Archive of Our Own

There’s something incredibly lonely about sitting by yourself at a table meant for more.

Yet, here Yuuji is, mindlessly chewing on his long cold oyakodon. It’s past midnight, the kitchen devoid of any sound despite his own, just as he prefers lately. Long gone are the days where he’d tire himself out just by having a conversation with his classmates and upperclassmen, and despite knowing this day would come to pass, it’s not even close to how he’d ever imagined it.

His execution won’t ever happen. Sometimes, he wishes it was still an option.

Stomach rumbling, he forces another bite down his throat. This, too, is a new experience, having to force himself to swallow bite after bite, where before he’d be finished with his food far too soon. The hunger lingers, of course, but everything tastes ashy and dry, despite his knowledge that it’s well seasoned, well cooked. He knows this, because just the other day Kirara had stopped him to thank for the food, mentioning how it made their day better.

And he knows that it helps to bring an ounce of hope, a brief respite from the arduous training they’re doing. Compliments to his cooking are the easiest thing to say nowadays, and Yuuji appreciates it deeply. Truly, he does.

But none of them look as pleased as Nobara did, once, when he made her glass noodles and some korean style fried chicken after she returned from a solo mission with Inumaki. He still remembers, thankfully, the way her face had relaxed, eyes closing with a deep, grateful sigh. He’d felt proud, then, and still feels now, grabbing yet another mouthful.

They don’t have much down time lately, whatever little free time they get is spent researching, planning, plotting. So his cooking is simple, easy to replicate by others when he’s too busy, too beaten, to drag himself to the kitchen, ignoring how it makes him feel even worse. Like he’s not good enough to do something he loves. 

So far, he’s taught each of them something. Maki can whip out a mean Japanese curry, Yuuta’s shogayaki needs some tweaking, but it’s just as good after a hard day’s work. Hell, even Gojo-sensei managed to cook a stir fry without burning the kitchen or the ingredients the other day.

He refuses to teach any of them how to cook the meatballs, though. Not that one. No matter how many times they ask.

The oyakodon goes down the wrong pipe, and Yuuji tries to stifle his coughing as he stands up. He’s already thinking of an apology as he begins to clean his bowl, throwing away the remnants of his food. He apologizes to his grandfather, who would berate him whenever Yuuji left food on his plate when he was younger, before his appetite increased. An apology to his senpais, who’d go on supply runs every week to look for food.

The walk to his dorm is quiet. In a few hours, someone is going to wake up. Sometimes it’s Higuruma, who still looks like he’s not really sure he should be here, and yet stays. Very rarely, it’s Kusakabe. Yuuji doesn’t like to be around when he’s up. He tends to voice Yuuji’s thoughts out loud, unknowingly of course, and he hates the pitiful looks. On a rare occasion, or whenever he’s unlucky, he tends to cross paths with the one person he doesn’t know how to act around.

He’d learned early on that Tsumiki can’t sleep very well, not after what happened.

And so he drags his feet to his door, doesn’t linger, doesn’t stare at the closed one next to his. Takes two of the pills Ieiri-san gave him, and falls to a dreamless sleep.

It’s Gojo-sensei that brings it up.

“Yuuji-kun,” he begins, stretching, his blue eyes wide and glistening. No one mentions, but Yuuji misses the blindfold, the square glasses. He wonders why Gojo doesn’t wear them anymore. He doesn’t want to know. “I need you to do something for your old sensei here.”

Yuuji finishes drinking his water. They’ve been training for a few hours, in one of the indoor gymnasiums, and it’s December tenth. Not that he’s keeping track of the date. It’s just a way to keep himself from spiralling further down in the abyss, a countdown for the inevitable.

“Sure, sensei,” he smiles, hoping it’s still the one he’d always have around Gojo, and ignores how one side of his lips doesn’t lift as high anymore. “What’s up?”

“Y’know where the warehouse is? Your, uh, your brother mentioned something that left me thinking. Said he can feel when you’re close to dying, yeah?” 

Yuuji nods. Something warm pulls inside his chest, beneath his ribs, and his smile comes easier. He might not have much left, but he’s glad he found Choso after- After. The fact that Gojo didn’t even bat an eye at this sudden curse walking around the school grounds after his unsealing helped the others feel at ease, too, and Yuuji will always appreciate that.

“Yup.”

“Cool, so,” he drags the ‘o’, hands on his hips. “Got me thinking if we could somehow use the other cursed paintings to our advantage. Check them out for me, would’ya?”

Yuuji has no idea how they could even do that, or if it’s even possible. Still, his sensei has asked him to be useful, and he’d never give up any chance to grow stronger, especially now.

The walk to the warehouse is not one he takes often, and it’s farther than expected. He thinks about training, about how to maximize the skills he’s gotten, the plans and any mistakes that might occur, possible outcomes, the worst (even if that makes his eyes sting, but he has to, he can’t afford to miss something out just because it could hurt him forever). He thinks and thinks to avoid his mind wandering. He’s analyzing the immaculate way Maki fights when his forehead connects with the warehouse’s metal doors.

“Fuck.” He whispers, cheeks aflame despite the lonely path, the invisible audience. 

He’s not Choso, he can’t feel the other cursed paintings inside, just a very faint trace of cursed energy, familiar but not enough to make his blood boil. The doors open with a loud creaking noise, and he’s graced with a carefully organized room, full of cursed weapons, crates upon crates of long forgotten items. Some furniture, broken chairs, split metal, training dummies. Bows, arrows, swords.

A box, tucked underneath a smelly carpet, with his name on it.

That perks his curiosity, as anything would if it had your name scribbled in a messy scrawl. The kanji for Yuuji was written carefully, in a delicate hand, while the name Itadori had been hastily written, like whomever did it couldn’t bear to look at it any longer than the time needed to sign it.

It’s so familiar, so achingly familiar, that he has to leave the warehouse for a few seconds.

They’d talked about it, a lifetime and a half ago, on a rare day off as they decided how to spend their time. Yuuji knew his things had been taken from his room when he died the first time, but he assumed they’d been thrown away, burnt because its owner would never return to collect it, nor did he have any family to take it from the school’s hands.

Never would he assume to find his belongings here, in a dusty warehouse, months away from that very first meeting, when the worst thing that ever happened to him was losing his grandfather.

The very first thing he sees as he opens the box is the pin-up poster, and that must have been Nobara’s doing because he knows Megumi would never touch that with a ten foot pole, but she always loved to embarrass Yuuji whenever she could, and that makes a shaky laugh escape his lips, the sound rusty from disuse. His manga are stacked underneath, protected by a layer of clothing to avoid sucking in moisture for as long as possible, and that is so stupidly Megumi that he can’t help but take the first volume out, smiling.

He was dead. He had died. He came back, yes, but as far as his friends knew, Yuuji was long gone, and they still went through the trouble of taking care of his things, perhaps as their own way of grieving.

Besides the posters and the manga, some of his clothes are folded and already smelling of mold, as it should considering the time spent here in this musky room. Gojo had bought him new clothes after his resurrection, so Yuuji never really missed his old ones. Now, however, he notices how one of his hoodies is missing from the pile, and a couple of t-shirts.

