Chapter Text
Plates clatter down next to Megumi and he stares. It's louder in the back. The plates rattling as they get moved from counter to counter. The smell of food cooking is so strong it makes Megumi nauseous. He sighs and yanks the plug from the sink. The water is midway down when it pauses. Megumi huffs in annoyance as he jams the dish brush into the drain. The sink never drains properly. It’s been a problem since Megumi started a year ago – maybe longer. Maybe always. The sink gurgles and resumes draining. Megumi watches as the mucky water swirls down into nothingness.
Megumi is pulled out of his daze as more dishes get placed directly in the sink. He throws a glare at the waitress who doesn’t even spare a look for him as she rushes back out into the dining room where successful men dine with hopeless women who wish the men would take her home. Back to where his wife and children await his arrival.
Megumi grabs the pile of dishes and brings them onto the counter to sit with the rest of the waiting dishes. He then jams a finger into the garbage disposal buttons and closes his eyes to rest as the roar of the garbage disposal swallows the noise coming from the rest of the kitchen. Megumi stops the whirring and continues his job. Plate after plate, it gets scrubbed with a lemon cleaner. Placed into the sterilizer neatly. Button pushed and the machine rattled away. Megumi does it by muscle memory at this point.
He scrubs too hard. As long as his hands keep moving, he doesn’t have to think.
Doesn't have time to think about how he ended up here - washing dishes for a restaurant that has clientele that always seem to have endless money. When he's washing he doesn't have to think about the debt his father left behind Megumi has yet to pay. A shout of his name startles him as he realizes he was just standing and staring into the wall. Megumi gets told to go on break. As Megumi takes off his gloves and checks the clock he realizes his break is 1 hour late.
Megumi lets out a breath as he steps out the back, into the alley behind the restaurant. Megumi leans against the wall which is still warm from the setting sun, the dumpster smells like regret. Megumi lights a cigarette with hands that still stink of lemon dish soap. As he inhales he watches the people walking past. None spend a second to look down the alley and rush past.
Megumi slides down the wall and pulls out a sketchbook from his apron. It’s plain black, creased at the edges from months of being stuffed into his front. Megumi flips open to his latest sketch - it's of one of the cooks leaning over a pan with furrowed eyebrows, deep in thought as the other cooks rush past with all kinds of dishware. Megumi slowly finishes the man's jawline. The face of the man isn't clear. Faces make it personal. Megumi can't afford personal.
He’s halfway through outlining the man's apron when the back door swings open. Footsteps quick but deliberate make their way to Megumi's ears as a man comes around to where Megumi is sitting.
The man is dressed in a charcoal suit and stands tall and arrogant as he looks down to where Megumi is sitting. Deep red eyes flit from Megumi's face, to the cigarette, to the sketchbook where the drawing is on display. The man’s gaze lingers on the sketch before Megumi snaps the book shut.
The man looks wrong standing in the alley with the strong smell of trash – too clean, too pressed, like a mannequin from one of the boutiques along the road was dumped.
Megumi doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He watches as the man’s gaze meets his. Megumi felt a shock as the piercing eyes shot into his tired ones.
“You’re not supposed to be out here.” The stranger says. Voice smooth like velvet but sharp. Megumi raises an eyebrow and shrugs.
“Neither are you”
The man hums and lets the silence stretch. Megumi is getting annoyed as the man just stands there staring. Megumi can hear the head chef shouting at somebody but can’t make out why.
Megumi's about to stand and head back inside but just as he rises the man opens his mouth.
“What’s your name?”
Megumi hesitates. Does he lie? Almost says Dishwasher #6 or No One you know.
Instead:
“Does it matter?”
The stranger tilts his head and hums again. Lips part like he’ll answer – then he just nods once, turns sharply and strides back inside the door closing with a bang. Megumi stares at the door for a while and then a wave of anger comes over him. That guy was so strange, and confusing and was bothering him on what was supposed to be a nice break. Megumi focuses on the closed sketchbook, opens it back to the same page as earlier and rips the drawing out. As he heads back inside he tosses it into the dumpster. As Megumi scrubs down dish after dish he keeps replaying the whole situation, trying to figure out who the guy was.
It’s not until Megumi walks out of the restaurant that it clicks. That man was Sukuna Ryomen. Megumi stopped walking. The air went still. Of course. Of course. He passed that face every day — framed in gold, on the wall by the hostess stand.
Megumi turned back toward the restaurant. The place he forced himself into every day for a year. Megumi’s jaw tightened.
Of Course, it was him.
Of course, the man owned the damn building. - too business-like, influence oozed off him like a second skin. Megumi brought his hand down his face trying to get the whole interaction out of his head.
Megumi wanted to kick something. Preferably the dumpster. Or himself.
As he turned away, hands shoved in pockets moving quickly away as if Megumi could run from the embarrassment of the conversation. The city was alight with noise, headlights blaring into his eyes and Megumi passed by a man who was yelling up at a window where a woman stood. Megumi passed without a second glance, not even bothering to listen. The noise of the city was normally comfortable. It gave Megumi an escape from his thoughts. But this time it just made them that much louder
Megumi should’ve known. Should've been smarter. The suit. The shoes. He was somebody of influence. A different thought wandered into his head that made Megumi pause. The way Sukuna had looked at him. Like he wasn’t some poor dishwasher who was sitting in a dirty alleyway on break, Sukuna had looked at Megumi as if he was worth something.
That bothered Megumi the most.
Not the fact he’d been a shitty conversationalist with the guy who pretty much owned Megumi. Not that he had tossed a sketch in the trash like a dramatic idiot. Not even the fact Sukuna had seen it.
It was that look. The pause. The way Sukuna’s piercing gaze had caught on the sketch and lingered there. Not judging. Not amused. just…seeing.
Megumi stopped at the bus stop not even realizing he had resumed walking, too distracted by his thoughts. He sits down to wait and pulls his phone out of his jacket. Staring at the cracks in the screen as he tapped the call button and pushed the phone to his ear.
Megumi sat watching people go by as the phone buzzed. Then a click as the call was answered.
“Megumi! I didn’t expect to hear from you this late!” An enthusiastic voice came through and Megumi clicked his tongue at the loudness.
“It’s only 6 at night Satoru,” Megumi replied dryly. Gojo gave a booming laugh. How he could be so energetic at this time added more to Megumi’s annoyance.
“Is it? Hmm, I hadn’t noticed. Anyway! What's up?” Gojo spoke quickly. If Megumi hadn’t grown up with the speed at which Gojo talked he would have a hard time understanding. Megumi cleared his throat to respond but as he opened his mouth he realized he didn't know what to say.
“Megumi?” Gojo’s voice came through after a minute of silence. “Are you okay?” He asked worriedly. Megumi quickly found his voice.
“Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine” Megumi said trying to convince both Gojo and himself. “Just a tough day at work” Gojo was silent for a moment.
“Megumi.” His voice came strongly through the phone. “What happened? Was there a problem?”
“No. It’s nothing” Megumi dug his nails into his palms.
“Well you wouldn’t call me if it was nothing, Meg,” Gojo said.
Silence washed through the phone as Gojo let out a sigh.
“Fine. I’ve got to go, Megumi. “Gojo finally spoke, his tone was joyful. “You’d call me if it was seriously wrong.”
“Yeah. Bye Gojo” Megumi replied tiredly. As Gojo’s goodbye ran through Megumi hung up and dropped his head into his hands. He was being dramatic and overthinking the whole thing.
Megumi stayed on the bench long after the call ended, missing his bus. The street lights flickered overhead, casting shadows he didn’t feel like chasing.
That look—like he mattered—still burned in the back of his skull.