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Megumi doesn’t wake up screaming from his dreams anymore.
He wakes up quiet and still, with the weight of the world in his slumped shoulders; for a moment, all he can do is stare at the ceiling.
And stare.
There are the remains of the dream in the back of his eyelids, bright and crimson and painful. He rubs his eyes, trying to wash them away, as one would do with filth– or blood. His hands return clean, ghostly pale; Tsumiki is still dead.
There’s nothing he can do about it; he figures. That’s the logical thing to think about. Tsumiki is gone; no cursed technique or vow can bring her back. Gojo could have brought her back, he thinks, but Gojo is gone, too. And it’s cruel as fuck, expecting him to save his sister when all of people did was expecting from Gojo.
That’s the logical thing to think about.
That doesn’t stop the nightmares.
And –he thinks with a cold, sharp sudden tug of panic, old and new and all around him– nothing would ever stop them. That’s what life is for him, now?
The unstopping, unchanging reminder that his sister is dead.
He curls and turns on the sheets, fingers reaching for the phantom silhouette that’s been laying on his side, for a hundred and some nights. He never asked what Megumi thought about it; he just did it; cruel and raw and tore apart from war, from loss –because Yuuji lost people, too, didn’t he? He lost Gojo, he lost the man with the dark hair and pigtails who he called brother. All in one single day–. He was just searching for warmth. He just needed something, someone to cling into, and Megumi never thought otherwise; but none of them ever climbed into Nobara’s bed when dreams got too heavy and close to reality, when instead of running away from dark, faceless figures Megumi saw Tsumiki and Gojo and Yuuji saw him.
Yuuji’s sheets are still warm; that spot in their bed, with the Yuuji-sized spot he caved when they first moved in. I want the left side, instead of I want to be closer to the door, in case of– Yuuji-sized hole in Megumi’s heart, in his heart, in the place where other people used to be.
His spot is still warm; he’s not there, big and wide and strong as the world itself, Atlas holding up the sky. Megumi doesn’t have to look for him for a long time, in part because he just feels him, as he’d feel his blood inside his veins and his own cursed technique or if the world ever switched back in its axis if Gojo were ever to return; and because Yuuji is right there.
Yuuji, bright and golden, highlighted against the darkness of their room, and Megumi heart aches– in a good way, in a different way.
His hand reaches for the tanned skin of his elbow, deathly still, right by his reach. He thinks Yuuji left it there on purpose; maybe he didn’t leave the bed, knowing that Megumi wouldn’t bear it if he dreamed of Tsumiki and opened his eyes with Yuuji gone, just the whisper of his warm on his skin and the sheets they share, and he doesn’t think he can love anyone as much as he loves him. He presses his thumb right there; on that old, pale scar grazing his skin. It went deep, splashing Yuuji’s skin with crimson, like a summer rain. It kissed deeper than every kiss Megumi has given him, and he tries not to be jealous of it. Yuuji doesn’t move, doesn’t falter, even if he’s warm and strong and Megumi can feel his skin seeping the warmth of his body. Yuuji could be dead.
That if he didn’t know better.
One hand sliding over Yuuji’s elbow, to Yuuji’s wrist, to Yuuji’s torso and the tight, firm skin of his abs. Strong man, five fingers opening wide and grazing all they can graze, strong man. Strong heart. Strong veins...
Strong hands. My man.
“Come back,” he says, with his eyes closed. He can see Gojo’s face behind his eyelids, “to bed.” Even if Yuuji is there, even if he’ll never leave.
Yuuji doesn’t answer, doesn’t move.
Megumi slides across the bed, presses his face to his lower back. Opens his mouth and breathes directly, on the hard bone protruding under his skin. Yuuji tenses like struck by lightning and shivers all over.
His heartbeat pulses under his skin, by his spine, coursing through his blood. The unchanging proof that Yuuji is still alive.
He closes his eyes and follows the deep drum of his heart, his veins, his tendons; all the things that kept him alive, fighting, that brought him back to Megumi, and he finds himself short in words of gratefulness to say, short of gods and goddesses and shamans to say thank you for bringing him back.
Thank you.
Yuuji curls, the bones of his back pressed against the tight line of his shoulders like wings, and when he slumps forward, burying his face in his hands, Megumi feels him trembling.
Then, quiet:
“I can’t close my eyes,” and Megumi knows that he means when I close my eyes, I see them.
