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They make camp in the shell of a convenience store, because that’s the only thing in Shibuya that still looks like it remembers what “normal” meant.
The ceiling is caved in on one side, exposing twisted metal and a rectangle of sky. Fluorescent bulbs hang like broken teeth. The shelves are half-melted, plastic warped from cursed flame. Someone’s abandoned shopping basket lies overturned by the register, contents scattered: instant curry, a bottle of tea, a pack of gum now fused to the floor.
Megumi sleeps sitting up, back against the counter, arms loosely folded over his knees. His head is tipped to the side, chin almost touching the zipper of his uniform. In the orange glow of the little shikigami fox he’s set to guard the doorway, the shadows under his eyes look like bruises.
Yuuji watches him breathe.
He listens to the tiny sounds: the scrape of Megumi’s sleeve when he shifts, the soft exhale that fogs in the cold air. The bandage around Megumi’s ribs is visible under the open front of his jacket, a messy white strip against dark cloth. Yuuji keeps noticing the same thing: how it rises and falls. That’s all. Up, down. Still here.
His own chest feels hollow.
You’re the one who did this to him, Sukuna whispers lazily from somewhere below Yuuji’s lungs. Not these exact scratches, brat. But all the cracks underneath? That’s you.
Yuuji stares at the cracked linoleum.
He knows he should sleep. Yuta said they’d move before dawn—too dangerous to stay long in one place, with the higher-ups still wanting his head. Choso is sprawled on the other side of the aisle, snoring softly, and Yuta’s curled in a shadow like he’s trying to take up as little space as possible. The little shikigami at the door flicks its tail now and then, casting jittery shadows.
Yuuji presses his palms into his eyes until he sees colors burst. It doesn’t help. Behind his eyelids it’s all the same loop:
Nanami staggering forward, half-burned.
Nobara’s eye going dull.
Bodies in Shibuya, piled like…
And somewhere in there, Megumi’s face. Megumi looking up at him with that tired, irritated, stupidly brave expression, saying, “I’ll see you later,” like it’s an actual promise. And then Yuuji—no, Sukuna—using that promise as a joke as he tore Mahoraga loose, as he turned Shibuya into a grave.
Megumi doesn’t know everything. Not yet.
He will. If Yuuji keeps staying.
The thought has been sitting quietly in Yuuji’s head all evening, like a knife laid on a table. He’s been pretending not to look at it. Now he picks it up.
I have to go.
If he leaves now, before dawn, they’ll be hurt. Worried, maybe. Megumi will be pissed. But they’ll be alive. Sukuna will be… less dangerous, if he can’t keep using Yuuji’s weakness.
Yuuji flexes his fingers. The skin over his knuckles splits again with a faint sting; he’d punched a wall earlier, when Yuta explained how the higher-ups had ordered his execution. There’s a smear of dried blood across his palm.
It matches the little rusty specks on the floor. There’s red everywhere if you look for it now.
He pushes himself to his feet as quietly as he can. His legs protest, heavy with exhaustion and bruises. The world tilts for a second, and he catches the shelf with his good hand, breath hissing between his teeth.
Megumi’s head lifts.
Yuuji freezes.
In the half-light, Megumi’s eyes are just dark shapes, but Yuuji can tell he’s fully awake. He always wakes up like someone yanked him out of sleep by the collar; no confusion, just a flat assessment of the situation.
“Where are you going?” Megumi’s voice is rough from disuse, a little hoarse.
Yuuji forces his features into something bright. Harmless. “Bathroom,” he lies. He throws in a lopsided grin. “What, you gonna walk me there too, Mom?”
Megumi stares at him for a beat too long.
“I sent the dogs out,” he says finally. “There’s nobody near enough for you to need backup.”
“See?” Yuuji shrugs, that fake casualness fitting like an old jacket. “We’re fine. Go back to sleep, Fushiguro.”
He takes a step toward the gaping doorway.
The fox at the entrance flicks its tail. The little light spills over the floor, catches on Yuuji’s ankle. Yuuji feels Megumi’s gaze drag down, catch on that small movement, the way he’s carrying himself like every inch of him is a bruise.
“You’re holding your stomach,” Megumi says.
Yuuji looks down. He isn’t. Not really. His hand is just… there. Hovering.
