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Megumi woke up warm.
The tatami under him had enough give to be comfortable. The blankets were soft and thick, made for winter. There was water beside him, in a sturdy cup. A fire, further away.
Megumi was comfortable.
He heard laughter. Bright, light, and entirely joyful, echoing from the outside in. He closed his eyes, curling tighter. He should get up. He should. And he would, as he had to. His arms shook from the thought. Unsteady, as he was unsteady. Weak, as he was weak.
The door would open soon, if he didn’t open it himself. It would be Gojō, smiling, too damn cheerful and so bright. The man wasn’t wearing a blindfold, here. Megumi wondered if he’d ever needed one at all. If it had been a mask, not a need.
Megumi didn’t know.
Another laugh. It was still bright. He would have called it obnoxious, if it wasn’t so…
Slowly, he pushed up from the ground. His arms were still shaking.
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The first time he’d woken up, he hadn’t known where he was. It turned out where was the wrong question. When, he should have asked. How, maybe. Sensei, if he let the quiet part out. A raw, scraping Gojō, cut from his throat and fallen, shadowed, to the floor.
It sounded like hope.
Gojō. Alive. Smiling. Eyes bare, and—
Covered in blood. No wounds. No damage, just. Blood.
Megumi blinked. Coughed, into the cold. “Sensei,” he began, and he didn’t know where to go, from there. When to go, maybe.
“Well, you look like shit. Still, glad you’re back to yourself. I didn’t like seeing Sukuna puppet you around.”
So, no bad dream after all. Then how…
“I killed you.”
“He killed me,” Gojō said, bright, eyes watchful. “You didn’t have much to do with it.”
“You’re wrong.”
“I’m not.”
Megumi—
The door slid open, and a curse walked in. Megumi would learn that was wrong, later. Sukuna was a man, not a curse. Megumi thought a curse would have been better. It would have been better if Sukuna had been a curse back then, too.
“Sukuna,” he hissed, flinching stiff. Prey, frozen before a predator.
If he’d moved faster, back then. When Tsumiki was still alive. When Gojō was still alive. If he’d summoned Mahoraga faster. If he’d died. Everything would have been different. Better.
But it felt different now, too. There was no recognition in those towering eyes. No familiarity. No interest, really.
“So, this is the boy,” Sukuna said, as if they were meeting for the first time, as if Megumi didn’t know the feeling of Sukuna’s rage, his happiness, the techniques cut into his flesh. As if Megumi hadn’t born the weight of adaptation, innovation, and death.
As if Megumi hadn’t helped kill Gojō.
“Yeah.” Gojō shifted, smiling a little. “Sukuna, meet Megumi. Megumi, meet Sukuna— don’t worry, he’s our host.”
“Host?”
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Megumi forced his way up, out of the blankets, and to his feet. It took a lot. Most things did. That was fine. Megumi would do it anyway, again and again.
He stepped, shaky, to the door. The room was colder than he was used to. Insulation didn’t exist in these days. A thousand years in the past. The world looked different, from what he’d seen, but it wasn’t much. Scraps between nightmares. Shadows barely worth the name.
But this was a different place than last time. Megumi didn’t know this room. He knew they’d traveled— he remembered waking up, face close enough to Sukuna’s back to burn. He remembered struggling. He remembered Gojō.
He remembered more than he wanted to.
He took a shaking, brittle step. Small. Weak. Pitiful, a voice said, echoing in the back of his head.
Megumi stopped. His body felt strange. Disjointed, unmade, remade— he couldn’t have said how, exactly. Just different.
But was that so different after all? Megumi’s body hadn’t been his for a month, two. His hands had reached for food Sukuna enjoyed. His mouth had smirked, and smirked, and laughed, and mocked, and it had never been Megumi.
He’d seen it all. Felt it all. Watched.
Tsumiki. And then—
The door slid open. Gojō walked in.
“Good morning, Megumi,” the man said, smiling. “Ah, well, it’s not morning. Evening, I guess. How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” Megumi rasped, and sat down. It was easier, this time. His hands responded to his will, moved when he begged them to. He remembered traveling. Sukuna. A fight, and then, that conversation. Better. It would be better. “Where are we?”
“Sukuna’s main shrine,” and that came easy, as Gojō sat before him. Sukuna, again. Megumi looked up, at Gojō. He—
Bruises. Across the neck, and no, more than bruises. Bite marks. Hickies.
“What did he—” Megumi stopped. Swallowed that away.
“Do to me?” Gojō looked steady. “Nothing I didn’t want, but let’s leave it at that. You’re a little young for the full rundown.”
They were still there. The bruises.
Megumi blinked. Recoiled. Stayed still. He didn’t know. He wasn’t used to a body. To being in control. He’d eaten, earlier, sitting beside Gojō. More than once. Sukuna had been with them. Sukuna had loomed, a pyre waiting for skin, flesh. For people. For Gojō, more than anyone else.