He’s reaching for a picture frame when something else catches his eye. Tucked in the corner, almost blending with the cardboard, is a piece of paper. Three envelopes, actually, something Yuuji notices as he takes them out. Two of them carry his last name, and he recognizes the same writing as the box - Nobara’s delicate, heavy scrawl, Megumi’s carefully disinterested one. And with that, the knowledge that they wrote him letters while he was gone.

His eyes burn, but he doesn’t allow the tears to fall. Not here, not now. 

The third letter receives only a glance before he tucks it away in his pocket. Yuuji, it reads, in rushed kanji, and the ink seems fresher than the first one. He can’t stomach that now.

Nobara’s letter is short, considering they had only known each other for two weeks by that time, but it’s so incredibly her that he stops midway through to wipe at his eyes, imagining her scowl, the way she’d hide her emotions behind sparking anger back when they first met. Then, the countless times she’d barge into his room to scream nonsense just to have a way of dealing with her frustrations. The easy camaraderie, that one day Yuuji had looked at her browsing her phone, laying on his bed after humiliating him in Smash Bros and thought ‘ah, so this is how it feels to have a sister’. 

Her letter ends with simple words:

-wherever you are, I hope you’re happy. Maybe we’ll meet each other again. Not for a long time, though, sorry.

The laughter that escapes his lips is loud, brash and wet, and Yuuji doesn’t really care if anyone walks in on him right now, giggling like he hasn’t in a long, long time. He breathes in, folds the paper back like she did, and mourns the fact he will never be able to hold her accountable for the feelings she exposed, the clear sign that their little time together stuck with her enough to warrant a letter, of all things.

He’s still smiling as he opens Megumi’s, though it vanishes not even a word in.

Nobara’s letter was sad, yes, but fun, too. She’d written about him like one would do with an old friend they haven’t seen in years, yet with such warmth it left him feeling better about himself. This letter, however, is so incredibly charged with grief that he has to stop reading at multiple parts.

Megumi writes like a poet, with a prose that only he could achieve, but his words aren’t flowery and delicate. They’re harsh, unfiltered. Gojo made me write this, he says, I didn’t want to, at first. Yuuji can see him sitting at his desk, frowning at the words, cheek in hand as he tries to make sense of what he’s doing and fighting the embarrassment.

The world is a lot less brighter now that you’re gone.

By the time Yuuji leaves the warehouse and returns to his room, enough time has passed that the sun has fully set. Moonlight filters in through the clear windows. He forgoes dinner, and mumbles about not having an appetite when Yuuta finds him. “I’ll leave some for you, anyway”, he says, because Yuuta is the only other person that knows Yuuji prefers to eat when no one’s around.

He forgets about the cursed paintings, why he ever went to the warehouse in the first place. He’s not surprised at all when Gojo doesn’t question him about it ever again.

I apologize for all the times I yelled at you for your loudness. The silence is much worse.

December 12th. Yuuji is training with Maki today. She’s fast, she can keep up with whatever he throws at her. Maki was always his favorite sparring partner.

He missteps, and her punch sends him down. “You’re getting sloppy,” Maki whispers in his ear as she helps him up.

He can’t afford to get sloppy, not when he still has too much to lose. So, he picks himself up, ignores his increased heartbeat, holds his stance. He’s still not strong enough.

I see you when I close my eyes, and I hope you don’t mind that. Only, I wish it was your face, and not the curse that took you from us.

The very first nights were the worst.

Yuuji avoided sleep with a fury he’d reserved for one thing in particular. He’d take naps, caffeine. He’d blame it on anything but what it truly was, up until his body gave up.

It was still November, that much he remembers, and the room was buzzing with conversation, much too loud for his brain to properly participate in. He remembers excusing himself, going to the kitchen, starting a new pot of coffee. He doesn’t remember, however, how the cup ended up on the floor, broken into pieces, or why. That was another issue, the memory loss. Sometimes, he’d wander into rooms with no recollection of how and what he needed to do, or return to conversations only to find the room empty besides himself and Gojo, who’d look at Yuuji like he knew what was happening.

Gojo had shown up, then, with Ieiri-san in tow, an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips. Yuuji cursed himself for not paying attention. Not strong enough. He can’t afford that.

"Yuuji-kun” sensei had said with the same tone he always used, a lazy smile on his lips, arms crossed. “I think we need to have a little talk.”

And that’s how he ended up with prescription pills to fall asleep quickly and nightmare-free. Can’t have you daydreaming on us, yeah? 

You slept like the dead, Megumi had written in his letter, one of the last sentences. Is it morbid to wish you a dreamless, peaceful rest now, too?

On the morning of December 24th, he cracks.

Yuuji blames it on nerves, he blames it on the atmosphere, the war-filled tension that has been building up in the past few days. Their preparations are perfected, what-if scenarios burned into their minds, even if most of them are filled with casualties. They cannot afford to leave any stone unturned, after all.

“Whatever happens to me,” Gojo-sensei said last night, as they went over their plans one last time. He was smiling, then, a pleased, proud look. “Make sure you save my kid, alright?”

They’re going to leave for Shinjuku in a few hours, but Yuuji has been awake for far longer. Anxiety and nerves are something he’s very familiar with, and has been for the past few months in fact. So, that’s how he finds himself opening up the third letter. The contents of the other two are forever ingrained in his mind, from the way Nobara tends to repeat the word ‘obviously’ to how Megumi has pressed his pen in a few sections.

Sitting on his bed, waiting for the clock to tick the hours away, Yuuji finally starts reading, and regrets it immensely.

Yuuji, it begins, followed by: welcome back. Then, devastatingly: I missed you.

It’s not flowery. It’s not written as an eulogy. It’s raw and painful and heartfelt.

I know I don’t say it often, or ever, to be fair, but I like your company. And I missed it. Kugisaki has too, because she’d mention you sometimes. I’m sorry for this, I don’t know what I’m doing, but I never seem to know what to say when you’re around.

I hope you stay for longer, this time. I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you want to.

I can’t help but notice you don’t smile as brightly anymore, and I also can’t help myself from wanting to fix that, but I don’t know how. I’m not good with words - Lies, Yuuji thinks as he chuckles wetly, because so far Megumi has made him feel like he’s been reading top grade literature. He continues: but I’m much worse with actions. I can only hope my shikigami are enough. I know you like them, and they like you, too. 

I envy you, sometimes, and the easy way you touch. How freely it’s given. I’ve taken it for granted once, might have even thrown you off, but your absence made me realize how cold everything else is.

You remind me-

“Yuuji-kun?”

He looks up.

If there’s one thing Yuuji had noticed this past month, it’s how similarly quiet Megumi and Tsumiki are. He never notices her presence, how she enters a room seemingly on her tip toes, only to make it warmer and brighter as soon as she opens her mouth. Their similarities aren’t many, if at all, but sometimes she’d look at Yuuji like that and he’d have to excuse himself.

Now, she stands just outside the threshold of his door, arms by her side, shoulders squared. She’s not going to war, but her stance could fool someone, what with the way her eyes stay on his, determined to not waver. It’s not like Yuuji has been avoiding her, but he can’t help the pinprick of doubt that still lingers.

Gojo-sensei and Ieiri-san had called it a body-double. Something rare, almost impossible. So, whenever Tsumiki is in the room, Yuuji can’t help but wonder Is it really you? How long until you betray us again?

