Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The ache in the stomach is love. The ache in the stomach is love. Megumi does not hate Gojo’s guts just because the man decided to strongarm him into a 2 AM ice cream run. 

The gear shift is jammed a little, but only a little. Gojo manages to wiggle it around gently enough to dislodge it and move it to second gear—like one might with a loose tooth, if you were nice about it. He’s never really been nice about it, though. When Megumi's first few baby teeth started wiggling, Gojo thought this to be twenty opportunities to shatter the trust between child and tooth-robber, one for each tooth. Tied string to door handle, tied string to remote-controlled race car, trying to pry the teeth out while Megumi was asleep, the good old fashioned "here, lemme see that tooth kid," and then immediately pulling the thing out of its socket. Or, once, he chased Megumi with a pair of pliers, threatening to wrench them out of his mouth. He's done it all. 

"Why the fuck do you even know how to drive a manual? I thought you only drove the BMW," Megumi grumbles, suddenly irritated while remembering the twenty teeth he had traumatically ripped from his maw over the course of five years. He's all buckled up, sinking into the passenger seat, not because he thinks the seatbelt will save him from Gojo's driving, but because Gojo absolutely cannot get pulled over with an unbuckled minor in the car. They'll really lock him up for good. 

"I'm gonna rinse out that potty mouth of yours with bleach," Gojo replies easily. "You cuss like a sailor."

"Wonder where I got that," he mutters. 

"Shoko," he answers easily. "Couldn't be me."

"Shoko doesn't talk to me. She thinks I'm a whiny brat."

"Well, maybe she's onto something—Shut the fucking door, we're on a highway!"

Okay, whatever, they're not related, but he did inherit this one trait from Gojo directly: pushing buttons, no matter how costly, always. And the trait must've been bluetoothed, airdropped directly into the barbed wire cesspool of his heart because he will meet Gojo tit for tat these days. He lets him get away with too much. Not anymore. 

He quickly pulls the car door shut before the whipping wind outside can slam the thing open and rip it off its hinges. Gojo's definitely speeding. He's speeding and there's a speed camera up ahead. Megumi knows this because he knows every single high risk road Gojo likes to speed on and then get ticketed for, and by proxy, he knows where all the red light cameras are too. This is what they call knowledge. 

Greyed out buildings buzz by them in a blur, washed out by the tar in the sky. He’s pissed again.

"Let me out."

“If you wanted to get out, you could just open the door and hop out, Megs—Shut the door!” Gojo’s not quite a hypocrite, no. That’s not the right word. He stands by what he says, and he does what he stands by. For the most part. But there’s something in between “hypocrite” and “incompetent buffoon” that he can’t quite place his finger on. If he could box it all up into one word, he’d have it plastered on a shirt by now. “I’m putting the child locks back on,” Gojo mutters, and Megumi is so glad to finally hear the twinge of annoyance in his voice. 

“For what? The two times a year you actually drive me somewhere?”

“Is something wrong?” Gojo asks abruptly, in all the wrong tones. The words are unhappy, and they’d sound uncaring, too, to the untrained ear. But Megumi knows who he’s talking to, has known him just barely long enough to know that Gojo couldn’t not care, and that was his cosmic failure. “I get that you love being pissy sometimes, Megs, but this is too much, even for you. Did something happen?”

“No,” he mutters petulantly.

And just like that, the bitters fanning in his voice are gone, replaced with a teasing lilt he’s so familiar with. “You sure? It’s not girl problems, or something?”

Megumi resists the urge to scoff loudly in his face. “Like you’d know anything about girl problems. Or girls.” And he does. Gojo doesn’t, but Megumi does know about girl problems. And girls. Because he has a sister, and he has Nobara, which is basically like having two sisters, and Tsumiki might be unreachable right now but that doesn’t stop the girl drama from seeping into his life anyway. 

“Gah-hah!” Gojo snorts heartily, letting the car dawdle near the shoulder of the road without care. “Says who, Megs? I sure know girl problems! See, see,” he says, waving aimlessly at something between the driver’s seat and centre console. “When she says, ‘it’s fine,’ it’s actually not fine. And when she says, ‘I don’t care, you pick’ it means she actually does care and you have to pick what she wants, and when she says, ‘Satoru! My tummy hurts!’ you gotta say, ‘Daddy kiss the boo boo—’”

“Kill yourself,” Megumi says immediately, rubbing exhausted hands all over his face. “Shut the fuck up. Stop talking.” Daddy kiss the boo boo. Megumi’s gonna light the school on fire. 

This is actually further proof that Gojo does not know girl problems or girls, and Megumi does. He knows girl problems because he has Maki, who is his cousin and basically an estranged sister, even though technically if you squint at their family tree’s connecting lines, she’s actually his aunt. But no one squints that hard, worried they’d find a circle somewhere in there. Worried they'd be in the circle. A byproduct of the circle.

He’s squinted too hard already, actually. God, his father and Maki are cousins. They have the same grandparents. That’s weird. That’s weird as hell. His face sours and he sinks further into the black leather seat. Now he’s upset. Even more upset than before. 

And because Gojo can’t read minds, he takes the look on his face to be an admission. “Oooh, so it is girl problems. So, what’s up?”

Megumi inherited his spiky hair from his father. Probably, at least. He can’t remember his mother’s face or hair at all, isn’t sure if he’s even met her. He knows he must have, at least briefly, but it’s not like that matters much now. But he can remember his father’s silhouette, towering several feet above him when he was a child, with what looked like a wetted mop of hair plastered to his head. When he fluffed it up, it looked like he’d been electrocuted. Maybe, and he’d never admit this part out loud, he might’ve inherited his pissy attitude and foul manners from the guy, too. 

But this? His benign love for pushing buttons, getting on Gojo’s nerves? That was from Gojo. Defense mechanism, or whatever. 

“Yeah,” he plays along. “It’s girl problems. I got someone pregnant.”

Gojo swerves the car into a ditch. 

Hindsight’s useless. That’s why Megumi ignores Gojo’s prattling as they sit by the side of the road in the middle of the night, cars whizzing by them at high speeds, while he wrings his hands out again to keep the biting cold from seizing up his fingers. 

“Oh, you’re fucking lucky I am who I am and I had Infinity up!” Gojo yells hysterically, waving his hands around. He’d just gotten off the phone with Ijichi, the poor guy, who he’d begged to come around with a tow truck. God knows how he would acquire one. Maybe it wasn’t begging, but this time, he’d actually asked the guy for his help instead of commanding him to do it like he usually does, which is basically begging. “You could’ve died! What were you thinking?”

He’s yelling at him like Megumi was the one driving the car and turning the steering wheel into a ceiling fan. Megumi continues to ignore him, sitting down on a really nice boulder. It was probably put there by the city. There’s a row of boulders lining the edge of the ditch by the highway. Did they pick out nice boulders, just for him? How nice of them.

“Are you even listening to me!”

No, and he won’t, he decides. The car’s actually in great shape for a rollover. The passenger seat would’ve been crushed, had Gojo not pulled Megumi into his bubble of Infinity at the first sight of impact. They’d turned all the lights off from the vehicle so that people driving by didn’t stop and try to help them. Megumi is thankful that it was a solo crash. If his unassuming shit-stirring with Gojo had resulted in someone else dying or getting injured, he’d really have to execute himself. 

But, at the same time, he’s not yet satisfied with the amount of shit stirred. 

“Megumi!” Gojo yells, and he finally looks up at him from the rock he’s sitting on. Gojo looks a little bit like a wild white hare, all jumpy nerves and red eyes, overstimulated no doubt from the tumble. But that’s all it was to him, a tumble. Megumi had to empty out his stomach a minute ago. His lunch had been centrifuged out of him. “Explain yourself,” he demands, crossing his arms over his chest. There’s not a single speck of dirt on the pristine white collared shirt Gojo’s wearing. Now Megumi’s pissed off again. 

It was momentarily satisfying to see Gojo’s eyes pop out of his skull like a cartoon character, even more so with the blindfold still on his face; it was just that apparent. And then it was not as satisfying anymore, as the car swerved off their lane and straight into the ditch that ran along the sides of the highway. 

He looks up serenely at the stunning night sky. There’s no stars, but there’s a full moon, and there’s threadbare clouds scattered across the sky that paint shadows with the white moonlight’s shitty acrylic touch. “I dunno what we did wrong,” he sighs, letting some genuine melancholy seep into his words. “I thought girls can’t get pregnant on a full moon. We even used two condoms.”

The mindless shuffling to his right completely ceases. When he tears his eyes off the sky to look over at Gojo, the man has that same shell-shocked, disbelieving face he’d had when they first met in that cramped little alleyway. Except he’s older now, and the blackout sunglasses are swapped with a full blindfold (Hello? How did he get his license driving blindfolded?) and Megumi is also taller now and doesn’t have to look up at him as much anymore. The man’s still a tree, but Megumi is catching up slowly. “You used,” he wheezes out, still unmoving. “...two condoms?”

Ah, he can’t take it anymore. He bursts into a fit of giggles, or snickers more like, but he gasps again and then he’s full on doubled over, clutching his stomach with rolling laughter. 

“Yeah,” he laughs breathlessly, a wide, cheek-hurting smile peeking out through the word even as he curls his face into his own chest. “And she said she’d let me name the baby.” He continued to putter on, eventually burrowing his flaming cheeks into the collar of his uniform to calm himself down. He can’t remember the last time he’s laughed like this.

“Oh,” Gojo states. Hollow dejection. “You’re pulling my leg.”

It makes him laugh even harder, until he has to count to ten in his head and relax his muscles lest he pull something in his abs and stop breathing forever. 

“You made me crash the goddamn car and you're pulling my leg.”

Gojo keeps talking, and it’s like soothing white noise. He says something about Megumi not being old enough to raise a child, like he wasn’t seventeen when he’d picked up two practically orphaned kids off the street. 

He feels lighter. Whatever was in his chest that was making him feel heavy, well, it’s still there. He thinks it’ll always be there. He’s not sure who put it there, and he’s not sure how to cleave it out of him, thinks it’s impossible without unspooling all that he is and clipping the thread at every fourth centimeter, but he’s content to forget about it for an hour while he sits by the side of the road, listening to Gojo who is alive and irritating, watching the clouds inch by above him. He's irritated, still. It's still a blade to his skin, but at least it's running with the grain.

He misses two phone calls from Yuuji that night. 

Something is wrong. It feels wrong. No one wants to say it; maybe speaking it will bring it to life. Yuuji sits at the edge of his bed again, staring blankly at whatever shapes he can make out in the dark room. 

He's been doing this a lot, lately. Maybe once every few days. Recently, it’s worked up to every single night too. Something easy has slipped between the gaps of his fingers. He's not sure where it fell, how to pick it back up. 

Maybe it's the weather. It's been dull outside lately. Maybe it's the food. He eats like he’s fueling a plane that'll fly no more than 30 kilometres that day. Maybe it’s the fact that missions are really, really picking up, and he can’t hang out with his only few friends as much anymore. And nothing is exactly challenging to him; he can fight well, move perfectly, and now that Ryōmen Sukuna’s cursed technique has slowly etched itself into the fibres of his soul, he can manage some neat tricks and spells to bewitch his opponents.

It’s all well and good, but people still die. And there’s only so much he can do about that.

When he hears a knock at the door, he already knows who it is. 

“Itadori?” Megumi’s mellow voice calls from the doorway. “Are you still awake?”

Yuuji twists his back over his shoulder, popping the joint and letting out a low groan. “Can’t sleep,” he mumbles back, knowing that Megumi can hear him because the boy is already pushing the door open and stepping in.

“Why’re you sitting in the dark? It’s past midnight and we have class tomorrow. You should be asleep.” Megumi is an eldritch horror, standing at his doorway with his damp, frizzy hair painting a terrifying silhouette against the light behind him. Yuuji can’t make out too much of the details on his face, but he thinks the guy is frowning. But that could be a lucky guess; he’s always got something to frown about. 

“You’re at my door? In my room?” Yuuji counters back, flopping down onto his bed. “You should sleep too, Fushiguro. Where were you the other day that you got home at five in the morning?”

“Gojo crashed the car.”

“What?!” The man doesn’t even drive, ever, if given the chance not to. And what are the chances that in the few instances he does get behind the wheel, he totals the vehicle? High, apparently. “Are you okay? Did you get hurt?”

Are you okay? he asks him. Did you get hurt? Man, he thinks he’ll have to punch Yuuji a little. And then cry in his room later, sobbing at a feeling he cannot for the life of him put his finger on, just knowing that it’s there and it’s stinging. “I’m fine. I just wanted to let you know that the third years have finally finished their suspension and are coming back tomorrow. We’re gonna meet them for breakfast.” At least, that’s the plan. Megumi knows it’s more realistic that not everyone will gather together at once, so he’ll probably run into Kirara in the kitchen trying to get some honey before a run, and then Kinji some time later when it’s the worst, most inconvenient time to meet him. 

Megumi moves to shuffle out of the room, but one final look back at the pink-haired emo on the bed makes him pause. Yuuji’s not exactly looking at the ceiling, he’s looking past it, eyes hazed over like he’s a million miles away. 

“Itadori?” he asks. “Are you… Did something happen?”

“No,” Yuuji hums, eyes still fixed far, far away. “Go to sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Itadori,” he presses. His name is always so natural on his tongue, four rolling syllables, like he has been given a favour each time he says it again, even if he’s angry and shouting and on the verge of death. “Something happened. I don’t care if you—”

“Get out, Fushiguro,” Yuuji suddenly interrupts. Angry. Shouting. Quiet. Fushiguro’s name doesn’t sound like a favour here, it sounds like the temperament he’d hear from the people around his father. He thinks he’s felt this sinking feeling before, just never while standing around in Yuuji’s room. Normally, this sinking, doomsday feeling is reserved for when he’s pitching his fists together, muttering a quiet ‘sorry guys’ before he tries to summon Mahoraga and kill everyone. 

“Just…” Yuuji whispers. “Just get out. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Oh. Oh, something is deeply wrong. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt fear like this. The I’m-gonna-summon-Mahoraga feeling twists into something uglier, something more akin to what?-what-did-i-do-wrong? and suddenly he has to remind himself how to breathe.

“Okay,” he resigns, because what the fuck is he even supposed to say? Is the world ending? Is Yuuji possessed? The words are so unlike him. It’s more unlike him to mean it. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He pads away quietly and smothers himself into the pillow until he passes out. 

A quarter way into his slumbers, he hears someone in the walls shift and twist, restless and fitful in their dreamlands. It’s Yuuji. He hopes it’s Yuuji. It’d be kinda alarming if it was anyone else. And then he hears a thud in the hallway, followed by a quiet “cod roe”. Inumaki getting water in the middle of the night. Again, he hopes it’s Inumaki. It’d be weird if it wasn’t. He hears Yuuji shuffling again. He thinks he might hear him talking too, but he’s not sure if he’s hallucinating.

Only halfway into his slumbers does the thought come to his mind: yeah, you dumb fuck, of course he’s possessed. 

Later that night, when the one single granola bar for lunch catches up to him, Megumi lies in bed and plays detective. He replays the conversation and scrutinizes it under every light and every angle, hoping to find the answer hidden under infrared. 

Fact: Yuuji asked if he was okay. This is normal. Yuuji is always worrisome. Remembrance is how he loves. Caveat: Anyone would ask that if they heard about a car crash.

Fact: Yuuji told him to get the fuck out of his room and that he hates him and that he thinks Megumi is the bottom-feeding scum of the earth and deserves to die and be publicly executed and purged from existence immediately . Caveat: He didn’t say those words exactly, so he’ll never know if this is really true. 

Fact: Yuuji’s skin looks as grey as a corpse.

There’s no real caveat there. 

“I hear you got some girl pregnant?” Shoko asks. Idle small talk between patient and doctor. She presses a cotton pad against the neck of a bottle of rubbing alcohol, inverting it briefly before setting it down and setting Megumi’s wound on fire. “Did my safe sex talk mean nothing to you? Did you use a condom?”

“Yeah,” he mutters, grits through his teeth, because he’s pretty sure the rubbing alcohol has just inflicted more damage onto the exposed tissue. But hey, he’s not the doctor. “Two condoms. At once. On top of each other. I’m naming the baby Megumi if it’s a girl, and Megumi if it’s a boy.”

Shoko whistles a low, mockingly impressed whistle. “Got it all sorted out, huh? You ready to be a father?”

“No.” He bats Shoko’s hand away when she moves to add more rubbing alcohol in. He thinks he’d rather risk infection. The wound must be a chemically burned mess right now. “I’m gonna raise him ‘till he’s six and sell him to the Zenins. Then I’m gonna try and kill a strong sorcerer but actually die trying. And then baby-dump the kid onto him instead.”

“Really,” Shoko asks sardonically. 

“Yeah. It’s gonna be Gojo. I'm gonna try and kill Gojo and then dump my kids on him when I lose.” 

“I dunno if he’s ready to be a grandfather, kid. Here, lift your arm—” she rummages around looking for something before Megumi feels cool wet fabric press soothingly against the laceration against his ribs. “—rib injuries are delicate and need to heal on their own. RCT might make your ribs come in weird, and then you’ll be in for breathing issues. If you’re gonna baby-dump, maybe try Nanamin. I think he’d make a good father.”

Nanami Kento is too good of a person to be baby-dumped. But this entire conversation, beginning to end, has zero foundation because Megumi did not, in fact, get a girl pregnant. And he’s not gonna be a father. But it’s certainly a thought. A thought tangible enough to have Gojo’s manual car turned into a shipwreck in a muddy ditch, which was now filled with rainwater from the pouring rain. Ijichi never did manage to get that tow truck. 

Megumi’s quiet. It’s not like Shoko’s about to complain. He’s normally quiet. A nice, still patient. Easy patient. Comes and goes like the breeze. But he looks constipated, and she knows what's not causing it. 

Shoko sighs deeply at him, making sure to let him know that she’s sick and tired of him. “Is something wrong? You’ve been extra gloomy lately. Not that I care.”

Yes, something is wrong. Yuuji hates his guts and thinks he is the worst person on earth and Megumi now is obligated to go out on high level missions so that he can happen upon another Special Grade as an excuse to summon Mahoraga and kill himself. And before that, or maybe somehow afterwards, he needs to apologize to Yuuji (by staring at him for fifteen minutes straight, no words spoken) so that they part on good terms. He needs to fall into a coma for months, like Tsumiki. He’s so jealous. The sleep each night just doesn’t cut it. Maybe he should get his thyroid levels checked, but he feels if he asks Shoko, she’s just gonna stick a needle in his neck and wriggle it around for ten minutes. 

Maybe he needs to slow down. No one ever sees how fast his mind constantly whirrs. 

“‘M fine,” he mumbles, hopping off the examination table and reaching for his shirt. 

A thought peeks into his mind, and it feels like a black hole has just opened in the corner of his brain and taken over the whole of everything that has ever existed, all at once, in the history of the universe:

There isn’t really a solution. Something’s just wrong. And it’s gonna stay wrong. 

There’s nothing he can do. And, oh, that feels uglier than the previous thought. 

Kirara looks different. Megumi’s pretty sure the last time they’d met, he had just witnessed what was the cusp of a metamorphosis, or some sort of divinical transformation, because that is not the Kirara he remembers throwing hard candy at his forehead on the few instances Gojo had dragged him to campus, years ago. 

No one else seems particularly surprised, though. Of course, the second years must be used to it. They’d been around Kirara and Kinji a little longer than he had. And Nobara and Yuuji never even met the third years, so this first impression cannot garner any more shock than when they found out they had a panda as a senior. No shock at all.

Gojo’s got a big mouth, though.

“Kirara-chan! Lookin’ good there! Aw, c’mon,” he pouts. “What’s that look for? You guys don’t miss your old sensei? Excited to be nearly done with school? I know you’ll miss me!”

Megumi’s guess was so spot-on, he deserves a trophy. They did not meet up at breakfast. Actually, he thinks the kitchen was bare and empty between the hours of sunrise to around ten in the morning. And when they did meet up (now, in the training grounds), it was just the first years and Panda. And it’d be a short, quick hello, before the only two third years disappeared again to toss around Kusakabe for homeroom or history or something. Megumi would then be left to dish out the “hot goss” to Nobara about their new (old?) senpai. 

Kirara and Kinji aren’t even in uniform. He’s not sure if they own a set. And they sure as hell don’t learn anything from Kusakabe, and they leave class four hours early, so are they really students here?

“Satoru, we,” Kinji huffs out. And then says nothing. 

“...you gonna finish that thought?” Gojo prompts.

Kinji walks away, Kirara hanging off his arm. 

This was perfect, actually. Being left with that impression, surely Megumi won’t have to do as much “hot goss” with Nobara later. There aren’t many words that could describe Kinji, but that summed it up perfectly. 

There’s one more new development since the last time he’d seen the two: out of the corner of his eye, he sees Kirara plant a fat, wet kiss onto Kinji’s cheek, just as they turn the corner. Now, he could be in denial about the whole thing, because friends kiss each other or whatever, but he’s not stupid and also it’s none of his fucking business, but those two are definitely dating. 

“Right,” Gojo says, pursing his lips. They’re chapped and dry. The world must’ve tilted on its axis or something. Something’s wrong. Yuuji’s mad at Megumi all of a sudden. Kirara and Kinji aren’t fucking shit up in some underground gambling ring. Gojo’s not wearing any of his excessive lip gloss collection. The world’s bent out of order. “Well, for today—”

“We need to do something,” Megumi blurts out. “The three of us. Us three,” he clarifies, like he even has to, bouncing his finger between himself, Nobara, and Yuuji. His classmates have taken to standing in the corner with their hands behind their back. Rocking on their heels. Unsure how to deal with the gentle calamity that is the third years, even though they’re already long gone. “We’re gonna be busy today.”

“We are?” Yuuji pipes up.

“We so are!” Nobara agrees. “Super busy. And it’s important and it’s a secret.”

Thank you, Megumi nearly mouths to her. 

Apparently, Gojo was hunching over or something, or squatting a little, because he rises even further up to his full height and crosses his arms over his chest. There’s a leaf in his hair. There is a leaf in his hair. Oh, something’s so wrong. “I’m pretty sure my stuff is twice as important.”

“Nope,” Nobara refutes, popping the ‘p’. Then she starts the hysteric hand-waving. “It’s literally 2 PM! We haven’t even learned anything from you the whole day, which we just spent by ourselves doing the seven independent study units you assigned us even though it’s the end of the damn year, and then the four page essay you assigned us, because you didn’t even teach us anything, and then we spent our physical training time by ourselves too, and we had Itadori instruct us because you weren’t even there to teach it, which is like, the only thing you’re qualified to teach, and then you show up at the butt end and now when we have plans to do something on our own, you decide that your stuff is more important than our top-secret, life or death, super important—!”

“Alright, alright, jeez!”

Thank you, Megumi does mouth over to her this time, when Gojo turns his back to them and stretches out his arms. And then a second later he remembers: Six Eyes. He could definitely see that. Whatever, it’s not like he has many secrets worth keeping. 

“Alright,” Gojo concedes again. And then throws a look over his shoulder, grinning under the blindfold. “But my stuff is also pretty important~ You’ll regret not listening, later. Panda, you’re with me. Make sure you kids are home by ten tonight. Megs, you got my card?”

“We’re not going shopping—!” he refutes, but Nobara’s already overheard.

“Ah, ah, ah! We’re not not going shopping, either! So make sure you have that card!” she says. 

So they part ways, Gojo walking in one direction for whatever reason, and then teleporting away only when he’s out of eyeshot. But they can feel it, the blinking of a massive deposit of cursed energy, gone before they can open their eyes. Nobara shuffles through Megumi’s wallet, bemoaning about his uninteresting and boring collection of cards. He didn’t even know people collected cards. But he knows Nobara’s probably like that, trying to find a million and one things to fill up the sleeves of her pink, designer clutch. Gym membership cards, photo cards, four debit cards from three different banks, Hello Kitty bandaids, a movie coupon, loyalty cards, anything. Megumi’s got three things in his: a personal debit card, Gojo’s ridiculous, gold plated titanium credit card, and a health insurance card. 

Yuuji leans over, slinging an elbow over his shoulder (ah, this must mean he doesn’t hate his guts), and whispers, “Where’re we going?”

That’s a great question. Now Megumi wishes he’d thought this through a little. 

“Okay, spill,” Nobara demands. Megumi deserves a trophy. He must be a prophet or something, with how accurate his predictions were. “What’s with the third years? Why’d they get suspended? What’re they like?”

In a week, they’ll be officially second years. In a week, Maki, Yuuta, Inumaki, and Panda will be third years. Hakari and Hoshi will be whisked away to wherever they take the fourth year students. Megumi hasn’t seen the new intake of jujutsu students that registered for the next semester as first years, but he hears there should be at least two, one girl and one boy. 

Months ago, when Yuuji was dead and gone, the first year group was also just one girl and one boy. 

The three of them sit at a four-seat table, one chair designated for holding all their bags. Nobara’s bags, really. The other two don’t have bags. But Megumi slings his outer jacket onto the back of the chair, too. The restaurant sells really, really good tempura. That’s all he’s here for. Maybe he could get away with ordering five plates of tempura and nothing else. 

They don’t sell just tempura. In fact, it’s not even one of their standard dishes. It’s a side dish, normally served with their noodles or cutlets. But it’s so good. Would they let him order five plates of side dishes?

“Fushiguro? You’re not even listening!” Nobara squawks. Megumi looks longingly at the menu, circling the side dishes with a finger. “You know what you wanna order? I’m getting the chicken katsu. If you want the tempura so bad, we could order it with that.”

Megumi’s head snaps up to look at her across the table. The question must be in his eyes, because Yuuji answers it right away.

“You’re making heart eyes at the tempura, man. Every time we come here, you just get a tiny salad and order three plates of tempura. We could just order it with our dishes.”

He nods in response, unsure what to say. Yuuji gets a bowl of rice with something on it. He orders three plates of the tempura and a pile of pickled ginger slices, immediately handing it to Megumi once it arrives. Megumi digs in and tries not to tear up. 

“No sauce?” Nobara questions with a raised eyebrow. No sauce. It’s so good, it doesn’t need sauce. “So. What’s the deal with the third years?”

He scrutinizes the tail of the batter-fried prawn for a second, contemplating, before shoving the thing in his mouth. It’s a little tough, but it’s crispy and chewable. “Dunno what you expect me to say. Hoshi Kirara. Hakari Kinji. They’re finished their third year. This is my third time meeting them. First time meeting them properly.”

“Are they dating?” Yuuji blurts out, because of course he does. “They’re definitely dating. I didn’t know sorcerers dated. I don’t think I’ve ever met a sorcerer that’s dated. Or gotten married.”

Hmm. Megumi could gatekeep the hot goss. But he supposes it’s not really gossip. Or maybe it is, and he doesn’t want to care. “Yaga-sensei was married at some point. Not sure who he was married to. Nitta-san’s also married. But she’s not technically a sorcerer, and her husband is a civilian. I know Miwa from Kyoto started dating her classmate, too.”

And he can’t prove it yet, but Maki and Yuuta… Well, if they aren’t dating by this point, then something sinister is happening over there and all of TJ High is about to be caught in the crossfire. 

“What? Really?” Nobara asks. “Kamo?” Megumi shakes his head no. “What?! She’s dating Todo—!” Megumi shakes his head no again. “Nishimiya. ... Mai?” she whispers. 

Megumi shakes his head.

Nobara blinks twice at him.

“I know that poor girl isn’t dating the fucking robot—”

“Anyway,” Megumi continues. “It’s not common. Too much at stake, or whatever. But Hoshi and Hakari are crazy, so it’s fine. They got suspended because Hakari-senpai beat up a council member last year. Hoshi-senpai just follows him everywhere.”

He doesn’t mention Yuuta and his curse of a fiancée, because it might be something against the case he’s making. Or something that wholeheartedly supports it, instead. 

“‘M surprised Nanamin isn’t married,” Yuuji muses, leaning back in his chair so that it’s balanced on the two rear legs. A stray bit of bell pepper sticks out of the corner of his lips as he chews at it. “Or maybe not. Now that I think about it, I’m more surprised that Yaga-sensei's married.”

“Was,” Megumi corrects, and then regrets it when Nobara’s eyes blow wide open. “Was married.”

“Spill!” she demands. 

“I don’t know!” he yells back. It’s not really a yell. They’re in a cozy restaurant. The atmosphere is too PG for screaming. “You need to tone down your need for gossip.”

“Hah?! Never!”

They bicker until the sun sets. It gets revealed that Yaga is sorta kinda Panda’s father, and not just a puppeteer, or creator. Then it gets revealed that Yaga had done some weird doll voodoo with the soul of the nephew of some poor couple, which led to the ultimate question: could Nobara do that? She’s like, the queen of voodoo. 

The sun sets. They walk back in the dark, under the bustling city’s street lights. They used to be out and about like this so frequently, and now it feels foreign enough to feel like a treat. Like a special occasion. And he had fun, sure, but he can’t help but drift his eyes over to Yuuji while Nobara continues to yell indignantly about some thing or another. Where he normally eats five servings of rice and noodles at this chain, he had one bowl today. Where he normally talks a mile a minute, unable to bear another second of keeping his thoughts to himself, today he’s spoken a grand total of six times. 

The spontaneous plan works a little. Yuuji’s footsteps are lighter. And he loves the food here. Megumi thinks he’ll have to be brave once more, this evening.

He discreetly lifts his hand and rests it on Yuuji’s shoulder. Yuuji looks startled nearly, whipping his head to the side to look at him. But he moves his head forward just as quickly, and now he’s either ignoring it, or appreciating it. Either way, it’s acceptance. The hand stays firm at his shoulder plate, fingers hooked over a tense trapezius muscle. They walk home like that.

Maybe if they were a normal school, they’d have more standardized methods for announcements. His middle school had a PA system with an intercom, where they’d do morning announcements and wish students happy birthday. It was a small enough school for it. He knows some high schools give students their own student email and work drive, where they’d get regular newsletters or documents. If not a digital system, then at least some large, central bulletin board in the main foyer to post up the rosters for the school play, for sports teams, for new clubs looking for members and vice presidents, or upcoming festivals and ceremonies. 

As it stands, the population of Tokyo Jujutsu Metropolitan Technical College campus (13, including staff) communicate by opening the window and shouting their message to the adjacent room. Chances are, you’ll spread the news to at least half the school!

There are no school assemblies. No ceremonies. They have one group chat with all the students, and one group chat with everyone. But Yuuta’s out of the country, and he’s mentioned that his data roaming isn’t reliable, and Hoshi and Hakari were gone too, and Yuuji had been fucking dead, and Gojo’s Gojo, so the most recently active group chat had been six people total. 

Nowadays, all their school announcements are posted up the same way: stuck on the kitchen fridge with a Bulbasaur magnet on a loose sheet of paper. Written in bright purple sharpie. Nearly illegible. So, of course it’s Gojo. 

‘ ‘ Congrats to all students on surviving another year of school !¡! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) .ᐟ.ᐟ We’re doing a school trip to celebrate ~~ ! ’ ’

He’s even handwritten the kaomoji. There’s a chibi Gojo drawn in the corner with a speech bubble wrapping the text. The paper looks like someone took a bite out of it. Megumi’s fingers are already pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. This might’ve been the “important thing” he needed to talk to them about. 

“School trip huh,” Panda’s low voice rumbles from the kitchen island. “I thought those were for graduates only.”

“Aren’t the other guys finishing their third year?” Yuuji asks from behind him somewhere. Maybe under the table, because Megumi can’t see him.

Maki lifts her protein shake off the blender base, swapping the bladed lid for a drinking lid. “This school is four years. We don’t technically graduate for another two years. Hoshi and Hakari still have another year left.”

“About that,” Nobara asks around a straw. Maki had given her first smoothie to her, making a new one for herself. The world’s really ending. Megumi’s seen Maki throw a full chair at someone for touching her smoothie and now she’s given one to Nobara willingly. “Do we even have any fourth years? Did they all die, or something?”

“Tuna,” Inumaki chips in.

“Yeah,” Panda translates. “You’ve met him. Ino Takuma’s the only fourth year. The rest left the city. They’re not really considered students anymore because they don’t attend classes, it’s more like an apprenticeship year.”

Yuuji makes a hum of understanding, suddenly appearing beside Megumi. “And third year is the last year to do the exchange event.”

“So Ino’s going on the trip with us?” Nobara asks. “We don’t even know him. Why’re we celebrating his graduation like, weeks early?”

“Ino’s away right now. I don’t think he’s even going on the trip with us. Plus, Yuuta’s still in Mali. I don’t know why that idiot’s arranging a trip at a time like this,” Maki grumbles.

“Well, it’s for you guys, of course!” the idiot exclaims.

Gojo’s teleported directly into the kitchen, somehow landing on both Megumi's foot and his shoulder at the same time. 

“You students have been so glum and serious,” he sighs, not getting off of either the foot nor the shoulder. Instead, he opts to wedge himself between Megumi and Yuuji, and then wraps his long, gangly arms around Megumi in a suffocating bear hug. He’s pressed so far into the man’s chest that he can’t breathe, let alone yell at him to let go. There’s no hope anyway; when he wants to, Gojo’s grip is no different from steel. “What’s all this wriggling for, Megs? Don’t want a hug from your favourite teacher?”

Whatever he replies with gets muffled away. 

“Why’re we doing a grad trip with zero grads?” Maki asks, pointing a paring knife at him. Not for the sake of the threat, but more so for dramatic effect. And so that he knew she was speaking to him. It was like communicating with a frantic dog, eyes darting left and right underneath that blindfold. 

“Easy,” Gojo replies. “It’s not a grad trip, it’s for completing the school year without getting killed! It’s whoever’s going, which is not Takuma-kun. Yuuta’s due to return the day of the trip, too!”

“Oh yeah?” Maki hums. “When’s that?”

“Tomorrow.”

As expected, Nobara topples off the stool of the breakfast bar, shrieking, “WHAT?!”

While Nobara again begins the hysteric hand-waving, exclaiming how it’s too short-notice to pack sufficiently and about how she has nothing to wear, Megumi wriggles his forearms between himself and Gojo, giving one big push to separate himself from the man. Gojo lets him. He knows this because he is successful in getting away. “Go take a shower,” he grumbles angrily. “You smell like sweat.”

Gojo wraps a hand around the back of Megumi’s head, pulling the boy straight back into him. “So,” he says, addressing everyone else, as Megumi continues to beat at his arms like a spooked bird. “We’re leaving tomorrow at noon! Yuuta-kun should join us by eleven. Pack for five days! We’re going to a hot springs resort.”

“Are we actually going to a hot springs resort?” Nobara questions. “Are you lying? Is it actually a cemetery?”

“And it’s not a work trip?” Panda presses. “Are we there to exorcise things?”

“Don’t lie to us,” Maki adds. “Don’t make me leave my good sword behind if this is actually a mission.”

“Jeez!” Gojo huffs, letting out a fond laugh. “No tricks this time. We’re doing some team bonding! We got three newcomers—well, Yuuta’s not exactly a newcomer, but half of you haven’t met him—so we’re gonna get to know each other before the new first years kill our bazingo and crash our party!”

They stare at him as a collective. No one’s sure what those words mean exactly. Megumi’s glad that there is a general disdain for Gojo’s tomfoolery that is so reliable and handy amongst them. He sees Maki scribble down a swear word onto her palm with a pen. Her recent talks with Yaga about “anger management techniques” have paid off to some degree, then.

“Alright, alright, this is training,” he concedes. “But it’s not any training you’re used to! We’re gonna learn to work as a team!”

“What does that mean,” Megumi grunts, finally wrenching himself away from Gojo. Just to be safe, he takes three wide steps away from him. Now he smells like sweat. Now he has to shower. He already showered this morning. He’s gonna have to shampoo his hair again, and now his hair’s gonna be all dried out. He just ran out of conditioner. 

“He signed up for a last minute discount corporate team building package,” a voice calls from the doorway. Shoko pads into the room, pulling at the still-full coffee maker to pour herself a cup. “It suits exactly ten people. They’re gonna make you do icebreakers and do a three-legged race or something. But you get to relax at the onsen and there’s free food.”

“And you’re coming with us!” Gojo exclaims.

“No the fuck I’m not.”

“Shoko!” he gasps. “Don’t cuss in front of the kids!”

That’s the proof, then. Right in the pudding. Megumi got his cussing habits from all those instances as a kid where Shoko watched over him. It felt normal. If a grown, responsible adult was swearing, why couldn’t he? And sure, maybe Shoko wasn’t the grown-est, most responsible adult around, but she had Gojo lapped in that category, so she was close enough. 

Ah, now he had to pack. Five days. That’s at least twelve sets of underwear, in case he shits himself, or more likely, gets blown up by a curse. And a few extra shirts, again, in case he spills soup on himself, or gets blown up by a curse. A jacket, in case it gets cold, or if he ends up lost in the middle of the night, getting chased by a curse. Some spare conditioner, in case the stuff they have at the resort sucks. Or if he gets blown up by a curse and needs to redo his hair.. Some swimming clothes, in case there’s any water to swim in. Or if he gets swallowed up into the domain of a typhoon curse. And his multi charger. 

No one packs like Megumi does. Ever since he’s mastered his Shadow void, storage has been a nothing burger. You’ll never catch him anywhere with a backpack. He can fit just about anything inside the shadows, but he hasn’t tried it on living things yet. Not that he’ll ever try. Now it’s a matter of hiding this secret ability from Nobara, who would absolutely make him carry everything in his shadow if she found out. 

There’s a hint of a smile on his face. He feels silly. The grin immediately washes off as his eyes trail over, for the umpteenth time, to where Yuuji stands idly. He’s clenching and unclenching his hand. When he catches a glimpse of the boy’s palm, he thinks he sees the peeking of a pink tongue, and fangs, cleaving a groove along the transverse crease running from his forefinger to his wrist. His eyebrows are furrowed. 

When Megumi looks up at him across the room, they hold eye contact for two seconds.

When Yuuji looks away, unhurriedly, uninterested, bored, Megumi knows for sure this time that something is wrong.

That sinking feeling comes rushing back.

Chapter Text

Their plans are put on hold just for a little bit. They need to, because when Okkotsu Yuuta does finally make an appearance, he’s shaking and covered in blood, limping into the foyer and promptly collapsing. 

It was a mess from the very beginning, really. Megumi had woken up to the sound of clanging metal outside his dorm. When he opened the door, he was greeted by Panda, who had somehow gotten his head stuck in a bucket, and Inumaki, who was taking pictures of Panda on his phone instead of helping. 

Maki came charging down the hall immediately after, cutting through the air with a vicious sidekick directly at Panda’s bucket head in what Megumi could only assume was an attempt at getting the bucket unstuck. It didn’t work. It only made Panda roar in disbelief, and pain. 

Nobara had also turned the shared bathroom upside down in search of her tampons, and everyone swore up and down that they didn’t know where they were. Instead of borrowing Maki’s, claiming she’d rather die than ask her prized senpai for that, she had made Megumi go down to the pharmacy with her at eight in the morning. 

Hakari and Hoshi were, oh my fucking god, not informed at all about this stupid trip. And Megumi was the one to break the news to them that yes, they were going to a resort and yes, they were leaving in three hours. Yes, five full days. No, he doesn’t know if it's a four night’s stay or five. Yes, they’re gonna provide food. If they don’t, Gojo’s money will. No, there’s no bar. None that they’ll access, at least. No, he doesn’t know which tonic would pair best with absinthe. He doesn’t even know what that is. 

He thinks of an alternate universe where Gojo’s not only irresponsible, but also an alcohol fan. It’s some cosmic blessing that Gojo’s always been against drinking; no doubt, if he wasn’t, there would be no hope for Hakari.

He has to remember to pack the multi plug outlet and multi charger, because he knows one of his classmates will start complaining about not being able to charge their phone on day two. 