Megumi didn’t really remember eating.
“You let him touch you,” he said. “After all the things he did, you let him touch you.”
“I did,” Gojō agreed, “and that’s the difference, Megumi. I let him do it. You never had a choice.”
Megumi flinched. That, he knew. He felt.
Gojō continued, “it’s not quite the same, obviously— sex and possession don’t really have a lot in common, aside from the whole—”
“Shut up,” Megumi managed. “Please.”
Gojō smiled.
“Too much? I never gave you the sex talk, huh? Ah, well, Shōko can do it when we get back. Anyway. These,” and that came with a finger, tapped to his own throat, to the bruises, “are all for me.”
It’s okay. That’s what Gojō was saying. It’s okay, Megumi.
It had been a long time since Megumi had heard that and found it comforting. Weeks.
He didn’t find it comforting now.
“Tell me it wasn’t because of— me,” Megumi ground out, and it was begging, yes. He’d never admit that. He’d meant to say the deal. The pact. Me had slipped out, desperate, like his throat wasn’t his. That wasn’t new.
A laugh. “Well, not the sex, that’s for sure. The answers, yeah, that was for you. It’s my job to keep you alive.”
“You shouldn’t,” Megumi rasped. “If I’m dead, Sukuna can’t posses me.”
“Sukuna’s not possessing anyone, in this time,” and that was sharp, cutting. “Best perk of his human body, and I’m counting the sex.”
Megumi grimaced.
“Is that why…” He glanced to the door, to whatever was beyond it. A shrine, Gojō had said. Sukuna’s shrine. Megumi couldn’t see anything but wood and paper.
“Yeah, probably,” Gojō said, shrugging. “I’m still not totally sure, but it’s the most likely guess.”
Megumi nodded. The movement felt strange. Floating, almost, but more grounded than it had a day ago. Had it been a day? He didn’t know.
He’d barely been awake, in this time. Barely been there. He didn’t really know what Gojō had done to keep him alive.
“You did something.”
“I do a lot of things,” came grinning, “be a little more specific.”
“You know what I mean,” Megumi muttered, an old rhythm that was easy to fall in to. “I feel more awake.”
Gojō hummed. “The head priest here has a technique that bonds soul to body. We tried it on you, seemed to help. You do look more alert than you have in, a week? Two weeks? Ah, I don’t remember, but it’s been a while.”
It’s been a while, Megumi. You look different, Megumi. An echo of an echo. It rang differently, in his shadow. Megumi felt more awake than he had in months.
He shifted. “How did you get sealed?”
A beat. Gojō went still, for a moment, eyes on Megumi. He was just sitting there. Casual. At ease. There was wood under his feet, the crackle of fire from another room. Smoke. Cold. Warmth.
“Not what I expected you to ask.”
Megumi tried not to sigh. His throat felt rough, unused. His body, wrong. “What did you expect?”
“More questions about Sukuna, actually.”
“I know enough about him,” Megumi answered, to a question Gojō hadn’t asked. He knew that Sukuna loved plums. Knew he enjoyed sunshine, and watching beautiful things. Read poetry, and killed sisters. Megumi knew enough about Sukuna.
“The other one, sure. This one? You know less than you think.”
“It’s the same.”
“They aren’t,” and then, “I got sealed because of a bad decision. Won’t happen again, don’t worry.”
That wasn’t an answer.
“Sensei—”
A hand, holding a cup of water. Megumi stopped, drank. His throat felt better. The cup was smooth. A thick clay, under his fingers. It wouldn’t crack, if he dropped it.
“The circumstances are completely different now, of course,” Gojō continued, settling in front of Megumi, legs crossed. “Nothing is sealing me here, and Sukuna and I are evenly matched.”
It sounded true. It sounded fake. Megumi remembered the feel of a killing technique, of a slash that cut the world.
He shifted. If he put his weight down, on his ankles, he’d bruise. If he pressed hard enough.
“You’re waiting to fight until I’m recovered, right? That’s what’s holding you back?”
“That’s part of it,” Gojō said, and his eyes were bright, “but not all. The technique I used to get here was untested. There are some technical issues I’m still working out for the way back.”
It was unthinkable that anything would take Gojō more than a minute. A lie, part of Megumi whispered. It could have been a lie. He wouldn’t have thought that before.
Megumi looked into the water, and wondered how to drown a shadow.
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The exhaustion came back with teeth.
Megumi blinked, eyes shutting. Tired. He was so tired.
“Ah, that’s your limit, huh? Not bad,” and then, blankets, warmth, and “sleep, Megumi.”
He closed his eyes. Even still, he could feel Gojō, sitting a few feet away. The energy like a beacon, even in the night.
Megumi slept.
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He woke up alone.
