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“Hey,” he hears softly, warmth squeezing his shoulder. “Time to wake up.”
“Mmph…” He groans and shifts, realizing his face is crusted to his pillow. Hair sticks to his cheek in rigid clumps, long solidified by dried saltwater.
“Morning!” Gojo whispers, grinning as Megumi blinks. He’s crouched in front of him, elbow balanced on his nightstand.
“Go away–” He mutters, trying to roll away, but Gojo’s gentle hold stops him.
“You’re shadowing today,” he tells him as he stands. “Well, your technique means you’re always kinda shadow-ing, but the other kind.”
“M’not going…” He wraps his arm around his pillow, burying his nose in it again.
“Wasn’t a question.” Gojo yawns and stretches. “My students get started bright and early, so go shower and get dressed. We can get breakfast on the way.”
“Leave me alone.” Megumi scrubs his hand over his face as he sits up. “And I’m not hungry.”
“You keep thinking I’m asking when I’m just relaying the plan.” He rolls his eyes. “No more teen angst. Someone in this family’s gotta get their ass out of bed.”
“Hey,” Maki says as she knocks Okkotsu’s knees out from under him and keeps him down with her staff under his chin. “Haven’t seen you around much lately.”
“Yeah.” Megumi shrugs and takes a seat on a bench, next to a small collection of water bottles and sports equipment. He kicks the turf at his feet.
“Middle school was a busy time for all of us.” Gojo claps, turning all heads at attention, which is a saving grace for Okkotsu, who looks like his life flashes before his eyes as he scrambles upright.
“Toge, Ijichi’s waiting by the entrance for you. You’ve got an assignment out in Ibaraki, but it’s on the easy side, judging by the report, so the drive should take longer than anything else,” he announces.
“Maki,” he continues. “I’m sending you and Panda out to clear some coldesac a few miles away. It’s only a couple of low grade spirits, too weak to cross any large symbolic barrier or anything, but Kusakabe will supervise, since you know how the guys upstairs are.”
“Right.” She clicks her tongue, almost hitting Yuta with her staff again as she crosses her arms.
“Megumi.” Gojo looks at him over his shoulder. “You wanna go on a field trip or stay here and spar?”
He doesn’t reply, glaring instead.
“Stop pouting.” Maki flicks his temple as she passes. “Go train, or you’ll be useless when you actually enroll.”
“That hurts,” he mumbles, rubbing the spot.
“Get strong and you can hit me back.” She waves, already disappearing down the path with Inumaki and Panda.
“So I guess you’ll be with me,” Okkotsu says with a smile as he materializes in front of him. His hair is messy, presumably from hitting the mat so many times.
“Yeah,” Megumi breathes, hauling himself to his feet. He adjusts the cuffs of his sweatshirt, even though he doesn’t need to, waiting for Gojo to dish out instructions.
“You okay?” Yuta asks after a pause that lasts longer than it should. “Sorry, I know we haven’t worked together much.”
“I’m fine,” he says. “It’s fine.”
“Visiting hours are over already,” Gojo dismisses as he starts the car, planting his hand behind Megumi’s headrest as he looks out behind them, reversing out of the space. “She’ll still be there tomorrow, so you might as well have some fun in the meantime.”
“I don’t know why you’re making me do this,” he argues through his teeth. “You’ve dragged me on missions since I was six. It’s not a big deal that I’m ‘officially’ your student now.”
“Is it really that difficult for you to chill out?” Gojo uses his technique to lift the boom gate, instead of paying for the hospital’s parking, which he can absolutely afford.
“We’re just gonna get a nice dinner, since it’s a special occasion,” he insists. “Live a little. You’re growing up, and it’s not every day that I get to welcome such a talented class of young sorcerers.”
“It’s just me,” Megumi huffs.
“Well, it’s not all about you,” he says, far too giddily. “We’re also celebrating this year’s class, like a promotion thing, and you’re their successor.”
“Are you serious?” He complains. “You invited all of them?”
“No,” Gojo replies. “Panda can’t come.”
Megumi bites the inside of his cheek, narrowing his eyes at him, but his gaze is fixed on the road, as it should be, since he’s such a perfect driver; always perfect.
“It’s gonna be a good year,” he says. “Let it have a good start too.”
“It should be a week or so before the lasting effects of the concussion fade,” Ieiri explains as she types something into her computer. “I did all I could, but Satoru should’ve brought you to me sooner.”
“Thanks,” he rasps, forearm draped over his face to block out the fluorescent lighting.
“I was able to heal the vertebral fractures, but the damage they did to your spinal cord and nerves is too complex to treat to completion,” she tells him. “You’ll be fine, but it’ll take a little while to clear up.”
He nods weakly. If anything, he should just be grateful he’s still breathing after coming face to face with the incarnation of Ryomen Sukuna. Not that he cares all that much about how he fares in a life-or-death situation, but it’s still a feat.
“I’m putting you on some codeine, just to get you through it,” she says. “You might feel out of it and drowsy, so take it easy until you feel better.”
“Okay.” Megumi swallows. He’s sure his pain tolerance is above average, but relief is still welcome when his head is throbbing and his spine is too sore to comfortably lay down. He doesn’t understand how Itadori seemed just fine after also getting thrown out of a building. Though, he may have jumped. It was hard to tell.
“Let me know if you have any side effects, or if the dose isn’t working.” Ieiri shuts her laptop and casually turns to him.
“You can stop taking them once the pain goes away, even if you haven’t finished the course. I expect you’ll be in top shape again before you run out, but I have to get opioids from the pharmacy by order, so refills are a pain, and I’d rather you have enough.”
His lips and nostrils are buzzing as his eyelids flutter shut. The air flowing in it out is perceptibly cold, but not in a bad way. It’s calming, really.
His vision is pure black, lacking the usual static and floaters that dance around, distracting him as he tries to sleep. He would’ve expected it to be scary, resting in complete darkness, but it’s soothing.
Something in his chest tells him to be surprised, but he doesn’t care. Things are how they are, and he’ll deal with them as they come.
And right now, what’s coming for him is a nap; a nice, long, pleasant nap…
Which is already over, apparently.
Someone’s banging on his door, over and over again. He opens his mouth to yell at them, but his voice is distant and doesn’t sound like his own, hardly intelligible over roaring tinnitus that’s blossoming into a crescendo.
He blinks.
His alarm clock takes a few seconds to come into focus, displaying noon exactly. Either the power went out, or he’s been asleep for three hours, and the latter feels impossible since he wasn’t even dreaming, but the fact that his lamp is still on makes it the more likely scenario.
He hears a few quiet knocks as he sits up, fuzziness of sleep fading, then being completely replaced by omnisensorial static as he stands.
He sways in place for a moment, letting it dissipate. He must be dehydrated or something.
“What do you want?” He asks hoarsely as he opens the door, scrubbing his hand over his face. His voice is jagged, like he hasn’t used it at all in days.
“Hey!” Itadori bursts into his field of view. “Fushiguro! You look all better now!”
Megumi looks at him, then at Gojo, and then at the room beside his, which has a few too many belongings in front of it, ready to be moved in.
“You’re next door?” His glower shifts from Itadori to Gojo. “There’s plenty of other empty rooms, you know?”
“Sure, but isn’t it better to have some company?” He says, as if it’s a favor. “I thought it’d be good to–”
“Classes and the missions are enough,” he interrupts. “This is not welcome–”
“Woah, it’s so organized in here!” Itadori exclaims, peering in like he was invited.
“Back off.” Megumi grits his teeth. “I just told you you’re not welcome.”
He slams the door on his head, but the motion lacks force; not because he intentionally dampened it out of the kindness of his heart, but his hands are weak, almost sort of numb. It’s like the channels of connection between his brain and body have been reduced, making the signals between them sluggish and unsteady.
“Ha! Friends already!” Gojo cheers. “And together, we’re heading out tomorrow. We’re gonna go pick up the third and final first year.”
“Whatever…” Megumi grumbles and turns back toward his bed. “You can bother me about it tomorrow.”
“You aren’t excited to make another friend?” Gojo teases.
“I said bother me about it tomorrow–” He shuts his door behind him hard.
“I mean, I barely knew him,” Kugisaki says as she unwraps the bandage around her head, refusing to make eye contact, her timbre thin. “It’s not that big of a deal.”
“Yeah.” Megumi says into his palm. He’s bent over in the uncomfortable plastic chair at her bedside, elbow balanced on his thigh in direct line with his chin, which rests on the heel of his hand. It’s a position far too similar to the one he took up next to Tsumiki, before the hopelessness made it too painful to spend day in and day out listening to those monitors beep.
This scenery doesn’t help.
“You okay?” A familiar voice asks, crouching next to him and placing its warm hand on his back.
He nods, the lump in his throat too heavy to speak around.
“And you?” Gojo says, presumably to Kugisaki, but Megumi can’t take his eyes off the floor, so he wouldn’t know if Sukuna himself were now standing right in front of him again.
