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Loneliness, Megumi thinks, as he opens his eyes to the dirty sight of a subway floor, is strange.
It chooses extremely odd moments in time to make itself known. All his life, he’s been lonely; even when others were around, which was almost always, he never really felt as though he were truly there. One step behind, a million worlds away – no matter who stood by his side, Megumi could never keep up. And maybe that had something to do with his mindset or whatever, like Gojo said back when they were training together in a sunlit room far too hot for sparring, but Megumi doubts that a mindset is supposed to be powerful enough to carve a chasm as deep as the one that separates him from his peers.
From everything – from everywhere – all the fucking time.
Blood rushes in his ears as he pushes himself to his feet. Balance, balance…it’s hard, he realizes, to keep from swaying too much. His whole body feels slow and lethargic like he’s fresh out of an anesthetic-induced nap, the white-tiled walls and dull concrete flooring beneath his feet blurring and sharpening in a dizzying cycle that has Megumi feeling like he wants to throw up. Steady, he thinks desperately, steady, steady now. Don’t worry about anything other than what’s right in front of you. Don’t worry about what you don’t know. Don’t worry about…Don’t worry about…Don’t worry about…
About…?
Pink hair. A red hoodie. Two slits like open gashes beneath bright brown eyes, calloused hands so warm they could rival a steaming cup of tea.
Itadori, Megumi realizes with a gasp, and dry heaves over his bent knees.
How could he have left him? They were together before they suddenly weren’t, and Itadori is still off god knows where fighting Sukuna while Megumi struggles to move in some dingy subway station. Useless is what he’s being right now, and a failure is what he’ll be if he doesn’t get his ass up and help Itadori defeat the King of Curses in the next five or so seconds. For some reason, the idea of it has Tsumiki’s face flashing before his mind’s eye. And the thought of her – of her pain, her death – it’s enough to make Megumi’s heart drop.
He can’t fail Itadori the way he failed her. He’s already ruined so many lives, sowed so much destruction in the name of evil incarnate. His hands are stained with the blood of a thousand souls, humans and sorcerers alike. He owes his friend this much. He owes the last dregs of whatever sorry life he’s led up until now to him, to helping the cause everyone’s fought so hard to protect, which means he has to go, has to be there, has to see Itadori one last time before –
“Oh. It’s you.”
Megumi screams so loud the echo isn’t even audible.
He spins on his heel, expecting to see an ugly curse; maybe even Sukuna himself. But standing before him, looking perfectly at ease and strangely pleased, is simply a regular man.
His jet black hair is tied up in a neat bun. Megumi recognizes what looks to be a Jujutsu Tech uniform dressed over his body, complete with a black and gold button sewn near the split collar. His pants flounce outward at the ankles, bouncing jovially with his every movement, and his eyes – irises a deep, stormy black – are directed straight at him. When Megumi says nothing, the man grins – and Megumi can’t help but think distantly to himself that whoever this guy is has one of the most beautiful smiles he’s ever seen in his entire life.
“You’re Megumi Fushigurou, yeah?” He asks, after a few moments have passed.
Megumi narrows his eyes. “Why…why do you want to know?”
The man just shrugs, then turns. He makes his way slowly over to a staircase, leading up and away, out of the subway station. “I’ve heard a lot about you is all,” he says breezily, like that isn’t extremely creepy. “Wanted to see for myself whether all the rumors were true.”
“Rumors,” Megumi echoes. His legs, previously weak and unsteady, are suddenly very sure of where they want to take Megumi now. Almost subconsciously, he follows the man to the staircase, and peaks up at his ascending frame.
“All good things,” the man assures, without looking back. His voice is light and lilting, like a siren’s melody. “Gojo talks about you nonstop. Pisses me off sometimes, actually, but what can you do?”
Megumi freezes where he’s begun to climb the lower steps.
“…You know Gojo?”
The man doesn’t turn. “Of course,” he says softly, and his sadness is palpable enough in every syllable of his words that seeing his face isn’t necessary to read his emotions at all. “Gojo Satoru is my best friend.”
Now, there are several things to unpack in that statement. Megumi could look into the angst ridden, melancholic touch to this guy’s voice, could probably dissect the softness of his tone at the mere mention of his old mentor and come to several equally unfathomable, equally mind-boggling conclusions. But all his drained, completely exhausted brain can cook up is a quipped, disbelieving, “Gojo has friends?”
