Work Text:
In a world where Fushiguro Megumi believed in love at first sight, he would describe his first encounter with Itadori Yuuji in a particularly corny fashion, the kind that would make their children gag in the future. He would say the scent of Yuuji’s cologne alone had hit something deep in Megumi, an untapped part of his chest and lungs that held all the love he had to give. He would describe the moment as a water bottle being cut open with a knife—one miniscule moment that caused his lungs to fill up with water, and he was drowning in it.
But Megumi didn’t believe in love at first sight, and it wasn’t some shitty, wet metaphor for love that caused his breath to cut short every time he encountered Yuuji following the moment that pink-haired boy ran past him, late for a class or a study session with his friends or whichever of the millions of activities Yuuji was involved in that day. It was the beginning of a flower—a single seed that fell from his heart to his stomach, one that would blossom beautifully and wrap around his ribcage. It would thrive, against all odds, because it wasn’t a flower that fed off of soil and sunlight; it fed off of love, particularly that which was unrequited.
Unfortunately for Megumi, that’s exactly how he discovered he had no chance with Yuuji, barely 24 hours after he’d admitted to himself (and Kugisaki Nobara, who was squealing and giggling as he confessed) that he had a huge, irreversible and pitiful crush on Yuuji.
It happened in the middle of class, of all places. He had an itch in his throat, and he was trying his best to hold in his cough as his professor droned on and on and on about a mathematical equation that Megumi had gotten the hang of, but that one of his classmates had asked a question about. He was just about to step out of the room when the cough ripped through his throat, adjacent to the sound someone would make when they were about to violently throw up. Almost every head in the room turned, all sorts of expressions—concern, disgust, amusement—pointed directly at him. Megumi wanted the floor to swallow him where he sat.
“Sorry,” Megumi said, but another cough ripped through his throat, and, to his horror, he felt something solid come up his throat, too. It moved quickly—so quickly, in fact, it hit Megumi’s palm with a wet thwap! that resonated against the walls of the completely silent room he’d been plunged into. At that point, Megumi didn’t even have the brain power to be embarrassed. He wasn’t staring at leftover food or a wad of phlegm; he was staring at a shimmery, pale red flower petal.
The silence persisted, as did the stares. Megumi had it all drowned out; everything around him faded except for him and the flower in his palm, the one that had just flown out of his body. He’d heard of this before, whispers of Hanahaki disease and the Internet discourse about the romanticization of it. Inherently, it was a romantic disease, though the mortality rate of it was nothing to sneeze at. The instinct to say ‘oh, this person is so in love it manifested into something physical, that is so sweet!’ was quite inappropriate when said person was likely to die.
Holy shit, Megumi thought, goosebumps crawling up his arms and shivering their way down his spine. Am I going to die?
Megumi jolted when a firm hand landed on his shoulder, and he tuned back in to the world around him. There was whispering, and there was Nobara, who had readjusted in her seat to face him with the most concern on her face Megumi had ever seen her express. There was a shadow casting over him—his professor, who the hand belonged to, and who was looking at him with a deep frown fixed on his face. “You should go to the nurse, kid.”
The nurse was a kind and beautiful woman named Ieiri Shoko who chainsmoked and had a deeply dark sense of humor. She was friends with Megumi’s godfather, a man named Gojo Satoru who had taken Megumi and his sister in when they were young—their savior from a deadbeat father and from every other terrible thing the world had to offer.
Satoru could save him from this. But Megumi begged Shoko immediately, “Don’t tell Gojo.”
Shoko snorted. She was studying the flower that Megumi had walked all the way to her office with, not even bothering to hide it from the couple of wandering eyes that were walking down the hall, returning to class from the bathroom or excitedly going home early. She had packed it neatly in a little baggie.
“I’ll leave that to you, kid,” Shoko promised. She handed Megumi the bag. “You should get that framed, or something. The first one is always the easiest, it’ll be a nice memory.”
Megumi looked at her wildly. “Aren’t I going to die?”
“You could.” Shoko shrugged. “But the mortality rate of Hanahaki has decreased a lot in the past decade. Sure, the surgery is pretty complicated, and it gets even harder the longer you go without treatment, but it’s much more accessible these days. Plus, Gojo is loaded. He’ll pay whatever it takes to get you that surgery.”
“What if,” Megumi stopped himself. Was Shoko the right person to talk to about this? She was a medical professional, but this was, for all intents and purposes, his love life they were discussing, and he’d already revealed a bit too much about himself. Inadvertently. Shoko had studied the petal, deemed it a pale red carnation, and found the meaning of it in her book of flowers: My heart aches for you.
Megumi wasn’t stupid. The moment he laid eyes on that petal, he knew exactly who it was for, even if he didn’t know what kind of flower it was or what ‘meaning’ it had assigned to it (honestly, Megumi didn’t even know flowers had meanings). Itadori Yuuji was the only person Megumi had ever felt slight romantic feelings for, and, over the past five months, those ‘slight’ feelings had festered into something Megumi could hardly contain within his own body. Clearly—because now he was spitting up flower petals about it.
He didn’t reveal this to Shoko. She gave him a knowing look anyway.
“I understand the instinct to not want the surgery.” Shoko was storing her book away. It had given her all the information she and Megumi needed, for now. “I’m sure you’re aware it interferes with the biological processes that allow you to feel attraction?”
“Yeah,” Megumi muttered.