He lets it drop. “Habit.”
“Lie,” Megumi says, too quietly.
Yuuji’s throat goes dry.
He should keep walking. He should. Instead he turns a little, just enough to see Megumi out of the corner of his eye. Megumi has unfolded himself, sitting straighter. The fox’s glow outlines his profile, the fall of his hair, the sharp cut of his jaw. That same weird loneliness settles over Yuuji at the sight—like looking at a house that still has its lights on after the whole neighborhood’s gone dark.
“You’re leaving,” Megumi says.
It isn’t a question.
Yuuji laughs. It sounds wrong in the ruined store. “Wow, someone’s cocky. Am I not even allowed to pee without your approval now?”
Megumi doesn’t rise to it. “If you were just going outside,” he says, “you would have woken Yuta. Or at least taken one of my shikigami with you. You looked at all of us, and then at the door, and you didn’t reach for anything.” His eyes narrow. “You were trying to memorize us.”
Yuuji’s heart stutters.
He shouldn’t be surprised. Megumi’s always been like this—quiet and distracted until suddenly he says something that cuts straight to the bone. Like back at the detention center, asking what Yuuji would do if someone he saved hurt people later. Like standing between Yuuji and Sukuna with nothing but that half-broken body and saying he had no regrets.
Yuuji swallows. “You’re overthinking it.”
“For once,” Megumi says, “I’m really not.”
Silence drops between them, heavy and uneven.
The fox’s light flickers.
Yuuji feels Sukuna shift inside him, amused. Oh, I like this part. Go on, boy. Hurt him. Push him away. You’re good at that.
“Sit down, Itadori,” Megumi says.
The use of his last name instead of “Yuuji” feels like a slap.
Yuuji turns all the way around, forcing a grin. “Wow, ordering me around now, huh? Did you get promoted while I was dead again?”
“Sit. Down.” Megumi’s voice doesn’t rise. It just… sharpens.
Yuuji’s legs fold before his brain gets a say, dropping him back onto the cracked floor between the shelves. He winces—he really is holding his stomach now, can’t quite help it. Megumi’s gaze flicks to the movement, then away.
“What, are we having a team meeting?” Yuuji jokes weakly. “Because if so, itadori’s plan is: I go away, and then everything stops going to shit. Pretty solid, right?”
Megumi’s hands curl into fists on his knees.
“You think going off on your own will fix anything?” he asks, quieter now. “Yuuji, you’re not—”
“There it is,” Yuuji says, sharper than he means to. “You called me Yuuji again. That’s the problem, Fushiguro. You keep… talking to me like I’m some guy you can drag back to school by the collar and scold into being okay.” He presses the heel of his palm into his chest. “But this isn’t— I’m not—”
“Not what?” Megumi demands, suddenly angry. “Not worth saving? Is that what you’re about to say?”
Yuuji flinches.
The shelves behind him dig into his shoulder blades. Somewhere outside, something howls; the fox’s ears twitch, but it stays in place.
Megumi exhales through his nose, like he’s trying to bring himself back from the edge of something.
“You already tried to run once,” he says. “After Yuta brought you back. You told me you couldn’t come with us because you’d make me suffer. Remember?”
Yuuji does. He remembers the way Megumi’s eyes had widened, just a fraction, before narrowing. The way he’d stepped forward like he didn’t even hear Yuuji say he’d killed too many people.
“You made me a promise first,” Megumi continues. “‘I’ll see you later.’”
“That was—” Yuuji’s voice breaks. He clears his throat. “That was before Sukuna used your body to—”
He can’t finish the sentence.
Megumi’s face goes still.
There it is, Yuuji thinks dully. The thing he’s been circling all night, like a cursed tomb. He forces himself to look at it.
“He almost killed you,” Yuuji says. The words taste like rust. “He used the fact that you believed me. You said you’d see me later, and he… twisted that. He used your trust as kindling. You think he won’t do it again?”
Megumi’s jaw tightens. “Yuuji—”
“No. Listen, okay? You keep saying ‘our fault’ like that makes it better.” Yuuji’s fingers curl in the fabric over his knees. “But it’s not equal. You save people because you want to. I’m the reason there were so many people to save. Because I swallowed that damn finger. Because I couldn’t control him in Shibuya. Because I—”
He sees it again. The way Sukuna smiled through his own mouth and reduced buildings to dust. How bodies became red smears.