When he rounds the corner, he finds Nobara somehow arguing, verbally, with Inumaki. Apparently he stole her facewash or something, but swears up and down that it wasn’t him. Panda’s still in the fucking bucket. Their suitcases are everywhere, some of them strewn open. There’s an incriminating bottle of orange face wash peeking out from under a white hoodie, but Megumi keeps his mouth shut. Gojo’s nowhere to be found. They’re so damn loud about it. His inching, boiling hatred for Gojo’s terrible planning balloons to a crescendo. 

And then Yuuta walks in, clutching his shoulder to staunch some terrible wound, and suddenly there is a change of plans. 

At least the sight has everyone shutting up and getting straight to business. Inumaki stops angrily making obscene gestures at Nobara, and instead rushes off to find Shoko.

(Shoko is, hypothetically, coming with them on the trip, so she should, hypothetically, be somewhere nearby.)

Maki pulls out some stray shirt out of someone’s suitcase and wraps it around Yuuta’s wound, ushering him to sit down at the bench. After seeing his unfocused eyes, she ushers him to lie down as well. Panda’s grabbing the first aid kit off the wall from the nearest classroom. Nobara pulls out a water bottle, swinging it by the carabiner, unsure what to do. 

That covers all the bases. This isn’t a five person ordeal. Megumi stays for as long as it takes for Shoko to come pacing down the hall, and then he disappears back into his dorm.

There’s one face that was missing this morning. One voice. One extra set of hands. A mop of pink hair. 

Yuuji’s door is still shut. There’s no noise, no shuffling inside. When he knocks, there’s no answer. 

“Itadori?” he asks, voice quiet in case he’s asleep. Well, he’ll have to wake him up either way, but he doesn’t have to be rude about it.

It’s past eleven now. Everyone should have been set and ready in the foyer by noon, and he hasn’t heard a squeak from his classmate. Normally, he hears way more than a squeak. Normally, he’s the one having people come knocking at his door, asking if he’s awake, if he’s okay, if he’s set to go. 

The lights aren’t even on in the room. No glow peeking out from under the door. He quietly pushes it open. 

“Itadori,” he gasps, because Yuuji is awake, just barely, sitting at the edge of his bed again. Just like that night when he told Megumi, in fewer words, that he was the scum of the earth and needed to get the hell out of his room and that he sucked and deserved to die and get eaten by wolves and also worms, if possible. Not in those exact words, of course. 

“Get out,” Yuuji croaks again, just like last time. There are minor details, though, that can't help but peek out despite the darkness of the room. Yuuji's eyes are reddened. The skin is puffy and hot, and the rest of him looks salt-preserved and frozen. He’s been crying, and now Megumi is nauseous. “Tell the others I’ll be out in ten minutes.”

Well, there are probably a few things Megumi should say about Yuuji’s state of affairs right now, or maybe he should try and do the thing where you hold someone’s hand, but it feels so impossible. Yuuji’s so far away, unreachable all of a sudden. Is this how people look at him when he’s being gloomy? “Actually, uh, Okkotsu-senpai is back but he’s injured, so we’re leaving a little bit later.”

If he wasn’t looking carefully with scrutinizing eyes, he would miss the way Yuuji’s shoulders dropped in relief. 

He resists the urge to scuff his feet against the floorboards. “Do you, um. Need anything?”

“Get out,” he whispers again, in the same voice, with the same downcast eyes, with the same undeserving shame clouding around his head like smog. What is Itadori Yuuji shameful of right now? How could he be? What the hell is going on?

But these are big words, and a feeling that he knows is fear. Megumi’s worried Yuuji would do exactly what he does whenever Gojo would pry a little too much into his doom and gloom. Running away forever. Shutting himself down. Biting the hand that feeds, or whatever. It's not like he hasn't bitten the man.

So he steps back. “Okay. See you in a bit.”

Multi charger, he hums in his mind, desperate to not think about whatever the hell that was as he walks the eight paces down the hall to his own dorm. And now, today, he’s mindlessly, ferociously thankful that Gojo put their dorms side by side. Yuuji might be unreachable, but at least he’s one wall away. Multi charger, he hums. He finds some extra things to throw into his shadow too, some snacks Yuuji might like, a small, portable game console, and his little wolf keychain. 

By the time they hit the road, it’s two in the afternoon. 

Turns out Okkotsu wasn’t even mauled by a curse, or a bear. Turns out, he wasn’t all that injured at all, save for the wound on his shoulder. He was, however, exhausted, which is why he promptly passed out. It’s sorta comforting, but it would’ve been nicer to know this hours ago, when Megumi had that disbelieving chill singe the back of his neck, thinking he just saw someone die in the hallway. He wonders if they’d do the trip anyway, had Okkotsu died. There’s been a running track record of “who cares? Let’s go,” from Gojo these days. 

Yuuta was picking up a kid out of a lake (?) and then the kid wriggled a little too much and he fell trying to scoop him up. He’d managed to get the kid to the boating deck, but he fell haphazardly into the water, scoring a nasty gash along his shoulder from where the deck cleat had dug into him. Somehow, this took place in Tokyo. Megumi tunes out the rest of the story, not really caring about the context of why he was picking some kid out of a lake, how he got in there, what he was doing there, how he got to campus, why Rika hadn’t jumped in to help.

Shoko hadn’t even had to do much. By the time she got there, Yuuta had healed himself most of the way. Still, they had Shoko check to make sure he didn’t set any bones in incorrectly. And force feed him a gatorade.

It’s not a great first impression of Yuuta to Nobara and Yuuji, who have never met the guy before, and the first sight of him is a boy covered in blood, lying on the floor. With Maki looming over him, slapping him across the face, screaming, “Heal yourself, you cunt!” A Special Grade boy. A tall one. With an ever-present, looming curse hanging above him. But, then again, it’s Yuuta, so everything turns out alright. Because it’s Yuuta, this first impression surpasses Hoshi and Hakari’s by miles. Because it’s Yuuta, one of the few people Megumi can bring himself to openly respect, he doesn’t grumble or scoff at the guy when he pulls him into a warm, bloody hug. He’s Gojo’s long lost cousin or something, so he thinks that Megumi’s his family by proxy, and Megumi doesn’t correct him, doesn’t ask, “well, does that mean Maki’s also your ‘family by proxy?’” He’s gotten taller in the past year. It makes Megumi feel like a child, still. 

They’re eleven people. Sure, they could make do with two cars, but then they’d have to sit thigh-to-thigh for two hours or so, and cram all their excessive luggage into the two trunks. 

(In the midst of all the panic and rushing, no one bothers to question why Megumi doesn’t have a single bit of luggage on him for a five day trip.)

So, they get three of the school’s SUVs. The next issue is, with three cars, they need three drivers. Gojo can, theoretically, technically, drive one. His reckless driving a few nights prior was somehow mysteriously wiped from his record. Ijichi drives the other. And for the third…

“I don’t have my license,” Shoko says. She’s packed one single hand carry bag. “Someone else has to drive.”

“I could call Nitta and see if she’s available,” Ijichi offers, already pulling out his phone. “Or Nanami-san. Hmm, Nitta can’t make it…”

“I could drive,” Hoshi offers. Megumi picks up one of his eyebrows, staring her down in disbelief. No, she can’t. She cannot drive. Not legally, not physically. Not at all. He’s seen her behind a wheel.

“Not legally,” Maki says thankfully, before Gojo finds it in him to run with it. “Yuuta,” Maki calls over the hood of one car to where Yuuta stands, hauling the suitcases and fitting them neatly into the trunk. “You can drive, can’t you?”

“Sure!” Yuuta calls out from behind another bag thrown at his face. “Who’s in which car?” Yuuta turned eighteen while he was away in Africa, celebrating his birthday in Morocco with his classmates over a Skype call. He got his license somewhere there, too, and then in his brief visit to Japan, applied for one here as well. 

The rule is one adult minimum in each car, which is a redundant rule given you have to be eighteen to drive. The rule then becomes one non-student in each car, as something of a chaperone. They put the first years with Ijichi in hopes that they won’t pulverize him into smithereens in their two hour drive. They put the third years with Gojo in case they go insane and blow up the city. Megumi’s not sure if that’s in reference to the third years, or Gojo himself. And they throw Panda in there to even out the numbers a little. Panda calls shotgun, and no one fights him for it. If they get pulled over, Gojo’s really good at pulling shit out of his ass. Never constipated! Panda will pretend he’s an avid cosplayer, and Gojo will pretend they were driving to a furry convention while Hoshi fakes a heart attack. Megumi hears them plan this all out in real time. 

Panda’s only a little pissed that he can’t get in the Second Years Party Car, that will hold the remaining second years and thus all his classmates, and a sleepy Shoko. But it’s fine. It’s only for two hours. And this way, he can get shotgun. Otherwise, he would have to fight Maki for it and that is a losing battle, considering Yuuta’s driving.

Panda pats Inumaki on the back twice, lamenting his position of third wheeling Maki and Yuuta for the next two hours. Inumaki shrugs and waves around his ear muffs and blindfold and bag of snacks. He’s ready. 

The Second Years car is lively, with Yuuta recounting his numerous stories about various curses, cuisines, and cultures. He’s a good driver. The ride is smooth. They play TV Girl and Indila. Inumaki passes around some snacks he prepared beforehand. Shoko doesn’t even smoke for the whole ride. They don’t miss a single turn or exit. 

The Gojo Car is a lost cause. They lose sight of them almost immediately, and suddenly none of their phones are picking up either. But it’s Gojo, and it’s Hakari, and it’s in broad daylight, so no one’s too worried when they see them vanish over the horizon, the car cartoonishly bouncing and swinging zigzags across the asphalt. 

Megumi, however, doesn’t think he’s ever experienced a car ride as awkward as this one. Yuuji hasn’t said a word. Nobara insisted she ride shotgun because that privilege belongs to women. He knows that she just wants to adjust her makeup in the sunvisor’s mirror every fifteen minutes. Sure, whatever, but now he’s stuck sitting next to Yuuji, who’s got a thousand-yard stare fixed to the headrest of Nobara’s seat, and it’s like no one else has noticed. 

“...Itadori?” he mumbles, like an idiot. The last few times he’s tried this, he was also an idiot, but he was being an idiot in the privacy of their dorm, without an audience. But now they have the worst audience: Nobara riding shotgun. 

Are you awake? He almost asks, because that’s what he’d normally ask here, but now this is a stupid question. Are you okay?

He needs to think it through. Small words. Careless words, that don’t sound pitying. Careful words, that don’t sound ignorant. 

Oh, he knows.

He discreetly slips a hand into the footwell area of the car, where the shadows are ready and deep. He’s in tune enough with his technique now that he doesn’t need to rummage around inside a nothingness void, fishing out what he needs. The bag of chips is immediately in his hands, and he pries it out carefully, not letting the bag crinkle until the portal is closed. If Nobara finds out he has a built-in storage now, she will chew him out for it for the next thirty kilometers and light him on fire. 

“I have—here,” he presents the bag of chips instead of saying anything more. It seems to snap Yuuji out of whatever trance he’s in. He hands over the bag, and Yuuji slowly lifts a hand to grab it, but his fingers don’t connect. They stay like that, mid air, until Nobara turns to see whatever they’re up to and huffs out indignantly. 

“Salt and vinegar?! You two have the worst taste. You got anything normal back there, Fushiguro? Sour cream? Ketchup?”

“Ketchup isn’t normal,” Yuuji automatically says, and when Megumi looks over at Yuuji’s face, he’s no longer a shell-shocked soldier, but rather the same boy he’s used to seeing. And he’s smiling, looking over at Nobara.

The bag of chips is wordlessly plucked out of his hands. 

Oh.

“Salt and vinegar is like battery acid,” Nobara says, pulling down the sun visor to open up the little mirror and touch up her lip gloss. “Real, classy people like me don’t eat battery acid.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he huffs out, laughing, and then barely glances over at Megumi. “Salt and vinegar is peak. Thanks for the chips, Fushiguro,” he says earnestly, but their eyes don’t meet. He’s looking at his own reflection in the window by Megumi’s head, he knows. Because Megumi is doing the same. Yuuji’s eyes are sunken into his face, and Megumi won’t be able to look without wincing. 

One more try, maybe. A little bit more bravery. “Itadori,” he tries.

“Don’t,” he whispers back, eyes squeezing shut. 

“Itadori!” Nobara cries. She blindly slaps a hand against the back of her own seat. “Hand me the sunscreen! I’m toasting up here! What’s up with you anyway?”

Like a switch, Yuuji perks right back up. “Your brand of sunscreen sucks! It smells like disinfectant,” he teases, sticking his tongue out and angling his head to the side so that Nobara can see his evil little face in the side view mirror. He grins once more, and when he looks back over at Megumi, the smile freezes on his face. He quickly looks away. “Try the Vichy one, Kugisaki,” he mumbles, staring at the moving buildings whizzing by them.

Oh.

Megumi doesn’t think he’s gonna recover from this one. 

Megumi sits, now shell-shocked and silent, the entirety of the ride. Yuuji quips back at Nobara, and leaves the open bag of chips in the seat between himself and Megumi. Nobara jokingly suggests they buckle up the bag of chips so it doesn’t go flying, and Yuuji, with a short laugh, does indeed buckle up the chips. Megumi eats none. He sees the invitation to, though. It feels like an erroneous repentance. 

Two hours. Long, grueling hours. They make it to the resort in one piece, but Megumi is going to fall to bits over this for days. 

Oh, come on! It’s a hot springs resort! The whole point of this place is to relax and get away from negative thoughts, so why were there so many curses scurrying about like rats in this place?

To be fair most of them were even weaker than a flyhead. Megumi didn’t even need to lift a finger to exorcise it, crushing the thing away like a thumb-wide roach on the floor. 

But they’re everywhere. Beady, miniscule eyes watching your every move, clustering in dark corners like fungal grime. Unable to do any real damage, except for invoking that feeling of disgust, like when you find mold on half of something you’d already eaten. Maybe to others, that wouldn’t be a huge ordeal, but it’s not something Megumi can stand for. 

They drop their bags off in quaint little rooms that have warm lighting and heated floors. Megumi didn’t realize how far north they were until he stepped out of the car. It’s cold, for the cusp of summer. 

The Gojo Car did, in fact, make it to their destination. But Megumi’s pretty sure that the rims look a little bit different, and the license plate is crooked, and there’s definitely some hot pink silly string sprayed all over the dashboard, and the bumper plate is missing. When he tries to confront Panda about it, he’s told that it’s a classified matter. 

Not for the first time in his life, he's terribly jealous of Maki, who just plucked the glasses off her face and boom! No curses. It's weird, seeing her face without them. He thought she might've worn them to sleep, with how deeply they've set into her face. He thinks he would wear it often too, if he knew of curses and their dangers, but couldn't see them. 

It’s nearly 5:30 PM by the time they settle down enough to regroup. It’s in this instance that Yuuta properly gets introduced to Yuuji and Nobara. What’s most impressive about this ordeal is that Yuuta somehow cuts through Nobara’s fifteen tests of faith and also a superficial skin care examination, immediately getting on her good side. 

Megumi tries not to feel pissy about it. His skin care routine is miles better than whatever dirt and grime Yuuta probably uses. 

Yuuta earns the title of “second-most respectable senpai” which obviously implies Maki is number one. Maki nods as if this is a matter of course. 

“Itadori Yuuji, right?” Yuuta asks as they sit around the central lounge. Gojo isn’t here yet. Megumi has no proof, but Gojo is definitely at a police station, pulling some strings about their “classified matters” of a road trip just now. He has no proof, but also no doubts. He saw Panda and Hoshi scheming about something, in the corner. 

Yuuta’s not in his usual white uniform. It’s so damn weird to see the guy in sweats and jeans, leaning over and manspreading on the armchair. Last time Megumi saw him, he couldn’t reach the oatmeal jar in the kitchen. Panda used to be able to lift him with one arm. His hair was shorter and he looked like a scraggly middle schooler. 

Yuuta now has the faintest hints of a five o’clock shadow coming in. Faint, barely there. But the ends of the hair are blunt, giving the impression that he’d had to shave at some point.

“Yeah,” Yuuji replies, but the sound is muffled from a mouthful of breadsticks. He’s hogging the basket. “You’re one of the four Special Grade sorcerers! That’s so cool!”

Yuuta tries not to wince and choke. Gojo’s not here, at least. 

“Uhm,” Yuuta nearly stutters. “One of three,” he corrects. “The other one… there’s no other one. It’s three.”

“Hmm,” Yuuji hums, still just as clueless. “What happened to the other one? Could’ve sworn it was four… who told me it was four?” His eyes drift around.

God damn it, he’s looking at Megumi. “I never told you anything, ever,” Megumi defends when the entire world (all members in the lobby) begin to eye at him. “It’s Gojo who teaches you things.”

Yuuji’s not sure where the defensiveness comes from, obviously, so he continues to demolish the basket of breadsticks. 

“Uh,” Yuuta continues. “You’re the vessel? For Ryōmen Sukuna. I’ve heard a lot about you, but it’s the first time I’m meeting you. How’s that going?”

“Good,” Yuuji hums through a mouthful, and does not add further context. Good, like the whole vessel business is going well? Good, like he’s been hitting his finger-eating quota lately? Good, as in Sukuna hasn’t been popping up and going crazy?

“Not good!” Nobara shrieks. “He fucking died back in, like, September. A week after classes started. And then he came back to life, except he didn’t tell anyone —”

“—hey! Gojo-sensei was the one that kept me in his basement—”

“—he what —” Yuuta interrupts. 

“—and then at the exchange event, he pops up out of a box, going, ‘surprise!’ Like that’s gonna keep me from killing him again! And the Kyoto kids tried to assassinate him at the exchange event!” she finishes. 

Yuuta blinks at the two of them. 

“It was nice in the basement,” Yuuji amends, like anyone needs to know. “It had a sofa. I watched a bunch of movies.”

“He spent his entire dead-time watching movies while we were thinking he died!” Nobara adds. 

A paw lands down on Nobara and Yuuji’s shoulder, each. “Guys,” Panda’s deep voice rumbles. “We’re here for team building! Not team destructing! Let’s get along.”

Hakari and Hoshi don't really make an effort to socialize. The rest of them chat idly until the glaring absence of Gojo, the organizer of this rendezvous, and the one with the itinerary and check in number, becomes far too apparent.

Megumi’s suspicion of Gojo being at the police department is slowly becoming a reality, with each passing minute that Gojo’s just not here. 

“Megumi,” Maki calls over to him. “Go find out what that idiot is up to.”

“Why me?!”

She doesn’t grace him with a response, just raising one fine, cynical eyebrow at him. And, well, he can’t really argue with that. 

It’s nearly 6 PM. The day’s practically over. He keeps his strides short and slow, hoping to stretch that number to 7 PM so they can just go the hell to sleep and Megumi can purge that car non-conversation out of his head tonight. 

“Gojo,” Shoko sighs. She doesn’t have it in her to go chewing him out right now. It’s not like the man would even listen to her. And what’s done is done. 

“And they kept asking, ‘what furry convention are you going to, sir?’ Like that’s a question you ask people! It’s not the cops’ business which furry convention I’m going to! Hello?! It’s private!” the albino prattles on, ignoring Shoko entirely. 

“Could you not have asked Panda to just pretend to be a doll?” Shoko asks.

Gojo stops abruptly in his pacing down the street. They walked back from the precinct after dropping the kids off at the drop off point of the resort, an old, charming building covered in winter greens. Gojo’s got a knack for speeding, but he wishes it was a speeding ticket that he was pulled over for, this time. Sure, he had the foresight to expect that the popo would not take kindly to seeing an animal riding shotgun in a car with a blindfolded man driving it, and two teenagers in the backseat. What was he supposed to do? Put up a veil over their car and risk getting rear-ended?

“And then what? They’re gonna poke at him to make sure he’s a doll. Or try and find a point where they can pull his stuffing out. That’s basically sexual harassment! I can’t let my students go through that! I’m the adult here,” Gojo explains. 

“Why’d you bring me here, Gojo?” Shoko sighs. “Not to the police station. The trip. I have work to do, and now I just have to do it all online while babysitting the kids at the same time. The trip is for ten people. I’m the eleventh.”

“Shokoo,” Gojo whines. “You don’t want to keep me company? The team building stuff and all that is for the kids. They’re nine people. You and me aren’t participating.”

“Then why’d you bring me here?” she asks, trying not to pop a vein at her forehead. 

Gojo pulls his blackout shades off his face just to bat his eyelashes at her. The blindfold stays loosely dangling around his neck. “You needed a break. Don’t think I haven’t seen you overworking yourself. Plus, hot springs are a social thing! I’m not socializing with a bunch of scrawny brats.”

“You realize that the men and women’s baths are separated, right?”

“Ah, that’s why I got us the couple’s suite.”

“Gojo,” she sighs again. “You know I don’t like men, right?”

“Shoko,” Gojo mocks in the same voice. “You know I don’t really swing that way either, right?”

Shoko can only frown at him for about ten more seconds before her face splits into a tiny grin. “Sure, whatever.” She pulls out a round lollipop, suckling at the orange candy between two fingers. “Just keep the whole you-know-who rambling to a minimum.”

She huffs out, noticing her breath faintly wisp into vapour at the chilling atmosphere. The sun wasn’t gone yet, but it was coming down, and with it, the dewy grounds would soon become frost. She knew Gojo had a tendency to be spontaneous, and it’d be fine if everyone else wasn’t forced to accommodate each time. Sometimes, she nearly felt bad for the higher ups for having to put up with his insubordination. But, on the other hand, they were assholes who would sell her for five hundred yen, so who really cares. If she’s gonna be here, she is taking full advantage of it. She is getting in the springs every single night. 

“Hey, about that,” she mumbles around the lollipop. “The onsen?”

“Hmm?” Gojo asks. 

“They’re split between men and women?”

“No,” Gojo replies. “I got one private one. Considering our group. It’s big, though. Anyone can go in whenever. The kids can make their own groups and pick their own times. Or just not go. I don’t think Panda’s gonna.”

“Yeah, about that too—”

Gojo waves his hand, vaguely gesturing at the air. “This place isn’t run by sorcerers, but the current staff are windows, so they know. And if they don't: furry convention!”

This is a resort, she wants to say. Not a furry convention. “You cannot keep doing this to him,” she sighs, but keeps pace behind him anyway. 

“Gojo-sensei!” a voice yells out from around the bend. Megumi comes jogging down the street, slowing down once he’d ran into them. “What the hell is taking so long? Everyone’s waiting. The day’s basically over.”

“How’d you know where I’d be?” Gojo hums, a sly grin on his face. 

Megumi only scowls in response. So he was at the police station. 

“Alright, alright,” he gives in, patting Megumi’s head and then moving him along the street like a vacuum cleaner. “We’ll call it a day. It’s been a hectic few hours.”

“For you,” Megumi corrects. “What were you doing that landed you at the police station?”

“I’m entitled to my secrets, Megumi-chan,” he winks, in lieu of a proper answer. “Don’t try and wiggle it out of Panda either. We’re here to relax. Let the past be the past!”

Megumi can sizably guess the caliber of the crime, just from that admission.

Gojo’s actually quite lucky that he’s always had a sort of aloof, childish personality. It makes it easier to read teen and tweenaged Megumi, who’s in his pit-of-doom, teenage-dumpster-fire phase. They might look like polar opposites, and act like polar opposites, with the flat, stark white hair and sharp, spiky black tufts, and the gatorade blue eyes and Megumi’s deep green ones. It was impossible to ever convince airport security that they were related. Gojo would have to keep the documents on him, and have a deep and serious conversation with Megumi about not screaming, “help! I don’t know him, he’s not my dad!” in jest at the security check. Not that Gojo thinks he ever would; he was a prickly kid, but ten times more reasonable than he ever was. And it’s not like he’d be wrong; Gojo’s not really his dad. And maybe, he did sort of get kidnapped.

They’re so different, but there are some fundamental similarities. For one, you could not waterboard the touchy feelies out of Gojo, not if his life depended on it. Likewise, getting Megumi to tell him what was bothering him was like pulling teeth, or maybe something worse. He had plenty of experience in pulling teeth. Some days he thinks there are secrets, important, caustic, heavy secrets, that Megumi’s ready to take to the grave when he doesn’t have to. 

Well, that’s what this trip is for, no?

Maybe if Gojo spills a few deep, dark, but child-appropriate secrets, Megumi might start letting go of those binding ropes that cut across the transverse of his palm. He’ll learn that it’s never worth holding on to them.

Chapter Text

He’s trying not to think about it, but he wonders if it might be something deeper, something ancestral, and maybe inherently related to his martyrdom of a cursed technique, that keeps pushing him to check on Yuuji and then get a door slammed in his face. 

Something’s wrong, and that’s old news. The next burning question is: what the hell is wrong with Yuuji?

Maybe he should stop doing this at midnight, and maybe wait until the sun rises and they’ve had a bit of breakfast in them, but the issue is that Yuuji always starts the shuffling at night. At first, Megumi thought it was a nightmare, but each time he’d check in on the guy, he was in the same position: wide awake, sitting at the bottom edge of the bed, staring at the wall. 

He sort of wishes it was nightmares. At least, then, he could wake Yuuji out of the dream realm, and maybe they could talk about it, and none of it would be real. Not real enough to see with waking eyes, at least. He would shake him awake, and Yuuji could be saved. 

“Itadori,” he sighs, for the fifth time that night, feeling like Anna from that one movie. He tries not to sound exasperated. It’s not like the shuffling next door is annoying. It’s quiet, quiet enough that Megumi could lull himself to sleep and ignore it. But he can’t, because it’s Yuuji, and so something must be wrong. “Please open the door.”

He sees a small rat-like curse scurry along the corridor, and quietly pulls his fingers around to summon a single rabbit to chase it down and tear it apart with its little teeth. 

“Go back to sleep,” Yuuji calls out through the door. Hollow. The voice is distant enough for Megumi to guess that he’s still sitting at the edge of his bed. It’s the same response as the last three times. Megumi’s running out of ideas.

“Are you jerking off in there or something?” he blurts out. There’s a little bit of irritation in his tone that’s completely unintentional. But it seems to have the desired effect, because he hears a loud thud , some grumbling and cursing. How’d he manage to fall on the floor if he was already sitting on the bed?

He pushes the door open, because he’s absolutely sure he’s been blacklisted from Yuuji’s room and that the guy would never open the door for him again, so he must do it himself. He finds it unlocked, and he’s really not sure how to feel about that one. 

The vision board in his mind is starting to resemble a murder investigation, but Megumi’s not sure who died, or who the killer is, or what crime was ever involved. All he has are loose leads: Yuuji left the door unlocked. He could’ve locked it, would normally lock it, but he left the door unlocked. Meaning? Tentatively unsure. Maybe… maybe Yuuji wants someone to check in. Yuuji accepted the bag of chips on the car ride. However, he only accepted them once Nobara noticed them in the backseat. Meaning? The running hypothesis is that Yuuji cannot stand Megumi’s guts, and thinks that he’ll get poisoned if he eats the chips. Or maybe he wasn’t hungry, but didn’t want to seem rude. 

Actually, there’s another lead: he didn’t even eat any of the chips, just shuffled the bag around, picking out a few crumbs and lifting them to his mouth to make it appear as if he’d eaten them. Megumi knows this because he didn’t eat any chips out of the bag, which was buckled between them. And the amount of chips never really decreased. And another lead: Yuuji seems to be acting as usual around everybody else, for the most part. There’s a twitchy, heartbeat-ish thrum in his fingers, however, that no one seems to notice. And he knows Yuuji ate something at that restaurant, but it was half his usual order. He’s normally able to pack away five bowls of rice, easy. Meaning? Megumi’s unsure. 

The red thumbtacks and woolen string don’t seem to crisscross or overlap, instead making a slow and steady spiral, narrowing in on one speculative theory: Yuuji was both the killer and the victim. 

Thankfully, just like the last four times, when he walks into Yuuji’s room, he is not jerking off in there. 

Kind words were one tactic, so maybe he needs to switch gears and do what he does best: antagonize people without meaning to. 

“Itadori,” he huffs, a little more firm this time, a little more annoyed, but only a little bit. Because he’s only a little annoyed, but mostly worried, and both halves of him are filled to the brim with a new sort of fear that no curse could ever siphon out of him. 

“What’s with you?!” Yuuji nearly shrieks, red in the face. He definitely fell, if Megumi’s superior investigative skills are anything to trust. The corner of the bed where Yuuji was sitting has been shuffled around, and the blanket’s dangling off the edge like he tried to grab it on his way down. He looks a little angry. This is good. Anger is better than the apathy, better than the pretense, something so out of place in Yuuji's expressions. “Seriously, Fushiguro, you can’t just barge into people’s rooms and say stuff like that—!”

I said it and then barged into your room, he wants to correct, just to be petty, but the words gum up in the back of his throat and he can’t reach them anymore. 

“Have you lost weight?” he says instead, very, very quietly, but the way Yuuji cuts himself off makes it feel like he just shouted at the top of his lungs. 

There’s no shortage of athleticism in Yuuji’s physique, never has been, likely never will. The kid’s a tank engine, a car, a bulldozer, faster than lightning, stronger than the strength of fifty men, if Megumi’s lowballing it. The first time he’d seen the kid shirtless (moments after Sukuna had taken over and torn his shirt off, howling at a full moon) he was fifteen years old and somehow had an eight-pack.

He’s pretty sure Yuuji’s on the tail end of 90% pure muscle, and he eats like it. Or did. 

He’s seen this red PJ shirt on him before. It never hung from his shoulders like that. Never had any folds at the half-sleeves. Yuuji’s arms were always wide enough to make it fit just right.

Yuuji blinks at him twice, and Megumi takes this as a terrible, terrible fucking sign because normally, he would answer with an immediate ‘no,’ or a joking ‘are you calling me skinny? Don’t worry, I’ll still kick your ass,’ but instead he’s blinking at him. Thinking of an answer. “It’s nothing,” Yuuji sighs, and there’s strike two: he’s avoiding eye contact. “I think it was the heat. I’m not used to working this much outdoors. I’m glad we’re up north. The cold will help.”

That’s strike three, no doubt. Overcompensation. The right answer was: ‘Get out, Fushiguro, I’m fine,’ which isn’t amazing by any standards, but Yuuji’s always been a piss poor liar, and he’s piss poor lying right now.

There’s heated floors here. Megumi’s wearing his bunny slippers and a loose t-shirt that says “feta cheese enthusiast” in the Lobster font, because Gojo thought that was funny. There are no curses in Yuuji’s room, not even the small ones that weave themselves into cobwebs in hidden corners. Megumi did the same, getting his shikigami to scour each inch of his room and exorcise everything before he even started unpacking. The room is raw, and the wallpaper pulses with the residual cursed energy like stubborn razor burns, but it’s better than the alternative.

There are no lights on, because Yuuji’s habit involves sitting in the dark, and that’s been a selling point. But the window blinds are drawn, and there’s enough moonlight pillowing into the room for Megumi to see that Yuuji is full of shit right now, and lying, and that something’s wrong and he doesn’t trust him enough to say just what. 

It’s warm here, it’s safe, but he feels like he’s about to become roadkill. Like he will be a smear of blood splattered across the asphalt in two minutes’ time, and Yuuji will still be the killer and the victim who will not get justice all at once. 

“I think you’re full of shit,” he declares. A gamble. A real hit or miss.

“Just get out, Fushiguro. I don’t know what you want from me.”

Each time he says it, the words peel back like another layer of skin, more raw, more acidic to the touch. 

The investigation board in his mind starts to materialize again. A picture of Yuuji tacked right in the middle, with a black bar over his eyes. The culprit? The culprit, culprit, culprit…

It’s so damn hard, having to be the open one, the pushy one, the caring one, because it’s just not something he can do. Megumi’s spent all his life being a recluse of sorts, always having people at his doorstep begging to be let in, just for a few minutes, just for a bit of context, for some peace of mind. He doesn’t have Gojo’s tenacity for such things. No one has Gojo’s tenacity. Yuuta would be better at this. Maki might even be better at this. Nobara would somehow find all the wrong words, and make it work perfectly anyway. Inumaki could do it in no words. 

There must be something telling on his face, because all the fight seems to slip away from Yuuji’s shoulders like a slack marionette. This is even worse, because Yuuji’s never dropped a fight. Not one he believes in, at least. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, looking away again. “That was rude. I’m just having trouble sleeping right now. I dunno what to say. I’ll wear myself out eventually. You should go to sleep, our day starts at eight tomorrow.” Today, technically. 

Look at me when you say it! he wants to beg. Another half of him has seven or so questions he’s terrified to ask. 

“Okay,” he replies instead, feeling like a plastic cake topper that’s sinking into curdling buttercream. Yuuji’s still on the floor. The room has shrunk and he is roadkill, and there’s no more space for him to be here anymore. This is the last time he’ll knock at Itadori’s door tonight. 

Okay. He steps away, reaching for the door handle. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” Yuuji suddenly blurts out from behind him. Megumi slowly turns to look at him again. He’s smiling sheepishly, hand on the back of his neck. “Nothing’s really wrong. I know this is probably worrying you, Fushiguro. Thanks, but I’ll be fine. I’m just sorting out some stuff right now. Don’t worry about it. Sleep well.”

That’s all well and good, but Yuuji doesn’t know this secret: Megumi’s a great detective. And Yuuji’s hands are shaking with a faint tremor again that he masks by clenching and unclenching his fingers into a loose fist. Tugging at the corner end of the blanket that’s fallen halfway to the ground. 

“You’re a terrible liar, Yuuji,” he mutters. And I am on your case.  

He turns and marches out, slamming the door shut behind him. 

There’s always some undercurrent of apprehension deeply rooted in every single jujutsu window Megumi’s ever met. He thinks working so closely with Ijichi has sort of, unfairly, turned the guy into the baseline archetype for windows and assistant managers in his mind. They’re all scared of curses, or wary of them, or hateful towards them, but windows have some bizarre relationship with sorcerers too and he cannot understand what exactly it is. Nitta’s a more tame example. Her apprehension is hair-pulling frustration and weekly HR complaints. 

Ijichi’s jumpy. Diligent. Speaks in full sentences, which is rare around here. Compound sentences, even. Ones where you can hear the punctuation. He picks up his phone when you call, and he leaves voicemails when you don’t pick up. He talks to sorcerers impersonally, professionally, with plenty of heebie jeebies. 

It’s no different now. 

The man tasked with being their team leader for the trip isn’t a sorcerer, but a window. And he’s staring at them like they’ll turn into a bomb and explode any second now. 

“Alright, team! Thank you for trusting our wonderful establishment for your very personal team building getaway! Uhm,” he picks at the corner of his clipboard, clearly stalling, because his eyes don’t move to read anything at all. “So I know your group is a… private company of sorts? Normally, we work with members of large corporations that work within a certain department, such as finance or media. Just to break the ice, uhm, what sector are you all in?”

Jesus. So it’s worse than the Jumpy Assistant Manager archetype. It's the Absolutely Fucking Clueless Window archetype. 

Maki raises a hand from her seat in the circle. “Are you really a window?”

Megumi can see the sweaty sheen at the back of his neck intensify. “Y—Yes! I can see curses, but I have no formal jujutsu training, and we don’t really get many curses up here aside from the tiny ones…”

Gojo and Shoko are out having “girl’s brunch,” leaving them to the wolves. It’s not his fault then, if by the end of the day, the sacred vow of Thou Shalt Not Tell Non-Sorcerers Anything Ever is broken and shattered and pricking bare feet. 

The Man clears his throat. “Ah, uhm, so… I’m guessing you’re all sorcerers?” He’s met with some general nods. “Wow! I don’t know if I’ve ever met one before! Uh, well, my name’s Hiroshi, and I’ll be your team leader. We’ll be doing some team building activities, and…”

This might be making things worse, somehow. Sorcery is a tough profession, sure, but there’s a charm to it where never in his life would Megumi ever compare it to an office job, or corporate job. The mundanity just doesn’t exist. There are bigger feelings, bigger fish to fry, but at least, Megumi’s never pictured his future with a text printed coffee mug and a little grey cubicle. He thinks of Nanami’s vitriolic hatred for corporate workspaces. He wonders if the man’s ever considered working outside of finance, maybe as a nurse or a paralegal… 

They sit at a large, oakwood table. It’s beautifully polished, with little to no flaw in the grain. The circle’s just a hair’s breadth too big to feel cozy, but Megumi does not want to get cozied up next to where Kirara and Kinji are nearly straddling each other right now. It’s damn weird, seeing everyone huddled together like this. The only instances where he sees all his classmates in one place are during the doomsdays where a national emergency is declared and they need to be briefed on a be-all-end-all mission. And they’re never wearing regular clothes on the doomsdays either; it’d be the school uniform or perhaps a bucket of blood. 

“So to start, we’ll do an icebreaker—two truths, one lie,” Hiroshi says, clutching his clipboard for dear life. “Uh, so, the rules of the game are—well, it’s not really a—okay, okay,” he huffs. “We’ll go in a circle. Each person says two true things, and then one lie. And then the rest of the group will have to guess what the lie is. The purpose of this game is to get to know each other better, on a deeper level..."

If he stutters one more time, perhaps Megumi will start holding Ijichi on a pedestal. Sure, the guy's jumpy and perpetually stressed, but so are most people who are forced to work with Gojo. At the very least, Ijichi's able to hold a conversation with fifteen year old teens without combusting. 

"If you'd like, I could go first, uhm... Take some time now to think of something interesting about yourself—”

A large paw comes slamming down towards the middle of the roundtable, making it shiver on its legs. “I’ll go first!” Panda yells. “Truth! I—”

“Pan-da!” Maki yells, ramming a fist down onto his head. “You don’t announce whether it’s a truth or a lie, you dimwit!”

“Right, right,” Panda hums thoughtfully, rubbing at his furry head. Hiroshi looks like he’s about to get blown away into ashes. “Hmm, I am a cursed corpse, I saw a bird this morning, and Mount Fuji is in Okinawa.”

Yuuta’s head goes slumping down against the table. “Okay, let’s just move on. Maki, you go next.”

Maki straightens up like she’s about to give a testimony. Megumi understands why once he hears her pitch. “I stole 5000 yen out of Toge’s wallet, Megumi’s sweater is ugly, and I got arrested last month.”

“Arrested,” Nobara says immediately.

“Arrested,” Panda agrees. 

“Arrested,” Yuuta agrees. “No way you got arrested.”

“Mustard leaf!” Toge exclaims, patting his jeans down, no doubt in search of his wallet. 

Megumi’s eye twitches at the unanimous implication. 

But the irritated feeling is balmed over so nicely when he feels a light tug at his jacket, where Yuuji is sitting to his right. “I think your sweater’s nice,” Yuuji whispers, like it’s a secret. Megumi thinks it’s enough for him to give up the I’m-Mad-At-You act. 

But then he follows it up with, “You look really great in it,” and now he’s gonna have to light himself on fire, and he just doesn’t have the time or resources to do that. Completely inconsiderate. He’s mad again. He’s gonna put Yuuji in an iron cross the next time they spar.

“There’s no hope for that sweater,” Nobara whisper-yells at him across the table with cupped palms to make sure that she cancels Yuuji’s vote. “Take it off!” Megumi sics a small white rabbit on her, and the shikigami begins to chew ferociously at her hair. 

Inumaki wiggles out of his turn, even though they all know damn well he could’ve scribbled something on a bit of paper, or typed it out onto his phone. Megumi doesn’t blame him. He’d do the same. 

Hoshi and Hakari must have some human dignity, some sense of decency, because Kirara gets off his lap shortly after the game starts. Their chairs are scooted together, like they can’t bear to be apart, like it’s necessary for them to breathe, but at least they’re not outright eating each other’s faces at the icebreaker table. There are boundaries to be built here, too. Not just the ones to be dropped. 

“Hmm-mm,” Kirara hums in a two-tone pitch on her turn, pointing a finger into her cheek. “I like it hot, I only buy A-grade weed, and I love Kin!”

‘I like it hot.’

Megumi’s learned too much about his classmates already. He misses who he was two minutes ago. 