Shoko explained it anyway. “By now, the flower has redirected and has begun to absorb most of your dopamine and oxytocin, and it has also begun interfering with your ability to produce these chemicals. That is reversible if you rush the surgery. It might take a while, and it may require some supplements, perhaps a bit of therapy to hold you over while your body learns how to produce dopamine again, but you can save yourself, kid. I’d strongly recommend you do.”
“So . . . I could love Itadori again?” Megumi exhaled slowly, why did he say that? Yuuji’s name rolled off of his tongue like it was the first word he’d learned, and it was often to his detriment. It was so easy to talk about Yuuji, Megumi could do it with his brain shut off. Obviously.
“Not recommended,” Shoko said. “You’ve probably heard that myth, that you can’t get Hanahaki again when you’ve had it once? Debunked, twelve years ago. Actually, I knew someone who ended up dying to a second round of Hanahaki.”
Megumi patiently waited for the woman to tell.
“His name was Yu Haibara.” Shoko’s voice had dropped in volume and in octave. She had a pack of cigarettes in her hand, and she raised an eyebrow at Megumi. “You won’t tell on me, right?”
“As long as you don’t tell Gojo about this,” Megumi said, holding up the flower. Shoko rolled her eyes, but she agreed, and she got through a deep inhale of her cigarette before she recounted the story of Yu Haibara.
“He was just a kid, seriously, probably your age. You 17?” Shoko asked. Megumi nodded. She flicked her cigarette ashes on the ground and crushed them with the toe of her shoe. “He was in love with this guy we all knew, Nanami. You can ask Gojo about him—about Nanami, don’t mention Haibara, it’s a real sore spot for all of us. I learned all about Hanahaki because of him. You wouldn’t believe how few articles there were back then. Nobody knew anything, but every source said get surgery, do it quick, you’ll die otherwise. Poor kid was terrified. I stayed with him through the whole process, failed all my exams that year.”
Shoko took pause, another drag of her cigarette. Flick. Ashes. Shoe. Crushed. The flower felt heavy in Megumi’s hand.
“He did okay, took a while to recover. He was pretty quiet after that, his dopamine transmitters were all kinds of fucked up. But he took to hanging out around Nanami again. They were best friends, as grumpy as Nanami was.” Shoko opened her desk drawer and pulled out a little photo, crumpled from the years and years it must have lived in her possession. She handed it to Megumi. “See the blonde? That’s Nanami. That happy little boy on his arm? Haibara.”
The photo sat between Megumi’s fingers along the resealable line of the little baggie his first flower now lived in. Megumi stared and stared at the photo; Nanami wasn’t smiling, but his eyes were soft. The boy, Haibara, was beaming, smiling so hard his mouth was open and his tongue was visible. It looked like he was laughing when the photo was taken.
“Haibara had a lot of love to give, too much for his own good. He didn’t make it three months before he was coughing up those damn petals again, and he succumbed to it quick. I think he only lasted a week, the second round.” Shoko plucked the photo from Megumi’s hand and slammed it back into her drawer. She crushed her cigarette against the ground. “So do yourself a favor. Get the surgery, and ignore that Itadori kid. If you won’t do it for your own sake, do it for Gojo’s.”
Megumi let the silence sit for a while. He might not have, if Shoko hadn’t pulled out her phone to tend to whatever notification had buzzed from her pocket a minute ago, when she’d begun to tear up about how much love this Haibara boy had to give when he was alive. He was grateful for the buffer; it gave him a minute to think through how Shoko was right, he couldn’t leave Satoru—they’d both lost a lot already, from the love of Satoru’s life to every member of Megumi’s immediate family. Yuuji meant a lot to Megumi, and he’d read all of those cheesy things Nobara sent him about how much more important found family was than blood family, a lot of the time, but Satoru was his found family, too, and would Megumi really be stupid enough to die just because he loved a boy?
“How long,” Megumi started, looking up at Shoko only when he pocketed her phone again. “If I just—if I wanted to spend one more week with Itadori . . . ?”
“Look, kid, I broke our pact. Rat on me to Yaga, that’s fine, but Gojo’s going to call you any second,” Shoko said. Megumi almost clenched his fist until he remembered his very first petal was still sitting on the palm of his hand. “Get that surgery scheduled, and stay away from that Itadori boy. The more dopamine and oxytocin you release, the stronger that flower gets. Don’t do that to yourself, alright?”
“But—” Megumi felt like a stupid child crying in front of the sink because his mother wasn’t letting him drink chemicals. “Just one more week—”
Too late. Megumi’s phone was blaring, and he knew he had to pick up on, at the latest, the second ring if he didn’t want Satoru to completely abandon his class midway through fourth hour to fly into Shoko’s office.
“Thanks,” Megumi muttered. He meant it, even if he was feeling a certain way about the heavy truth Shoko had dumped on him and Satoru. It wasn’t her fault, at the end of the day.
✿ ❀ ○ ❀ ✿
Megumi felt like one of those Internet memes with someone laying on their back, staring at their ceiling, faced with the caption fuck my stupid gay life.
He should be upset. Really upset. Satoru had practically screamed at him over the phone while he was still in Shoko’s office, asking why the hell Megumi had kept this a secret—didn’t he promise not to lie to Satoru about things anymore? It had taken Megumi a full five minutes to calm Satoru down enough to explain that he hadn’t known he had Hanahaki for more than an hour. (He expertly left out the part where he begged Shoko not to say anything; she’d granted Megumi enough grace not to mention that part when she texted Satoru.)