They’re terrible thoughts, because they have already tested her. Whatever that thing was, it had copied Tsumiki into perfection, made her brother believe that whatever stood before him was the one person he wanted to protect no matter what, but it was not her. And this Tsumiki, the one asking for permission to enter Yuuji’s room, cannot see curses. 

Belatedly, he realizes he’d clutched the letter tightly on his hold.

“Sorry,” Yuuji blinks away the moisture collecting near his lashes, giving her a tentative smile. “What’s up, Tsumiki-nee-chan?”

She reciprocates the smile, bowing slightly and taking a small step forward. Once again, her hair is tied up in a pretty little pony, strands framing her flushed face. She looks healthy, though still on the road to recovery. He recognizes her shirt as one of Gojo’s.

“I just wanted to wish you good luck.”

“Oh,” he blinks, putting the letter on his bedside table, a shy smile on his face. “Thank you. I really appreciate that.”

“You all worked very hard, I’ll make sure to have a warm meal ready when you get back.”

When, Tsumiki says, smiling. Not If, like she doesn’t doubt even for a second that they’re going to be victorious. It’s the sort of energy they all need right now, moments away from a decisive battle, too much hanging in the balance for them to lose.

Every player has a role, they have back-up plans for the back-up plans, their steps as calculated as a dance. If Yuuji wasn’t about to fight for his and his best friend’s lives, he’d almost believe he was acting in one of his favorite action movies. 

A one of a kind hero fighting his arch-nemesis. The ultimate battle of good versus evil.

He hopes Gojo manages to strike a devastating blow before he has the chance to fight Sukuna, however. He doesn’t think he can look at Magumi’s face and have it stare back at him with disdain. He’d take anything but that.

“I’m glad you’re going to be safe, Tsumiki-san.”

She waves her hands around. “Oh, please. I’m sure Satoru would have found a way to keep me locked if I hadn’t fought him about it.”

“I never realized sensei could be so…”

“Overbearing like a mother-hen?”

He laughs. “Yeah, that's exactly it! Man, must’ve been hard growing up like that, huh? I mean, my grandpa wasn't exactly overbearing,” he bites his lips, staring at the floor. “But he wasn’t soft with me, either. It was a nice balance.”

Tsumiki balances on her heels, Yuuji thinks belatedly if he should’ve asked her to sit somewhere, and his lack of decorum makes his face burn.

“Hm, would you like to sit? Sorry, I-”

“Oh, no, no!” Her laugh is melodic, like birds chirping. Not cruel, not cold. Just how Megumi described, once. “I’m alright, really, just wanted to see you off.” 

“Oh, okay, uh,” his palms are sweaty, so he wipes them on his uniform trousers. When Tsumiki smiles, her eyes spark. That’s another difference. Megumi doesn’t need to smile for his eyes to look like that. “Thank you.”

She nods, hair bouncing, and something like guilt begins to crawl inside Yuuji’s throat. All this time, he has been nothing but distant, afraid of tainting yet another thing that was precious to his best friend, afraid of getting too close, letting his guard down, and making another mistake. Yet Tsumiki still wanted to give her blessings to him.

You remind me of my sister, Megumi’s letter said. Yuuji hasn’t read anything beyond that. He wonders if that’s a good thing. It has to be, since Megumi was ready to tear the world apart to save her.

“Well, you seem busy,” she waves her hand towards to the letter. “I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be rooting for you.”

“I appreciate it, Tsumiki-san.”

With one last smile, she turns to leave, walking back outside. Then, she stops.

“Yuuji-kun?” Tsumiki asks, back turned as one of her hands comes to rest against the door. No insect wings sprout from her back, and her voice is quiet, hesitant.

“Yes?”

She takes a moment, pointer finger tapping against the wood. “Do you think my brother will be okay?”

After. Tsumiki doesn’t say, neither does Yuuji, but he still hears it. Will he be okay, after? Will he still look at me and see his sister, and not a monster? He sucks in a breath. He doesn’t- he doesn't like to think about Megumi now, when they still have a slight chance of something going wrong, something they haven't calculated. But still, she deserves an answer, and so he replies with not a single ounce of doubt in his voice.

“Yes. I’ll make sure of it.”

The smile she sends him is a sad one, not grief-stricken, but not hopeful. It's like she knows Yuuji would do anything in his power to bring Megumi back, even if it means his own demise.

“I know, Yuuji-kun. Thank you.”

Yuuji thinks about the letter, as he watches the fight.

Tries to picture Megumi’s face as he writes down the words: You remind me of my sister, the way both of you are so selfless to share your warmth even with people who pretend they don’t want it.

He can’t sit still, not when they have to be at the ready. Not when they have to watch every move Gojo makes like it’s the last one.

Yuuji’s heart is pounding in his throat. It’s bleeding out in a desolate Shinjuku street.

I hope you two can meet one day. She’d love you, I’m sure.

The third letter-

“-I think sensei is winning.”

The third letter was short. Shorter than the second one, but no less devastating.

I think I’m starting to.

Yuuji stares at his reflection on the bathroom mirror.

He wonders, then, how his past self would feel if he saw his future. He remembers his fifteenth birthday. Remembers eating a convenience store dinner, too busy with taking care of his grandfather to properly celebrate it. Not that he’d ever have anyone else to celebrate it with.

Yuuji remembers a morning in early October. Before. Having breakfast with his upperclassmen and his classmates as they laughed about the happenings of the Kyoto School Event. He remembers how, mid laughter, the thought came, unbridled.

If I make it to next year, I can celebrate my birthday.

Ieiri-san has magic hands, and his own RCT was good enough to avoid major scars. Still, the two on his face, the ones he couldn't - and wouldn’t - find someone to heal for him stand stark over his tanned skin. Across his nose. Cutting his lips. He’d never be able to smile as wide as he did, once.

It’s the knocking on the door that takes him out of the reverie.

“Oi,” Nobara. Nobara calls him because she’s here. “Idiot. Come on.”

And so he pulls away. From the memories, from the mirror. From the future he’ll never have. The past he doesn’t really run away from, but doesn’t reminisce. Instead, he pulls the door open as Nobara is knocking, and just barely manages to avoid her fist. Thank you for- being you, I guess, she’d written on her letter, and he smiles at her.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s never nothing with you. What’s wrong?”

His chest feels full. He walks away, trusts that she’s going to follow. 

“Nah, nothing. Just thinking about dinner.”

He can hear the commotion before any of them reach the common room. It’s been like this for the past few days, after Shinjuku. Loud, overbearing noises of too many voices, like they have to be as loud as they possibly can to make it true, that they made it. Yuuji can’t say he minds, not when he’d once thought he’d never have this.

December 27th, his mind supplies. He doesn’t need to think about the dates anymore.

He and Nobara take a quick look at the common room, and sure enough, the adults are making all the noise. The second years are glued to the hip, and they follow each other around like a wolf pack. Considering the hour, Yuuji’s pretty sure they must be taking a nap somewhere. That, or trying to make hot chocolate in the kitchen. He hopes it’s the former.

Still, it feels so good to see how brightly Gojo-sensei laughs. 

