Chapter Text
People say when bones break, they come back stronger and better.
It's not the same for a human heart.
Yuuji's going to maul that alien from limb to limb, is his first thought. The next is, why?
"Itadori," Megumi's eyes shift to him, aquamarine swirling with neatly hidden concern, a look Yuuji's sorely missed for the past four years, "Mind telling us what you're spacing out on? In case you haven't noticed, we're trying to defeat the King of Curses, mind you. Kurusu's not going to wait forever. If we have a plan, we need to make it now."
"What Grumpy said!" Takaba chirps cheerfully, red-gloved hands making a pretty little pattern of waves, bright and happy — quite the contrast to Kurusu and Megumi's dreary mood, as Yuuji's gaze slowly pans from the desolate ruin known as Tokyo to Takaba, slow and bewildered. "Pinky, we got no time for spacing out, though the outside does look very space-y. Got any words to share?"
Yuuji blinks. Once. Twice. His vision's not gotten worse. Nor is it swimming with ripples, or with any kind of disrepencies to show him it's not the Japan he knows. Oh, he knows where this is. It's the last place he saw Megumi before humanity was stripped from him, those lovely aquamarine gone, replaced with sinister rubies set in place of what should have been something like twinkling diamonds. It's when Megumi was Fushiguro, and when Yuuji was Itadori.
"Itadori," comes a sharp, nearly scolding voice. "I'll ask once more. Do you know the whereabouts of the Disgraced One?"
In a flash of scarlet invading his peripheral, Yuuji finds himself sequestered amongst those bloody pools once more, stared down by those cruel, cruel eyes marked by that cruel, cruel smile. It's warm lapping at his feet, blood soaking into the fabric of what he assumes to be his Jujutsu High uniform at the time, should this not be a dream.
"I'll tell you a secret, brat," Sukuna grins, that crescent breaking through teeth to show pointed canines tugging at the edges of his lip, cold and frigid — yet boiling and fiery, the very existence of him willing to make atoms bend to his will. "I'm the Disgraced One. Angel will execute you, and I will be erased alongside you. Are you willing to do that, brat?"
Yuuji considers the question for approximately one second before raising an eyebrow. He really is getting too old for these dreams, he thinks with a sigh. How many has it been these past few years? Far too many. First came Shibuya, second, the Culling Games, third, Shinjuku, and fourth, Post-Shinjuku, he recalls with a weary grumble. And now, it seems, he's looped back to the Culling Games.
"Sure," he says, careless, and Sukuna's grin falters for the first time ever in his memory. "Sure. Let her execute me. What's it to you, Disgraced One?"
"Sor—"
"Itadori!"
Yuuji finds himself back in the room, staring out at a plain of blinking lights rather than pools of incarnadine swirls, his eyes flitting to the reflection in the glass, a hand clutching his shoulder. It's solid, slightly warm, and a waft of wet pine and dirt carries its scent to Yuuji's nose the longer Megumi's hand stays on his shoulder.
"Itadori," Megumi repeats once more, a sort of grounding force that ties Yuuji from forcing his mind back to Sukuna's domain, purely out of curiousity. He doesn't remember having Megumi's scent floating through his dreams. He only remembers it in the forests of Japan, sort of sleek like a ferret, sliding through brush to sneak itself into Yuuji's mind. "What's up with you? Are you hurt from Higuruma, or what?"
"Megumi?" Yuuji tries, the name sliding from his lips as easy as anything else, and Megumi's hand loosens on his shoulder, and Yuuji finds himself thinking why, why, why—
Megumi's hand creeps away, retracting from the now rumpled fabric resting on Yuuji's shoulder to leave a cooling patch of skin. "Itadori," Megumi says for the third time, now lined with surprise, slight confusion, and a hint of worry intwined with his words. "What's up with you? You were paying attention when Kurusu and Angel were talking. Do you know who the Disgraced One is?"
I do.
"I don't."
Fucking coward.
"Sorry, Fushiguro. My bad."
Sorry, Megumi. My bad.
"It's fine, Itadori."
It's fine, Yuuji.
"We'll find him together, then."
Yuuji remembers how this scene played out, all those years ago — sixty-eight, if his math is correct. He signalled to Megumi how the Disgraced One (more like your average scruffy cat you picked off the side of the road, but whatever) was inside him, then they made a plan. Then the other people came, with their grenades and guns and handcuffs, and then—
There's no point about thinking about what came after that. What matters is the fact that if this is indeed not a dream, as Yuuji's coming to suspect, then he's already made some severe changes to the timeline. Now, Megumi doesn't know the identity of the Disgraced One, and if Yuuji tries to kill himself, it'll amount to absolutely nothing at all.