“Hoshi-senpai,” Yuuta groans into his hands covering up his face. It’s either the weed or… Megumi resists the urge to throw something at her. 

No one guesses the lie, blissfully. The problem just escalates when Kinji goes:

“I like it when she likes it hot,” he starts with a diabolical smirk. “I only buy A-grade weed, and I love my ‘Rara.”

They call it a wrap from there.

There’s actually never a true break for sorcerers. Midway into their Salad, Soup, or Sandwich debate, Yuuta’s phone starts ringing. This is after their ten minute long discourse about whether or not pineapple belongs on pizza. Megumi doesn’t care, but he’s learned one thing: it’s easy enough to find the ambition to try and hammer a nail into the wall with your forehead. He’s been fantasizing about it for the full ten minutes. The entire ordeal is so horribly cliché, and his classmates are actually sort of awful people, so it’s a lose-lose situation. 

Toge keeps flicking plastic spoonfuls of soggy, fruity cereal that he acquired from the snack bar at him. Nobara must’ve done debate club in middle school, because she’s been the reigning champion in each instance, even if absolutely no one agrees with her. Megumi’s frayed the end of the right sleeve of his hoodie in his frustrations. 

Yuuta’s phone rings, and there’s a miniscule, collective sigh. They all know. He gets up and quietly excuses himself into the next room. The room itself is entirely made of glass, glass walls, glass door, floor length windows. Yuuta looks like he’s taking an ordinary business call in his office. Megumi wonders what the casualty rate of the call will be this time. 

“Sorry guys,” Yuuta sighs as he walks back. Hiroshi looks up questioningly. The man had decidedly planted himself at a very separate chair about five meters away from the group, only intervening when it was time to move onto the next activity. 

“Where is it?” Maki asks. “Need company?”

Yuuta waves the question away. “It’s nearby. Walkable distance. It’s a solo trip, I’m fine. I should be back by—”

“Did I ask if you needed help?” Maki interrupts, irritated as always. It’s both harrowing and confoundingly comforting to see that she has the same mannerisms that Megumi does. They’re related. They have the same grandparent/great-grandparent. That means something now. “This shit is boring anyway. Cereal is a soup. You guys are freaks for even thinking it could be a salad. I’ll join you.”

Yuuta’s sigh of resignation is a yes to her. She’s already pulling on her jacket, which was slung inside out over the back of her chair, onto her shoulders. And then she’s pulling him out of the room, as if she already knows their destination. Megumi darkly wonders what Yuuta’s deal is that he puts up with her. And then he remembers that he can actually close his eyes and pretend it’s none of his business, which it isn’t, so he does just that. 

“W—was that—!” Hiroshi stutters. “Is there really… a curse here?! Is he gonna kill it?!”

Panda tilts his head down and looks at Hiroshi through his panda eyebrows, pulling his lips into a horrifyingly unnatural smile. “He’s gonna lead the curse…” he says through a full row of teeth. “...straight into your house!”

“AHHHHHHHHHH!” Hiroshi screams in utmost terror. 

Please. It’s not even lunch yet, and Megumi’s already started the whole ordeal of begging the gods for divine intervention. Please please please please please. Please. He never knows what he’s asking for. Maybe a grand, impossible situation, that plucks him right out of this scenario. Sometimes he thinks it’d be worth it to test his Shadow’s capability of holding him alive, so that he can sink into the ground in peace and sleep for a short while with no doors to be knocked on and no walls for sound to pass through. 

“Caviar!” Inumaki huffs with finality, slapping his hands down onto the table. “Spicy cod roe. Rice.”

Hiroshi blinks at him impossibly. Ah, he supposes no one really explained anything to him at all. Well, Megumi’s not gonna be the one to do it. Inumaki turns to Hiroshi questioningly, and the man sinks even further into his upholstered chair. “Tuna mayo?”

“Do you think they have ramen? Instant’s fine, I’m just really craving ramen,” Nobara laments in response. 

“I—Is he… casting some sort of hex on me?!” Hiroshi stutters, entirely having given up on the professional team leader shtick. 

Panda lets out a loud guffaw. “It’s exactly the opposite! Haha!”

It’s concrete proof that his classmates are truly awful people. Before Megumi can throw a rock at his head to stop him, or maybe a chair, Inumaki’s unzipping the high collar of his windbreaker and whispering, “Do a cartwheel.”

—

Hiroshi manages not to break an arm. It takes the titanium strength of Yuuji and Kinji to slow down his circular descent into madness, spinning cartwheels around the room wherever there was space. Megumi took it upon himself to punch Toge in the back of the head. Panda very poorly and very evilly explained Toge’s cursed technique, and translated that the kid was just asking if they’d break for lunch. 

Lunch is takeout today, courtesy of the resort and while bearing in mind that the good meal is saved for dinner, but it’s good takeout, and they are hungry after the mindless drivel that was the team building ice breakers. Gojo and Shoko are still nowhere to be seen. Must be one long brunch.

But, honestly? The ice breakers might’ve been better than this. 

After lunch is team building games. He’s not sure what distinguishes a verbal ice breaker from a game, when in essence they’ve practically been the same thing, but these games have a little more substance to them. 

“Okay,” Hiroshi says, having pulled himself together at some point during the lunch break. Maybe he’s also done a pep talk to himself. Megumi can surely relate here, because it feels as if he has to wage war with himself every time he has to be around his seniors for extended periods of time. “Board games come after, but we have some more interesting team building activities. So, to set up the scene, follow me into this room.”

Aw jeez. The room is full of blood. Fake blood, sure, because it’s still gleaming and tacky and its hue is closer to magenta than it is to the burgundy-brown that truly flows through people. There’s scattered objects around the room with little white placards set next to them. There’s a fake window screwed into the wall, with a printed image of the ocean plastered behind the squared grilles and sash lock. Megumi’s got an inkling of a clue as to what’s about to happen.

“Hey, team!” Megumi hears behind him. This is, possibly, the worst imaginable time for Gojo to finally join them, but he has nothing if not a stellar track record for bad timing. “Yeesh, that’s a lot of blood. Did someone die?”

“A—ah, Gojo-san! The blood, uh, is a setup for the next activity. Are you joining the team for the games?”

Gojo stretches out his arms, popping out a joint in his shoulder. There’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He definitely just got back from some secret mission after standing up Shoko on their girl’s brunch, but Megumi has no proof. “Nah, just here to make sure no one’s lost an arm or something yet. Tough crowd, amiright, Yuzuru?” he jabs, and Megumi can only guess that Yuzuru is Hiroshi’s given name. “Well, don’t mind me. I’ll be off. But I’m keeping an eye on you from now on—no using cursed techniques on civilians!” he warns, lifting up the corner of his blindfold and eyeing Inumaki.

Inumaki pulls the collar of his coat down to stick his tongue out at him.

And, without much more fanfare than when he came in, Gojo teleports away, leaving a baffled Hiroshi staring at his absence. 

“So,” Kinji prompts. “What the hell is this?”

“R—right!” Hiroshi shuffles around the papers in his arms until he finds the right one. “This game is a murder mystery.”

Oh, great.

“I’ll narrate the story, and uhm… you guys get to piece together clues about who the killer is! And—and remember!” he adds, very very wisely, because this is indeed important. “This is only a game! It’s not meant to stir distrust among colleagues, it’s just to have some friendly fun!”

This is only going in one direction.

“Okay, so, you’re all taking part in a corporate vacation! You’ve been waiting for this trip for months, and HR has finally cleared you up for a fun cruise out with your colleagues! Ha-ha…”

Cruise. The first floor of this middle-of-nowhere resort suddenly floods, and Megumi can picture the nine of them, minus two, hauling ass onto a large cruise ship. The deck is clean, the walls of the ship are a gleaming white, and it’s sunny and warm and the tail ends of the spring time cold snaps have finally dulled away like an old knife being put to rest. He leans against the long centre table in the room, careful not to plant his hands on any of the sticky bloodstains, picturing the view from the deck. 

“The sea air is, uh, salty,” Hiroshi continues to narrate. “You and your teammates are relaxing and having fun, dipping into the pool to cool off from the sun, and sharing sparkling—cider! Sparkling cider! You guys are minors,” he asks. “Aren’t you? Uhm, sparkling cider. But then, you suddenly get called into a meeting room onboard, and you’re all asked to sit down at the table for a sudden emergency.”

No one moves.

“Uhm, please have a seat,” Hiroshi motions. They each pull out a chair at the table, which has several little items placed on it, jostled around to make it seem like someone had made a mess. Some items are on the floor. Some items are in the large wooden chest at the back of the room, Megumi thinks. The one with a lock on it. 

“You all gather to see what the emergency was called for. Turns out, there’s been a murder on the ship!” Whatever reaction Hiroshi was expecting from the group, it wasn’t deathly silence. “You deduce that the killer must have been someone in this room. You don’t want to think about your teammate’s betrayal, but it seems so. You and your teammates must work together to find out who the killer is, before it’s too late and all of you die!”

Both of Megumi’s eyebrows raise slowly. Jeez.

The fake blood, long since settled against the marble floor, is a sacrilege to something. Megumi’s just not sure what. The gleam of the purple-red is taunting him. He knows exactly what’s about to happen, and he’s powerless to stop it once more. 

Hiroshi ducks under the table, for some fucking reason, and pulls out a small black tophat with little squares of paper folded inside it. “Firstly, of course, one of you is missing from the table. I’ll be picking the victim from out of this hat.” Hiroshi sticks his hand into the hat with dramatic flare, and shuffles around the soup of names. 

Aw jeez.

“As you gather together, your team notices that one of your beloved members is missing. Scanning the crowd, you find out that the person who was murdered was…”

Aw, jeez.

“...Itadori Yuuji? Did I say your name right?”

But Yuuji isn’t looking at Hiroshi. Instead, he’s looking directly at Megumi, holding the most intense eye contact Megumi thinks he’ll ever experience in his life. “Whoops, guess I died…”

Hiroshi hands out some folded cards to each player. They’re role cards. Somehow, Megumi knows word for word exactly what will be written in his once he unfolds it. “These are your role cards explaining who you are and what you’ve witnessed. Be careful what you share. Now, it’s time to start investigating!”

Megumi unfolds the card with a thumb and pinky, and reads it in one hand. 

ROLE: THE KILLER

You were the last person seen with The Victim last night. 

Witnesses say that they heard screams coming from The Victim’s room.

When asked for your whereabouts, you say that you had walked into The Victim’s room and screamed in horror. There was blood pooling under a limp body. Your choice of weapon: the kitchen knife, plunged straight through the heart —

“Pick someone else,” he demands, because what the fuck, he’s not doing this. 

“Fushiguro,” Yuuji tries to placate. “It’s fine. It’s just a game—”

“And I don’t fucking care! Pick someone else!” he nearly yells, forgetting their company. “I don’t know why you’re putting up with this!”

He thinks he might finally blow a gasket. He should’ve joined Yuuta and third wheeled on his and Maki’s exorcism date. He should’ve pinched Gojo in the ass and told him to teleport him to a hospital after faking a heart attack. Should’ve summoned Mahoraga and let himself get pummeled six feet into the ground. Should’ve at least summoned the goddamn Elephant, so that it could stomp and rumble the floors, shaking around the papers in the hat just by a fraction, so literally anyone else could’ve been drawn and killed in cold blood on this insufferable cruise. 

“Something’s wrong, Yuuji, and you’re just pretending like—!”

“Seriously, Fushiguro,” Yuuji says lightly, laughing, rubbing at the back of his neck. Clenching and unclenching his fingers, like a goddamn liar. “It’s just a game. Won’t you do me justice and find out who killed me?” he asks sweetly.

He isn’t yelling at him. Yuuji isn’t yelling at him. If they were alone, he would’ve gotten at least four ‘leave me alone’s and maybe even a ‘fuck off’ by now, but they’re not alone, and now Yuuji won’t yell at him. Is this for appearances’ sake? That it doesn’t matter, not when it’s just Megumi, where he can say anything and everything but not what Megumi asks out of him, and now that there’s an audience, he’s playing all nice?

Blood rushes to his neck, so hot that he thinks he might be a glowing red. Do him justice? It’s just a game? Was it a game, anymore? Has it always been a game? One that Megumi’s just so bad at, one that Yuuji’s already lost, once? 

The Killer’s card slices into his palm as he grips it. 

“Are you serious, right now?” he spits. “It’s just a game to you? Then why are you so bad at it? You already lost once, so why are you still playing? Do you know who killed you?! You were so weak that you couldn’t even—”

Megumi. Sukuna. Megumi. Sukuna. Yuuji. Megumi. The accusatory finger of poor, ugly blame spins and spins, not quite landing on a culprit. Someone’s killed his best friend, and he needs to find out who it was. A combined effort, perhaps? Were the three of them the same person, in the end? If so, will Megumi die with Yuuji, the way Sukuna will?

“Fushiguro!” Yuuji snaps, all pretense dropping. 

But Megumi’s relentless. “—couldn’t even find me afterward, and you had to let him take over, and deal with it—”

“Fushiguro, stop,” he begs.

“—you always have to let him take over, and even when you do, you fucking lose!”

The last three words ring sharply around the room. 

Megumi only then takes note of his heavy, laboured breathing. He thinks he might be snarling, or something equally as bad, with fangs peeking out from his mouth like a rabid dog. The muscles in his face are pulling in a way that’s so eerily familiar, and still long gone, wiped away from his memory leaving nothing but a burned imprint of a tall man in the back of his eyelids. It’s not hard to forget about it. There are bigger fish to fry right now. He’s calming down, but he feels it’s too late for that. It’s embarrassing, this outburst, but that’s not the issue of the day. 

No, there’s no real issue there. No, his eyes are positively fixated at the sight before him. Yuuji, shrinking away from him, Yuuji, taking cautious steps back with furrowed brows, like Megumi might pounce and pull his jugular straight out of his neck. Yuuji, with tears brimming at his eyes. 

Oh.

“You really didn’t have to go and say all that, Fushiguro,” Yuuji says quietly. He moves to step out of the room. “It’s nothing I didn’t already know.”

Sorry, he nearly utters, but it’s way too late, and it’s not enough, and somehow there is still enough anger inside him to keep his mouth sealed with some sort of venom-only baleen. He can feel the eyes of everyone around the room stay planted on the back of his head, swivelling only slightly towards the door in a line of motion, because of course they expect Megumi to follow Yuuji, perhaps apologize, and of course leave them the empty room to gossip and ruminate about their fallen-off peers. 

He’s gonna throw up his lunch, seasick already. 

They don’t play Murder On A Cruise Ship.

“Okay, so this game is called ‘Farmer Farmer May I Cross Your Golden Field Please.’”

Maki immediately moves to walk out of the room, only to be pulled back to the group by Yuuta. 

“Maki,” he hisses.

“I’m not doing this dumb shit!” she says back, trying to pull her arm out of Yuuta’s grip. 

“Just… try to play. It’s supposed to be silly. We don’t get enough opportunities to be unserious, y’know…”

Maki gravely disagrees. There is perhaps not a single one amongst them that has any capacity to be serious. Even herself and Megumi, who are normally considered the most serious of the bunch, have their ridiculous streaks of nonstandard methods. It’s no surprise, given that Gojo’s their main teacher, and Kusakabe, who might sometimes have his head screwed on a little too tight, doesn’t even bother teaching them anything. 

Once, when she was in her first year, shortly after Yuuta had joined and fully stepped into his power, she, Panda, and Toge, were assigned on a mission. It was rare that Toge ever got paired assignments anymore, even more rare that they’d even think to send three sorcerers at once. But with the third years being suspended all of a sudden, the higher ranked missions were passed along to them. The fact that the three of them were assigned this together consolidated her theory that it’d be a First Grade curse or above. 

What greeted them was somehow worse. And then she understood why it was a volume-heavy mission.

Miles and miles of tacky spiderwebs stretched across a rural village. The curse itself might’ve been a First Grade curse, a large, gangly spider-looking thing that had legs long enough to stretch itself above any of the houses on the street. How something like that manifested without being registered was beyond her. The curse was not an issue. The curse had already been exorcised. 

The issue that remained was the network of cobwebs shrouding the city. No regular knives would cut them. The spiderwebs would have to be cleaved away with cursed energy, or a cursed tool. At least a hundred civilians were trapped inside their homes still, or plastered to the wall, or stuck under a car. 

It was the first time Maki would’ve considered a mission truly exhausting. Tedious, more like. It was surely something she could do, but the three of them had reached the site at four in the morning, and only got home by 8 PM. She found herself wishing there was some element of danger, some sort of time crunch, literally any sense of urgency, because Panda and Toge had spent the entire day fucking around and bouncing from web to web across the village. No capacity to be serious. Not even when she threatened to kill them both if they didn’t hurry up. 

Panda and Toge took every goddamn opportunity to be unserious. Maybe Yuuta had forgotten that in his year-long voyages. 

Hiroshi lets out a quiet ‘eep!’ at the interaction. “Uhmm! Well, so the game works by… We’ll first pick a person to be ‘it.’ Everyone else stands along the opposite wall.”

“Execution style,” Panda muses with a finger at his chin. 

“What!” Hiroshi exclaims. “Nevermind! Nevermind, I don’t want to know. Uhm, so, the people on the wall say, ‘farmer farmer let me cross your golden field please!’ And the farmer, the, y’know, the farmer’s the person who’s ‘it,’ uhm… they say, ‘Only on one condition! If you, uhm, for example, if you like dogs more than cats!’ And… if you do like, uhm, dogs more than cats, then you take one step forward.” 

If Maki hears this guy say ‘uhm’ one more time, she’s going to stuff him into the cupboard and lock him in there forever. 

“Uh— so, I have a packet of flashcards here, if you guys can’t think of any conditions as the farmer, so you shouldn’t be nervous about being ‘it’—”

Maki snatches the packet of flashcards out of his hands, reading them over. 

     “Only if you like dogs more than cats!”

     “Only if you have a sibling!”

     “Only if you speak more than one language!”

     “Only if you prefer tea over coffee!”

“I think I’m gonna have an aneurysm,” Maki mutters, reading the cards and smoothing a hand over her forehead. 

“That’s not one of the lines, is it?” Kirara asks, reaching up on her tiptoes to plant her cheek onto Maki’s shoulder and read. 

Yuuta plucks the cards out of Maki’s hands and returns them to Hiroshi, then pats Maki on the back comfortingly. “It’s fine, Maki. You don’t have to play if you don’t want to. But, I mean, maybe you could stay in the room? We’re supposed to stick together for the team building games…”

“Who’s farmer?” Maki asks, scrutinizing the crowd. “I’m not playing if it’s Panda and all the lines are about pandas and calpas.”

“Kugisaki wants to go,” Megumi voluntells very very loudly.

“No I don’t!” she shrieks in retaliation. “What, you think this is just some game to you, city boy?! Think it’s funny to have the country girl playing the part of a farmer?! Is that what you think! I bet I’m more in tune to Tokyo than you are, and I’ve only been here for half a year! I won’t stand for this type of injustice—”

“I’ll play if Nobara’s the farmer,” Maki says. 

“I’ll be the farmer,” Nobara accepts. 

And so Nobara plays the part of the farmer. 

—

The only ones that actually say “farmer farmer may I cross your golden field please” are Yuuji and Panda. 

“Alright, peasants!” Nobara yells from across the room. Her voice echoes off the paper white walls. “Listen closely! Nigh is the famine, nigh is the drought! If you have any hope for your families, it rests in the hands which hold your rations! So grovel before me, if you want to live to see spring!”

“I don’t think that’s the line,” Megumi overhears Yuuji whispering to someone. And very pointedly not at him, which is made very clear with the way he turns his head 180 degrees away from Megumi. “Is that what she’s supposed to say?”

It’s not supposed to be a medieval apocalypse, is what it’s supposed to be, but Megumi doesn’t say that. His eye twitches for the umpteenth time that day. He didn’t expect Nobara to actually take the position of farmer when he voluntold her, but he should know by now that there is no predictability in these walls. None that ever vouches for his side of things, at least.

“If you want to cross my fields of fortune,” she says. “Then you may only cross if you double cleanse as part of your nightly skincare routine! I don’t need any crusties in my kingdom!”

Oh, she did not. 

To his right, Megumi sees Kirara take one massive step forward. No one else moves an inch. 

Nobara taps her feet impatiently against the granite floors, eyeing Megumi. “Well?”

He huffs, squeezing his eyes shut and facing the ceiling, before giving in and taking a bigger, wider step than Kirara had. If he’s doing this, he’s winning. Kirara raises one finely drawn eyebrow at him. Megumi thinks she has no room to do that. 

“What, Itadori?” he hears Nobara complain. When he turns around, he sees Yuuji holding a questioning hand up. 

“Uh, what’s double cleansing?” he asks. “Is it dangerous?”

“It’s nothing,” Megumi intervenes before Nobara begins verbally reciting her fifteen page exposé on the most “superior skincare routine on earth.” And before Yuuji finds out. Not that it’s a bad thing. It’s not even that deep. It’s good to have good skin health. 

“What’re you being so cagey about, Gumi-chan?” Kirara teases, and Megumi sees her shuffling her feet to catch up to where he stands on farmer Nobara’s golden field. Cheater. 

“O-kay!” Nobara yells. “Say the thing!”

Again, only Yuuji and Panda say the thing. 

“Hmm, only if you use colour correctors under your concealer!”

Megumi’s gonna kill her. 

—

Turns out, Megumi and Kirara have a lot in common. Megumi doesn’t like this, because now he has both Kirara and Nobara ganging up on him, asking him for his skincare routine, about which products he uses, how expensive they are, if they only work short term, if it messes with the formula of foundation if you put it on right after. He thinks this is wildly unfair.

There is one very minute silver lining here, and that’s that Nobara and Kirara are something like acquaintances now. They have something in common, and now they can bully him together. So really, to Megumi, it’s not a silver lining at all but yet another pitfall in this trip. Against all odds, Gojo’s plan for team building has been inching towards success and yet still playing against Megumi’s favour. It’s a goddamn miracle. 

Later, when he spots Yuuji in a corner brewing tea, he thinks he can be brave one more time today. Has to be.

Megumi dreams of himself in a dark room. The empty cork board is full of holes, thumbtacks scattered at his feet. The mystery is solved.

Culprit, culprit, culprit.  

The red string spirals and twists, and never overlaps. It spirals down, down, down, until he’s looking at his own hands. 

It’s knotted and taught in a band on his pinky. His finger is blue, turning black. 

Gotcha.

When he lost his first tooth, it was a little scary. He didn’t think his teeth were supposed to fall out. The wiggling incisor made him panic all night when he’d first noticed it, and then Gojo pulled out the string and tied it to a doorknob. 

The second few teeth were not scary at all. Just a little annoying.

The first time he lost a premolar, though, it was different. The edges were sharp enough that he could cut his tongue along the ridge, and the vessels rooting them in place were wider, thicker, full of blood. When it came tumbling out, he could feel the blood vessel tear, feel it spurting, filling his mouth with iron.

So, when the next premolar started feeling insecure along his jaw, not lining up right, not being reliable or sturdy, it became a problem with a capital ‘P’. 

He knew it’d bleed when he pulled it out, and he knew it needed to go. But he wasn’t ready for so much blood, wasn’t ready to bite into something and feel the tooth come off and end up in the bite of food, like a foreign object rolling against his tongue, once alive and now dead in his mouth. So he’d clamp his jaw tightly, and that bought him a few more days. 

Maybe it’s cowardly, but it’s his best chance at success, too; he just needs a few more days. 

He hopes it’s not too presumptuous to think that he has a few more days. 

He thinks he has a few more days. 

Here, while up in this quaint little resort, Megumi and Yuuji get assigned a mission.

Chapter Text

There’s something that’ll haunt him until the end of his days. Something Sukuna had said that evening at the Eishu Detention Centre, ages ago.

Now, it’s not like him to trust a curse, but he’s pretty sure he’s met some people out there that are more underhanded and more dishonest than Ryōmen Sukuna. Now, it’s not a matter of whether or not he believes the King of Curses' words, but a matter of whether or not he wants to. Whether or not he should accept it, or play it off in the hopes that Sukuna was talking out of his ass. 

He really hopes Sukuna was talking out of his ass. 

Or, maybe, because he is, after all, also the King of Modern Doom, maybe he has found a sharper blade to plunge into Megumi’s chest just by wielding a sword of truth. And that does it. He wasn’t lying.

“You give him too much credit. This guy’s just a little tougher and denser than other humans. Just a moment ago, he was scared out of his mind, on the verge of death, and prattling about his regrets and all that nonsense…”

It’s so easy to look at Itadori and see plain, foolhardy courage. Self-sacrifice. But lately, he’s been driven into a wall, mission after mission once the higher-ups deemed him strong enough for solo takes. It doesn’t help that the higher-ups still see him as fodder, as a liability, as a “might as well” case. They’ll wring him ‘till he drops dead, and that’ll be two birds with one stone. They don’t take him as a person at all. 

When Yuuji dies, he’s going to be terrified.

He thinks this pounding, slimy ache in his chest must be love. It has to be, since he’s felt it before, the week when Tsumiki went under, in the stretch of days where his father never came home, in the last instances where he’d seen his teammates before they would meet their demise. He feels it when he's about to lose something—really, that's the worst time to realize that you love someone. He’s felt it when Sukuna plunged his claws into Yuuji’s chest, and Megumi could feel the viscera between his own ribs coming up his throat, slimy and thick and caustic. But despite it, Sukuna wore Yuuji’s face, and that was enough to let him smile.

Yuuji’s going to die. There’s no workaround, no saying, well, maybe if he’s strong enough, he’ll live. No, he’s going to die. Gojo’s going to execute him, and he’s going to die. Megumi can picture his face perfectly, the last time he ever sees the boy, last time he ever speaks to him. Yuuji will have a glowing smile on his face. He’ll say, “I’m so glad I got to meet you,” like this is some sort of afterparty or graduation, and then he’ll say goodbye. And he’ll reassure Megumi that no, it’s fine, he knew what he was signing up for. Except he didn’t, he really didn’t. He’ll squeeze Megumi’s hand twice, the way he squeezes his own when he’s lying, lying, lying, piss poor fucking liar, and he’ll tell him it’s fine, don’t worry about it. He knew what he was signing up for.

But he can’t shake the image of Yuuji, standing in the innate domain of the newly resolved Special Grade curse, missing his right hand, with no training, no understanding of jujutsu at all, fucking alone, wishing and wishing that he didn’t eat that goddamn finger. 

The one he consumed to save Megumi. 

When he had first died, it was ultimately Megumi’s duty, as the most experienced sorcerer out of those three, as the strongest one there, to stay with Yuuji. But he was a coward, and naïve, and trusting, so he ran. When Yuuji had first died, it was Megumi’s fault.

When he dies again, Yuuji will be terrified. When he dies, ultimately, it will be Megumi’s fault. 

The mission briefing has too many holes in it for him not to be boundlessly suspicious. The grade of the curse is tentative Second Grade. The last known location of it was about a half hour walk away from the resort, but it was also dated two weeks ago. There is only one eyewitness, some unnamed sorcerer passing by. The mission specifically requests both Yuuji and Megumi, and no one else. 

That’s quite literally it. There’s no casualty count, no recon to take note of, no quota to hit, no real objective here other than hunt and exorcise. They’ll leave in the late morning, and so now Megumi’s tasked himself with something seemingly impossible: feeding Yuuji a solid breakfast while the kid is ignoring him to pieces. 

“Itadori.”

No response. Yuuji continues shuffling around the kitchen aimlessly, staring at the ceramic cups and stock cubes with little interest. His fingers twitch, moving to grab something, and then his hand falls limply at his side again. He’s done this about fifty times now.

They got their morning cleared of any lollygagging with their classmates in more team building activities. Later this afternoon, there’s supposed to be some physically challenging team building activities, which Megumi can sordidly guess is flimsy rock climbing with a belay or perhaps an obstacle course. If so, Hiroshi’s in for a surprise. Gojo promised he’d meet with Megumi and Yuuji some time before they left, but his promise does not mean much. Megumi’s got a goal in mind. 

“I’m making omurice and I’m adding vanilla extract to it,” Megumi declares loudly. “How hot should I get the pan? Actually, I can’t find the pan anywhere… I think I’ll just use this non-stick saucepan and metal spatula. Do you know where the mustard oil is?”

Ah, there’s a bit of a reaction. Yuuji’s eye twitches very visibly. He’s always on Megumi’s case about metal on non-stick coatings. The mustard oil and vanilla must be enough of a cosmic faux pas that he doesn’t even grace Megumi with a glance in his direction. 

Yuuji turns to face the wall, deeming it more worthy of attention. 

Ah, ok.

Megumi knows this is kinda sorta entirely his damn fault, but he tears up enough that he has to look away. He clicks on the gas stove top and blinks until his vision clears up, getting four eggs out of the fridge. “Itadori,” he sighs, although he means to beg instead. Please. I’m sorry, talk to me. He can’t do this. He’s not the cook. Yuuji’s always the one fussing around in the kitchen. Megumi has almost always been banned from the place while he’s running his machinations in there, because he’ll crack an egg wrong or stomp too loud and deflate the soufflé in the oven. He can’t do this, can’t deal with his best friend ignoring him while they’re three feet apart. 

But he guesses, definitely, there are some things that need to come first. He clicks the stove off and turns around. “Itadori, I’m sorry about—”

Ah, after all, he does hold the stellar running track record of the worst possible timing on earth. The space at the edge of the kitchen divots, folds, and spits out the tall, blindfolded albino onto the floor. 

“Megumi,” Gojo immediately huffs, quiet and more solemn than he’s ever heard him before. “I need to talk to you.”

No, Megumi’s heard this tone only once before in his life. He turns to look at Gojo wide eyed, who is in turn looking at Yuuji almost sheepishly. “Sorry, kid, but I gotta talk to Megs here alone.”

Yeah, he’s heard this tone once before. “It’s fine,” he grits out. “Itadori can hear whatever you have to say. What’s wrong.” 

Gojo’s looking at him like that again. Like that. Like he’d rather do anything but say the words he’s about to say, and Megumi already has a good grasp of what’s coming. “I’m so sorry, Megs…”

He tries not to gasp and he tries not to sob. “Is… is she…”

Tsumiki. He knew her condition was worsening. While the curse placed on her body didn’t get any stronger by the day, that didn’t really negate the fact that she was an average non-sorcerer with a tumultuous curse placed on her, rendering her unconscious for months. It’ll be a year, this coming July. The curse didn’t get any stronger, but her body was weaker. Withering away. Her hair stopped growing a few months ago. Her nails are frail enough to be filed away with a sheet of paper. An embalmed corpse would look more lively. He knows this thanks to his numerous field trips down to Shoko’s morgue. 

It’s so damn hard, when he can never truly move on because she isn’t dead, and he can’t have her because she isn’t quite alive anymore. It’s like a constant grief, and it’s tumbling to a peak now, where it might really be the end, and he’s up in some useless resort with his useless classmates and his useless guardian when he could’ve been at her side all this time. 

“She’s not dead,” Gojo clarifies, and Megumi socks a rude uppercut at his jaw immediately.

“Fucking start with that then!”

Gojo groans, tipping his head back and letting it stay there, rubbing at his chin. “It’s not any better, Megumi,” he sighs, and swallows, and then he lulls his head down so he can tug his blindfold off. Distantly, Megumi’s aware of Yuuji in the background watching the entire exchange with curious eyes. “She’s gotten worse. The doctor says they might have to start dialysis, but it’s… it won’t be easy on a patient like her. I’m getting a sorcerer at the hospital to do routine checks on her and see if they can keep the cursed energy to a minimum but…”

It’s an impossible stipulation. 

Up until now, nothing could cut Tsumiki’s skin. Ever since she’d been cursed, her skin had nearly become impenetrable, where no needle and no scalpel could cleave in between the cells. If it did, they could hardly draw blood. That was part of what made such a curse so absolutely dumbfounding. Someone had done this to her intentionally, preserving her so that she couldn’t be injured. It made him nauseous. 

With some carefully crafted spells, they managed to get one single, fine, IV drip needle in, which they would have to meticulously change. Any supplements would be fed orally or through the IV, but blood dialysis? 

It’s nothing of a surprise. Her kidneys have been weak for months now. They could go about finding a donor. Megumi isn’t a match. They don’t even have compatible blood types. Tsumiki’s his only real family, and yet they’re not even related by blood. Even if they did find a donor, the surgery…

He doesn’t turn his head to check if Yuuji’s listening. He knows he is. 

“It’s not for another two weeks,” Gojo assures, like that’s any better, like the time won’t pass anyway. “We’ll see her once we get back. Just… thought you should know.”

Yeah, he should know. This is news he deserves to know, needs to hear, and he’s glad Gojo didn’t withhold this information until after the trip to spare his feelings for a few days, but it’s certainly not news he wants. 

He thinks he might join Yuuji in skipping breakfast today. 

“Itadori,” Megumi says for the umpteenth time that day. Yuuji ignores him, as he’s always done so far. He hasn’t spoken a single word to Megumi at all today. “I know you’re mad at me, but could we at least discuss the mission together? There’s no point in being childish about it when that’s just gonna make our job harder.”

Yuuji outright scoffs, pointedly looking away. Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the right thing to say. 

“Look, I’m sorry,” he sighs, and then realizes there are a million things he has to be sorry for, so he must clarify. “Sorry about snapping at you right now. You’re right to be mad at me. And I’m sorry about what I said yesterday—”

“Don’t,” Yuuji says, speaking for the first time. Speaking for the first time that day apparently, because his voice is hoarse and dry. Has he even had any water today? “‘S not like you were wrong,” he murmurs. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Megumi feels like he’s eaten fifteen heavy rocks. The way crocodiles eat rocks, to help digest their food. Except Megumi skipped breakfast today, so now he’s just running on rocks that he can’t digest, tearing burning ulcers into his stomach lining. 

It’s so wrong. What the hell is wrong with him, taking something so wrong and somehow making it infinitesimally worse? Every word he says with an ounce of love leaves him feeling drained, like he’s taken a sparrow into his loving, trusted hands and pulled the damn thing’s neck clean off its body. 

Yuuji doesn’t bother pretending to get along with Megumi in front of their peers anymore. That’s one more transgression on Megumi’s record, one more bout of theft: he’s taken Yuuji’s privacy away. Now Yuuji’s standoffish. He’ll laugh along with Nobara. He’ll chip into the conversations with the second years. He and Kinji even sparred for a bit, yesterday. But he won’t speak to Megumi, and he knows he did this with his own two hands and useless, foul mouth.

Killer.

They pace through packed woodlands that still have biting frost covering the forest floor where the sun hasn’t warmed up yet. The trees are thin enough that Megumi could probably snap the trunk with his bare hands, but they’re so densely packed that they have to rely on engraved foot trails to get anywhere. 

It’s not a one-foot-in-front-of-the-other hike, either. Megumi is constantly lunging over a small shrub, pulling away a flimsy branch, barring his forearms in front of his face as he marches to avoid getting a twig lodged in his eye. Twice already, he’s tripped on the lively roots scattered across the forest floor. It makes holding conversation that much harder, and that much more awkward, when Yuuji doesn’t “hold the door” for him when he moves a stray branch out of the way, letting it slap directly into Megumi’s face. 

And that’s fine. He’ll take petty. He’ll take angry. What he can’t stand for is sad. Yuuji’s not the kind of person that should ever be sad. 

They walk through the forest for twenty minutes before they stop to really think about what they’re doing. 

Just business, Megumi sighs to himself. For now. “The mission briefing said the siting was a kilometer west from here. Once we get there, we could split up and cover ground—”

“Does that sound right to you?”

Megumi stops abruptly, turning to face Yuuji who was staring up at the trees. “What?”

“I mean,” he hums, chewing at his pink lips. They match his hair so well. “Does that sound right? Look at the map. We’ve taken the footpath as deep as we can… And the map shows that it’s just a lake, a kilometer west from here. D’you think some sorcerer really was just passing by and happened to see it? Why was he in a lake?”

“He might’ve…” Might’ve been flying. But Megumi follows Yuuji’s line of sight to look up at the crowns of the trees. It’s so dense, he can hardly see the sky. The trunks stretch upward endlessly. Branches weave together, caging them to the earth. “...he might’ve had good senses, and could sense the curse from the sky.”

“A Second Grade?” Yuuji questions dubiously. “Even the First Grades are hard to sense when they’re right in front of you…”

He’s right. Something has been off about this mission, and Megumi’s sort of ignored it in favour of pleading for Yuuji’s forgiveness (not really, he plans on begging properly later). What’s even more confusing is that Yuuji figured this out. They’re best friends, and Megumi loves his friends, but he can admit Yuuji’s not the brightest that can come by. He side eyes him skeptically.

Yuuji notices, looking away sheepishly. “I saw some plot like this in Skyrim,” he admits. Ah. 

“...so what do you think we should do?” he asks.

Yuuji takes a moment to consider, still eyeing something in the trees. “We keep looking.”

They make their way a kilometer west, and continue their search.

They don't find the curse. What they do end up doing is circling the footpath in its entirety, and Megumi’s little step tracker on his wristwatch blinks 20 km. There was no lake. It ended up being a swampy bog of sorts, that they’d scanned briefly, ultimately finding nothing.

“Nothing,” he tells Gojo once they made it back to the resort. “We walked the whole trail, and I’m pretty sure we scouted the entire forest.”

“Really,” Gojo says, apparently not believing a word of it, and yet entirely unbothered by their failure to locate the curse. “Four hours of scouting, and you two still haven’t made up?” Gojo’s eyes drift over to where Yuuji is examining his nails, two feet left of Megumi. “Think you could do it if you got four more hours?”

“Did—!” Megumi starts, but is cut off when Kirara bounds into the room, grabbing both his and Yuuji’s arms in a flurry.

“You two!” she yells. “Get over here right now! It’s onsen time, and we’re doing serious team bonding! If you miss it, we’re waterboarding you both!”

Yuuji startles out of her grasp. “What happened to the physical team building—”

“Cancelled! This is more important!” 

Gojo shifts his weight between his legs, back and forth, with a sly grin on his face. “My, it’s nice to see that our beloved students are taking this so seriously!” He pulls at the collar of his jacket—and why the hell is he still in the school’s staff uniform? He’s been in it for the whole damn trip, does he even wash the thing?—and he shuffles the fabric up until it covers his mouth and nose. “Well, be fun, have safe, or whatever. I’m off.”

“To where—?!” Megumi nearly yells, so not done with chewing him out, but Gojo’s gone in the blink of an eye. 

To his side, Kirara is scoring up Yuuji head to toe, crouching, jumping, spinning circles around him with her fingers posed in opposite finger guns, capturing Yuuji with her imaginary camera. “Yes, yes, this’ll do…” she huffs. 

“Uhm, Hoshi-senpai,” Yuuji starts. “I’m really not in the mood to head to the onsen—I mean, we just got back. We should shower and rest for a bit.”

“Let’s go!” she yells, completely ignoring him. “We’ve got a lot to do!”

She drags them away.

It’s a staged intervention, is what it is.

He made up the fucking mission! Megumi is feeling like a hissy cat in water right now. It doesn’t help that his hair is dry and still spiky, whereas the rest of him is submerged in the hot springs. It’s hard to stay pissed when you’re in hot water, but he manages just fine. The heat soothes his muscles, easing away the ache in his stomach and fueling his fury. The floors of the onsen have stones sealed and embedded into them. When he pushes his weight down, they press into the soles of his feet exactly as he needs after four hours of hiking and being ignored by Yuuji. His own fault, sure, but he’s still upset about it. 

Gojo had no right to do that. No right to put his nose into Megumi and Yuuji’s business. He had it handled as well as one could handle it. That was four hours of his life that he would not get back. 

The onsen is an intervention, too. 

Now, Megumi understands that they’re sorcerers, and they live in the same grounds, and they’re batchmates, and that they’re bound to be as close as brothers in arms could possibly be. He gets it. They’ve been through thick and thin. Seen each other at their most vulnerable points. Thrown up at each other's feet. Even with a random sorcerer on the street that you’ve never met before, there’s some connection in the underlying feeling of being in on this ugly, mindless war together. 