Then, Satoru had pulled both of them out of school for the rest of the week to figure out the logistics, including when the surgery would be and how they would keep Megumi away from Yuuji. Satoru was ready to uproot both of them and move to a new country, if not a new city.
“Maybe we both need a fresh start,” Satoru said. His ex lived in the city, after all, and Satoru had a breakdown every time he’d come home after running into the man. Megumi told him to stop visiting all the places the two had gone to together. Satoru adamantly refused to listen to him.
“I have friends here! Not just Itadori!” Megumi said. He was thinking about Nobara, in particular, who Megumi had been friends with for years now. “It’s bad enough that I’ll be chemically depressed after this surgery, what am I going to do without Kugisaki?”
“You have me, kid,” Satoru said. “I’m fun to hang out with!”
“My whole life is here,” Megumi said. His heart was starting to rapidly thump with memories, good and bad, from losing Tsumiki to that one surprise birthday party Satoru and Nobara had thrown him when he turned 16. “You don’t trust me not to hang out with Itadori—you want to take everything away from me?”
“Megs.” Satoru said his name like he wasn’t going to budge. Maybe it was that. Maybe it was the look on his face. Maybe it was the way he reached for Megumi like he was trying to placate him—a peace offering, but he didn’t even have anything in his hand.
“You don’t trust anybody, do you?” Megumi asked, his lip twitching and his eyes growing wet with anger. “Not my dad, not me, not Geto—”
“Don’t,” Satoru said.
“Do you hear yourself? You want to take me out of the city you forced me and Tsumiki to grow up in, just because I like a boy?”
“Megumi.” Satoru’s voice had grown irritated. “You know it’s much more than that.”
“I know that. It’s because you don’t trust me,” Megumi said. “You screamed at me when you called me—are you even worried, really? Do you give a shit about me, or are you fulfilling some duty you feel like you have because you let my dad and sister die?”
Usually, Satoru would fight back. He was never one to back down from an argument; he and Megumi had gone at each other’s throats more than once. But Megumi had never said something quite like this.
“Go to your room,” Satoru said quietly, adding onto the guilt that had just started to eat at the anger sitting in Megumi’s stomach. “I’ll take care of everything.”
Megumi didn’t go to his room, but he did leave. He ended up outside, laying in the hammock Satoru had set up for him a week ago. It was placed perfectly between two trees in their backyard, where the branches and leaves would block out the sun and let Megumi nap peacefully, if he wanted to. He always did like taking quick naps, and he liked more fresh air than an open window would give him.
Apparently, the argument had exhausted him—or maybe the events of the day had sucked all of his energy out, or maybe the flower had absorbed so much of his dopamine he couldn’t even keep his eyes open. Whichever way it happened, he ended up asleep on that hammock until Satoru tapped on his chest, when the sun was setting and he’d clearly had a good, long crying session out of Megumi’s sights.
“You worried me,” Satoru said, an out-of-place smile sitting on his face beneath bloodshot eyes. “I told you to go to your room, you know.”
“Sorry,” Megumi said, and he was sorry for a lot of things. He didn’t say that, though. He swung his legs over the side of the hammock, apologizing again as his knee bumped Satoru’s thigh. Satoru had his hands hovering over Megumi, afraid he might fall, but keeping his distance. “What time is it?”
“Time for dinner,” Satoru said, which both was and wasn’t an answer. They never ate dinner at the same time, but it was definitely after 6:00. “Come on. I ordered ginger pork and sushi.”
The two of them ate in front of the television. Megumi opted for sitting on the floor because he was paranoid about spilling anything on the couch. Satoru sat on the middle cushion, and Megumi sat close enough to drop his head against Satoru’s knee if he wanted to—the way he always did when he was a kid.
Megumi’s stomach felt heavier the more he ate of the food Satoru had clearly bought him at the beginning of an apology. He hadn’t said the words yet, but Megumi didn’t think he needed to be the first one to say it. Maybe he was overstepping, crossing way too many lines in his haste to protect Megumi, but that’s what he was doing—protecting Megumi. It was his fatherly instinct to pull out the big guns to save his son.
“I’m sorry,” Megumi said, because he should be the first one to say it. He did take the coward’s route of staring at his food while he spoke, though. “I don’t blame you for what happened to Toji or Tsumiki. I just said that to strike a nerve so you’d crack and let us stay here. I won’t say things I don’t mean anymore.”
Satoru threaded his fingers through Megumi’s hair and pulled him close, pressed a kiss into his hair. As his hand dropped, Megumi found the courage to look at him. The smile fixed on his mouth looked much more natural. “It’s alright, kid. I know I came on pretty strong with my plan. You’re right, it showed a lot of distrust, especially after I yelled at you. I’m sorry about that. You shouldn’t have had to shoulder all of my panic.”
“Not like I was the cause or anything,” Megumi joked. Satoru chuckled, too, strapped for words for once as he had stuffed an entire piece of sushi in his mouth. Megumi put his chopsticks down and slid up onto the couch. He had been wondering how to crack the Hanahaki conversation with Satoru. As much as their interactions for the past six hours had been a result of that little petal Megumi coughed up in the middle of class, they hadn’t touched the subject head-on.
“Do you know a lot about Hanahaki?” Megumi asked. Satoru paused for a moment. Megumi knew the story, now—about Haibara, at least, though Satoru didn’t know that Megumi knew.