"Pinky kitten, you good?" Takaba leans in, dangling a pilfered onigiri from his pincher fingers, the plastic unravelling by the force of gravity in front of his eyes. Hesitantly, Yuuji takes it, completing the tab's journey down and taking the sides apart, tossing them on the floor. "It's tu-na-up! Ha! Get it? You know, to tune-you-up?"
Yuuji allows a faint smile to play on his lips, preoccupied with running his fingers over the crinkly seaweed, it ruffling under his touch. "Thanks, Takaba," he lets fall from his lips, lifting the food to his mouth and taking a bite. It's stale, the rice grains hard and nearly unswallowable as a bunch, and the tuna is all but rotten as he swirls it about with his tongue. He manages to choke it down, tickling his throat as it falls down his esophagus. "It's great. Really did tune-me-up."
Takaba clicks his tongue, tapping Yuuji's nose with those rubbery gloves of his before prancing off, spinning about in delight at Yuuji's participation with his shenanigans happily. "You're learning, kitten! I'll teach you the ways someday, fear not. From now on, you can call me Takaba-sensei! And you'll be my best student, pinky-kun!"
"Itadori," Megumi interrupts their brief interaction, and Yuuji's attention locks onto his serious tone, past mistake forgotten. "Thoughts? On Angel's conditions. Finding this 'Disgraced One' adds a lot of layers to our plan, but Angel's indispensable in terms of technique and abilities. Getting back to Tengen-sama is also a big part. We might need to split up, but we need to narrow down the amount of players that might be possessed by this 'Disgraced One' first."
Yuuji nods slowly. "Kogane," he summons, the familiar white beast springing into existence beside him, just as it'd been. "Pull up a list of the players for me?"
Of course, it does so easily, without a single problem, and Yuuji finds it a sort of comfort. A sick comfort, but a comfort nonetheless, to have something that follows the rules set for it easily. His eyes rove the kani, familiar names springing out at him; Hakari-senpai, Kashimo, Okkotsu-senpai, Maki-senpai, Higuruma, and the ones gathered in the room, of course.
He pretends to look through them alongside Megumi, Kurusu staring at Megumi all the while. Takaba in the corner, playing with the shopping bag, its rustles the only disturbance in their otherwise perfectly silent group of pretend look-see. Internally, Yuuji's quite off-put. The name "Fushiguro"'s not slipped from his lips in the past ten years, always 'Megumi', always 'Blessing'.
Yuuji knows, though. He knows he can just say the words, and everyone will know, everyone will know that he's the one for them to kill, the sacrifice for Gojo to escape from the Prison Realm. It's a fine sacrifice. He's lived through all of this already; who's to say this isn't a dream, anyways? Megumi will simply live his life, and Yuuji will live his in hell. Assuming he can be killed in a not-dream, of course. Surely his blood won't meddle in yet another attempt to take his life, surely not, surely. Surely.
"Nothing stands out to you, Itadori?" Megumi's voice cuts through his inner ponderings, Kogane's scrolling list pausing as Yuuji glances back to Megumi, finding solace in the sudden pause taken in their search. Yuuji shakes his head without thinking, everything floaty in his head as he answers. Megumi's eyes close in a brief admission of exhaustion before waving his hand to dismiss Kogane, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"It's fine, Fushiguro," Yuuji tries to comfort him, meek and quiet even to his ears. His voice falters for just a second before regaining volume, picking up as he plows on. "We'll find this person eventually. As long as we keep Kurusu here, then Angel can't leave, right? And — And then we can free Gojo-sensei, and your sister will be fine, and everything'll work out. You'll see."
Megumi's lashes flutter to the top of his eyelids to gaze at Yuuji for the secondist of seconds, emerald leaves fluttering against ocean breeze to stare at him. They turn back, curtained once more as Megumi allows himself to slump down, giving into the tiredness surely weighing on him.
"You're always so optimistic, Itadori," Megumi admits, a twang of jealousy strumming through his words, clear and nearly bitter in a way Yuuji can't quite place. Like a lime's in his mouth, coating his thoughts with a perpetual dusting of sour-sweet. "Even after Shibuya. Sometimes, I wonder. Don't you think Kurusu's replacing Kugisaki?"
Don't you think Kurusu's replacing Kugisaki?