Doesn’t mean he needs to see Maki’s tits out in the open, though. What happened to boundaries?

“Megumin,” she calls from across the water. “Stop looking like that. You look like you just got dumped by your girlfriend.”

He’s guessing the intervention is taking place in two phases, with two teams. Phase one was getting Megumi and Yuuji to go curse hunting together for hours on end, chasing red herrings, wild geese. The second phase was also a plan B of sorts. Kirara, Maki, and Toge took to strong-arming him into the giant onsen, which Megumi would discover was not split between men and women. He could only guess that the remainder of the group would be doing the same with Yuuji at a later time. 

“Salmon,” Toge chastises, sinking his neck into the water right up to his chin. 

“This is an intervention,” Maki adds, like she needs to clarify. Her hair’s haphazardly pinned up with a green crystal agate claw clip. He’s seen that claw clip before, and he knows exactly where he’s seen it. 

Megumi tips his head back, letting it rest against the stone of the basin. “Is that a gift from your blue-eyed boywife?” he asks, gesturing vaguely to the top of his own head. 

Maki sputters in response, throwing something sharp and pointed at him. When he lifts his head, he sees the sharp-edged stone sticking out of his shoulder before he feels it. “Did—? Did you just throw a rock into my shoulder?”

“Caviarrr,” Toge warns, pointing a daunting finger at Maki. He tosses Megumi a clean washcloth. The rock isn’t embedded deeply at all, thankfully, but it’s definitely going to bleed when he pulls it out. He presses the rag to the wound, careful not to get any blood into the water. Or, maybe, he should slice the sharp stone along his deltoid and paint this water red. What is their problem?

“I’m telling Yuuta you called him that,” Maki threatens, which is the wrong thing to say because Megumi literally could not care less. Knowing Yuuta, the guy’s gonna sputter, go red, deny it a little, and then laugh it off. “We’re not here for that though. We’re here to talk about your awful brooding and whatever lover’s spat you’ve got going with Itadori.”

Lover’s spat. “That sort of play would only get to me if we were actually lovers, except we’re not, ‘cause Itaori likes girls, and because you’re all delusional and awful and sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“You notice how it’s always ‘Itadori likes girls’ and never ‘I don’t like boys,’ Megumi?” Maki points out. 

“I’m telling Naobito you’re mooching off my trust fund,” he snaps back. 

“You’re defs not lovers,” Kirara chips in. She’s taken all her piercings out, and wiped off the entirety of her makeup. It makes her look like a baldfaced barbie doll with mega lash extensions, after only having seen her with it on for days. “Because if you were lovers, you wouldn’t be up each other’s asses like you hate each other.”

“We don’t hate each other—!”

“Eyes up here, Gumi-chan!” Kirara scolds. “I’m a girl now, so you can’t go starin’ at my tits.”

“Why would I ever want to stare at your tits—!”

“I don’t think he’s into that,” Maki says, stretching both arms above her and popping the joints at her shoulders. She drops her gaze down seriously, staring at him with the same irritated eyes that he imagines he gives to everyone else. “What’s going on with you and Itadori?”

“Nothing!”

The three of them blink back at him in a mix of disbelief and disappointment. Maybe more disappointment. They’d expected him to say these exact words, after all. 

“Don’t make me start throwing shit at you,” Maki warns. 

“You mean, throwing more shit at me?” She’s already dealt some serious damage with the sharp rock. How much worse can it get? How’s he supposed to explain this to Shoko later?

He doesn’t—he doesn’t have the fucking energy for this. His sister’s dying. She’s going to die in two to three weeks. There’s no working around it anymore. If her kidneys start to fail, it’s either she starts dialysis, or she has them replaced. And neither of those things can happen, because of course they can’t, because nothing can ever be done to save the people he cares about, because of that stupid fucking curse that clings to her as she sleeps. 

Yuuji’s going to die. Either this spiral of doom will continue, and he’ll rot from the inside out night after night, sitting at the edge of his bed and boring holes into the wall, letting himself starve until he collapses, until he too is stuck in a hospital bed and all Megumi can do is watch and maybe hold his hand, if he’s feeling hopeful. If he doesn’t end up killing himself from the inside out, then everything will go according to plan, and he’ll eat the remaining eleven fingers and then be executed. They’ll have to cremate his remains immediately. Megumi won’t have a hand to hold onto anymore. 

He presses the cloth deeper into his shoulders. His classmates continue to stare at him. It’s bad enough that he’s losing it, but now it’s a spectacle for all to see, and he thinks he might actually dip his fingers into shadow travel and try to disappear into the floor.

It’s not funny anymore. In effect, he’s already lost Yuuji. Tsumiki’s gone, too. People will try and tell him otherwise, but he knows. 

He hears Maki let out a loud breath through pursed lips, and then whisper something. 

“The world hasn’t ended yet,” Kirara says, suddenly quiet. “I know it’s easy to think that, Gumi-chan. If Kin was ever this mad at me, I think I’d have to throw myself off a cliff.”

Toge winces loudly, making a slicing gesture at his own neck. Quit that!

“Ack, whatever,” she huffs. “Point is, if Kin’s still alive, I’ve still got a shot, right? You just gotta talk to your little boytoy. Give him chocolates. Everyone’s forgivable. Mostly.”

Mostly . But he knows that in this situation, Megumi’s not one of those outliers. He knows it’s forgivable, because in no universe would he ever keep this grudge against Yuuji, should the roles be flipped. But.

But. “It’s just so hard,” he whispers. 

Kirara weaves a hand through his hair. Wet hand, so it sticks uncomfortably to the dry strands as she combs through them, but Megumi doesn’t move away. 

“And you can do hard things, Gumi-chan,” she quips, finishing with two quick pats at his head that rattle him to the core. “That's like, the one thing sorcerers do for a living. I’ve seen it.”

He can do hard things. It’s no different from the same shit he’s peddled with himself for days now: he needs to be brave.

But this doesn’t have anything to do with bravery. It’s on the matter of fact that he’s capable, and he’s done it before. It’s hard, but he’s done it before, and so he will do it again. He’ll do it for the first time ever, if he needs to.

Fine, Megumi thinks. He can do hard things. 

Later that night, he’ll have a nightmare that’s so rattling and so terrifying that he’ll wake up screaming.

Later that night, when he’s the one sitting at the edge of his bed, staring blankly into the wall, calming his own breathing, parrying away hunger pangs, he’ll realize that they’re actually two peas in a pod, him and Yuuji. Oh, they’re both so fundamentally done for. He won't do anything crazy—yet.

But as he sits there, finding that it’s getting better, getting easier to breathe, he figures that Yuuji must have a shot too. 

“Okkotsu-senpai?”

“Hmm?”

“I know you said this was an intervention, but uhm… what exactly is going on?”

“Post break-up ice cream party,” Yuuta hums, skinning the peel off an apple with a paring knife. A new, shiny, freshly sharpened one. One with an embossed, hickory wood hilt. One that looks nice enough to perhaps have been a gift. 

“Be thankful we’re doing this,” Nobara scolds from somewhere behind a tall partition. She won’t get into the onsen until her hair is wrapped away just right, insisting that the heat will kill her natural hair. Yuuji wants to say, “what natural hair?” because it’s orange, and definitely permed in some way, but he figures he might not have much room to talk, with his pink hair. It’s natural pink, though! “I’m stuck with a bunch of boys, while Maki-senpai and Kirara are having their girl time over with your evil twin.”

“And Toge,” Panda adds. He’s outright not getting in the water, instead opting to laze around on some hot rocks and let the steam reach him. “He’s secretly a big fan of the gossip circles you do.”

“Not a secret,” Yuuta mutters. 

Yuuji slowly raises a hand. “If it’s an ice cream party, then where’s the ice cream?” 

He watches as a hair bonnet comes whipping towards his face at full speed, followed by a tub of ice cream being sprung over the lip of the tall partition. “Eat this. Don’t let it get in the water. Don’t tell Gojo. Cry about it, or whatever. Just don’t keep the rest of us up all night with your nighttime conversations with Fushiguro.”

“You could hear that?!”

Hakari groans in disbelief, and Nobara exclaims, “Of course we could! The walls are thin and you two bitches are loud. Eat your ice cream.”

Yuuji stares distrustingly at the pint. “Isn’t food normally forbidden from onsens?”

“That’s why I added: don’t tell Gojo.”

Yuuta leans over from his spot by the water, planting two neat slices of apple rabbits into the top layer of his ice cream. It’s already started melting a little. “Is this your first time at an onsen, Yuuji-kun?”

“Sorta… yeah.”

He smiles, sinking into the water easily, and then melting against the stone. “Agh, I missed this. Showers aren't the same. Closest I got to any sort of hot bath was when I was in Côte D’Ivoire and Miguel threw a ceramic teapot full of boiling water at me.”

“...why’d he throw a—?”

“Eat your ice cream, Yuuji,” Yuuta says. “Wanna hear about the craziest fight I’ve seen while I was travelling?”

“Uh, hell yeah I do?”

“I wasn’t actually in the fight. It was a curse user,” he muses. “They banned me from the fight because his cursed technique was mind control, and if he got his hands on a strong sorcerer like me, he could decimate everyone.” 

“Only assholes brag during onsen ice cream party time,” Nobara’s voice calls out from the entrance. 

“It was so weird,” he continues, ignoring her. “They hired an army of third and fourth grade sorcerers to wear him down and kill him so that he couldn’t mind control anyone with a strong technique or high skill, but some of those sorcerers were like Maki and they were strong and just hadn’t been graded properly… It was such an interesting fight. I think Maki would find it funny.”

“Only assholes flirt during the onsen ice cream party!” Nobara squawks. “Keep your lovey dovey stuff to yourself! Yuuji just got broken up with!”

“Why do you guys keep saying that!”

The hot water and cold ice cream is about to make him sick as hell, but he doesn’t care. It’s not much of an ice cream party. No one else is eating ice cream. The pint of mint chocolate chip is already turning soupy from the steam, water settling against the cardstock of the container and on the surface of the ice cream. But Yuuji’s not about to complain. He pictures Fushiguro, in this same bath an hour ago, getting interrogated by Maki. He pictures him finally relaxing a little. The hot water’s nice. 

There’s still some anger in him, because he’s still a little mad about it, because the words cut deep and far too close to his heart. But it’ll pass. Hopefully. He’ll make it work. He has his classmates and he has a pint of mint chocolate chunk ice cream soup. It’s hard to stay mad like this. He thinks this might be love, because it’s hard to remember why he was up all those nights anyway, staring at the wall, waiting for something to seize him. 

Next time he sees Fushiguro, maybe they’ll have a proper conversation.

Chapter Text

Chips off my teeth. (That hurt, and you’re the one that did it.) (Yeouch!)

Bone in my coffee now. (You’ve turned the usual up in on itself.)

Love you anyway. 

Something uneasy has filled the forest. Each branch sports five yellowing leaves, sick enough to brandish the tree’s health, but not sick enough to fall away to the ground just yet. The yellow sores chart a line from the swamp’s deepest pit, where no living things remain, all the way along to the edge of the forest in a single, jagged line. Of course, no one knows this. It’s an impossible detail to see, not if you knew to look for it. 

But art is meant to be noticed, and meant to be admired. 

The rot bleeds into twigs, and trunks, and even the already-decaying mulch that insulates the ground. Wherein the forest needs decay to recycle life after death, this rot takes over, poisons the water, curses the soil until there’s not enough to sustain a single sun-shy fern anymore. 

The pushing expulsion continues along the yellowing line of leaves, until it’s orange, red, brown, and black. 

Gojo buries hands into his face in a mocking, dramatic fit.

“Shoko, you know I’d never willingly do something like this to you—”

“I’ve told you fifteen times now, I don’t care!” she sighs. 

The hands at his face begin to snake into his white hair, threading through it and pulling. “I didn’t mean to flake out on our girl’s brunch! I had an important mission to take! And then the hospital called…”

“Gojo,” she sighs again. “I told you. It’s fine. Did you talk to Megumi about it?”

Yes, and then that brat punched Gojo in the chin! That’s what he gets for being considerate! Next time, he’ll outright yell, ‘Your sister’s on the verge of death!’ and see how he likes it!

…it’s not funny. It’s not funny at all. It’s Tsumiki, and it’s not funny at all. He purses his lips and banishes the thought for now. It’s been a year, and for a year, no matter how hard he searches, no matter what spells he tries, nothing seems to work. And, sure, he was the adult and he was the one meant to be a safe haven for both the Fushiguro siblings, but it was always Tsumiki that Megumi turned to first, whenever something went wrong. 

“I dunno what I’m gonna do with myself if I lose her…” he sighs. 

When Tsumiki turned fourteen, Gojo had taken her to Disneyland as a gift. They couldn’t get Megumi to go, not even kicking and screaming, so they made a day with the two of them. They dropped the rabid little boy off with their beloved Auntie Shoko and then spent the day trying every single sweet dish the booths had to offer, and every single roller coaster in the park. Without Megumi there, it felt too calm. With only Megumi around, it felt like an oncoming maelstrom. They balanced each other out so sweetly that he had to resist pinching her little cheeks every fifteen minutes. 

If she was awake, she’d be finishing up her final year of high school soon. She’d always wanted to work in a hospital as a doctor or nurse, helping people get better, and keeping them company even if they couldn’t. He thinks he might have to take five after a thought like that, walk around the perimeter of the resort and maybe blast a hole into a mountain. Tsumiki wanted to help the same kind of people in the position she was in now. She got no visitors. None of her friends cared enough to keep visiting after the first month, all assured that it wasn’t likely she’d ever wake up. All she had now was her brother, and Gojo. And neither of them were great company by any standards. 

It’s not two weeks exactly, as he told Megumi. It’ll be fifteen days total, two for consultation with him, as he’s still her legal guardian until she turns eighteen in a few months, if she makes it there. Two more of those fifteen days are for whatever medical sorcerer’s been assigned to her to try and see if they can break her skin enough for the AV line, and then maybe another day where he needs to meet with the hospital staff and hold a tight grin as they discuss if they could find an organ donor. 

There will be one week where she's practically suspended between life and death, and Gojo will do nothing but watch.

After that, he’s not sure what he’ll do with himself. 

Megumi doesn’t need to hear that, though. 

“Take the week off, Satoru,” Shoko says quietly. She rolls another lolipop between her middle and forefinger, pitching it to her mouth to smoke it. “If not for yourself then at least for Megumi. You're the only family he’ll have, and—”

“She's not dead yet,” he interrupts, although it's more of a hesitant murmur. “He still has her. She's still here.”

He shouldn’t argue. He’s planning on taking the week off anyway. There’ll be no true rest until he’s searched every corner of the globe to find something that could help Tsumiki. He has plans to stop by Canada and visit Tsukumo Yuki, and then after that, fly back over to Brazil, maybe stop by at the west-most corner of Portugal and traverse across two continents on his way back to Japan. He’s never failed a mission. Not really. Not since. He could do this. 

“She’ll always be here,” Shoko sighs. “But you need to be with Megumi and he needs to be with you. Talk to him properly a little bit. You know what this sort of grief does to people.”

“And she’s still alive,” he re-emphasizes. “She still has a chance. I’m not pretending she’s dead while she’s still breathing.”

“They’re also the only true family you have, too. Get your head out of your ass and go cry about it.”

Gojo’s gonna sock her in the cheek, but she’s a dear friend, so he can’t really do that. 

Oh what the fuck. Yuuji realizes that, like, everyone was in on the intervention, but this is the last person on earth whom he would ever guess to be taking part. But he figures, then, if it’s really this bad, then it must be a sign that he needs to reel it together and fix whatever he and Fushiguro have going on. 

If the “bro talk” he had with Okkotsu and Panda was awkward, this was an infinite well of embarrassment compared to that. 

The alleged “bro talk” was half consolation for his awful not-break up, and half terrible, terrible fucking dating advice. Well, he supposes maybe Yuuta’s the best out of anyone to get dating advice from, considering… Well, there’s no confirmation that he and Maki are dating, but if he’s managed to stay on such brilliant terms with someone as prickly and not easily impressed as her, maybe he’s doing something right. 

Still, the advice of “sometimes you just need to beat each other up a lot in a loving way” doesn’t sound very healthy, or romantic, but maybe when dealing with Maki, it’s as close to a candlelit dinner as one could get. It could also potentially be some terrible euphemism for making out or… worse. But because Yuuji’s a good person, he gives Yuuta the benefit of the doubt. He thinks he could’ve used some friendship advice, too, but it seems that none of his upperclassmen have ever had a problem, ever, in the history of all time. He so badly wishes he heard it from them, instead of the newest addition to the intervention team.

Again, the fanged mouth and sharp-witted tongue materializes on the back of his right hand. 

“Brat,” it spits. “Get back in the fucking forest.”

“No!”

Sukuna, of all people, of all existing things on this planet? Egging him to go and talk things out with Fushiguro? Oh, it’s bad. 

“Get back in the forest before I kill you!”

Yuuji slaps the back of his hand, snuffing away Sukuna’s mouth like a fire. Immediately after, the mouth materializes on the back of his left hand. 

“Listen to me!” Sukuna somehow yells, like he has the lungs for it. “If you dare make me witness any more of your derisory self-monologues about that Fushiguro Megumi in this thickheaded skull of yours—!”

He shoves both his hands in his pocket. It’s actually a terrible fact to be brought to awareness, that Sukuna can sometimes read his thoughts, that they truly do share a brain on top of the body, but in turn, Yuuji can also hear Sukuna’s terrible and sometimes embarrassing thoughts, so they eventually reach a stasis. Sukuna very frequently thinks about different marinades, and ponders about the new cooking technology available in modern times. He’s also infinitely embarrassed by this.

Yuuji amps up his cursed energy a little more, flares his shoulders out, willing Sukuna back down into the deep recesses of his soul. Maybe it is that bad, and maybe he and Fushiguro are due for a long conversation. Maybe he does owe him something of an explanation, and maybe there are a few confessions to make here and there about something or another, but that’s actually none of Sukuna’s business, so Yuuji doesn’t say a word and keeps walking along the hallway. 

There’s a lull somewhere deep in his soul where he feels Sukuna stop fighting and clawing at him for control. Then, with some of that quiet telepathy they share:

“You’ll regret not listening to me. There’s something worth finding, brat.”

When Yuuji tries to reach for him again, he finds nothing. The words rattle in his head. And, too late, he wonders if maybe he should’ve heard him out at least. 

The terrible games continue. The students slowly begin to wonder if maybe they did something wrong, if they messed up on a mission or something, or maybe if Gojo was just very disappointed with their recent final grades, because the team building games were truly beginning to feel like a punishment. 

Even Hiroshi, who does this for a living, who’s done it a million times with hundreds of sorts of people, looks like he’s absolutely sick of it. And he’s shivering. If that’s out of fear or the seeping cold, no one’s sure. 

There is indeed a rock climbing wall, and they do in fact have to use a belay. Megumi’s about to double over in a feverish bout of exasperation. A belay? Where was his belay when he got launched fifteen hundred feet into the air by Sukuna? Where was his belay when Todo threw him clean through a block-wide building structure? Where was his belay when he had thrown himself off a building, having to summon Nue to float him down safely?

At least it’s a little bit funny. It’s not quite rock climbing. Actually, there’s no rocks. It’s more like a vertical obstacle course mounted onto a wall: ropes, spinning bars, hooks, suspended tires, some netting, and a few boulders here and there. They’re split into two teams, each with a belay line and one climber. The goal is to reach the top of the course first and ring the little bell. 

They agree not to use cursed techniques, as that might be cheating. And maybe a little unfair. 

Hiroshi lets out a mortified shriek when Maki just jumps. Doesn’t even grab onto anything. Just jumps, launching herself the full twenty feet and staying at the peak height for a fraction of a second. It was long enough for her to grab the little dangly thing in the bell, letting out a single, resounding ding.  

The opposing team had Panda as their climber, who just looked a little peeved that Maki jumped first. He, too, jumped high and mighty, ringing his own bell. His belay team caught him on the way down, and the tight harness pulled at the junction of his furry legs unnaturally. He would complain about the harness for the next fifteen minutes. 

Maki’s team calls this cheating because Panda wouldn’t have been able to jump twenty feet if not for reinforcing himself with cursed energy. Panda argues that Maki’s Heavenly Restriction is basically like a technique she can’t turn off, just like how his panda-ness isn’t something he can turn off. He is literally made of cursed energy. They dub Maki the winner anyway, and Team A gets the point.

The belay itself also isn’t something tragic. They just have Yuuji grab it with one hand, and that’s that. Seeing that A) the belay can entirely be supported by Yuuji’s or Maki’s one hand and B) no one here really needs the belay anyway, as part of their training involves jumping off highrise buildings twice a week, Nobara pulls out her phone and scrolls on it for the majority of the activity.

Part of the activity is also that they must cheer very loudly for their teammates and encourage them to reach the top, even if they don’t end up making it all the way. It’s another reminder that this is really just a corporate team building workshop, because everyone is able to complete the course in about ten to fifteen seconds, sometimes less if you have the capability to jump to the bell. The time is also cut in half, given that no one uses the belay to lower themselves down to the ground, instead opting to jump and break the fall. The belay team slackens the rope and lets them fall. Quicker that way. 

At least they didn’t make them wear helmets. Megumi would keel over and fall asleep, if so. 

And again, the one silver lining in this activity (that would eventually become Megumi’s downfall) is that Kirara and Nobara exchange phone numbers and socials. A team has been built. Tragedy will strike the Jujutsu Tech campus, come the new school year. 

“Okay,” Hiroshi says again. He won’t stop beginning every single one of his sentences with ‘okay.’ And Megumi knows it’s not fair to get so mad at him over it, but he’s been teetering on the precipice of a full on mental breakdown, either with a lot of yelling or a lot of crying. The onsen helped, but he wasn’t about to burst into snotty tears in front of Toge and Maki and Kirara. 

Hiroshi, to his due credit, has not backed down during this entire getaway. He’s stuck to his methods, and done his job. But that’s all the credit he’s getting. “Since we did a physical team building activity, which takes a lot of courage and strength,” he says, reading off some script likely, because none of the students have broken a sweat, or even panted for a breath once. “We’ll just wind down with this one last sit-down exercise, and then we’ll be all set for the day.”

One might say that word games were unfair to Inumaki, but in this hellscape of a workshop, Inumaki was actually winning by not having to participate in a damn thing. Except charades, sort of, and somehow he was the worst at the game. 

At least, at least, none of the games so far have been any corny teenage party games. They’ve been corny games, no doubt, but at least they’re not doing truth or dare, or never have I ever. 

“So, this is less of a game and more of an exercise, as I might’ve said.” Hiroshi places down a stack of loose sheets of paper. “It’s a scenario based exercise, with multiple perspectives involved. It’s not a matter of discussing which perspective is right, but a matter of understanding both fundamentally.”

Maki raises her hand. “Like A-I-T-A?”

“What’s A-I-T-A?” Panda asks. 

“Am I The Asshole.”

“Yes,” he replies immediately.

Maki throws a shoe at him. “That’s what it stands for, you—!”

Yuuta slams a fist down on each of their heads, and then cranks their necks to look back at Hiroshi. “Don’t be rude.”

“Ah,” Hiroshi chuckles in mild fear. “Uhm, yeah, actually it is sort of like—that. But instead of declaring a… right or wrong party, we’re meant to have an open discussion about both sides of the—”

“Okay, yeah yeah, we get it,” Kinji huffs out, and then pulls the first sheet of paper off the top of the pile. “Doesn’t need a long winded explanation. Man, what the hell are these problems?”

Kirara hooks her hands over Kinji’s shoulder, peering at the paper. “‘You’ve been working at your office for years,’” she narrates. “‘You’ve dedicated hours, weeks, months, your whole life to your work, and you are very passionate about it. You always do your best to go above and beyond, always aiming for employee of the month. You also make an effort to be friends with all your coworkers, and often bring in snacks for everyone.’”

“Kiss ass,” Nobara boos. “Execute her.”

Kirara snuffs out an awful chuckle, continuing to read through a suppressed smile. “‘However, there’s been a new hire in the office, Minato. He doesn’t work as hard as you, but he still gets the job done. He’s not as enthusiastic as you, but he is on good terms with everyone. He gets a promotion after only six months on the job, while you have worked for three years and still have not been promoted. You can’t help but feel there’s some tension between you two. You don’t feel great around him anymore, but you don’t want to have an unprofessional relationship. What can you do to resolve this?’”

“Tuna mayo,” Inumaki huffs, clearly unimpressed by something in the story. 

“You can be jealous and still want to improve yourself,” Yuuta replies to him. 

“They don’t get it,” Hakari interjects. “These modern desk jobs are the real scam. You’re better off investing your funds in—“

”You mean gambling your funds,” Nobara corrects.

Maki snidely tilts her head at the paper and huffs. “There’s clearly some reason he got promoted over her. It’s either that his work is just better quality and she’s delusional, or he’s more fit for the position, or it’s some blatant favouritism or discrimination. There’s fuckall you can do in any of those cases except getting over it or quitting your job.”

“Uhm, well actually—” Hiroshi starts, but is interrupted. Man, these kids need to learn about worker’s rights. 

“But that can’t be fair!” Yuuji exclaims, suddenly looking alive. “You shouldn’t give up doing what you love, just because of a bit of jealousy! So what if your coworker got promoted? At the end of the day, you’re still working for the same cause! It’s even better now, because you have a colleague who’s got a higher position, so your work will be ten times easier!”

“So,” Nobara deadpans. “You get over it. Like Maki said.”

“Uh,” he says dumbly. “Yeah. I guess so.”

A round of silence passes through their table. No one else moves to speak. 

“Okay,” Yuuta says, breaking the spell. “That one was easy. Uh, should we do another?”

Hiroshi scrambles again, zipping down under the table to grab more of his endless sheets like a squirrel that’s been spooked. “I have other ones! I realize you guys aren’t, uh, corporate workers, so I have some teen conflict resolution things here.”

He hands one to Yuuta, who begins to read. “This one’s about… uh, we’re… well, I guess high school’s still young. This one reads: ‘You and your best friend get along great, but lately, he’s been forgetting his locker combination and asking you to use your backpack to keep his stuff every day. You’re happy to help, but it’s getting a little annoying. What can you do?’”

Hiroshi winces, holding his tongue between his teeth. “Do you high schoolers not really do this stuff anymore?”

“I don’t own a backpack, for starters,” Megumi says, breaking his streak of silence. 

“And we don’t have lockers,” Maki adds.

“We have bigger problems to deal with than that,” Nobara adds.

“Tuna mayo.”

Hiroshi blinks at them. “Ah, right, sorcery school and all… Well, it’s not like you’ll never run into people problems. You kids are still people, after all…” Mostly, he doesn’t add, doesn’t dare let his gaze drift to the life-sized panda in fear of being vaporized. “So, what would you do?”

“Beat him out of existence,” Nobara answers.

I wouldn’t have this problem because I don’t own a backpack, Megumi thinks. But also, as it slowly dawns on him, he realizes he will have this exact problem at some point in the future once Nobara finds out about his little shadow portal inventory and insists that he carry everything for her all the time. It’s not the same, because a physical backpack would mean a greater physical weight on his shoulders, and in his case, his shadow is completely weightless. 

How would he go about solving this? Likely, he’ll tell Nobara to fuck off and hold her own bags. And then she’ll fuck off and hold her own bags, maybe sticking his tongue out at him and chewing him out for it now and then. And every now and then, Megumi will cave and keep an item or two on hold for her, because he’ll help his friends when they need it. Sometimes. And his and Nobara’s unshakeable, reluctant friendship will not give way at all, because Nobara’s just so easily forgiving. Even if she doesn’t act like it. 

“Just tell him that you don’t want to hold his stuff anymore,” Panda says. “Help him with his locker code!”

This is the general consensus. It’s really not a tough dilemma, but Megumi remembers his current turmoil, so he knows that the words and plans are not the hardest bit. It’s the vindication, and the feelings, and the fear of losing a friend forever, or causing a tear in the friendship that cannot be healed. A little dramatic for the case, sure, but that’ll always be the underlying issue in conflict resolution. You don’t work to resolve conflicts with people you’re okay with hating. You could just beat the shit out of them for it. He’s done it countless times. 

Loving people is exhausting. Specifically with these guys. 

At least Yuuji’s not avoiding eye contact with him anymore. There aren’t any typical bright grins, no slugged arms over his shoulder, no random hugs. But if he lives long enough (maybe a couple more hours once they get some time alone) maybe this will all be resolved. 

Against all possible odds, Kirara was right. Against all odds, the world hasn’t ended. Megumi really did just need to have a bit of yogurt and some fruit, and some fresh air, and he was already feeling much better. The tar in his stomach dissolves only slightly, but it’s enough for him to breathe a little deeper, stretch his legs, and find his bearings so that he can be brave again. 

He watches the tail end of the sunset slowly mutes away, the orange in the sky never really mixing with the blue in a way that it produces another colour. The balcony isn’t as refurbished as the rest of the old building given how cold it normally is up here. People stay indoors, or they suit up and rough the snowy hills come winter for some adventure. 

One day the world might actually end. There’s always that possibility, and then there’s the more-likely in-between of some minor disaster pulling him and his loved ones into its constricting clutches, because he cannot picture an unblemished future. Tsumiki might be gone forever, and he might not get a chance to say goodbye when she goes. He might waste every single visit, from here until the end of time, visiting her hospital room with choking, burning goodbyes, instead of spending his time loving and being loved, the way it’s supposed to go. He also has this lingering suspicion that Gojo’s also going to burst into tears soon, and when that happens, Megumi’s world is going to end all over again. But now he knows better; now he knows that he can do hard things, and that he can certainly be brave, so maybe, after the world has ended, they can settle back together again. 

He doesn’t hate Gojo. Most of the time. Sometimes, he even likes the guy. Sometimes, he thinks he wouldn’t change a single thing about whatever the hell they have. 

He’s not exactly his dad, because he remembers his real father’s silhouette when he was just young enough to form long-standing memories. The man would wiggle him into his little school pants, all gruff and irritated, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. He would snore, and it would make the loose, dry-rotted wooden floorboards quiver through their tiny apartment. He would stomp up the front steps, sometimes coming up through the fire exit, rattling the metal frames so that Megumi knew he was back. He would fry one egg for Megumi, and then toast a single slice of bread on the same smoking pan, and then slap the two foods onto a chipped plate. He’d take the batteries out of the smoke detector because the beeping got annoying. Megumi would eat at the small roundtable that they had after stacking a pillow or two onto the chair because he was too short to reach the plate. Maybe the most distinctly fatherly characteristic was that he would disappear, now and then, coming back with items that Megumi now knew were from places far, far beyond his hometown. 

Gojo didn’t wiggle him into his school uniform pants. (Megumi was six and old enough for all that.) Gojo never snored loud enough to shatter the earth’s mantle. (Gojo doesn’t really sleep in the first place.) Gojo doesn’t stomp with his big feet. (He floats an inch above the surface of the earth, separating him from all that is human.) Gojo cannot cook for the life of him, but he ordered more food than a family of six could eat, and at least Megumi got enough vitamins and nutrients growing up. Gojo did, however, disappear on several occasions, coming back with trinkets that had words engraved on them in languages that a little Megumi didn’t even know existed. And so far, Gojo’s always come back. 

He’s not his dad, but he’s decidedly not not his dad. He replies to all his texts with a big thumbs up emoji, just to piss him off, especially when it’s not a yes or no question. He picks up Megumi by the armpits still, and spins him around whenever he comes back from a mission. Megumi’s gotta rate that a four out of ten though, because he’s a little too old for that.

“Is gloomy Gumi brooding again?” a voice calls out from beside him, and Megumi’s soul leaves his body.

“Agh! Don’t do that!”

The sun’s set, so now is the time that Gojo finds it appropriate to swap his blindfold for his narrow frame sunglasses. Megumi doesn’t know how many times he’s told the man that he looks like a creep when he wears them, and that he should find literally any other frames, but he doesn’t listen. He doubles down on his efforts to wear them more often. 

Gojo throws a lax elbow over the rail, turning his body to face the boy. “You’re gonna catch a cold out here, Megs. Where’s your jacket?”

He’s about to bite something back at him, something reflexive, but the words die just short of leaving his mouth when he feels the blanket of Infinity swarm around him, shielding him away from the cold. “Why’re you out here?” he asks instead, willing himself not to step any closer to Gojo. 

“You ready to talk?”

It would be childish to try and bite Gojo right now. Really childish. But he knows he could do it, since he’s already inside the bubble of Infinity. “I already talked it out with the others.” Lie. They did the talking and he did the looking-away-from-them. 

“And I’m not talking about the others,” Gojo says, mockingly serious. “I’m talking about me. I hate being kept out of the loop, Gumi! I need the hot goss!”

Was it Nobara that got the “hot goss” habit from Gojo, or Gojo that got it from Nobara? Either option seems perfectly valid. “Yuuji and I had a fight.” There. Confession.

Gojo blinks at him over the glasses. “The whole city knows that, kid. You two were screaming about it pretty loud. I’m askin’, what did you fight about? Our sweet little Yuuji, all sunshine and rainbows, getting all riled up?! Wow, you must’ve—”

“Yuuji’s sick.”

He blinks at him again. “He’s Sukuna’s vessel. He’s practically superhuman. He can’t get sick. He’s never had a cold or—”

“Head-sick,” Megumi clarifies, but there’s no clarity in it when he can’t find the right words. “He… I think something’s wrong.”

“Something’s wrong?” Gojo prompts, voice tipping down. Megumi’s not looking, but he knows that he’s peering over the lip of his blackout sunglasses.

The words trickle from his mouth slowly, then come rushing out, each and every one of his leads that were tacked up onto the investigation board liquified and drowning in his throat, spilling out of him like arterial blood. “He’s been avoidant. He used to talk with the others all the time, but he’s been pulling away. He hasn’t been sleeping at all. He’s got deep eyebags all of a sudden. Every night, I hear him shuffling in his room… I thought it was nightmares at first, but every time I go to his dorm, he’s sitting at the edge—at the edge of the bed, staring at the wall! For hours!”

And that alone is too unusual, enough for him to be dizzy with worry, but the clues keep piling up.

“And, and he hasn’t eaten regular mealsl in maybe a month now. I think something’s draining his energy. I think… I think it’s Sukuna’s fingers, and the cursed energy that he has to consume each time we find one. This started when he reached the eighth finger, and now he’s at nine—”

“Ten,” Gojo corrects, staring right through him. “Hm.”

“He’s lost weight, Gojo,” he sighs, feeling more helpless than he’s felt in years. “He used to eat the kitchen after each mission we did, and now, now his old shirts don’t fit him right anymore… I confronted him about it, and he said it was the heat. I told him he’s full of shit, because it’s not even summer yet, and it’s only been hot for a week… And then he told me to piss off.”

“Mmm,” Gojo hums, very very casually turning his head to look back out at the forest from above the railing. He hums, humming like he’s taken a bite out of a particularly good dessert. “Mmm-mm-mmm. That’s… Mm hm.”

Megumi is oblivious to the clenched muscles in Gojo’s jaw. “He’s been going on more solo missions now. I know that it’s getting to him, but he won’t talk to me, and I don’t know what to do,” he finishes lamely, feeling like he’s just read out one of the conflict resolution scenarios from Hiroshi’s insidious stack of team building activities. Maybe he should’ve paid more attention to them. “If… if someone beat up Itadori, I could just go and beat up that person. But… he’s just beating himself up. And I can’t beat him up for beating himself up—”

Gojo lets out a loud snort, quickly slapping a hand over his mouth and nose when Megumi throws a cutting glare at him for laughing at a time like this. “Sorry, sorry. You’re just… so ineloquent about it!” he snickers. “I think you’re asking, ‘how do you save someone who isn't ready to be saved?’”

Megumi lowers the fist he’d reared up to throw at him, letting his mouth open and close a few times. “Yeah,” he sighs. “I guess so.”

Gojo straightens up, squaring up to Megumi in a whirl of motion, and then jabs a finger straight at his chest. “Megumi-chan. What would you do if Yuuji-kun turns evil?”

“Evil?!” he chokes out. “You’re crazy. It’s Itadori. Do you mean, Sukuna takes over?”

“Nope,” Gojo says. “Turns evil. Goes bad.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” Megumi answers, because Yuuji wouldn’t do that. “It’s Itadori.” The guy would try and feed a bug his half of a sandwich if he could. 

Gojo’s pushed his glasses up all the way to the bridge of his nose. He is hiding something nefarious, Megumi can tell. “How much do you think a person can change, Megs, before they turn into someone else? ‘Before it’s some sort of murder?’”

Murder. They’re talking about two entirely different things here, and yet Megumi can follow it perfectly. 

“It’s my fault if he dies then,” Megumi whispers. A harrowing truth that’s long since been realized, long since been held tightly in his palm, strings cutting at his fingers with its heavy, sharp grip. “He swallowed that first finger to save me. I… I called him weak, Gojo. I told him he only wins by relying on Sukuna… I didn’t mean to. I can’t believe I…”

Gojo lets out one more very choked, very strangled “Hmmm.”

“He’s going to die,” he continues, harrowed. “He’s not weak. I’m just not strong enough. I can’t protect him anymore. I never could. I’m not strong enough.”

Megumi hears a loud, resounding clank and snaps his head up to find Gojo slamming his forehead down on the metal railing of the balcony. He can only stare as Gojo sort of stays like that for a hot second, and then decidedly smears his forehead along the railing bar too, just to get the full experience. When he lifts his head up again, Gojo has a red welt banding across his forehead. Megumi can only stare in disbelief. 

“Hah, sorry about that,” he sighs, rubbing at his forehead with furrowed brows. This means that they’re both confused as to what’s transpired here. “Anyways, you were saying?”

Megumi blinks up at him, watching the illusory dizzy birds spin a dangerous vortex above Gojo’s head. “Gojo…”

“What?”

“What?”

“What!”

“You just bashed your head on the railing! Were you even listening to anything I said?!”

Gojo scoffs, as if Megumi’s the odd one here. “I didn’t even do that. You have no proof.” True enough, his RCT kicks in and recolors the welt at his forehead until it’s blue, green, yellow, and then gone. 

He takes it all back. There are several things he’d like to change about whatever the hell he and Gojo have going on, namely the man himself. There’s no limit to his irritating antics, and Megumi knows that the only thing that’ll make him stop is if he just burst into tears and begged him to shut the fuck up. And he hates that that is what it’s going to take. 

It’s a special brand of hypocrisy, and he’s just not in a kind mood anyway. He gets up, ready to storm off. “If you didn’t want to listen, then don’t fucking bother asking me,” he spits. 

“Megumi.”

He can’t escape, can’t break out of the bubble of Infinity trapping him here on the balcony in its warm embrace. The invisible wall shrinks, scraping his shoes against the concrete floor as he’s dragged closer to Gojo. And it’s serious, he thinks, because Gojo’s had a million instances to do this before, a million instances where Megumi’s pulled away kicking and thrashing, and he’s let him run off. But now he doesn’t even have his glasses on, and he’s staring into Megumi’s eyes, either searching for something that isn’t there, or hoping Megumi would find an answer in his own. 

“Did I ever tell you about my best friend?”

Chapter Text

Forgive, and don’t die with the anger.

Not because you have a bed to toil in after the fact.

Not because you have to, because you have no choice—that takes the virtue away from patience.

Not for the sake of your own peace, not when being apart would be death in measure to being together. 

No, none of that. It’s so that I may keep loving you

and you may keep loving me.

“Your best friend?” Megumi gasps quietly. “Yeah, you talked about him all the time. You went to high school together.”

Gojo hums in accordance. “And, did I ever tell you that his name was Geto Suguru?”

