Chapter Text
He can hardly recall ever feeling as hyperaware as he does right now. Every single detail that reaches his senses, he registers.
Despite the window being closed, he can still hear the wind outside blowing fiercly. The ceiling fan making a engine-like sound as it slowly spins—it's been a couple of months since it's full-power mode broke. The voices from the movie playing on the TV are a little too high-pitched.
It’s annoying, but not as much as the light. The TV is the only thing illuminating the dark-filled room, and he silently curses the color director—or whoever the hell is in charge of those things—for putting such bright scenes in this damn movie. The screen's blue light stings his eyes, making him blink more than usual.
Then there’s the itching in his leg. It started as a warm feeling from having those thick blankets covering him, despite still wearing his pants and socks. But when his knee brushed against another, that’s when a hot wave washed over him— and the itching began.
But that’s not even it. He knows it.
The worst of all is the breathing. He can hear not only his own, but also the boy sitting next to him. Every time he manages to calmly breathe in through his nose, his friend’s deodorant hits him.
He recalls once buying it and trying it on himself, but it never suited him the same way. Maybe it smells better on the other boy because it reacts differently with his skin.
His best friend’s skin.
Stop, he tells himself.
But his mind betrays him. Not fair his own througts going there; to the skin only a couple of layers away from his knee. The same skin he can feel the warmth radiating from.
“I said stop,” he tells himself again, more sharply this time.
Instinctively, he closes his eyes, trying to concentrate.
“Ah?”
At the sound, he opens his eyes again and turns his head slightly—only to find a pair of light brown eyes staring at him in confusion.
Did I just say that out loud? He mentally kicks himself.
“What?” he tries, forcing confusion into his voice.
It’s the only thing that comes to his mind. This isn’t like him—what is this pathetic act he’s putting on? The flood of stimuli nagging at him, on top of the intensity of those eyes on him, seems to have done some kind of damage to his already fucked-up brain. It’s obvious enough—he just voiced his own thoughts, and… it's not the first time it happened.
“I think you just said ‘stop’… Want me to pause it?” the other boy offers, reaching for the remote lying on the bed between them.
All he can do is stay there, mouth parted but silent, watching as his friend half-closes his eyes, searching for the pause button, the dim TV light barely helping. When he finds it and the image on the screen freezes, Itadori turns back to him with a wide smile.
“There. What did you—oh.” He pauses, his expression shifting into concern. “Are you okay? You’re sweating…”
“It’s hot with these things,” he cuts in, turning away as he kicks the blankets off himself with a little more force than necessary.
“Ah, that… yeah. Also, sorry about the fan. I already told the staff—they said they’ll try to look at it aft—”
“I need to use the bathroom.”
He doesn’t even look back as he stands and walks the few steps to the dorm’s private bathroom. He focuses on the cold seeping through his socks from the floor, reaching his feet. It feels nice in contrast to the suffocating warmth he was in just seconds ago.
Once the door is closed, he can almost breathe normally again. Almost.
What is this? Am I about to have a panic attack?
It wouldn’t be surprising—he’s prone to those since…
No.
A deep breath.
It doesn’t quite feel like one, though. It’s similar, but not exactly… this hyperawareness.
To be fair, he’s used to being hyperaware of his surroundings. Fighting requires it.
But this is different.
When he’s fighting, all the information his senses gather has a purpose. It gives him escape routes, materials to block or throw, the location of shadows he can potentially use, information about his opponent.
Now, sitting on his friend’s bed, next to that boy, watching some stupid movie—none of it matters. All the information is irrelevant. Annoying. He has nothing to do with it.
So why is his body so alert?
I’m overthinking stupid things.
He closes his eyes, running a hand up his face and into his hair, then turns to the mirror hanging above the sink. He braces himself—at this point, it’s pure instinct—and opens his eyes to meet his own reflection.
He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
This is never going away, is it…?
To pull himself together, he figures he needs to cool down. He still feels too hot. So he does the only thing he can think of: he turns on the tap and places his hands under streaming water. Once they’re soaked, he pulls them away, shakes off the excess, and carefully wipes his face, just enough to dampen it.
That’s when he realizes he might be hotter than he thought. His cheeks are tinged pink, and he is, in fact, sweating.