Don't you think you're replacing Gojo, Yuuji?
Yuuji blinks those memories away, slamming them down with layers of age as he considers this Megumi's question with a quiet thoughtfulness. "I don't think so," he answers with a light stand of conviction, sure it's the right answer. No one could ever hope to match Kugisaki. "Kurusu's Kurusu, and Kugisaki's Kugisaki. Who's gonna torture us with her shopping bags, Megu—Fushiguro? Definitely not her. And Kugisaki's not dead."
"You did it again."
Yuuji starts. "What?"
"You called me Megumi," Megumi tells him, brow furrowed, like he wants to dissect Yuuji under a microscope and pick apart his brain, spill them out for the world to see. He normally sees that look over morning pancakes, Yuuji thinks dryly, a jolt of panic running through his nerves nonetheless at Megumi's squinted gaze. Like Megumi wants to stab his fork into the cooked batter and seperate it from the syrup drizzled over.
"I guess because you are," Yuuji says back lightly, shrugging to dispel the air of solemnity Megumi's created. "And maybe because it's shorter to yell in battles. I'm just getting some extra practice in, you know. I'll call you Fushiguro from now on, though, fear not. It was an experiment of the highest caliber, something your sea-urchin mind couldn't grasp."
Megumi pauses, regarding him with a confused look before turning away, the musty cushions giving rise to piles of dust with his movement. "Sure," he concedes, sounding not at all opposed to the idea, Yuuji notes with some rising tings of hope. "Just make sure you're in the present for this, Itadori. We'll need your strength for fights. Sleep while you can."
Yuuji just hums in acknowledgement, settling back on the cushions Megumi's already sprawled on, trying to find that untouchable string that leads one to sleep. It's a struggle — not when Megumi's right next to him, alive, alive! — and Yuuji can simply enjoy the silence forcibly created by pushing Kurusu and Takaba's mutterings out from the corner of his mind.
So, it would seem he's not having a dream. Dreams never play out so rationally, and dreams never allow him to breathe in the scent of wet pine that accompanied(s) Megumi everywhere, never, never, never. And dreams never allow him to be so close, always yanking him away whenever he tries to grasp anything close to any of his friends, not the hems of their clothes, not anything.
That thoughts tethers him down, and that thought alone is what allows his eyes to close shut, even in the turmoil surely raging outside of the rickety office building the four of them call a tentative home.
Also, the whisper of breath fluttering from Megumi's lips, impacting the plush below.
"Itadori."
His eyelids flutter, a sort of mucus-like texture settling over them like film as Yuuji slowly blinks up at a pair of wide, wide emeralds, curtained by soft platinum bearily. "Itadori," Kurusu repeats, her voice soft and nearly apologectic as she shakes Yuuji awake, her fingers dainty on his arm. "There's trouble. Megumi's awake already."
Blankets rustle over his figure as Yuuji pushes himself up, biting back a yawn threatening to spill from his teeth as he squints across the room, where Megumi and Takaba stand by the window, gazing at something below them with increasing tension growing in the room. After seeing his eyes open and alert, Kurusu dips her head shallowly before joining the two, gesturing for Yuuji to join them.
His feet thump on the wooden-planked floor of the building, and he tosses the fraying blanket aside to join the three. It's daytime, he realizes, the sun illuminating what seems to be neat troops of antlike bodies down the abandoned roads of Tokyo. He must have slept for longer than he thought, it seems. Takaba's silent, for once, as he looks down at the troops with a mixture of awe and amazement in those pools of ebony.
"Are those soldiers?" Megumi mutters under his breath, incredulous. "In Japan, in the Culling Games? What's Kenjaku thinking?"
A mouth sprouts on Kurusu's cheek, teeth parting to answer Megumi's question as Kurusu's eyes flick to it for a moment, taken aback. "It's a failsafe," the ancient sorcerer explains shortly, moving the skin and muscle of Kurusu's cheek along with her explanation. "In case the players in the Culling Games don't generate enough negative energy, the thousands of people dying will. It's just Kenjaku's style, see."
And there were never truer words spoken, Yuuji thinks drolly listening to Kurusu's words, recalling their fight against Kenjaku. The Americans were random, though, he has to admit — they'd come back after Gojo's death, thinking the sorcerers would be easy pickings, but the group'd defeated them without much trouble.
…But it's not like it'd be much trouble, if this isn't a dream, only if, only if! — Yuuji can simply go down and kill all of them, no? And no one else will have to launch themselves into battle for his sake, not for Sukuna, just for themselves to survive.