“...really…” 

He knows the name, knows the role call of tragedies that always follow after: Special Grade curse user, genocidal eugenist, the first and last known Cursed Spirit Manipulator, the man who made a living off of killing non sorcerers, with numbers like a hundred and fourteen, three hundred, or nine hundred and seven floating between gossiping lips, and the man that nearly killed all four of the second years last Christmas. 

Gojo thinks he’s slick. Thinks that his brooding is well-hidden, and that his secrets are kept under lock and key. The thing is, if you spend enough time with someone, you’ll be privy to details about their life that you had no business knowing, no business wanting to know. Megumi knew of Geto, the Special Grade curse user with long black hair and a cursed technique powerful enough to bring Japan to its knees, powerful enough to unleash hell on earth during the Night Parade. He knew of Gojo’s mysterious best friend from a decade ago, with long black hair and enough strength to rival the strongest. He knew how to put two and two together. 

“And he didn’t die when I executed him last Christmas,” Gojo says in one breath nearly mechanically, separating the words from their meaning with the push of his tongue. This is his own confession, of sorts. He’s being handed a key to something. “He’d died long before that,” he adds.

Megumi knows he’s great at predicting things, and he knows that he knows his people fairly well. So, his heart clenches up in dreadful fear when he sees Gojo serenely shut his eyes, tipping his head up to look at the shadows of the clouds. He knew, at some point, Gojo would burst into tears, but he’s just not ready for it. Not now. Helplessness isn’t meant to be such a cumulative, pungent feeling. His hands will stop working if Gojo cries. 

“The worst bit is, Megs,” he says quietly. Megumi doesn’t dare breathe, doesn’t dare move an inch, not when his voice is so soft and so far away in a manner he’s never heard from anyone before. “The worst part is, he could’ve stayed alive. If I’d just… if I’d just listened. If we’d talked.” He angles his head down, letting his white bangs fan over his face and tickle at the top of Megumi’s forehead. “We fell out long before he defected. We were assigned more solo missions. He stopped sleeping through the night. I could see him through our dorms’ shared wall. He’d always had trouble with food because of his technique, but I remember, during the summer before our third year, Suguru looked like he’d lost a lot of weight. He’d told me, ‘It’s just the heat stress, Satoru. I’ll be fine.’”

Oh. 

He thinks of the case file, covered in dust, corners of the pages well-worn from someone reading them over and over again. How it was listed that the terrorist attack at the village was sudden, unexpected, with no precedence. Between the lines however, if he squints hard enough, he can see the trail of blood and shedding hair underlining the words: “unexpected, with no precedence.” 

“I gave up on him,” Gojo confesses, so quietly that the words wouldn’t reach Megumi’s ear if the wind didn’t carry it to him. “I’ll die with that regret.”

How much can you change and get away with it, before you turn into someone else, before it's some kind of murder?

Yuuji and his absolute death have always been bound for as long as Megumi had known him. For as long as they'll be together. This was their beginning, and this would be their end, too. 

“How do I…” he whispers. 

Long arms wrap around him. When Gojo pulls his head into his neck, Megumi lets him. “Yuuji’s a good kid. This entire thing is different, Megs. Yuuji wants to be helped. Suguru lost hope in humanity. We’d lost so many of our classmates and friends. He didn’t have the same support your friends are willing to give you.”

The bits and pieces come back to him in waves. Maki’s irritating scolding. Nobara’s loud criticisms. Panda’s and Inumaki’s easygoing joy and teasing. Yuuta’s quiet advice and Kirara’s cheeky understanding. Even Hakari and his grounding non-reaction to anything that seems to happen. 

Even Shoko, bending Megumi’s offset ribs back into place, letting him say anything on earth and let it be water off a duck’s back. All this time he’s felt like some sort of circus pony, all eyes on him, but he realizes that this might be love, too. The same slimy, pounding ache in his chest that made him want to look away, squeeze his eyes shut, unable to bear it. Unable to bear knowing exactly who they are, well enough to predict what they’ll say, what they’ll do, what they mean, where they’ll end up soon. 

“I’m not giving up on Yuuji,” he murmurs, knowing Gojo can make out the sounds somehow, no matter how muffled the words are in the fabric of his shirt. “I’m not giving up on him.”

I know, he feels Gojo mouth into the crown of his head. They’re beyond words now. Whatever needs to be said is said just fine in the way one of Gojo’s hands cup the back of his head and press them together, the way Megumi feels a cheek pressing against his hair. 

He can’t remember the last time he was held like this. Or held, ever. Maybe there is a quota that you need to hit, and maybe, if you don’t hit it while you’re young, you’ll just have to make do when you’re older. He thinks this as a wide, warm hand rubs at his upper arm, as lithe fingers thread through his hair and mat down his spikes, as he tries to convince himself he’s not sobbing into Gojo’s expensive white button up right now. He won’t remember when exactly he’d pulled his own arms around Gojo’s middle, and he won’t remember a single thought that would pour out of his head, leaving him blissfully empty for once. No, all that space will be filled up by the memory of the same pounding, slimy ache that writhed in his chest, finally satiated. 

“You’ll be fine, Megs,” he hears Gojo murmur. It’s bad, he realizes distantly. He can hear himself gasping and hiccuping and sniffing away whatever snot built up in his nose. But it was so exhausting, living for an impending world’s end and not being spared a minute of recompense. 

The ropes in his hand seem to loosen enough for Megumi to drop them. When he sleeps tonight, he’ll be out like a light until sunrise. 

Panda stops him from brutally embarrassing himself by strong-arming him away from Yuuji and from professing a deep, loud, and rambunctious apology for all the world to see in broad daylight. 

“Do it later,” the bear sighs. Like he’s sick of Megumi at this point. Like they all are. Like they’ve debriefed on it after their very sophisticated onsen intervention. 

Yuuji wouldn’t hear him anyway, fighting his own battles on the other side of the resort’s foyer where Nobara was trying to get him into a ski mask, only half successful. He can understand the fight. There isn’t more than a quarter inch of snow outside, and only in small patches. The forest itself is somehow both humid and cold. 

Their last activity of the trip is a hike in the forest. Hiroshi is not going, as a team of sorcerers on the upper bound of second-grade should be able to handle themselves out in a fully marked hiking route that had nearly no elevation. They pack snacks, pull on warm socks, and pair off to trek their way through the same foot trails that Megumi had walked through on their “mission” days ago.

He wouldn’t normally be a fan of waking up so early, even if it involved fresh air and beautiful woods. But as of late, he hasn’t been sleeping anyway, so the excuse to finally come out of his room at five in the morning instead of staring at the ceiling until the sun warmed up the rooftop shingles was a nice change of pace. He slathers petroleum jelly across his lips, and then pats some onto his cheek, too. Last time he went out, he was too busy trying to get Yuuji to talk to him to care about what the biting cold air would do to his skin. His cheeks were nearly flaking still. 

The bizarre heart-to-heart with Gojo left him so disoriented that he’d gone for a walk around the perimeter of the building and ended up pacing thirty loops. And then, when he finally fell asleep, feeling all out of sorts, his awakening had felt like some sort of rebirth. Like the past seventy-two hours of his life didn’t happen at all, like he’d undergone a hard reboot that upturned every single thing he thought he was sure of. 

The memories between getting his face smushed into Gojo’s shirt and waking up this morning are hazy, at best. Gone into the wind, at worst. His left boot is a little too tight and he can feel a blister forming at his heel already. The scarf is too thick, and with his hood pulled up, the thickness of the fabric pushes at his neck uncomfortably. There’s a hair somewhere in his shirt, tickling him. The early morning has a biting wind. Someone made the grave mistake of giving Inumaki a harmonica.

He might be the only one mildly interested in the hike. Everyone else is brooding, for once. Gojo, again, is nowhere to be found. 

“We’re partnering off and sticking with it,” Maki declares, supposedly to their entire group, but she makes a point to look directly into Megumi’s soul.

“I call dibs on Kin!” Kirara cheers, and no one fights her for it. 

“We gotta have one group of three,” Yuuta points out. “Toge, Panda and I can stick together.”

Nobara jumps to the opportunity, catching on. They’re not even trying to hide it. “I call Maki!”

Each individual slowly, in perilous synchronization, swivels their head to the general direction of Megumi and Yuuji and the seven feet of distance separating them. 

“Hmm,” Panda hums. “That’s crazy. I guess you two have to be paired up. Hiroshi’s orders! It’s dangerous to be out in the forest alone…”

Kirara nods along. “Crazy… crazy…”

“Can you guys stop,” Megumi grumbles, fed up with it. No tact and no discretion. Or, maybe they didn’t care enough to be discreet about it. Desperately, he tries to remember the points he’d learned yesterday in his talk with Gojo; he was lucky enough to have such supportive friends that noticed and went out of their way to help him. Whatever that really meant, it still felt like a gross invasion of privacy. 

“The meetup point is here,” Maki says, handing him a crudely drawn map of the walking trail, despite them having a proper, colorized one given to them. The map is quite literally a sheet of printing paper with a single graphite line in the vague shape of the trail. There’s a large panda bear sticker stuck to the north most corner. “Get there however you want. I don’t care. We’ll reconvene in about three hours.”

It won’t take any of them nearly three hours to truly get there, meaning that she’s accommodating time for accidental curse hunting expeditions and spontaneous bush-wacking. 

“Yeah, okay,” he says, and before he can chicken out, he grips Yuuji by his wool-mitted hands and dashes off into the foot trails. 

—

One more time. They could try this one more time, and he could be brave. And if it didn’t work right this second, he could try again the next day.

“Itadori,” he asks, not looking at the boy as they walk in step with one another along the lightly snowed gravel. The trail starts wide, and branches off into little paths and lookouts here and there. He can’t take in any of his surroundings without doing a quick panoramic. The millions of gleaming pine needles stretching miles stacked above him turn the two of them into a pair of mice. 

Yuuji doesn’t answer him. 

“Itadori,” he murmurs. Are you awake?

And maybe he ought to wait a little. Maybe that’s how it works, and he’s missing the secret ingredient of time. But he thinks of Tsumiki, and the last conversation he’d ever had with her, something so insignificant he can hardly remember it, nothing pleasant, nothing like “I love you,” and with no knowledge that he would not speak to her again for fourteen months to come. He thought he had time. 

“You’re a good friend,” he starts, trying not to sound like an automated recording. “And I’m glad that—”

He cuts off to look down at where his mitted hands are still grasping Yuuji’s ungloved ones. The kid always ran hot, never wearing a jacket even if it was freezing in the dead of night. Yuuji squeezes his hand twice, some sort of truce.

“I am too, Fushiguro,” Yuuji replies. “And it’s fine. We can move past it; I know you didn’t mean what you said. You get pissed off really easily dude…”

That’s great and all, but the goal here wasn’t to move on. It was to kick up some more dirt and get Yuuji riled up enough that he started talking, but he supposes that forgiveness isn’t a bad start.

He’s missing a few points. Namely that somewhere, deep down, there were a few things that Megumi did mean to say, just not like that. The more that Yuuji grew as a sorcerer the more comfortable he was putting his life at risk and doing dangerous things. It didn’t matter how strong he was, he couldn’t handle Sukuna like that, not on his own. He shouldn’t need to in the first place. Megumi was mad at a lot of things. He was mad at everything and everyone around Yuuji, but never Yuuji himself. 

“Alright,” he resigns. Maybe they have a little more time. 

“You want a granola bar?”

“Huh?”

When he turns to look to his right, Yuuji’s extending a full arm out to his face and presenting a single trail mix granola bar at him. “Granola. Unless you want the chocolate covered almonds I have, but they’re milk chocolate and I know you don’t like—”

“Thanks,” he cuts him off. He’d always prefer granola over milk chocolate. This one even has little dried fig bits and coconut flakes in it. To be known, or whatever. 

He chews at the bar as they pace down the slowly narrowing foot path, and the tension begins to seep away. Being outdoors helps. Yuuji’s occupied every other second with a new bird that he spots, or a growing dollop of fungus at the base of a tree. The air is still and chilly, letting him hear each crack of their footfalls as they walk. 

“We’re still talking about it later,” he throws at Yuuji, who looks over his shoulder from his squat by a gushing stream that hasn’t entirely frozen over. 

The granola was definitely some sort of peace offering, but he’s not reading into it too much. But when Yuuji shoots a childish grin at him, it feels like the first proper minute of peace he’s felt in weeks. “You’ll have to catch me first,” he jokes, and Megumi knows that it’s a joke. He’s seen Yuuji’s track record of seventeen meters a second. 

When the yellowing leaves begin to shroud them away from the sky, Megumi allows himself to let go of his thoughts and walk on with a useless, empty head. 

When all good things come to an end, Megumi’s always at the butt of the joke. Or so it feels.

When they reconvene as planned, four people need to use the shitter and zero people know where the shitter is. The walk back would be another twenty, but Hiroshi had mentioned there being outhouses and one latrine with a water supply somewhere along the routes. The designated routes and outlooks that they’d hiked by didn’t seem to have any along them. 

Figures that the only person with Hiroshi’s contact information is Yuuta. Even more so given that no one has a charged phone.

“No, no, guys, it’s fine,” Yuuta sighs, rustling around his coat and slapping at the pockets until he lands on one and pulls out his phone. “I’m still at eight percent. I have a power bank on me, I just… can’t find my cable,” he mutters sheepishly, immediately looking to Megumi for help.

Yuuta’s great at a lot of things, Megumi has found. A lot of things, just not keeping a charger on him. Or his keys, sometimes his wallet too, and he has this habit where he forgets to sign out when he’s using the computers on campus, and he can’t seem to remember to bring a flashlight with him no matter how much time he has to prepare, and sometimes shows up to their final exams with a broken pencil and no sharpener. In each of these instances, he’ll turn to Megumi, the younger, more impressionable kohai of his, who is always willing to help him out. 

Megumi’s sort of sick of it, but he figures if he can keep a few IOUs from Okkotsu Yuuta, it might pay off in the future. And now, these IOUs might garner him some favour over dealing with Maki too, by proxy. 

Thinking nothing of it, Megumi faces away from the circle of students and reaches into the shadows in the soil. The void portals give way to a gap just wide enough to fit his hand, and he wills his fingers to find his grip around the colorful multi charger he keeps. Everyone at their school uses android, except for himself and Nobara, who use Apple devices. This is easier than carrying more than one charger. It’s also useful for when he has to charge his little e-reader on the go.

He only realizes his mistake once he looks up.

Nobara’s staring at him with wide eyes. “...Fushiguro?”

Incriminating hand still stuck inside his shadow, Megumi freezes in a bout of terror. Nobara inches closer to him.

“Is this some new technique?” she questions, expression unmoving on her face. “Have you been… hiding it from me? Were you hiding it from me last week? When I needed you to hold my bags and you said your hands were… full?”

Very pointedly, Megumi keeps his hand in the shadow, fingers still clutched around the multi charger. No one in the group dares to move a muscle. He grips his other hand around Yuuji’s wrist, nearly hiding behind the guy and putting him between himself and Nobara. 

Nobara’s already pulling out her nails. “Say, did you learn this technique just now? Were you waiting to share with the class?” she asks hollowly. “Or just me?”

“Hey, hey!” Yuuji forcedly chuckles. “I’m sure he just forgot… right, Fushiguro? I mean, the only time I’ve seen him use the shadow was in the car on the way here—”

“So you KNEW?!” she screams, pointing at Yuuji next with her heart-engraved hammer. “Both of you kept this from me?! What, scared I’ll make you hold all my shit from now on?!”

The second years slowly back away, not making any sudden movements in fear of being next in being on the receiving end of Nobara’s wrath. The trees have gone silent, waiting for the next move. Megumi slowly inches back up, still keeping Yuuji in between himself and Nobara. Yuuji can heal quicker. He has better luck as a shield. 

But as he pulls the boy close, Megumi’s nose nearly buried into his pink hair and short undercut, all his senses are flooded with that tooth-rottingly sweet caramel again. And now is really not the time, but…

His grip tightens on Yuuji’s wrist and the multi charger in his other hand, having been lifted out of his shadow entirely. Nobara’s about to fill him full of holes and then make him manually carry all of her luggage for the next three moons. Or, they’re about to fight to the death right here, and she has a solid chance of winning with the way she is exuding cursed energy right now. Sparring with her is always such a disorienting experience; their fight styles are just too different. Megumi focuses on hand-to-hand combat, using his shikigami as aids. Nobara doesn’t even let him close the gap enough to land a single strike, caging herself in a bubble of nails that become trigger-haired landmines beneath his feet. He’s lucky it’s only a spar and that she hasn’t blown up his frogs yet that she hates so much. She has a chance at winning, so now is really not the time…

Yuuji’s forgiving him. He hasn’t forgiven him yet, not yet, but he’s forgiving him. In the process of it. They’re going to be fine. Sure, Megumi’s dragged him down another slippery slope by making him an accomplice in the crime of keeping a secret from Nobara, but Yuuji sort of walked into that one on his own. But he’s on his side on something now, and he’s forgiving him, so there’s a chance that the world won’t end today. He pulls Yuuji closer, until their shoulders bump together, and now’s really not the time…

He does it before he can really think about it. 

“What—Fushiguro!” Nobara yells, but Megumi is already midway through his fantastical escape, an arm barred around a very bewildered Yuuji and another hand behind himself, steeling his fingers into the correct hand sign to open up his shadows and engulf them in its powdery, charcoaled vapour. 

The first thing he learns is that this is not a pleasant experience at all. He will at a later date apologize to all his shikigami individually for keeping them in the hell that was the shadow realm. TV static fills his head. He feels like he’s getting a CT scan done, or at least that’s what he thinks it’d feel like. He’s never had a CT scan done before. 

The world gives out from beneath his feet, and he’s not quite freefalling, and not quite on solid ground. A wild assortment of objects clack against his head: his black-bladed sword, five loose pretzels that had fallen out of their bag, the multiplug, breath mints, old kool aid packages, a wooden bō staff he’d once used to spar with Maki, his toothbrush, the rest of the salt and vinegar chips that neither he nor Yuuji really ate, wow there was a lot of food in here…

There’s no light in the shadow realm. He tries not to choke himself—obviously, there’s no light in the fucking shadow realm. But he can’t see. Only feel. Anything he thinks of in his inventory, a certain t-shirt, a water bottle, a bandaid, materializes in his hand in an instant. His shikigami are nowhere to be found. There’s no sound, except for some infinite echo that he’s certain is there but hasn’t bounced back to him yet—what the hell is it echoing off of? Are there walls in here? Are they close enough for him to reach it? He can hardly breathe in here.

The second thing he realizes, breathlessly, is that Yuuji’s wrapped around him like an octopus. Figures, because it must be disorienting to be pulled away from earth and into some meaningless, shapeless, formless void. But Yuuji is in his neck right now, gasping too because neither of them can fucking breathe—

The shadows spit them out in an instant. 

They come tumbling down onto some thick and illusory peat moss that looks so much like solid ground. But with the weight of their two bodies, the bed of moss gives way to the foot of water and mud beneath it, causing Megumi to sink straight into the wet earth with Yuuji crashing down on top of him. 

“What!” Yuuji yells above him. He’s spared from being half submerged in the bog water, but his shoes still plant themselves on either side of Megumi’s legs, which coincidentally means he’s stepped straight into the bog water anyway. “What the hell, Fushiguro?!”

Awful am I, Fushiguro thinks. Awful, because he did nearly just lock both himself and Yuuji away into some possible limbo, stuck for eternity until the heavens and the earth recombine, and yet his first thought was, Thank fuck. We escaped Kugisaki.

“Ha,” he says as he’s patting a hand against Yuuj’s cheek. What’s he looking so worried for? He doesn’t laugh, but he’s smiling anyway, like something’s terribly funny but no one can find out, staring up past Yuuji and into the clouds floating above him. “It worked.”

He gets a mouthful of moss a second later. 

The water’s too shallow to say they “swam” out of the water, but it’s deep enough that they didn’t “walk”. Perhaps “waded” is a good middle ground. The stench was suffocating in this bog, swamp, marsh, whatever it was. He knew there was a distinction, but he could not care less. They were wet and it was freezing outside and they had brand new problems on their hands. 

All grounds would give way to a thick, clingy layer of mud beneath it, so the two of them opted to scale a short tree instead and settle on the nook of two thick branches. Megumi hoped the wood wasn’t dry-rotted and wouldn’t cave in and let him fall into the treacherous valleys of peat moss and slime. 

Ah, this was the opportunity he was waiting for. 

Yuuji’s huffing like they’d just ran a marathon. Yuuji’s covered in pond scum. Yuuji’s looking at him—oh, shit, he’s looking at him—with such an irritated and foul expression on his face, Megumi might need to seek out witness protection. Now he’s wondering the relative merit of shadowing away from Kugisaki; surely, if Megumi had to fight her, he at least had a chance of winning. Yuuji however has three Special Grades under his belt, so Megumi’s actually fucked over if they decide they’re finally gonna fight it all out in this disgusting bog. 

“What the hell do you mean, ‘it worked?!’” he sputters, bear-hugging the trunk of the tree. It looks ridiculous and also a little sweet. Very in character. He has to remind himself to not stare, and also to respond.

“I uh,” he says, because there’s no nice way to put it. “That’s the first time… I tried putting living things into the portals…”

They’re sitting on opposite branches of the tree. Yuuji’s no squirrel, but he could manage to find his way around the trunk to throttle Megumi once more. “First —What do you mean —You haven’t even—! Fushiguro! Were you trying to kill us?!”

“We escaped,” he says dryly, but scanning their surroundings, a brand new problem has sprouted from the alkaline stench beneath their feet. They’re twenty kilometers into the woods, and the nearest footpath is a kilometer east from here. When they were here the first time, there were stones in Megumi’s stomach. Stones of guilt, anxiety, anger mostly. A pebble or two of nerves. They washed down his throat and festered in his guts with bile and tears and not nearly enough water. 

It’s easier now. Yuuji hasn’t forgiven him, but he might. He’s close to it. Megumi’s face has never been all that expressive, so all he can do is hope that the devastation and clinging anticipation isn’t blatantly showing in the minute furrow of his brows or the miniscule downturn of the corner of his lips. This was the opportunity he was waiting for, the opportunity to finally apologize, and talk things out. 

The heart-to-heart with Gojo was sweet, but Megumi would be lying if he said it wasn’t the single most terrifying fucking thing that man had ever told him in his life. To hell with the curses, to hell with dying alone, but watching your comrades being peeled away from your clutches? That. That simple notion: you could die without your heart ever stopping. That was a horror film in its own right. That you could lose yourself long before your own death, enough that no one could save you, enough that no one could notice…

He’s not giving up on Yuuji. Whatever was going on with Geto Suguru decades before, it’s different. Yuuji isn’t evil. Yuuji’s still here, and the granola bar was a peace offering, and everything’s fine. Everything will be fine. This, this was the opportunity he’s been waiting for. The opportunity to finally talk, get everything out. 

“What the hell has been up with you lately?” is what comes out of his mouth. 

Not quite what he meant to open with. 

It’s bad enough that he physically winces, eyes squinting shut and face peeling away from looking at Yuuji in any regard, hoping that if he waited long enough right now, maybe the words would be erased and he could start over.

“Sorry,” he puffs out in one constricted breath, bonking his head against the tree bark. “Sorry, I—”

“You’re kinda an asshole, Fushiguro,” Yuuji says in turn. God, he messed this up. He messed up his one, final opportunity, he thinks. But when he slowly raises his gaze to look at Yuuji, the pink-haired boy isn’t scowling and he isn’t angry. 

The wind whistles a bell shape around the scaphal hollow of his ear, pilfering the rest of his fully formed thoughts straight out of his brain and into the boundless sky above them. Yuuji’s grinning at him like he knows some cosmic secret and Megumi’s about to get all the insider details. 

“You don’t have to look like that, man,” he says, laughing quietly. “I know what you are. It’s fine. I told you it’s fine, so trust me.”

Trust me. This bitch said the same damn words, all those months ago at the Eishu Detention Centre where he had his hand chopped off and then died, after being possessed by Sukuna. And then Megumi had his ass handed to him by Sukuna. The words still ring hollowly in his ear, day in and day out. Yuuji died with one regret; he wished he’d never consumed that first finger. 

“But it’s not fine,” he says simply. He’ll get there somehow, even if he needs to face Yuuji in a be-all-end-all 1v1 until they’re beaten half to death. “And you’re not fine. I told you, I know what you’re doing. And I know that you’re full of shit, and you’re lying to me. You’re bad at it, by the way.”

Yuuji claps one large hand over Megumi’s face, covering his vision with a pinky and thumb stretched ear to ear, slathering at his forehead and cheek and chin. “And I told you! I’m not even lying! I told you nothing’s wrong, Fushi,” he sighs. “You just—”

“The last time you told me to trust you on this, Yuuji, you died!” Megumi says, not yelling and not shouting, but there is a force in the words anyway, enough to have Yuuji freeze up completely and drop his hand. “I’m not—I just want to talk. I’m not good at this. If you want to talk with—with someone else, anyone else, Nobara or Gojo or Shoko-san or, or even Yuuta-senpai, do that. Just talk to someone, Itadori. It’s…” terrifying, he doesn’t say. He’s not sure why, but that final word feels too… too much. The word is too big, too vulnerable, too sincere. 

“‘Yuuji,’” Yuuji mumbles through his chewing on his lips.

Megumi blinks at him. “What?”

“You call me Yuuji,” Yuuji says. “Whenever you’ve been mad at me, you call me ‘Yuuji’ instead of ‘Itadori’. So you’re mad again.”

Does he? Was he mad right now? Sure, his heart was pounding and his blood was pumping, and if he really let himself go, he might be screaming his head off right now. 

Yuuji continues to stare at him, blanked out of all thoughts, waiting for him to say something new for once. Old moves, old moves. Megumi’s feeling it now. He’s a broken record, saying the same things, reaching for a different ending. He recycles the same words he’s said in Yuuji’s dorm each night after his fitful sleep, the same words he would use to try and coax out a different response, in the car, in their ridiculous team building activities, on their very real mission. He called him Yuuji. Does he call him Yuuji? Is he mad? That can’t be the right word.

Megumi rocks back on his seat on the tree branch, staring up into the branches. Does he?

Yuuji, you died! 

You’re a terrible liar, Yuuji. 

I’m not giving up on Yuuji.

Yuuji’s sick. 

Something’s wrong, Yuuji, and you’re just pretending like—!

“No,” Megumi mumbles finally. “No, I only call you that when I’m—” Scared to the point of shitting myself, terrified, caring, mourning early, waiting with a bated breath for the worst. “—when I’m worried. I’m not… I’ve never been mad, I just call you that when—”

“Call me what?”

“What?”

“What?” Yuuji asks. 

“...what?” Megumi echoes. His train of thought derails and perishes into ashes. 

“What do you call me?” Yuuji asks, grinning like a Cheshire cat, gripping the trunk of the tree between his forearms to swing his head around to look Megumi in the eye like a fool. “When you’re worried? What do you call me?”

Blood flushes through his cheeks, and Megumi knows it only adds fuel to the fire but he tucks his face into the collar of his jacket anyway. “Your name?”

“What?” Yuuji asks again, because he’s a little bitch. “Which name? I go by many names. Y’know, in middle school, they used to call me the Tiger of West Middle, ‘cause I was—”

“Shut up,” Megumi groans. He’s feeling extraordinarily stupid again, and he’s feeling it get easier. Less tar in his stomach. More slimy aches. “You're not funny. We’re still talking. You’re not wiggling out of this.”

“Oh we’re talking, hmm?” Yuuji hums, and then he fucking stands up on the branch that could not support his weight all that well in the first place. “You said you call me that when you’re worried?” he asks, trapezing along the narrowing spine of the branch. “You worried now?”

He resists the urge to scoff, or maybe tip himself off his own branch and see how Yuuji fares in comparison. 

“Itadori,” he says, because he’s feeling petty on top of irritated right now. “If you fall you’re just landing in the mud. It’ll break your fall perfectly. I’m not worried.” And anyway, he’s seen the boy throw a car with his bare hands. A drop from a tree isn’t going to kill him.

Yuuji huffs and does what’s disturbingly close to a pout, which really doesn’t work on his face, and then slumps down with worrying force onto the branch again. “Agh! I’m covered in mud anyway.”

He’s not sure how to proceed from here. Not sure in the slightest. Yuuji’s more playful and open to talk than he’s been in months now, and he’s still so far away. Figures that the best place for the two of them to properly have a discussion would be some rancid bog, and not somewhere more aesthetic or youthful, like a rooftop at sunset, or by the ocean, or even in the onsen, maybe in a car ride, maybe in a quiet hallway bench after dinner when everyone else was asleep, and the world was on pause, the stars halting their orbit and death and birth for their sanctity and quiet words. 

But no, they’re in a bog. And it’s cold, and they’re still wet, and covered in mud, and a thirty-something kilometer walk away from the resort. Megumi’s not sure how Yuuji would feel about attempting shadow travel again. 

He sighs. “Let me call Gojo. I’ll let him know where we are. Maybe he could get us back…” His phone blinks back five percent charge. “Ah, I hope the call goes through.”

Yuuji rocks back and forth and side to side, entertaining himself with the sight of anything around them. He’s so much like his dog shikigami, it’s unbelievable. 

Thankfully, the call goes through.

“Yoohoo Megs, you two finally ready to join the rest of the group? Didn’t know you could shadow-travel, that’s pretty neat! You been hiding it from me?” Gojo’s melodic, aggravating voice chimes in through the speakers. 

Ah, he might’ve escaped Nobara for now, but he would certainly have to face her wrath at some point. And then Gojo would be next to sink his claws into him, pestering him with infinite questions about his new little technique and its capabilities. 

“We’re at the same spot from Monday,” Megumi says. “The bog that was ten kilometers into the footpath and a kilometer west. Our phones don’t have much charge, so—”

“The bog?” Gojo says suddenly. 

“Yeah?” Megumi replies. “From your made-up mission.”

The line remains eerily quiet for a few still, aggravating seconds. He doesn’t have time for this. The battery on his phone is at two percent now. 

“Megumi,” Gojo says slowly through the speaker. “I didn’t make up any missions.”

Oh!

Oh, Megumi thinks. Hmm. He looks around, trying not to fall into a sweeping and pounding panic, suddenly very keen on taking in every detail about his surroundings. “You didn’t?” Megumi asks, like this isn’t about to be another situation. He’s very good at getting into situations. This is about to be another very catastrophic one. He can smell it from all the way over here. 

Gojo’s quiet for two short, hair-raising seconds, shuffling something on the other end of the line.

“Megumi,” Gojo says again, in the same voice. “It’s a well-kept, very fertile forest. The locals tend to the trees and monitor the woods every week. It’s part of the tourist attractions.”

Oh, alright. 

Megumi knows he’s breathing a little unevenly now. He can tell with the way Yuuji’s staring at him with wide eyes. Either he’s overhearing the conversation, or Megumi has him locked in a thousand-yard-staring-contest, and the horror on his face is leaking into his cursed energy and shrouding them away from the rest of the world. 

The universe has impeccable timing. 

“There is no bog,” Gojo says, before the line goes dead.

Chapter Text

Yuuji won’t stop snickering like something’s funny.

“Can you stop?” Megumi grumbles, but admittedly, it’s helping ease away some of the panic.

“Fh-hh-hh, ha ha ha!” The boy doubles over on his precarious spot on the tree, one hand gripping his own ribs and the other placed firmly on the tree trunk. “Ha ha ha! Bog —”

Oh, he’s lost it, Megumi thinks in shame. 

There is no bog, Gojo says. Then where the fuck are they right now. He should’ve known something would be off, shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions, because now that he’s thinking about it, no. At no point did Gojo outright say, “I made up that mission!” Which should’ve been a stellar clue given that Gojo loves to brag endlessly about his diabolical pranks right in Megumi’s face for weeks after they’ve been done. No, the mission was real, and Megumi’s mental storage had been so pumped full of fury these past few days that his hard drive had excavated all remaining memories about the mission case file. 

Ten kilometers into the footpaths, a kilometer west, a supposed lake on the map that wasn’t a lake at all. Megumi had initially thought the map was perhaps outdated, or maybe the turn of seasons affected the quality of the lake, or maybe the lake was shallow in nature and happened to dry up into a marsh, or maybe someone drank all the water. 

Something’s wrong. With this news in mind, Megumi’s eyes continuously scan the grounds around them, searching for any oddities, anything that could stand out as cursed, any residuals from a cursed spirit or perhaps the sorcerer who had spotted the whole ordeal. 

The soil reeks of cursed energy, now that he’s looking. 

Yuuji’s still giggling. 

“Itadori!” he yells, snapping him out of his fit. “You heard him, the mission was real. The curse might still be here, since no other sorcerers were sent to exorcise it. We should find it as soon as possible, or try and get back to the rest of the group—can you stop laughing! What’s so funny?”

Yuuji continues to titter away, taking a deep breath to calm himself. “Pff… sorry… ha. Sorry. I think I didn’t get enough sleep last night. It was just funny, the way he said it. ‘There is no bog —’”

“Okay,” Megumi interrupts, resisting the urge to slather his hands on his face in exasperation. They’re still covered in mud. The day is getting cooler and cooler. They’ll freeze if they stay like this. “Just shut up… Itadori?”

“Hmm?”

“Was the water that deep when we first got here?” he asks, pointing to the base of the dead tree they were perched on, where the mud bank looked runnier and more washed out than it had when they were dropped face first into it.

They stare at the shallow puddles and basins scattered across the mud slowly growing in size like a refilling groundwater well. 

“I don’t think so,” Yuuji replies, boring holes into the water. A flash of tongue peeks out at the corner of his cheekbone with fangs and red eyes. 

It was a fairly decent opportunity to talk, but it seems their heart-to-heart would have to be put on hold one more time. Megumi hopes that by then, he hasn’t pushed his luck too far. 

—

In less than one hour, shit hit the fan. 

A slow, cautious journey to the edge of the woods. That would be the reasonable course of action. It’s not like a little mud’s gonna stop them; Jujutsu Tech has sent them on more precarious, more tedious missions than this. Megumi had once had to look for a curse hiding in the still-wet mortar in between the bricks of a half-finished house. A tiny, slithering snake-like curse, but a pesky one nonetheless. Filing through hours and hours worth of brick paste with a tiny spatula and his Divine Dog was truly tedious. He was covered in plaster by the end of it. He was under explicit orders not to just blow the entire building to the ground. He could handle anything by this point.

Doesn’t make this ordeal easy, though. The mud is thick, easily giving out beneath their feet, like they’re wading through quicksand. The cold doesn’t help. Megumi can’t feel his feet anymore, and had lost all sensations in his toes within ten minutes of walking in the sludge. The water continues to creep up slowly, feeding the fiery anxiety in his belly; something’s wrong. 

It’s never easy. They don’t make it far on their journey by foot before they realize it.

“This is a domain,” Megumi murmurs, eyes still scanning his surroundings consistently for any change. “That’s why we weren’t able to find it the first time.”

“How’d we get here this time?” Yuuji asks. “I mean, I know you shadow-portaled us in here, but how’d you even—”

A cursed energy deposit. That could be it. He could feasibly open portals in distant locations if he’d been there before and could picture it, but he’d never set foot inside the bog, not even on their first recon of the forest. The only other possibility for his portals to lead them here would be a large, magnetic cursed energy deposit.

“The curse is nearby, and it’s strong. We weren’t able to feel it since we’re in the domain…”

“Yeah, okay,” Yuuji sighs, twiddling his thumbs.

Megumi arches two thin eyebrows at him.

Yuuji only responds with another sigh. “Gah, I hate thinking missions! I’m not much of a thinker, y’know? I do the fighting with my hands, and that’s it. So, what? You’re saying we’re trapped in another domain, so we can’t get out by walking out of the bog. What do you think we should do?”

“There’re a couple things we could try.”

They have a couple things to try, but it’s not a large handful of options. They do, however, have an advantage. Yuuji’s here. Neither of them are going to be alone this time. Hopefully Gojo and the others have caught on to the fact that Megumi and Yuuji are not safe or sound, so he could reasonably rely on some sort of rescue party. But, it took some pulling strings for them to even end up in the domain in the first place, so it’d take a while for them to find it, and then even longer to find a way in. 

They could continue their search for the curse. Something doesn’t line up quite right at all there though—why would a curse knowingly have them trapped in its domain and not confront them yet? It could be some new, bizarre tactic. It could be a sign that the curse is weaker than they’re led to believe, but knowing their shitty luck, that wouldn’t be it. It could be bait. A trap. A rounded, slippery trap that’ll have them feeling stupid on two feet.

But, what was Gojo always telling him? Of course, it was inconsequential to the man; master of domains, two flashy techniques to flaunt to the world. But it didn’t discredit him from the fact that he was right: to counter a domain, there was always one most effective tactic. 

“Well,” he says, biting at his lip. “There’s one thing we could try.”

He puts his hands together, steepling his curled middle and forefingers into each other. Like the rush of a well-formed wave, like a crisp, powerful, snapping punch, like pulling a swing set that was swinging towards you, the cursed energy within him swells to a crescendo and converges.

“Domain Expansion: Chimera Shadow Garden.”

—

He knew his luck was shit, but he didn’t think it’d be this shit. 

Megumi’s strong. He won’t necessarily brag about it, and he won’t turn it into a dick measuring contest the way a select few of his colleagues would, but he’s strong enough to hold his own in most fights. He’d even heard whispers of a promotion for practically everyone in their school to First Grade, minus Yuuta who was already a Special Grade, and minus Kirara because she’d been missing off the face of the planet during her suspension. Hakari was already a First Grade.

Sukuna, of all people, was one of the first to vouch for his strength. Megumi didn’t count Gojo’s ominous whispers of “you’ve got potential, Megumiii,” as there wasn’t much credibility to anything that man said. Still, he’d never in his life thank Sukuna for his vouch of confidence, not after he plucked Yuuji’s heart right out of his chest, but the words had enough of an effect on him that he could finally defeat that finger-bearer Special Grade curse. His domain was nothing special—yet. If he progressed in his subjugations and learned to complete the domain and maintain it, it could be one hell of a trump card.

As it stands, none of those things have happened yet. 

Yuuji slaps a pitiful hand on his back and rubs up and down in a soothing gesture. “C’mon, Fushiguro. It wasn’t that bad. I think your domain is cool!”

Megumi buries his face into his hands, rubbing at the bridge of his nose with all his fingers to peel away the pounding headache behind his eyes. Maybe he was missing the element of urgency, of adrenaline. The domain constructed itself around them in a shadowy puddle, wobbled along the muddy forest floor for no more than eight seconds, and then disgracefully puttered away. 

The first time he’d launched his domain, he was pumped full of anger, and some other emotion he didn’t want to put a word to just yet. It was pathetic, incomplete, powerful, the spike of a drug that he’d needed to give him an edge in that fight. 

This? This display was just sad. 

He groans and tries not to slam his head into the nearest tree trunk. Yuuji saw all that. 

“I’m serious!” the boy insists. “It’s a great domain. I mean, I have no room to talk! The only domain expansion I’ve seen was Gojo’s—not that you should compare yourself to him! I can’t even launch a domain. Not even one of those simple domains like Miwa-senpai…”

“It’s not even a domain,” Megumi mutters, not really hearing him.

“Huh? Simple domains?”

“No…” He launched his pathetic excuse for a domain to try and counter whatever strange force has been keeping them running in circles all this time, or maybe to lure the curse out of hiding, and for nothing at all. “We’re not in a domain right now. Whatever this loop is that’s keeping us from escaping, it isn’t a domain. I felt no resistance when I launched mine.”

Yuuji’s hand freezes from its spot on his shoulder. “...that was ‘no resistance?’”

Megumi slumps to the ground in shame. 

—

Salvation comes an hour later, not in the form of a rescue team, but in the form of a pink tongue caged in between two rows of fangs appearing on Yuuji’s cheek. The sight’s still unsettling; normally, Sukuna doesn’t take to making an appearance this way very often. From what he’s heard, when he does pop up on Yuuji's cheek or hand, it’s only to mock Gojo. Fair enough. 