Another deep breath as he finishes wiping his face and neck, deliberately avoiding touching the scar under his left eye and the ones cutting through his right, like he always does.
One last glance at his reflection— there’s a knock on the door.
“Hey, Fushiguro, are you okay?” Itadori’s voice comes through, soft, almost hesitant, like even asking might unsettle him.
He opens the door to find exactly what he expected: the boy’s standing just a step away, concern written all over him—in his eyes, his posture, everything. It annoys him a little.
“Yeah, I just… needed to cool off. I’m fine.” brushing past him, heading back to sit on the bed. “My head kind of hurts. That’s probably it.”
He can be a great liar when needed—but this time, there’s no need. Fushiguro doesn’t know when it started—whether before the bathroom or the second he set foot outside it—but there’s a slight sting forming in his temples now. Not surprising. Headaches have also become a regular pattern over the past two years. Some weeks he’s fine; other days, he can’t even get out of bed.
Damn his fucked-up brain.
Though maybe that explains all of this. Just another symptom of a migraine coming on. It makes sense.
“Oh—do you want me to get your meds? Or maybe you should lie down?” His friend steps closer, concern still lingering, though now softened by a small, gentle smile.
“Yeah… maybe I should rest.” He doesn’t actually want to leave, but it’s the logical choice. Sleep, then come back later and finish the movie he wasn’t even paying attention to.
As he’s about to stand two hands hover over his shoulders. Not quite touching—just there, like they want to hold him but don’t dare.
After staring at them for a moment longer than necessary, he looks up to find the boy leaning slightly over him.
“Sorry—I, maybe…” Itadori pulls back immediately once their eyes meet. “You can stay here… if you want.” He looks down at the floor, voice barely audible. “I mean, I know my room can be.. noisy, but I can make it comfortable for you—for your headaches, I mean.”
He glances up again, just for a second. There’s something like pleading in his expression.
Fushiguro opens his mouth, not even sure what he’s going to say—but his friend cuts in.
“Look, I—I’m worried.” He exhales, then inhales sharply, like bracing himself. “I’m worried, and it feels wrong to let you go through this alone when maybe I can help.”
The words come out rushed.
“You know, I’ve been looking things up—watching videos and stuff. I learned that too much light can make it worse, so I guess that’s why you keep your room dark when this happens. It kind of scared me, but now I get it…”
He's not even looking at him anymore. He starts pacing, back and forth, unable to stay still.
“…and there are certain scents that can help, and noise too—some people do better with water sounds, though maybe not you, but silence works as well. They say it’s one of the most important thing—” He stops abruptly and turns to him. “Shit. I’m already messing up, aren’t I?”
All Fushiguro can do is nod as the sting builds into a steady throb. Yuuji’s expression falters, guilt flickering across his face.
Oh, that wasn’t his intention at all. But the pounding in his head is getting worse. The TV light, the hum of the fan—they’re unbearable now.
And still, he can’t ignore the warmth building in his chest from the sheer concern the boy has for him. It’s obvious now—he’s nervous because he put effort into this. Into helping him.
The most him thing to do would be: turn the offer down, go back to his own dorm, and follow the well-worn routine he has for days like these.
But he doesn’t want to hurt Itadori’s feelings by rejecting his best intentions to help. And to avoid that, he’d have to explain himself—really explain it—so his friend could understand.
But with each passing second, the headache gets worse.
He just—
He’d just like his mind to shut up for a bit.
“I’ll stay… just turn that fucking TV off.”
He lies down on the bed once again and covers his eyes with the inside of his elbow.
The remnants of blue light filtering through his eyelids disappear just after he hears hurried steps as Itadori searches for the remote to turn the TV off. Still, Fushiguro refuses to remove his arm from his face.
More footsteps—slower this time—and then the fan shuts down as well.
Thanks.
Softer steps now, almost inaudible, and then the window is opened. He tenses slightly, thinking it might ruin the comfort he was just starting to settle into. Light might slip in. Maybe the noise from outside will be too much.
But none of that happens. The sun has almost completely set, and the only sound he can hear is the soft rustling of tree leaves swaying in the wind. And he doesn’t mind it. Not at all.
“You can tell me if you want me to change anything,” Itadori says, almost in a whisper.
