Chapter Text
Megumi wakes up with a headache and an acute sense of loss.
He blinks his eyes open blearily and finds that his room is still dark. There's no light peeking under his door, no birds chirping outside to welcome the day; just the darkness of his blackout curtains and the heavy silence of night. When Megumi turns his head, his alarm clock tells him that the time is 3:20, and he groans and buries his face back into the pillow.
The details of the dream are already fading. All Megumi can remember is the feeling of someone's hands holding him, cradling him, touching him with the utmost care. A vague sense of warmth, a golden-edged thought; a soft and malleable affection that sat neatly in the back of his throat.
His head throbs. Megumi reaches blindly for the painkillers in his bedside drawer and swallows one dry.
He knows he won't be getting any sleep for the rest of the night. He almost never does, after these episodes of his. It's strange, because it's not like the dreams unsettle him—if anything, they're comforting. It's just that he always wakes with this same feeling of melancholy, a feeling that he had something good within his grasp and that he let it go when he woke up.
There's probably a psychological reason behind that, but Megumi doesn't care enough to figure it out. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes in an attempt to stave off the headache and lets out a long, controlled breath. If he doesn't get back to sleep now—and he won't—then he'll be dead on his feet by the end of the day. He has to go pick up Rekko's medication, and then he has to check Noroma's reports before they can be sent off, and once he gets off work he needs to drop by Kei's apartment to collect the last of his belongings. Not to mention, of course, the most important thing on his agenda, which Megumi would certainly like to be well-rested for, but that doesn't seem likely to happen tonight.
Of all the days to have one of his dreams...
Still, though, Megumi can't bring himself to be mad. That feeling of warmth is still there, lingering like he's just spent an hour in the sun; whoever he dreamt of, he knows that they loved him. It's pathetic if he looks at it too closely, especially considering everything with Kei, but it's not like it has to actually mean anything. He's had these dreams since he was fifteen, and that's all they are: dreams. Half-there figments of his sleeping imagination. They aren't anything real.
At least, that's what he tells himself as he tries to ignore that familiar hollowness in his chest. It doesn't quite work. Megumi presses a hand to the ridge of his sternum and rubs slightly, like that will do anything to get rid of his inexplicable ache for something that has never existed.
He has a good few hours left before he has to start his day, so he might as well get some use out of them if he's not going to sleep. His headache is subsiding slightly, but there's still a dull pain there. Megumi pushes past it and reaches for his watch.
The pharmacy is open twenty-four hours. If Megumi calls them now, then maybe they can bump up Rekko's medication and have it ready sooner than scheduled. He selects the pharmacy's contact from his watch, then closes his eyes and waits as it syncs up with him and the call screen appears at his temple.
There's hold music. Terrible hold music, at that, and every beat makes his headache pulse. For a brief second Megumi wants nothing more than to sink back into that warm dream of his, to be surrounded by softness. But then, finally, there comes the telltale ding that tells him he's connected, and a tired voice on the other end of the line asking how they can help him.
"Hello," Megumi says, and he winces at how raspy his own voice sounds. It's like someone dragged his vocal cords over a row of chainsaws. "I'm calling on behalf of my sister, Sugisawa Rekko, customer number 20181116. She has a pick-up scheduled for eight o'clock—yes, the eye drops—and I was wondering if..."
Their esteemed guest is late.
A bead of sweat rolls down the nape of Megumi's neck. He can feel it sliding under his collar, adding to the general unpleasant dampness of the summer heat. He doesn't bother lifting a hand to wipe it; he keeps his head bowed over his lap instead, watching clouds drift lazily through the sky in the reflection of Tonbokiri's polished blade. The tree above him creaks softly as it sways in the wind, but the sound of it is almost completely drowned out by the deafening buzz of the cicadas.
"Any minute now," Amamiya murmurs. She's a stiff silhouette next to him, her hands folded behind her back. Her eyes are fixed on the torii gate that marks the boundary of school grounds, where the strongest man alive has agreed to meet them.
Megumi taps his watch to bring up the holoscreen. The time ticks to 5:42; he has no other notifications, besides Noroma's thumbs-up reaction to Megumi telling him that his reports were good to submit. In the trees nearby, yet another cicada joins the symphony.
"He was meant to be here twelve minutes ago," Megumi says tonelessly, swiping away the holoscreen.
"He has a reputation for tardiness."
"Seriously?"
"Mhm."
"And you only thought to tell me now?" Megumi says sharply, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. Amamiya sighs.
"It wasn't worth mentioning," she says. The crow's feet around her eyes seem starker than usual, more deeply-set. "He's usually only late by a few minutes. I'm sure that for him, time is..."
She trails off, but Megumi gets what she means. It's hard to fault a near-immortal man for being a few minutes late when he probably thinks of time like a slow-dripping syrup. Megumi exhales through his nose and rolls his head back, the bones in his neck cracking with the motion. Above his head, a single bird cuts through the sky, its belly a black smudge against cornflower blue. Idly, Megumi thinks of jumping high enough to grab its legs. Wonders if it could carry him away from this place, or if it could take him to the ocean. He watches the bird's wings flap once, then twice, then—
The cicadas go silent.