“Not much.” The lie was heavy on his tongue. Megumi thought about how Shoko had been close to tears talking about this Haibara boy, the one who had been the center of attention in that photo. It was clear Satoru and his friends had loved him, and he was sure his death had affected all of them a lot.
But Shoko asked him not to mention Haibara to Satoru, and even if she’d broken her promise to not text Satoru (maybe he really would tell Yaga about her smoking, just for the emotional turmoil her spilling his secret had led to), bringing up a boy who died wasn’t going to be a ‘gotcha’ moment against the chainsmoker—it would just hurt Satoru’s feelings more.
“I guess it happens for unrequited love,” Megumi said. “And it messes up all your happy genes or whatever. I don’t remember exactly what Ieiri said.”
Satoru snorted. He put his chopsticks down and sat back, relaxed, with his shoulder bumping Megumi’s. “I know how it happens, and I know there’s a lot of side effects before and after surgery. I’ll ask Shoko to give me a crash course tomorrow. At least one of us should know what’s going on with you.”
Megumi nodded. He copied Satoru’s pose—head leaning back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. This was all starting to feel very unfair, the way his life fell apart in less than two hours because he loved a little too hard. He’d never even had a crush before; seriously, Satoru had asked him last week if he was aromantic, or something. How ironic that question was now.
“Why didn’t you develop Hanahaki when Geto left? You still love him, don’t you?” If it was an insensitive question, Satoru didn’t show it.
“Well,” Satoru said, only needing a few seconds to contemplate the question. “I think Suguru still loves me, so I’m safe for now.”
“Why aren’t you together, then? That’s, like, all it takes. You love him, he loves you.” Megumi turned his finger through the air like he was writing out a math equation. “You two could just work it out, couldn’t you?”
“I’m afraid a relationship takes a little more than just love,” Satoru said. Megumi hummed, even though he didn’t get it, “That sucks.”
“It does suck,” Satoru agreed. The two of them fell into an easy silence again, up until Megumi sat up because he really should finish his dinner—at least his sushi, his ginger pork would reheat.
“Your surgery is scheduled for next Friday.”
Megumi nearly choked on the piece of sushi he had in his mouth. Satoru rubbed his back, ready to slam his hand against it if he needed to, but Megumi choked out a “really?” that let Satoru relax his shoulders.
“And we’re staying put,” Satoru said. “I’m still getting used to you being all grown up, you know. I don’t have to have total control anymore, you can take care of yourself. I’m just not used to not having to protect you from everything.”
Megumi didn’t have any words that could measure up to the hug he pulled Satoru into, so he opted to stay silent as he held onto the man he was still too shy to call his father. He could always rely on Satoru to fill the silence when it was needed—with another kiss pressed into his hair and a promise, “It’ll be alright, kid.”
✿ ❀ ○ ❀ ✿
Gojo trusts me. Gojo trusts me. Gojo trusts me. Gojo trusts me. Gojo trusts me.
“Fushiguro! You’re back!”
Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.
“Hey, Itadori.” Megumi tried not to break out into a smile under Yuuji’s eager arm, firm but gentle across his shoulder—not because it would worsen the situation to smile, but because he generally tried not to smile too much. He’d spent long enough with a grumpy look fixed on his face that it became a whole thing when he showed any emotion, and he was tired of dealing with the giggles from his friends when he did crack under a joke or a sweet moment.
“I heard what happened last week.” Of course. Of course he did, because why wouldn’t he? Megumi was sure the rumors had started to spread like wildfire the moment he left the classroom. Shit! “Are you okay? Is there anything I can do?”
“All good.” Megumi pointedly ignored the way his heartbeat picked up at Yuuji’s offer to help. There was nothing Yuuji could do, first of all, even if the sentiment was very sweet. Second—shouldn’t the flower be absorbing this stuff? He might want to sit in on Satoru’s crash course with Shoko and come prepared with a list of questions.
“Were you sick? You missed almost a full week of school!” Yuuji’s arm finally left Megumi’s shoulder, and his steps slowed as he dropped his backpack from one shoulder and unzipped it. Megumi slowed himself down to match Yuuji’s pace.
“I have all of your notes and worksheets,” Yuuji said. “I asked Kugisaki and Miwa to switch off taking notes for you because they have the best handwriting. And they collected these worksheets for you. Oh, and your homework. Oh, the readings too.”
Yuuji had a handful of neatly-organized papers tucked into a binder in his backpack. He had it open, backpack carelessly hanging off of his shoulder as he flicked through all the papers he had tucked into the binder. Megumi didn’t even realize he owned a binder; every time he saw Yuuji’s bag open, it was filled with loose, crumbled, and torn papers and stray pencils.
“You didn’t have to,” Megumi said, numbly holding his hands out for the binder. Once Yuuji had checked everything over, he handed it over, a big, pretty smile on his face. Megumi’s heart skipped a beat, and his throat started to tickle. Not now, not now, not now.
“I wanted to!” Yuuji said. “I knew you were going through a tough time.”
The next skip of Megumi’s heart was interrupted by the slip of Yuuji’s backpack and subsequent clatter of noise as everything fell out of it, from his pens and pencils to his phone, calculator, and notebooks. Yuuji scrambled to pick up the papers that had flown off in various directions down the hall, while Megumi began to scoop up all the pencils and pens that were rolling away. Yuuji was laughing and saying sorry to people he rushed around to grab his belongings. Megumi found himself stopping, staring, teeth digging into his cheek; he was down horrendous.