He refuses to think about what happens after the Americans come. Yuuji can deal with that when the time comes.
"It might be better to go down and stop them before they become too much of a problem, then," Megumi mulls it over, eyes fixed on the troops storming down the street, their synced footsteps echoing and vibrating all the way to their building. "They're coming into here soon as well. Itadori, let's go down and investigate before that happens. They could either be standardized military or no one at all — let's assume the former, but prepare for the latter."
Yuuji's lips part to protest, but they close, his lips wettening as a taste of copper washes from his nose all the way to his tongue, sharp and biting. When Megumi turns to him for the decision, he nods in affirmation, and Takaba follows them out the building without a further word. The troops' marches sync up with his heartbeat, a steady cadence hammering away at his chest.
Is it time travel? The thought floats through his mind, embedded into his brain as Yuuji follows mindlessly, allowing his thoughts to wander with the smooth feel of walking and following. It could be, he amends the disbelieving tone, it could be. But why? What purpose does it achieve? Is now truly 2018, when he remembers a world run over by the numbers of 2-0-8-3?
"You take the left," Megumi's voice hisses, shaking Yuuji out of his stupor. He blinks, realizing the troops are nearly approaching them, and Takaba's already stretching beside them, Megumi's shadow rippling with small dots dancing in their depths, revealing wide, blinking eyes emerging from its depths. "I'll take the right, and Takaba…you go do Takaba things. I'm not sure what to tell you."
"On it, Grumpy-head!" Takaba chirps before bounding off, striking a pose and spinning like a ballerina in a box, outfit a bright beacon in the otherwise dreary atmosphere. "I'll deal with whatever comes my way, then I'll okama-way back to you!"
He leaves it at that with a floppy joke, a contagious laugh, and the sound of his feet slapping on the ground as Megumi rubs his temples, sighing from his nose before turning to the cacaphony outside. "Itadori. Let's go. They seem to be fighting with curses, so—"
"They're not fighting with curses," Yuuji cuts in, nose wrinkled in distaste at the scent. He knows the scent of disintegrating curse blood better than most food, and how to differentiate it from the scent of burning human flesh. "They're fighting with humans. Something burning their flesh as well. That's not the smell of a dying curse, Fushiguro."
Megumi stays silent, and Yuuji's fingers snap together in his pocket for preparation for the attack. Before he can step forward, Megumi stops him with his words, muttered and nearly regretful as they float through the air, hurled like a boulder before he can regret his words.
"You can tell, Itadori?"
Yuuji pauses. I can tell because I've been fighting them all my life, he wants to say, chucking those words from the depths of the blood and disgust curdling and crystallizing in his throat. I can tell, because I tried to be a monster and failed. Gojo-sensei did, Okkotsu-senpai did, and I couldn't, I fucking couldn't, because I'm a coward and I ran from all my problems, including you, Megumi.
Instead, he waves Megumi off before heading to where crackles echo, Megumi's footsteps following behind him. "Just a guess, Fushiguro," he chokes out, cursed energy surely surging had it not been restrained. "Just a guess," he repeats, faltering before changing the topic. "I'll meet up with you after we figure out what the people're up to, yeah?"
Megumi's words fade out with distance as Yuuji breaks into a run, running away from him and everything, just as in 2071, running and running and running.
"Hey! Stop!"
Something clatters on the ground in front of him, exploding instantly in billowing plumes of smoke and flames licking at the oxygenless air, dying without substenance. Yuuji's fingers come together, snapping neatly, and the very atoms making up every part of the explosive split in half neatly at the seams. He squints, waving away the smokey bits still floating about, and the clicks of ten guns surround him in an instant.
"Put your hands up, sorcerer," one of thems snaps at him in English, laced with fear and wavering confidence as Yuuji stays standing still, his hands firmly stuck in his pockets. The guns stay still and held tightly by clutched hands, allowing for the person's waning confidence to slowly trickle back, addressing Yuuji with growing self-assurance. "Come quietly, or we shoot."
As he speaks, he makes a sort of gun movement with his hand, pointing to Yuuji, then to the guns surrounding them, then to himself, holding the mock gun and shooting it in his head. He mimes a tongue lolling behind his helmet before staring Yuuji down, feet firmly planted on the ground.