The water continues to rise, steady and never slowing down. They’re nearly shoulder-deep in mud-caked, murky waters, when Megumi decides it’s probably worth it now to climb onto Nue’s wings and soar across the forest.

As they suspected, even in the air and high above the treeline, there’s no escape. The landscape around them is a monotonous grey with decaying trees and shrubs withering into ash, that loops and loops and loops, an age old tactic of crossing a bank of mud with two planks of wood. Ironic, because there’s hardly any mud left.

“It’s a lake again,” Yuuji murmurs, leaning precariously over the edge of Nue’s grand wings to peek down at the rising waters. “Bog lake.”

Megumi immediately moves to bar an arm around his collarbone and swing him back. “Don’t lean over so far, idiot!”

“Hey, I wasn’t gonna fall!”

He was absolutely about to fall, and with full trust that Megumi would swoop around and catch him. But if they get separated now, there’s no hope that either of them could find the other again. 

“You’re nothing but a clumsy brat, of course you’d fall,” calls a third voice that is neither Megumi nor Yuuji, but a secret third guy. Sukuna’s apparition on Yuuji’s body will creep Megumi out to no end, for the rest of his life. From a distance, it looks no different from a tattooed, CGI mouth animation plastered onto someone’s skin, but up close, with full blown detail, he’s treated to the works. 

The logistics of a mouth on a cheek are another conversation entirely. Sukuna’s lips and teeth on Yuuji’s cheek looked human, mutated, hollowed in the way any usual mouth would, giving the illusion of a second esophagus and throat somewhere in there. The contours of the cupid’s bow are raised onto Yuuji’s cheekbone. It’s so unsettling Megumi has to look away lest he topple off the bird. 

“Shut up, Sukuna,” Yuuji groans, like he’s talking to an older brother that won’t stop barging into his room while he’s playing video games, and not a millennium-old curse that is revered as the strongest curse and shaman to have ever lived. 

“Get in the forest, Itadori Yuuji.”

“Make me, dude.”

Sukuna’s slanted eye at the slit under Yuuji’s lower eyelid twitches. “Get in the forest if you know what’s—!”

Yuuji slaps a hand onto his cheek with a quiet ‘pap’ sound. He sighs, leaning right back over the edge of the bird. “He’s so dramatic.”

“If you fall, can you swim?” Megumi asks, pointedly choosing to ignore whatever the hell just transpired in front of him. 

“There is a finger buried in the forest,” Sukuna responds, ever resilient. Pragmatic. Not quite what Megumi was asking here, but then again, knowledge is knowledge. And this was their pivot to salvation out of this dreary bog, they’d soon find. 

Megumi fully turns himself on Nue’s back to face Yuuji, and inadvertently Sukuna as well. The two of them wait for some clarification, but receive none. “What do you mean…?”

No answer. 

The two boys stay silent, waiting, soaring through sour clouds of condensation pillowing up their field of vision. The lake below them is deep. Whatever’s left of the forest is starting to resemble a mangrove’s gravesite, no greenery but a million thin, gangly trunks sticking out of the murky water like toothpicks shot into quicksand. Sukuna’s a little shit, and that’s been an established fact. There’s no governance in the way he works, no worth in putting trust into the things he says, no order in his unruly discipline. 

But they’re short on both time and ideas, so what do they have to lose? 

Sukuna’s finger. Buried in the forest. The forest floor is covered in deep, deep water now. They could very well have used this information ages ago when they had their two feet on somewhat solid ground, but he can’t expect a curse to play to their favour. They could… he could. He could summon Gamma. He could try a few tricks. It helps that Yuuji’s here, like a beacon or a radar that could help them find Sukuna’s finger and hopefully dissolve whatever sort of limbo they’ve been trapped in. 

Fusing his shikigami is something still relatively new to him. He can merge Gamma and Nue to form his little flying toads. He’s merged the Divine Dogs into Totality, although that wasn't exactly by choice. He could, hypothetically, merge himself with his shikigami…

He feels bad for startling Yuuji, as he commands Nue to swoop down into a continuous circle, suddenly dropping to only a few inches above the water. His left hand stays gripped onto the hood of Yuuji’s sweater. In case he falls, and can’t swim. 

“Fushiguro…?” Yuuji asks, almost aimless. Megumi feels bad again, realizing he’d just been staring off at the distance this whole time, plotting a simple plan without letting him in on it. He takes a deep breath, and releases it in five counts. He’s gonna have to dissolve Nue for this. 

“I have a plan.”

You slip up on your domain once and suddenly you’re incapable of jujutsu. Yuuji’s a natural. Yuuji’s got a sort of strength to him that baffles anyone he comes across, if only in part due to the fact that no one would suspect a fifteen year old boy to be capable of lifting an 18-wheeler truck with his bare hands. Yuuji’s strong, but Yuuji’s not the one who’s got a partial domain or frog shikigami. 

They continue to circle around the surface of the water for far longer than necessary. They argue for far longer than necessary. “Are you sure, Fushiguro? I can hold my breath for like, four minutes! I used to be the fastest during our middle school swim lessons. You can stay up here on your bird!”

“And I can breathe underwater, Itadori. It’s gonna take a while to find the finger underground. Go find a tree trunk that’s still above water and stay there. Keep your cursed energy flared, Sukuna’s fingers should react to it.”

They’ve gotten radio silence from the little shit that suggested this idea in the first place. No calls to Sukuna, not even an attempt to switch out with him, could bring up up to elaborate on what the fuck he meant by one of the fingers being buried in the forest. Whatever, they’ll make do, as they always have. He has plenty of experience figuring stuff out on his own, thanks to Gojo’s boundless ineptitude. 

Summoning and fusing himself with Gamma should allow him to keep his lungs filled with pockets of air, allowing him to breathe underwater. It’s taxing, though. Miles more taxing than summoning Max Elephant, or even fusions of other shikigami. He’ll have to dissolve Nue, and Yuuji will have to wait on a tree branch like a seagull, no matter how good he is at holding his breath. 

“Have you done this before, dude?” Yuuji asks skeptically, pulling himself up onto the nearest treetop branches peeking out of the water with practiced ease. “You’re not gonna like, get stuck underwater and suddenly not be able to breathe, right? I can’t tell if you need help from up here! You’re worrying me already!”

Megumi tries not to sigh impatiently again. Yuuji’s been nagging about this the entire time since he’s mentioned it. He wades around in the water, feeling heavy and disgusted by the way his full length trousers and full sleeve shirt clings and billows around him. He had the foresight to at least hang up his overcoat with his phone in its pocket and leave it with Yuuji. 

He pulls out a notepad from the jacket’s hidden compartment, momentarily hoisting himself up to sit next to Yuuji. The paper’s dry enough. He rips it into a vaguely rectangular shape, scrawls some sigils along the paper with a wet graphite pencil, and slaps the newly formed talisman into Yuuji’s chest. “There, keep that.”

Yuuji grabs the talisman with his pincers delicately. “What is this?”

“Talisman,” Megumi says, although it’s obvious. Gojo really does not teach them shit. “If it starts burning up, it means something’s wrong and I need help. If you need help, burn the paper. If it’s not burning, you stay up here. Got it?”

“Yes boss,” Yuuji replies, mock-saluting. “Whatever you say, boss!”

“Don’t be weird,” he mutters, and plops himself back into the water. 

It might be worth mentioning that what is a solution might not feel like a solution. And here, it feels too brittle, too lukewarm, too slow, too weak, too invisible, and it only helps a bite of his teenage dilemmas. Him and Yuuji are going to be okay. There’s no way they won’t; he won’t allow that. He’s not going to lose someone while they’re standing right next to him. But it’s slow, and weak, and invisible. He can’t tell if Yuuji’s still putting up a front. He’s always been a bad liar, but maybe he’s only been telling half-truths anyway. 

Tsumiki’s still sick. After all’s said and done, after they overcome this dumpster fire of a botched mission and dry off back at the resort, under the yellow can lights that flicker in their rooms, Tsumiki will still be dying, and there’ll still be nothing left for Megumi to do about it. He needs to check in with Gojo, but he’s not exactly sure how he’s supposed to do that. Yuuji will still be a few pounds short, and their conversations will be patchy until they aren’t. It’s slow, but he’ll count his blessings while they’re still here. He won’t start mourning someone before he’s even lost them, not when it’d be a discredit to their time alive. 

“Itadori,” he says before he dives into the depths of this ocean. “We’re friends.”

How the universe could ever dare bring such a tragic fate upon this boy is beyond him. Yuuji emanates the sun, grinning down at him with so much joy Megumi almost smiles for the first time in perhaps a year. Almost. That’d be absurd. His friend is grinning ear to ear, so easily pleased with whatever he’s given, so grateful for everything he has despite all that’s been taken from him. It’s so unfair Megumi nearly keels over into the dark waters. 

“We’re best friends, Fushiguro,” Yuuji corrects. It’s the best news he’s heard in his entire life. 

The ass-beating and arguing and pulling of teeth about what’s really going on with Yuuji is still pending. But it can wait, and now’s not the time or place for it. 

“Thank you,” Yuuji adds quietly. “For, y’know, worrying and all that. I didn’t think anyone would notice. But grandpa always said I wasn’t a good actor…”

Aw shit, Megumi thinks. He’s tearing up. Now’s not the time for that. Actually, it’ll never be a time for that. He can’t be near crying people. He can’t be near a crying Yuuji. It’s contagious and if he starts crying too, he’s gonna have to erase himself from existence. 

“O-kay,” he says, loud and robotic and final, quickly turning away from the sight. Callous. So what? He puts his hands together into a diamond shape, calling forth Gamma and fusing it to his chest. The feeling of air pockets spawning in his lungs is weird and uncomfortable, but there’s nothing left to do. 

He kicks himself into deeper waters in a swift escape, and begins the tedious search. 

He does it exactly as Gojo taught him with that silly little cursed corpse: pull from the stomach on the inhale, push throughout the body on the exhale. He keeps his cursed energy flared, glad that he’s had plenty of practice with this kind of stuff. He might’ve gotten tired by now, otherwise. Maybe time’s moving differently in here, but it could easily have been hours or a couple minutes and he’d have no clue which it was. 

Megumi’s still long gone, deep enough into the waters to be no longer visible. The innate domain that they seem to be trapped in hasn’t budged an inch, so he probably hasn’t found that finger yet, either.

Lately, being alone with his own thoughts hasn't been a great idea. He’s never really alone with his own thoughts; he’s got a demon living in him that hates his guts, for some reason, like he’s not letting him borrow his body and livelihood free of charge. But it’s not so bad this time. He’s got a startling scenery in front of him. The rising waters rinse away the sharper scents in the bog, and some of the decaying foliage with it. The clouds above him are perfect for stargazing. He thinks he sees a few that look like Megumi when he’s angry. Megumi’s always angry. 

It’s fine this time, because he has a firm grip on the talisman, not easing up even slightly since he’d been handed it. It’s not burning yet, and as per captain’s orders, he hasn’t begun a frantic dive searching for Megumi either. Not until it burns. Not until he’s back. And then they’ll talk, ‘cause they’re best friends, and he really can’t keep secrets from his best friend anymore. They’ll get good takeout. Just the two of them. They’ll hang out in the sauna. There’s two days left of this trip, and they’re gonna make the most of it for all the shit that they’ve been doing while they’re here. 

The way that Megumi loves people is absurd and ridiculous, but they’ve been friends long enough now that Yuuji can spot the difference between genuine annoyance and fear. He can almost smell fear now, with ten of Sukuna’s fingers rumbling in his tummy, letting him be more in tune to the wiles of cursed energy than he’d like. He should’ve seen it coming. He’s a terrible liar. He could never hide a single thing from his grandfather, and it wasn’t like he was lying often enough to get practice. It left a sour taste in his mouth that made his face pucker up in an obvious tell. He’d tell his grandfather everything, especially the things he did not need to hear. His first crush at school, his terrible grades in biology, the hole in his left sock, the shiny new medal he got during the one track meet he did, whenever he learned a new swear word. The man never flinched.

He’s certain Fushiguro will be the same. He won’t flinch, no matter what he says. But there’s a deeper clause here; Megumi’s got this awful habit of taking all the blame. They’ll figure it out, slowly. They’re best friends. Megumi’s skittish and closed-off, but they’re best friends. 

He sucks at the inside of his cheek, nothing left to do but stare up at the clouds. They don’t move, despite the winds around him. That makes sense, if this is some sort of innate domain. Something about this place just doesn’t feel right. They’ve been in an innate domain made by a finger-bearing curse, back at the Detention Centre. Which means that the Special Grade might not have manifested yet. He’s not too worried. They know how to handle a few Special Grades here and there, and he’s not the same person he was all those grueling months ago, terrified and naïve. He’s stronger now. Megumi’s stronger now. They’ll be fine. 

A seeping glow of cursed energy fills him as his eyes shut. Megumi’s taking a while, but he did say that it’d take a while to find a finger buried underground under an ocean of water. And the talisman is still—

He jolts upright, pulling the talisman away from his chest, still clenched tightly in his fist. It’s smoking. 

Does smoke count as burning? Smoke counts as burning, right? A talisman wouldn’t just start smoking for the fun of it. Smoking’s a sign that burning is about to happen.

Oh god, what if something so bad has happened to Megumi that he couldn’t even light the talisman all the way, so it’s only smoking?

Maybe it’s just the innate domain reacting to it…? Can it even do that? Why the hell did Gojo not teach him any of the basics about anything! And if he did, why wasn’t Yuuji paying attention! 

Smoking’s definitely burning. The voices in his head are telling him as much. Without a second thought, Yuuji rolls up his sleeves and dives into the water, watching the brittle, dusty embers at the ashy edges of the talisman putter away underwater. 

It’s beautiful underwater. He almost wishes he’d let Yuuji tag along with him, just so he could see the wispy threads of dead lumber and seaweed floating along the ocean floor. Whatever the hell this place is, it’s not a regular lake. It had transformed from a putrid bog to a watery swamp, and then a shallow lake, and then deeper, and deeper, until the ocean floor was riddled with coral and algae and squirreling black squids that looked suspiciously like curses. 

Angelfish that don’t exist in any other waters. Deep purple coral skeletons, and eels, and manta rays. Cursed little swarms of school fish running circles around him as he swam. 

There’s very little color. The blacks and the whites give it a different sort of depth anyway, like Megumi’s become colorblind but still suddenly privy to a world that no one else has seen before. It’s therapeutic, or it would be, if he wasn’t holding his eyes open under saltwater for nearly an hour now. 

He chases every pocket of technicolor steam and cursed energy he spots. The waves of cursed energy ripple away from Yuuji’s post above the surface of the water like sonar radiation. Megumi can use that later to find his way back to him. The slowed movements underwater, the fluidity of his every swim and stroke, the way his hair slinks around his face suspended like the kelp he’s wading through… it makes his thoughts feel like syrup. 

There’s no sound except for the charming glug blub blob of the ocean pinching the shell of his ear. He feels like he’s running in a dream. Keeping Gamma fused to him doesn’t pose to be much of a challenge after all; it’s actually easier than summoning his shikigami in general. He should try this with Max Elephant and see if he can get some cool water spurting powers, or maybe elephant strength. He doesn’t exactly have to “breathe” underwater. His lungs fill up with oxygen periodically, and all that’s left to do is putter out the bubbles of carbon dioxide. 

He should’ve left his shoes with Yuuji. They’re hard to swim in. He ditched them long ago in favour of pacing his bare feet along the sand on the ocean floor. Above him, the surface of the water looks like a mirror portal to another world. One day, he’ll bring Yuuji to the beach, and they’ll do this all over again under better circumstances.

The thought falls flat on its face, though, when he stares at the hole in the sand that he’s dug up.

…

One, two, three, four.

That’s four. And he’s at ten. Four plus ten makes… fourteen. Twenty minus fourteen… that’s six. 

Twenty minus fourteen is six. Six. That’s two, four, five, six months at best. Maybe, they could stretch it to eight months? A year, if he begs hard enough? 

He could leave them here. They could… they could wait for Gojo and the rest of their group to find them. They’re capable. With Yuuta and Gojo and Hakari and Maki… they’re capable. They’ll find them eventually. Megumi could just… leave these here.

Buried. Under an ocean. Under Yuuji’s unknowing feet, and he could take this secret with him to the grave. 

He could… he could put them in his shadow. He could try and feed them to a squid curse and run for it. He could pretend he never found them. But someone else will, eventually.

He stares at the four fingers in the sand for thirteen minutes. Each minute is another minute that Yuuji won’t have to eat them. He could stare at the fingers forever. Yuuji is still up there. He can go home with their classmates. They can return to Jujutsu Tech. Yuuji will enjoy summer break. They’ll finish their last calculus exam without him. He did promise Norbara that he’d help her study a bit, but he thinks she could forgive him eventually. 

They’ll manage. He’s staying here. He can move the fingers up to the surface once Yuuji’s gone, once they’ve stopped looking for him. He’ll stay in this domain for as long as he lives. That’s another several thousand seconds that Yuuji will have, without eating these four fingers. 

Sorry again, Yuuji, he says, but all that comes out is a hundred bubbles from his mouth. It’s enough to lighten the gravity of the situation. He puffs out a small stream of bubbles through pursed lips. Yuuji’s currently about 800 meters to his left. Sorry. Forgive me one more time.

He dims his own cursed energy. He pulls open his shadow portals, depositing each finger into it one by one. The weight of their cursed energy is intense enough to make him wince. He can’t believe Yuuji just downs these like pills. Whatever, he won’t have to. He’s not going to. He’ll never know. 

Megumi’s just dug up his execution. He’s got a gun in his hands. He’s not killing his best friend. They’re best friends now; Yuuji said so. And the world hasn’t ended yet. It’ll be fine. 

The waves stop. 

Megumi quickly turns his head over to his left, no longer able to sense the pulses of cursed energy Yuuji was sending to him. The talisman isn’t sending him any signals, either. Did he fall asleep, or something?

When he breaks the surface of the water, he can just barely spot it. The empty treetop that Yuuji was perched upon, still with Megumi’s overcoat hung over the branch hooks, along with Yuuji’s red shoes, strung up with their laces tied together. So, he wasn’t kidnapped then. He thought it out enough to take his shoes off and tie them down. 

“Itadori…?” he calls out. And then realizes it’s pointless; the idiot’s absolutely underwater and cannot hear him. Trust him not to follow instructions. ‘Yes boss’ his ass. 

The first rule about being lost is to stay put. But in this case, who’s lost? Him, or Yuuji? Yuuji’s looking for him, probably, thinking Megumi took too long. Megumi’s now looking for Yuuji, who just disappeared and conveniently stopped pulsing cursed energy, too. If both of them stay put, they’ll never find each other. If both of them keep swimming aimlessly in the water, they’ll never find each other.

…well he supposes that was the plan. Disappearing forever. But Yuuji’s a bumbling idiot, and he’s bound to find himself in some underwater cave system where he tries to fight a sasquatch curse or something, and drown while trying. And that’s counterintuitive for Megumi’s ultimate plan of keeping Yuuji alive at all costs. 

If they both stay put, they’ll absolutely never find each other. 

It isn’t until he spots something out of the corner of his eye that his priorities shift a little. A single floating piece of paper.

“Why would he…” Megumi whispers, gently wading towards the talisman so it doesn’t float away. When he picks it up, it flops over and clings to his knuckles, well soaked-through and nearly transparent. The graphite sigils are murky. 

There’s damp soot along a frayed edge of the talisman.

If you need help, burn the paper.

“Shit!” Shit, he burned the talisman. Yuuji burned the talisman, and somehow, Megumi was too distracted to notice. Something’s wrong, or something happened, and he didn’t even fucking notice, too caught up in his own head about what to do. “Itadori!” he yells out again, knowing it’s useless, but left with nothing to do. 

He flares his cursed energy, abandoning the wilted slit of paper to putter away from him in waves, as he kicks himself back underwater and wills his eyes to bear with the sting of salt. 

—

Itadori, he continues to uselessly chant, pulling himself through the waves. It’s been well over four minutes. It doesn’t matter if the kid’s built like hercules, he’s gonna drown. Itadori, I’m gonna kill you when I get you. Why’d he dive into the water? What the hell happened?

The stars are always lining up in the wrong damn order for him. They align for his misfortune. They align for everyone else’s misfortune. Yuuji burned the talisman and he didn’t notice. 

He’s strong, he tells himself. (Strong enough to materialize oxygen?!) He’s capable. (Capable of materializing oxygen?!) Oh, he’s screwed.

He feels no returning cursed energy from Yuuji, wherever he is. Where the waters once looked ethereal and new to him, it now looks like an endless seascape of nothing, nothing, nothing, and a rock, and a pile of algae, and a floating shell, and not Yuuji, not Yuuji, not Yuuji. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he feels bad for worrying his classmates. It’s been hours now, and the sun’s nearly gone. Without any sunlight, it’s gonna be impossible to find Yuuji underwater. He doesn’t have any flashlights except for his phone. Shadow shikigamis can’t glow.

It’s his fucking fault again. It’s always been his fault, it’ll always circle back to him. He pulled himself into the shadow portals. He pulled Yuuji with him, when he didn’t need to. He landed them in this domain. He was the one, with his head in his ass, dismissing the mission report as a fake, just because Gojo pissed him off a little. And now Yuuji’s stuck somewhere in this abyss of an ocean nowhere on the Earth’s map, centuries away from walking out of it, probably getting mauled by a sasquatch. 

There’s bubbles somewhere in the distance. 

That’s his best lead. The fingers in his void portals feel heavy, pungent, anchoring him deeper into the water. He’ll take it. Chances are, Yuuji went deeper than he should’ve, which was five feet above the water. 

He picks a direction and sticks to it, gradually making a curve in his path to swim a large, wide circle through the water. The longer he swims, the harder it is not to panic and lose his mind. He’s panicking anyway. Each second he’d spent standing around on the ocean floor staring at the sand was another second that Yuuji was fighting the evil sasquatch or whatever it was, trying to get Megumi’s attention, and he failed him again. 

One more time, he murmurs under the bubbles spilling out of his mouth. One more time, Yuuji. Forgive me one more time. I promised. 

With no way to speak, no way to call out to him, he flares out his cursed energy again. Oh god, he doesn’t know how he’s going to face the rest of their classmates after this—disappearing with Yuuji into his shadow portals and then coming back to them, only to tell them that Yuuji fucking drowned—

He feels one single pulse return to him. It starts at his right heel, rippling up his body all the way to his left shoulder plate, through his head and scalp, until it leaves him entirely and fades away into the endless water above him. The water level’s risen so much that the dead remains of the forest are completely submerged. It’s only one pulse, not enough for Megumi to discern if it was Yuuji at all or some malicious curse, not enough to perfectly attest to which direction it came from, but from what he can gather, Yuuji’s in even deeper water below his feet, behind him, to his right. 

He twists himself over and swims. 

—

It’s been at least another thirteen minutes of swimming when he finally finds him. And he was right, Yuuji’s strong, because he’s managed to stretch that four-minute record into something longer, where the stakes are higher. He bubbles out the deepest sigh he can afford, feeling the swell of relief and oxygen in his lungs as Gamma’s presence spreads through his chest.

It’s short lived, once he spots Yuuji, knee-deep in an underwater sandpit. 

Yuuji, he garbles out, and then gets royally pissed. He’s sick of this whole being-underwater business. He kicks and swims to him, feeling his pant legs cling and push at his skin. It’s fucking freezing down here. There’s nothing to be done about that, but to keep on moving. 

Yuuji, he says, just to get the boy’s attention, letting the muted sound of the bubbles reach him instead. The closer he swims, the more confused he gets. Yuuji isn’t fighting a sasquatch curse, as he’d been expecting. He doesn’t look brutally injured. He’s moving slightly, so he’s not dead yet.

He’s not dead yet… He’s not dead yet, several meters under water pressure, for at least ten minutes now unless he’s taken a trip up to the surface recently. 

Megumi metaphorically holds his breath, swimming closer and closer until Yuuji’s no longer a dot in the water, but thrashing like a fish in front of him. Panic seizes him again. Of all the possibilities, of all the explanations, there’s one that’s sounding awfully probable now. If he was able to withstand being underwater for so long… Could it be…

Could Megumi summon Mahoraga underwater if he needed to? That’s his one and only trump card that could possibly rival Sukuna at ten fingers. If he manages to get the other four fingers hiding in Megumi’s shadow, they’re all cooked. Yuuji will come back to him. He’s come back before, even though it cost him his life. He’ll come back this time. He watches as Yuuji or Sukuna continues to thrash about, still knee-deep in the soil, kicking and pushing at the water. 

He keeps his hands ready, hoping that Mahoraga will still hear the incantation underwater enough to be summoned, if need be. He swims the final few meters, grabs Yuuji by the shoulder, and—

It’s not Sukuna.

His entire breath leaves his body in one deep sigh, and he nearly chokes on the water filling up his mouth. The bubbles make a meshy screen between his and Yuuji’s face, and when they clear up an instant later, he’s face to face with Yuuji’s pufferfish cheeks and wide, startled eyes. The slits on his cheek remain closed.

Ah, right. They can’t exactly talk here. But he found him, so they can head back up to the surface now. 

But when he tugs at Yuuji’s shirt to guide them upward, he feels a tug back. He wasn’t fighting, he was choking. Yuuji’s face is red. Whatever lifeline he’s holding onto is going to be short-lived, and he needs air. But Yuuji points at his legs, which are still buried under the soil beneath them. 

Blarvv, Yuuji says with another wave of bubbles, and because of the water, Megumi can’t slap his hand over Yuuji’s mouth fast enough. He shouldn’t be wasting his breath trying to talk, not when talking is useless down here. 

He mouths out the words to him. Megumi lets his mouth be filled with water so that the bubbles don’t cover his lips, and forms his lips to say the word, “up.”

Yuuji shakes his head, and Megumi tries not to feel pissed again. Once all this is said and done, he’ll head back to the real world and learn some anger management techniques. Yuuji taps his shoulders again, and mouths something back, except he’s extraordinarily bad at this whole words and charades thing, because Megumi can’t make out a single word he’s said. 

Yuuji tries again, with his hands this time. Charades, then. He circles his arms like a propeller, mimicking swimming, and then makes a big ‘X’ shape with his forearms.

“Can’t swim.”

Shit. 

He points to the ground then, where his feet remain planted in the sand, which in hindsight, should’ve made Megumi a lot more suspicious. Yuuji should have no problem kicking himself out of the sand—how’d he get stuck here in the first place? 

And then Yuuji motions once more: two hands choking his own throat. He can’t breathe. 

The hopelessness creeps in again. No amount of pulling is dislodging his knees from the ground. He keeps sinking, deeper and deeper under like quicksand. The hopelessness grows. Yuuji’s strong but he has a limit. If they make it out of this one, he can try and break the world record for the longest time someone could hold their breath. They’re breaching twenty minutes now. It makes him wonder what the hell Yuuji’s made of. 

It’s okay, he mouths, and he’s not sure if it’s for him or for Yuuji. His face is swollen up, red from the tension, bubbles still leaking out of the corner of his mouth. 

He’s not going to watch him die again. They’ll figure this out if it kills him. They’d just started making progress again. They’d just started being best friends. 

Yuuji pulls him in suddenly, throwing his arms around Megumi’s shoulder and holding him close. 

Shit, shit, shit.

It’s some final hurrah to console Megumi. Even while he’s drowning, stuck at the bottom of an ocean no one else has ever been in before, with no other life around them, about to pass out at the sea floor, Yuuji’s consoling him. How the universe could ever dare bring such a fate upon this boy is beyond him. He’ll never understand it. He’ll never believe it. He’s dying, and again, he’s smiling for someone else’s sake. If they could talk, Megumi would hear him say it again, “live a long life, Fushiguro.” He can’t believe this. Can’t accept it.

Won’t accept it, because he doesn’t need to. He feels a prickle of—pragmatism. It won’t be nerves, because he’s not allowing himself to call it “nerves.” The static of pragmatism thunders across his skin. Expediency. Rationality. He’s so normal and there’s nothing wrong with him, and this is a normal day, even if he’s priorly begged and begged for everything to change. If he needs to do this to keep Yuuji alive, he’ll do it. This isn’t something he can accept.

He pulls Yuuji away and smashes their faces together, breathing the life back into him.

Chapter Text

Yuuji’s a critically acclaimed dumbass, and they straight up kiss for three seconds before Megumi pulls away and has to wrench the boy’s jaw open with his two thumbs. 

And because that’s not enough for him to get the hint, Megumi has to press at his diaphragm until all the air has trickled out of his chest. He regrets it a second later when Yuuji nearly goes slack in his arms, finally woozy from the lack of air. He wills Gamma to fill his lungs again, wills himself not to lose it, and presses their lips together. 

Yuuji still hasn’t gotten the idea in his head apparently, or maybe he’s still shell-shocked from the turn of events, but he’s in no position to complain right now. Megumi keeps his lips parted using his thumbs, pinching his cheeks until Yuuji empties out all the water in his mouth that he’d swallowed up in his panic, and seals his mouth again. He’s not sure if he should keep his eyes shut. If he keeps his eyes shut, it feels like they’re passionately making out, and Megumi’s already dizzy from the rapid breathing. If he opens his eyes, he’s staring directly at Yuuji, and he’s not gonna do that. 

He’ll let it be awkward later. For now, he needs air, and this is air. It’s the least he could do for getting them stuck out here. 

He breathes out, and his lung fills once more. He’ll need to breathe out a few times so that he can get enough oxygen to his brain, while Megumi gets to keep some too. Whatever fucked up CPR this is doesn’t seem to matter once Yuuji catches on, breathing in the air, sealing their lips more tightly together to keep either of them from inhaling a swig of water. 

Once he’s not unbearably dizzy, Megumi starts to feel the hand at the back of his head, threading through the loose and silken black hair floating in the water. Yuuji’s always run hot like a furnace, but this was much needed, after hours of being completely submerged. Heat being poured back into his chest. He’ll let it be awkward later. 

When they separate, Megumi really does try his best not to slap Yuuji straight across the face for gaping at him like a fish. Wasting the precious air he was just given. Instead, he clips the boy’s jaw shut with one hand, and swims down to get digging at the soil at his feet. 

But after each attempt to till the sand, Yuuji’s feet seem to only sink deeper in. Megumi feels a tap at his shoulder and looks up to see Yuuji making an ‘X’ with his forearms again. So digging isn’t going to work. Megumi steels himself and tries to think again. 

If he tries hard enough, he could summon Max Elephant while keeping Gamma to breathe, and maybe that could help pull Yuuji to the surface. Elephants are supposedly really good underwater. Yuuji pats at his shoulder again, and he gets the message, pulling his hands together and summoning the elephant. The great beast emerges between the shadows of the waves along the floor. 

Yuuji keeps patting at his shoulder, and Megumi wills the elephant to move forward and wrap its trunk around his torso. With a great push of strength, it pulls at him, launching him upward into the water until he’s finally free—only to come tumbling right back down again.

Yuuji flails and somersaults across the water, being pulled down by some unknown force until he’s lodged straight back into the exact same hole he was in ten seconds ago. In his panic, he’d let out several gasps of air with it. 

The options remain the exact same, no matter what they do from this point on, anyway. 

The situation they’re in is somewhat stable. They can breathe, sort of. Megumi found the fingers, and that didn’t dismantle the domain or whatever that they were stuck in, so that seems to be a dead end. They can wait here for their classmates. They’re stuck underwater and Megumi’s breaching hypothermia, but Yuuji seems to be doing alright, and he’s warm, so they can hold off for a little while. If they find the curse responsible for all this, it might be tricky to fight underwater, but he’s got Yuuji and a snake and an elephant. They’ll be fine. 

Yuuji taps at his shoulder again, and Megumi dissolves Max Elephant at the futile attempt. 

Please, what the fuck, can’t we have a single normal week, he begs. His ordeal of begging had indeed begun far too early in their trip. Please please please please please. Can we not have a single normal week. 

Whatever’s keeping Yuuji stuck to the ocean floor is adamant, no matter how hard Megumi kicks at the dirt.

When Yuuji taps on his shoulder for the umpteenth time, he snaps his head up to shoot him a glare, only to freeze.

Yuuji’s red in the face again, not pointing at anything, but not really needing to, either, with the embarrassed look on his face. Right, Megumi hadn’t noticed with his supplemented oxygen, but Yuuji would be needing a breath of air every minute or so if he didn’t want lasting brain damage. 

His pink hair’s floating above his head like the grass on an overgrown chia pet. It brings out the stealthy, dark roots beneath them. He’s not gonna think too hard about this, even if the spontaneity isn’t there this time, even if the shock isn’t there to dull the action, even if there isn’t as much urgency as before, despite Yuuji’s cheeks puffing up again like he’s about to go insane. Or pass out. 

Minute by minute. They’ll be fine.

He steels himself and then in a moment of petulant annoyance, slaps a hand over Yuuji’s eyes, because he cannot be staring directly into those yellow things now. A sigh comes out in the form of eight muted bubbles, and when he’s sure Yuuji got the hint, he lifts the hand off his eyes, cards it instead through the wavy pink hair, and slots their mouths together again. 

It’s easier than the first time. He doesn’t need to manually instruct Yuuji to empty out his lungs first, or spit out any water. He breathes it deeply, quickly, lingers on the hold the way he sees people puff a cigar, and pulls away. 

When he opens his eyes, the flush on Yuuji’s cheeks tells him he was absolutely peeking anyway. 

And then his hands sneak between them, and Megumi swims back a little to give him space to do his next game of charades. None of that, however, will erase this pain in the ass trip they’re on. 

How are we supposed to just move past this. How am I supposed to explain to Gojo why I have Yuuji’s residuals coating my lungs, when he inevitably asks?

Could be worse, he thinks to himself. It could be literally anyone else. And then, I wouldn’t have the option to let it be awkward later. It’d be awkward now, and he’d have to summon Mahoraga and kill himself. 

He tries to pay attention to Yuuji’s game of charades, he really does. But he’s just so damn bad at it. 

Yuuji’s throwing jazz hands at him, as if he’s supposed to understand what that means. He returns it with an exaggerated, scowling shoulder shrug with his palms faced up. “What the fuck are you saying?”

In response, he frantically waves his arms in frustration, feeling like a mime. And then holds out five fingers in front of Megumi’s face. Speedily opening all of his fingers one by one, a counting gesture. Speedily closing them. Followed by a quick hand sign that he’s seen before: the Domain Expansion for Malevolent Shrine. 

“Sukuna’s fingers?” Yuuji is asking.

Yuuji then puts together his binoculars, searching around them in a great, dramatic sweep, and then holding two of his palms facing up. 

“Find them yet?”

Oh, has he found Sukuna’s fingers? That’s an easy answer.

Megumi holds his forearms in a large ‘X’ shape. “Not at all.”

He’s got a gun in his pocket, though, and the bullets are in the shape of millenium-old fingers. Yuuji doesn’t need to know that. It’s none of his business, actually. Megumi can eat them instead, or feed them to his dogs or something. They’re just fingers. He doesn’t know why this makes Yuuji slump forward, though. 

He puts together some more indecipherable sign language, and Megumi, again, signs, “What the fuck are you saying?”

Yuuji sighs out a few bubbles, and then leans towards him in one swift move that has him startle out of his skin. And then he remembers, and tries not to sputter when Yuuji’s cradling the sides of his face, pressing their lips together again, and Megumi has to remember to breathe out. So, maybe sooner than one-minute intervals. Yuuji is after all only receiving half-breaths, already slightly deoxygenated in his own lungs. 

When he pulls away, he leaves with a quiet pop, muffled by the sound of rumbling air bubbles. And again, Megumi’s not gonna think about it right now. The cold, suddenly salty water’s stinging his eyes.

Yuuji wriggles his fingers again, and once more, steeples his hands together to create the hand sign for the domain expansion. “Sukuna’s fingers.” Then he points one single accusatory finger directly at Megumi. 

God, he is so tired of this underwater charades. For a hot second, he wonders if Yuuji can sense Sukuna’s fingers in his void portals. Or, maybe, if rattling around in his head, Sukuna’s currently snitching on Megumi right now. Either way, it doesn’t matter. As far as the world is concerned, he doesn’t have them. 

And if Yuuji’s suggesting that he abandons the guy here to go and search for these tragically unfound fingers, there’s not a shot in hell he’s doing that. He keeps a firm grip on Yuuji’s sweater hood, and they sit there, useless and young. 

Maybe it’s a sort of karma for complaining when his problems were solvable on dry land with two feet on solid earth. And now he has to deal with all of it, all the same, but he can’t talk, and he can’t move, and Yuuji’s glued in one spot for who knows what reason, and they’re underwater, and Yuuji cannot breathe. They sit down eventually, for whatever good that does for conserving their energy while they’re underwater. They not-kiss every forty-five seconds, and each time, Megumi pointedly chooses not to look Yuuji directly in the eye. He knows the other boy is peeking, though. Each time. He won’t let himself think about how he feels, gradually becoming familiar with the feeling of kissing him. Breathing each other in. 

If that’s what they need to do, he’ll do it. They sit on the ocean floor. This is their youthful and aesthetic setting, a cataclysmic waypoint in their journey to become sorcerers, stuck in a corner of the earth no one else has ever been in, nor ever will be. Yuuji holds him tightly, warm like burning coal, and Megumi tips his chin over every almost-minute, full of pragmatism and normalcy about the ordeal, ‘cause he’s so normal, and breathes more life back into him. It’s the least he can do, really. 

They wait on the ocean floor, and Megumi calms down enough to remember that this is a silver lining, watching the glowing heavenlight from the moon pierce the surface and ripple across their skin. They’ll wait here. 

—

Real—real, this time—real salvation comes in the familiar swell and burst and blinding technicolor of cursed energy that Megumi could recognize from a mile away. Really, anyone could recognize from a mile away. There’s only one person who could shatter a barrier so easily, only one person whose cursed energy signature is so recognizable, it's become a baseline for every sorcerer and curse user to know in jujutsu. 

He can almost hear the echo of Gojo calling open his domain. He’s only seen it a short handful of times, most of them from when he was younger and Gojo wanted to show off to the new little rat he’d picked up off the street. It doesn’t get any less impressive, the more he sees it.

Infinite Void swallows them up, but the piercing knowledge of infinity doesn’t touch them. That’s enough for Megumi to know that Gojo’s nearby and their rescue team’s found them. 

It could’ve been hours. It’s likely been hours. If he’s doing his math right, they’d been around the bog for an hour or so, and then Megumi was searching underwater for an hour or so until the talisman began burning. After that, if he’d shared a breath with Yuuji every minute, that’d be forty-nine minutes in total. They were about to round that to fifty, before the domain expansion took them by storm. That’s about three hours, total. That’s not too bad; he’s been missing for longer, before. Yuuji had been dead for weeks. 

When the domain shatters apart like a crystalline, hollowed sphere, it’s so disorienting he nearly vomits. 

“Looky here what I found!” he hears from somewhere behind him, but Megumi’s busy heaving and clutching at his stomach on all fours. “Two little baby birds! What’s goin’ on here, baby birds?” Gojo’s insufferable face asks. 

The feeling of being completely submerged in water for hours and then immediately subjected to the gravity of being on land has his stomach doing wild flips. He sort of half-groans as a response, slumping over onto—ah, Yuuji’s the one patting his back, not Gojo—onto Yuuji’s shoulder. “Take it easy, Fushiguro,” he says. Like it’s easy. 

“Fuck off,” he wheezes, doubling over. The pink-haired idiot doesn’t look affected in the slightest from being oxygen-deprived underwater, thrown through Infinite Void, and then suddenly deposited on solid ground. “Gojo,” he hastily adds, when he sees Yuuji’s pinched up face. “I’m telling Gojo to fuck off.”

“You’re gonna have to give me a little more than that, Gumi-chan,” Gojo replies. He tosses over a jacket—Megumi’s overcoat that he’d left slung over the treetops, now soaked with water—and Yuuji’s shoes. “I need full details on what happened. Don't go holding out on me!”