Yuuji can still see as he closes his eyes. His body, laying on the floor, bleeding out from twin slashes across his chest, managing to stop the worst before passing out. The stressful look on Ieiri-san’s face as she ran to heal him. The second it took to realize Kashimo was out, the plan was in motion.

Gojo is littered with scars, near unrecognizable from when Yuuji first met him, but the sunglasses are out again. Tsumiki is beside him, hands wrapped around a tea mug. Her gaze shifts over to them for a second, and her face brightens as she waves, before returning her conversation with a freshly awakened Nanamin.

That, too, had nearly brought Yuuji to tears. The knowledge that his mentor was still alive. That he was fast enough. It had been a really, really close call, and Nanamin’s missing arm is proof enough.

Nobara pulls his sleeve.

“Dinner.” Is all she says, and so, Yuuji follows, wordlessly. 

They walk shoulder to shoulder towards the kitchen, throwing jabs at each other like they never spent any time apart. The ease in which they fall into step next to each other is a balm to Yuuji, and it’s the first thing he thinks of in the mornings, to ground himself. A slowly increasing set of mantras to keep his brain from malfunctioning, to remind himself that the fight is over, there’s no need to sleep with his back to the wall, no need to hunt for food and shelter in run down, abandoned hotels.

He’s glad to find the kitchen devoid of any second years when they enter, meaning their risk of waking up to a burned kitchen has lowered. It’s not empty, and Yuuji can’t help the flutter in his chest when he and Megumi make eye contact.

“Hey,” Yuuji says softly, because Megumi holds an ice pack on his forehead and a steaming mug of coffee in his hands despite the late hour. “Migraines?”

The other boy doesn’t answer, but his eyes soften at the edges as he nods, shutting closed.

An after effect of Unlimited Void, Ieiri-san said, the second time Megumi went to her to complain about his head. We should’ve expected it, this is the best outcome, however. 

The best outcome indeed, considering they’re here at all. Megumi gets to wake up everyday back home and complain about his head, and about his disturbed palate, and his fears and wants and everything, just as he should. Whatever else, any injury, no matter how life altering, is something they’ll take care of after. For now, they’ll sit with this. The year is ending soon, and Yuuji couldn’t wait any longer.

Nobara walks over to press her thumb on Megumi’s forehead, right between his eyebrows, gently taking the ice pack from his hands, which are already pale from the temperature. She, too, has changed irreparably. Still the same personality, still the Nobara that Yuuji remembers, but her shoulders are stiffer, her gait subdued. Like she lost a piece of herself, the confidence that once graced her features was no longer there.

Lately, Yuuji has experienced hate. It leaves a sour taste on his tongue, tends to destroy his appetite, his love for food. It makes him want to let it all out. Some nights, it makes him hate himself.

He hates the way Nobara avoids looking at her reflection for longer than necessary, how she doesn’t talk about her dreams in the fashion industry anymore, no matter how unattainable. He hates how Inumaki-senpai had to learn a new way to sign, now that he only has one arm. He hates how Gojo-sensei winces when he thinks no one is looking, how he tends to freeze whenever someone walks into a room.

Most of all, and this he found out one miserable morning, he hates how Megumi looks. 

Like he’s seeing a ghost. Like Yuuji is five seconds away from warping into a different thing. Like he’s not really safe, still stuck, still drowning, and no amount of assurance is ever enough. Megumi is not fragile, never was and never will be. He’s hardened edges and dense shadows, quick on his feet and so very smart, Yuuji knows, because those are truths. 

And yet, they have to thread carefully.

Ieiri-san had exhausted herself with the amount of healing necessary post-battle. It had reached a point that she had to prioritize life-risking injuries. Anything that wasn’t urgent could wait, could heal and scar on its own. 

“An after effect of Unlimited Void,” she’d said, fingers brushing Megumi’s hair like an aunt would, tender and comforting. Her eyes had closed as she huffed a breath. “We should’ve expected it, this is the best outcome, however. He can’t be exposed to too much at once, or else we risk overloading his brain.”

Megumi was still resting, asleep from the medication she gave him. He looked peaceful, more like himself from before, lashes casting the most precious shadows on his cheeks. Yuuji’s fingers curl on themselves to avoid doing something stupid like touching. Not when Megumi is unaware, even if he’s willing. 

“What do you mean he can’t be exposed to too much?”

She’d taken out a cigarette, played with it, but did not light it. “His brain still believes his sister is gone. We can’t know what would happen if he saw her now, here.”

“But she’s everywhere.” True. Ever since returning from the battlefield, a little less monster, a lot more human, Yuuji realized that even if he couldn’t hear Tsumiki’s footsteps, her presence is always prefaced by the almond scent that accompanies her. Megumi would be able to tell, before any of them did. “We can’t just… Let her go. He’d never forgive me.”

Somehow, Ieiri-san looked sadder. Her downcast eyes, always so indifferent, so guarded, seemed to sympathize with him. She dropped her cigarette back into her lab coat, walking over to place one of her hands on his shoulder.

“Yuuji,” and her tone of voice made his heart stutter and fail for a second as he prepared to hear the bad news. Because nothing can ever go right with them, can it? “Megumi has sensory loss. He can’t smell or taste anything anymore.”

Yuuji almost drops the kettle he’d been holding.

That was an issue, too, and the memory of Megumi’s joyful face as they cooked together turns acidic on his mouth. The first ever real time Yuuji saw a glimpse of a smile, a change in his demeanor as he’d asked, quiet and amazed “Did you put extra ginger?” and Yuuji had nodded, smiling wide because he hadn’t experienced major loss yet, his grandfather’s wish still sitting loud and proud in his chest, and he was having dinner with his first real friend.

He doesn’t add any sugar to Megumi’s tea. Before, it was a simple matter of preference, an avoidance for sweets that Yuuji soon learned had everything to do with Gojo’s love for desserts. Now, however, no matter how much sugar Megumi has, he’d never realize it. “It all tastes the same,” he’d mumbled, when Yuuji tried to add some mint leaves and honey to soothe his friend’s aching throat after a particularly bad night, “I’m sorry, Itadori.”

From his place near the counters, he can hear Nobara and Megumi talk.

“Didn’t notice it was that bad.”

“Well, duh.” Nobara says, more out of habit than outright malice. “Idiot. If you get frostbite and lose your fingers I don’t get to see the famous bunnies.”

“Rabbits, Kugisaki. They’re rabbits, and they’re not pets.”

A ruffle of fabric, Yuuji can just picture her shrugging. He smiles.

“Well, they’re cute, aren’t they? Itadori says they’re adorable and I trust his judgment.”

“I can’t believe these words just came out of your mouth.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.”

When he turns, Yuuji catches as she moves to ruffle Megumi’s hair, and he doesn’t budge. For a second, Yuuji worries, but then Megumi’s shoulders relax, and so does Yuuji.

Touch with Megumi is a difficult topic. He freezes and flinches whenever he thinks someone is going to come near him. He seems to allow Gojo, however, a sense of familiarity that is so ingrained into his being that no amount of brain damage will ever take away. Ieiri-san is another touch he doesn’t avoid. One time, Nanamin had placed a hand on his shoulder, almost as soon as Megumi woke up, and he allowed that, too.

But anyone else, he shuts down.

