Work Text:
"For every little lie you tell so you can hide
Will grow inside your chest
Your heart will need to rest"
It is March: the air is fresh, light, yet one can still distinctly feel that damp cold typical of February. It is rigid, seemingly unwilling to yield to the new season. Yet, amidst the patches of snow, the first buds can already be seen—small and defenseless, clinging to the warm earth as if to a cradle, savoring the warmth. Step by step, the ground helps them take root despite the unstable weather and recent frosts.
Slowly, the fields regain their colors, the first blades of grass grow strong again; the trees, still bare, begin to show their first leaves, and the streams seem to thaw. Everything appears to be progressively regaining its vitality.
The people, however, are wary. Many still huddle in heavy coats; only a few tenacious souls brave the low temperatures in a hoodie or a simple T-shirt. Megumi, certainly, belongs to the former category. He hates the cold; he cannot stand it.
It reminds him of sleepless nights and solitude; of snowy days when he and Tsumiki would take refuge under the blankets, trying to shield themselves from the freezing temperatures. He wore the warmest sweater in the house; she held him tight as if to protect him.
He remembers the hunger, and how he searched in vain for money among dusty shelves, teetering on a chair. Naively, he believed that money wouldn't be necessary because his father would return.
They just had to prove they deserved it.
He often spent his nights awake and alert, his bright little eyes glued to the window overlooking the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man’s silhouette. Unfortunately, apart from the usual figures dragging themselves home intoxicated, the driveway remained still and static. He would fall asleep only late at night, when no one was left and his eyelids closed on their own. Because of this, he would sometimes fall asleep in the middle of the day, during lunch breaks, and occasionally even in the middle of class.
He absentmindedly turns another page of the book in his hands, then blows on his cup of black coffee. He curses himself; it’s cold. Disgusting. He reads a few more lines but is forced to stop; a voice calls for his attention.
He turns: it’s the waitress. He blinks a few times in confusion, eyebrows furrowed, and murmurs in a thin voice, "Excuse me?"
"We're about to close," she repeats kindly, clutching a circular tray against her bony arms. The boy pulls out his phone and turns it on; it’s seven in the evening. Further confirmation comes from the dark sky, covered with heavy clouds laden with rain.
Fantastic, he doesn't even have an umbrella.
"I didn't realize," he says, motioning to get up. She smiles at him.
"Don't worry. Actually... were you waiting for someone?"
"My father. We haven't seen each other in a while," he mutters distractedly, not paying much attention to what he’s saying. He pauses for a moment, then wrinkles his nose in embarrassment.
That word again.
He passes a hand over his face, and his vision suddenly clears. He gives his full attention back to the waitress: "I'm sorry. Could you repeat that, please?"
"Does he work abroad?"
Megumi can't help but feel annoyed by her questions; he doesn't understand the woman’s interest in his private life. He sighs irritably and looks her straight in the eye, narrowing his gaze. He goes to open his mouth but stops: she has the same haircut as Tsumiki. His eyes widen, and he simply nods, his head slightly bowed.
"It's sweet of you, you know?"
"Hm?"
"The sweets, I mean."
"They're his favorite."
"Then your father is a connoisseur," she offers a shy smile.
"No, he just has a sweet tooth. The sweeter it is, the more he likes it."
She laughs. "He must be a very sweet person then, right?"
"Calling him sweet is an understatement. He's a lunatic, but he’s a good person."
"Oh, come on, he can't be that bad."
Megumi doesn't answer. She doesn't insist and changes the subject.
"If you want, I can wait another ten minutes, just long enough to change," and before Megumi can say anything, she walks away, leaving him completely alone.
The sound of timid apologies echoes in the air. He sits back down and waits. In those ten minutes, he resumes reading in the warmth of the small pastry shop: Gojo's favorite. He glances at the Kikufuku mochi; his hand slips into his pocket. He checks his phone, hoping for a call or a message. Nothing.
But what else could he expect? Three months have already passed since Gojo vanished.
The first drops of rain appear on the ground, then on the large windowpane. His lower lip trembles. He decides to get up, takes a random bill from his wallet, and leaves the small shop as quickly as possible.
It doesn't matter, he repeats to himself, this is probably the last time I set foot in here.
The door slams behind him and the rain-scented air hits him, filling his lungs. He inhales; it’s an earthy, clean smell. He looks up at the sky, now black: small drops dance delicately, some merging, others continuing their fall unperturbed; they go on relentlessly and stop on the ground only after quickly tracing the profiles of figures.
I’ll always be here for you, ‘Gumi.
His legs move by instinct and he starts to run. The streetlights reflect in the puddles, briefly catching his blurred image. The streets are deserted, the sound of his footsteps muffled by the rain. He is alone, but not like when he was six years old.
In the end, you abandoned me too.
He swallows hard, wanting to scream.
It’s not true.
He trips; his body meets the wet asphalt. Silence. Megumi curses himself for the second time that afternoon—he forgot his jacket. He makes no sign of wanting to get up; he closes his eyes and clutches the sweets to himself.