Their guns tense as Yuuji brings his hands forward, pointing them to the sky, index, middle and ring slowly coming together, cursed energy snapping to close to zero. His eyes catch a ripple from one of their shadows, and a tongue shoots out of every one, wrapping around them and pinning their arms to their sides, pairs of bright yellow eyes glimmering from behind those tongues, buried in the darkness of their shadows.
Trying to make it inconspicuous, his conjointed fingers make a little slicing movement in the air, and bloods spurts from their necks, trickling down skin, clear in the sunlight. The bodies fall limp in Gammas' tongues, and Yuuji's hands go back into his pockets as Megumi approaches, lips pulling into a scolding twist.
"Itadori," Megumi starts, hints of disapproval attempting to guise the sharp blades of worry lancing through his words, clear and pointed. "What made you think it was a good idea to run outside without backup? There were soldiers everywhere, and they would have made their way into the building eventually. What's with you?"
"Tired, I guess," Yuuji shrugs it off, the bodies falling to the ground with dead thumps as Gammas' tongues retract, melting into Megumi's shadow as a cohesive blob of frogs and contours. "But they're all de—unconscious now, right? That should do it. Takaba's probably dealing with the others, and the senpai are adding rules. Let's head back now."
He swivels on his heel, eyes firmly fixed on the gaping mouth of the building opposite to them. Inside, he can feel some dregs of cursed energy waning away — he doesn't remember the details of this event, but they must have learned why the Americans were here at some time, right? Perhaps it's now, he mulls it over, the world around fading to nearly nothing in the absence of speaking conversations.
Megumi stays silent as well on the way there, a forty-five seconds mixed with pure confusion and unspoken words that seem to scream their meanings to the world, loud and clear. A growling maw manifests beside him, a wolflike silhouette clear alongside Megumi's cast on the ground, little drops of liquidlike cursed energy dripping from its pointed, pearlescent fangs.
"Grumpy-cat!" Takaba's voice rings out, still cheerful, still a spark of colour against the dreary, musty feel the building has, now splattered with blood from a fight with soldiers. A gunshot rings out, piercing neatly through Takaba's head, leading to a sprinkler-like spout of blood to begin spurting from the hit head.
Divine Dog bounds through the building, ripping at throats and shaking its blood-clotted fur to dislodge the hot, sticky liquid, soldiers falling in its warpath. Megumi follows, a giant mass of feathers — Nue, before Sukuna's — sparking with crackles of electricity, bodies falling like pieces of wood from those scintillating scarlet feathers. A metal cylinder rolls on the floor near Yuuji's feet — it splits with a simple cut, halves rolling like severed heads on the floor.
Nearly lazily, his hand comes forward, forming a splayed, outstretching palm vertically. "Dismantle," he murmurs, low and inaudible, and columns crumble to neatly sliced cubes, balancing as if taken through a waffle-maker. The people beginning to gather in front of him fall as well, collapsing into little bloody hunks of flesh, Megumi and Takaba too distracted by the soldiers in front to notice the pools of blood steadily spreading across the floor, bathing all of their shoes in crimson sanguine.
Iron hits him first, stabbing him in the tongue, nearly satisfying in the way it should have been before it became disgusting, rot creeping from his throat to clamber over his tongue, grabing it tight and holding it close. It then crawls into his sinuses, allowing for a choking motion deep in the recesses of his trachea, yanking on the strings held tight to produce sound.
Soon enough, it falls silent. Silent, in the way that follows death, the death of masses by their hands. Divine Dog returns to Megumi's side, blood falling from its open jaws, the remaining chunks of human meat, ripped-out throats, muscle and sinew wrapped like a neat little parcel for its jaws to carry. Its claws, drenched with human blood, a single eyeball lodged in between its claws like a grape on a skewer, hind legs soaked up to the knee in wine-red.
At the corner of a nearly sliced column, there's a man. A man, dressed in khaki, helmet ripped off, the strap hanging from Divine Dog's teeth like a mere chocolate in its mouth, falling to the floor as Megumi raises his hand. "Tell us," he growls, low and threatening, Divine Dog adding a layer of terror to the man's glazed eyes as Yuuji approaches, considering the soldier. "Why are you here? What's your objective?"
"I don't know all the details," the man groans in a daze, leaning back as red trickles from an open wound on the temple of his head, bruised and nearly purple in the wound. "But I think they want to study your cursed energy as an alternative energy source, so they're kidnapping sorcerers. You Japanese."
Ironic, Yuuji thinks dryly, considering his Japanese is flawless. He notes the natural black hair falling from his scalp, the dark brown eyes, pulled on by stress. The features of an average citizen. A traitor?