It's an abrupt absence of sound, a hush so sudden that for a moment Megumi thinks he's gone deaf. It's not just the cicadas; the birds have gone quiet, too. Even the trees seem to go still, their leaves not daring to rustle in the wind. Amamiya's shoulders go even more rigid than they already were, and a prickle of uneasiness runs down Megumi's spine. He's getting an unexplainable urge to look over his shoulder—his body is reacting to something that he can neither see nor hear.
He glances back down at Tonbokiri, but it lies dormant in his hands. That...doesn't make sense. Megumi is certain that this kind of silence only comes with the presence of strong cursed energy, and if there's cursed energy around, then Tonbokiri should be trying to warn him. He shifts the spear in his hands, carefully watching the reflection in its thin blade. It shows the sky, then the trees, then Amamiya, then—
There is a man standing in front of Amamiya.
"Yo," he says, lifting a hand, and Megumi snaps his head up so fast he swears he hears something crack. His body moves on its own, his hands immediately raising Tonbokiri at the threat—
Amamiya's hand flashes in front of him, grabbing Tonbokiri's shaft and forcing the blade down towards the ground. "Itadori-sama," she says, sinking into a bow as best she can while holding a spear with one hand. "A pleasure to see you again."
All of Megumi's limbs abruptly freeze themselves into place. He stares down at his own hands for a moment, at their familiar placement on Tonbokiri's shaft, and then at Amamiya's hand just above them. Her knuckles are white from gripping the spear hard enough to redirect Megumi's attack. Her fingers tremble with the strain. Slowly, his heart still instinctively pounding in his chest, Megumi forces his fingers to release.
Tonbokiri drops unceremoniously to the ground. In the background, the cicadas resume their chirping, and Megumi dares to lift his gaze.
The man—Itadori Yuuji—is standing before them, dressed in an unassuming white jacket with the hood pulled up over his head. Megumi can't help but stare. He can't sense cursed energy, of course—a basic requirement of having a Heavenly Restriction—but even he can tell that Itadori's cursed energy control is unfathomable. Tonbokiri hadn't reacted to him at all, not even when he was standing right in front of them; the thought of a man making himself so invisible is a little terrifying.
"Sorry, I'm terrible with names," Itadori says, lifting a hand to rub sheepishly at the back of his neck. His voice isn't as deep as Megumi thought it might be—it's a warm timbre, the kind of voice that would be good for reading bedtime stories to lull children to sleep. "Was it...Asahina?"
"Amamiya Suzu," Amamiya says smoothly. "We met once, when you came to help us with the barrier ritual. In—"
"Ah!" Itadori snaps his fingers. "Hokkaido, right? Yeah, I remember. You and your brother, uh—Ganji? How is he?"
Megumi tenses. Amamiya is silent for a moment, her head still lowered in a bow. Wisps of grey hair escape her bun and trail towards the ground.
"He's dead, Itadori-sama," she says neutrally. Itadori blinks.
"Ah," he says. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"It's fine. It was a long time ago."
Itadori grimaces, and Megumi bites the inside of his cheek. The last barrier ritual was when he was a child; Amamiya Ganji has been dead for well over two decades. But, of course, someone like Itadori Yuuji wouldn't be great at remembering things like that. It was a long time ago—for Amamiya, perhaps. For Itadori, not so much.
"My condolences regardless," Itadori says, tugging his hood down to reveal a head of pink hair. He gives Amamiya a respectful nod as she rises from her bow, and then he turns to Megumi, and—
For a moment, Megumi forgets how to breathe.
It's just—Itadori looks so young.
When Amamiya told him of this assignment, Megumi had read the files, and all of them had said that Itadori wasn't immortal. Not truly. He'd die eventually, just...not for a very long time. Specifically, the files had said that Itadori was expected to die at somewhere between four and five hundred, so Megumi had been fully prepared to meet a middle-aged man today. Except...
The files were all wrong, because right now, at three hundred and sixty-seven years of age, Itadori looks like he could be in the same range as Megumi's thirty-four. It's dizzying, somehow, to have the evidence of that in front of him: to look at this man and know that he has more than three centuries of life under his belt while looking like he could've been in Megumi's graduating class.
It's then that Megumi realises he still hasn't bowed yet. He lurches forward, lowering his head as fast as he can.
"Itadori-sama," he says, bowing deeper than he ever has in his entire life. Itadori is, after all, the oldest man on Earth; if anyone deserves respect, it's him. "I'm the sorcerer who'll be assisting you. My name is Sugisawa Megumi."
He lifts his head in time to see something pass over Itadori's face—a shadow of some kind, an infinitesimal twitch of muscle. "Megumi," he repeats, his voice a low murmur, and Megumi's surprised at how familiar it sounds coming from Itadori's mouth. "Huh. What an old-fashioned name."
Megumi frowns slightly. His name is a little old-fashioned, but it's not uncommon or anything. Not enough for people to comment on it. He doesn't quite know what to say, though, so he simply stays silent. Amamiya clears her throat, stepping forward slightly.