He just hums in response.
The pillows beneath his head shift. Peeking from under his elbow, he catches a glimpse of his friend kneeling on the bed beside him, leaning over to adjust them.
That’s probably as much as he can handle.
He stills, and just as he’s about to react—
“Sorry.”
The whisper lands too close. He can feel the warmth of it against his skin.
Three seconds.
The mattress dips—just slightly, but enough for his body to register the added weight.
Heat follows. Not touching, not quite, but there. Hovering. Close enough to feel.
The scent hits him next—familiar, frustratingly so. Too close.
His chest tightens before he can stop it.
Don’t.
And then—It’s gone.
He’s been holding his breath. So he forces himself to exhale, slow and controlled, trying to relax.
I don’t have to think about it. Not now. I don’t have to… I don’t have to.
The sting in his head lingers.
There’s still movement somewhere in the room—soft, careful. Fabric shifting. Something being adjusted. Little reminders that Itadori is still trying to take care of him in the best way he can.
The thought settles somewhere warm in his chest, heavier than it should be.
He exhales slowly again, and lets himself drift.
---
His arm hurts enough to jolt him awake. He must have fallen asleep—but the moment consciousness returns, so does the headache.
Fuck.
He tries to move his arm away from his face, but it doesn’t respond easily. It’s gone half numb from being stuck in the same position for too long, the blood flow cut off.
Flexing his fingers a couple of times. Once. Twice. Control slowly returning.
Using both arms, he pushes himself up, shifting his weight until he’s sitting. The sharp sting in his head makes his face twist in pain.
As he opens his eyes, turns instinctively toward the bedside table.
His meds and a glass of water.
Fushiguro doesn’t waste time. Grabs them, takes the pills, and drinks the entire glass in one go. Only when it’s empty does realize how thirsty he actually was.
He sets it back down and tries to orient himself. Something feels off.
Wrong angle. Wrong position.
His bed faces north—he always knows that—and this isn’t it.
As his eyes adjust to the dim light, he catches sight of the walls.
Ah. Right.
This isn’t his room.
He turns back to the bedside table. Then why are his meds—
“Oh—I went to get them.”
As if reading his mind, his friend’s voice comes softly from somewhere to his right.
“I, uh… I hope I didn’t intrude or anything.”
He turns, finding him lying on his side, a Nintendo Switch resting loosely in his hands, though his eyes are fixed on him.
Of course Itadori knew where to find them. Fushiguro had to ask him to get them from the first drawer of the desk in his room more than once, on worse days—when the pain was too much to even stand.
“Thanks.” His voice comes out raspy, his throat still dry despite the water. He clears it. “…Really. Thank you.”
He notices the way his friend fights back a smile.
“You’re welcome, but…” The smile falters, concern taking its place. “If you needed to take them, that means you’re not better, right?”
“I should’ve taken them before I fell asleep,” he mutters, scolding himself as he closes his eyes, frustration flickering through him. The pain won’t let up. “It’ll probably pass now that I did.”
When he opens his eyes again, he finds Itadori watching him with the saddest, kicked-puppy expression he’s ever seen.
“It’s not the worst migraine I’ve had, anyway. So relax a bit.”
The boy gives a small, crooked smile.
“Okay… just—tell me if there’s anything I can do to help.”
He nods, letting his head sink back into the pillows.
“Just stay with me. That’s enough.”
He doesn’t fully process what he just said.
But it’s not a lie. So he doesn’t dwell on it.
He decides not to dwell on how hard his heart is hammering in his chest after saying it, either. He really shouldn’t read into that.
Must be this fucking weird migraine. That’s it.
---
This time, it’s a strong, forest-like scent that reaches him first when he wakes up. It makes him breathe in deeper, just to pull more of it into his lungs. When he exhales, he can feel his muscles relaxing.
He cracks one eye open, testing whether opening both will send a wave of pain through his skull.
Nothing.
Another deep breath.
He really likes this scent. Something like lavender with eucalyptus, he guesses. Not likely, since they don’t have either of those here. He enjoys it anyway. It’s refreshing without being overwhelming.
He opens the other eye. Even just staring at the ceiling, everything feels dim, soft.
He clears his throat, testing again.
