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It's been three years since she died, and he's got everyone convinced he doesn't care to remember her or their son. He all but has himself fooled too, until Shiu goes and calls him Zen'in.
"I'm not a Zen'in anymore. I took my wife's name. It's Fushiguro now."
The correction and mention of his wife comes almost by reflex, and is almost enough to make him internally flinch at the momentary break in his ironclad facade. Toji suspects Shiu did it on purpose. But he adds a calculated smirk to play it off as a petty "fuck you" to his former clan; it helps that there's a kernal of truth to it.
That was a few days ago. Earlier today, the mask was firmly back in place as Shiu casually asked after Megumi. That was definitely on purpose. The indifference was near genuine as Toji propped his elbow on his knee and rubbed his forehead as if deep in thought, finally replying, "Who's that?"
But it had obviously been enough for another crack in his mental wall. Toji stares at the nondescript ceiling of his latest one night stand, willing himself not to imagine that the arm flung across his waist and breath skating across his chest is that of a ghost. His resolve is never this weak. Now, he doesn't even have the strength to cast the stranger off.
Usually, the rush of a mission is enough to keep his focus and the memories at bay. Gambling and sex plug the gaps. It's a rare occasion that the past seeps through and it makes no sense that it's doing so now. He's in the middle of the job of a lifetime, striking a decisive blow to the cornerstone of the jujutsu world he hates so much. Having the opportunity to take down the godlike heir to the Gojo clan is a sweet added bonus. Strategising for that alone should be enough to have his full concentration, muting out all else. So why were a couple of names distracting him?
It's not like he hasn't used his wife's name before; he goes by Fushiguro every day. As well as shedding off the clan that threw him to the monsters, it's his one indulgence in acknowledging her. A small dose of poison until he's immune. He even gave it to another woman, simultaneously overriding and preserving the name. He still doesn't know whether that was for the best, whether Megumi was better off -.
Toji may be weak right now, but he's smart enough not to rip into that deeply buried scar. To remember that half of her was still out there. He could resist that much.
For now, he closes his eyes, loosens his resolve, focuses on the smaller hand grazing his obliques at the base of his ribcage. Any more than that and he could truly break - a risk he can't afford. He mentally adds the cool kiss of a ring around the fourth finger.
His own hands stay firmly tucked behind his head. He knows that if he reaches down, the hair he finds will be too long, too smooth and untangled even though it was wrapped tight in his fist mere hours ago. If he's giving in to the tide of memories, he's won't pull himself out of it just yet.
The cool kiss of a ring. The soft scrape of short, but carefully shaped nails as her hands involuntarily curl with a dream. She was always so expressive, even in sleep. Her heart always so open. When the nights grew hot and his radiator of a body was too much to bear, she would be always be sure to still keep contact. A foot hooked around his ankle. Fingers resting on his shoulder. His hand pulled into place on the hollow of her hip bone. Always reassuring him that he wasn't alone, and reassuring herself that he wasn't going anywhere.
Most nights though, she wrapped herself around him like this. Even when he was the one wrapped around her, she nestled into the crook of his arm.
"All that money wasted on fancy pillows and silk pillowcases, and you just use my body," he would say, unable to suppress a chuckle.
"Why have such big muscles if I don't get to use them?" She would shoot back, as if she didn't make plenty use of them. "And besides, don't pretend you don't love the silk pillowcases." She was right, of course. Toji couldn't stand the smooth cool of them now.
He wouldn't have had it any other way, though. After being touch-starved for so long, every atom of contact was a blessed morsel for his soul. It was often forgotten that his Heavenly Pact heightened all his senses to superhuman levels, not just his sight, hearing, and smell. Her touch was enough to make it all worth it, the feel of her body his favourite sensation.
Hours were spent with him lying just like this, fully at ease, while her hands roamed every ridge and valley of his build. As the form beneath him shifted slightly in sleep, he could almost feel that soothing, exploratory touch again.
Many nights were spent on the floor of their living room watching her favourite mindless shows, Toji stretched out on his front with his head in her lap, as she played with his hair and traced patterns on his bare back. As much as he might relax, he would never fall asleep in that position, never wanting to miss a moment. She would think she was being secretive when she would start writing letters to him across his shoulders and down his spine, as if he couldn't make out the meaning of every stroke. Sometimes it was benign nonsense that made him huff out a laugh, disguised as a reaction to whatever they were watching. Other times though, they were love letters, telling him how good he was, how beautiful, how cherished. Words that no-one else had ever used for him - and never would again.
They had been like stitches for his scars, her words. Her skin on his. Neither of them had known that the healing they had rendered would only last as long as her touch remained.
Suddenly the hand at his waist curled, manicured stilettos digging in. Toji's eyes spring open, his grip darting to their wrist and throwing them away from him with enough force to almost send them off the other side of the futon.
"Go back to sleep," he grinds out as he rolls to his feet. He's tempted to leave, momentarily unable to bear the thought of sharing a bed with anyone but her. But he needs this rest, this bed. It'll be time to strike soon, and he needs to be firing on all cylinders to take down both a special-grade and near-special-grade sorcerer, even if they're teenagers.
Not bothering with any clothing, Toji makes his way to the whisky decanter he spotted on arrival. He hates the taste of alcohol, but needs to plug up this damn gap and seal the past away. He pours a double dram and throws it back, letting the liquor burn away her memory as it spreads down his throat and through his chest. Toji allows himself one deep breath before returning to the futon. He mentally runs through his strategy for the next couple of days, regaining his tactical focus before forcing himself to sleep.
He is no longer the man her hands graced. That man died with her three years ago.