"I assure you, Itadori-sama, Sugisawa-kun is well-suited to this project," she says. "He's a quick thinker, and very resourceful. He's the best possible candidate for this."
"I'm sure he'll be a great help," Itadori says genially. He says it like he means it, too, not in the vaguely dismissive way that most people do when they're told to trust a stranger; Megumi can't help but feel a faint flicker of surprise. "You know, Sugisawa, you've come along at the exact right time. I've hit a dead end, so I could really use some help here."
He looks to Megumi, their eyes meeting. It makes Megumi's skin prickle with—something. Megumi's not sure what. Itadori has a surprisingly silent presence; he doesn't feel like a threat, but there's a certain quiet gravity to him that makes Megumi feel uncomfortably exposed, like Itadori's warm brown eyes are cutting him all the way down to the bone.
"I'm glad to be of help, Itadori-sama," he murmurs, and Itadori's smile noticeably falters.
"Ah, there's no need for that," he says. "You too, Amamiya—please just call me Itadori. We'll be colleagues, after all."
Megumi has to catch himself to keep from letting out an incredulous laugh. Colleagues? Sure, in the technical sense, but this is Itadori Yuuji. They might be working on the same project, and Itadori might see fit to grant Megumi the same level of security clearance that Itadori himself has, but it's impossible for Megumi to stand on the same level as him. If not because of Itadori's power, then because of his age—though that, Megumi thinks, is easy to forget if he looks at Itadori's face for too long.
"Itadori-san, then," Megumi says, because he assumes it's better to go along with Itadori's whims than to argue. Itadori's smile returns full-force.
"Thank you, Sugisawa-san," he says, with that fire-warm voice of his, and once again Megumi finds himself taken aback by how genuine he sounds. It's like Megumi is really, truly doing him a favour by calling him san instead of sama, like it tangibly eases Itadori to not be treated like a god. It's strange, because realistically, there should be no reason for Itadori to care about how Megumi addresses him. Megumi's only one person—a passing face in three centuries' worth of a crowd.
And yet.
"Anyway, Sugisawa, I was thinking," Itadori says, rocking back and forth on his heels. It's shockingly boyish of him, something that even Megumi wouldn't do at his age. "Since we'll be working together for a while, we should probably get to know each other. How do you feel about a meal?"
Megumi blinks in surprise.
A meal? To be honest, he was kind of expecting Itadori to want him to hit the ground running. After all, there's no telling how long this project will take, especially given how long Itadori's been doing it on his own. But Itadori's already proving himself to be much more laid-back than Megumi expected, so maybe this shouldn't have been too much of a shock.
Amamiya nudges him surreptitiously, a silent don't be rude. Megumi clears his throat and inclines his head respectfully.
"That would be nice," he says, and bites back the instinctual Itadori-sama that sits at the tip of his tongue. "Where would you like to go?"
They get sushi.
To Megumi's surprise, Itadori doesn't seem to know Kyoto very well. He admits, with a self-conscious sort of laugh, that he spends most of his time either at home or wandering along the outskirts of the big city hubs, so he's not too familiar with the actual metropolis. He does that a lot—the self-conscious thing. Megumi's known him for less than three hours, and he's already observed that Itadori seems to act a little sheepish over basically everything he does. Almost every other sentence out of his mouth starts with sorry or this is embarrassing or I hate to admit it, but...
It's unexpected, to say the least. For a man so old and so powerful, Megumi would've expected him to have a bit of an ego.
In any case, Itadori says he'd like sushi, so Megumi steers them to a well-known sushi place near the city's business district. It's respectable enough for a late afternoon meal like this—Megumi should probably be offering to treat Itadori to something much fancier, given Itadori's status, but Megumi suspects that that kind of thing isn't really up Itadori's alley. So they go to the sushi place, which Megumi has been to enough times to know that their fish is fresh, and they slide into one of the booths near the window.
Megumi had used to frequent this place with Kei. Of course, he keeps that part to himself. Itadori doesn't need to know about his personal life, and to be frank, Megumi isn't hung up enough on Kei to care about something as petty as a restaurant they used to visit together.
Itadori whistles lowly when he pulls up the menu. "You don't really see this much variety anymore," he says, with a note of appreciation in his voice. "I'll pay, so get whatever you want."
"That's not necessary, Itadori-san," Megumi says hastily. "You're my senior, so I should be—"
"I'm everyone's senior," Itadori says, lifting a brow. The scar that cuts across his face rises with the motion. "Trust me, it's fine. Think of it as my thanks for helping me out."
Megumi's thanks for helping Itadori out is...well, helping Itadori out. It's an honour and a privilege, and there are a lot of sorcerers who would kill to be in Megumi's place. But Itadori is—pouting, for lack of a better word, even though it's ridiculous to think that someone of his stature would pout—so Megumi can do nothing but accept. He pulls up the holoscreen menu, though his attention is still mostly commanded by Itadori, who props his chin up on one hand as he scrolls through the menu with the other.