Still nothing.
A shift of weight next to him.
“Um… are you awake?” a whisper.
He answers with a hum.
“Does it still hurt?” the other boy asks, just as softly.
“I don’t think so,” he replies, not even bothering to move his head.
“Good. Really good.” A pause. Then, “I… um… I need to go to the bathroom—and grab something from the common area. Can I?”
“I just woke up and you’re already asking dumb questions.” It comes out a little harsher than he intends. “Of course you can. Why wouldn’t you?”
“Well… it’s just—you asked me to stay with you, so…”
Guilt hits him. He just called him dumb—the same boy who was doing exactly what he asked.
Fushiguro wants to say something—Hey, I’m really sorry. I should’ve realized. You’re not dumb. You’re thoughtful. I’m the idiot.
But the words never make it past his throat.
He hears the bed shift again, then a click—the soft, warm light of a lamp spreading faintly across the ceiling he’s been staring at. A moment later, the bathroom door closes.
He lets out a frustrated sigh. He doesn’t deserve any of this.
He can’t even bring himself to thank him properly—let alone apologize for being rude.
There’s something terribly wrong with me.
He has this incredibly gentle boy as his friend, trying his best to take care of him over a stupid migraine, and somehow he still manages to act like the most ungrateful person alive.
The worst part is—Itadori won’t hold it against him. He never does.
He never gets angry. Never snaps back.
He just takes it. Like he thinks he deserves it.
That thought twists something in his chest. It pisses him off.
Because it’s so fucked up.
He hasn’t moved an inch when the door opens again. Itadori steps out.
“Okay, I’m heading out for a bit… want me to bring you anything?”
“No. It’s fine. Thanks.”
“Well… if you think of anything, just text me. I’ll be in the common area, then I’ll be right back—but if you need anything from there—or from your room—just…”
“It’s fine. Really.”
“Oh. Okay.”
And with that, the boy’s gone, disappearing through the hallway door.
The moment he’s alone, he pushes himself up and sits on the bed. Only then does he realize he’d been staring at a blank spot on the ceiling—just to avoid his friend’s eyes.
He was embarrassed.
For being such an ass.
He tries to push the thought away, forcing his attention elsewhere.
First of all—some good news. His head doesn’t hurt, even sitting up. The medication did its job this time.
Then he lets his gaze wander, distracting himself with a slow inspection of the room. Something about it feels… different.
Itadori’s room is familiar. He’s been in it more than a few times. So what isn’t familiar is the atmosphere.
It doesn’t quite match the usual vibrant, lived-in feeling the room has. Everything is quiet.
Even the soft night breeze coming through the open window feels like it’s asking for permission to enter. It’s so dark he can only make out shapes thanks to the warm, dim light of a lamp. And there’s that scent again—damp green leaves, lingering in the air.
His friend has turned his room into something quiet.
Careful.
For him.
He doesn’t want to dwell on that thought right now. So he shifts his focus back to the lamp.
He knows for sure it’s new. It’s shaped like a full moon, three-dimensional, glowing with a soft, almost orange light. It sits on one of the shelves across from the bed, near the desk under the TV.
He likes what Itadori has done with the shelves. The top is lined with decorations and merch from some of his favorite movies—luckily nothing about Human Earthworm, which would definitely ruin the vibe, in his opinion. In one corner, a trailing plant hangs down, framing the glow of the lamp beneath it. Next to it, there are framed photos of him and his friends.
On the opposite corner of the shelf, a humidifier releases a thin stream of vapor into the air. He hasn’t seen it before, so it also must be new.
There’s a small glass bottle of essential oil beside it.
Ah. That’s where that fresh scent must be coming from.
The lower shelf is packed with Itadori’s favorite manga and figures.
The rest of the room matches—more plants, more photos, more pieces of the things he loves.
Fushiguro reflects on how his friend's taste has improved over the years—from the posters of girls covering the walls when they first met, to this cozy, personalized space he’s built now.
It’s quite a change.
It makes sense. He isn’t that teenage boy anymore, living his mid-teens like anyone else. It’s been a couple of years.
Rough. Traumatic years.
Of course he’s changed. He had to.
And if he really thinks about it, it almost feels like a miracle that Itadori not only retains a certain innocence, but still has that sparkle.
