushiguro had made hot pot with meatballs for lunch, and afterwards, Gojo had taken Itadori away to a separate ward of the school.
For dinner, he consumed the remaining five of Sukuna’s fingers. Sukuna had emerged, and Gojo had fought to kill him.
Fushiguro was not meant to be there. He wasn’t even meant to know which room Itadori was meant to die in. When he entered, Sukuna was at a disadvantage in the fight. Seeing Fushiguro must have thrilled him.
Fushiguro hadn’t thought completely through what he was going to do when he got there. He just knew he needed to be there, even if only to be with Yuuji in his last moments. But his body had looked so awful, bloody and wrecked within an inch of itself. Fushiguro made his next decision very quickly.
Unleashing the Divine Mahoraga, Megumi relinquished it entirely, and the body became an ultimate offering to Sukuna as a new vessel. Itadori was free. Itadori was dying. The look of betrayal on Gojo’s face — what exactly was it? Fushiguro didn’t care. He took Itadori and ran.
Gojo died soon after. Megumi didn’t know how to feel about his surrogate father dying at the hands of his intervention. He didn’t have time to think about it. There was only ever time for Itadori, and the time they were saving with each other every moment Itadori stayed alive past his destined death.
He doesn’t have time to wonder if it was worth it. To have the world die with him and Itadori rather than let Itadori die alone. Megumi wonders if it would suffice. He wonders if Yuuji will know now, how Megumi feels.
With the boy’s hand wrapped tightly in his, he thinks he may have succeeded in this at least, even without words.
He knows it’s funny to still have inhibitions when the world is literally ending. But how do you tell your best friend, “Hey, I just destroyed the world for you, and by the way I’ve always loved you”?
He’s known from the start that dying was what Yuuji wanted. Yuuji would want to protect everyone at the cost of his own life. Megumi used to be the same. He knows the feeling. But Yuuji . If anyone should die, it should never be Yuuji. Still, Megumi knows he had no real right to take dying away from Yuuji. To force the fate of the world on Yuuji’s shoulders again. It was unfair. And now he’s making Yuuji watch the world end around him for a decision that he made for him.
He knew Yuuji was joking at breakfast. He knew that the guilt of the world would crush Yuuji from the inside. Megumi knows just how much the Shibuya incident still weighs on Yuuji’s heart. Every time he notices Yuuji doing his numbers, eyes travelling around the room to find things to name and fingers rubbing against his own clothes for things to feel, Megumi is reminded of how young Yuuji used to be. How much more easily he used to laugh and smile. How enormous of a burden and trauma it must have been to carry the guilt of Sukuna’s actions in his body.
How was Megumi any different from Sukuna then, forcing Yuuji into these positions he didn’t want?
They’d been sitting on the mountains for hours in complete silence. Megumi is terrified of what Yuuji will say once he opens his mouth. He’ll be angry, of course. Betrayed. Hurt. Megumi doesn’t know if he could handle seeing his best friend cry again. He hates, hates himself for being the cause of Yuuji’s pain. But there was no other option. Losing Yuuji was never an option. Megumi curses himself, then curses the way of the world. How dare it make Yuuji’s life this way? How dare it make the best choice for Itadori Yuuji death ?
And how dare it, upon everything, make Megumi love Itadori Yuuji so much it hurts like this? Make it so that there was no way Megumi could have saved him without hurting him in the process?
The time he was able to spend with Yuuji had been far, far too short, he thinks. He thinks of his Zen’in birthright. He thinks of Yuuji’s soft pink hair. He thinks of whether they would have been friends in middle school if neither of them were followed by corpses. Then he stops thinking, because meeting Megumi had been Yuuji’s beginning into the jujutsu world, the world that had so quickly wanted to use his body and then kill it just as fast.
Megumi shuts his eyes. Could Yuuji ever forgive him? For taking him into this world, and forcing him to watch it become destroyed?
Perhaps there was a third option. Perhaps Megumi should have died with Yuuji in that hidden room at the back of the school. Maybe Yuuji would have forgiven him then?