“So, Sugisawa,” Itadori says conversationally, like this really is just a meal between colleagues. “I hope you don't mind me asking, but why’d they pick you for this, anyway?”
“Nepotism,” Megumi says plainly. Itadori blinks at him for a moment, then snorts out a shallow laugh.
“What, seriously?”
Megumi shrugs. “Amamiya-san is my mentor,” he says, tapping the holoscreen for a piece of salmon nigiri. The chute on his side of the table immediately opens, and a little red plate pops out with his salmon. “She sponsored me throughout my studies, and she was the one who recommended me for this. So yes, seriously.”
“Oh, come on. I think you’re selling yourself short.” Itadori’s chute also opens, and Megumi watches as a plate of fatty tuna appears. “There’s gotta be a reason why Amamiya recommended you, right? I mean, I'm sure she wasn't lying when she said you were smart, but...”
His voice trails off with a clear implication: but what's the real reason? After all, being allowed to work with Itadori Yuuji, of all people, is probably the highest honour that could be allowed in jujutsu society. To be honest, Megumi can still hardly wrap his head around the fact that he's sitting across the table from a living legend. And Itadori's right, anyway; there was another reason for him being selected.
Megumi drums his fingers on the table, then remembers that that’s probably rude and flattens his hand against the tabletop instead. “My Heavenly Restriction has a particular side effect,” he says. Itadori tilts his head curiously. “I’m resistant to the effects of cursed objects, so you can see how that would be useful for a project like this.”
Itadori’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. “Resistant, huh?” he murmurs, popping his tuna into his mouth, and Megumi has to grimace when he starts speaking again before he’s finished chewing. “How so?”
“It just takes more effort for them to work on me. Repeated use is required, or more severe damage if it’s a weapon. And they tend to become non-functional if I try to use them myself.”
Itadori’s eyes, as expected, automatically flicker to the cloth-swaddled form of Tonbokiri, propped up against the wall of Megumi’s side of the booth. “So, that spear of yours…”
“An exception,” Megumi says, glancing at Tonbokiri. “I made a Binding Vow to be able to use it.”
"I see," Itadori hums. "Isn't it a little strange for a sorcerer to carry around a weapon? I thought you'd all mostly transitioned to barrier maintenance."
You, Megumi notes. Not we. To be fair, Itadori largely distanced himself from jujutsu society hundreds of years ago.
"Most of us just work on barriers, yes," he says, toying with his nigiri. "I was permitted to carry a weapon because of...personal circumstances."
Rekko's face flashes on the backs of his eyelids, and he has to consciously remind himself not to grip the edge of the table. Itadori is silent, clearly waiting for Megumi to continue, but when it becomes clear that he's not going to elaborate, Itadori leans back in his seat and gives Megumi a lopsided smile.
"Enough about that, then," he says, and Megumi relaxes minutely at the change of subject. "We'll have a lot of time to get to know each other, so you don't have to tell me your life story or anything. Besides, you seem pretty reliable. Now, Sugisawa-san, do you have any questions for me?"
Megumi chews on the inside of his cheek. The truth is simple: yes, he has many. Both about the project and about Itadori—and, if he's being honest, he thinks he has more questions about Itadori. It seems rude to ask personal questions, though, so he settles for an easier one instead.
"The project," he says, and Itadori nods. "Will it be mostly fieldwork or mostly research? Amamiya-san didn't specify."
Itadori scratches his chin. "Eh, it's kind of both," he says. "We'll be tracking down any wild cursed energy, but especially cursed objects, and then we'll bring them in for studying. Think of it like a catch and release." He tilts his head, meeting Megumi's gaze with a sudden seriousness. "Though I hope you know that this will involve us spending time in Tokyo."
Megumi swallows. The former capital, Tokyo—he knows of it, of course. Every sorcerer knows of it, but no one's set foot inside in decades, because almost every cursed spirit in Japan spawns inside its borders. Even the barrier rituals have been adapted to go around it, excluding it from the barrier network entirely instead of trying to keep it contained. "I'm aware," he says. He suspects that his status as a combat sorcerer is another reason why Amamiya recommended him. "I'll prepare myself as much as possible."
"Ah, you'll be fine," Itadori says, waving a hand. "You seem like you can handle yourself. Plus, I've got your back."
He grins at Megumi from across the table, and Megumi—yet again—feels caught off-guard. Itadori's nothing like what he was preparing himself for. He's so much younger than Megumi expected, both in his appearance and his behaviour, and something about it is just throwing Megumi off. Itadori's nice, obviously, but...
But Megumi can't shake the feeling that it's not all entirely real.
It's odd, because nothing that Itadori says feels like a lie. In fact, everything that comes out of his mouth sounds painfully genuine. But there's something about the tone of his voice, the brightness of his eyes, the chipper way he holds himself—it just feels practiced, somehow. It feels ridiculous, especially considering that Megumi only just met the man, but he can't get the thought out of his head.
They spend the rest of the meal trading basic questions in between bites of their food. Megumi learns that Itadori is from Sendai, and that his pink hair is natural, and that he apparently really needs Megumi's help on this project because he's never been academically-inclined; in return, Megumi tells Itadori that he turned thirty-four this May, that he's Kyoto born and raised, and that he lives with his sister. That last one seems to give Itadori pause, some kind of expression flitting briefly over his face.