“Gojo-sensei,” Yuuji says in a voice that comes close to a whine. “Can’t that wait? Fushiguro kept his technique running, like, the whole time. Plus he tried to launch a domain! Last time he did that, we found him passed out under a bridge by the rock quarry.”

“You don't need to mention that bit,” Megumi mutters, and then lies down to curl into the fetal position. 

“Domain, huh? Must've been an awful launch if it didn't even leave enough of a trace for me to find you.”

He’s still wrapped up in Yuuji. They're still intertwined, sharing whatever body heat they can through wet, clinging clothes. Megumi's phone is probably a lost cause now, nowhere to be found anymore. “Where’s everyone else,” he rasps, willing his teeth not to chatter the words out as the chill finally begins to set into his bones. The adrenaline might've kept him running underwater, or maybe it was his technique keeping his blood pumping, but nothing feels more diabolical than being plunged into a hypothermic shock coupled with the breezy, chilly northern winds of the forest. 

When he finally takes a moment to look around them, he sees a different forest now. Fresh, recycling its life even under the thin layer of snow, full of greenery and birdsong, despite the early morning shadows. It's beautiful, but he can't bring himself to appreciate it. 

“Easy,” Gojo chides, but the voice is far away from him. He curls up even tighter, the shivering long since become futile, relying entirely on the beating heart his ear happens to be listening to. He isn't sure whose it is. Isn't sure whose hands are pressing at his temples, warming him up. “The others went back to the resort an hour ago. It's really late right now.”

He hears some muttering, hears the words “Yuuji” and “just keep him warm for now” drift into his ears. 

“Did you try and launch the domain before you found Sukuna's fingers?” Gojo asks. “That might be why it didn't work so well.”

His heart can't afford to stop, can’t afford to speed up, can't afford to give away any tells about what he’d found, buried deep in the sand under a foreign ocean. In his freezing, sluggish thoughts, he forgets that it doesn't matter if his heart rate gives it away. 

“We didn't find Sukuna's fingers,” Yuuji corrects. 

He can feel the pause more than he can hear it. “Oh, didn't you?” Gojo replies, skepticism and that permanent, stubborn shit-eating knowingness plaguing his voice. If he's mad, he’ll deal with it. 

The gun feels heavy in his pocket. They were just getting better, and now he's about to become a killer again. Done playing detective, now trying to cover up a homicide, house a fugitive, and stay alive on two feet all the meanwhile. It's so unfair he almost breaks out into hysterical laughter. 

Ten fingers, consumed. Four fingers found. Six fingers remaining. And after that, Yuuji will die, and so will Sukuna. 

So will Megumi, apparently. 

This thought’s enough to do him in. He slumps over, not quite fighting it anymore, letting the pinpricks of stars in the sky above them fade away with him. 

There are a lot of things Gojo outright refuses to tell anyone about his Eyes. A common question is whether or not he can see through people's clothes, and the answer is far worse than that. 

He can see the things between someone’s teeth from another room. He can see enough to gather if someone's ill, or cold, or angry, or sporting a large bruise over their ribs and pretending nothing's wrong. He can't see every detail, but sometimes, it's not such an impressive ordeal anyway. If you paid close enough attention, you’d notice someone's sniffly nose, or twitchy irritation, or a limp favoured to one side of their body paired with subtle winces every now and then. People are worried about what they show to the world too often, and he looks away when it's none of his business. 

Still, there's something to be said about the way Yuuji carries Megumi through the resort, cursed energy spiked so high that the damn lights flicker out for a moment. Bruises around his calves—from what? Gojo can't figure it out. 

Trace residuals of each other on their lips, in their lungs. Were they making out in a curse’s domain? Preposterous. People only do that during low-grade, easy missions, or, life or death situations. He bookmarks the question for another time. 

There’s Yuuji’s crowded stance, as soon as he’d teleported them back to their rooms. He resigned to let Yuuji help Megumi with the cold shock, seeing as how the boy wouldn't loosen his grip for even a second, staring down into his arms so intently that he bumped into all four walls at least once. 

Gojo busies himself and starts a fire instead. One, in the room that they're in. Is it Yuuji’s or Megumi’s? 

Yuuji’s, he thinks, catching a pair of Spiderman slippers tossed haphazardly over the rug. He lights the fire with a flick of his wrist—a plain old pyro’s spell, one he doesn't use often—and stokes it with his finger, Infinity extending far beyond it. 

There are bits of decaying tree bark clinging to the tattered, bubbling fabric of the boys’ hiking pants. Moss and mud in their fingernails. Dying cores of cursed energy. 

And the fingers , which Megumi definitely, absolutely, 100% has. 

Maybe he should've read that mission file once over before handing it to them. The burial of cursed objects can have varying effects, depending on the environment of the burial site, the depths of the burial, and the seals on the object. Burying Sukuna's fingers is a recipe for disaster, especially so in a forest. If Yuuji and Megumi were in water in that domain, they were just lucky they didn't encounter some folktale curse, beefed up with the strength of four fingers, having to fight it in such an environment. 

…unless they did fight one. 

“Yuuji,” he calls out. The shuffling and scrubbing in the washroom pauses. “Did you two fight a giant curse? Sea curse, maybe?”

He hears a sleepy mutter of “sasquatch” from Megumi, and then some hushed whispers in response. “No,” Yuuji replies. “No curses at all. We were just stuck underwater.”

Underwater, huh. 

“How’d you, uh,” he asks. Thinks. “Breathe?”

No response. 

“Alright,” he whispers to himself, sharing a little secret with no one. Hmm. 

He does another sweep of the room, and has to correct his earlier statement. It's Megumi’s room, has to be, with the apparent lack of a suitcase to be found. And the plain bamboo toothbrush by the sink. The muted smell of tangerines and perfectly made bed. Yuuji's slippers had just somehow migrated here on a whim. 

Megumi’s awake now, and he can see his cloud of purplish cursed energy stir back to life under a heated faucet of water in the tub. Yuuji’s wringing out his shoes. Whatever teenage melodrama had plagued them all this time, deep and sincere enough to plague Megumi so badly that he needed to come to Gojo for help, seems to have chiseled away. 

Megumi has a hand over the ledge of the tub. He’s gripping something tightly—the bottom elastic of Yuuji’s hoodie. A dry one that he’d swapped out, yellow and well-worn and loved. 

He doesn't tell anyone all that much about what he does and doesn't see. 

The kids will be alright. 

“Why were you stuck in the sand?”

“We don't need to talk about it,” Yuuji replies, face puffed again like a lying, scheming pufferfish. 

A deflection. Megumi’s sort of sick of the water, doesn't really want to be in a bathtub right now, but the water ran brown with the mud he’d been soaking in, and he needs to be clean more than he needs to be dry. The warm water helps heat up the deep sated chill in his stomach lining and returns the feeling to his fingers. He hasn’t looked at his toes yet under all the sudsy bubbles; he’s worried he’s contracted gangrene or something. The water wasn’t cold enough for that, but…

They half-talked. Half of the talking was done. The other half is yet to be completed, and yet Megumi’s still left with more questions than answers. And the worst, most damning part about this is that he’ll ask Yuuji what’s wrong again, and Yuuji might just answer honestly. And they’ll talk, and they’ll be alright, and in Megumi’s looming, bottomless shadows, he’ll have four more of Sukuna’s fingers to feed him. 

Hey! Great talk—that sounds awful. Hope it gets easier. Here’s four more putrid, lye-flavoured, rubbery cursed fingers to help wash it down. There’s listerine on the counter. We can have pancakes in the morning if you want. 

No. He’d gathered enough of his resolve hours earlier, fighting for his life in the middle of nowhere. These four fingers will never see the light of day. And Yuuji will never know. 

It’ll be easier to do it now. The pulling of teeth. Getting Yuuji to open that usually big and useless mouth of his and talk. It’ll be easier now. Here, where Yuuji’s toweled himself off and is now running a comb through his wet hair, almost clementine-colored under the water weight, and Megumi’s still lazing off in the bathtub. Maybe he could try a different approach. Whatever it was that Gojo did, the other day. Info-dumping. And vanishing into thin air. 

“...you awake?” he asks, so soft and quiet, scared to shatter whatever silent orchestra is playing in this dingy little washroom. 

He can hear Yuuji’s smile in his voice when he speaks. “I should be asking you that. You’re the one getting all cozy in the tub.”

This is, by a longshot, the best reaction he’d gotten out of Yuuji during their mindless midnight conversations thus far. And he’ll gladly take it. He’s willing to push his luck, and then willing to push his fist around a bit, too, if it comes down to it.

“In middle school, I once found a girl on the rooftop trying to climb over the railing,” he says in an even voice. 

The sound of the comb passing through wet hair stops abruptly, and when Megumi lolls his head back to look behind him, Yuuji’s staring at him with the most dumbfounded, stricken face he’s ever seen in his life. 

“What?!”

“What?”

“What—! Why are you—! You can’t just say that!” Yuuji cries out indignantly. 

A nearly shit-eating smile threatens to take over his face. “Oh, it gets worse.”

He didn’t think much of it at the time. It didn’t seem like there was about to be a major accident. The words rot in his head but they’re there nonetheless: he didn’t think she’d actually do it. Didn’t believe she would. Didn’t understand why someone would wish for that, especially so young. It didn’t seem like a grand ordeal, but looking back, it must’ve felt like something grand, to the panicked girl he’d found that day. 

Years later now, he’s glad it was panic, and not a blank acceptance. 

“Because of the wing we were in—actually,” he pauses, thinking back to one of their first group missions. The one that didn’t go to shit. “You’ve seen my old middle school, right?” Yuuji nods quietly, a stern and serious gaze set upon Megumi, who ignores him. “Y’know the back building? It’s disconnected from the main building a little, with the faculty parking lot. We were there.”

It was an old section of their school building from before the renovations. It was also only one story high. 

“I didn’t—I don’t know,” he sighs, curling in on himself. He’s started with the story, so now he’s gotta finish it. “The building was one story high. The jump on the obstacle course yesterday was higher. It wasn’t enough of a jump to… I don’t know what I was thinking.”

He cracks one eye open to peek over at Yuuji. He’s never seen the boy look so surprised for such a long duration. “Did you… did you talk her out of it?”

He tries not to snort, tries not to curl up into himself even further and wail in agonizing shame. “I told her, ‘that’s not high enough.’”

Yuuji’s dimly baffled face spikes back into absolute shock. “Fushiguro?!”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” he yells, resigning himself to his fate, sloshing around the water and letting his head drop into his hands. “I meant it like—she was really about to jump! She already had both legs over the railing! I just said the first thing I could to get her away from the ledge!”

“How could you say that?!” Yuuji yells, arms flailing everywhere like they’ve encountered a national emergency. And then, only a little more calmly: “...did it work at least?”

“Yes,” he wheezes out, still refusing to look up. He mutters out a quiet thank fuck with it, because if it hadn’t… well. “She agreed that it wasn’t a high enough drop. So she came back and we sat on the rooftop for a bit.”

She was born and raised on the same street that their school was on. Megumi didn’t know her at all, and didn't want to either. She kept odd company. Mean girlfriends and kids that would gag when partnered up with someone they didn’t like. Megumi could beat up the bullies, sure, but he made a point not to beat up girls. It’s not like they ever swung at him, anyway. She had wide, circular glasses that didn’t suit her face. She seemed fine, but then again, Megumi wasn’t exactly looking. He had his own pressing matters to deal with every day. 

She’d told him that when she went home, she sometimes kept her shoes on while in the kitchen, to avoid stepping on the cockroaches with bare feet. When Megumi went home, sometimes a strange man with white hair would show up and train him so that he could maintain a simple barrier spell to keep Zenin Naobito off their property. They lived different and incomparable lives. Somehow he still had it in him to understand, at least a little, despite his young age. 

“I told the teacher afterward,” he sighs, trying to reorder and piece together what exactly went down. None of it comes to him the way he wants it to. “She was—fine. She ended up fine.”

He never told Gojo about it. They didn’t know each other well enough then, and he didn’t see the point. He wonders if he should’ve. If there were a few words he could use. 

She kept coming to school, still in the background, still with bad company, but something changed. Slowly, over time. He sees her username on social media sometimes, and clicks on the handle. To check. The posts are recent. They don’t follow each other. She’d moved out of the neighborhood by the end of the school year. 

“That’s good,” Yuuji nods, slumping over with relief, like he’s reliving the ordeal with him. It was no grand spectacle. It still stayed with him. “I mean, don’t say something like that again but—”

“I know that now!” he hisses. “Anyway,” he trails off, and then stops. Is it too on the nose?

“I’m not gonna kill myself,” Yuuji deadpans, and Megumi winces. Yeah. A little too on the nose. “Actually, weren’t you the one that tried to summon—”

“You didn’t want to talk about the sand, we don’t need to talk about this either.” And he hasn’t even threatened to summon Mahoraga in months! “I told you to stay on the tree unless I burned the talisman! What happened?”

“You burned the talisman!” Yuuji huffs, and Megumi decides now is probably an appropriate time to get out of the bath and not be naked. “So I went to look for you!”

“I burned the talisman?!” he replies, pulling the drain plug. “You burned the talisman!”

“I didn’t burn the talisman!”

Megumi pauses. “Well, I didn’t burn the talisman.”

“Then who did?”

“I did,” says a secret third voice. Sukuna’s sharp teeth spring open on Yuuji’s cheek once more, evil red eyes glinting at the shadows at Megumi’s feet. “Your new generation of sorcerers, you all have the same weakness. Each other. Now, hand me the goods.”

Megumi tries not to freeze up. He really does. He tries to rely on Yuuji’s tendency to be a buffoon and not listen. Megumi stands there, caught red handed, wrapped in four towels to keep the cold from biting him in the ass again. Sukuna’s no ally. He should’ve known that from day one. Day negative one. Should’ve been born with such innate knowledge. 

“The goods?” Yuuji asks, curiously peeking over at him.

“The- drugs,” Megumi blurts out. “He thinks I have… drugs. And I’m doing drugs. ‘Cause, y’know.”

Yuuji visibly makes a ‘???’ while staring at him through the bathroom mirror. “No??? What drugs?”

“Can’t tell you,” he replies. He feels a little bad. Yuuji’s unbelievably gullible. He’s fallen for every single trick in the book, and if you wait a day or two, he’ll fall for the same damn trick again. Megumi hates lying to him. But then again, he’s gathered his resolve this time. 

And, Yuuji’s subdued Sukuna, who’s gone silent under his skin. Sukuna knows about the fingers. Gojo knows about the fingers. Megumi can only hide something for so long, and he knows the odds are stacked against him, but he’ll take whatever time he can get. 

“Megumi,” Yuuji says, all serious and stern again. “Drugs are serious and dangerous. You shouldn’t be doing that.”

He stands there, again, dumbfounded in his four towels and palpitating heart rate. “Huh?”

Yuuji throws a knowing smile over his shoulder, and they finally waddle their way out of the bathroom. They leave the muddied clothes in a pile on the floor. There’s no way to deal with them right now. “Megumi? Or Megs?” he says. “‘Cause, y’know, you’re doing drugs. And I’m worried for you.”

“You’re not funny,” Megumi bleats out, harsh and sudden and embarrassed. “You think you’re funny but you’re not. The fingers are making you delusional.”

“Yeah, well!” he scoffs back, slumping over onto the (Megumi’s) bed. “I’m about to get more delusional, then! Better be ready for it!”

Gojo had wisely chosen to make himself scarce. He can hear the birds waking up outside, golden sun peeking through the windows. But he’s exhausted right now, and needs a long nap. He’ll deal with Nobara’s wrath and Gojo’s meddling and everyone else’s questions later, once he’s caught up on a few hours of sleep. They’d spent the entire day outside hiking, and he’d spent the entire night outside fighting for his life. 

He pulls down the blinds, and swings down the sheer curtains by the window as well, shrouding the room in moderate darkness. Yuuji mutters a quiet “thanks” and wedges himself into the duvet.

“Oi,” Megumi snaps, hurling his Spiderman slipper at him. “Sleep in your own bed.”

“Nah.”

He blinks at the mass under the covers. “What do you mean, ‘you’re about to get more delusional’?” 

Megumi doesn’t know this, but the grand, ultimate secret that Yuuji had been keeping all this time didn’t really exist. And he doesn’t know this, but it’s never really that easy, never that simple, to have one finite, solvable, cohesive problem wrapped up in a little box. If that were the case, Yuuji wouldn’t be tweaking out every night and losing weight. Megumi can still feel the ghost traces of crescent-shaped indents in the palm of his hand. 

He doesn’t know it, but the grand secret’s already been revealed. 

“I mean,” Yuuji answers. “It’s the same as it’s always been. I’m eatin’ all twenty fingers, right? And I just ate the tenth one. They’ve got six more waiting in the higher up’s inventory. They don’t wanna feed it to me yet, or whatever. So, y’know, I’m about to get a whole lot more delusional!”

Half of the words and muffled into the pillow. Megumi can only stand there with a loading GIF circling over the top of his head, trying to process the words.

Six more waiting in the higher up’s inventory.

Six. Six and four made ten. Ten and ten make—

“Oh,” he sighs, suddenly tired. 

There’s stillwater in his head. Old, rancid, recycled thoughts filling up the space between his ears. This is his death. Yuuji’s as good as dead now. Megumi was worried he’d regret it, and now the time is here: he’s regretting it. Regretting that he’d spent every lingering minute waiting on this moment, mourning something that he hadn’t even lost yet. And in the end, there was nothing he could really do. 

It’s not satisfying at all, dinging the little bell that was sitting in his skull all these months, cheering, called it!

He’s known Itadori since last summer’s July. It’s the tail end of spring. They haven’t even known each other for a full year, and yet the wait is done.

The bated breath is over. He heaves up the duvet in one swooping pull and launches himself into the bed. Flecks of water from his damp hair go flying in every direction, and then inevitably make the pillow wet. He wiggles into place, shoulder to shoulder next to Yuuji, who despite what the narrative has been spilling out, is not cool as a cucumber about anything and everything Megumi does. 

“F-Fushiguro?!” the mass of blankets shrieks. 

Megumi blindly slaps his hand around under the covers until it lands on a nose, a pair of eyes and then a second pair of eyelids, and two round cheeks, which he slaps with no small amount of force. “It’s my room, so I’m sleeping here. Go to your room if you don’t like it.”

Do fucking NOT, he mentally tags on. Four and six make ten. Ten and ten make twenty. Yuuji’s dead. They’ll have this if it kills him too. 

He can’t see much under the covers. There’s just enough light, filtered through the blinds and sheer curtains and through the peeking corner of the comforter, to highlight the damp pink hair, now slightly frayed and haphazard, clinging to Yuuji’s forehead. His hair always felt like dried out hay, like the guy was allergic to conditioner or something. Yuuji insisted that his hair was natural, but the roots were always slightly darker than the rest of it, not quite black but not quite the faded pink that the ends appeared to be. But when Megumi combs his fingers through it, picking out a section with care, he can see the point where the color begins to fade out, a discrete gradient along his roots. 

“It’s pretty close, y’know,” Yuuji whispers, so quiet and so brittle. It’s so unfair. “That’s why I’ve been… I mean, there’s been other stuff too, but… having an impending execution isn’t exactly the best news…”

“You still have time,” Megumi lies. “We might—we might never find the last ones.”

Now that he’s thinking about it, it’s so improbable that he found all four of the remaining fingers in one spot. That has, not once in recent history, ever happened. Such high concentrations of cursed energy dispel, scatter throughout the regions. In fact, it was highly unlikely that all twenty fingers would even be found in Japan. Their bets were that at least two had flown away overseas, perhaps lost into the ocean, giving them a little more time. Now, it’s all a hypothetical, scrutinized in hindsight. Sukuna knows he has the fingers. Gojo definitely knows.

This is my fault.

Yuuji turns over to fully face him, wrapping him up like an octopus. “Since when are you the optimist, huh?” he says. Nose to nose. Grinning. The rot of the forest comes back, this time in Megumi’s mouth, souring his tongue, coating the crevices in his gums with the tar they were stuck in, hours ago. 

“D’you wanna… go somewhere,” he says quietly. “Anywhere. We could go somewhere.” There’s nowhere to run, but they could go somewhere anyway.

“We are somewhere already,” Yuuji points out, under the covers in a far away resort. “Are you sure you’re okay, dude?”

Hands in his hair. Fingertips pressing gentle circles at his scalp. They make him a little bit honest. “Never said I was… dude.”

“Blegh!” Yuuji tugs at some wet strands in protest. “Don’t say dude, dude. It’s like, not a word that’s supposed to come out of your mouth.”

Yuuji’s teeth are pearly white, peeking at him in the darkness of the covers, hands still in each other’s hair, still soaking up the pillow. He’s looking at him like Megumi wasn’t the one to kill him, the one to subject him to this fate, like they’re truly just best friends that are finishing their first year of high school this week. Megumi thinks if he says anything more right now, it’ll be a sob, or vomit, or something in between, so he wisely keeps his mouth shut. 

Their first talk was half a talk. Their second talk was a quarter of a talk. The third was an eighth, and this was a sixteenth. And if they have another chance, the next one will be one thirty-second. They’ll get infinitely closer to being honest, but Megumi will never be able to squeeze out all the words he needs to. They’re out of time. 

The exhaustion catches up to them in a deep, rolling ocean wave, pulling them under. All they can do is hold each other as they drift off.

Chapter Text

The thing is, no one really knows Tsumiki anymore. That's what makes it so strange. 

Short-pressed for time, and feeling homesick to unbearable, unprecedented degrees, Megumi's first course of action after their resort getaway is visiting Tsumiki. Gojo will do whatever he needs to do, talking up a storm with the doctors through delirious half-flirts and worrying bouts of silence. He got Shoko involved. Nothing's looking promising, so far. 

The remaining time at the resort is both hectic and somber. Hectic, when Nobara was involved. Somber, when she wasn't. She will run him dry of all and any possible favours for the rest of his life, and he isn't allowed to complain. 

They worry about him, and they worry about Yuuji. They ask if they got caught up with a curse. He tells them that they were just finishing up the mission they were assigned. The four fingers stay unruly and monumental in the shadows under his feet. When they pack up and leave, it isn't until they're halfway back to Tokyo that Megumi realizes he forgot to say goodbye to Hiroshi. He feels like an asshole about it for the rest of the trip. 

He won't say the team building was useless. It made him realize that he really ought to be thankful that sorcery is more of a solo profession, and that he doesn't need to do frequent group projects with his idiotic teammates. He hadn't thanked Hiroshi for the epiphany of counting silver linings, either. Him and Yuuji were a redeemable mess. Some things aren’t.

The hospital is quieter in this wing, in the morning, on the weekdays. Tsumiki likes quiet atmospheres better than noisy ones. 

That doesn't really matter. She remains unchanged and passive.  Her hair remains about the same length. Because of the nature of her skin, the curse renders it impossible for any hair to be pulled out of her scalp. Brittle, unconditioned strands that can’t grow nor shed, her eyes sunken in, weight shedded off her bones—her skin still refuses to break under the curse. Megumi wonders how long it’d last if Tsumiki’s kidneys hadn't given out this early. Would she rot herself alive? Slowly cave in on her ribcage, youthful leather shrouding over her bones until you can see her skeleton, and still, the skin remains unbreakable? 

Whatever tools that they'll need to break the skin would have to be strong enough to cut through Gojo’s Infinity, apparently. The Black Rope has been extinguished. The Inverted Spear is missing. Has the Inverted Spear ever been used for surgery? It makes him wonder so many things.

He doesn't need another worry to pile up onto his growing list: Yuuji’s execution, Yuuji’s worsening condition, the fingers, treason for hiding the fingers, the Talk with Gojo about the fingers (still pending), Tsumiki’s worsening condition, the talk or not-talk about the underwater domain…

No one visits Tsumiki. None of her old school friends were even made aware that she went under, for the sake of covering up the jujutsu involved in the curse. None of Megumi’s own friends know much about Tsumiki either. Most of them don't even know he has a sister. The only people that visit are him and Gojo. Occasionally Shoko, to check in on her status.  

When he steps into the room, he isn't the only person there. 

“Who’re you?” he nearly growls, clasping his hands together to summon Totality. 

The woman standing in the room—Tsumiki’s room—isn’t one he can recognize, but she feels familiar anyway. Sharp, blonde hair that had a clean line of black roots. An old dye job. Deep bags under her eyes. Eyes that he’s seen before, has stared into, but he doesn’t want to believe it.

“Oh,” the woman sighs. “Megumi, don’t you remember me?”

He knows the hair that curls just slightly at the tips. Knows the brow bone, a perfect arch dipping slightly at the nose. The eye color isn’t quite right. He didn’t realize it when they were children, but Tsumiki really did take after her. It just took a decade for the resemblance to show. 

Still, he won’t believe it. “You didn’t answer my question. If you don’t tell me who you are, I’m calling the hospital staff and security.” And Gojo, he doesn’t tag on. She wouldn’t know what that meant. 

“Is that anyway to speak to your mother?” she sniffs, nose upturned but gentle in her disbelief, and turns to look back at Tsumiki.

Whatever she was about to say, Megumi was prepared for it, for the most part: his step-mother, Tsumiki’s mom, his dad’s wife, hell, even his aunt would be a better name for it. But mother?  

“You’re not my mother!” he nearly screams, but manages to tone it down at the last second. They’re still in a hospital. “Get out. You have no right to be here.”

“I have more of a right to be here than you do,” she tells him. It’s been years. Ages. Memories long forgotten, replaced with better ones. But he can remember it a little more clearly now, how Tsumiki’s mother never really liked his father, never really liked him, never liked being saddled with another child while her useless husband disappeared for weeks on end. He now knows that at one point, the abandonment wasn’t because Toji was M-I-A but rather because Gojo had blasted a hole into the guy. Fair enough excuse.

But Tsumiki’s mother—fuck, he couldn’t even remember her name —she left them with nothing. She had him calling her “auntie” for all of the several years she’d known him before she left. A short joke of an envelope full of cash in small bills. No note. No letter. No other caretaker. The way she would look down at him, figuratively. He was too young to understand that it wasn’t normal. She would bring home men that weren’t his dad, and she’d leave during the day down the street opposite to her supposed job. 

Actually, he’s still too young to be dealing with this bullshit. But it wasn’t her that taught him that, it was the only other remotely adult-like figure in his life. This didn’t need to be his problem alone. And he can’t be caught blasting a civilian into smithereens at a hospital, so he does the one thing he can do.

“You have to come with me.”

Gojo cranes his head behind him to stare down the boy grabbing the corner of his sleeve. Infinity had long since adjusted to letting him in, given how rare it was that Megumi would ever seek him out anyway. 

“Megs,” he sighs, feeling a dull migraine reform behind his eyes. “We’re still talking about the procedures. I promised I wouldn’t leave before visiting her.”

He forgets how young Megumi still is, watching his thin black eyebrows furrow into a scowl. It helps him put into perspective all the things he’d blamed himself for when he was younger; how could he, when Megumi’s the same age, and practically a baby?

“There’s a strange woman in Tsumiki’s room and you need to kick her out,” the baby says. 

“It might be the organ donor,” Gojo waves off, turning back to the papers. 

It goes blissfully quiet for a minute, and he can focus on the endless stacks of paper in front of him. Half of them are notes from the hospital, and the other half are hex binding spells and old scriptures from the Gojo and Kamo clan, dated back a thousand years. If he could just figure out what the hell cursed her, he could conjure up some sort of antidote. 

The blissful minute of quiet goes on for a second too long, and when he turns back to look at Megumi, the boy has a stricken horror etched so deep into his face it nearly makes him jolt. “What?! What’s that face for?”

Megumi’s jaw snaps shut. “It’s her mom.”  

Years ago, through the adoption process, Gojo had thought he’d mitigated every single little detail that might bite him in the ass later. He made it so that he was their legal guardian. Toji was dead. Naobito was both paid off and threatened weekly. There was the clause that’d make Megumi the Zenin clan’s head. Barrier spells were cast over their house to keep out foreboding evil, which for the most part was Naobito. The occasional assassin. 

All of this, however, was directly involving Megumi alone. Never in his life did he think Tsumiki’s circumstances would come into play. Megumi’s biological mother was dead, Toji was dead, and he was effectively an orphan. Tsumiki, on the other hand…

“Hmm.” He pulls the collar of his coat up. “Alright, I’ll see what’s up.”

—

“Who the hell are you?” 

“What?” the woman scoffs. “You had to bring back-up?”

Megumi wonders if this was a bad idea now, and if he should've tried handling himself. There's no saving them if Gojo decides to unleash Red on a civilian in a hospital, either. It seems, with each passing minute, he is getting closer to it. 

“Now now,” he placates, patting a hand on the woman’s back. “It’s not like little Megumi needed to call in Big Papa for help, I’m sure he had it handled.”

It makes both Megumi and the woman choke up and sputter. 

“Come again?!” she cries. “You're not their father! You have no right to call yourself that!”

“I’ve known Mr. Grumpy and Miki-chan here longer than you have. I’m giving you the grace of fifteen seconds to get out, or I’ll have to take matters,” he pauses for dramatic effect, cracking his knuckles menacingly to add to it. “Into my own hands…”

When Megumi squints at Himari just a second longer, the pieces start to click back into place. He didn’t recognize her because for all the years he’d known her, she had a plume of cigarette smoke trailing behind her. It was enough of a difference now that she became unrecognizable. If he closes his eyes, sometimes he can still see their old kitchen table, littered with crumbs and food and ashes. After Tsumiki's mother had left, it was up to seven year old Tsumiki to clean up the years of gunk and debris. Out of everything Megumi has had to face in these years, it still remains one of the most unfair things he’s seen. 

“It’s not my fault that these two disappeared from under my nose,” the woman sighs, like she hadn’t vanished off the surface of the earth for years before Gojo had stepped in. “It's been a rough couple of years. I didn't know where these two disappeared to. I know I haven't been a good mother to either of them, but that doesn’t give you the right to kick me out—”

“Yeah, well.” Gojo stalks over, picking her up over his shoulder, and marching for the exit. “You're about ten years late, woman. Stay away from my kids. You gave them up when you abandoned them.”

Megumi watches, half-astonished and half-embarrassed as the woman thrashes and kicks at Gojo. “You! Put me down! I’m calling security!”

“Yuh-huh,” Gojo replies. “Let’s call security, shall we? See what your motives are, you evil dumpster fire of a woman?”

“Megumi!” she gasps, suddenly turning the blame onto him. “Megumi, tell this man you know me! This is kidnapping, you know?! Taking someone else’s wards—!”

Megumi shrugs in response. “I don’t know either of you.”

For the first time in his life, he doesn’t mind Gojo’s embarrassing antics, as he watches the man flip Tsumiki’s mother around like a butterfly knife and toss her down the hallway with no care. It might be overkill, though, as Gojo chases her down the hall with a languid walk, attracting the attention of every living thing in their vicinity. 

The two nurses that are primarily taking care of Tsumiki charge in to see what the commotion was about. To the woman’s credit, and it was a low, low goddamn bar, she hadn’t harmed a hair on Tsumiki’s head. The nurses adjust her IV and double check her temperature. With her body slowly shutting down, she had recently been more prone to fevers. 

They turn to him the second he moves to leave. “Fushiguro-kun? What happened?” one of the nurses asks. “We heard a lot of yelling from in here…”

“There was a woman in here who wouldn’t leave after Gojo asked her to,” he replies. “Is it possible to keep her out?”

It’s hard to imagine Tsumiki’s mother deliberately harming her, but it’s certainly an injustice anyway that she’s allowing herself to be here, years later, to sneer at Megumi who was once her child in its own right, and to tower over Tsumiki’s sleeping form, just as useless as every antidote and spell they’ve tried. Just as clueless about what happened to her. 

…well, it’s not like Megumi was doing much more than that, either. 

“Oh,” the nurse responds. He sticks a hand out into the hallway, bending at the elbow to point at the spot where Gojo was still wrestling a civilian in public. “Her? She’s Tsumiki-chan’s donor. I didn’t know you two knew each other. Is there a problem?”

Didn’t know you two knew each other. That woman used to change his diapers, and pretends not to know him. How does she plan on ignoring him when the whole hospital knows that he and Tsumiki are siblings, anyway?

Effectively, Megumi’s got three-ish families. One that he’s sure he’s had briefly with Toji and his biological mother. One with Tsumiki’s mother, his dad, and Tsumiki. And then the clusterfuck that was the Zenin clan. Somehow, all three of these families have been giving him boundless grief from the moment he was born. It seems like he’ll never escape it after all. 

“Megumi-chan!” Gojo cheers from the doorway of the room. Both the nurses look at him, startled. “I won! Phew, it’s tough, y’know, dealing with middle-aged women… You don’t need to worry about her anymore.”

He says he won, like it’s some grand accomplishment defeating a woman mathematically half his weight and a foot shorter than him, but you won’t find him complaining. 

“She’s the donor,” he tells him. 

A realization dawns on him with horror. Maybe it was four-ish families all along, if the only qualifying factor for counting as his family anymore was simply giving him grief. There isn’t much he can do but watch as Gojo reaches into his pocket. 

The man flicks open a small gravity knife, smiling cheerily through his blindfold. “Well, she doesn’t need to be alive for that, does she?”

He should’ve paid closer attention to Gojo’s slowly deteriorating sanity about the whole situation. Hopefully, some time in the future, he can get the contact information for Gojo’s lawyer who has somehow dug the man out of every single hole he’s managed to throw himself in. In this case, Gojo dodges a lawsuit by a hair’s breadth and they are both politely escorted out of the hospital for the evening, given the promise that the woman, whose name they’d later learn was Sato Himari, would not be allowed in room 403 for the time being. 

It rubs him all the wrong ways, finding out she’d changed her surname from Fushiguro Himari to something else, even if it was a misplaced anger. The name “Fushiguro” no longer connected him to his father; it connected him to Tsumiki, and Tsumiki was the only good thing remaining from his old life. And if her name was still Fushiguro Tsumiki, then her name must be a good thing. Himari might not have thought of it that way. To most others, especially those a generation above him, the name Fushiguro only rang alarm bells through their heads. A bad omen.

No one kills anyone in the hospital. If Sato Himari is insisting on making amends, so long as it helps Tsumiki, Megumi is fine with it. He tries not to think about whether she has other children now, who would be Tsumiki’s half-siblings. He hopes he won’t have to see her again. He hopes that circumstances shift enough that he won’t have to thank her for saving Tsumiki’s life, when she had abandoned it first, years ago. 

“Didya mean it?” Gojo asks as they make their way back to the campus, craning his head down to stare into Megumi’s ear. Megumi refuses to look him in the eye. “Didya reeeally mean it?”

He won’t grace him with an answer. The jovial teasing is out of place. He is about to enter a period of grief so profound it might cull him, and meanwhile Gojo’s trying to wet-willy him like a preschooler. 

There are pieces of him that are achingly curious, dying to find out how Gojo would react if he said a few sly words. Words like, Gojo-sensei, I’m scared. Words like, I don’t know what to do, I don’t know how I’m feeling. He wonders what it’d take for Gojo to take him seriously. He wonders if, after pouring his heart out, he’ll laugh at him. Or maybe go eerily quiet for a while. And then, fleetingly, he remembers another ironic, tasteless fact.

A tasteless joke. He was the first sorcerer Yuuji had met. It was him—Fushiguro Megumi—folded over on one knee, with his hands forming the sign to summon Mahoraga on the rooftop of Sugisawa Municipal High School in Sendai, it was him that first uttered the words, “under jujutsu regulations, you, Itadori Yuuji, are to be exorcised as a curse.”

Megumi is hiding something just as tasteless, now. 

“I have the fingers,” he says, ripping off the bandaid. It had been enough grace. 

“Oh, I know,” Gojo replies, finally giving in and standing back up to an appropriate height. 

“Four fingers,” Megumi emphasizes. “And there’s six in the storage. Yuuji already ate ten goddamn fingers. That’s twenty.”

Gojo hums, hands in his pocket. “I know. It’s impressive work. Your shadows hide its presence really well.”

Whatever headassery he’s attempting won’t slide. He can’t do this. Can’t lead him on with false hope, not when he’s been preparing himself for Yuuji’s execution from the day he’d met the boy. “I can’t hide them in my shadows forever.”

“No,” he agrees, still level. “You can’t.”

“Yuuji’s going to be executed.”

“Yes, he is.”

It takes him a minute to hear it.

Gojo’s not giving him false words at all. There isn’t an argument on the horizon unless he starts one. And he won’t win it, either. There’s no useless apology from him. It wasn’t Gojo’s fault, after all. 

Had Yuuji ever managed to disappear, even with Gojo agreeing not to hunt him down and execute him, the higher ups council would place out over a thousand bounties set at costs over millions of dollars to hunt him down, force him into hiding, force him out of the woodwork. 

Yuuji might have a chance at surviving, then, if he released Sukuna and let him deal with it. But it’s Yuuji, so he won’t do that.

“If it helps,” Gojo starts to say. “We can’t feed him all the fingers in one sitting. We’ll do it one day at a time.”

“So he has ten days left,” he chokes. Their trip at the resort was hardly a week. Come spring, Megumi will be down a classmate in his second year. 

“We’ll make it a great ten days!” Gojo cheers, metallic and tinny. “I was… well, I was going to hide the last finger, but Sukuna’s got wind of it now, doesn’t he?”

And he knows, logically, that part isn’t his fault either. He had no way of knowing that the mission they were assigned would lead them to Sukuna’s remaining four fingers. There was no helping it. 

A new thought floats into his mind, one he hadn’t really given much of his time to: someone has to tell Yuuji his time’s up. It’s different from telling him that they have the remaining four fingers. It’s different from explaining to him the dangers that a fully actualized Sukuna could pose to the public and to jujutsu as a whole. It’s telling him that his time’s up, and his life is over. He has to die. He has ten days left. Someone has to say it. 

Another jarring thought follows it: someone has to tell everyone else that Yuuji’s time is up. Okkotsu and Kirara and Hakari will have known Yuuji for less than a month. Nobara will have to live his death for the second time. Megumi will have to seek her out, just like it happened months ago last summer, and tell her that he’s gone. She’ll cry again. She’ll cry harder this time. 

When they kill—no, when they exorcise him, they’ll have to burn the body. They’ll have to sever his head with enough cursed energy to ensure he can’t come back like last time. Shoko will dissect him, and someone will light his pyre, and his ashes will be nullified, and stored away in the cursed weapons and tools warehouse. Itadori Wasuke’s grave will never meet Itadori Yuuji again. 

The world will move on. The Exchange Event is in another couple of months. Megumi will have to train for it without him for the second year in a row. Itadori Yuuji will become some urban legend, gossiped about and rumoured by the new first years. 

Ten days. He can’t do it all in ten days.

“Megumi,” Gojo sighs. The pitying looks have already started.

“Can’t we—” he begs.

“No. You know we can’t, Megs.” Gojo might be terrible at giving advice, but at least he’s self-aware. He’d done a decent job of keeping his mouth free of useless chatter, empty words that he’d hear other adults in his life say, those who were fine with lying to his face. 

The thing about grief is that it’ll make you do things you’ve said you’ll never do. It had been a long time coming, waiting on a bated breath for someone to die, strung along with hope and envy and despair, vitriolic relief, bargaining, lies that were told so often that they were brought to life in place of theirs. Something’s finally starting to stir in his stomach. 

“Alright,” he agrees. He doesn’t blame anyone but himself. Gojo had bought them so many more months of time together, months where Yuuji could live on and grow. But the weight shedding off his bones, the insomnia, the wait for his own death… that’s no way to live. 

The only thing that is granted equally to everyone is an unfair reality. Yuuji wallows in his, and Megumi gets off scott-free with a promising future. Tsumiki was better than him, and she was still cursed in the end. He’ll lose them both, and he’ll say it was the course of action.

He’ll tell the others, at least. For ten days. It’s simply the course of action. 