“I’m good,” she replies. “Ieiri fixed me up.”
“That’s what she’s here for.” Gojo squeezes Megumi’s shoulder as he stands. “I have to go deal with everything, but I wanted to check on you two first. I should be back in a few hours.”
He just needs to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. All he has to do is make it to the common room so he can get some water, since his tongue is so dry it might as well start cracking at the edges.
His vision is tunneling, closing in on the sides and leaving only the floorboards he’ll step on next clear in all the snow. He can’t tell if they’re creaking or not, since his ears are ringing like a fire alarm as hot tingliness travels up his legs with each motion.
His knees are unstable and perpetually on the verge of giving out completely. The ground approaches his face as he continues, but it doesn’t strike. The cycle of falling resets over and over in a vertical vertigo that doesn’t mesh well with how intensely the world is spinning around him.
“Hey,” he hears, before he feels the impact of what he just walked into.
The first thought that crosses his mind is the fact that walls can’t talk, and neither can most obstacles one might collide with down a hall, but his mind slowly starts to catch up as stillness allows the delay in interpreted information to close.
“Megumi?” Maki’s hands are firmly holding each of his upper arms, keeping him from scurrying off, or falling.
“Megumi,” she says again, and he realizes he’s probably gone too long without answering her. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine,” he responds robotically. “Sorry–”
“Your pupils are–”
“I said I’m fine.” He lightly tugs away, afraid to be too forceful and send himself reeling backward. “I’m just tired.”
“You’re all pale and sweaty,” she observes. “Go back to bed if you’re sick.”
“I’m not,” he argues, squirming out of her grasp. “I’m just–”
He trips sideways, and is, luckily, caught by a wall, but that was far too close.
Maki doesn’t say anything as he leans on it, using the surface as a guide while his sight goes blurry and glistens with hypotensive shimmer, but he can feel her eyes on him.
He should’ve stuck his head under the tap in his bathroom. Why didn’t he think of that? Why didn’t he stop at the vending machine closest to the dorms? Why is he still dragging himself into the kitchen? Why won’t his thoughts connect and just work? Why can’t he just–
His leg begins to bounce as Gojo drones on and on, blabbering about something irrelevant. He stopped paying attention an hour ago.
His head hurts again, an iron band tightening around his scalp. It’s been four hours since his last dose, because Gojo’s gone fifteen minutes into lunch, which he was planning to spend in his room.
They would notice if he brought the medication with him. Gojo wouldn’t be suspicious in any lawful regard, but he’d probably drag him back to Shoko and demand an investigation into his physical health.
He was supposed to stop taking the pills after his injuries healed and they’ve been healed for weeks.
He wipes his nose on the back of his hand, snot thinned to liquid and overflowing over his philtrum. He wants his bed, and even more, he needs to melt away in it.
“Hold on.” He turns away as Kugisaki raises her fist, ready to add insult to injury, since she’s already landed such a string of blows on him that another is completely superfluous.
“The round’s not over yet,” she complains. “We’re supposed to go until I knock you down, or the timer runs out, but I wasn’t planning on letting that happen.”
“Yeah– Just- just… hold on–” He chokes out, wrapping his arm around his abdomen as he gingerly stumbles over to the edge of the training mat. He brings his other hand up to loosely cover his mouth.
“Why?” She pushes. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Sorry,” he whispers, dropping to his knees harder than he means to. Sweat’s breaking out across his forehead and the back of his neck. He leans forward, bracing himself only to pant over the grass.
“Why’re we pausing?” Gojo shouts across the field.
“I don’t know,” Kugisaki yells back. Megumi feels her pointing at him from behind. “Ask him.”
“We’ll get back to it in a second,” he forces himself to say around the threat of a gag, then swallows convulsively, an overflow of saliva forcing its way out and draining off his bottom lip.
“Look who finally showed up,” Gojo chuckles, tapping the clock on the wall with a pencil. He’s subtly showing off the fact that he’s tall enough to reach it. He’s always been so self-centered.
Megumi doesn’t reply, dropping heavily into his seat.
“Why’ve you been so moody lately?” Kugisaki asks. “Are you in a phase?”
“What does that even mean?“ He glares at her.
The grime in his hair, pits, and crotch is heavy and overwhelming. His clothes are unwashed and wrinkled, trapping accumulated body odor against his skin. His hair is heavy with grease. He showers but he doesn’t wash, zoning out for hours under the spray, heated perspiration only worsening.
It’s humiliating, both of them staring at him. His eyes fall to the swirling wood grain on his desk, the lines dancing in the haze.
“Can you just teach already?” He demands through his teeth.
He’s refilled an empty bottle of Tylenol with his prescription. It’s what he brings with him to the field now.
“How sore have you been?” Maki comments as he trudges up to the mat. “You’ve been downing those like candy.”
“It’s children’s,” he says.
“Lying to me doesn’t stop it from tearing up your liver when you take too much,” she calls his bluff. “Go see Shoko if it’s that bad.”
It’s easier to make it through class with his head down. Gojo doesn’t seem to care, since he already taught him all this simple stuff years ago.
It’s difficult to take a written exam that way though. Sideways letters trail off into nothingness at the end of the page as he uses his free arm like a pillow, while he scribbles vague answers at an angle, until his pencils running off the paper and graphite clouds his vision until his scleras look like chalkboards.
“...egumi… Megs,” is the next thing he hears. “Hey.”
“Hm?” He rubs his eyes with a heavy hand.
Gojo’s kneeling next to him. His expression is blurry and semi-concealed by his blindfold, but the concern is obvious. He’s more caring than one would think; that care is just directed toward the future of jujutsu, while the individuals he’s going to put the burden of it on are secondary… Wouldn't it just be tragic if his prized potential couldn’t keep up with the curriculum?
“You don’t have to do this right now,” he whispers, tapping the test.
“No– It’s… I can…” A wave of nausea washes over him as he tries to focus on his own twisted handwriting. “Sorry–”
“Yeah, we can finish up another day,” Gojo decides, getting to his feet. He smoothly grabs the pencil and paper, then ruffles Megumi’s hair before he starts back toward his desk.
“Can I go back to my dorm?” He blurts out. Kugisaki turns her head. He knows she does, even though she’s behind him.
“Hm?” Gojo pauses in his tracks and glances at him over his shoulder. Megumi can see him look him up and down, before he says: “Sure.”
The razor isn’t anything new, and it wasn’t new when Tsumiki went under and people actually started checking on him. He can’t remember the first time he did it. It’s just one of those inexplicable things that came along with being the kid who the guidance counselor had to phone home about, like the hitting problem, or his antisocial disposition. He’s always been an issue.
The medication is a fresh habit. He used it as recommended the first couple of days after Sendai, but it sat untouched in his nightstand drawer until the day after the detention center. It calmed things, and did an even better job of doing so when he played it risky and took two. Three put him straight to sleep, and he hasn’t stopped caring enough to take four, but maybe he will tonight.
He drags the blade across his upper thigh, where the scar will surely be covered even if he’s wearing shorts. Gojo walked in on him slicing his wrist back in 8th grade once. They never talked about it, but he got more observant after that. Megumi doubts long sleeves and the associated caginess would go over well right now.
It’s difficult to justify drug use when there’s no medical reason for it, but Ieiri said he should keep taking it as long as it hurts. His back hasn’t hurt for a month, but that doesn’t mean he’s not in pain. If he’s in pain, he needs painkillers, and he’s not a morally corrupt degenerate if he’s using them for a truly corporeal wound, right?
He barely buys his own excuse.
Yet, he uses his teeth to pop the cap on the bottle anyway.
It doesn’t register until nothing falls into his palm that the plastic wasn’t rattling. He shuts one eye and looks into the opening. It’s empty.
He’s bleeding, and it’s empty.
But that last dose is still getting metabolized, so he might as well deal with it while he can, before the discomfort slaps him in the face at full force.
He stretches and reaches up for the counter he’s leaning against, feeling around until his fingertips graze microfiber. He presses the washcloth to the cut, watching a deep red splotch spread on the fabric as his own breathing grows louder and louder.
“You can sit up,” Ieiri tells him from behind the protective half wall.
He can see the x-ray on her screen through the little window as he does, his heart speeding up again. Although, it never really slowed down.
He awkwardly stood in her doorway and announced his shoulder hurt from training; a poorly thought through story he made up on an impulse.
It’s a disgusting thing to do, really, abusing the resources others need, especially when Ieiri’s so overworked already, but here he is.
He doesn’t know why he didn’t anticipate the imaging. Any competent medical professional would examine him further, verifying his complaints– No, she’s just trying to figure out the most effective course of treatment. She doesn’t know how twisted he is.
“Looks fine.” She announces. “You said it was hurting in the joint, right?”
“Yeah.” There’s a lump building in his throat.
“It’s something with your soft tissue,” she says. “Come back in a week or two if it doesn’t get better, but try some Tylenol until then.”
“Can you stop freaking out over nothing?” Nobara growls as they pull up in front of the abandoned house.