"You have a sister?" he asks. "Older or younger?"
"Older," Megumi says, and there it is again: a spasm of Itadori's features, so tiny it might as well not be there. "By three years."
"That's nice," Itadori says, his voice a little fainter than it was five seconds ago. "I had an older brother, too."
He doesn't elaborate. Megumi does not ask him to.
By the time they finish, the sky is starting to darken. Itadori, as promised, doesn't let Megumi foot the bill; he scrambles to get to the front counter while Megumi is still strapping Tonbokiri to his back, and by the time Megumi catches up to him, he's already halfway through payment. Megumi frowns a little, still feeling like he should be the one to pay, when his watch buzzes with a notification.
He glances down. The holoscreen has popped up with a new message, so Megumi pulls down on it quickly to see a preview of the text.
Wanibuchi Kei: i'll be home in half an hour if you want to pick up the rest of your stuff
Wanibuchi Kei: it's already packed up
Megumi dismisses the screen just as quickly as it came up, hastily swiping his finger across it to make it dissolve into thin air. He glances over at Itadori, but thankfully, it seems like the man either didn't notice or doesn't care; he's too busy with the bill. Megumi waits for him to finish—he takes note of the price, so that he can try to pay Itadori back at some later date—and then the two of them step out onto the street together. The shops are all starting to turn on their lights, washing the street in neon reds and blues and greens.
"So," Itadori says, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets. Come to think of it, Megumi doesn't know how he's not overheating in that thing. "I don't want to overwhelm you or anything, so I'll let you go. We can start working on the project tomorrow. Do you need a ride back to the school?"
Kei's messages flash in Megumi's mind, and he shakes his head. "Thank you, but I'll catch the train," he says, already calculating how long it'll take. Kei will be home by the time Megumi gets to his apartment, considering the train journey and the walk between the station and Kei's apartment block. He turns on his heel towards the station, already starting to walk away. "It was nice to—"
"I'll walk you to the station, then," Itadori interrupts brightly, falling into step beside him. Megumi reels back a bit, surprised at the sudden proximity. "After all, it's my duty as your senior to make sure you get there safely."
He winks at Megumi like they're sharing some kind of in-joke, and Megumi just stares at him in disbelief. They're in the middle of the busiest city in Japan, it's not even fully dark yet, and Megumi is a grown man trained in combat with a spear attached to his back. He doesn't think it's strictly necessary for Itadori to accompany him to the station for his safety—or necessary at all, really—but Itadori's already walking with him, so...might as well.
They stroll along the street together in companionable silence. Itadori's humming under his breath, a tune that Megumi doesn't recognise; when Megumi looks over at him, he finds Itadori with his face tilted up to catch the last of the sun's dying rays, a content expression on his face.
The age thing is bothering Megumi. Not in a bad way, it's just—every single one of the files they had on Itadori were wrong. They already have almost no information on him, and the information they do have is wrong. Did no one question it when he hit three hundred and still looked no closer to a natural death? Did no one talk to him? Itadori does interact with jujutsu society, even if it's sporadic and irregular. He meets each new principal of the school at least once, and he's always on standby for the barrier rituals. Someone should've noticed by now. Why didn't anyone notice?
(In the back of Megumi's mind, another voice whispers: why do you care?)
So, before Megumi can think better of it, he decides to simply ask.
"Itadori-san," he says slowly. "Can I ask you a personal question?"
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Itadori stiffen. Megumi counts five footsteps before Itadori responds.
"Well," Itadori says carefully, "that depends on what the question is. What, uh...what do you want to know?"
There's a tentative nature to the end of his question. Megumi would almost call it hopeful, if not for the fact that that wouldn't make sense. He rolls his words around in his mouth for a moment, testing the weight of them, before he decides to just spit them out.
"Your age," he says. "In the records that the government has of you, it says that you're expected to live to around four hundred, but..." He gestures at Itadori. The words look at you go unspoken. If Itadori was going to die at four hundred, then he'd have to fit about seventy years of biological ageing into less than forty years of actual life. "That's clearly not the case."
They come to a stop at a pedestrian crossing. Megumi keeps his eyes on the red waiting signal; at his side, Itadori is silent.
There's a rustle of cloth as Itadori reaches up to rub the back of his head. A soft sigh. "So that's all," he mumbles, seemingly to himself; he almost sounds disappointed. Megumi dares to look at him and finds that he's hunched his shoulders inwards.
The signal turns green. They step out onto the road.
"It's not a bad question," Itadori finally says. "I've wondered about it too, you know. But I think it's exponential. I age slower the older I get." He shrugs, stepping off the road and back onto the path. "I aged pretty normally up until my twenties, and it's just been getting slower ever since."
Huh. Megumi furrows his brow. Well, that certainly explains the discrepancy between the Itadori he was expecting and the Itadori he's got. It's just...if he's understanding this right, then...