Megumi seems to have the same thought, his fingers twitching as Takaba takes the initiative, grabbing the man's chest and shaking him back and forth, the bloodstained skin slowly becoming a pale shade of sage green at the motion. "You betrayed your country!" Takaba sobs, tears intermingling with the blood falling on the floor, creating ripples in the liquid.
"You just wanted to say that," Megumi grumbles, Demon Dog disappearing with a flick of his hand. His eyes pierce holes into the man's face, Yuuji watching closely from behind. "They must want a way to become self-sufficient," he ponders out loud, exhaustion weighing on his voice like a weight on muscles. "What other information you have?"
Yuuji tunes the rest of the conversation out, remembering enough faint details to understand the situation. If everything goes like this…Tsumiki will be possessed by Yorozu soon, and Sukuna will take over Megumi again.
…Is there really nothing he can do to stop Sukuna? There's no way he can exactly stop a Binding Vow from being enacted, after all. He's supposed to have no idea of its existence — he still doesn't know the exact terms, having puzzled out the gist of it with Ieiri and Gojo in the month before December twenty-fourth. Objectively, the best way to fix this shitshow of an event is to interfere in Shinjuku, when Megumi's already gone.
Considering this isn't a dream, of course. Considering, considering, considering.
But he doesn't want to, Yuuji realizing as time goes on. He doesn't want to say goodbye to Megumi, he doesn't want scarlet to overtake those aquamarine depths, he doesn't want Sukuna's marks marring Megumi's skin, he doesn't want to see his body, not again, not again, never again. He doesn't want Gojo to have to kill Megumi, he doesn't want to wait a month before Megumi wakes up, he's selfish and stupid and idiotic for those simple days when it was just Kugisaki, Megumi, Gojo, and him against the convinience store deals and the great evils of the meat aisle in the grocery stores.
Yorozu…there's no way to prevent that. The seed is already planted, the remnants of her already stuck in Tsumiki. If it's in her soul, though—
Can he do some shenanigans of the soul-type and fool around in Tsumiki's soul, extract Yorozu, and…what? Leave an ancient sorcerer with one of the most powerful techniques known to jujutsu to run around, perhaps team up with Kenjaku, and let some random Marine be possessed by her? What, exactly, is Yuuji meant to do in that situation?
The more pressing issue here is Megumi, obviously. If everything plays out, Sukuna will enact the Binding Vow, subsequently setting off the series of events leading to Shinjuku, then leading to Gojo's detah and Megumi's scarring. But he can't do anything about a Binding Vow between two individuals without both of them agreeing — and even then, it's iffy. Does Yuuji count as the same Yuuji who made the Binding Vow? If yes, does his perception of Sukuna interfere with it? Can he reject it completely if he can convince Sukuna against it?
"Ah."
Megumi raises a smartphone, miraculously alive and blinking despite nearly drowning in blood, something an Apple is probably not meant to survive. "Zen'in-senpai's coming with news of Tsukumo and the Death Painting, Itadori," he announces rather bleakly, the gray screen glowing with little green and white blurbs dotted with writing. "I'll ask Zen'in-senpai to bring Tsumiki when she comes. Angel, Kurusu, can we prepare for the pre-prep to end, and the fourth rule to be added?"
"Anytime," Kurusu answers lightly, fluttering down from the balcony above where she'd been witnessing the bloodbath from a distance. "I can relinquish control to Angel and let her do Jacob's Ladder, though there might be some additional conditions to using her technique I'm not aware of. Angel?"
"We'll talk later, Fushiguro," Angel voices, tone high and sharp, teeth lifting skin to answer Megumi. "Let's wait until your senior arrives, then I'll let you know any conditions for my technqiue. I'll need to know everything, however, so keep that in mind when speaking about the new rules added and such. Keep an eye out for any loopholes or issues. Kenjaku can be tricky like that, see."
"Any thoughts, Itadori?" Megumi turns to him, the beginnings of violet bruising his under-eye, still struggling nonetheless.
"Do you think this's a dream, Megumi?" Yuuji says nearly dreamily, shaking his head to get rid of the fog floating through his mind, colouring it a dark, dark gray.
"Are you stupid, Itadori?"
"Maybe."
Maybe he is. Stupid for those days, perhaps. Those days, those days when everything was bright, like days of childhood streaming juice down sticky fingertips, when the most serious parts of conversations were who got the peach soda (obviously superior to strawberry, take that, Kugisaki) rather than the fate of a city containing over ten million people.