His eyes flutter open when the silence is broken.
“Hey, if the sode boshi has faded, more stars will come to replace it, right?” Itadori says suddenly.
Fushiguro furrows his brow.
“That’s not…” he begins.
“What if the new stars become Yuuji and Megumi constellations, Fushiguro? Wouldn’t that be so cool?”
“I…”
“Then we can sit by the beach sometime this summer, watch the stars until the sun rises. Don’t you think that would be fun?”
Fushiguro stops. Takes it in. He didn’t know…
“Come on, Fushiguro. Promise me you’ll come to the beach with me.” Itadori rubs his thumb over Fushiguro’s palm.
Fushiguro looks at him, into his eyes, swimming in them, then nods, once.
“We can ride our bikes there.”
Yuuji beams.
“Right? Oh, it’d be so good. You like watermelon, don’t you, Megumi? We can buy a huge one and I’ll crack it open with my thighs.”
Megumi goes involuntarily pink.
“If you really have to…” he mumbles despite himself.
Yuuji drops himself into the grassy ground.
“I can’t wait,” he grins.
Megumi gives him one last questioning look, then lays down beside him.
“Me neither.”
“Thank you for being my friend, Megumi.”
Ah. So suddenly. Megumi doesn’t know if the tugging in his heart is pain or joy.
“You’re my best friend,” he whispers.
“Megumi,” says Yuuji.
“Yuuji,” says Megumi.
Yuuji goes quiet, trailing his fingers thoughtfully along the back of Megumi’s hand. Then,
“I’m sorry if it’s weird but…can you please hold me? Just for now. I…”
“Of course.”
Megumi pulls Yuuji into his chest, easily . He threads his fingers together behind Yuuji’s back.
“Of course,” he repeats, in case Yuuji wasn’t sure.
Gently, Yuuji holds him back. They feel like preschool kids, laying down during nap time. It’s warm and sweet. Yuuji rests his chin on Megumi’s shoulder, so softly, as if experimenting. Then, he whispers:
“What else will we do this summer?”
Megumi squeezes his arms around Yuuji even tighter.
“I wanna make somen. And eat it outside.”
“Do you know how to make it, Megumi?”
“Mhm. I make it really well. Go— people used to say it was the best they’ve ever had.”
Megumi feels the ripple of Yuuji’s chuckles melt inside his chest.
“I can’t believe you’ve never made it for me before, Megumi. I’m so excited to try.”
Ah. There’s that twisting feeling again.
“I’m sorry,” Megumi whispers.
“It’s okay,” says Yuuji, easily. “Just make it for me this summer. I’ll make you some special dishes too. I haven’t shown you all of them yet. You’ll love ‘em. I’ll teach you.”
Megumi muffles a sound into Yuuji’s collar.
“I’m sorry, Yuuji,” he says into it.
Yuuji pauses. Fingers slide into his hair. They travel to his cheek, then gently guide his face up to level with Yuuji’s.
It’s devastating seeing Yuuji’s eyes watering, too. Wide and beautiful, but crying, knowing , yet still smiling. For him .
Yuuji’s eyes are so sure, as bold and carefree as ever anyway.
“Thank you, Megumi,” he says clearly. “For saving me.”
It takes everything inside Megumi not to burst into tears right then and there. The twisting inside him contorts further, stretches as far as it can go, then rips open into waves of something else, something like, sadness, or relief .
“Any—Any time,” Megumi manages to choke out.
Yuuji smiles, then pulls Megumi’s cheek into his chest. Megumi feels the warmth of Yuuji’s lips on top of his head. Three or something words are mouthed into his hair. Megumi mouths something back into Yuuji’s chest. The same odd words.
They lie like that, thinking of summer and of Yuuji and Megumi constellations, of their time together, their food, their hands, their happiness, their hair.
Megumi feels at peace for once in his life. Nothing can hurt either of them anymore. There is heaven on this mountain. All they ever have to worry about ever again is, watermelon, somen and bikes, summer, and the steady quiet end.