“I’m not freaking out,” he tensely says, trying and failing to subdue his bouncing leg.
“He literally said it was a Grade Three at worst,” she tells him. “I don’t get why you’re ranked higher than me if you’re nervous about something as little as this. And the exchange event is coming up, so you better not be a liability.”
“I’m not–” he replies, but is interrupted by Nitta clearing her throat.
“There’s a spirit waiting for you two,” she says pointedly. “If you don’t mind.”
“Sorry…” They mumble in unison.
Megumi uses the roof of the car to pull himself to his feet, but he immediately regrets it when the sensation of motion swooshes through his sinuses just before greyish sparkles take over his eyes and ears. He’s stranded in space, moving in every and no direction at the same time, until the side of his arm hits something cool, sedgy, and terrestrial.
“...ey… egumi… Hey–” is what he wakes up to, along with strong arms shaking him.
“Nmm-” He groans, weakly trying to shake his head.
“Megumi, open your eyes,” Maki barks.
He blinks slowly.
“What happened?” She asks, wasting no time in hooking his arm over her shoulder and carefully maneuvering him out of the backseat of the vehicle he just realized he was in.
“I…” He rasps. “Don’t… feel that good…”
“Obviously,” she says, reconfiguring him so that he can stand without hitting his head on the doorframe. “Do you remember what happened before you passed out?”
“N-no–” He sloppily brings the back of his hand to his mouth, ill heat blooming in his chest.
“He seemed kinda panicked for some reason, but other than that, he went down suddenly, ” Kugisaki supplies from somewhere on his left, or maybe his right. He can’t tell anymore.
“You wanna tell us why you’re fainting out of nowhere?” Maki murmurs, tone stiff, scary.
“I–” He’s cut off by a violent retch as Maki half-drags-half-carries him in through the front entrance. Liquid splatters onto the hardwood, and he feels it running down his wrist and into sleeve a moment later.
“Shit–” She immediately adjusts her hold on him, now with her hands under his arms, holding him up from behind as he doubles over.
“One of you–” She shouts at Nobara, and who he thinks is Nitta? He’s pretty sure she was involved somewhere in his memories. “Get him a trashcan or something–”
He gags again, this time overly aware of the warmth rising in his esophagus as nausea and the taste of bile ascend with it. Bits and pieces stick to his tongue and gums and uvula, triggering the reflex once more. A gush of fluid splashes against plastic, followed by a smaller mouthful of something painfully sour that leaves him coughing and tearing up as he’s lowered to the ground.
“Hold that,” Nitta instructs softly, pushing the bin into his grasp. He curls around it miserably, hanging his head over the scent of vomit.
“Breathe,” Maki intones. He’s sure it’s her rubbing circles over his spine.
“Can someone get a thermometer? He’s really warm.” Her other hand is cool on his forehead, pushing the hair out of his eyes.
He heaves, stomach contracting so hard his tongue lolls out, only to bring a dry, ailing scrape of his throat. He breaks off hacking, gasping, and swallowing down the urge to throw up again.
A cold rag is draped over the back of his neck, presumably delivered by Inumaki, judging by the soft “tuna” he barely managed to catch over the pounding of his own heart.
“...ospital…njured… a missi…eiri…” He vaguely hears from a new voice through all the chatter. There’s too much going on around him too quickly.
“No, she’s not gonna be sober this time of night,” Maki says to them. “I think he’s just sick.”
“M’sorry–” He interjects, trying to look up at her.
“Focus on puking,” she commands, manually turning his face back toward the bin.
“I don’t know where that idiot is on his trip, but he might wanna check on him, so I guess call Gojo,” she continues with her other conversation. “Otherwise, we should just get him to bed, and some advil, if he can keep it down.”
“Why’re you here?” Megumi grumbles as the blob of white hair finally comes into focus.
“I’m just checking on my favorite student.” Gojo presses the backs of his knuckles to his cheek as he nudges him out of the way to sit on the edge of the mattress.
“Maki was right. You are warm,” he decides. “Are you still feeling sick?”
“I…” Megumi looks back and forth. He’s in his room, but he’s becoming increasingly aware that others have been in here too.
“I don’t know–” He swallows. “Go away–”
“Flu or stomach bug?” Gojo asks.
“Huh?”
“What kind of sick was it supposed to be?” He clarifies. “Shniffles or the other thing that starts with sh-”
“I don’t know–” He says, more forcefully this time. “What are you talking about?”
“Well, I gotta know if you’re gonna be well enough for the exchange event next week,” Gojo replies. “Is this a one-day kind of thing, or are you sensing a chronic situation brewing?”
“I’m not faking,” he mutters, rolling onto his other side to face away from him. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Not even on my mind, kid.” He clicks his tongue, getting to his feet. “Try not to make me rush back so suddenly next time though.”
“Stay hydrated,” Maki said, pushing a water bottle into his hands as they crossed the pavilion. “Focus on taking the lower grade spirits down with your shikigami. I’ll stay near you and handle close combat.”
“I’m fine,” he argued, sore and shaky but forcing himself to trek onward. His symptoms improved enough to man up and deal with it, even if he feels like shit. “Really.”
That water bottle now lies dropped at his feet, blood frozen in his veins, as he watches Itadori climb out of the box, tuning out the principal dismissing them and scolding Gojo.
Yuji opens his mouth to say something, but Kugisaki’s fist smashes into his nose before he can get the words out.
“Ow–” He whines. “What was that for–”
“You dick–” She kicks him in the gut, knocking him flat on his ass. “What the hell kind of joke were you trying to pull on us–”
“I wasn’t trying to–”
She kicks him again.
“Fushiguro, help me out!” He pleads. “Ow- Ouch–”
“Hey,” Megumi interjects, putting his arm out like a blockade before she can dive at him again. “Give him a chance to explain, if you don’t like what he says, you can beat him up some more.”
“You okay?” he asks. “Itadori?”
“Yeah!” He smiles. “Sounds like I’ve got a big role, but I’ll manage.”
“I’m not talking about that,” Megumi says softly. “Something happened, right?”
“No? Nothing happened.” He laughs, but there’s little humor or ease in it.
The cicadas whispers grow into shrieky chatter around them.
“Okay, yeah,” he concedes. “Something did happen– But it’s true that I’m okay.”
Megumi exhales, but the carbonic discomfort in his chest doesn’t fully dissipate.
“In fact, because of it, I really don’t want to lose,” Itadori declares.
“Hm.” He breathes, compelling himself to put one foot in front of the other. “Alright, then.”
“Hm?”
“I don’t really want to lose either,” he murmurs.
“Why are you two talking about losing?” Kugisaki complains as he steps into the group. “You already got rolled once, and you’ve been as useful as a cordless jump rope this week, so you better not drag us down.”
“Really?– Well, I guess I can’t say I”ve been very helpful either.” Yuji claps him on the shoulder supportively. “Here, at least.”
“Get off.” Megumi shrugs and steps to the side.
“Let’s go!” Kugisaki cheers. “Let’s kick their asses! For Maki!”
“Don’t say stuff like that.” She rolls her eyes.
“Pollock roe.”
“Yeah!” Panda chimes in. “Let’s do it for Maki!”
“I said don’t say stuff like that,” she growls.
“In that case.” Itadori jumps to the front of the pack, readying his stance. “Let’s win!”
Except Maki kicks him over.
“Who said you could go first?” She scolds. “Somebody explain the formation to him. There’s a reason scouts are in the front, idiot.”
“He’ll figure it out,” Megumi sighs. “Let’s just go.”
“Yuji.” Maki snaps her fingers and points with her thumb. “Keep pace with Megumi in the back. Don’t let him fall behind.”
“You got it!” He salutes her, brushing off the dirt on his pants as he stands back up.
“Zenin–” Megumi yells. “Stop running–”
He skids to a stop just in time before Todo bursts out of the branches. He’s beside Itadori, who charges forward as Maki steps in front of him protectively, staff ready.
“Scatter,” she shouts as Yuji’s knee strikes Todo’s face.
Everyone takes off in opposing directions. Inumaki and Kugisaki follow Panda, and Megumi almost does the same on instinct, before he remembers that he’s supposed to stick with Maki. He rotates on his heels, trying to find himself in space relative to where he thinks she is, but it’s difficult with varying motion blur accumulating in his vision, each pixelated smear on a delay.
There’s a thump, which he thinks is Todo hitting the ground, but a wave of pain rises from his chest and forehead, and he realizes he’s horizontal. His shoulders ache, bent awkwardly since he wasn’t ready to catch himself. Pebbles and blades of grass dig uncomfortably into his palms too.
“Megumi–” He hears Maki call, but her sideways ankles disappear as a fist hits the path behind them, concert Kandi bracelets rattling.
Itadori lands a kick on Todo’s back, using the force to propel himself over and punch him in the face before he lands, which impressively, sends him stumbling out of Megumi’s view. Knocking Todo off kilter is definitely a feat.