"Itadori."
His eyes flick to the mouth on Kurusu's cheek.
"Are you sure you don't know who the Disgraced One is?"
His lips part.
"No."
Darkness, again—
"Itadori. I'll ask once more. Do you know the whereabouts of the Disgraced One?"
He blinks.
Pools of blood return, lapping at his feet, warm and wet as they soak into the dry cuffs of his pants. Sukuna's eyes stare down at him, cruel and mocking. "I'll tell you a secret, brat."
"You're the Disgraced One," Yuuji finishes for him, ignoring the look of pure bewilderment appeaing on his face. "I know, I know. You told me before, Sukuna."
He returns to under their gazes, Kurusu's sparkling emeralds, Megumi's curious, questioning aquamardine, Takaba's inquisitive obsidian, and Angel's pearl-like teeth, raising the skin of the cheek like a curtain. Something cold wraps around his spine, holding it tight, crawling across like ectoplasm haunting his figure.
"Sukuna's the Disgraced One," he says, the words spilling from his lips. "And I'm the Vessel of Sukuna."
Darkness, again—
"Itadori. I'll ask once more. Do you know the whereabouts of the Disgraced One?"
He blinks.
Blood soaks into the dry cuffs of his pants, Sukuna gazing down at him with cruelty and slight revulsion, yet entertainment in those eyes. "I'll tell you a secret, brat," Sukuna grins at him one more time, those teeth stretching to reveal sharp canines glimmering in the dimly lit area. "I'm the Disgraced One."
He's back under their eyes.
This time, he does what happened sixty-eight years ago. Yuuji catches Megumi's eye, points to himself and to Kurusu in a frankly ridiculous manner, watching as his eyes become filled with understanding and dawning horror, flying around the room rapidly like flies on a window-pane.
Everything plays out as before, and soon enough, they're with Maki, learning of Choso's fight with Kenjaku and Tsukumo's sacrifice.
And this time, no darkness comes to claim Yuuji, no more piercing eyes sharpen and stab him, and he stays the way he is.
"The pre-prep ending is one thing," Maki tells them, hand resting on her hip as her eyes consider the motley crew, somehow appearing even more muscular than she seemed before, if possible. "But according to your older brother, Itadori, Kenjaku took Tengen-sama."
It's all happening again.
Shinjuku is playing out, the pieces set up on the metaphorical chessboard for everything to go down. Kenjaku has Tengen, Yuuji still has no idea what's going on, and the Binding Vow is still in effect, same as ever. Tsukumo's gone, Yuuji knows there's nothing he could have done, but still — still, still, there should have been something he could have done to prevent it, perhaps.
"Tsukumo's the same rank as Yuuta, yet she lost despite a Death Painting and Tengen-sama helping her fight Kenjaku," Maki notes calmly, cold and analytic. "We always knew Kenjaku would be a challenge. At least the back of the Prison Realm is safe, so Gojo's still in play."
The merger's not started because of some conditions Yuuji's not quite sure of himself, though it might have something to do with the Culling Games, considering Okkotsu's report on the whole fiasco with Kenjaku.
Everything goes as it had before. Maki, Kurusu, and Megumi engage in conversation, Yuuji adding little bits when the time comes for him to speak, otherwise staying quiet despite Megumi's side-glances shot his way every now and then. Megumi's phone buzzes after about five to ten minutes of chatting, and he brings it to his eyes before putting a pin in the drowned-out conversation, heading up the building's stairs while gesturing for them to follow.
"Ijichi-san's sending Tsumiki over soon," he explains by a means of telling, Yuuji staying away from the rusting iron bars lining the stairs they trek up, elevator long since out of commission. "We added the rule, and now, we'll transfer the points to her so she can exit the Games. Everyone in for it?"
"Sure."
They're here again. Tsumiki's not Tsumiki, and Megumi — should Yuuji call him Fushiguro, he's getting confused within those dreams — is falling apart once more. Wings sprout from Yorozu's back, crystallized fractals reflecting light through those prismatic amber rhombuses, giving flight to her body and allowing her to fly away.
Kurusu rushes forward. Megumi Fushiguro follows, albeit a little slower.
Yuuji stays still.
A mouth opens on his cheek, teeth pulling on it much like Kurusu's.
"Enchain."
Yuuji's back, and Sukuna is in Megumi. He laughs, sharp and cruel, extending a hand to a starry-eyed Kurusu, falling from the heavens like an angel from Gabe, and blood spouts from Kurusu's body like a fountain of liquid crimson given solid form, arcing through the air like some dolphin flying through waves.