Yuuji doesn’t mind, of course. He’d long made up with the idea that he’d only go back to how they used to be once Megumi initiates it. He refuses to take that autonomy from him, refuses to assume that his touch in particular is welcome, not when Megumi’s last memory of Yuuji’s face was not of him at all.

Instead, he places the freshly brewed tea on the table, takes his designated seat across from Nobara, and sighs.

“You sound like an old man.”

“That’s rude, Kugi.”

She laughs softly, and if Yuuji really, really tries, he can pretend this is how it was back then. He can ignore the aches in his body, the phantom pains, the increased senses. Maybe this is another day in September, October. A November that never happened, where they returned from Shibuya victorious, and every scar is from that battle alone.

There’s no voice inside his head but his own, he can’t lie to himself and believe the poisonous laugh that echoes in there is anyone else’s.

“Alright,” Nobara begins, after the silence stretched for far too long, sipping her tea. “Fill me in.”

“Fill you in what?”

“Anything. Gossip. Who’s who, what’s hot lately.”

Yuuji blinks. “Uh.”

“Oh, come on,” she stretches the ‘on’, rolling her eyes. “I was gone and none of you idiots have anything juicy to tell me?”

“Well excuse us, we were fighting for our lives!”

Nobara blows a raspberry in his direction. “Well, when you died, I made sure to pay attention to everything.”

She really did. He remembers her writing: Would you believe me if I told you one of our senpais is a panda? You’d love him. 

Yuuji hasn’t mentioned the letters. He doesn’t think he could. He’s not ready to unpack that, because mentioning Nobara’s letter will mean he also read Megumi’s, and Yuuji doesn’t think he can look at his face. Not when he’s still navigating his feelings, the unspoken words.

For now, however, he takes a large gulp of his drink, mumbles “I think Kurusu has a crush on Megumi,” and watches as said boy goes positively red, looking at him with something like betrayal and Nobara cackles so loudly he fears the windows are going to break.

It’s December 31st.

Yuuji is not really sure where everyone else is, but the three of them dragged themselves to a cliff side, huddled together under multiple blankets. Megumi sits in the middle, a thermos in his hands, Yuuji on his left, Nobara on his right.

The year turns in a few minutes, maybe. He’s not really keeping track, just glad to be here, warm and safe with the people he loves. Glad that they seem to enjoy his company, too.

Yuuji shifts, drags the blanket a bit closer to his body. He always ran warm, but now he has to make sure Megumi is warm, too, and not seconds away from freezing to death. They plan to see the sunrise, but Yuuji knows Nobara can barely make it past midnight before getting cranky. 

Wordlessly, Megumi passes the thermos to her. It’s filled with boiling water, meant to keep his hands warm because he hates wearing gloves, and Yuuji can’t bring himself to ask to hold his hand. He watches, mesmerized, as Megumi’s fingers curl into a familiar sign, and soon enough, their shadows warp into dozens of cute little rabbits.

Nobara squeals, taking one into her lap, then another. The new year turns with the sound of her giggles, voice soft as she talks to them.

Yuuji is too in tune with his friends, so he doesn’t move a muscle when Megumi finally crosses their unspoken boundary and rests his head on Yuuji’s shoulder. Their height difference is not much, a few inches at most, but Megumi still has to lean his body to get comfortable.

“Happy new year,” Yuuji whispers against his hair. He doesn’t make any move besides relaxing, making sure Megumi knows his touch is welcomed, wanted. A rabbit jumps to him, and Yuuji smiles at the shikigami.

I can’t help but notice you don’t smile as brightly anymore, his letter had said. I can only hope my shikigami are enough.

Beside him, Megumi takes the thermos one more time, fingers already turning white. “Happy new year.”

It’s in mid January when it happens.

When they got Megumi back - when Yuuji got him and Nobara back, his two halves -, the three of them couldn't be apart. Nobara, he knows, had less of a reason to drag a futon to one of their bedrooms. I don’t wanna be left out, she would say, every single time, with a shrug and a lazy smile, Trauma-bond with me, too, dammit.

Yuuji didn’t try to deny the desperation he had to keep Megumi in his periphery at all times. They didn’t share a bed, not when Megumi still looked at him like he wasn’t Yuuji, like he hated himself for that. But without fail, Yuuji would follow him, or vice-versa, and they’d find themselves in each other’s room. No words exchanged, only a nod, a blink. Yuuji would always make sure Megumi kept the bed.

The dependency lessened, thankfully. Ieiri-san’s pills helped, and the time between nightmares grew from every night, to once every few nights. After the new year passed, Yuuji went a week without waking up screaming, or without being woken up by Megumi.

Nobara stopped with the sleepovers. She’d mentioned how it helped, and still doesn’t leave their side, but now her futon stays in a closet. Reluctantly, Yuuji stopped, too. Megumi is his dorm neighbour after all. If he ever needed anything, he’d come knocking.

The moon is high in the sky, barely visible through the clouds that still refuse to leave, and Yuuji is once again counting his days. He can’t wait until he’s able to train in shorts again, though he does it more nowadays to keep his body in shape than any other reason. He still spars with Maki whenever they’re both bored or buzzing with energy. In many cases, they ended in a tie.

Despite the late hour, the tiredness in his limbs from a day spent shopping for winter clothes with Nobara (even if Winter ends in a few weeks, but she didn’t find any cute spring clothes and they didn’t want the day to go to waste), sleep does not find him easily. He chalks it into the days he used to dine this late.

As if on cue, his stomach grumbles.

Well, they did buy some food on their day out, so Yuuji begrudgingly slips off his very warm, very comfortable bed, and makes his way to the kitchen. He can’t help how his gaze lingers on Megumi’s door, ajar. Yuuji stops himself from invading his privacy to check if he’s okay. Megumi always sleeps with his door closed. He wonders what changed.

His answer is in the kitchen, where his best friend rests against the counters, steaming noodles in his hands, gaze far away. The clock reads 02:14, and something ticks in Yuuji’s mind upon reading the hour, but he doesn’t pay any mind.

“Hey, Fushi,” he mumbles through a yawn, digging into the cupboard. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

It’s an obvious question, made even worse by the dark circles under his green eyes. But still, Megumi nods, sparing a glance in Yuuji’s direction, moving away from the counter where the kettle sits and standing closer to the door.

“Man, and here I thought I’d be able to sleep. I forgot how fierce Kugisaki is when shopping.”

“Hm,” is all he hears, but it’s the type of answer Megumi gives when he doesn’t want to talk, but is still listening. Yuuji knows he’d have left by now if he wanted to be alone. 

He clicks his tongue. The cupboard is empty, and so is the next one. He knows they bought a lot of food, so unless the others ate them all in the hours between their return and the early morning, then there’s a food-stealing curse somewhere in the school.

He doesn’t sense anything other than the faint trace of almond, however. Which he realizes much too late.

When he does, he turns sharply. The smell is sweet, like hand cream. Nobara always smells like roses, Ieiri-san, like cigarettes. Kirara, he knows, tends to somehow smell like bubblegum. Hana has the faint trace of wildflowers and breeze.

Yuuji makes eye contact with a still sleeping Tsumiki, who blanches. Next to him, Megumi’s noodles hit the floor.