“If that's the case,” Megumi says, parsing out his words carefully, “then—wouldn’t that basically make you immortal?”
Because if he's ageing exponentially slower, then how long would it take for Itadori to grow a single white hair? How long would it take for his back to stoop, or for his knees to creak? If he was normal until his twenties, then it took him over three hundred years to visibly age by about a decade—if his growth just keeps slowing down from here, then by the time he's old enough to actually die, he could very well be thousands of years old. In the end, it could take him years just to age by a day, and what is that if not functional immortality?
Itadori offers him a wry smile. “I guess it does,” he says, with a forced lightness to his voice that Megumi adds to the mental image that he's slowly building of him. He’s starting to get the impression that Itadori is a man who spends a lot of time in his own head, and that it's necessary, on some level, for him to keep up that false lightness. “But with the way you guys are going, I don’t think I’ll need to be around much longer. That's why I waited until now to ask for help."
Those words settle uneasily in Megumi's chest like some kind of stone. He doesn't know why he cares so much, but the knowledge of Itadori's fate is...upsetting. Especially the idea that, if Megumi hadn't asked, no one would've known that Itadori has an indefinite natural lifespan. It just would've been Itadori, figuring it out on his own, and for some reason that makes Megumi feel sick.
"Anyway, that's the secret of my youth," Itadori says, laughing lightly, completely oblivious to the nausea he's just planted in Megumi's gut. "And actually, Sugisawa, that reminds me—can I trade you a personal question for a personal question?"
Megumi raises his brows. He's not sure what Itadori considers personal, and if he tries to ask about Rekko, then Megumi will shut it down immediately. But Itadori doesn't seem like the type to do that, so Megumi decides to let him have a shot.
"Go ahead," he says, and Itadori gives him a smile that seems ever so slightly strained.
"It's about your given name," Itadori says. "If you don't mind me asking, what kanji does it use?"
Oh. Is that it?
Megumi furrows his brow, glancing at Itadori sidelong. It's the second time Itadori's pointed out his name, and he can't imagine why it seems to be so interesting, but...
"It uses the kanji for love," he says. Is it his imagination, or do Itadori's shoulders seem to drop?
"Love," Itadori murmurs, so quiet that it must be more to himself than to Megumi. "Alright, then. I see."
Megumi waits for him to say something else, but it never comes. When he dares to look questioningly at Itadori, he finds the man staring blankly at the path in front of them, a distant look in his eye.
It's at this moment that Megumi finally feels it: the weight of Itadori's age.
Up until now, he's been able to somewhat delude himself into thinking that Itadori's just another coworker. An exceptionally powerful coworker, but a coworker nonetheless. Itadori's face had helped sell the illusion, as well as his insistence on casualness, but now...
Despite walking side by side with him, Megumi suddenly feels as though Itadori has disappeared to somewhere very far away. Wherever he's gone, whatever memory he's walked into—it's not something that Megumi is privy to. No matter how normal Itadori may seem, there are three centuries of distance between them and a world-weary exhaustion that lines Itadori's frame.
Well, that's fine. It's not like Megumi's setting out to be friends with Itadori here—he's meant to be an assistant, not a companion. He's not opposed to being friendly with Itadori, but it's not going to be a priority of his. He lowers his gaze to the ground beneath them, and out of the corner of his eye he catches sight of Itadori's hand swinging loosely at his side as he walks, and—
Oh.
Megumi doesn't know how he missed it before now, but Itadori only has three fingers on his left hand. Both his ring and pinky fingers are amputated, the wounds cleanly healed. More surprising than that, though, is the fact that Itadori is wearing a ring on said missing ring finger. It sits snugly at the base of his finger, a clean and polished silver, and the implications of it make Megumi's mouth go dry.
Oh. He didn't know.
Three hundred and sixty-seven years, Megumi thinks to himself. He tears his eyes away from Itadori's hand, focusing firmly on the ground.
They walk the rest of the way to the train station in silence, and Megumi does not look at the ring again.
As expected, Kei opens the door almost immediately.
"Megu—ah. Sugisawa."
"There's no need for that," Megumi says, taking in Kei's appearance. He looks a little more frazzled than normal, but not significantly worse for wear; there's a strand of dyed-brown hair hanging over his forehead; and Megumi almost habitually reaches out to brush it away before he remembers. "Just keep calling me Megumi if that's what you're used to."
"...Okay." Kei's gaze flickers over his face without ever making eye contact—a nervous tell of his. In all honesty, Megumi doesn't know what there is to be nervous about. He certainly doesn't feel nervous. A little awkward, sure, and maybe slightly uncomfortable, but not nervous. After all, he and Kei had ended things on good terms. "Your stuff's all in the hallway. Let me know if you want help—"
"It's fine. Can I come in?"
"Yeah, uh—yeah, feel free."
Kei moves aside, and Megumi steps over the threshold. He instinctively goes to take off his shoes, then pauses.
The last of his things—his dishware, whatever clothes he left behind, half his toiletries, a blanket or two that he forgot—have been packed up into three boxes, neatly sealed and labelled with their contents. They're all stacked up right next to the genkan so that Megumi doesn't even have to take his shoes off to pick them up. Megumi exhales through his mouth, feeling a stab of guilt in his chest. He hadn't even asked Kei to do that for him. He just...had.
