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Fushiguro woke up to a splitting headache and the suffocating weight of a fever pressing down on him. Every movement sent sharp pains through his joints, and his throat burned as if he’d swallowed glass. He blinked at the ceiling, disoriented, but the dull light from the window told him it was already late morning.
Itadori wouldn’t be back for a couple of days—he was off handling business in another city. Fushiguro thought about calling him for half a second before pushing the idea away. Itadori already had enough on his plate. He could handle this on his own.
Pushing himself upright, Fushiguro instantly regretted it. The room swayed, and a wave of nausea hit him. He paused, gripping the edge of the bed until the dizziness passed. It wasn’t that bad, he told himself. He just needed food, water, and maybe some medicine, and he’d be fine.
He managed to shuffle his way to the kitchen, but the short walk felt like a marathon. By the time he reached the counter, his breathing was shallow, and sweat dripped down his face despite the chills racking his body. He reached for a glass but miscalculated, sending it clattering to the floor.
The sound echoed in his ears, far too loud, and the world tilted dangerously. Fushiguro tried to steady himself, gripping the counter for support, but his knees buckled. Just as his vision blurred, he felt a hand grab his arm, steadying him.
“You’re a pain, you know that?”
Fushiguro blinked sluggishly, looking up to see Gojo standing there, his expression unreadable behind his blindfold.
“What are you… doing here?” Fushiguro rasped, his voice barely audible.
Gojo sighed, easily hoisting Fushiguro onto a nearby chair. “What am I doing here? The real question is what you’re doing, trying to play the stoic martyr again. Do you want to pass out and hit your head on the counter?”
“I’m fine,” Fushiguro muttered, though his trembling hands and pale face betrayed him.
“Yeah, you look super fine,” Gojo deadpanned. He grabbed a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water, setting it in front of Fushiguro. “Drink.”
Fushiguro hesitated but eventually obeyed, sipping slowly. Gojo watched him carefully, arms crossed.
“You know, I’ve seen this before,” Gojo said after a moment, his tone lighter but still tinged with something serious. “Yesterday, you were quieter than usual. During our sparring session, you barely said a word, and your reaction time was slower. I figured something was up, but I didn’t push because I thought maybe you just needed space.”
Fushiguro frowned but didn’t interrupt.
“But this?” Gojo gestured to him. “This reminds me of the first time I had to take care of you when you were a kid. You were sick then, too. Stubborn as hell, just like now. You tried to act like nothing was wrong until you practically collapsed.”
Fushiguro looked away, his expression unreadable. He hated being reminded of those times—when he was younger, weaker, and constantly trying to prove he didn’t need anyone’s help.
“Some things never change,” Gojo said softly, his tone losing its teasing edge. “You can’t do everything on your own, Megumi. And you shouldn’t have to.”
“I don’t want to bother anyone,” Fushiguro muttered.
“Yeah, yeah, I know the routine,” Gojo replied, waving a hand. “But that’s not how this works anymore. You’ve got people who care about you now. Me, your friends, and especially Itadori.
You think he’d be okay knowing you’re like this?”
Fushiguro stiffened, but Gojo was already pulling out his phone.
“Don’t,” Fushiguro croaked. “He’s busy. He doesn’t need to—”
“He’s your boyfriend, Megumi,” Gojo interrupted, his voice firm. “He’d want to know.”
Fushiguro didn’t have the energy to argue. He slumped back in the chair, letting his eyes close as Gojo made the call.
Itadori arrived two hours later, the door slamming open as he burst in, sweat dripping down his forehead. His chest was heaving like he’d sprinted the entire way.
“Megumi!” he called, panic clear in his voice.
“Couch,” Gojo replied casually from the kitchen island, where he was snacking on chips.
Itadori rushed over, dropping to his knees beside Fushiguro, who was sprawled on the couch under a blanket. His pale face and damp hair made Itadori’s heart clench.
“You could’ve told me sooner,” Itadori said, directing his frustration at both of them.
“He didn’t want me to call you,” Gojo said with a shrug. “Luckily, I’m smarter than him.”
Itadori ignored the remark, his attention fully on Fushiguro. He brushed the hair from his forehead, frowning at the heat radiating off his skin.
"Megumi,” Itadori said softly.
Fushiguro’s eyes fluttered open, and he gave a weak glare. “You didn’t… have to come back.”
“Of course I did,” Itadori replied, his voice gentle but firm. “What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t?”
Gojo stood and stretched dramatically. “Well, my work here is done. Don’t let him boss you around, Itadori. He’s terrible at taking care of himself.”
Before either of them could respond, Gojo disappeared with a flash.
Itadori sighed, “I’ll thank him later.” He turned back to Fushiguro. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
“Sorry,” Fushiguro muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
Itadori’s expression softened. “Don’t apologize. Just… let me take care of you, okay?”
Fushiguro didn’t respond, his eyes already drifting shut.
The next few hours passed in a blur. Itadori carefully moved Fushiguro to their bed, tucking him in with extra blankets to combat the chills. He made a quick trip to the store, returning with soup, tea, and fever medicine.