“Fushiguro,” he says. “Are you okay–”
Of course that gorilla’s already recovered. He slaps Itadori with an open hand hard enough to throw him headfirst into a tree.
Megumi inhales through his teeth and musters up the strength to push himself off the dirt, but he can’t get far before a foot collides with his sternum and he goes flying into some bushes too fast for his limbs to register. All that protects him is some meager cursed energy that manages to reinforce his vitals, and it doesn’t do much.
“Hey! Time out–” Itadori yells. There’s another thud, bark cracking, as he must get Todo out of the way.
“Fushiguro.” He’s suddenly at his side. “What happened? Are you hurt?”
“I–” His diaphragm is spasming and his lungs are all out of air. He rolls onto his side, gasping and clutching his sternum, until flecks of dirt that stuck to his lips get sucked in and make him cough so hard stars are all he can see.
“Breathe–” Yuji tells him. “Hold on, man. He’s hurt–”
“Sorcerers don’t have time in battle to waste on fallen comrades,” Todo preaches, grabbing him by the collar. “Don’t fall to the wayside when you still have to prove the very value of your life–”
“HEY–” Yuji screams, volume decreasing as he’s thrown into the woods. Megumi expects to hear the crunch of a skull hitting something it shouldn’t, but the leaves only rustle, and less than a second later, red sneakers push Todo over from behind. He barely avoids faceplanting, which is a sight to behold, considering it’s Todo. Itadori must have used a branch like a monkey bar and swung himself back around using the momentum. It makes sense that he would have the raw strength for that.
“Can you just wait a second–” He says, landing at Megumi’s side. He hooks his arm over his shoulder and helps him sit up. “You okay?”
“Yeah–” Nausea washes over him with the change in position. He gulps thickly and covers his mouth with a trembling hand.
“Alright.” Todo chuckles as he stands back up. “So you are a formidable opponent, eh? What kind of woman’s your type?”
“Huh? You wanna know my type?” Itadori replies, confused. Megumi doesn’t have the strength to warn him. “Why would you be asking me that now?”
“Nevermind why,” Todo says. “I’m just evaluating you.”
“Well, I don’t get why it’s important, but–” Itadori answers. “I guess if I had to say…”
This is going to go poorly. So poorly. Shit.
“I like a tall woman with a nice big ass, just saying,” he proclaims. “Like Jennifer Lawrence.”
Megumi expects punches to rain down, but all they receive in response is a deep, shuddering gasp, so dramatic you would’ve thought the word of god himself was whispered directly into his ear, or something like that.
He lifts his head to see Todo wide-eyed and stunned. He slowly tilts his head back towards the sun as tears begin to run down his cheeks in rapid succession, gushing out so fiercely that snot erupts from his nostrils and runs over his lips. He whimpers and mumbles something about a pop idol and true love.
“So you never lost anyone in your home town, huh?” He asks, then pauses.
“You and I were destined… to be best friends, like we are–” He sniffles.
“Hold on,” Yuji says. “You just learned my name–”
“Before you ask,” Megumi rasps, dropping his cheek on Yuji’s clavicle. “Whatever he said, I second it.”
“Alright, I’ll allow a temporary ceasefire,” Todo decides, wiping his eyes. He dusts off his hands and kneels in front of them, then claps Megumi on the shoulder. “What’s wrong, my brother’s little friend?”
“Brother?” Itadori questions, as Megumi grumbles under his breath: “I’m older than him…”
“I’m fine,” he says. “I just… lost my balance…”
“Are you sure?” Yuji frowns. “I know I’ve been gone for a while, but I don’t remember you being this pale. And you’re sweating a lot too.”
“I’m fine–” He tries, but a wave of illness overcomes him and he has to clamp his lips shut and swallow rising acid, lest he be sick all over Yuji’s lap.
“Hm.” Todo grabs his wrist and presses two fingers to the area below his thumb.
“What’re you doing?” Itadori asks, more out of curiosity rather than skepticism.
“His pulse is too fast,” he replies. “I would’ve thought my best friend would understand the importance of first aid. It’s critical for a sorcerer to acknowledge the fundamentals of anatomy, both in assisting the weak and vulnerable, and in comprehending the internal flow of their own cursed energy.”
“You just said sorcerers shouldn’t waste time on helping the injured,” Itadori argues. “Which I don’t agree with, but those are your words–”
“I said they don’t have time to waste on the fallen,” Todo clarifies, unhelpfully. “It’s all about circumstances, artificial or not. Although, I can’t expect you to act as support when you’ve only trained on the offensive– That’s something we’ll work on.”
“Huh?”
“I have much to teach you, brother.” He grins, then neutralizes his expression as he looks at Megumi again. “But for now, we have to help your friend.”
“Right.” Yuji nods dutifully.
“I suspect dehydration,” Todo diagnoses. “Either due to heat stroke, or a prior illness.”
“Kugisaki said something about him being useless this week,” Yuji so kindly supplies.
“She was just…” Megumi shakes his head slowly. “I’m fine.”
“What matters is confronting the situation as it is now,” Todo tells them. “As a sorcerer, brother, you must learn to take things as they come and disregard contributing factors until they become imminently critical, not because they aren’t important, but due to the fact that distraction will inhibit you more than eliminating background noise will help.”
“We get it–” Megumi chokes out. “Brother this and brother that– Just–”
He scrambles off of Itadori, barely managing to crawl a few feet over to the bushes before retching on all fours like a dog. And it occurs to him that his divine dog may have disappeared, since he’s not sure if he completely lost consciousness earlier. He can’t tell if he’s perceiving its senses like usual when he’s so dizzy. Hopefully it’s still following Maki. She’ll need the backup without him.
“It’s okay.” Yuji’s hand lands on his back as he gags on a small, concentrated stream of bile. “Todo, do you have water?”
“No, it’s more strategically intelligent to keep any supplies aside from weapons with a dedicated member of your squad,” he replies.
“Okay, well, can you call whoever that is and tell them to get over here?” He tries.
“My business phone was destroyed before the match began,” Todo says solemnly.
“Before?” Yuji asks. “How did that happen?”
“That’s not something for you to worry about–”
“Also why do you have a ‘business’ phone?” He says. “What about your personal?”
“It’s back inside, protected,” Todo explains. “It has all my pictures with Takada–”
Megumi vomits again, bits of the meager breakfast he choked down clogging up his nostrils as it comes up with enough force to spray out his nose too. He breaks off hacking, which only makes him heave again.
“I think we should get a teacher.” Yuji sweeps his hair out of his face. “Or like that doctor lady? I guess I’ll– Shit–”
“What?” Megumi looks over his shoulder suddenly, but that disturbs the fluid in his inner ear badly enough to send him gagging up nothing.
“Sorry,” Yuji soothes, gently patting him on the back. “I think I may have, uh… Left my phone inside…?”
“One of my–” Megumi spits, wrinkling his nose at the bitterness. “One of my pockets… my phone’s in there…”
Yuji maintains his palm on his back, while the other one pats each side of his thigh. “Ah!”
“Call–” Megumi gulps against the next surge of seasickness. “Gojo or… Ieiri…”
“Yeah, I’ll call Gojo,” Yuji says. “I know him better.”
“He’ll get here faster than anyone else too,” Todo adds, his larger, warmer hand taking over for Yuji’s as he steps away. “Sit back.”
Megumi does as he’s told even though every instinct in his body says not to, letting Todo guide him. He’s too tired to resist, even as his uniform jacket’s unbuttoned and peeled off, the fabric sticking to his skin with perspiration.
“You’re overheating,” he murmurs, more kindly than one would expect from him.
“Hey!” Megumi hears as the ringing he assumed was just his ears ceases. “What did I do to deserve a call from my favorite student when he should be super busy exorcising curses and making his sensei look like a great teacher?”
Yuji’s put Gojo on speakerphone. Great. That’s just what his headache needs.
“Huh?” Yuji makes a face. “This is Fushiguro’s phone. I thought I was your favorite student.”
“Oh, uh, yeah,” Gojo pivots. “It’s my eyes, you know? I could see it was you from here– Hey, it’s not cheating if they called me–”
“You’re not supposed to be involved!” Someone complains. It sounds like Utahime.
There’s some other commotion and interference with the microphone, before Gojo’s voice comes through again.
“Yeah, I’d actually be able to see if the coverage on him didn’t keep cutting out–” He says pointedly. “Sorry, Yuji, what’s up?”
“Something’s wrong with Fushiguro,” he informs him. “We think he’s dehydrated, maybe from heat stroke? He seemed dizzy, and he just threw up. He’s really pale too.”
“Did you get him any water?” Gojo asks.
“We don’t have any water,” Yuji says plainly.
“Are you serious?” Utahime upbraids in the background. “You don’t give your students water?”
“Neither do you then, I guess,” Gojo retorts. “Aoi’s with them.”
“Well, he’s–” She scoffs. “Whatever–”
“It’s bad enough that you need me to come get him?” His chair squeaks as he must get to his feet.