Two things happened at once. Megumi felt that tickle in his throat, that hot and cold feeling that turned into a whirlwind tornado, ripping through his life and tearing down all the cozy houses that represented the safety and security he finally felt. Then, a shadow fell over him, something ominous and familiar, and Megumi was busted.
Two more things happened at once. Yuuji noticed the shadow that had fallen over Megumi, and he stopped what he was doing to stand up straight, wave his arm in the air like a damn cartoon character, and call to his favorite teacher. “Hi, Mr. Gojo!”
And then came the tickle; it was so strong it hurt, like claws raking down the inside of his throat, and Megumi couldn’t hold back the coughing fit that had him dropping all of Yuuji’s school supplies and spitting multiple blood-soaked petals into his hand. People were gasping and talking and saying Shoko’s name. Yuuji was right next to him, worriedly saying his name and patting his back. Satoru had crouched down, too, his fingers massaging the back of Megumi’s neck.
“It’s alright,” Satoru was saying, the pressure of his fingers serving to comfort Megumi—I’m right here, ignore everyone else, you’re not doing this alone. “Let it out. It’s okay.”
Megumi wanted to cry when it was all over. His throat was raw, and he was embarrassed and scared and ashamed. For this to happen in front of so many people was terrible enough, but for it to happen in front of Yuuji and Satoru, after he’d promised Satoru he would stay away from Yuuji, was making him sick to his stomach in ways even his new flower couldn’t make him feel.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Satoru said when he was sure Megumi was done coughing. Yuuji scrambled to his feet, “Mr. Gojo! I can take him to the restroom and to Mrs. Ieiri! I know you have a class to teach, I don’t mind being late!”
“That’s quite alright, kid,” Satoru said. It was a sickly sweet tone that Yuuji had no reason to doubt, but Megumi knew he was pissed. “Run along to class, okay?”
“Sir, are you sure? Fushiguro and I are really great friends, I honestly don’t mind—”
“Itadori.” Satoru’s tone was stricter now, pulling the teacher card he didn’t often use, keen on making his students feel comfortable around him. “Please go to class.”
“Yes, sir,” Yuuji stuttered out. He made quicker work of grabbing all of his things than Satoru made of pulling Megumi to his feet. Yuuji lingered for one more moment, just enough to grab Megumi into a little hug, a whisper touching the shell of his ear, “Please get better.”
Yuuji ran off right away—probably a good idea, as Satoru’s grip on Megumi had grown strong, his nerves ticked. The hallway was mostly clear, only a few students lingering, but Satoru’s authoritative bark of “get to class” was enough to have them scrambling out of the halls.
And then it was just Satoru and Megumi—Satoru, with his arms crossed, and Megumi, with his head hung, looking at all the flowers and the drops of blood on the floor.
Megumi had the audacity to try to make a joke. “I have yet to do that in private.”
“Shoko.” Satoru said, pointing in the direction of the woman’s office. “Now. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“Okay,” Megumi said. He didn’t bother worrying about the petals and the blood; Satoru would either clean it up himself, or he’d get someone to do it. He just grabbed the binder Yuuji had prepared for him and trekked down the hallway to Shoko’s office, wiping the remainder of the blood off of his lip.
“Rough start to the day already, huh?” Shoko asked, like she knew. And she did—“You had the whole school panicking, at least five kids ran in here and said you were spitting up flowers in the hallway. They had blood this time?”
“A little, yeah.” Megumi sat down in one of the chairs next to the door. “Gojo is coming in a minute.”
“I figured as much.” Shoko leaned against her desk and lit a cigarette. “Did something trigger this one?”
Megumi hesitated to confess even if everyone else had seen it, even if he was sure Satoru would tell her the truth the moment he showed up. “Itadori did.”
Shoko chuckled. “I knew you wouldn’t stay away from that boy.”
“He approached me first!” Megumi said defensively. He waved the binder in the air. It was purple, Megumi’s favorite color, and Megumi was starting to wonder if that was a coincidence. “He had my friends take notes for me all week, and he collected all of my homework and worksheets and he put it in this binder that he probably didn’t even own a week ago! Clearly he cares about me, so why do I have this stupid disease in the first place?”
Satoru walked into the room just as Megumi grew frustrated enough to throw the binder. It hit the floor and skidded for a second until it smacked against the wall. Satoru and Shoko looked at it for a moment. Shoko moved to pick it up. Satoru moved to Megumi’s side.
“Look, Megs, I’m not mad at you—”
“You’re just disappointed, I know. I know.” Megumi hunched his shoulders in favor of splatting his face against his hands, a miserable groan vibrating his aching throat. “He came up to me first, I swear.”
“I believe you.” Satoru crouched next to Megumi, a firm hand squeezing his thigh. “I know it’s not easy to stay away from someone you love. I’d be a hypocrite if I said otherwise.”
“Why me?” Megumi asked miserably, on the verge of tears. If it was just him and Satoru, he might cry, but Shoko was standing on the other side of the room with her cigarette and Megumi’s binder, and Megumi really didn’t want to cry in front of someone he barely knew, trusted adult or not. “It’s just a crush.”
“It’s a bit more than a crush,” Shoko said. She walked back to Megumi and Satoru, her heels clicking against the ground. She handed the binder back, but she had a pale blue envelope in her hand with it. “Your little friend seems awfully fond of you, to write you a letter.”
