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“I can’t do it anymore, Kugisaki. I can’t.” Yuuji says, because it’s true. He can’t take one more funeral. He can’t take seeing his friends again; tracing the saggy lines wrapped around old skin, the silver strays of hair falling over their faces as they talked with feeble, scratchy voices. This phone call was already pushing it.
“Don’t look down on me, idiot.” Kugisaki spits over the line. Yuuji can picture her face: lips curled and brows furrowed over her nose crease. “You think ‘cause I’m old, I’m weak.”
Yuuji breathed, throwing his head back on the couch. “No, that’s not what I’m saying.”
There was a shuffling heard. “I know,” She sighed and let the silence stretch on. Something hung over, something neither of them wanted to say. It made the air stale. “You’re depressing to look at.” She continues.
Yuuji figured she’d think that. Kugisaki has always dreamed of becoming a model, especially with her fascination in fashion. Having a friend with a face that’s forever young would made him envious, too.
“That’s not what I mean.”
He sits up. “Did I say something?”
“You think really loud.”
“Ah.”
“It’s because… you always look so sad. So guilty of something you can’t control. We can’t hang out anymore without your pout and puppy eyes bumming everybody out.”
“I don’t think I’m going to be hanging out anymore, Kugisaki.”
“… Alright.” There’s another quiet that follows her acceptance. It was as if the two were rewatching their own lives as a film tape; flashes of white nostalgia clouded Yuuji’s vision. It blurred, and with a swift wipe of his thumb, he realized it was his own tears.
Nobara decides to be brave and lift what’s been draping. Her voice etches along the edges, growing shrill. “You know, Fushiguro isn’t going to live much longer.”
Yuuji’s heartstrings tugged, “I know,” he answers. Not now, he thinks, I can’t think of that now. I’ll cry. His thoughts come in a stirring flood. They were useless, deluded wishes. He prays that he had more time. As if death could wait. Yuuji, out of everyone, knew it never did.
“He’s in the hospital. Doctors are working but… you know. He’s eighty-three.”
Yuuji brings his fingers to the bridge of his nose, rubbing until it felt it’d bruise.
“You should talk to him.”
“I can’t.” His words came out as a pathetic whimper.
“Itadori, he will die with no words from you.”
He picks at his hangnail.
“I can’t… I don’t…” Yuuji knew that he’d never forgive himself if he let Fushiguro die with no contact. But finding the words to say to him after years of radio silence was impossible.
“You can write him a letter.”
The idea never occurred to Yuuji. Writing was never his strong suit, but…
“You think that’ll reach him?”
“I can’t promise anything, Itadori.”
Yuuji nods knowing she can’t see him. “Okay— okay. Thanks… thank you, Kugisaki.”
He hovers his thumb over the phone, debating on hanging up.
“Hey, Itadori?” The call of his name snaps him out of the trance, but he can’t help but find himself wishing it hadn’t. “Yeah?” He stifles a swallow.
“This’ll be our last call, won’t it.” She says it like a statement.
His exhale shakes, “I think so.”
“… Take care, Itadori.”
“You too, Kugisaki.”
As of late, the absence of talking always lingers like a mindless static.
My Dearest Fushiguro,
I’m sorry I never called you by your first name. I figured that, if I had, it’d initiate a change. And despite how desperately I wanted to grow and age and change with you and Mrs. Kugisaki, a change in an already engraved pattern would mean it’s real. I can’t bear that. Facing you, an aged man, and calling you by a name that’s so foreign on my tongue would mean that you have grown. And you changed. It’d mean you’re not the same boy who told me to save him all those years ago. I’m so sorry I’m not able to now. It’s so cowardly and childish. Ironic, considering I’m an eighty-year-old man physically fifteen (actually, I might be twenty now). I should’ve called you 'Megumi' sooner (it even feels weird writing it). Maybe right when we graduated high school, that way a nickname so personal wouldn’t feel so unlike us. I know 'Itadori' and 'Fushiguro' have sort-of become our thing, but I always wanted something more. I think you did too.
Another regret I carry is not admiring your face more. I’ve already admitted my shame for looking at my friend’s faces— the guilt, but I shouldn’t have been so stubborn. I should have stared at your eyes shamelessly and trail the curvature of your wrinkles; especially around the mouth, the smile lines brought out a man that was hidden under so many weights before. I like the crinkle of your eye and the way your skin has cradled your scar Sukuna gave you all those years ago. I always felt like his possession intertwined our souls together, in a twisted way. It was fascinating to watch such cloudy dull eyes advance into a deep, sea emerald. Not embracing your age as growth of a man who has endured and survived so much, but rather as a man who will leave his Itadori someday, is something still incredibly selfish of me.
Please forgive me. I should have bought you that house on the countryside, you know, the one with the wild horses on the outskirts of Sendai. I heard that one of the lots near it has a sale next week. I’ve already toured the home. I’m gonna swing it. Grandpa made sure I’m good at the hustling thing. You should stop by. Please. The wind whistles there and it’s such a blaring sound. It doesn’t harmonize with how the wood creaks. The white noise of the house settling, or the wild stock nestling, aren’t as pleasant as they would be. In other words: it’s lonely. It’s so lonely without you here, Megumi.
I’ll be home soon. I’ll be a couple hundred years late for as long as this curse is placed on me, but I know you’ll wait. All we’ve ever done is wait.
Sincere Love, your Yuuji.
Yuuji’s face was in his hands when he stared at the unopened envelope that had been angrily tossed across the kitchen counter. His palms muffled choked, wet sobs, for the letter was not from his beloved—rather from the doctors.
TO THE ITADORI RESIDENCE
Plastered in ink. 'Residence' was also a stretch, considering Yuuji made himself at home in a cramped three-room apartment. He could afford a better one, but there wasn’t any point. Not anymore.
He knew what the letter would read, therefore there was no point in procrastinating, but he found himself doing so anyway. His hands crawled up to his hairline, slicking back pink disarrayed strands from his forehead. God, he was a mess. A complete, pitiful mess. But he was Megumi’s mess. A part of Yuuji pictured his lithe pale hands cradling his cheeks so he would look up at the boy. Or perhaps he’d grip his wrist, flick it, and force him to, like he had at the campfire before the Culling Games.
The thought was piteous. But Yuuji would pray for that dream to be real. He found himself praying a lot these past few days, despite being an atheist. It was hard to be religious in the first place. How could a God take away his Megumi?
When Yuuji left the kitchen space, he knew he’d take days to come back. He’d take much longer to open that disregarded letter.