“I think so.” Yuji glances over his shoulder, clearly looking for a response.
Megumi barely nods, then winces as his temple throbs like a hammer just struck it. His calves cramp at the same time, and it doesn’t help that he’s still teetering on the verge of puking his guts up all over again.
“Yeah, he wants you to come here.”
“Should we pause the game?” A gruff voice suggests. It has to be the principal.
“No, no.” And that’s Gakuganji, of course. “His life’s not in danger.”
“Is dehydration not a medical emergency to you?” Gojo says. “I thought you’d care, since old people dry up quicker–”
“GOJO–”
A door slams behind him, muffling any further chastisement.
“I’m on my way,” he declares. “You’re still near the entrance, right?”
“Yeah, I think so.” Yuji looks around, as if that’s going to be helpful. It’s difficult to navigate in this part of the forest, where the vegetation is so dense, but it won’t be a problem for Gojo.
“If he’s done blowing chunks, put Megs on the phone, will you?” He requests.
Megumi cringes, not only at the descriptor, but also the nickname. Usually, he’d tell him not to call him that, especially not at school, but getting a few words out feels equivalent to running a marathon right now, so he merely shakes his head when Itadori offers the receiver.
“He’s still feeling sick,” he relays, crouching beside him. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay, I’ll be there in–”
The line goes dead suddenly, beeping a couple of times before an error screen pops up.
“Huh?” Yuji tilts his chin. “No service?”
“Look.” Todo points at the sky, which is quickly yellowing.
“A veil?” Yuji’s brows knit together. “Why now?”
Before any of them can say anything else, a cold, disturbing breeze flows past.
“Run–” Is all Megumi can choke out, while Yuji’s already grabbing him under the arms and pulling him to his feet. His knees give out immediately, so he tosses him over his shoulder like a fireman without missing a beat.
“Itadori–” He gasps as he catches a glimpse of the spirit that’s catching up with them. There’s no way that’s the Grade Two they’re supposed to be after–
He makes eye contact with it. It sees him, and he sees it. Curses can be like animals. They prioritize going after who they view as a threat, and staring at them like a poised predator is a surefire way to pick a fight. Todo and Itadori are facing the other way, so the attack it fires is meant for–
Megumi pushes himself as upright as he can on Yuji’s shoulder, while the branch flies at him in slow motion. It’s just fast enough to curve upwards and still strike, but it pierces his abdomen instead of his heart, and more importantly, it only grazes Yuji’s jacket. If it followed its original trajectory, it would’ve stabbed him too.
“Fushiguro–” He screams, slowing to a stop as that thing retracts its spear. He lowers him to the ground, pulling his coat off and pressing it to the wound.
“Move–” Megumi barks.
Yuji leaps out of the way before the projectiles can hit him. Megumi’s pretty sure one hits him instead, but he can’t feel much from the neck down, or it might just be too painful to differentiate one strike from another. A vignette is closing in around his vision, so he won’t have to deal with it much longer anyway.
Todo yells something, but he can’t tell what he says, or what Yuji’s shouting beside him. He can see his lips moving, but his hearing’s as clouded as his sight.
He jumps away just as Megumi’s eyelids flutter shut, and a violent sensation of impassioned cursed energy erupts before he’s consumed by total and complete, soothing darkness.
“Mmph…” He groans and stirs in place, forcing his eyes to open, then squeezing them shut again when the glaring white light hits them. For a moment, he wonders if he’s dying, but then the scent of antiseptic hits his nostrils and a monitor beeps, which means he’s probably just in the hospital.
“Hey.” Someone’s squeezing his upper arm. “You awake?”
“Hm?” He tries to lift his hand to rub his eyes, but agony slashes his midsection, from the shoulder he just tried to move to his pelvis. “Aah–”
“Try to stay still,” they suggest too late. “You just had surgery.”
It’s cold enough in here for the hair to stand up on his arms, but he’s breaking out in a sweat anyway, nose running and eyes watering too. He’s breathing faster than he should, writhing and whimpering like a little kid.
“It’s okay,” they intone. “Shoko should be back soon.”
“How’s he doing?” A deeper voice asks as Megumi finally registers the footsteps.
“The pain meds are wearing off,” they reply. “But at least he’s waking up.”
“Hey, kid.” The voice is increasingly familiar, and so are the hands cupping his cheeks. “Let me see those steely blues.”
“Mmph–” He whines but he complies, slowly blinking.
Gojo’s leaning over him, wearing sunglasses and a hoodie instead of his typical uniform, which means it’s either nighttime, or some seriously bloody shit went down and he had to change on short notice. Either seems possible, under the current circumstances.
Maki’s on his other side in a plastic chair. Her upper arm is bandaged under her t-shirt.
“Wh–” Speaking hurts. “What h-happened…?”
“A special grade cursed spirit attacked during the exchange event,” Gojo expounds. “It took you out first, but Shoko patched you up, and I saved the day–”
“You’re only partially healed right now though,” Maki adds. “She had to operate to get all the debris out and stop the bleeding before her technique would be effective enough. She did all she could, but your body has to catch up before she can finish the job.”
“I-it–” He tries, but the sound catches in his throat.
“Speak of the devil,” Gojo mutters, looking behind him as a blurry white coat appears through the sliding door.
“The people who drag your asses back from the brink of death are usually called angels,” Ieiri says dryly. “But who am I to complain?”
“You should study more.” He flicks her stethoscope as he steps out of the way and she takes his place. “Don’t you remember what Lucifer used to be?”
She ignores him.
“How bad’s the pain?” She asks Megumi, dragging over one of those rolling stools. “Scale of one to ten.”
“Bad–” is all he manages.
“Yeah, that sounds about right.” She adjusts something on the IV pole.
“Itadori,” he whispers. “Where’s– Is h-he…?”
“He’s fine,” Maki answers bitterly. “Not a scratch on him.”
“You fared the worst, followed by Toge, then Kamo,” Ieiri says. “You’re lucky you were low on cursed energy in the first place. The roots that thing put in you feed on it.”
“Pretty sick, right?” Gojo lets out a breath of laughter.
Maki kicks his shin.
“I’m gonna give you another dose of morphine and some midazolam. It should put you to sleep while I finish treating you,” Ieiri explains, pulling some syringes from a drawer. “I expect you to have some soreness afterwards though, especially since you’ve already been sick this week, so don’t blame me when you wake up.”
“How encouraging…” He catches Gojo comment under his breath, before the lights flicker out and warmth washes over him in a prickly, calming wave, as salty air flows in around him and the image of a beach on a pleasant day invades his peaceful abyss.
“Fushiguro!” Itadori claps him on the shoulder, materializing behind him out of nowhere. “You look so much better already!”
“Don’t sneak up on me like that.” Megumi squirms away. “I’m just going back to my room…”
He tries not to show how out of breath he is. Ieiri recommended he spend the next day in her ward too, but privacy is heaven, so he insisted on going back to his dorm, which she only conceded to under the condition that someone would accompany him. That someone was supposed to be Gojo, who he didn’t bother waiting for before taking off.
But since it’s Gojo, he’s now appeared out of thin air, casually standing in front of Megumi’s door, waiting.
“Ah!” He smiles. “There you are!”
Megumi jumps back, almost falling flat on his ass, but he catches himself on the wall first. Yuji’s hand is on his shoulder again, supporting him too.
“Alright, you’ve had your little adventure.” Gojo takes over, holding him up by the underarms. “Bedtime. Come on.”
“M’not a kid–” He grumbles as Gojo pushes him forward, making him put one foot in front of the other for fear of faceplanting.
“Well, the papers say you’re still in my custody for another few years, so suck it up,” Gojo says, guiding him over to his bed. “Bend your knees.”
“It still kinda hurts,” he complains as he sits down on the edge of the mattress.
“Your knees?” Gojo raises an eyebrow. “You’re supposed to be young and spry.”
“No.” Megumi glares at him. “Moving around like that.”
“Luckily your medicine’s on the nightstand.” He cocks his head toward it. “You’ve gotten grumpy again, so I’m guessing it’s worn off. You can take another one now, then it’s one every four to six hours, until you stop needing it.”
“I was there when Ieiri explained too.” He gingerly shifts fully onto the bed and lowers himself onto his side.
“Yeah, yeah.” Gojo ruffles his hair. “Sweet dreams, kiddo.”
He doesn’t wake up to his alarm, only to the blinking screen asking if he’d like to snooze, an hour after it was set to blare. So even his phone is giving up on him. How nice.
His head hurts. His stomach hurts. Everything hurts.
One, two, three.
He has to shake the bottle to get the pills out, but once they shift, three fall into his palm at once. The instructions to take one are front and center, printed on the tacky label too long to properly fit around the plastic.
But there’s three in his palm, already fizzing at the edges, itching to dissolve in the sweat and oil on his skin. They’d contaminate the rest if he put them back.
It’s not so different from how he affects those around him, actually. Isn’t that fitting?