With too much haste, Megumi plucked the letter out of her hand. Even as he shook his head, Satoru stood and walked to stand by Shoko, giving Megumi the privacy to read the letters Yuuji had written for him. There was one for each day Megumi had been absent from school, dated like Yuuji had been making journal entries. He recapped the day for Megumi and wished him well in each letter. He recounted how he’d looked into Hanahaki and done a lot of reading; he even mentioned he’d gone to Shoko’s office during lunch to talk to the woman about the disease, and he’d written a bunch of information and left a photocopy of it for Megumi, in case there were things Yuuji now knew that Megumi didn’t yet. By the end of it, Megumi had given up resisting the urge to cry, and he was sobbing into the open air, trying to keep his tears away from the paper.
“Alright, bud, it’s okay. It’s alright,” Satoru said. He was back at Megumi’s side, trapping him in a hug that felt too tight but that brought Megumi some much-needed comfort and security anyway. Shoko continued to smoke her cigarette, though she did step forward to take the notes out of Megumi’s hand and neatly set them to the side so he could stop trying to shove them out of the way of his frantic tears.
“Tissue?” Shoko eventually offered. Satoru took a few and helped Megumi dry his cheeks and blow his nose. It should have been incredibly embarrassing—didn’t they just talk about how Megumi could take care of himself last week? But Megumi was feeling a few too many things to care about that right now.
“Do you want to talk about it?” No, Megumi really did not want to talk about it—except his mouth was moving on autopilot and he had no defenses up to stop the word vomit, “I want him, even if it’s just as a friend, I don’t want to lose him. Why do I have this stupid disease? It’s just a crush! Why would a crush do this to me? And my first one? That is so fucked up!”
Megumi sobbed. “I don’t want surgery, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to forget what it’s like to like Itadori, I don’t want any of this, I just want to be normal for once. I can’t have a dad, I can’t have a sister, now I can’t even have a crush on a boy!”
A few more tissues appeared in front of Megumi, and he snatched them all away from whichever hand was giving them to him. He pressed them all against his eyes and sobbed again. “This disease is fucking homophobic.”
Satoru was hugging him, a small chuckle vibrating their chests, letting Megumi know Satoru appreciated the little jab at Hanahaki, if nothing else. His open palm played a gentle rhythm against Megumi’s back as he sobbed through the rest of his emotions. Shoko continued to smoke her cigarettes. At some point, she’d shut her office door to ensure Megumi’s privacy in this very vulnerable moment, perhaps the most vulnerable moment he’d ever had.
“How about we go home?” The worst of it was over, and Satoru was looking Megumi in the eye, hands balanced against his own legs, giving Megumi his space. “I’ll make you some soup, or tea, whatever you want, and you can take a nap. You’re going to be really tired after a cry like that.”
Megumi hiccuped, which was, somehow, the most embarrassing thing he’d done all day. He’d sobbed to the point of hiccups? He hadn’t done that since he was a kid! “What about your students?”
“Yaga is watching them,” Satoru said. He looked at his watch. “Has been for the past half hour.”
Great, Megumi really needed to know he’d been sobbing for the better part of 30 minutes.
“Okay,” Megumi said. Being in bed, or at least on the couch, sounded great right now. Satoru grabbed his bag and his binder, and Shoko helped him gather up all the letters she’d set aside. Megumi helped himself to his feet and just stood by the door while Satoru and Shoko re-organized all of his papers.
“Here,” Shoko said as a final parting gift—a book titled How Hanahaki Almost Killed Me pressed into his hands. “Read this. It’s an exaggerated biography that I think you’ll appreciate. Chapter 14 has lots of logistics about surgery and how the author was feeling about the whole thing. Sounds scary, but I think it’ll help.”
The title made Megumi want to throw up, but he smiled through it. “Thank you.”
Megumi was glad Satoru kept hold of all his things; as he walked, he felt like he was carrying a thousand pounds, the weight of the book and his disease and his crumbling teenage years on the verge of breaking his shoulders.
✿ ❀ ○ ❀ ✿
“Pale red carnation,” Megumi mumbled to himself, throwing a petal on the floor. “My heart aches for you.”
Megumi leaned his arm against the toilet seat and his head against his arm. He gently tapped his forehead against his arm, ignoring the knot that formed in his spine with the repetitive movement. He felt truly insane in that moment, mumbling to himself, “Red carnation, admiration, adoration, a heart that aches for the recipient.”
Megumi sat up just to roll onto his back, head hitting the tile with much more force than it could take at the moment. “My fucking head aches.”
In the morning, he might want to tell Satoru about this whole incident, and Satoru might want to march him right back to Shoko’s office so they could talk about it. Megumi would have to remember that two things led up to this attack of his little red flower. He’d been reading the book she gave him, and he had to stop at the end of chapter three: I felt like my entire life was over at that moment, but that was just the beginning of my crazy, flower-driven journey. He had a bad habit of reading the last page of any book before he started it, so he already knew the author had gotten her happy ending, married to the love of her life with three kids and no more Hanahaki. Megumi saw a 0% chance that would happen for him.