“…because I murdered them,” Yuuji whispers. “With your face still somewhere in my head telling me to live a long life.”
Silence.
Yuuji stares at the floor, shoulders shaking. He realizes dimly that he’s leaking cursed energy, the air around him buzzing faintly. He can’t seem to stop.
“Yuuji.” Megumi’s voice has lost all sharpness. “Look at me.”
“I can’t,” Yuuji says. “Every time I do, all I think is, if you hadn’t been so damn stubborn about saving people unequally, you could have let me die back then. You should have. I keep thinking about that detention center, when you said you’d never regretted—”
He chokes. The words won’t come all the way out.
Megumi moves.
For a moment Yuuji thinks he’s going to hit him. It would be fair. Instead Megumi slides off the counter and crosses the distance between them, dropping into a crouch in front of Yuuji. The sudden closeness makes Yuuji jerk back, but there’s a shelf behind him; he has nowhere to go.
Megumi reaches out, takes Yuuji’s wrist.
Yuuji flinches like he’s been burned.
Megumi ignores it, flipping Yuuji’s hand over. He stares at the cracked skin across Yuuji’s knuckles, the half-dried blood where the wounds have reopened. His thumb brushes, just once, along the split.
“You did this tonight,” he says. “When Yuta was talking.”
It isn’t a question.
Yuuji tries to pull his hand back. Megumi tightens his grip.
“You don’t get to hurt yourself like that where I can’t see it,” Megumi says, voice like a knife edge. “If you’re going to break, you do it where I can pick up the pieces.”
Yuuji’s breath catches. “You can’t… say things like that. You know that, right?”
Megumi looks up finally, and Yuuji wishes he hadn’t. There’s something raw in his eyes, some furious, helpless thing.
“You’re right about one thing,” Megumi says. “We’re not equal. You took Sukuna into yourself. That’s something I can’t understand. I won’t pretend it’s the same burden.”
Yuuji swallows, throat tight.
“But you’re wrong about everything else.”
Yuuji laughs, wet and bitter. “Yeah? Explain to me how me sticking around doesn’t just paint a bigger target on your back.”
“You already painted it,” Megumi snaps. “On day one, when you swallowed that finger to save me. You put a target on yourself, too. I could have walked away. I didn’t.”
“Exactly,” Yuuji says hoarsely. “So let me fix that. Let me—”
“You’re not listening,” Megumi cuts in. “I didn’t save you because I thought you’d be convenient. Or because I thought you’d turn out to be some… weapon we could point at the right things. I saved you because I looked at you and decided I didn’t want you to die. That hasn’t changed.”
“Even after—”
“After Shibuya,” Megumi says, and there’s a flicker of something like grief in his expression, “I thought about what I said. About not regretting it. I thought about it a lot.”
Yuuji’s chest tightens until it hurts. “And?”
“And.” Megumi’s fingers loosen on his wrist, then tighten again, like he’s fighting himself. “And it still isn’t a regret. It’s just… heavier now.”
Yuuji squeezes his eyes shut. “You shouldn’t have to carry that.”
Megumi huffs. “You say that like you’re not carrying twice as much.”
“That’s exactly why—”
“Yuuji.” Megumi leans in, so close Yuuji can feel the warmth of his breath against his cheek. “You leaving doesn’t take any of that weight off me. It just puts you somewhere I can’t see you falling.”
Yuuji’s eyes snap open.
Megumi looks back at him, unflinching. His face is pale and tired, stray strands of hair falling into his eyes. His bandages are peeking out under his shirt. He looks breakable in a way that makes Yuuji’s heart curl in on itself.
“Back then,” Megumi says quietly, “you asked me why I saved you. I told you it was because you’re a good person. That was… clumsy. The truth is worse.”
“Worse?” Yuuji echoes, dazed.
“I saved you because I wanted to.” A flush rises, subtle, along Megumi’s neck. “Because the idea of you dying in front of me made me sick. Still does. I’m selfish. I said I’d save people unequally, remember? You’re the reason I can say that like a joke.”
Yuuji stares.