Kei is a good man.
That's the thing, though. Kei's good. He's fine. Their relationship, likewise, was fine. Stable. Megumi had never had anything to complain about, because Kei had always been a perfectly nice, caring, and intelligent man. It was just...
He was missing something.
That—that shapeless, nameless thing, something that Megumi could never actually describe, but the absence of which had felt like a hole in his chest. His relationship with Kei was fine, yes, but that was all it ever was: fine. Megumi had always been acutely aware of that unidentifiable missing piece. Even when they got engaged, it had felt more like simply going through the motions of a relationship rather than something that Megumi actually wanted. He counts himself lucky for having realised it in time, because if he hadn't called off the engagement, he might have ended up living like that for the rest of his life. If he has any regrets, it's that he wasted four years of Kei's life for nothing.
It only takes a few minutes for Megumi to stack up the boxes. They're small enough that he can carry all three in his arms—it's a little uncomfortable, but nothing he can't handle. Kei is standing at the door, and Megumi can feel his eyes on his back. As Megumi turns back to him, boxes in his arms, Kei clears his throat.
"So," he says, his eyes lingering on where Tonbokiri's wrapped blade peeks out over Megumi's shoulder. "How's work?"
"Fine," Megumi says automatically. He's already been sworn to secrecy about his work with Itadori, but even if he hadn't been, he probably wouldn't have told Kei anyway. "A lot of administrative stuff."
"...And your sister? How's she doing?"
"She's fine too. She's out of the hospital."
"Oh, is she? That's good. That's, uh...I'm glad." Kei shifts nervously on his feet. "Hey, if you're still looking for an apartment—"
"I'm staying with my sister, so don't worry about it."
"Ah. Okay. Well—"
"Kei," Megumi interrupts quietly, and Kei's jaw snaps shut. "It's fine. You don't have to do this. We can just go our separate ways."
Kei winces, and Megumi immediately feels awful. "No, I get that," Kei says. "It's just...nevermind. You're right. But, uh, before you leave..."
He reaches into his pocket, then pulls out a familiar navy box. Megumi's stomach drops so quickly it's a wonder he doesn't throw up.
"Kei—"
"I'm not trying to win you back," Kei says quickly, and Megumi does feel bad at how much that relieves him. "It's just...it's yours, y'know?"
Megumi purses his lips. "You're the one who bought it," he says. "I gave it back for a reason. You gave me yours back, too."
"Yeah, but—look, just take it, okay?" Kei holds the ring box out towards him. The jeweller's logo is stamped on top, the lettering catching the light. "Do whatever you want with it, I don't care. You might as well, because it's not like I'm going to use it again."
"Sell it, then."
Kei huffs out a hollow laugh. "I'd rather not," he says. "If anyone's going to sell it, I'd prefer that it be you."
He offers the box again. Megumi stares at it.
Do whatever you want with it. Megumi has known Kei for long enough that he can hear the underlying implications of those words. Megumi could dispose of the ring. He could melt it down. He could sell it. He could donate it, or throw it into a drawer to disappear forever, or never think about it again.
Or he could wear it.
"...Alright," Megumi says quietly, momentarily shifting all the boxes to one arm so he can reach out to take it. The velvet is smooth under his fingertips, a fuzzy numbness that matches the lack of emotion in his chest, and he feels inexplicably guilty about the fact that he didn't think to return Kei's engagement ring to him, too. "Thank you. I'm—sorry, again. About everything."
Kei lifts his shoulders in a half-hearted shrug. "I mean, what can you do, right?" he says wryly. "If it wasn't working, it wasn't working."
Megumi's heart twists itself into a knot. There it is again: Kei is far too good to him. There's no logical reason for why Megumi did this to him, other than the fact that he just...didn't want to marry him.
"Still," he says, tucking the ring box into his pocket. "I'm sorry I wasted your time."
"Don't—it wasn't..." Kei's voice trails off, and he reaches up to rub a hand over his face. He looks tired. He always looks tired—he just has that kind of face, a little thin and weary—but Megumi realises, suddenly, that he looks like he hasn't been sleeping well these last two weeks. "Just don't worry about it, okay? We're all good. And if you ever need me, you have my number."
"Likewise," Megumi says, forcing the words out past that guilt-soaked knot at the back of his throat. He and Kei share one last respectful nod, and Megumi hefts the boxes in his arms and adjusts Tonbokiri on his back, and then he's walking past Kei and out the door and he's leaving behind a man who's been nothing but kind to him.
Megumi is such an asshole.
The train ride back to Rekko's apartment has never felt longer. Megumi gets given a wide berth by the other passengers—he always does, thanks to the spear strapped to his back—and the boxes in his arms jostle with the movement of the train. Megumi closes his eyes and rests his head against the wall of the carriage, ignoring how it makes his skull vibrate slightly; his lack of sleep from the night before is starting to catch up with him, and he knows he'll have a headache by the time he goes to bed.