And he also doesn’t need to say who or when; he just knows that he means Choso, and Gojo and–
The loop of uncountable lives they couldn’t save. Friends and civils, non-shamans. People they failed. Megumi doesn’t believe in heaven –he believes in it, sometimes, for Tsumiki’s sake; she doesn’t belong anywhere but there–, but if they go, someway, there, he wonders if they’ll kick them out, pulling out the list of indefinable death that has been following them. Maybe Megumi’s failure will start right at that fateful night, when he failed finding –well, he found it; getting it back was a whole other thing– Sukuna’s finger, when a random boy had to help him retrieve it, when he watched him swallow it and his teacher walked in and asked are those your personal feelings.
Yes.
Well, call him a sinner; he doesn’t regret saving Yuuji.
He’ll never regret saving him.
He sits up, leaning in until they’re pressed together; Yuuji’s back to his chest, shoulder to shoulder, his cheek together with his. Slotted puzzle pieces meant to fit. What meaning would life have without this, he wonders; apart from this. Nothing.
They sit in silence, outside there’s the sound of the wind, the night, and nature. There are stars, the moon, and in a few hours, the sun will come out, too; they’re not alone. They’re sitting in a world full of life, holding each other; alive. So, why does it feel like they failed?
Because they did.
He bumps their heads together, like dogs would do with their mate. Some silly, grand gesture that Yuuji does, instead of kisses and hugs when it wasn’t allowed and with cuddles and pecks when it was, when Megumi finally stopped pushing and punishing him for things that were out of his hands and let him in. It’s not big, and it’s not loud, but it feels like a pang in the darkness when Yuuji perks up, eyes golden and brown in the pooling darkness of their room and painfully, raw: hopeful.
There is no hope for people like them. They’re sorcerers, not heroes; hope died with Tsumiki, love died with Gojo. Megumi died with them, so why is he still walking? He has to thank Yuuji for that.
“Come on,” he shuffles out of bed, reaches for his slippers. Blue, cat shaped. Yuuji has dog shaped. Yuuji has all the halves of Megumi’s belongings. Yuuji has his heart, too. “Let’s walk Kon together. I’m sure he needs it.”
And when Yuuji straightens up, eyes bright with purpose –what is he without a purpose? Without sacrifice? What is he with Megumi if there is no one to die for?–, something shining with the remaining pieces of the hundred deaths he had since they were fifteen, hurriedly reaching for his shoes, he doesn’t say anything about it.
He doesn’t say anything at all.
Curses don’t need to walk.
Curses don’t need anything at all, as long as Megumi knew. Shikigamis were different, though. Or at least he thought they were. He liked being seven and free, sitting on the mud with Kuro and Shiro, talking with the only friends he had and the only existing beings in the world that loved him unconditionally. When they merged, he mourned them as one would do with a pet, a child, that keychain you bought with well-earned money and lost. He mourned them as if they were alive. For him, they were.
Curses don’t need to walk, and while Kon runs away, free and clean of worries, of guilt –does he ever feel the pang of old feelings, of old thoughts? The other half of his body, which is still alive, who Megumi loved so dearly?–, no one can see him; no one but them.
It’s a weak excuse, he knows. Yuuji probably knows, too. Not out of sudden sharpness, but because he knows Megumi’s heart as well as he knows himself, like the hedge maze; he could walk around barefoot and find him, could walk around blind, deaf, mute, and recognize him by the way he existed in the world. Megumi knows him, too.
That’s why he had to pry him out of the apartment, afraid that he might lose himself in the threshold and betweens of all the things they lost, gathered in four walls, two bedrooms, one bathroom with warm water and nice, wide windows that led inside the Sunday light.
It felt like mockery.
There is this apartment; you can have it all you want. Close to the beach, close to your friends, the ones who’re still alive. Close to the cemetery, so you can grieve. An exchange; Tsumiki’s life, Gojo’s life for this. A medium sized, empty, lonely apartment. Thank you for fighting, thank you for risking your life.
Thank you for letting him die; he thinks every morning, bitterly, old, as if his joints are giving up under him. He’s only... What? He can’t remember, anymore. Thank you for pulling him apart from me.
Megumi accepted it too quick.
He accepted it, as long as he didn’t have to walk on the same wooden tiles Gojo used to walk on, his path a silver, white path under his feet. As long as he didn’t have to see Tsumiki’s door, right in front of his, every morning; plastered with pink, stickers, little keychains. The stupid, girl-like signal; DON’T PASS, TSUMIKI’S TERRITORY. Megumi had mocked her for that; Megumi wished to have the chance to mock her again.
Megumi gave it all the moment they told him to; gave the house, the apartments, the memories.