And once again, those virescent, aquamarine waves are washed away by a sweeping tide of scarlet, a black pupil swirling into a little pearl in the middle like those black pearls of myth, set on oysters rare a find. Those lips, once twisted into some sort of ugly frown, turning into a crooked grin, all teeth and fangs and sharp, pointed canines that could rip into flesh without a second thought.
A flurry of Dismantles come his way, a perpetual storm of atom-splitting slashes given physical form trying to cut into his skin.
What happens when one splits atoms already split by some unknown force?
The answer, it seems is a simple collison of the strongest, a clash to see which intangible blade is stronger against the other. And for all of Sukuna's strength, his power, experience, prestige, Yuuji's still stronger, for all the wrong reasons.
And everything goes dark again.
Somehow, Yuuji's alive, and Gojo is unsealed. He's not exactly sure where they got here, to be honest, but all that matters is that Megumi's not here, and Sukuna's not in him. Which leads from one to another, pointing to conclusions that shouldn't be pointed to, big fat circles drawn around words that form themselves into sentences in his mind.
Gojo's met Sukuna already, and has returned to them. Yuuji avoids him for as long as he can, until finally, Gojo corners him, and wordlessly gestures to meet him in a room.
Like a fool, Yuuji follows.
"Yuuji-kun," Gojo starts, oh gods that voice, nearly patronizing in the tone one might take with a patient with a particularly bad mental disorder. "Are you alright?"
Are you alright?
Yuuji, are you alright?
No, I'm not, Megumi. I'm never alright. Not for as long as I live, not for as long as I breathe, not for as long as I have to watch those around me die while I stay healthy and fit and young and disgusting.
Yuuji blinks slowly, tired and exhausted, but most of all, confused beyond belief. "Fine," he says lethargically, the weight of everything tugging on his vocal cords. "Why?"
"Shoko says you've been out of it ever since Megumi," Gojo traces the edge of the chair he's sitting on, eyes darting away before going back to Yuuji, assessing and cold and frigid and everything Yuuji always hoped to see but never could. "Understandable. But you need to understand, Yuuji. It's not your fault for it. Wanna talk?"
Yuuji manages a shaky laugh, the irony of the situation finally hitting him after floating through talks with Hakari and Kirara, after planning with Kurusu, after half-hearted conversations with Takaba. "Not particularly," he admits honestly, watching Gojo's face contort at his words. "I fucked up. And that's what led to everything, wasn't it? There's no need to lie and coat everything with those disgusting, ugly things you call honey and sugar and kindness. The only reason why he's gone is because I made that promise with Sukuna, like a fool, and that led to everything."
Gojo's lips twist into an ugly, unbecoming pretzel of disagreement and shock. "You really believe that," he says to himself slowly, as if retelling himself simple facts outlining the truth of the world laid bare before him, the bearer of Six Eyes. "You really believe that, Yuuji-kun. You really think the only reason Sukuna's in him is because of you."
"Am I wrong?" Yuuji murmurs tiredly, wanting nothing more than a blade to slide across his neck, severing skin and flesh and bone. "Am I wrong, Gojo-sensei?"
The silence preceding Gojo's illiterate chokes of excuses is more than enough for Yuuji.
It's December fourteenth, ten days before Gojo departs to fight Sukuna. The rest of them have been training hard, Yuuji doing his best to keep up with what's been going on lately.
…He floats a lot. Like everything around him fades to something white and unhearable and snowy, like nothing in the world can ever reach him. Like his feet are weightless, his hands moreso as they lose connection to the physical manifestation of life, like clouds painting an azure sky with their invading splotches of absolutely no pigment at all.
It's always been like that, ever since that final grain of dirt slammed shut on Megumi's bed, allowing him to rest while Yuuji stayed awake just a little longer. Like Megumi was the fierce strokes of color slashed across his life, monochrome and absolutely nothing without those fitful brushes lashing across the blank canvas stretching across his being.
Absently, he takes part in the fights with Hakari and the others, supressing his power and letting them win, because what's the point? Shinjuku will happen either way, and since Yuuji squandered his chance to do something, it'll be the end for sure. His only wish is to allow Megumi a quiet exit, rather than the glorious charge of flame and death Gojo led himself into, and for himself to be able to die.
He wants to die.
He wants to die.
He wants to die.
"Yuuji-kun-!"
"Malevolent Shrine."
He dies.