The world feels oddly muffled, like someone’s put cotton in his ears. He can hear his own heartbeat and the faint crackle of the fox by the door. Somewhere behind them, Choso snores and rolls over.
“You can’t—” Yuuji’s voice cracks. “You can’t say stuff like that without warning, Fushiguro. It sounds like—”
“Like what?” Megumi asks, and now his gaze flickers, suddenly unsure. “Like I—”
He stops.
For the first time since Yuuji met him, Megumi looks like he’s standing on the edge of a domain he doesn’t know how to expand.
The silence stretches. Yuuji feels like he’s hanging from something, fingers slipping.
Very far away, Sukuna laughs, low and amused. Oh, this is delicious. Go on, little sorcerer. Confess to my vessel. Tie yourselves together even tighter.
Yuuji almost says something stupid, something to deflect. A joke about Megumi’s taste. A quip. Anything to sidestep this cliff.
But he’s so, so tired.
“Fushiguro,” he says, and the name comes out soft. “Megumi.”
Megumi’s eyes widen a fraction.
Yuuji’s fingers twitch in Megumi’s grip. He looks down at their joined hands; at the way Megumi’s thumb, calloused and scarred, still rests near the split in his skin like he’s guarding it.
“I’ve been trying not to… think about it,” Yuuji says slowly, picking words like he’s stepping through a minefield. “Because everything feels like it has an expiration date now. Every snack, every stupid movie, every mission.” He huffs a shaky laugh. “Every promise.”
Megumi’s jaw clenches.
Yuuji continues, because he’ll never get this far again if he stops.
“But whenever I imagine the end, you’re there,” he admits. “Not like some big heroic thing. Just… you. Being annoyed. Saying something mean but right. Standing in front of me when you shouldn’t. Walking away so I have to follow. It’s always you.”
He drags in a breath.
“And you keep… giving me reasons to want to live,” Yuuji says. “You don’t even try. You just exist, and suddenly I’m greedy. I want to see what you’ll do next. I want to hear what you’ll say. I want—”
His courage falters.
“What?” Megumi asks, almost a whisper.
Yuuji looks back up.
He thinks of Shibuya, of all the people whose names he doesn’t know and the ones he does. He thinks of Sukuna and the audience of corpses he built. He thinks of Gojo in the box, of Nobara’s blood. Of Nanami’s last, fragile encouragement.
He thinks: if I die tomorrow, what will I regret not saying today?
“I want to stay,” he says simply. “With you.”
Megumi’s fingers tighten. His breathing stutters.
“That’s not—” He swallows. “Yuuji, that’s not… fair to yourself.”
“It’s the only thing that feels like it might be,” Yuuji says, surprising himself with the steadiness of his voice. “I know what I am. I know what’s inside me. I’m not asking you to fix that. I just… If you’re going to keep dragging me back from wanting to die, I need you to know why I keep letting you.”
Confusion flickers in Megumi’s eyes. Then realization. Then something that looks a lot like fear.
“Yuuji,” he says softly. “You’re not… just talking about teammates.”
“No,” Yuuji agrees. “I’m not.”
The fox’s light flares once and settles, as if the whole room is holding its breath.
Megumi’s lashes lower, hiding his eyes. His thumb moves reflexively over Yuuji’s knuckles again, so gentle it almost doesn’t feel real.
“I told myself it was just… habit,” he murmurs. “The way I look for you first in a fight. The way I get… angrier when you’re the one who gets hurt. The way it felt when you ‘died’ the first time.” His mouth twists. “Junpei was the first time I realized you were too kind for this. Shibuya was the first time I realized how much that kindness was going to be used against you.”
Yuuji swallows. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Megumi’s eyes lift, finally, and the look in them pins Yuuji in place. “You’re not the one who decided the rules of this world. You’re just the idiot who keeps throwing himself in front of them.”
He hesitates.
“To answer your question,” Megumi says, voice dropping low, “the reason I keep dragging you back… is because I don’t know how to stand in a world where you’re not in it.”
The words land like a hit, all the air knocked out of Yuuji’s lungs.
Megumi’s ears are visibly pink now. He seems to realize exactly what he’s said, because he scowls, looking away. “There,” he mutters. “Say something stupid and ruin it, please.”