Himari somehow gets his cellphone number. It’s likely from the hospital’s emergency contact list. She’s absolutely told them that she’s their mother. He can picture the hospital staff trying to put two and two together, wondering how the combination of Sato Himari’s long black hair and Gojo Satoru’s inbred blue eyes created whatever the hell Megumi was. Neither of them are his biological parents, actually. The hospital staff are so hooked on gossip that they keep asking him anyway. 

They don’t ask how Gojo can be twenty-nine while Tsumiki’s seventeen, and how Himari is pushing fifty. 

Gojo puts ants in Himari’s tea as they discuss treatment for Tsumiki. Himari is a match; she’s agreed to give one of her kidneys. All is solved except they still cannot break her skin. Gojo scales every inch of the Gojo estate archives, the school archives, the Kamo archives, and even strong-arms Inumaki into letting him nose through what his clan has to offer. Megumi’s already drained the Zenins of all their knowledge, for whatever that was worth.

Gojo travels to other continents. Consults Yuuta and Miguel about their travels and potential leads. He even sucks up his pride and rings up the infamous Tsukumo Yuki. Tsukumo Yuki gives him the only solid lead they get, after all this time. The lead falls flat. The antidote doesn’t work. They hit another dead end. 

Gojo’s stalling. He’s being kind. He’s making himself scarce, and now the ten days for Yuuji’s pending execution haven’t even started yet. 

“She’ll be fine,” Yuuji tells him as they sit at the bleachers. Pulsing his fists. Liar. He pats Megumi’s back good-naturedly. He doesn’t know that he’s next on the goddamn list. “I was gonna offer a kidney… if I was a match…”

“That’s not the issue,” Megumi sighs, dropping his hands into his face. They pace through their short break before the new school year languidly. They don’t get assigned any missions further than a walkable distance around Tokyo, with the springtime lightening up the public’s mood. Megumi’s decided that he won’t tell Yuuji about the remaining fingers until the ten-day countdown begins. 

When he looks at Yuuji these days, it’s not enough to see him smiling anymore. Even after all these months of listening to him sob himself to sleep, slowly spiralling with no handlebars to grab onto, seeing him smile again isn’t enough. Every remaining useless organ under his skin is pulled to him. He needs to see it from the inside. Needs to plant himself somewhere behind Yuuji’s eyes, in his skull, and see his lips tug upward from in there. It’s not a reasonable desire. Megumi hasn’t been sleeping, anyway. It’s hypocritical.

Sometimes, Yuuji pads into his room and throws himself over the covers, becoming a weighted blanket overtop of him. When he wakes up—truly wakes up, instead of opening his eyes after hours of pretending to doze away—he’s always met with a flash of pink hair.

Yuuji learns about Tsumiki’s condition and acts like the whole world’s ended and blown up into flames. 

It’s so sweet. It makes him realize that he's never needed someone more. Having someone pissed off on his behalf is the greatest treasure he could ask for. Megumi wishes they were drowning again. They don’t talk about that . He pretends that he’s normal and that there’s nothing wrong with him. 

Himari calls him and he picks up, only to hang up on her once she’s halfway through her first sentence. It’s never an apology. He doesn’t know if that’s better or worse for him. She once tried telling him more about Toji, tried speculating on his potential whereabouts, insisting she had some breadcrumb trails about where he’d been in the past year. One day, perhaps after things have settled down, he’ll be the one to break the glorious news to her with an uncouth note scribbled on a scrap piece of paper, embellished with a chibi drawing of his new old man in blindfolds.  

He sees Yuuji around a lot more often. He sees the boy even when he’s not there.

If Yuuji isn’t in his direct line of sight, it feels as if he’s as good as dead. All of a sudden, all that’s left of him is his pokémon mug that he drinks hot chocolate in, too jittery and young for coffee or tea. He counts the fingerprints Yuuji leaves behind, the victim to this new homicide, and still, he plays detective. He traces the footsteps back to the frontyards where he finds remnants of Yuuji’s fierce punches leaving craters in the training dummies and the lingering echo of the boy’s chalky laugh whenever he’s trying to hide something. 

It takes everything in him not to treat him like a ghost, brought undead. He must be doing a good job of hiding it, or perhaps Yuuji is so used to Megumi acting all aloof and depressed all the time that he doesn’t notice. Or doesn’t comment. 

And as always, to love is to know someone. There aren’t any surprises. 

—

Tsumiki’s death is declared on March 20th, 2019. The same day, Yuuji finally turns 16. Himari keeps to herself and disappears once more, with not so much as a word about whether she’d find him again one day. Megumi doesn’t hear from Gojo. 

Yuuji refuses to celebrate on the twentieth. He insists that they can do it another time.

He still thinks he has time. Megumi forces him to eat some cake anyway. They make a day out of it. Tsumiki would want to be celebrated. She had always gone the furthest lengths to make sure Megumi never suffered. 

When Gojo finally crawls out of the hole he’d buried himself in, he lets Megumi know that the countdown will start in two days. He looks so hollowed out about it that Megumi doesn’t even try to antagonize him this time. He brings the man a sickeningly sweet Thai tea that’s 50% condensed milk, and watches in fascination as Gojo sadly guzzles down the whole thing. 

He feels more in-tune to his martyrdom of a cursed technique once again, as he effectively becomes Yuuji’s shadow. He whispers, “we’re best friends, Itadori,” like a haunting curse. He says it regularly with his thumb flicking an imaginary rosary. He doesn’t know when he’s meant to stop counting.

Nobara and Maki beat the daylight out of him in sparring. They claim that it’s out of love and consideration. Inumaki gives him half an orange and offers to pray for Tsumiki. Hoshi and Hakari, however, grant him the biggest and most monumental favour that any one of his classmates have given him: they disappear and leave him the fuck alone. 

Yuuji sticks around him. He apologizes although it is not his fault. He sticks around like a lifeline, unsure and wary of where Megumi will end up, should he let go. It makes him feel guilty. 

“Really, Fushiguro, I don’t mind,” he says on yet another night that he’s woken up to the sight of pink hair. “No one should be left alone while they’re mourning.”

I accidentally caused the biggest turning point in your life and cursed you to your grave the night your grandfather died, he doesn’t say. Instead, he opts for, “You were alone. With your grandfather.”

He can’t see the smile. He knows it’s there. “Ah, but I was only alone because I just lost my only family. And then I wasn’t alone, ‘cause I met you, right?”

He’s gonna beat him up. 

“And it’s not the same,” Yuuji continues. “Ji-chan lived a long life. He was happy, even if he acted grumpy all the time. It was a proper death. This is… different.”

Tsumiki was fifteen when she went under. She died at seventeen. Yuuji doesn’t know this, but if all goes according to plan, the execution date will likely be sooner than her funeral. He’ll be alone then, too. “I’m sorry,” he breathes into his own sweater. 

“You never change,” Yuuji mutters, slapping him half-heartedly across the face, and digging back into the blankets to head to sleep. He’s gonna beat him up. “Sleep, Fushiguro. We’ve got stuff at eight tomorrow.”

The days of questioning and biting his nails and pulling clumps of his hair out at Yuuji’s supposed psychological status are tentatively behind them. Yuuji tells him to go piss off back to bed, and so Megumi will turn around onto his side of the cot, sleeping back to back, instead of trekking the long journey of one meter to the adjacent dorm. Yuuji starts eating the kitchen after a mission again. He pulls out his DS and fiddles around on it, playing angry birds, instead of staring soullessly into the dark of his room at midnight. 

One win. Now, Tsumiki’s gone. It’s enough whiplash to let him keep his head glued to his shoulders for just a few more days, even if only for decoration. When it catches up to him, the world will burn. 

It isn’t until they’re one day away from the countdown, while he and Yuuji are in the kitchen attempting to make homemade mochi and using regular rice flour instead of glutinous rice flour, that Megumi actually goes clinically insane. 

He realizes it while he’s staring into Yuuji’s golden, ever-creased eyes, as the boy smears a bit of the botched sweet rice paste on his nose. “I told you so,” he taunts with a massive grin. “Don’t doubt the chef. We need glutinous rice flour. Actually, if you can just get the rice, I think I could pound it—”

“I need to confess something, Itadori.”

The expression on Yuuji’s face freezes. He winces a bit. Megumi was never great at reading the room. “Yeah?” he asks.

“I’ve been keeping something from you. I don’t want to lie to you anymore. I can’t keep this to myself anymore.”

Sometimes, and maybe it’s just because Megumi’s always standing on the boy’s toes, but sometimes Yuuji’s eyes veer away from each other as if he’s looking through a ring doorbell. Maybe he’s looking past Megumi. Maybe it’s that Megumi’s too busy staring directly into his soul. The exotropic fisheyed glare speaks volumes, each time.

Megumi doesn’t know this, but he looks fisheyed to Yuuji as well.

They stand toe to toe in the kitchen. “This sounds an awful lot like a love confession, Fushiguro,” Yuuji chuckles nervously. There’s a bead of sweat piling at his temple. His eyes are drifting apart. 

Worse, he doesn’t say. “We’ve found the four remaining fingers. Meaning we have all ten of Ryōmen Sukuna’s fingers in our inventory.”

The thing about desperation is that it’ll make you do stupid shit. He’s tasted grief properly. Tsumiki’s gone. She’d been dead, really, for far longer than a couple of days. And they’d done everything they could. It was truly hopeless. But perhaps he’s not attacking the next issue with the same vigour. He could search the globe, as Gojo did, but really, the answer is in his hands. Thrumming age-old rhythms through his gut. Lurking in the shadows beneath their feet.

Yuuji’s incredulous shock is warranted. Panic. Panic is better a blank acceptance. He remembers that much. 

“Your execution is scheduled in eleven days, starting tomorrow. On April fifth, you’ll be formally exorcised.”

And, as a course of action, so will Fushiguro Megumi.

Chapter Text

Fushiguro Megumi gets a bad rep, not for being a particularly rowdy kid, but definitely a troublesome one. Not with Gojo, however. Gojo’s never had to yell at him to get him to listen. And he hasn’t beaten up any bullies in a while. He got his ass kicked by Todo anyway. Nearly got decimated by Kamo Noritoshi at the Exchange Event. He doesn’t exactly have the capacity to beat the shit out of his bullies anymore. 

It’s never been loud trouble. It was refusing to answer questions, giving Gojo the silent treatment, pretending that no one else existed, never apologizing to his victims. He wasn’t mean for the fun of it. He didn’t stir shit just because. And nothing had changed. 

Perhaps he should be in mourning instead of slowly inching his way off a ledge, or falling already, and shuffling his feet uselessly anyway. The thing is, Tsumiki’s absence had long since dug a crater into his heart, and he learned how to keep it beating without her. His friends are sympathetic. They give him room, something they don’t ever bother doing. But, and it’s really the thing… He never wanted Tsumiki to die . He never wanted Tsumiki to die, but—

You can only half-grieve for so long before it takes a toll on you. Where once he couldn’t let her go, couldn’t hope for the best, couldn’t expect the worst, there is closure now. If Tsumiki had lived, she would still be unreachable. For now, the pangs are intermittent and easier to ignore. It’ll catch up to him, though.

Oh, it’ll catch up to him, for sure. Weeks later, when he’s done running, when his phone chimes the notification for Tsumiki’s weekly hospital visit, and he has to thumb over the button to delete it—oh, it’ll catch up to him all at once.

But where it stands now, where there was once a single problem, now there are many.

Where something was wrong with Yuuji, in its place, came something cosmically worse. To be known is to be loved. Megumi knew the people around him well enough to predict them. Where Yuuji had gradually overcome his pit of doom, he had fallen into the second trap: his surefire execution. His death had been guaranteed for months. Tsumiki’s slowly muffling embers had peeled him raw, and Yuuji’s execution will be the thing to fry him alive, charring his flesh on the same pyre until their ashes are sifted together. 

Or not. 

March 29, 2019 — 7 Days Remaining

He doesn’t have the name, but by being formally adopted by Gojo Satoru, Megumi is technically property of the Gojo clan until their current clan head’s death. He’s not their leader, but he’s the closest thing to their leader’s son, and in some roundabout way, equivalent to an heir. Not an heir, but equivalent, and that was important, for if Naobito found it to be that way, something would be done to vaporize Megumi in his sleep. 

Now, this is important, he narrates to no one as he slinks through the walls of the Gojo estate. 

His capacity for shadow travel and storage had dramatically increased ever since Nobara had found out about his newfound powers. She would make him holding fucking everything. Force him to take her everywhere. Force him to accommodate, to optimize, to learn how to dip into the ground with calm, graceful ease instead of his usual hacking and gasping for daylight. She would have him store all her bags and luggage and snacks and carry-ons wherever they went. She would have him teleport, even if just to an adjacent room. With it, he’d learned how to travel with a new maximum of two people, plus himself. Silver linings. 

He mutters, “we’re best friends, Itadori,” to no one. Jujutsu Tech is slowly falling apart. Tsumiki had just died. Hakari and Hoshi had been paired up—finally—with apprenticeships that would accept two fourth year students at once, and unruly, felonious ones, at that. They disappear again, and they take their noise with them. This time, however, they do at least get added to the school group chat. Both the one with the staff and the one without any. Yuuta and Maki come out as a couple inadvertently, by being caught making out in the lounge one evening. No one’s surprised. 

There are whispers of Yaga trying to make a second sentient cursed corpse like Panda. And because being known is being loved, Megumi takes his best shot at guessing, and guesses that it’ll be a rabbit named Rabbit. About three or four meters in height. A pale pink one with a darker nose. Panda’s in shambles at the thought of a prospective sibling. 

The new first year students are actually pieces of shit. They come in a week before orientation to spray silly string around the hallways as a fun, hilarious freshman prank, and disappear immediately. It makes Megumi feel like he’s slowly stepping into Maki’s shoes, chasing the kids down and siccing his rabbits on them until they apologize and clean up the mess. 

No one questions it when Megumi makes himself scarce. No one thinks to keep an eye on the changing shapes they see in their own shadows, in the silhouettes sliding across the walls faster than the sun shifts through the sky. And Yuuji—

He stops there. There’ll be plenty of time for that later.

The Gojo estate is quiet, full of flurrying white and black mops of hair, like soot and snow littering an abandoned palace. He no longer has the four remaining fingers of Sukuna in his shadows, and so no one notices his presence as he glides by them behind shoji screens and sliding doorways. The countdown for Yuuji’s execution began three days ago. He waves the last hurrah like a flag on a tungsten-iron pole by letting Yuuji’s first three fingers be the ones he’d found at the bottom of the ocean, weeks ago. An intimate gift of sorts.

It’s some sick diet plan. That’s what it feels like. 

He smacks his tongue distastefully and pulls open the doors to the room that belonged to the Gojo clan’s previous matriarch. Some relative of Gojo’s. He doesn’t want to know how they’re related, again, knowing damn well that there’s a circle somewhere in there. The inbreeding in the Zenin clan looks like child’s play compared to whatever’s been happening in these walls. 

He’s never shoplifted before. His unshakeable sense of moral justice was shaken down the drain a while ago, but he doesn’t make the habit of looting. Again, desperation makes you do stupid shit. It’s a crime until you get away with it. 

Scribing papers. Blank scrolls. A Gojo clan seal. Wax stamps. A quill and a bottle of ferrous charcoal ink. God, they’re medieval. The day they find out about a stenotype keyboard and emailing, perhaps their upper court of assheads and fallacy will start resembling a real justice system. Maybe if they unionized…

It almost makes him snort, the idea of sending a rage baited email to the higher ups. He could add a link to put malware into their systems. He bookmarks the idea for another time.

He picks up a quill and seats himself at the former matriarch's study. He’s the golden child of this generation, in both lineage and power. If he’s a commodity, then he can treat himself like one. 

And if he’s grossly misunderstood his place in this world, he’ll learn of that in the next. 

April 1, 2019 — 4 Days Remaining

If he was clingy before, then during the last ten days of Yuuji’s life, Megumi has formed a proper, taxonomical symbiosis with him. 

He doesn’t notice how bad it’s gotten until he finds himself mid-squat, heaving his cot across the two meter distance between his dorm and Yuuji’s. It’s just more convenient, he tells himself. He might as well, he tells himself. He’s spending every breathing, waking, sleeping minute glued to Yuuji’s side anyway. They might as well upgrade their little single bed to a twin by joining them together. 

He tries not to think about the after. The ‘if.’ The ‘when,’ where when Yuuji is executed, and Megumi needs to return to the dorms to sleep that night, he’ll have to choose between sleeping in his own empty dorm with no bed, or in Yuuji’s, with the spiderman slippers strewn across the floor and the crumbs in the bedside drawer and the pin-up blonde girl on the poster by the bed or the heap of not-exactly-dirty laundry stuffed at the base of his closet or the worms on strings dangling from his ceiling fan or the PVA glue ‘stained glass’ mosaic of Miss Piggy from the muppets he’d stuck smack in the centre of his floor-length windows. 

This is fine. 

Four days until the execution ceremony. They get invitations to the ordeal. Invitations, as if Yuuji can decline, as if Megumi needs an RSVP to be there. As if he couldn’t will the entire school grounds to blow up into flames. 

Gojo’s made himself scarce again. It’s taking a toll on him, dare he say, more toiling than what Megumi’s enduring. Gojo had lost Tsumiki, and now he will have to come around to the thought of severing Yuuji’s head off his shoulders in the same month. 

With a thought like that, Megumi feels particularly bad about his series of egregious choices. 

Sorry for this, Tsumiki. Sorry for this, Gojo.

“Fushiguro…” Yuuji groans from under him. It’s enough to snap him out of it. He looks down to see the tuft of pink hair between him and the sheets. “You’re a heavy guy, y’know? Mind getting off?”

“No,” he murmurs, letting his weight drop onto the boy. It’s better this way. 

“I think you might have some attachment issues, dude,” Yuuji tells him. It’s muffled through several layers of fabric. 

Attachment issues. That’s exactly what he has, sure. Those are the precise words. 

“No I don’t, dude,” he counters, and rolls off. He keeps five points of contact at all times. It’s a wonder how Yuuji hasn’t filed a harassment complaint by now. 

Yuuji pinches his nose with the knuckles on his fore and middle finger, wiggling it side to side as he says, “Dude, I told you, you’re not supposed to say ‘dude’ anymore. It’s weird.”

“Sure, dude,” he murmurs, and then rolls away entirely to face the wall by the bed where Yuuji would scribble little chibi doodles of his classmates and teachers on the dry white paint. The little cartoon Gojo with the wide, wileless smile blurs before his eyes as his vision stings and softens. He’s done a lot of shameful things in his life, but he won’t cry until after Yuuji’s done for, just like last time. 

Last time. What is this hell of a place, that there was a ‘last time?’

“Fushigurooo…” Yuuji drones again. “You’re not crying, are you?”

“No,” he mutters. Not yet, anyway. 

“Prove it, then!” He feels a full hand grip at his cheek like it’s a ball of dough, yanking him back with the force of a mechanical crane. 

The worst part about this whole ordeal—the execution, a forsaken word he can’t bring himself to say yet—is that Yuuji will die. The second worst part about it is that his mildly embarrassing dependence on Yuuji is showing, and these days, he can’t bring himself to care. Maki constantly eyes them as they sit together, not even an inch between them. Nobara jokingly asks if they take shits together, too. Hoshi spams him with teary kaomojis and heart eyes. 

The third worst bit is that the secret’s out to not only everyone else (and honestly, it was never much of a secret to them) but to Yuuji as well.

When he’s forcefully flipped over to face the boy, he locks eyes with the glowing yellow that he’d been hoping to avoid, in fear of it haunting him for the rest of his life. 

“Ohh,” Yuuji says, pushing closer, staring at his waterline and tear ducts. “You really aren’t crying.”

“I’m…” How should he put it? Should he bother to put it? 

Does it matter if he says it or not? If he’s cosmically breaking character? They’re at a world’s end. Even if Megumi’s will continue to spin, for Yuuji, this is it. In effect, the world will end for Megumi, too. No one else will know, that’s all. What’s it if he says something new, for once? Wasn’t that what it took to rock Yuuji out of his pit of doom, all those weeks ago?

His silhouette filled out again. He’d been eating like a king, like a man on death row for a while now. He’d been getting to know the first years, having a hand in training them for combat, and joining Nobara on her shopping trips which he’d usually refuse to go to. It’s hard not to notice the intentions behind his actions. Hard not to think about it being his last chance to do anything. 

What’s it to him if he hears something new from Megumi, for once?

“I’m feeling… sad.”

Yuuji turns to him properly, staring in disbelief while he blinks into Megumi’s face to clear his vision. Then, he starts to laugh. 

“Oi, it’s not funny,” he grumbles, but Yuuji curls up into the fetal position, choking and sputtering and tearing up as he clutches his stomach from the ache of hollering so loudly. 

Yuuji continues to snicker, rolling back and forth. “You’re really bad at this, dude.”

“O-kay, the ‘dude’ thing is getting old now.” He twists himself over, burrowing back into the sheets. That’s all he ever says. ‘You’re bad at this, Fushiguro,’ Yuuji tells him. He’s right, but still! “Piss off and let me sleep.”

“No, nooo…” Yuuji wriggles his fingers into his shoulder with no small amount of force as some sort of apology. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to laugh, just—whatever, why’re you feeling sad?”

He turns over and gives him a look.

“Uh, nevermind… Do you want any snacks? I’ve got some in the drawer.”

What he wants is for the crashing waves of guilt to settle into sediment, so he can finally go about sweeping it all up. Yuuji’s getting executed and still, even by the eleventh hour, he’s trying to comfort others around him. It does nothing to comfort him, but it lets him solidify his decisions more soundly in his mind. He knows what he has to do. 

“Itadori,” he starts, and then pauses to rewire the words in his head. “Do you trust me?”

It’s a useless question. 

When they’d first met, when Yuuji was still part of the non-shaman world, clueless about these beasts that roamed right underneath his nose, he’d trusted Megumi to retrieve the finger from his classmates in the occult club. When he’d swallowed up a finger, he’d had enough faith in Megumi, even after their knowing each other for a grand total of eighteen minutes, to deal with the aftermath, just so that Megumi could live. When they found themselves at the detention centre, he’d entrusted the escape to Megumi and his shikigami to find Nobara and run. 

Megumi trusts him, for whatever that’s worth. And that’s been obvious from the start. His bias towards the boy had only grown, until it had shot up like a weed, surpassing his morals and sensibility. He’d do anything to keep Yuuji with him, even if it meant dragging Ryōmen Sukuna along for the ride. Even if it meant—

“Yeah duh.” Yuuji slaps him across the face again for good measure. “Why? Are you gonna tell me all your secrets ‘cause I’m dying? Oh, oh! Or do you want me to tell you all my secrets before I die?”

Sorry for this, Yuuji. “I don’t really have any secrets.” Anymore. “And you don’t have to tell me stuff if you don’t want to. That’s not why I asked.”

“Okay, well if we’re sharing…” He watches the cogs slowly churn in Yuuji’s brain. “Uhhh… Oh! You remember when we spilled coffee all over Gojo’s shirt? I actually did that a second time like three months ago, except it was a really expensive shirt and no one saw me, so I just balled it up and threw it out the window—”

“Stop,” he sighs. “Don’t make me an accomplice.” Gojo had tried to pin the blame on Megumi for weeks for that, anyway. “You’re in a really good mood, you know.”

When he peeks over at the boy, it’s like pressing mesh fabric on his face and peering through the gaps in the thread. It’s no surprise. “I knew this’d happen,” Yuuji sighs, and pulls his arms around him. Megumi’s never been much of a hugger, but he’s not so much of a barbarian that he’d push him away now. “Gojo-sensei didn’t exactly try and hide it. He told me up front that I’ve gotta eat all the fingers and die. I’ve always been on borrowed time.”

Ah, so. Perhaps, no different from Tsumiki, Megumi ought to have had a full year to prepare for Yuuji’s inevitable death. He’d just thought they had more time. It was naïve after all. 

“It doesn’t bother me as much,” he continues. “That I’m gonna die… I just think I’ll miss everyone, from wherever I’ll end up after this. And you’ll miss me too, right?”

There’s two craters, actually. Megumi’s just been bumfuck stupid and blind and naïve for all these months. There’s been two distinct craters gouged out of his chest for a long, long time. He’s learned to live with it, and he’s accepted that they’ll never really heal over. They were so different from him. Tsumiki was kind. Yuuji was generous. Tsumiki was forgiving. Yuuji was easy-going. Megumi was none of these things, thrown somewhere on the opposite end of the spectrum, holding grudges and rude expressions and vitriol. 

Sorry for this, Itadori.

“Of course,” he murmurs. “We’re best friends.”

April 5, 2019 

It isn’t until he’s stepping into the chamber that he belatedly realizes he’s never met the higher ups in person. At least, not while they’re circling around as council, hiding behind an arch of shoji screens in impossible-to-see lighting with not a single electronic lamp to be seen. Every inch of the room is doused in useless candlelight and sooty incense. 

The sandalwood and clove that assault his sinuses make him think he’ll never forget this day, not as long as these foresakeable incense sticks remain in production. 

He stands there and takes up space. His face is well-known. People in the stands whisper and hypothesize and gape at him. He’s even taken the effort to gel his hair so it’s a little more tamed than usual. It’s childish glee. He can feel the grin threatening to split across his face. It almost slips through, but gets caught between his teeth. If his legacy is Fushiguro Toji and Gojo Satoru and everything caught up in between, he won’t last if he doesn’t come up with something new, something subtle, something that isn’t insufferable and arrogant and cheeky.

If they see him as a threat, he’s as good as dead. If they see him as a weapon, they’ll smelt him until he’s empty, polish him until his skin is raw and reflecting their greedy eyes, and feed him head first into every curse they see. God knows how Gojo manages. 

Sorry for this, Tsumiki, he thinks.

“The council will begin the public hearing,” a man with a hypothetical gavel begins. No one can see him, no one can see if he’s banging a real gavel or if he’s angrily thumping a fist against his table. Each following voice that assents seems to sound more and more brittle and old. A gust of wind could take these guys out. 

“We are gathered here today to witness the appropriate execution of the Vessel of Ryōmen Sukuna, Heian King of Curses.”

Not even a fucking name. Not even a fucking name.

A whirlpool of tension sweeps the room in a circle. Itadori Yuuji, his best friend, sits in shackles at the centre, charged under limelight. Their witnesses to this ordeal include the students of Jujutsu Tech. He grits his teeth when he sees the bitch ass first years in the stands as well. They don’t even know what’s going on. Shouldn’t they be blowing bubbles out in the training yard, or something?

He spots Gojo sitting in the crowd, blindfold off, eyes bugging out of his head as he stares directly at Megumi. 

He winces slightly. Sorry for this, Gojo.

It’s understandable. Megumi’s place is with the rest of his classmates. But as it stands, he sits in a small wooden chair, a few feet away from Itadori Yuuji. His ceremonial garb flows with a mysterious wind; they’re indoors, aren’t they? This place is in an underground cell. There’s no windows. Where’s the draft coming from?

He fists his hand in the corner of his black and blue hakama, not in a show of nervousness, but to hide a bleach stain that’s embarrassingly apparent if he doesn’t. He didn’t exactly have the chance to ask someone for a better set of clothes. He’d been a little side-tracked these past few days. 

“As requested, Fushiguro Megumi, the Ten Shadows of… the Zenin clan, will act as executioner,” the gavelman declares. 

“Hey! Hold on!” another one of the higher ups interjects. 

He tries not to make a face. Usually, he’s pretty good at keeping his emotions in check. But there’s nothing like saying “fuck you” to someone.

They didn’t even call him by his fucking name. “Vessel of Sukuna.” He’s gonna number them and start counting down.

He hears more than sees the shuffling of paper, a clearing of a throat, and then a second council member speaks. “Fushiguro Megumi, the Ten Shadows of the Gojo clan, has requested to be executioner! And he will do so under the representation of the Gojo clan! It’s as it should be, where he stands in for Gojo Satoru!”

“Nonsense!” he hears someone say, and immediately recognizes the grating, ash-sick voice as Naobito. “No matter what you choose to call yourself, boy, you are what you are born as! The Gojo clan never had a right for you to bear their name! You will fulfill this obligation representing the Zenin clan.”

Hypocrite. He wouldn’t have dared say this about Toji, who was his absolute and full-blooded grandson, or about Maki. If he disowned Toji, that in turn automatically meant he’d disowned Megumi as well. But it’s a moot point; he’s the one that sent in the two requests to the clans, anyway. He can’t go contradicting himself.

“Whoever bids the highest price,” Megumi throws into the court. It results as he’d predicted: a flamboyant uproar. 

It’s not just the higher ups that fall into a cacophony. His shit-stirring, white-haired man rises from the stands, eyes wide and blue as he calls out to him. “Megumi!” he yells. “What are you trying to do?”

Originally, Gojo was meant to be Yuuji’s executioner. It was logical, but really, really unnecessary. If Yuuji was willing to submit to the execution, any common sorcerer capable of wielding a cursed sword could execute him. It didn’t need to be one of the few adults that Yuuji could trust. It didn’t need to be Gojo, slaughtering one of his own damn kids. 

Gojo can be here. In case Sukuna goes berserk. Sure. But he doesn’t need to be the one to swing the blade. 

He hears the shackles ring, and sees Yuuji looking over at his teacher with wide, unreadable eyes. They’d taped his mouth shut with seals strong enough to hold in Sukuna’s energy. Yuuji’s not absolutely stupid. He’s been around Megumi long enough that he knows his tendency to self-destruct. Still, all these last few days, he hadn’t said anything.

(Maybe, out of everyone around him, only Maki knew of the ticking bomb lodged in his throat.)

Maybe being trusted is being loved, or being known, or being furiously worried. Maybe that’s not how the words are meant to be arranged. Maybe equating love to one particular thing was the gateway to killing it. If nothing else works, he’ll marry Yuuji for the last remaining minutes of his life. Anything to send him off with a resounding bang, and desecrate the Zenin name while he’s at it. 

“Five million yen!” someone calls out. He can’t see them, can’t discern who they are. 

“What clan are you?” he asks, trying not to sound ticked off. Are they stupid?

“Five million, for Fushiguro Megumi to act as executioner of Ryōmen Sukuna in the Gojo clan’s name!”

Briefly, fleetingly, Megumi wonders about his mother. Not Himari, but Fushiguro. The original one. He wonders if she’d ever dared imagine where her surname would end up, where it’d be thrown around, what weight it’d hold when the world ended. 

He wonders if, somewhere, there are other Fushiguros left. If his four-ish tyrannical, clinically insane families could welcome one more to their exhaustive count, if the Fushiguros would welcome him without a name at all. The Gojos are jumping to get him to keep their name. It’s expected, with what’s at stake. The Zenins think they own him. He's pretty sure his father was trying to curse him in a roundabout way, giving him such a feminine name. Sato Himari can pull at his ear all she wants, but it’s Gojo Satoru that has half of him. Fushiguro Tsumiki was buried with the other. 

“Ten million!” another one yells out. He guesses that’s the Zenin, unless they have a third party crashing the fun. 

“Fifteen million,” the Gojo clan offers. 

“Thirty,” the Zenin declare. 

Oh my god, he thinks. They’re fucking stupid.

“Yeah, I’m not gonna do it,” he tells them. He tries not to let his eyes veer to the stands again, but they betray him, looking anyway to the spot where Gojo had been standing, leaping from his seat in an outrage. When he spots him in the crowd again, he’s sitting, arms crossed. Simply watching him with that cheeky, dipshit smile again.

To be loved is to be trusted.

Maybe Shoko also had a helping hand in calming him down. 

“What the hell do you mean, you won’t?! You think we can’t just replace you—!” 

“Shut the fuck up,” he tells them, feeling his back start to ache from standing with such firm posture for so long. They’re so quick to bid for the glory of having their clan be the one to kill Ryōmen Sukuna, when the smart move would be to forge the documents and rewrite history. It’d be easy. They don’t even have a court reporter in here. Useless. “Let me finish. And then I will let you decide the final answer.”

If you squint, you’ll see no small ounce of cowardice among the Upper Council. Each assassination attempt on Itadori was never a direct attack. Not even for the fear of repercussions through Gojo, but through the fear of poking at the four-armed, four-eyed, Heian bear buried in Itadori’s soul. The Eishu Detention centre—a Special Grade cursed womb. The Sister School Exchange event— six high school students. That was the brunt of their effort. When all it would take would be one A-grade assassin to sever Yuuji’s head in his sleep. And yet.

Yet even now, Megumi still wonders if any of them will grow enough of a pair to dare swing the blade over the head of Sukuna’s Vessel, even while he sits shackled and sealed to the floors of a dungeon. 

Quiet washes over the room, and he knows he’s right. He feels more like a loser than he ever has in his entire life. There’s no a-ha! moment involved in volunteering to execute a classmate. When he looks over at the stands, he sees the second year students staring at him with their mouths agape in horror. Nobara, Nobara though.

Nobara’s looking at him with the stare of a psychopath, head tilted down, mouth pinched together like she’d just eaten a lemon, eyes wide and fisheyed and looking miles past him. 

Aw shit. He’ll deal with it later, if he lives that long. 

“Itadori Yuuji has proven himself capable of housing all twenty fingers of Sukuna without losing control,” he starts.

“False!” someone yells out. “This execution is just and long coming! Sukuna was able to actualize himself at the Eishu Detention Centre in the July of—!”

“I said, shut the fuck up. Let me finish,” he snaps. 

The words don’t come back to him immediately: how much can you change and get away with it, before you turn into someone else, before it's some kind of murder? He doesn’t think about how the question’s lost its shock value, now. They’re at the grave already. He’s lost enough of himself to have become someone else, and supposedly, the price for this is murder. It’s in vain, anyway. He’s gone from detective to executioner. What’s it if they change things up a little more?

“Itadori Yuuji has proven himself to be capable of housing Sukuna without losing control.” He looks at his best friend in shackles, on the floor next to him. Yuuji’s looking at him like he might just flip the tables and light him on fire for this stunt, but he pushes on. “He has never lost control of Sukuna. Not once. Sukuna didn’t manifest at the Eishu Detention Centre. Itadori Yuuji was killed by me. He—ah, I said, shut the fuck up,” he snarls, pointing a childish finger at who he’s now certain is Gakuganji. It’s a bold-faced lie and he’ll dig his own grave for it. “You have no concrete records proving otherwise. I was the sole witness that day and my word trumps all your useless scrolls. I tore his heart out. I am prepared to do it again. But there are no grounds for it. Now that he’s completed his sentence, I am bringing forth a new proposal.”

The formal speech sits awkwardly on his tongue. No one believes him. His cheeks are definitely red, and it’ll get worse if he looks anyone in the eye, and so he doesn’t. 

“As the Ten Shadows, I will subjugate the Divine General Mahoraga within three months from today. If I succeed, Itadori Yuuji and thus Sukuna will be bound to me as my responsibility. The wiles of the Ten Shadows will then belong to either the Zenin or the Gojo,” he throws out again. It feels like tossing a single, meaty bone to a pack of wolves. “Or,” he adds for the fun of it. “Whoever else wants in. Name your bid by the end of the three months.”

“Why should we agree to this!” Naobito yells out. “You rightfully belong to the Zenin anyway! This flaunting and publicity stunt that Gojo Satoru has pulled has gone too far. You can’t—”

“I’ll kill myself if you don’t agree to this,” he replies. 

He won’t look. He won’t. He won’t look at the stands. There’s nothing to see there. This isn’t embarrassing. There’s no one here but him, and his best friend.

“Which is fine by me,” he says, nearly stuttering and passing away from the spotlight’s lack of oxygen. “If Itadori dies, I die. If Itadori lives, I live, and you keep me. If I fail to subjugate the Divine General by the end of June, Itadori Yuuji will be executed as planned, and I’ll have been dead anyway, through the subjugation ritual.” 

This is so fucking embarassing.

He’s not gonna look. He’s not gonna look. Hell, if nothing goes according to plan, he’ll die here, and that’ll be it. He’ll never look. 

“You cannot keep pushing his execution off, boy,” one of the elders warn. One day, he’ll memorize all their faces, all their names, their voices, where they live, where their families are, and what they fear. One day. If he lives past this. 

He hears the intonation. You can’t get everything you want. We don’t always get what we want, boy. That’s just the way things are. Hypocrites, all of them. Useless, vertigo-hooked, high-handed hypocrites.

Yuuji continues to rattle the chains, looking panickedly over at him. But he won’t look. He looks to the centre screen, where he’s certain Zenin Naobito sits. He doesn’t know if they can see him, but just in case, he discreetly flips him the bird. He won’t look. He won’t look.

“It’s a modest proposal,” he shrugs. 

“You’re not going to kill yourself,” Naobito challenges. And yeah, he supposed something like this would be brought up. “No sorcerer in history has ever managed to tame the Divine General. You don't have the gall for it, Megumi.”

“I make a binding vow pledging the terms I have just described,” he swears. “If the proposal is not accepted, Itadori Yuuji will be executed, and I will die with him.”

He won't look. 

Yuuji continues to rattle and thrash in the reins, and for a split second, it genuinely seems like he’ll break them. He might’ve, if he had access to any of his cursed energy. But breaking out of your handcuffs at a hearing wasn’t exactly helping your case. 

He hears several gasps from his classmates. Nothing from Gojo.

To be trusted.

The gavel slams down onto wood. 

“Fushiguro Megumi,” the first voice of the evening, the gavelman, calls out. “Ten Shadows user. During a time with the presence of the Six Eyes, your life is too valuable to dispose of in such a way. But Ryōmen Sukuna is a calamity that far outweighs any existing power imbalance.”

He’s thankful he wore a simple undershirt to absorb the buckets of sweat he has pooling under all the wrapping fabric. Sweat stains on top of bleach stains on his hakama would be enough to hammer him six feet under, screw the sword, screw the ‘raga. 

“However,” the elder continues. “With the proper subjugation of the Divine General, in combination with the current strength of Gojo Satoru, Ryōmen Sukuna should be a mitigatable threat, should he manifest. If you’re so confident in your potential, it would be a substantial contribution to the advancement of modern jujutsu.”

Culprit, culprit, culprit, he thinks. I was blindsided. It was never him, never Yuuji, not even Sukuna. 

It really is the good, the bad, and the ugly. Sukuna boasted his sloppy, corrupt morals. The council still pretended. They’d rather have their glory than to see their statutes be upheld, to see their children safe, to search for an alternative. The thought of doing the impossible, something no sorcerer in history has done, taming a great beast known to house a power no one has laid eyes upon and lived to retell before, to see such power and own it?

Gotcha.

“Under Jujutsu regulation, Itadori Yuuji’s execution is postponed to July fifth, of the year two-thousand and nineteen. Should Fushiguro Megumi tame the Divine General, Itadori Yuuji will be bound to him and pardoned, and the Ten Shadows will go to the highest bidder. If he fails, the execution will proceed as planned. If,” he adds, and Megumi knows what the clause will be, and knows he cannot argue it. “Ryōmen Sukuna is ever manifested in full again, all agreements are null, and both Fushiguro Megumi and Itadori Yuuji are to be executed.”

The gavel slams down again. He still doesn’t look over to the stands. He sees Yuuji’s shoulders slump in relief, and he feels the adrenaline leave his body like a leaky hourglass. 

Tsumiki, he thinks with a heavy heart. I’m sorry about all this.

The hole in his heart won't stitch itself over. It was destined to become a part of him, a cosmetic piercing in his landless and flawed personality. But the death of Itadori Yuuji, he can't stand for it. It’d hollow him out, sure, but the remaining good in this unfair and cruel world would shift, tipping favour to the wrong side. He’s never met someone so forgiving, so ready to love, so ready to be kind. 

The weight of what he’s done finally catches up to him. The binding vow files into the marrow of his every rib, filling the pipes in his throat, weighing him down until he’s gasping to breathe.

He needs to subjugate Mahoraga by July. 

But for now, while he’s kneeling next to his best friend, rushing to peel the seals off his mouth…

For now, they’ll be fine.