He’s moving before he registers, mind blanking with only Ieiri’s words echoing, as if said yesterday, loud and overbearing. Overloading his brain. He still thinks she’s gone. They haven’t thought about it, and made sure Tsumiki and Megumi never crossed paths in the large school, with Gojo still around with his Six Eyes to think of a plan. And she knew, of course, which is why Tsumiki immediately stops, even if Yuuji sees the hurt in her eyes, the apprehension.

Tsumiki asked him if her brother would be okay. Yuuji promised he’d help.

It seems impossible now, however, with the way Megumi crumbles, knees hitting the floor as he hyperventilates, breathing too quickly, sharply, like he’s drowning. His eyes, his beautiful green eyes, are wide. Wide like they were back then, desperate, unseeing, and Yuuji wonders what he’s thinking. Knows, too, that he’s about to break his vow in order to fulfill another.

Yuuji falls down, keeps his distance, but tries to drag Megumi’s eyes to his face, tries to make him look at something that isn't his sister, flesh and blood and undoubtedly Tsumiki, but that’s a fact that only Yuuji knows.

So he places his hands on Megumi’s face, tries to grab his attention with everything he has. Squishes his cheeks, stares into his rapidly glistening eyes. He wants that haunted look to go away. 

“Fushi, hey,” he says, calmly, like soothing a tensed animal, except the comparison makes acid bubble in his throat, and he tries again, like he’s done so a multitude of times. “Come on, it’s okay, you’re safe, I-”

And then Megumi looks at him. Stares, more like, and his eyes sharpen. His breathing stops abruptly, and then he starts sobbing.

It’s the most heartbreaking sound Yuuji has ever heard.

When Megumi pushes him away, nails ripping Yuuji’s hands from his face, Yuuji goes with zero reluctance. Megumi scrambles backwards as he heaves, silent tears falling from his still wild, still terrified eyes. Yuuji’s soul screams at him to stay, to go closer, to attempt one more time, but he refuses.

Instead, he stands up, walks away with his hands in plain view. He’s not that stupid, he knew, of course, that this day would come. When Megumi would look at him, and see Sukuna once again. He just thought he’d be strong enough to sustain the way his chest hurts.

Megumi doesn’t blink, just keeps staring at him from the floor, shoulders up to his ears, lips pressed together. His chest rises and falls so rapidly that Yuuji wonders if he’s having an attack, and the thought of that is so ridiculously obvious he can’t suppress the way his face falls.

There’s a hand pulling him back, and he doesn't fight it. Megumi is still staring, still crying when Gojo kneels by his side, brushing his hair away, whispering. He doesn’t have his glasses on, nor the blindfold, and still wears his pyjamas. Megumi must have recognized him somehow, even as his posture doesn’t change much, just his eyes, always his eyes, shifting a second form Yuuji to Gojo.

Yuuji follows Tsumiki outside as Megumi curls into himself, only his father figure managing to stay close enough to help him in his panic.

“I’m so sorry,” Tsumiki says. Unsure what to do with her hands, she folds and unfolds them, grabs the hem of her shirt, hugs her arms. Her face is pale, eyes downcast and wet. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“It’s not your fault,” and he hopes she hears him fully. The unspoken truth in his words. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Still, I-” Hearing Megumi cry was heartbreaking, yes, but when tears begin to fall from his sister’s eyes, Yuuji feels like he has failed all over again. “I didn’t think-”

Yuuji hopes he’s not crossing any limits when he places a hand on her back, leading her away from the kitchen, from her brother's cries as Megumi goes though the worst moment of his life all over again, weeks of healing not being enough to suture a brain wound. 

He leads Tsumiki through the courtyard, and when she silently asks for a hug, he makes sure to infuse as much warmth as he can, a semblance of support as her world falls apart.

When the sun rises, it finds them in the same position. Tsumiki thanks him with a shaky smile and reddened eyes. She’s too kind to mention the way Yuuji looks. He’d learned how to be a silent crier, too.

Yuuji doesn’t see Megumi for days after that.

In his first letter, Megumi had crossed a whole section out.

It was before he’d written Is it morbid to wish you a dreamless, peaceful rest now, too? A whole paragraph of words that only Megumi himself remembers, if at all. Some nights, those where Yuuji would hate himself a little more, would pause to consider everything he could’ve made differently, would berate himself for things that were beyond his control-

He’d think about what Megumi wanted to write. If he had reminisced like Nobara. If he had, at some point, cursed Yuuji. If he had been cruel in his writing. 

It’s the afternoon of January 27th now. It has been about a week since he last saw his best friend. And yet, as Yuuji returns from another arduous day of training, Megumi is in his room when Yuuji walks inside.

He stops, startled. Thinks about a joke, something like Forgot about your own room, eh, Fushi? but that wouldn’t work, would stick too close to the truth. Yuuji ends up not saying anything. Instead, it’s Megumi who breaks the silence, still not looking up from the book he’d been reading, sitting on the floor near Yuuji’s bed.

“Hey,” he flips a page, then closes the book. Doesn’t look up even as he places it on the floor by his side. “We need to talk.”

Yuuji wishes he’d look up. But then his mind conjures up the vision of the last time they saw each other, and Yuuji thinks he’d take this over Megumi looking at him with terror.

“Yeah.”

So he tries something. He keeps the door ajar, so that Megumi doesn’t believe he’s trapped. Then, he takes off his shoes, places them near the closet, and pads to his bed, sitting crosslegged facing the headboard, his back to his desk, to Megumi. It’s as close as baring his throat, were he a wounded prey.

From the floor comes a sound too choked up to be a proper laugh. “What are you doing?”

“Making it easier for you.” And something must have happened, because Yuuji swears he hears an amused huff. “Come on, man, I’m being serious.”

“Weirdo.”

The bed shifts as Megumi sits on it. Yuuji was fully prepared to have this conversation with him on the floor, however, so he can’t fake his surprise when he feels Megumi’s back pressing against his, a solid, comforting weight. Yuuji’s glad for his decision, because his face feels warmer than it did a while ago.

“So,” he begins after a while, when it seems that Megumi won’t start talking. “Thought we were going to have a conversation.”

“Shut up, I’m thinking.”

“You’re always thinking, Fushi.”

“Hm,” and the weight increases when Megumi leans back. Yuuji looks over his shoulder, just a second, and smiles when he sees the familiar unruly black hair near his own. “Tsumiki.”

“Ah, the elephant in the room.”

“Bansho is not here.”

“You know what I mean.”

Yuuji has to thank Gojo. He knows now, more than ever before, that his sensei has to have done something, because this Megumi and the one from a few nights prior are not the same. If anything, this is closer to how his best friend was before. Before Shinjuku. Before Shibuya. Back when he’d written your absence made me realize how cold everything else is.

“Yeah. Did- What did Gojo-sensei tell you?”

On his right side, he sees Megumi’s hand drawing shapes on his bed cover. “Not much. Said it’s really her. That- he said that thing was not really Tsumiki. He didn’t tell me much about it, and I don’t care enough to ask.” Megumi sighs, and the weight on Yuuji’s back lessens. “Dwelling on the past won’t help me recover any faster.”

It’s rare when they talk about what happened. They had to, of course, because Nobara wanted to know, and they needed to come to terms that it had happened. Not that it was easy, but names have power, so demonizing them was easier. Thing, monster, curse. 