Yuuji laughs. A real one this time, shaky and wet. “I think I love you,” he blurts, because his filter is shattered and his heart is clawing its way out.
Megumi freezes.
Yuuji’s own eyes go comically wide. “I—I mean— I was going to lead up to that, but apparently my mouth is on fast-forward, so, um, surprise—”
“Shut up,” Megumi says faintly.
Yuuji clamps his lips together.
Megumi stares at him.
Sukuna goes very, very quiet.
Yuuji notes, distantly, that he might be having a heart attack. Or a cursed-heart equivalent. His ears are ringing; his palms are slick with sweat. He waits for Megumi to recoil, to pull away, to tell him this was a mistake.
Instead, Megumi exhales slowly, like he’s been punched and is forcing air back into his lungs.
“You’re an idiot,” he says.
“Yeah,” Yuuji says, weak. “That’s not new information.”
“A reckless, self-sacrificing, loud idiot,” Megumi continues, as if ticking items off a list. His grip on Yuuji’s hand trembles almost imperceptibly. “But you’re… mine.”
Yuuji’s brain blue-screens.
“M-mine?”
Megumi presses his lips together, annoyed, like he can’t believe he has to clarify. “My responsibility,” he corrects stiffly. Then, quieter: “My… person.”
Yuuji’s eyes sting.
“You’re allowed to say it clearer, you know,” he says, voice shaking. “I’m not Nobara, I can’t read between those kinds of lines.”
Megumi scoffs. “You can punch a cursed spirit through a concrete wall but you can’t handle me spelling it out?”
“Probably not,” Yuuji admits.
Megumi huffs. He releases Yuuji’s wrist only to shift closer, knees almost touching Yuuji’s. His hands hover for a second, like he’s unsure where to put them, then settle on either side of Yuuji’s face, fingers splayed against his jaw.
Yuuji forgets how to breathe.
“I…” Megumi starts, then stops. He seems to search for words and discard them as quickly as they come. His brows knit. “I care about you,” he says eventually, frustration bleeding into the edges. “More than is strategically sound.”
Yuuji lets out a strangled bark of laughter.
Megumi’s thumbs press in, gentle. “I think about you when you’re not there. I fight better or worse depending on if you’re watching. I hate it when you’re reckless with yourself and hate it more when you’re not there to be reckless.” His gaze drops to Yuuji’s mouth, then snaps back up. “If that isn’t… what you said, then I don’t know what else to call it.”
Yuuji’s vision blurs entirely for a second.
“Love,” he says, because if he doesn’t, he’ll choke on it. “You’re allowed to call it that.”
Megumi’s fingers twitch.
“I’m still… figuring out what that means,” he says, and something like apology shadows his features. “But if it means I want you alive, here, not running off to die somewhere I can’t reach you—if it means I want more stupid nights like this instead of a gravestone—then, yes. Fine. That.”
Yuuji laughs helplessly, tears finally spilling over. “You’re so bad at this,” he says, fondness breaking through like sunlight.
“Shut up,” Megumi repeats, but there’s no bite to it. “You confessing in a collapsed konbini is hardly high romance either.”
“Hey,” Yuuji protests weakly. “It’s very us, actually. We met in a school full of curses. Trash ambiance is our brand.”
Megumi’s mouth quirks, just barely.
Yuuji’s heart hurts in a different way now.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay. I’ll stay. I won’t run. But you have to… talk to me, when it gets too heavy. You don’t get to shoulder everything and then blow yourself up with some suicide shikigami, got it?”
Megumi’s expression flickers; Eight-Handled Mahoraga’s shadow passes between them. He nods once.
“Deal,” he says. “But it goes both ways. If you start thinking they’d all be better off without you, you tell me. Before you decide that for everyone.”
Yuuji hesitates.
“And what if it’s true?” he asks, small.
Megumi’s hands slide from his jaw to the back of his head, fingers threading into his hair, pulling him forward until their foreheads rest together.
The contact is gentle and absolute. Yuuji’s breath catches; he squeezes his eyes shut.
“Then I’ll tell you all the reasons it’s not,” Megumi murmurs, so close Yuuji can feel his lips shape the words. “As many times as it takes. Until you’re sick of hearing my voice.”