By the time he gets to Rekko's door, he's ready to just pass out. He fumbles with the keys, shoves the door open with a shoulder, then staggers inside and dumps the boxes on the edge of the genkan with a grunt. The lights are all on, so Rekko must be—
"Megumi?" a familiar voice calls. She's in the living room, Megumi thinks, based off the echo. "Is that you?"
"Who else?" Megumi calls back, which is admittedly pretty annoying of him. He kicks off his shoes, considers leaving them scattered in the genkan for a moment, then remembers that that would be a fucking asshole thing to do to his sister and bends down to slot them into their appropriate place on the shoe rack. Rekko's life relies on consistency. Having Megumi in her apartment is already a big change, enough to throw her off rhythm; there's no need to make it worse.
"Well, there's no need for that," Rekko says. She rounds the corner, one hand on the wall; she has a blinking earbud in her left ear, so Megumi assumes she was listening to an audiobook. She takes a few steps forward. "How was your—"
"Hey, watch out—"
"I know where the genkan is, Megumi."
"No, it's not that—there are boxes. Below knee-level, three or four steps from your left. Don't stub your toe on the corner."
Rekko pauses mid-step. She looks downwards, blinking rapidly. The light in the entryway is dim—Megumi needs to fix it sometime soon—so it must be even harder for her to make out the boxes sitting on the edge where the floorboards dip down to the genkan. Megumi waits, watching her squint at them, before she finally nods.
"Ah," she murmurs. "Yes, I see them. Why do you have boxes?"
"I went to Kei's."
"Ah," she says again, with a knowing undertone to her voice. "How was he?"
"Fine," Megumi says, guilt making the word taste sour. He can't help but feel like he's having the exact same conversation he had with Kei, just reversed. He steps up from the genkan so that he's next to Rekko and peers down at her face. From here, he can see the milky sheen of her eyes; he can't tell if they look better or worse than they did yesterday, but at least she's able to follow his movement, so the eye drops this morning probably helped a little with her vision. "Did you make dinner?"
Rekko huffs. "Rude. Not even a hello, Nee-san or a how was work? But yes, I put it in the fridge for you."
"Thanks, Nee-san."
"Oh, so now you want to be nice." She goes to punch him in the shoulder lightly—misses by a few centimetres, her fist hitting the edge of his pectoral instead—and rolls her eyes. "I'll be in my room if you need me."
She disappears down the hall, lifting a hand over her shoulder in a wave as she goes. Megumi rolls his shoulders and winces at the twinge in them, then shoves the boxes into the corner where Rekko won't trip over them and goes to see what's in the fridge.
Dinner is chicken nanban. Megumi reheats a bowl—small, because he's still mostly full from the sushi—and eats alone at the kitchen island with Rekko's borrowed cutlery, because all of his dishware is in one of the boxes that he just brought back from Kei's. Then he turns off all the lights and checks to make sure Rekko turned off the AI assistant before he retreats to his room to finally strip out of his clothes. After that, it's the usual nightly routine: cleaning Tonbokiri and wrapping it in its designated cloth, showering and scrubbing off all the dirt of the summer day, shaving because there's a ghost of stubble appearing on his chin. He stares at his own reflection and clicks his tongue at his eye bags, then turns away from the mirror like that will fix the problem.
Just as he predicted, his head is already starting to pound by the time he changes into his pyjamas and starts putting away his day clothes. He folds his shirt, then picks up his pants and startles when he feels something hard in the pocket. He reaches inside and pulls out—
Ah. Yes, of course.
The ring box sits innocuously in his palm. Megumi purses his lips. He knows exactly what's inside: a gold ring, which, up until two weeks ago, had been wrapped around his finger.
For a moment, he considers opening his window, hurling the ring box into the night, and letting fate determine which passer-by picks it up. But that feels too cruel to Kei, who's never done anything to Megumi at all, so Megumi simply tosses it into his bedside drawer, next to his painkillers. He can hear the box sliding around in the drawer as he closes it, a burning reminder of everything that Megumi's thrown away.
He'll figure out what to do with it tomorrow. For now, he collapses into bed and activates his blackout curtains to ward off the ever-present glow of the Kyoto skyline. He's already half-asleep by the time he actually closes his eyes, and the exhaustion of the day pulls him under soon after.
He dreams of warmth again. This time, the dream is tinged pink.
You have one missed call.
You have one caller message.
"—whaddaya mean, after the screen changes colour—oh, shit, is this already recording? Uh, sorry. Hey, Sugisawa, it's Itadori. Hope you got home safe. Anyway, I was thinking we could meet at the school tomorrow morning at nine-ish. I'll catch you up to speed on all the stuff I already know, and then we can try to figure out a game plan. Um. And one more thing.
I didn't really say it earlier, but seriously, thank you for taking this on. It might be years before we see any progress, so it means a lot to me that you're willing to help out. But, y'know, I have a good feeling about this. Together, I think we can finally figure out how to turn me into a cursed object, and I don't even think it'll take that long. So...yeah. Thanks. Sleep well. Bye."