It’s kind of stupid how he can tell that just by looking at his room. But even now, when everything feels adjusted—calmer, softer—this place still feels like the Itadori he once knew. It still carries his presence.
His identity.
That hasn’t changed.
And Fushiguro likes that.
It stirs something in him. Pride, maybe. He isn’t sure—but it makes him feel better, knowing that after everything, that light remains.
Nothing could extinguish it.
Maybe some days it glows dimly, hidden beneath the shadows of that past.
But it’s still there.
And Megumi finds himself wanting nothing more than for it to stay that way.
---
He doesn’t know how much time has passed since he woke up when he finally checks his phone.
Where are you?
Sent 21:32
It’s late.
He took a couple of naps, so he isn’t about to fall asleep anytime soon—but maybe it’s already past his friend’s usual bedtime… and they haven’t even had dinner yet.
Sorrryy, I know I said I’d be right back and it’s been a while, but I’m almost done and heading back :DD
Received 21:34
You still there?
Received 21:35
Yes.
Sent 21:36
I’m buying dinner. What do you want?
Sent 21:37
Ohh, it’s not necessary
Received 21:40
I want to. As a thanks. You took care of me all day
Sent 21:41
Something feels off. Once again, the words spill out of him without a second thought. He’s not processing what he’s saying—writing, in this case—until it’s already sent.
He doesn’t like that. It’s not like him.
*Deleted message*
21:41
Just tell me what you want.
Sent 21:44
Hey! >:( What did you delete???
Received 21:50
Nothing.
Sent 21:51
C’mon, wanna knowww… pleaseee
Received 21:51
Just misspelled something
Sent 21:52
I’m about to buy. What do you want to eat?
Sent 21:53
On my wayyy :D
Received 21:54
This boy’s always hungry. So why isn’t he saying what he wants?
Fushiguro looks back at the chat, his attention drifting to the time again.
It’s really late.
They’ve been here since the afternoon without eating anything. He wasn’t hungry because of the headache, but Itadori—he must be starving.
Maybe he already went to the common area to eat. That would explain why he took so long—almost an hour—and why he kept saying it wasn’t necessary.
Something tightens in his chest again.
He’s being inconvenient.
Staying too long. Sleeping. Not talking, not eating, not doing anything—just lying there while his friend got bored. Hungry.
He should leave.
Now.
He stands up, slips on his slippers, and starts gathering his things—his phone, his keys, his medication. He must have been really sleepy when he took the pills earlier, because he scattered them all over the bedside table while looking for the one he needed.
Now, facing the small table, he has to focus to avoid mixing them up as he sorts them into the case.
“Honey! I’m home!” Itadori’s voice calls from the other side of the door in a sing-song tone as he steps in backward, pushing it open with his back. “Wha—are you leaving?” The cheerful pitch drops the moment his eyes land on Fushiguro, with all his belongings packed.
“I don’t want to inconvenience you anymore. And you didn’t accept my offer to buy dinner, so…” he says, not looking up—he’s almost done with the pills. There’s an edge in his voice that isn’t intentional—but it’s still there.
There’s a pause.
Something shifts in the air, subtle.
Fushiguro frowns, the silence stretching just enough to feel off.
He finally looks up.
And freezes.
Itadori stands there, a tray balanced in his hands.
A pot of steaming meatballs, smaller containers—vegetable broth, rice—and two sets of chopsticks.
“Told you it wasn’t necessary,” Itadori says with a small chuckle. “Not that I didn’t want to eat with you.”
Megumi can’t help the parted-mouth expression at the sight of Yuuji casually showing up with homemade food.
But it doesn’t go unnoticed—the way his friend’s shoulders relax as he realizes why Fushiguro said that.
“Besides, buying food?” Another chuckle escapes. And, as if growing more confident, he adds, “Kind of disappointing, coming from you, smart guy. Where were you going to buy it? Delivery doesn’t come this far, and I haven’t been notified of any convenience store opening in the school forest.” Even more mockingly, “And trust me, I’d be the first one to know.”
Okay. Itadori is definitely making fun of him.
They’re literally in the mountains outside Tokyo—no shops around, no delivery reaching here. He knows that. Of course he wasn’t thinking of buying anything from a store or ordering food.