It would be one thing if he were simply useless on the battlefield, but the danger of his presence goes far and beyond. Talent is a dreaded thing, since he never wanted to be a jujutsu sorcerer in the first place.
But that’s not to say he’s forgotten why he’s here. In fact, he’s all too aware of it, and he’s not sure if he’s glad Tsumiki’s not around to see what’s become of him recently.
If she saw him doing this, popping percs like nobody’s business, she wouldn’t be mad. Her fingers would wrap around his, prying the tablets from his grasp and enveloping him in her arms, urging him to cry on his shoulder. Her hand would run up and down his back as he sobbed, while she whispered sweet nothings about how they’re going to get him help and that he’ll have all the support he’d ever need. She’d card her fingers through his hair and tell him it’ll be okay.
But she’s not here.
With how he’s been behaving, she won’t ever be, and it’s all his fault.
No one’s been around to witness what he’s done, have they?
No one really knows how repulsive he is inside, maggots crawling up his esophagus only to stop just short of his epiglottis, as the burbling, rotted flesh of an infected hen’s egg drains down the end of his sinuses over them. The spoils of sulfur and decay erupt into his expanding radius of terror with each breath, invisible to the naked eye, but no less noxious.
Shitting is a private thing, so it’s no surprise a pile of it like him would be all alone, in the dark, staring down at the faint outline of oxycodone held in place by the creases in his palm that traverse his hand in the same fractilized pattern of rifts tearing apart his relationships.
He’s sure there’s suspicions, and why wouldn’t there be? He’s a steaming puddle of vomit personified. It would worry anyone; not in the way of some poor puppy that just got run over, but rather ignite the same fear of a deranged homeless person stumbling and babbling a little too close for comfort.
One day, women will clutch their pepper spray as they speedwalk past him, and cops will act with unnecessary brutality for the public’s comfort. That’s the path he’s on.
It’s humiliating, and no one will say shit, because they’re already too tired of this nonsense.
Gojo’s put up with his tantrums since he was five. While the kicking and screaming may never truly reach him, and that lucky separation is what’s kept him from fleeing so far, there’s only so much one can take, even someone like him, and even from a distance. He won’t exhaust himself, but he will get bored. He’ll lose the little care he had in the first place as soon as Megumi isn’t his legal responsibility, and he’ll become an untouched contact in his smashed phone.
Ieiri’s been his physician since she was licensed. In her words she’s “not a pediatrician,” but Gojo, stupidly, trusts her more than anyone who completed medical school the fair way, so she’ll disappear alongside him. Everyone knows she’s no stranger to substances, but she functions easily. She wouldn’t be sympathetic or judgemental; she’d merely tell him that she can’t continue to prescribe if he can’t handle his panacea, no matter how badly he craves it.
He met Maki when he was six. She’s a kind person, though she doesn’t like being seen that way. She’s closer to catching him than anyone. There’s no stopping her from thinking it. All he can do is keep her from confirming her concerns. Hard evidence will be a slap upside the head and an impassioned scolding. She’d tell Mai to stop doting over him and that he needs to man up and get over it. She’d take it easy on him once he got back to training, if he even survived, but deny it, which would only make him feel worse.
Okkotsu’s emotionally intelligent enough that he would’ve sensed something was off a month ago and investigated. He wouldn’t respond to getting brushed off, unlike Inumaki who’s too timid to push back, and pretending you can’t understand him is a simple out too. Yuta would’ve pretended to act out of the kindness of his heart and gotten someone to stage an intervention, so Megumi supposes he’s just lucky he doesn’t have to put up with that fake, sugar-coated bullshitter of a murderer telling him he cares about him.
Kugisaki doesn’t care. She’d look at him with vaguely disgusted pity, then move on with her day. If anything, she’d be mildly sad in private, but she’d insult him to cope and things would be right as rain. Panda might lecture her over that, but he can already see her rolling her eyes and grimacing.
Itadori is the only other notable threat, but he was dead for months, so he failed to develop a subtle understanding of implicit struggle or an awareness of what goes on under-the-table. He’s adept though, so he’s already invaded deeper than he should’ve. It won’t be long before he’s figuring it all out, asking Gojo for help, and sadly accepting the ire in Megumi’s eyes as he’s carted off into some psychiatric facility. It’s hard to stay mad at him. There’s something about his demeanor that forces one to confront the entangled mess of moral complexity within any given situation, instead of leaning on their knee-jerk reaction. It’s unimaginably frustrating, and it might just be easier to die before dealing with it.
A single droplet falls, mixing with the blood, sweat, and sebum melting the pills in his hand. Another rolls down in rapid succession, following the same salty streak down his cheek, pattering into his palm with another, then another.
He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to be like this. He doesn’t want this.
But if he puts them back now, the entire bottle will melt, and he’ll have nothing.
There will be no soothing darkness. There will be no calm quiet. There will be no relief, and he will have cut himself for nothing. He’ll just be a stupid little boy crying alone in bed because he’s too scared to tell someone it hurts.
He threw up all over his sheets when he was seven. He didn’t get up. He didn’t scramble for the emergency phone. He didn’t even try to clean it himself. He just sat there and sobbed so hard he vomited again.
Gojo must have heard him then, because a sliver of hallway light expanded over him as the door creaked open. Tired blue eyes knelt down and squeezed his arm, then carefully picked him up and brought him to the bathroom. He crouched on the bathroom floor with him all night, rubbing his back and offering Gatorade or ginger ale, then crackers, once he’d kept a few sips down. He let him sleep in his bed, while his bedding was in the wash, and he wasn’t mad when he threw up again in there.
It was Maki that banged on the door to the Zenin’s extravagant conference room. She would’ve taken the beating for it, if Gojo hadn’t stepped in. She told him Megumi’s stomach hurt, and he put together the fact that he was unbearably anxious in that environment and drove him home without bothering to wrap up the meeting.
Okkotsu entered quietly and sat with him in Gojo’s office after the hospital’s visiting hours were over, babysitting since he couldn’t be trusted around a pair of scissors. He offered him tissues and water, and told Maki not to be so harsh when she “suggested” he quit it with the tears and enroll to save her, even though she was right– Or, she would’ve been, if he were capable of saving anyone, when he can’t even keep a hold of himself.
He’d give anything for someone to burst through that door right now. He knows he’d scream at them to go away, or pretend to be asleep, but they’d see the pills in his hand. They’d see what was truly wrong with him.
But Gojo doesn’t care enough about him, since his written and practical testing hasn’t been up to par. Maki’s busy taking on his role in the exchange event, because he couldn’t bring himself to return her unwilling kindness. Okkotsu’s abroad, helping those who actually deserve it. And Tsumiki’s in a coma no one believes she’ll wake up from.
So he’s alone, swallowing convulsively and kicking off his blankets as he sniffles because the hot flashes and nausea can’t wait more than a couple of hours after the last dose wears off before they strike again, worse than last time.
All three pills have melted together, so it’s too late to be caught tripling up. Maybe Ieiri could tell there was more than there’s supposed to be, but she can handle it. She’d know it’s his fault for falling victim to a medication, when she pushes through. She’d know how pathetic he is better than anyone.
He can’t put them back, but he could throw them away. He could drag his sorry self onto his trembling knees and stagger over to the sink and wash the remnants down the drain. Or he could swallow them as he crashes to his knees in front of the trash can and stick his bloody fingers down his throat until he gags up the crusted pus around his soul. Or he could just go back to sleep.
But he can’t sleep without the dark, and there is no dark; there is no unmedicated calm. He hates himself for needing it, but he hates himself too much to sit with himself alone in the dark, waiting it out.
So, what else can he do?
His heart bangs against his sternum with the strength of an iron hammer as he licks his palm, dragging his tongue across the chemical puddle until he reaches the tip of his thumb. He does it again, catching every last microliter of bittersweet residue clinging to his pores, leaving a thick, milky trail that oozes down his wrist, matching the one running over his bottom lip and down his chin.
Nothing happens.
It takes ten to thirty minutes to kick in. It’s faster than the last medication, but he’s still used to waiting.
He stares at his dirty hand, watching it glisten softly in the light peeking through the gap beneath his door, either too tired or too afraid to blink.
Warmth spreads in his chest, even though it’s too early. It might be a placebo. Oddly enough, even if you know it’s fake, it can still work. Just like how he can know how deplorable he is, and still succumb to the same false justifications.
He’s sick. He’s nauseous. He’s hurt. He’s bleeding. He needs medicine.
He needs it.
Necessities aren’t vices, so there’s no need to be ashamed of it, yet he still is. He always is, and he does it anyway, because he’s weak.
And his body is too, easily falling prey to what’s a relatively low dose.
He’s drowning in calm, soothing darkness again.
The next thing he hears is a soft click and a sliver of orange-ish light appears in his vision, focusing as he blinks.
“Fushiguro?” Someone whispers.
“Stop bothering him,” Kugisaki shouts, though she’s not in frame, and she’s quiet; distant.