There’s a second of silence before the man bursts out laughing, hunched where he stands almost at the top of the staircase. It’s a nice laugh. “Crazy, I know,” he chuckles, finally turning to look Megumi in the eye. “I’m Suguru Geto, but please – don't worry about formalities. I feel as though I already know you anyway.”
Megumi frowns slightly, and hastens to join his side.
“You two…” He hesitates, regarding Geto where he leans against a railing dividing the staircase in two. “You must have met a while back, then.”
“What makes you say that?”
Megumi tilts his head to the side. “Because I don’t know you,” he replies simply. “And if you had met Gojo recently, he would have told me.”
Geto stares. “Oh,” he murmurs. “Okay. So – you were close, then.”
Were they? “Something like that,” Megumi tries.
They were. They had to be.
Geto smiles that oddly fond smile again, and continues forward.
“There’s much to be said for someone who finds meaning in small things,” he says pleasantly, not bothering to chance a glance backwards to make sure Megumi is following him. He just keeps talking, carrying on as if he knows. “People like you – like me. It’s hard, keeping that meaning relevant when things get complicated. The strongest sorcerers are the ones who never forget it, and use it to cull growth and strength wherever and whenever possible.”
Megumi snorts. “That was a lot of fancy words. Sure you understand them?”
Geto smirks sidelong at him. “I’ve had years to think on this, kid. If nothing else, that’s the only thing I do understand.”
“Meaning?”
“Sure. Meaning, and what it means to be meaningful.”
They step out of the staircase, and into a bright white light.
The sensation it brings is unearthly. It’s like falling and flying at the very same time amidst a blizzard on the coldest night of winter, or like he’s rushing down a powerful stream, carried by frosty cold water. He’s floating and moving and speeding and dying and living and he’s everything, doing everything, for just a terribly heavy, significant moment – and then, before Megumi has time to scream or gasp, or even breathe a short breath to sustain his lungs, the sensation is completely gone.
He blinks his eyes, and opens them to the sight of…nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
There’s no concrete beneath his feet, no white-tiled walls for him to subconsciously count. There’s just an empty expanse stretching far out into every direction, all encompassing, and utterly inescapable. It’s like someone plugged a computer into the universe and refreshed the entire thing.
“Meaning,” Geto pipes up, and Megumi whips his head to the side to stare at him soundlessly, “is something often taken for granted, in my opinion.”
He walks forward like everything is totally normal. Megumi, again, follows.
“I think the world is deep. That’s my theory.” Geto looks upward, listless and relaxed. There’s nothing there for him to look at, no sky to contemplate or clouds to make funny shapes of, but there’s an odd shine to his eyes, like he’s seeing something spectacular no one else can comprehend. “Not everything is important. But it becomes important, at least in some magnitude, the second you assign meaning to it. That’s a hell of a lot of power, don’t you think?”
Megumi winces. “That’s not…I don’t know. Maybe.” He never questioned things like this, even when he was young and first dipping his fingertips into the world of jujutsu. His morality and ethical decision making revolved around goodness and badness, questioning who deserved to be saved and who didn’t.
What kind of sorcerer that mindset made him – what kind of person.
Geto grins sheepishly. “Sorry, it’s a lot. I get it. I suppose I’m just…I don’t know.” He pauses briefly to consider him, gaze roving over his body from head to toe. “Look. It can get…messy, I guess, trying to maintain a sense of honor when your job revolves around killing and sacrifice and pain. I lost sight of it for sure – I think I’m weak, in that way.”
It’s hard, keeping that meaning relevant when things get complicated. The strongest sorcerers are the ones who never forget it, and use it to cull growth and strength wherever and whenever possible.
The strongest? Gojo was the strongest sorcerer Megumi ever knew. Did he think of things like honor and meaning?
Culling growth was his whole shtick. Being an educator meant strangely a lot to the man, despite his playful attitude and goofy disposition. Itadori, Nobara, the second-years…Gojo cherished them a lot, Megumi knew. He put a huge amount of effort into protecting their childhoods and preserving healthy mindsets. Perhaps that had something to do with his own morality and ethicality then, the meaning in an innocent upbringing.
“Why are you telling me this?” He asks softly. In the distance, there’s a small figure. Megumi squints. “It sounds sort of lofty.”
Geto laughs, throwing his head back. “It sort of is, I’ll give you that,” he crows. “But hey: The way I see it, you’re one of the most meaningful kind of people out there. You protect. You care. You try. And you’re only a kid, still so green. How are you supposed to understand what you represent if you don’t get the importance behind meaning?”