When Fushiguro woke again, Itadori was sitting by the bed, holding a bowl of porridge.
“You need to eat something,” Itadori said, his tone gentle but insistent.
Fushiguro frowned but sat up slowly, accepting the spoon Itadori offered.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Itadori teased. “It’s just rice porridge. Not poison.”
Fushiguro rolled his eyes but took a bite. It wasn’t bad—plain but comforting, just what he needed.
After he’d eaten, Itadori pressed a cool cloth to his forehead and made him drink some tea. Fushiguro didn’t protest, too tired to argue.
“You’re really good at this,” Fushiguro mumbled, his voice drowsy.
Itadori smiled, brushing his fingers through Fushiguro’s hair. “I’ve had practice. You’re not the first person I’ve had to take care of, you know.”
Fushiguro hummed in response, already half-asleep.
Itadori stayed by his side, watching over him as his breathing evened out. “You don’t have to do everything alone, Megumi,” he whispered, more to himself than anything. “I’m here. Always.”
And for the first time in days, Fushiguro let himself relax, knowing he was safe and cared for.
Fushiguro woke up to the sound of someone moving around the bedroom. His eyelids felt heavy, but he forced them open, catching sight of Itadori folding a towel near the bedside table.
The warm glow of the bedside lamp made the room feel safe, almost like a sanctuary.
“You’re awake,” Itadori said softly, noticing his movement. He smiled, the relief in his expression unmistakable. “How are you feeling?”
Fushiguro frowned, trying to assess himself. His headache had dulled slightly, and the chills weren’t as bad, but the fever still clung to him like a heavy blanket. “Better… I guess.” His voice was hoarse.
“Good,” Itadori said, placing the folded towel on the nightstand. “You scared me, you know?”
“I didn’t mean to,” Fushiguro muttered, looking away.
“Megumi.” Itadori’s voice was gentle but firm, and Fushiguro sighed, already knowing where this was going.
“You didn’t have to come back,” Fushiguro said quietly.
“Stop saying that.” Itadori reached out, brushing damp hair away from Fushiguro’s forehead. His hand lingered, warm and comforting. “Of course I came back. You’re important to me.”
Fushiguro tensed at the words, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. A part of him wanted to let the warmth of Itadori’s care wash over him, but the other part—the part that had spent years fending for himself—resisted.
“It’s not about that,” Fushiguro said after a long pause.
“Then what is it about?” Itadori asked softly, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Tell me.”
Fushiguro closed his eyes, his chest tightening. He didn’t want to have this conversation, but Itadori’s unwavering presence made it impossible to avoid.
“I hate feeling weak,” Fushiguro admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I hate… being a burden to people.”
Itadori didn’t say anything, waiting patiently for him to continue.
“When I was a kid, before Gojo, when it was just me and Tsumiki,” Fushiguro said, his voice hollow. “She took care of me, no matter what. Even when she was tired, or sick, or struggling herself, she always put me first. I told myself I’d never let anyone do that for me again.”
Itadori’s eyes softened, but he didn’t interrupt.
“I don’t want to rely on anyone,” Fushiguro continued, his hands clenching the blanket. “Because if I do, I’m just… taking something from them. I should be able to handle things on my own.”
“Megumi,” Itadori said gently, his hand resting on Fushiguro’s arm. “You’re not a burden.”
Fushiguro opened his mouth to argue, but Itadori cut him off.
“You’re not,” Itadori repeated firmly. “You’re not taking anything from me by letting me take care of you. That’s what people do when they care about each other. They help, and they stay, no matter what.”
Fushiguro’s throat tightened, and he struggled to find words. “But you shouldn’t have to—”
“I want to,” Itadori said, his voice breaking slightly with emotion. “Megumi, you mean everything to me. Taking care of you isn’t a chore or a burden. It’s something I want to do because you’re important to me. Because I love you.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and warm. Fushiguro looked at him, his defenses crumbling under the weight of Itadori’s sincerity.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Itadori continued, leaning closer. “No matter how many times you try to push me away, I’m staying. You don’t have to do everything alone anymore.”
Fushiguro swallowed hard, his vision blurring with unshed tears. “I don’t want to drag you down.”
“You’re not dragging me down,” Itadori said, cupping his face gently. “If anything, you make me stronger. I’m better when I’m with you. So please, let me be there for you, okay? You don’t have to carry everything by yourself.”
For a moment, Fushiguro couldn’t speak. The vulnerability in Itadori’s voice, the unwavering care in his touch—it was too much and exactly what he needed all at once.
“Okay,” Fushiguro finally whispered, his voice trembling.
Itadori smiled softly, brushing his thumb across Fushiguro’s cheek. “Good. Now, rest. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Fushiguro nodded, letting his eyes close as exhaustion pulled him under. But this time, he didn’t fight the comfort of Itadori’s presence. For the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to lean on someone else. And it didn’t feel like weakness—it felt like safety.