His hands were quickly filled with Yuuji’s letters. He re-read each one carefully, barely resisting the urge to literally giggle and kick his feet. The existence of the letters alone was incredibly sweet; Yuuji thought to write to him every day, not even knowing he’d be gone for more than one day? The longest paragraph in each letter was always the one wishing him well, interlaced with positive facts and statistics about Hanahaki. He’d write something like I know you can beat the disease, you’re the strongest and coolest person I know! It made Megumi’s heart flutter all over again—dammit, he’d been too busy crying himself into a frenzy to ask Shoko why his heart was still doing that if his flower was basically sucking the life force out of his body.
And then, the itch. The cough. Megumi zoomed into his bathroom and threw up—this time, food and petals and blood because he’d dared to eat the soup Satoru made him. He was grateful he hadn’t had much in his stomach but water or coffee the last two times he’d coughed up petals; he really did not need the embarrassment of actual vomit on top of the flower petals he’d dispelled in front of his peers.
So here Megumi was, laying on the floor of the bathroom with his arm thrown over his eyes to block out the artificial light. He really should turn it off, but Megumi had no desire to peel himself off the floor to do that, much less brush his teeth or get back in bed. If he laid here until morning, would Satoru be pissed at him? If he fell asleep right here, how bad would his neck and back hurt tomorrow? Did it matter—was he going to school? Did Satoru trust him to go to school after he’d broken his promise to stay away from Yuuji?
Megumi blinked, and it was morning.
“Alright, kiddo!” Satoru was standing over him with a big smile on his face. “Today’s the day! We’re going out to get some chocolates, some flowers, and come up with a method for you to confess to Itadori!”
Actually, maybe Megumi was still dreaming.
“Huh?” Megumi barely garbled out. He sat himself up and was extremely confused to find himself in the bathroom, but then he remembered his Hanahaki attack last night and groaned even louder.
“It’s alright, kid, I’ll help you.” Satoru genuinely thought Megumi was going to agree to his confession plot. Chocolates and flowers? Megumi had a crush! Suguru used to buy Satoru chocolates and flowers, and they were soulmates, and other corny things Satoru said.
“Aren’t you concerned about me sleeping on the bathroom floor?” Megumi asked. His head was killing him, and his mouth was dry, and, yes, his neck and back did hurt from falling asleep on the floor. It also seemed like he wasn’t going to school today, though maybe the reason strayed pretty far from Satoru’s lack of trust in him. That was positive.
“I’ve passed out on the bathroom floor due to my deteriorating love life multiple times.” Okay, fair enough.
“Why am I confessing to Itadori, exactly?” Megumi asked. He tried to rub some of the sleep out of his eyes. It didn’t work. He was exhausted; Satoru was right, that sob session took a whole lot out of him, probably because he hadn’t cried in years. “Didn’t you want me to stay far away from him?”
“As a self-proclaimed love expert—” who lost the love of his life over an argument, uh huh “—nobody who isn’t in love writes daily letters to someone else, especially not young men like that Itadori boy.”
“Why do you say that?” Better yet, did Megumi even want to know? Too late now.
“I wrote a letter to Suguru every day for a year,” Satoru said.
“Cringey,” Megumi said. But, it got him to stand up. At least three of his bones cracked in the process. “Fine. Let’s go.”
Nobara tagged along, which was completely unnecessary, in Megumi’s opinion. It was Tuesday, 11:00 a.m., and three people who should all be in the same school were wandering the streets of Tokyo. This was ridiculous.
“You’re a teacher, shouldn’t you care a little bit more about school?” Megumi asked Satoru, a raised eyebrow pointed in Nobara’s direction. She was way too excited for this; she had a note on her phone with ideas about how Megumi could confess, and Megumi was extremely unnerved. What were these two going to do to him?
“My son’s life is on the line.”
Touché.
✿ ❀ ○ ❀ ✿
Megumi wanted to die. Not literally. In fact, he was doing this so he didn’t die—or have to have surgery, which was certainly still an option. He did have an appointment with the doctor tomorrow to prepare him for Friday, just in case this whole plan went completely south.
At the very least, Satoru and Nobara had set it up so the two of them would have some privacy. The school day was over, and Megumi was standing under one of the pretty willow trees that lived in the school’s courtyard. He had flowers and chocolates in his hand because Satoru bought them before Megumi could say that was a bit excessive. He also had a handwritten note in his pocket, which Megumi would only give to Yuuji after he confessed from the heart, something about I’ve liked you since the moment we met and other cheesy words that Nobara made him promise to say. She was on her way to tell Yuuji exactly where Megumi was so the whole thing could happen between him and Yuuji—and the long branches of the willow tree that were giving Megumi something to stare at as his stomach did somersaults.
“Fushiguro!” There came that excited and familiar yell of his voice. Yuuji was running, that blinding smile reaching Megumi despite the distance. Yuuji ran until he had collided with Megumi, who, luckily, had enough sense to open his arms so Yuuji fell into them instead of the gifts in his hands.
“I was so worried about you!” Yuuji ripped himself out of Megumi’s arms too quickly; Megumi missed his touch right away. “Are you okay? You were coughing up blood! I thought you just got the disease?”
“Um, I did,” Megumi said. He tried not to look down at his hands because Yuuji hadn’t noticed the chocolates and the flowers yet, and Megumi suddenly felt way too unprepared for this. His whole speech turned into a jumble of words in his head, and he couldn’t grasp them anymore. “I guess it’s just a severe case?”