It was morning, he could tell, but not early. Before noon. After dawn. The sunlight was streaming in through the walls on a cold wind. Megumi shivered a little, but he was still warm. The blankets, and a fire, somewhere close. The room was smaller than he was used to. Two doors. One set outside, with the wind. One set somewhere else. The other set was where Gojō had come the night before.
Gojō was gone now, but Megumi could feel his energy. It felt bright. It was beside Sukuna.
Megumi pushed to his feet. It took less than it had the day before. He was still shaking.
He went to the door.
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It took a minute to find them. He had been in some long side hall— a man had seen him, along the way, and guided him to the door. A priest, Megumi assumed, by the clothes. The man had bowed. Low. Not kneeling, but still.
“Where is…” Megumi trailed off. Would they know Gojō? Would they recognize the name? What had Sukuna called him? Megumi couldn’t quite remember.
“Sukuna,” he settled on, and the man went white, startling.
“Sukuna-sama is in the main hall,” had come with another bow, and a hand, reaching for Megumi. “I can guide you to him. And maybe help you walk.”
“I’m fine,” Megumi said, flat. “Just tell me where to go.”
The man did.
Megumi stood before a door, and felt flames on the other side.
He slid the door open.
“Good morning, Megumi. You’re up early. How are you feeling?”
He was. Megumi felt more awake now than he had in days, in weeks. In months, in some ways. He looked into the room, and wished he wasn’t.
Gojō was sitting on the floor, beside Sukuna.
The two of them didn’t match. One huge, towering, bulky with flame and muscle and malice. Gojō was muscled too, and strong, but less monstrous. Smaller.
Sukuna glanced at him with two eyes, assessing. Disinterested in everything Megumi was, and annoyed by his existence. That was fine with Megumi. He didn’t care about Sukuna’s annoyance. He cared about Gojō. And Gojō looked—
At ease. They both did, really. Perfectly, damningly at ease. Close enough to touch— no, they were touching, thighs pressed together.
“Fine,” he answered, and took a step in. He tried not to linger on the bruises. New. Some were new.
“He looks look less like a corpse,” Sukuna agreed, and then, “close the door, boy.”
Megumi almost did.
He didn’t mean to. He didn’t want to. But the tone felt like memory, and his hand was moving before he felt the horror, deep in his soul. Megumi hadn’t been aware of his soul, before. He hadn’t known its shape. Itadori had tried to describe it, once. A body in a body. Like closing your fist, and feeling skin. It hadn’t made any damn sense, but Itadori didn’t really think things through in the way most people did. Never had.
Megumi’s soul writhed.
He pulled his hand away, from the door. It took work.
“No,” he said, and sat down. His mouth tasted like death, burnt and flaking.
Sukuna snorted. He was amused. Megumi knew. Amused and annoyed, but not enough to take eyes off Gojō. Megumi had never been enough to be more than a tool to get at the real fight.
“What a pitiful rebellion. But of course it would be. You don’t have anything else, do you?”
Megumi swallowed. Thought about how little Sukuna thought of him.
“About as pitiful as asking a kid to shut a door when you know he’s going to say no,” Gojō said, and it sounded so easy. So clear. “You must like getting denied, huh? I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Quiet, Satoru. I’m not talking you.”
“That’s a lie,” Megumi cut in, before he could think. “You don’t care about me. You’re just using me to get to Gojō-sensei. I’m not a person to you.”
“Oh? That almost sounded like you have a spine.” Sukuna smirked leaning on the heel of a palm. His eyes were on Megumi, now. “You’re right, of course. But do you think that matters? If I want to use you, I’ll use you.”
“I know it doesn’t,” Megumi answered, and his fingers were shaking. His hands were shaking, his skin. All of him.
Sukuna laughed. “You’re shivering like a leaf. Don’t be so afraid. I’m not killing you while Satoru is alive.”
“You’re not killing him at all,” cut in, easy, “and you won’t use him either. I’ll kill you first.”
“So you’ve said, and so that technique on the boy would say too. But techniques can be broken.”
“So can bones,” Gojō answered, “it’s been a while since I’ve ripped your arms off. I think I miss it!”
Sukuna just laughed again. Warmer, this time. Fond. Megumi knew it was fond. He knew a lot about the King of Curses.
“How protective.”
Megumi sat in the warmth, and tried not to close his eyes.
⊱ ━━━━.⋅❈⋅.━━━━ ⊰
Sukuna left.
It was quiet, for a moment. Megumi stared at the space left behind, empty and echoing. Sukuna was a monster. Capricious, uncaring, and uninterested in people. Megumi knew that. He’d been the hand Sukuna used to kill for weeks. The hand that had scratched his neck, in the moonlight, and watched fish swim in dark water.
And yet.
“You have a plan,” he said, into the quiet. Gojō glanced at him, eyes bright.
“I do.”
Megumi nodded.
“Tell me what I need to do.”