Yuuji clang to them desperately. Maybe that’s why he was sad everywhere, anywhere, anytime. That’s why Megumi wasn’t enough to dull the sadness that clang into him like a second layer of skin, and shame and guilt poked at him every time he was remembered of how deep Yuuji felt his grief.
Sorry.
Kon howls and jumps into the beach, sand flying away under the sharp claws of his paws, and Megumi and Yuuji follow close. There’s no need to run. Kon won’t leave them to their own devices; he can always call him back if necessary, and it’s a peaceful, quiet night in November.
A November night. No curses, no missions; at least not for now.
No Sukuna.
No Gojo, no Tsumiki.
Just them.
And they don’t need to speak at all. Maybe it’s cheesy to think of it like this, as if they’re soul-bound together. But if Megumi were to talk about it –if they were ever to ask him–, he’d ask them to open his chest cavity and peek inside, just to make sure that the Yuuji-mark inflected on him the day they met was still there, branding him.
Yeah. Cheesy. Whatever.
Yuuji didn’t have to speak; he wasn’t forced to. But Yuuji, he realized, often choked on the weight of his own words, mangled with regret and sorrow.
So, let him speak, then.
Yuuji vomits all of his words the same way; longing, yearning, love, gratefulness. They go and go in a torrent until he’s empty of them. Megumi recollects them like a treasure.
“I just– I...” He tries, fails, tries again. He’s left with, “I don’t what to do.” Vague, painfully honest.
Megumi hums, sympathetic. I wish I knew what to do, too.
“It feels like I’m torn between what I promised them and what I’m doing, now.” He finishes, empty and breathless; empty of words, not guilt. That doesn’t ever run out.
And Megumi asks, stupidly, “What are you doing?”, because for him Yuuji has been bright as ever. Maybe more. Maybe he’s intensifying the light he emanates, too raw and cut after the last tragedy of his life. Is it fair? No, he doesn’t care, either; or rather, the guilt of putting Yuuji up in a pedestal isn’t as big as the absolute euphoria he gets on seeing him.
If he asks him, though, he’ll say he was prompting him to keep talking. Let’s see if he believes it.
Yuuji, fortunately, doesn’t ask; he just shrugs and stares at the sky above them, Megumi’s eyes following his path like magnets. A night with stars, a night like those he had with Tsumiki. The memory scorches brightly and he looks away, following the trace of Kon’s paws and growls far, far away; far from Gojo, far from Tsumiki, far from Yuuji, too; a place where he can’t feel pain, but would a painless place be worth it if he doesn’t have Yuuji there to hold?
Probably not.
“I don’t know.” Yuuji breathes out, his breath colliding and merging with the starry breeze. Megumi wants to perch on him, drink from his mouth, forever, “I guess that I promised a lot of things, y’know? I guess... That I wanted to honor them, the best I could. Before death, after it...” He presses his lips together, tightly sealed, “there wasn’t any difference. But now, what am I doing to honor their memory?”
A pause.
“Maybe I just said it to... I don’t know, comfort myself. But why do I have to be comforted if I’m still alive–”
“You’re still grieving, idiot.”
Yuuji stops, falters, and after the mere moment a breath is done, he hurries to come back to Megumi’s side. He’s done this so many times before. Returning from death and faltering.
Megumi feels his heart grow three, four inches. Grow to store the whole vastness of Yuuji Itadori.
He digs his hands in his pockets, buries his face in his scarf, and the stars keep shining above him even if he won’t spare them a look.
“There’s nothing wrong with stopping for a while. Yes, they’re death. They’re never coming back.” And it’s rough, maybe because he’s thinking of his own dead; two twin graves too far apart because no one would ever recognize them as father and daughter; or Megumi’s father and sister, “deal with it, grieve, cry. You’re the one who’s alive and living with their mess; they don’t. Don’t force yourself to be an idiot just because you think you owe them something.” And then, “being alive isn’t enough already?”
Yuuji falls quiet after that.
Like always, it doesn’t last long enough for it to settle; the silence, he means. He doesn’t mind. Yuuji’s voice is, usually, louder than the voice of the guilt and the regret.
“How do you do it?”
“What?”
“Grieve.”
Megumi frowns, “we’ve been grieving practically the same amount of time.”
But they don’t. He thinks of Yuuji’s parents that he never got to meet, and the grandfather that died the same day he met Megumi. He wonders if he compares losses and gains and asks himself what was more worth it. Yuuji is always heavier in Megumi’s mind, when it’s about this kind of stuff.