“I just wanna know if he wants to watch, or if we should take videos or something,” Itadori replies, then turns back to Megumi, opening the door more than a crack. He lowers his volume again: “you awake?”
“Hm?” He squints.
“He’s been asleep since yesterday morning, idiot,” Kugisaki chides. “Do you expect him to be up and kicking all of the sudden?”
“I don’t wanna exclude–”
“Just come on,” she insists.
Yuji shifts uncomfortably in place, torn. He looks back and forth between each of them.
“Fushiguro?” He tries one more time.
Megumi doesn’t say anything.
“Well, if you feel up to it, we’re doing baseball instead of individual battles, so you can come watch, or join, but I know you’re really tired, so I’ll record what I can for you, okay?” Yuji prattles. “But still, you should come hang out with us if you can.”
He stands there for a moment, both of them completely still.
Then the door closes, shutting all the warm air out of the room. Megumi’s next breath is ice cold when it hits his lungs, but at least the darkness is nice.
He reaches for the pill bottle on the nightstand, blindly feeling around until his fingers wrap around the plastic so hard it cracks.
“...shiguro…ake up…ushiguro… please…ome on–...eathe…”
Sourness bubbles over his tongue as the world lists sideways. His gut clenches, but the rest of his body doesn’t move, so it all acid flows out silently, his airway unprotected and his nose clogged.
“...orry I’m...etting an…cher… Gojo...e right –ack…”
Everything’s shaking. The entire room is vibrating and blurry, like someone rubbed vaseline over his corneas, and he’d reach up to clear it, but his hands are trembling and paralyzed.
“...egumi… Megs…”
Strong hands break the rhythm as they panickedly jostle him. They pull at his eyelids and slip the side of their finger under his nose, just as he realizes his lips have gone numb.
“...ou need to…pen you…es… Open –our eyes…”
All he sees are strobes, violent strobes that absorb his senses, yet don’t interrupt the calming darkness that still surrounds him; that he’s starting to hope will always surround him and drown out the rest of it.
“... Run an…ind Shok…ast as you can…”
His head is tilted and his jaw pried open. Long fingers reach into his mouth, scooping chunks and mucus out of his throat, which finally lets him cough, and now his chest is on fire, nauseous heat spreading to his limbs too.
“...at did…ou let him… Naloxon…urry…”
The next touch is cool and practiced contrast, but the direct flashing in his eyes and the plastic clamp on his finger are unpleasant, especially when something hard and cylindrical is being shoved up his nose.
“...verdose…et him…n the stretche–…”
Velcro scratches at his waist. He’s held down by the shoulders, then carefully sat up as bile runs over his chin and down his neck.
“...ou’re gonna… oka… It’s gonna b…–kay…”
“Wake up–” Someone demands. “Megumi–”
He whines and swats aimlessly, the back of his hand colliding with what feels like a limb, or maybe a hunk of meat. He feels approximately that butchered right now.
“No–” They grab his arms and pin them at his sides. “Open your eyes. We need to talk to you.”
“Wh-what…?” He wheezes, breathlessness hitting him.
White, green, and brown blobs form as sleep drains out the tips of his fingers and toes, slowly letting consciousness reinstate itself behind his eyes.
“You with us?” Gojo asks. He’s the one holding him down.
“Yeah?” Megumi rasps as his eyes dart around the room. It’s clinically sanitized with piercing white light, full of beeping, dripping, and worry. It’s all too familiar, only he’s out of place.
All he can smell is rancid sourness, forced further into his sinuses by the oxygen cannula under his nostrils. It’s all over his tongue and the backs of his teeth too, while the fabric of the hospital gown they put on him sticks to his chest, acid stinging the sensitive skin underneath.
“Tell me what happened.” Ieiri flashes her pen light in each of his pupils. “Do you remember?”
“No–” He says, instinctively. “I- I–”
Two pills. He took two, since his chest was hurting so bad. It’s not where he was torn up, but it still hurt, so he took two.
And they didn’t work.
So he took two more. He should’ve waited more than a few minutes, but it hurt. It hurt to be all alone in the dark.
And he took another, then maybe another, but things got fuzzier after that.
“You overdosed,” Maki tells him, stern, yet her voice wavering more than it should. She’s standing over him behind Gojo. He doesn’t know why she’s here, but the hushed chattering and figures outside the frosted window tell him she’s not the only one who’s privy.
“Acci–” He swallows. “Accident–”
“Don’t lie,” Ieiri warns. “We know you took a lot more than you were supposed to, too much for it to be a mistake.”
“I–” That lump in his throat is back.
“Maki.” Gojo nods towards the door.
She frowns, but she leaves anyway. Megumi catches a glimpse of a certain head of pink hair before the lock clicks and he’s alone with the other two.
Shoko sits down in a plastic chair beside him, as Gojo's taken the edge of the bed.
“I don’t need your life’s story, but you have to tell us if you were trying to kill yourself and if you're planning to make another attempt,” she says.
“No,” he whispers. “I’m– I just…”
“It’s okay,” Gojo comforts, gently squeezing his shoulder. “You’re not in trouble.”
“Stop–” Megumi shirks him off, gulping back a shuddering inhale. “Leave me alone–”
“That’s not an option, kid.” He sighs, overly sympathetic and concerned.
“Go away–” He rolls onto his side, pulling his knees to his chest. The back of his hand stings where he must have dislodged an IV, but he doesn’t care.
“We searched your room,” Ieiri informs him. “I know you didn’t stop taking the codeine once you recovered, so I’m sure you’ve been sick because of withdrawal, and if I’m estimating correctly, you were doubling up on doses before too. You’re clinically addicted.”
He expects Gojo to chime in too, but he doesn’t, and for some reason, that pisses him off a little.
“I know you’ve been cutting, and that you’ve lost weight,” she continues. “If you don’t elaborate, I’m going to make a decision about your treatment based solely on that information. It’s fine if that’s what you want, but I recommend you speak up now.”
Megumi just sniffles into the pillow.
“Come on,” Gojo tries. “I know you have a thing about asking for help, but you don’t have a choice right now, so you might as well speak up.”
He doesn’t.
They sit in agonizing, endless silence for a few seconds.
“Then I’ll tell you how this is going to go,” Ieiri breaks it.
“You’ll have to detox first. I’ll manage your symptoms, but if they become too severe, you’ll have to taper off until they’re tolerable. I’m hopeful you weren’t using long enough for that to be the case,” she explains. “After you’re medically stable, we’ll talk about the depression.”
Gojo tries to lovingly ruffle his hair, but Megumi discoordinatedly swings at him, striking his upper arm.
“Leave me alone–” He growls. “Just– Go away–”
He lurches forward again, bile spilling over his lower lip, then the toilet seat, as he coughs and retches. The IV pole he’s connected to rattled with the motion.
Maki’s hands are cool on his forehead and the back of his neck. They keep his hair from sticking to his face with perspiration.
“It hurts–“ He chokes out. “Everything–“
“I know,” she murmurs.
“Maki,” he pleads, barely managing to lift his head enough to look at her.
“No,” she says. “The answer’s no.”
“Please–“ Boiling, steaming tears are running down his cheeks all over again.
“No,” she repeats.
“I need–“ He gulps. “I need it– Please–“
“No.”
“Here,” Itadori says softly, wiping down his chin with a warm, damp cloth.
“M’sorry–” Megumi whispers. “I–”
“Ssh, it’s okay,” he soothes. “Do you want some water? Or to rinse your mouth out at least?”
He can only hum something of a negative and curl around the bowl again.
“Do you want me to get Dr. Ieiri?” Yuji asks. “You’re really warm. I’m worried your fever’s spiking again.”
“I–…” He pants heavily for a few seconds, saliva dripping into the water below. “I don’t c-care…”
“Okay.” Yuji nods. “You’ll feel better soon. It’ll be alright.”
“You’re okay,” Maki tells him, pressing the rim of the glass to his lips. “Swallow.”
The sip is bitter on his tongue as it washes down the remnants of snot and vomit sticking to his teeth. He fights the urge to gag, focusing on his throbbing headache instead, which doesn’t feel good, but it works.
Or, at least, it works momentarily.
He inhales sharply as a cramp crushes his stomach and intestines together, shoulders hunching inward.
Maki pulls the cup away and pats him on the back.
“Breathe,” she instructs.
He shakes his head miserably and rolls onto his knees, elbows landing harshly on the toilet seat. He clutches handfuls of his hair as the water splashes back up, still cold, only slightly more acidic now.
“I need it,” he begs, desperately grabbing onto Yuji’s shirt. “Please–”
“I don’t have anything,” he says, words thin and trembling as they spill over his tongue. “Dr. Ieiri can–”
“Please,” he sobs. “I can’t– I can’t d-do this–”
“It’s okay, it’ll be okay–” He assures him frantically, rubbing up and down his arms as if it was merely a cold winter day and Megumi’s pleading for a jacket.
“I can’t–” He wails. “Just– just… steal it, or I-I’ll pay you–”
“No–”
“I don’t care i-if it’s illicit o-or–”
“Stop,” Yuji says. It’s not angry, just pitying, which is worse.