But it takes Fushiguro a moment to compose himself; the surprise melts into a scowl before he finally answers,
“I was thinking of instant ramen. Or something else from the vending machines,” he says, sounding embarrassed.
He is, in fact, embarrassed. The kind that burns quiet—sharpened by a hint of anger at himself.
He shouldn’t be surprised. He should’ve expected this from his friend.
Itadori is the kind of person this world couldn’t even dream of deserving.
Good at his core—thoughtful, caring, forgiving. His existence feels like an accident in a world this twisted, this broken.
Of course he did. Of course he cooked for him.
Ah. I really don’t deserve this.
---
They sit at the kotatsu placed between the bed and the open window.
The warmth gathered beneath the table keeps them comfortable as the cool night air slipping in helps replace the herbal scent that filled the room not long ago, giving way to the aroma of meat, ginger, and broth.
It smells so good, it has already awakened Fushiguro’s appetite.
“So… you’re totally free from the headache?” the boy sitting across from him asks, right before popping a meatball into his mouth.
“Yeah. It’s gone,” he says, picking at some vegetables.
“Great!”
The faint clink of chopsticks against ceramic fills the space between them, and for a moment, that’s all there is—the quiet rhythm of eating, the occasional glance, the steam rising from the food.
But he can’t do this anymore. He can’t let this pass as if it’s something so natural. He needs to acknowledge it. He wants to thank him.
And he’s such a disaster at it.
“You didn’t have to cook for me.” he starts, focusing on the food.
“Well, the least I could do was make your favorite. You had a really bad day.”
“I didn’t. It was just a headache.”
It really wasn’t that bad—he didn’t even need the stronger medication to manage it. Besides, there are far worse things than a migraine.
He pauses, his gaze dropping briefly to his bowl.
Just fucking say it.
“…Thanks. For everything you did today.” He hates how it sounds a little forced. He really means it.
“What do you mean?”
Itadori always acts like this. Like all the little acts of kindness he shows everyone are just… normal. The way things are.
And not what they really are: the result of effort. Of choice.
Of the small—and not so small—sacrifices he’s constantly making.
He never accepts a thank you without downplaying whatever’s being acknowledged. And the worst part is that Fushiguro is almost certain he doesn’t even do it consciously.
Like Yuuji isn’t even aware of how good he is.
And that frustrates him.
He can’t hold back the sigh that escapes him. After closing his eyes for a moment, he opens them and looks straight at his friend—forcing Itadori to meet his gaze.
“You know what I mean,” he says, deadpan. He has to know. At some point, he has to know. “Just—thanks.” He says it again without breaking eye contact. He really wants to make it clear.
“Oh. Okay. You’re welcome, then.”
The boy in front of him gives him a bright, almost proud smile. Then something shifts—a flicker of something softer—and he looks away, suddenly shy.
“Though… I—well…” He scratches the back of his neck, letting out a small, sheepish chuckle. “I wanted to ask you something, so maybe, unconsciously, I was trying to get on your good side.”
That catches him off guard, but it doesn’t bother him at all. If anything, it feels… fair. About time he asks for something.
And even then, there’s still something almost guilty in the way he says it.
“Ask,” he says, already returning to his food.
Whatever it is, he’ll likely entretein it.
If it’s something meaningful, he’ll follow. He trusts Itadori more than anyone, and he knows perfectly well he owes his life to that boy.
But it’s probably one of his usual antics.
His mind is already running ahead—He bets it’s going to be about some stupid, gross, pointless movie. Or maybe he’ll try, once again, to convince him to go to a pachinko place just for the thrill of it, or—
Oh. He knows.
“Well, if you did all this just to get me to summon Kon or Datto for you to—”
“Stay tonight.”
Itadori cuts him off.
For a second, the words don’t land.
What?
He lifts his head instantly, only to find Itadori looking down—almost hiding.
“What?” he repeats out loud this time. He must have misheard.
Yuuji sets his chopsticks down next to his bowl, takes a breath, and lifts his gaze to meet his.
Golden flecks catch in warm hazel—determination now too clear in his eyes.
Then, like it takes all his courage, he forces each word out—
“Stay. Tonight. With me.”