Yuuji laughs, waterlogged. “Never gonna happen.”
Megumi snorts, a puff of warm air against his mouth.
They stay like that, breathing the same thin air in a ruined store in a broken city, two idiots holding onto each other like a lifeline.
Yuuji is the one who moves first.
He turns his head a fraction. Megumi’s breath hitches. Their noses bump, awkward, and Yuuji almost pulls back in embarrassment. Before he can, Megumi closes the distance, just enough for the corner of his mouth to brush Yuuji’s.
It’s barely a kiss. More like a question written against his skin.
Yuuji answers by leaning in that last, small bit.
The kiss is clumsy and soft and over in a heartbeat. Their teeth click. Yuuji tastes dust and the faint metallic tang of his own blood where his lip cracked earlier. Megumi’s hands tense in his hair; Yuuji’s fingers find the fabric at Megumi’s waist and clutch.
When they pull back, they’re both breathing harder.
Megumi looks mortified in a way Yuuji finds unbearably endearing.
“That was—” Yuuji starts.
Megumi glares. “If you say ‘pretty good for your first time,’ I will sic Nue on you.”
“…better than I imagined, actually,” Yuuji finishes, earnest.
The glare falters.
“Idiot,” Megumi mutters, but there’s a tiny, helpless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth now. He lets go of Yuuji’s hair with one hand to swipe under Yuuji’s eyes, thumb clumsy against the wetness there.
Yuuji blinks. “You’re… wiping my tears?”
“Shut up,” Megumi says for the third time, adorably flustered. “You’re leaking all over the floor.”
Yuuji laughs, hiccups, and leans into the touch.
For a moment, everything is shockingly, impossibly quiet. Sukuna doesn’t speak. The ruined city beyond the doorway might as well be a different world.
Eventually, Megumi sighs and pulls back enough to sit properly beside him, shoulders touching. He doesn’t let go of Yuuji’s hand.
“You’re going to have nightmares,” he says.
“Wow, calling it early,” Yuuji says, but he doesn’t argue. He rests his head back against the shelf. Exhaustion seeps in, heavy and inevitable, now that the adrenaline has burned through.
“When you do,” Megumi adds, staring straight ahead, “wake me up. Don’t sneak off to brood in alleys. I’m not Junpei. I’m not going to disappear if you look away.”
Yuuji winces at the name, but there’s no sting in it, not like before. It lands as a promise, not a comparison.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “But same goes for you. If you start thinking about… Mahoraga, or your sister, or any of that Zenin shit, wake me up. I can— I don’t know. Make you meatballs or something.”
Megumi’s mouth twitches. “You’re banned from cooking unsupervised.”
“Rude. I learned from the best.”
“That’s why I’m banning you.”
Yuuji squeezes his hand. “Then I’ll just… sit there. Be annoying. Tell you stupid jokes until you regret saving me again.”
Megumi’s grip tightens back.
“I told you,” he says. “I don’t regret it.”
Yuuji tips his head sideways, watching his profile.
“I know,” he says softly now. “That’s part of why I love you.”
Color floods Megumi’s ears again, pink spreading into his hairline.
“Go to sleep, Itadori,” he mutters.
Yuuji smiles, eyes slipping closed at last. “Yes, dear.”
“Never call me that again.”
“We’ll see,” Yuuji mumbles, already half under. “You’re stuck with me now. Unequally and everything.”
Megumi huffs, but he doesn’t pull away. He leans his head back as well, letting their shoulders press together, their joined hands resting in the small warm space between them.
The fox at the door flicks its tail, its light steady.
Outside, Shibuya is still broken. Gojo is still sealed. The higher-ups still want Yuuji dead. The Culling Game waits somewhere in the near future like a storm.
But in this ruined convenience store, for the length of a shared breath, there is something else:
A boy who tried to die alone deciding, very quietly, to live with someone.
And another boy who decided long ago that he would save people unequally, finally admitting just how unfairly he’s chosen.
Yuuji dreams that night, like Megumi predicted. He sees blood and fire and an endless, howling void.
But when he wakes up gasping, Megumi’s hand is already tightening around his, and a sleepy, annoyed voice is saying, “I told you to wake me, idiot.”
So he does.