Megumi turns backwards to confront him with a scowl. “Who ever said I was supposed to represent anything?”
“Prickly. He mentioned that.” Geto cocks his head to the side, looking happy and amused and still so fond, god, all at once. “You know what your problem is?”
“What?”
“You’re too stiff. You have the creative output of a dull rock.”
Megumi snarls, and opens his mouth for a scathing retort. Who the hell did this guy think he was? But before he can say anything, before he can spit an insult he’d most likely regret later on, Geto is leaning to the side and looking past him– smiling, almost imperceptibly, at someone standing behind them. “You were right,” he says softly. “Stubborn to a fault.”
And then another voice, one so comforting it wraps around Megumi like an old blanket, sounds from just over his shoulder. “I know, right? I told you so!”
Holy shit.
Megumi spins. Blinks. Raises a hand to cover his trembling lips.
Gojo smiles at him, waving like a fucking idiot. “Hey, kid. How ya been?”
From a million miles away, Geto lets loose an incredulous huff.
And Megumi is walking, then stumbling, then sprinting, then jumping into a pair of arms that have held him up and seen him through almost his whole life, that have been blood-soaked and burden-ridden but are also so, so strong and firm, and they wrap around his body, holding his shaking limbs together. Neither of them have ever been big on hugs – they’ve never been big on any form of affection at all, actually – but the world is falling apart dammit, and Megumi is so sick of losing people. He needs this.
He needs this, so Gojo indulges him.
“I knew you loved me,” He jokes at some point. Megumi immediately pulls away to glare at him, and Gojo just laughs, stroking a hand over his head. “Come on, admit it just this once. Pretty please?”
“Leave it to you to ruin a perfectly nice reunion,” Geto comments, stepping forward to join them. He turns to Megumi. “You know what this moron said to me when we first saw each other here? He said I should ‘butter up the ol’ bun because it’s looking a little dry.’” Geto punctuates the complaint with a defensive pat to his hair.
Gojo squawks, offended. “It’s comedic relief! If I’m gonna go down, I’m gonna make it memorable, asshat.” As if Gojo going down isn’t memorable in and of itself, but he always had a way of wanting joy to be present in any situation. Megumi isn’t phased in the least by his lack of tact.
Geto isn’t either, but still rolls his eyes with an exasperated sigh. He levels a “can you believe this guy” look at Megumi, and jabs Gojo in the ribs. “Whatever you say, dude.”
Gojo sticks his tongue out.
“Where are we?” Megumi demands, before Geto and Gojo can really get into it. Originally he thought he’d been teleported to some faraway place, or been absorbed into some sort of domain. But if Gojo is here, who Megumi watched die…then. Well.
“Are we dead?” He asks, and holds his breath for the answer.
Gojo grimaces. Scratches the back of his head.
“You aren’t,” he says, hesitant. “But uh…We kind of are.”
“Not kind of,” Geto offers unhelpfully. “Very.”
Ah. So the lack of tact is actually a shared thing, then.
Megumi takes a deep breath, trying hard to calm his nerves. He’d had an inkling when he first stepped out of the staircase and entered that odd space of cold rushing water and frigid winter wind, where he’d fallen and flown and felt himself exist someplace outside of his own body. But hearing it confirmed is something different entirely. Suddenly there’s fear clawing at his chest, desperate and frantic and chaotic.
“Kid,” Gojo says carefully, and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, You can still –“
“Stay. I want to stay.” Megumi grabs Gojo’s wrist, holding it. “Can I stay?”
Gojo’s face does several things almost in direct sequence to one another. Horror slashes across his eyes, so strong and potent it damn near makes Megumi cry. They’re still so blue – blue like the ocean, blue like the rain. His mouth twists into a frown and he bites his lip, positively chews it, and his grip tightens on Megumi’s shoulder so suddenly he almost jumps. “Stay,” he repeats, then shakes his head. “You want to stay. You want to stay.”
Geto looks on solemnly, and Megumi nods. “Can I?”
Typically, Gojo doesn’t really deny Megumi anything. Perhaps that was because Megumi asked for so little, or because of some deeper emotional reason he’s unable to delve into. Maybe it’s both, like when Megumi requested Gojo spare Itadori from execution when they first met Sukuna on that school rooftop. He’s still unsure what came over him that day. All he knows is that he saw Itadori, bloodied and bruised, entirely normal and still so brave, and thought someone as good as him didn’t deserve to be taken so soon.