“Yes, but–” He blinks, shakes his head, lets out a quiet, tentative breath, “I wish I was more like you, like... Not cold. You’re not cold. You’re just... Strong, and capable and so, so kind, and every day I ask myself how do you manage to be so good even with all the things we lost.” Then, stronger, with a passion that makes Megumi tense, feel incredibly small in his too-big, too-expensive clothes that Gojo bought him, because he wasn’t strong enough to let him go. Strong, huh?, “I want to be like you, Megs. So, so badly.”
Megumi doesn’t answer.
He stares at the sky, remembering Tsumiki; so small she would have reached his waist, if he ever were to see her again like that. Young, carefree, alive.
“Me too.” He turns his head around and all he sees is the sun, even if it’s the dead of the night. The sun is surprised. Have you ever seen it? The surprise in the sun’s bright, beautiful face? You’d be delighted, “I want to be like you, too.”
Like a flower opening for the first time in spring, like the winter parting away for the warmth to settle, Yuuji smiles.
Wide, bright, hot. Makes a fool out of the sun.
Kon is a dark spot in the distance. Megumi whistles, and he trots back to them, just far enough to see him and to let him roam free.
What a world they live in; no more curses, no more missions until the Jujutsu society settles again. And when will that be? Only god –if he does exist. Megumi can’t tell. In a world where Yuuji is happy, god exists, too– knows.
There are no curses, no missions, no blood; only the dull pain of an open wound, scattered across the country to lick the blood before returning to duty. What a vision, all of them standing close to each other as if they didn’t see the tragedy across their faces, so close yet so far at the same time. Megumi doesn’t think he’s the same person as he was before the culling games– as he was, before meeting Yuuji.
Would he go through all of it again just to meet him again?
He closes his eyes, and he hears Kon, in front of them, his paws grazing the sand; free, freer than both of them. The moon above him, Yuuji at his side.
Yes. Yes, totally.
There’s a hole in Japan. Years will come and keep moving along with the world, and people will keep asking about that hole, that dent where Shibuya used to be. They’ll ask themselves what happened, and their sons and daughters will, too, but what will they say about it? Natural disaster? Just the world doing its thing, returning to ground zero? But truly, how could it work like that?
They won’t know, but Megumi will, they will, and he’ll have to stand in front and between of common, god-fearing people talking about the devastating accident, and he’ll know why it happened, how it happened, all he lost.
Anyway, Shibuya wasn’t the beginning –he opens his eyes and feels them prickle, the nightmare seeping and crawling into his vision, and it hurts–; Tsumiki was dead long before and Gojo was dead long after. And nonetheless, Megumi was alone.
He’s not alone anymore, even if he sometimes thinks of it like that.
Because he wakes up every morning with the shadow of Yuuji stretching far away from their door, the sound of his steps, the scent of his skin as coffee clings to it; sweat, sun, light, coffee. His. Megumi’s.
And who could be lonely, truly, with Yuuji closely?
He wraps his hand around Megumi’s –broad and warm and strong, strong as a tree and the ground under his feet– and he allows it.
Who knows what will happen. As far as he knows, they could be death in a few days from now. Weeks. Months. Years. Maybe someday Yuuji will return home and find it empty and dark –not him, never him; he’s sure he could never live in a world where Yuuji wasn’t there to graze the ground with the sole of his feet, impossibly powerful–, maybe he’ll wash his hands from the blood of someone else– maybe even Megumi’s. Who knows. It’s too soon to know. He never thought he’d ever lose Tsumiki and Gojo; look at where he is now.
But he can’t know, for certain.
For now, he can cling to the memories as he’d do with Yuuji and never let him go.
Never let him go.
“Kon is enjoying himself over there, yeah?” He asks, and Megumi feels himself breathing freer when he hears Yuuji’s characteristic, joyful chirp in his voice. He could cry if he had tears to spare, to create. All he can do is bleed through his heart.
He hums, noncommittal. Yuuji clings harder to him and Megumi wonders, thinks, ponders if he thinks of death as much as he does.
“Do you ever miss Kuro and Shiro?”
“Yes.”
“Makes sense.”
“They’re what made Kon, anyway. Somehow, they’re still there.” He shrugs, “that’s enough for me.”
Yuuji stares at him, then “do you think we’re made of what we lost, Megs?”
And Megumi does think about it. God –wherever you are, whatever you are, if you exist; and if you do, why did you take my family away?– help him, he does.
In the end, all he finds within himself is:
“I guess.” And thinks of Tsumiki, of Gojo; thinks of the bentos she used to do and the stupid jokes Gojo used to make. Wonders if he’s made of that, and if he’s made of the bad, too.