“It really is her, she can’t see the things we do.” And maybe just that won’t be enough, but Yuuji doesn’t know how he can make Megumi believe him, when he himself doubted Tsumiki back then. “And she’s just like how you described her.”

Megumi’s hand stops moving. For a brief moment, Yuuji wonders if he messed up. If he said something wrong, not reassuring enough, too vague. But then Megumi mumbles, quietly, “Do you like her?”

Yuuji thinks about the times he talked to Tsumiki. The very first time, still weary and battle worn, loss so evident in his movements that he’d spent an entire day staring at the courtyard, unthinking. She’d found him outside, a steaming cup of miso soup cradled in her hands. 

“Yuuji-kun,” Tsumiki called him, standing at a distance, freezing when Yuuji turned to stare at her. “You should eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Still, it’s cold outside.”

She had placed the soup on the floor, and didn't try to move closer. Then, she’d taken out her jacket, and he stood up, abruptly, heart racing and ready to attack. Any moment now, and her face would twist, and they’d all realize they brought a shark into a fish tank.

But Tsumiki had smiled, a fragile thing, and had left soon after.

The soup was perfect, and the winter jacket was warm enough to replicate a hug. He’d cried, then.

“She’s amazing,” he replies, and it’s true.

He can’t see it, but Yuuji hopes Megumi is smiling, even if only a little. His hand resumes its tracing, hypnotic patterns that lose all meaning. Yuuji’s gaze is stuck in the movement, the delicate shape of Megumi’s fingers, and how many times his hands saved Yuuji’s life. His own are itching to reach out and touch.

“I’m glad.” Megumi says after a while, as his fingers stop the tracing to begin a rhythm tapping. Hesitantly, he adds, “You two are really alike.”

I know. “We are? How?”

Truthfully, Yuuji wasn’t expecting Megumi to really answer. This is a charged revelation, after all. Megumi’s care for Tsumiki is plastered in his every move, ever since they met. She had been his sole reason for survival, why he stayed a sorcerer, why he’d gotten stronger. Admitting that Tsumiki and Yuuji are similar is like admitting they both share the same space in Megumi’s heart.

“The two of you don’t know how to stop giving. Your time, your-,” Megumi stops. Yuuji feels as he shuffles on the bed, hands disappearing. “Your everything. You’re kind, even to people who don’t deserve it. Ever since I met you, I-” I envy you, sometimes, and the easy way you touch. “I noticed how you’re so easy to-”

Megumi doesn't finish, and for a second, Yuuji doesn't think he ever will. But then there’s a heavy sigh behind him, followed by the bed creaking, Megumi’s weight vanishing. Cold air hits the place where he’d once been, and Yuuji shudders.

“Itadori,” he says, then sighs again, exasperated. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

Yuuji laughs, “You’re so bossy.”

But he turns, of course. He doesn’t think he’d ever deny Megumi anything. The smile that had been growing on Yuuji’s face widens at the sight on his best friend’s face, the put upon annoyance, undermined by the mirth shining in his eyes, the faint beginning of a smile. Yuuji thought he’d never see this again.

His brain, it seems, can never really hold back when Megumi is in close proximity. So Yuuji ends up blurting: “I can dye my hair, you know.”

Megumi blinks, his smile vanishing. Fuck. “Huh?”

“Uh. Yeah, if- y’know. If the pink brings back memories. I can just dye it black.” Oh, Yuuji’s cheeks are on fire, flaming under his eyes, and he can’t really look at Megumi’s face. “Or, I don’t know, orange? I’d look good in orange. Hm, unless I look too much like Kugisaki-”

“Itadori. Shut up.”

Yuuji does, of course. Shuts his mouth and looks at the faded print plastered on Megumi’s shirt, greyed out with time. It’s too worn out for Yuuji to properly recognize what it once meant. His hand twitches.

“You-” Megumi says, and Yuuji glances up to find him looking away, frustrated. “I don’t want you to change. It’s not-” With a groan, Megumi’s hands fly to cover his face. “Why is this so difficult?”

“You’re doing great, Fushi.”

Megumi drops his hands to glare at him, and Yuuji can’t help the chuckle that escapes his lips. Yuuji’s heart is beating too fast, like an over excited puppy. Megumi sighs, dropping his shoulders.

“What about me? He used me to hurt you. Do you want me to change?”

“What the fuck? No, not at all.”

“Why not?”

Yuuji opens his mouth. Closes it when he doesn’t know how to answer. It’s not something that ever crossed his mind. Never once, ever since his possession, did Yuuji look at Megumi and see Sukuna looking back.

In his nightmares, he did. Of course. He saw a million other ways that Sukuna hurt Megumi. From digging his heart out, to keeping him prisoner, Yuuji’s brain conjured it all, especially during the time they were still planning, before December 24th, when Yuuji would lay in the dark of his room and wonder what Sukuna was doing.

Sometimes, and this Yuuji never voiced out loud, he’d drag himself to Megumi’s bedroom. Just to look outside of the window, under his bed, expecting Megumi to show up and bonk him in the head for breaching his privacy.

“You didn’t do anything,” Yuuji mumbles. Chuckles again, finally understanding why Megumi said it was difficult. How to put into words something you just felt? “Holy shit, man, I get you now. I don’t know.”

Megumi nods. “You have your answer, then.”

For a second, it looks like Megumi wants to add something else, his lips parting with a breath, before they close and he looks away. Maybe it’s a trick of the light, the fading afternoon sun casting an orange glow on Megumi’s profile, but Yuuji finds it hard to look away.

“Besides, I…” Megumi says, and the sight of his lips pulling into a soft, tender smile is breathtaking. “I like it. You hair, I mean. It fits you more than orange would.”

Oh. “You’re just jealous.”

“Hm. Maybe.”

He’s retreating, Yuuji notices, back into whatever is hidden behind his newly built walls. There’s still an ease in the way Megumi is sitting, cross legged and loose with how he curves towards Yuuji, but his eyes are hardening again, no longer looking back.

“I like your hair too,” Yuuji says, not registering the way he moves until it’s too late, and the tips of his fingers are brushing the ends of Megumi’s hair, just barely grazing his forehead. “It’s pretty.”

The pads of his fingers itch. Yuuji holds his breath as his hands curl in his lap, blinking when Megumi turns to look at him, ears pink. He looks surprised, Yuuji notes, which is ridiculous because Yuuji knows that Megumi gets complimented all the time. There’s a blooming of red along his cheeks now, and-

Oh. Maybe he wasn’t expecting Yuuji to compliment him. The thought comes barrelling in like a steamroller, obvious. 

It’s a beautiful thing, to be the subject of Megumi’s affections. Yuuji might be missing a few screws, but he’s not stupid. He has read the letters, he has functioning eyes. He sees the moment Megumi’s sharp edges soften, glass turning back into sand, how the tense line of his shoulders relax, and the following glint in the green of his pupils.

“Thank you,” Megumi says, still smiling, a hint of something deeper beneath the sudden shyness. “For everything.”

Stupid of him to say such words, when he knows Yuuji would do it all over again, in a thousand lifetimes. He’d pick himself up, brush away the injuries, the wounds, the pain. He’d train, get stronger, and then he’d march back out into the battlefield and rescue Megumi from whatever he needs rescuing from. Not a damsel in distress, not even close, but someone so incredibly selfless he doesn’t see that other people need him, too.