“I need it,” he cries. “They don’t understand–”
“Calm down–”
“Please–”
“You need to calm down–” Yuji raises his voice, still out of concern, and that makes Megumi want to punch him.
He lifts his arm to swing at him, but he’s too weak to go any further. Yuji grabs his fist, holding him in that position as Megumi drops his forehead on his shoulder and tears soak into the fabric of the shirt he’s still clinging to.
“M’nna pass out–” He chokes suddenly, panic surging with dizziness.
“No, you’re fine,” Maki says, her hands warm as they carefully guide him sideways toward the floor.
“I don’t wanna die–” He squeaks, the tile freezing on his bare skin. He’s always cold in only a thin t-shirt, but he’ll overheat otherwise, his body now incapable of regulating itself in the most basic of senses.
“You’re not dying,” she replies, but his vision is grey and staticky, tinnitus ever present. He’s losing his connection to the world with each passing moment, and he has been, for a while, he realizes.
“Go- go back–“ He whines, another wave of nausea and soreness rising through him. “Go t-to class–“
“Gojo’s not here today, so I’m not missing anything,” Yuji replies. “And before you tell me to train, there’s an odd number of us without you, so I don’t have a sparring partner.”
“S’rry…” Megumi sniffles, curling tighter in the fetal position. He blinks at the base of the toilet that’s surrounded by stars and other visual artifacts.
“It’s okay.” Itadori rubs up and down his arm as the sweat turns cold and he begins to shiver. His lap makes a nice, warm pillow, and Megumi almost wants to beg him to envelope him in his arms, but that would be asking for too much.
“Why’re–” He swallows. “You d-don’t have to… stay here…”
“Save your breath.” Maki rolls her eyes, holding his hand still as Ieiri reinserts the IV he ripped out. “Someone has to fill in for Okkotsu with all the ‘caring nature’ stuff.”
“You know why someone has to be with you at all times right now,” Ieiri reminds him, sticking the needle in over the backs of his knuckles. He’s already in so much pain that he hardly feels it.
“Satoru should be back from overseas soon,” she adds. “If you want a change of face.”
He doesn’t reply.
“We can help you back to bed, if you want,” she suggests as she tapes the cannula. “It’ll be more comfortable than spending the night in here again.”
“Still… feel sick…” He mumbles as Maki silently swaps out the towel he’s using as a pillow. This one’s already covered in grime. He doesn’t remember the last time he bathed.
“I have emesis bags for a reason,” Ieiri says. “But it’s up to you.”
“Help me up–“ He rasps suddenly, halting Yuji’s fingers in their tracks as they card through his hair.
“What? Why?” He asks as Megumi rolls onto his side, desperately dragging himself up onto his knees.
“Get out–“ He pleads.
“What’s wrong?” Yuji’s hand on his back is kind and comforting, but he would rather it be anywhere else in the world right now.
“Out–“ He pushes himself up, using the side of the toilet. He groans, clutching his abdomen and doubling over as a cramp intensifies.
“I’ve been holding your hair back for days; what’s the issue now?” Yuji rushes to steady him.
“Itadori–“ He gulps. “If you don’t get out, I’m gonna shit myself, so please–“
“Oh– Oh, fuck–,” he says, scrambling to his feet. “Are you gonna be–“
“Yes,” he pants. “Get out–“
“Okay, okay.” He complies, stepping away, but he stops and looks over his shoulder. “I’ll be right outside, so shout if–“
“GO–“
Megumi’s sitting down before the door closes, cheeks hot pink and burning. He buries his face in his palms, curling in on himself as pain surges again.
His gut clenches and a retch bursts from between his lips before he can do anything to stop it. Vomit spurts from between his hands, splattering onto his bare thighs.
There’s a knock, then a muffled “Fushiguro?”
“Don’t–“ He sobs, tears plopping into the mess too.
“Megumi?” He hears. “Can I come in?”
He doesn’t reply.
“It’s me,” Maki says from the other side of the door. “I’m coming in anyway, even if you don’t want me to.”
He opens his mouth to tell her to fuck off, and that she’s starting to sound like Gojo, but he just feels even sicker, so he stays quiet.
The locking mechanism clicks, and a quiet shadow casts itself over him, before the sink begins to run.
He sniffles, refusing to look up at her.
Maki crouches in front of him, wiping down his chin and neck with a warm washcloth, then swipes his hair off his forehead. She tears open a package with her mouth and one-handedly places a cooling strip across his forehead.
“You’re fine,” she murmurs. “Think you can stand and clean up?”
He weakly shakes his head.
“Lean forward a little,” Yuji instructs, gently lathering his hair with shampoo. “I don’t want to get any in your eyes.”
“I’m sorry,” Megumi whispers.
“Don’t worry about it,” Yuji says softly. He’s already done far more than he should’ve, respectfully disrobing him and carrying him into the shower, only to do everything else as well.
“This isn’t…” He inhales sharply, trying not to let a deluge of salty droplets join the fresh ones running down his cheeks. “It’s not y-your job.”
“You’re my friend,” he replies. “It’s not a big deal.”
“I’ve… never done this for you–” He claps his hand over his mouth, not because he’s agonizingly nauseous, but just to contain the outburst clawing at his chest, fighting to escape as a pitiful wail.
“Well, you saved my life.” He can hear Yuji smiling at his side. “So I don’t mind at all.”
“I’m sorry–” he repeats hoarsely.
“I told you,” Yuji says, more firmly. “It’s okay. I’m glad we’re both here.”
“The more intense symptoms should be waning by now,” Ieiri explains as he fights not to let his eyelids flutter shut. He won’t fall asleep, but the neverending sense that he should will intensify if he tries. There’s no more total, soothing darkness; insomnia and exhaustion are a terrible combination.
“I can’t say I expect you to feel better yet though,” she continues. “Your weight’s only continued to drop, and going through withdrawals after major surgery is a serious task for the body, even with my technique.”
He can feel Gojo staring at him from the corner, where he’s silently leaning on the wall, acting like he’s just a fly devoid of oppressive presence, or maybe like he’s meant to be there even though he decided to go out of town for a week, probably for something stupid. Either way, the blindfold doesn’t make it any better.
Itadori is right outside with Maki, kindly granting him half an ounce of medical privacy, which he was starting to think didn’t exist. He’s pretty sure Kugisaki’s with them. He doubts she’s interested in visiting him in this state, especially when she’s surely pissed about the drag he’s been on the other two.
“For now, I want to keep the focus on addressing your physical symptoms,” Ieiri determines. “You’re not in good enough condition to confront the littler things. If you keep getting better, we’ll talk about them, but if you don’t…”
She hums discontentedly.
“Well, I want to be straight with you that if you don’t put in the effort to eat, drink, and survive, you will eventually need to be hospitalized in a facility more equipped to handle it than I am,” she tells him. “That won’t be pleasant, especially when they shove tubes down your nose and have you chat with police, since this country isn’t exactly soft on drug use, so don’t let it happen.”
“Just me,” Maki says, knocking on the doorframe before crossing the room and taking the uncomfortable plastic seat beside the even more uncomfortable hospital bed.
Megumi stays facing the wall, curling even tighter into a ball.
Her breathing halts for a moment, like she’s about to speak, but then she doesn’t, silence hanging in the air, stale and awkward.
He swallows thickly, the taste of bile forever sticking to the back of his throat.
“Maki?” He asks so quietly he barely hears himself.
“Yeah?” She replies, calm as ever.
“Do…” He gulps again as the lump in his throat swells. “Do you… I– I just…”
“Do I what?” She echoes, her voice so steady in contrast, it makes him want to cry even more.
“Am I…” He wills himself to get the words out. “Am I s-someone worth saving? Do you r-really think you should s-still be here, wasting your time with me?”
“I already told you,” she says. “It doesn’t matter to me if my actions save anyone at all.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have asked you–” He breaks into a whine, shoulders hitching inward forcefully as his diaphragm contracts.
He expects her to scold him for getting so emotional, or to take offense in some way, or maybe to just walk right out and quit dealing with his bullshit, and he doesn’t know why, since she’s been nothing but gracious through all his sobbing, sweating, and sick, for no comprehensible reason he can come up with. A rational person would see that it’s not worth it. He’ll never be worth it.
The strong arms that wrap around him as the thin mattress sinks at his side make more sense, even though they shouldn’t. She shouldn’t bother.
Yet, he cries into her shoulder, loud and explosive, smearing snot on her shirt and clinging to that very same fabric like a child. He convulses, choking on tears, hacking up a lung, and trying not to vomit, as everything crushed down to the very depths of his soul forces its way out.
“I’m sorry… I’m s-so sorry…” He bawls between heaving, gasping breaths, trembling violently in place as she remains utterly still. “I’m sorry–”
“It’s fine,” she murmurs, making no move besides a slight squeeze of his upper arm. “You’re going to be fine.”