Perhaps Gojo agreed. Perhaps Gojo trusted Megumi’s judgement, trusted his goodness, and decided to put faith in his demands.
Perhaps that trust is why he shakes his head no now, why he takes Megumi’s hand off his wrist and holds it, watching silently as tears stream down his face. Gojo used to say that Megumi had to be more selfish; his problem was that he didn’t take more for himself, that he let others claim everything for themselves while he stood idly by. Perhaps this is Gojo telling him, in his own way, to be more selfish again.
I trust your goodness. You have to trust it, too.
“You’re overly kind,” he says, running fingers through Megumi’s unruly spikes. His tone is gentle, yet firm. “You want more, I know you do, but you have to go for it. I made you strong for the sake of yourself, not just others. Be greedier, kid. Be greedier.”
Megumi wheezes. He hasn’t cried like this in ages. “But – but I don’t – I don’t want to lose you–“
“Lose me?” Gojo scoffs, waving the comment off like it’s a persistent fly. “Please. You can try. But I’ll always be with you, even while I’m still here and you’re way back in the real world. I’m not that easy to get rid of, you know.”
“Like a stain,” Geto cuts in cheerfully. Gojo, without looking, reaches to the side and smacks the back of his head. It makes Megumi feel lighter, watching them bicker. At least they’ll have each other, he thinks.
But still. “I’m…I think I’m scared.”
Gojo blinks, surprised. “Well duh. Who wouldn’t be?”
“But –“
“Megumi.” Gojo bends to look him in the eyes, grinning like the Cheshire cat. It’s nothing like Geto’s, his smile – it isn’t soft, or pretty, or delicate. Still, Megumi finds he likes it a little bit more anyway. “Your whole life has been nothing but a boat-load of scary. And you’ve fought through it every single day, pushing forward without pause. You shouldn’t have had to, but you did, because you’re braver than anyone else.”
“I’m tired.” It’s true. Megumi feels it now in spades, his bones heavy and exhausted. “I don’t want to fight anymore. I don’t want to be sad.”
“I know. But in order to accomplish that, you’ll have to be strong for just a little longer.” Gojo brushes some hair away from his face, and lowers his voice so that his next words reach no one’s ears but the two of theirs. “You won’t find what you’re looking for here, kid. Hope won’t rest until justice is served, and you have always been so full of hope. Don’t let it go just yet. Yeah?”
Megumi stares. How are you supposed to understand what you represent if you don’t get the importance behind meaning? Geto had asked him that, after preaching the significance of value. Megumi never thought of himself as particularly significant – but to Gojo, it seems, he’s as precious as gold.
What do I represent?
Looking at the two sorcerers before him, Megumi believes he has the answer.
When the tears spring forth anew, Gojo wraps him in another fierce, all-encompassing hug. Geto just watches, his companionship an ever grounding force; and when a phantom breeze blows past, bringing with it the sound of an oncoming train, they all know immediately: It’s finally time.
Megumi steps away, away from Gojo’s familiar embrace and the warmth of Geto’s presence. He wipes his eyes with his sleeve. He takes a slow step back, followed by another, and then another. He casts one last look at his teacher’s face, tracking the blue of his eyes and the quirk to his lips, then turns tail and bolts, back toward that subway station and the sound of the rattling train tracks. It gets louder and louder the closer he gets, rippling over his skin and sending tremors through his muscles. The cold portal of rushing water and whipping wind feels gentler somehow when he enters it this time, kinder on his heart and lungs – and when he reemerges on the other side, there’s again solid concrete beneath his feet, tiled walls lining the view in front of him. Before he knows it a train is speeding past, just a blur of motion and metal cart.
Megumi stares. I think I’m scared, he’d fretted earlier. I think I’m scared. It comes back to him now, panic sticking his boots to the floor like glue, holding him in place. I think I’m scared, I think I’m scared, I think I’m scared.
But the world still needs him. Itadori still needs him. There’s something left to fight for, which means Megumi can’t give up.
Fear cannot be stronger than hope; Nobody who’s left will let it.
When an open cart whizzes past, its door simply non-existent, Megumi runs to keep up with it, finding himself perfectly capable of the feat. His boots slamming against the ground harmonizes with the sound of bright laughter resonating all around him, stretching across planes and universes to echo in his ears.
The leap of faith is terrifying; but Megumi takes it anyway.
***
Loneliness, Megumi thinks, as he opens his eyes to the wonderful sight of Itadori’s bruised yet beaming face, has never felt further away.