“You’re going to the doctor this week, right?” Yuuji asked. Megumi nodded. He really hoped he wouldn’t have to anymore, but his confidence was wavering. He didn’t have much to begin with in the first place. Seriously, what did Satoru even know? Boys could write letters to their friends! Just because Satoru was hopelessly gay and in love didn’t make every letter-writer the same.
“Who gave you those?” Yuuji asked, cutting into Megumi’s almost-complete thought of I cannot do this. Megumi looked at the gifts, and he shoved them in Yuuji’s direction, “They’re for you.”
“Oh!” Yuuji looked pleasantly surprised for a minute, but the smile dropped off of his face as fast as he’d reached for the gifts. “Wait. This isn’t—you’re not dying, are you?”
“What?” Technically, Megumi was dying, hence Satoru’s panic and bribery to get Megumi in to see a doctor as soon as possible. But Yuuji had no reason to assume that because Megumi was giving him flowers and chocolates. This really was hopeless, right? Yuuji jumped to death before romance. Megumi was fucked.
“This is just—” Yuuji looked like he was about to cry. “Are you going to be okay, Fushiguro?”
Honestly, Megumi didn’t know anymore. It was starting to look more and more like he might die right where he stood. “I think so?”
“You think?” Yuuji was distraught; Megumi kept digging them deeper and deeper into his own grave, and he had no way out. Maybe he should have brought Satoru and Nobara along, after all.
Well, Megumi had one more thing to try, since he couldn’t force any useful words out of his mouth. He was supposed to give Yuuji the letter after his confession, but that confession was not happening. He practically shoved the blue envelope into Yuuji’s chest. “Can you just read this, please?”
“This isn’t a goodbye letter, is it?” Jesus Christ.
“Please just read it,” Megumi begged. Yuuji carefully put the chocolates and flowers down, leaning the flowers against his leg so the petals didn’t touch the ground. He opened the letter and looked over it. He was a slow reader, which left Megumi to shift on his feet and crack his knuckles while he waited . . . and waited . . . and waited.
Finally, Yuuji looked up, his head tilted off to the side like a puppy Megumi had always wanted. “Are you saying you like me, Fushiguro?”
“I’ve liked you for a really long time.” Oh, now the words wanted to spill out of Megumi’s mouth. “I don’t think I’ve ever connected with or trusted someone else so quickly before, and I would really like a chance to show you how much I care about you, as a friend and more. So I—Itadori, would you like to go out with me sometime?”
Yuuji’s eyes were shining, a bright sparkle that reflected the one he’d seen in that photo of Haibara—that deeply loved boy who lit up a room even through a photograph. And Megumi may not have a camera in his hand, but he’d never forget the mental picture he took of this moment.
“You want to date me?” Yuuji asked, like he couldn’t believe it. Megumi nodded, heart hammering against his chest. (Seriously, why was it still doing that?) He was nervous, rightfully so—his life was on the line here.
But Yuuji saved him, jumping into his arms with a loud and joyful laugh. “I’d love to go out with you!”
Finally, Megumi felt like he could breathe, as if the flower had immediately retracted its thorns and let go of his lungs. Megumi’s relief came in a wave of soft heat over Yuuji’s shoulder, a breath followed by a smile and a laugh that broke all of the tension still tightening Megumi’s back. He almost thanked God for this moment, out loud, but he stopped himself from another deeply embarrassing moment in the nick of time.
“Wait.” Yuuji pulled himself out of Megumi’s arms. “Am I the reason you have Hanahaki?”
“Well.” It’s not like Megumi could lie. “Yeah . . . ? But it will go away now that you confessed! Technically, you saved my life.”
Wow, no pressure for the first date or anything. But Yuuji took it in stride, his smile coming back, alongside an upward roll of his eyes, like he’d just figured something out. “No wonder my grade in Mr. Gojo’s class tanked.”
“Gojo changed your grade?” The statement was far more believable than Megumi’s shocked tone let on.
“Yeah, I got a failing grade last week.” Megumi was going to kill Satoru. “I haven’t had a chance to ask him about it since you were, you know, about to die. I actually wasn’t going to mention it at all, considering the whole—yeah.”
Megumi couldn’t even say he couldn’t believe Satoru would do something like that, because he did believe Satoru would do something like that. “I’m really sorry. I’ll tell him to fix it.”
“It’s okay, I get it! I’d be pretty upset if some kid was killing my kid,” Yuuji said—so casually, though Megumi was kind of happy this was all becoming a laughing matter. It would be so much easier to put behind him, like this.
Yuuji scooped up the flowers and the chocolates. He still had the letter in his hand. He transferred all of it over to one hand and the crook of the same elbow, leaving his other hand free for Megumi to take. “I’ll walk you home?”
This all felt like a dream. He pinched his hip where Yuuji couldn’t see, and he didn’t wake up on his bathroom floor.
“I’d love that.” Megumi smiled. “We can plan our first date on the way.”
(“So?” Satoru and Nobara were both waiting for him at home, equal parts nervous and excited. “Did our incredible confession plan work?”
Since Megumi’s life was no longer on the line, he was allowed to leave out the embarrassing parts of the truth. “It was perfect. We’re going on a date next Friday.”
Nobara jumped with joy, and Satoru burst into tears, gathering Megumi in his arms with some sputtering about how he’d been terrified for Megumi all week and a little bit more about how he’d do a better job protecting Megumi, even if he felt like he didn’t need it anymore. It was a very stark contrast of emotions that Megumi had to witness, but it felt like home.)