Yuuji stops, suddenly, and his eyes are intense golden, melting through the cracks of Megumi’s broken being like kintsugi, “I want to be made of you when I’m gone, Megs.” He says, squeezing his fingers in his, “I want to be a part of you.”
All Megumi can say is, “that’s not how it works, dumbass. You didn’t say it like that.” He scowls, “I should die first to be a part of you, right? How does it work the other way?”
“I don’t care,” Yuuji is simple and earnest; Yuuji is storm and tornado, all in one, holding Megumi’s shattered existence with the rough skin of his hands, “there’s no way you’re dying first, Megs. Just so you know. I won’t let you.” He smiles, toothy and wide, “you’re doomed to be with me forever.”
“How is that being doomed?”
He doesn’t reply anything else, and Yuuji’s smile is brighter by the second.
The sun and him, two twin flames. Where does that leave Megumi? The moon? The sky?
His mind supplies, quietly, the stars. Tsumiki’s stars, the one she told him about.
It’s not that bad. They can both shine in their own way, as stupid as it sounds.
They find themselves alongside a streetlamp, and it’s wordless, the way they move; untangling their hands to grasp them around the pole, propping themselves up, twirling around each other like little kids.
Megumi is dizzy after a while; weak heart, weak stomach, but he can’t tear his eyes away from Yuuji, circling him like two twin planets, golden and orange against the skyline.
I love you, he thinks.
I love you.
Yuuji chuckles, and Megumi thinks he’s got him all figured out, “you having fun?”
“You call this fun?”
“Everything is fun with you.”
“Flatterer. Careful,” he tries to kick his shin. Yuuji laughs; loud, inhibited, saintly. Megumi grabs his laugh and swallows around it, perched together in his heart.
“Hey!” And he tries to kick him back. Both fail miserably, laughing at the sky, at destiny, at each other.
I love you.
Kon is a spot in the distance, blinking in and out of Megumi’s sight. Somewhere in their twirling, he’s in the back, sitting and wagging his tail at them. Well, boy, you got to be patient, I’m busy here.
Yuuji’s fingers end up grazing the tip of his in the next spin. Megumi allows it, setting comfortably on top of his hand. Meant to be together, united, or something like that.
And then, quiet and hushed, like sharing a meaningful, important secret between them; little kids under a table, bumping knees and scratched elbows:
“Do you like the beach, Megs?”
Megumi raises his eyebrow at him, “we’re on the beach now, Yuuji.”
“No! But, like, if you could choose somewhere to live, if it were up to you– would you live here, or where?” The end of it tilts, stupidly hopeful. Megumi feels himself melting away at the edges, mirroring that hope deep in his soul.
It goes unsaid between them. It just lays there, untouched, divine.
He says, barely repressing the shivering wrapped around his whole being, “I like the beach...” then, “I like the woods, too. I’d like a house with... A porch, you know? To sit there, watch the sun go under the peak of the trees.” And he shrugs. Childish, silly dream, a dream so old it came before the nightmares of Tsumiki dying and Gojo cut in half by his own hand. Hell, he hasn’t thought of it until now–
Yuuji smiles, wide as the sky itself, as fresh as the woods Megumi once dreamt about.
Then:
“I’ll work, then. I’ll work a lot, do a lot of missions, and get a lot of money so I can get us a house close to the woods, with a porch and everything.”
Megumi feels himself warm all over; not only his cheeks.
He stills and stops, Yuuji stopping in his tracks to not bump into him, and as rare and unusual as it could be –but increasingly coming to light, all due to Yuuji– he parts his lips, and laughs.
And laughs.
“I got my own money, you know?” He says, when the laughter has died and all it buzzes through them is the silence, charged with the electric infusion of joy. Yuuji is wide eyed, hands grasping the pole with white knuckles and lost sight; a man in front of a miracle, a blessing in forming, “Gojo left me enough for us both.”
That kicks him out of his stupor, shaking his head so strongly the pink part of his head sticks up like a hedgehog, “no way! You’re my boy, I have to spoil you.”
Megumi’s heart launches and soars through Tsumiki’s stars, “yeah? Am I your boy, now?”
“Always has been,” Yuuji smiles, cheeky, boyish, with the kind of braveness and strength only he can muster. What a dark world he would live in, if it weren’t of him. What would be of him, “since the day we met. You just didn’t know it yet! I got my sights on you.”
With a foolish dose of courage, “trust me, I know.”
And whatever might happen to life after this. There’s a hole in Japan, there are no curses for them to fight with, there’s only the heavy silence of loss between them.
But Yuuji twirls again; Megumi follows measure, and if there are two dark figures in a streetlamp, forever intertwined like stars in the sky, who cares?