Just a few minutes, he thinks, maybe all of this isn't real, it’s just a bad dream. He gathers what little strength he has and, slowly, stands up.
He takes his phone and calls Ijichi; the conversation is brief. He waits ten minutes in the rain, then glimpses the man's car and approaches. He gets into the car, careful to take up as little space as possible; he has no intention of getting Ijichi’s car wet—after all, he’s already inconvenienced him enough.
"Fushiguro... what happened to your jacket?"
"I must have forgotten it somewhere."
Ijichi notices the bag the boy is clutching tightly, but he doesn't say a word.
"Do you want to go home, Fushiguro?"
He shakes his head. "School."
The car starts, and nothing more is said between the two. He focuses only on the grey landscape passing by, slow and immeasurable.
"We're here."
It takes him a moment to focus on Ijichi's timid figure, who is looking at him with furrowed brows in an expression he can't quite decipher. He wants to say something, but then he realizes why the man is staring: he is crying.
"Here, take the umbrella."
He stops, searching the man’s face for a hint of a mocking smile, but he can't find even a shadow of one. His shoulders relax and his expression softens; a few tears make their way down, outlining the profile of his cheeks.
He nods. "Thank you."
The rain falls relentlessly, showing no sign of stopping. The clouds are still dark, more persistent. Megumi sighs, quickly adjusting the umbrella lent by Ijichi: he is drenched from head to toe. His clothes are so wet they feel like a second layer of skin. It’s so uncomfortable he feels suffocated.
He can't breathe.
The umbrella slips from his hands; the Kikufuku fall to the ground.
Of course, it’s all my fault.
He drags himself to his room and collapses onto the bed.
The rest is a blur.
He wakes up drenched in sweat.
He remembers nothing of the previous night except a suffocating weight on his chest.
He tries to sit up and leans forward: next to the bed is Shoko with a cigarette between her lips. She, too, suffers from Gojo's sudden disappearance. Her eyes scan him with clinical precision.
"How are you feeling?"
He wrinkles his nose. "It’s none of your business."
"I'm trying to help you."
"I don't need your help."
"Megumi, listen," she sits on the edge of the bed. "I know it's hard, but we have to move on. This isn't how you’ll solve things. Not if..."
"It’s what I deserve, Ieri-san."
"Don't say that."
"I killed Tsumiki."
"Megumi, you know that's not true."
He shakes his head slowly, his eyes veiled. "I killed my sister."
"It was Sukuna," she gently takes his hand. "It’s not your fault."
His lower lip trembles. "It’s not true. These are the hands that killed my sister, Gojo—" He hunches his shoulders and swallows. "Not Sukuna’s."
"Megumi, Satoru is fine."
"Then why isn't he here?" he murmurs, and Shoko can do nothing but squeeze his hand tighter.
"He’ll have his reasons, Megumi—"
"He abandoned me too, didn't he? Does he loathe me because I killed 'Miki?"
"Christ— Of course not. No, honey."
"Then why?" he whispers. "Tell me. Is that why he doesn't want to come back?"
"‘Gumi..."
"Don't call me that, please."
"I don't know, truly."
He passes a hand over his misty eyes and sighs. "I'm tired, Ieri-san."
Everyone knows he spends most of his days by the window of his room, curled up on a chair with a blanket over his shoulders, waiting with childish trepidation to glimpse Gojo's profile in the distance.
Everyone knows he eats out of habit, not because he’s hungry.
Everyone knows Megumi is at his limit.
"I know," she says, "but killing yourself isn't how you’ll find peace."
He wrinkles his nose as she brings the cigarette back to her lips. Then she takes a drag.
"Do you want a glass of water?"
He nods, though still dazed. He drinks it all in one breath and places the glass on the nightstand, next to the small container of sleeping pills, now half-empty.
"Ieri-san? I’m sorry."
She shakes her head. "It's not your fault, honey. It’s a bad time, I understand."
"I’m sorry," he repeats. "Truly."
"It’s not your fault, Megumi. It never was."
His eyes well up. He bites his lip and swallows hard; his fists tighten around the blanket and his gaze drops.
"I don't know what to do anymore..."
She tilts her head, sighing. "No one would."
She stands up and approaches the boy’s nightstand, where the sleeping pills she had given him sit in plain sight. "These are coming with me, Megumi. Get dressed; there are dry clothes on the desk. I’ll wait for you outside. You need to eat."
His eyes are tired, but they remain fixed on the small container in Ieri’s hands. He doesn't argue, despite his frustration. "I'm not very hungry."
She looks at him, then sits back down. "Neither am I. Cigarette?"
Megumi looks at her with a vacant stare before accepting it. He lights it. "It tastes like crap."
Shoko smiles at him.
When she leaves the room, the silence returns louder than before—so loud his ears ring. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his phone screen light up. He picks it up with a slight tremor.
No notifications.
And the taste of tar in his mouth.