“You asked me to save you. I simply did my duty, Fushi.”

“Megumi,” he says, “I think you earned the right to call me by my first name.”

It hits Yuuji, then. Suddenly, unprovoked. The intimacy of the moment, the ease. This is what he fought for, what he stumbled towards. The reason why he bled and cried. A moment of respite, of being two silly teenagers so comfortable in each other’s presence they don’t need anything else.

“Okay, then, Megumi.” When he smiles, one side of his lips doesn’t reach as high as it once did. It’s a real one, nevertheless. “Call me Yuuji, then.”

Megumi’s laugh is a choked up sound. His eyes are soft, yes, gleaming and bright like the stars, but still haunted. Still wary. Less than before, but still.

“Yuuji. Thank you.”

Nobara learns about it the next day, as they sit down in the common room to watch a stupid comedy movie none of them will ever pay attention to, but Yuuji really wanted to check it out. They’ve been doing movie marathons lately, and he’s been re-watching the Hunger Games trilogy with Choso. Tonight, he’s planning on finally showing him Catching Fire. 

“Not fair,” Nobara mumbles through a mouthful of chips. “Ugh, I hate both of you. How many times do I have to say I don’t wanna be left out. If I hear any of you call me ‘Kugisaki’ one more time, I’ll bonk you.”

Yuuji shudders, aware that she’s not bluffing. Beside him, Megumi nods.

She turns back to the TV, head resting on the armrest, body draped over the boy’s legs with warm familiarity. Yuuji wouldn’t have it any other way.

On February 14th, there’s an origami flower waiting for him in his pillow.

He had just returned from a mission. His very first solo since what feels like forever, an easy grade one curse that went down so quickly, Yuuji stayed around for an extra two hours in case he had missed something. He knows Yuuta is working with Gojo-sensei and Hakari to rework jujustu society, and Yuuji has participated in a meeting or two, but he can’t seem to focus on all the political stuff, anyway.

Yuuji had returned to his room as the afternoon began to turn into night, ready to hit the hay, when the flower caught his attention. Nobara had sent a message to their group chat that she and Megumi had been dispatched to deal with a few stray curses that wandered too far from Shinjuku.

Still, lying innocuously atop his fluffy pillow was a handcrafted sunflower, no larger than a straw, with the petals folded delicately. Yuuji stares at it for a beat, before rushing to close his door, lest anyone wanders over. He has no idea how he’d explain this to Gojo if the man walked over. Not that Gojo would care much for the romantic lives of his students.

Oh, God.

Because that’s what this is, isn't it? He double checks the date on his phone. It’s Valentine’s Day, and there’s a paper flower on his bed. An origami craft that will last much, much longer than an actual flower would. And Yuuji doesn’t know how to take care of plants, no matter how much he tries. And-

And Megumi would know that, which is why he went through the trouble of crafting Yuuji, a sunflower. There’s no way it was anyone else. He knows for a fact there isn’t. No one else would ever write him two letters, one of which ended in what looked like a confession.

The paper is heavy in his hands, a craft so delicate that only someone with adept, pianist fingers, could ever achieve. Yuuji is giggling, he knows that, hears the sound before he registers the flutter in his chest. Unfortunately, there’s no letter, nothing that could ever tell him who really made this. No cursed energy leftover.

Fuck. He should- he should reciprocate, shouldn’t he? But he cannot fold origami, neither can he attempt to find a flower now, when Megumi could return at any moment, and Yuuji doesn’t want to parade around Jujutsu Tech with a bouquet of flowers. He doesn’t even know what flowers Megumi likes, or what they mean.

But-

Tsumiki. She would know. Oh, no, how would he even word it? Hey, so, I think your brother has feelings for me? And I think I’m starting to realize I like him, too? Can you help me pick flowers? No, that’s ridiculous, Tsumiki would-

She would totally help him. She’s nice like that. And maybe- maybe she’d like Yuuji, as well. Fuck, he has to win over her favour. Thankfully, Megumi doesn’t-

Yuuji is halfway through the hallway when he stops. Fuck, he has to win over Gojo-sensei.

It’s fine, it’s cool. Gojo seems to like him, and was going to spare his life too. But maybe he liked Yuuji when he was Yuuji’s teacher, and Yuuji was Megumi’s best friend. Maybe he won’t like it when they’re dating.

Yuuji stumbles, almost colliding with whomever is leaving the kitchen, heart racing, thoughts sparse.

“Oh, Itadori-kun!” And in comes Hana’s wide, innocent eyes. Yuuji winces. “Are you alright?”

“Yup!” He nods. She nods along, curls bouncing. “Just, uh, gonna have a snack.”

She smiles at him, and Angel doesn’t make an appearance. Good, Yuuji thinks. He’s not fond of curses who look like that, as nice as they seem.

“I made some of your matcha cookies earlier! There must be some leftovers.”

Yuuji thanks her profusely, stepping aside. Hana seems to prefer sweets, so he taught her some easy to follow recipes. So far, she’s the only one that managed to perfect his cookie recipe, and he’s very glad for that. Some nights, dinner used to be two white chocolate cookies and a large cup of coffee.

Tsumiki is indeed inside the kitchen when Yuuji wanders in, chatting amicably with Maki, who holds a little box of fancy chocolates, awfully familiar. He’s pretty sure he heard Nobara mention they were her favorites. They both smile at him as he walks over.

“Yuuji-kun!”

Maki nods, “Hey.”

When he greets them, reality crashes over. Maybe that curse he fought did something to him, because Yuuji’s mind has been running marathons since then, going from place to place, moment to moment, without pause to consider his actions. He feels stupid, because although Megumi might enjoy a nice, little bouquet of flowers, Yuuji knows for a fact he loves homemade meals more.

“Tsumiki-san, can I teach you a recipe?”

Later, when Nobara and Megumi finally return from the mission, exhausted, Yuuji is ready to welcome them in with a well prepared, last minute hot pot. He figured that maybe cooking only for Megumi would make Nobara upset, regardless of the date. Plus, he missed cooking for them like this.

Just as he assumed, Tsumiki was great company to cook with, and a quick learner. She’d given in her thoughts on some of the side dishes, adding her own twists to some. The meatballs, however, she didn’t adjust at all. Instead, when Yuuji added twice the amount of ginger, her eyes turned to him with quiet understanding, a silent approval.

“Yuuji,” Nobara says as she sits down, dragging a plate towards her. “You’re a blessing.”

He blinks, taking his seat across from her, beside Megumi. “Uh, did you hit your head?”

“Huh?”

“You don’t really compliment me, what happened?”

Nobara stuffs her face with a meatball. The kitchen is empty, only the three of them sitting on the large table, so she doesn't have to worry about being lady-like when she gives him the finger, talking as she chews. “Fuck you, I’m never being nice again.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Megumi grumbles through a yawn, dipping one of his meatballs in sauce. “It’s improper.”

He takes a bite, and Yuuji’s brain belatedly remembers the lack of taste buds. Megumi’s face doesn’t betray him, staying the same deadpan stare he has every time they eat together, and Yuuji’s heart breaks for him all over again.

“Oh,” Megumi says then, flinching.

“Whassup?”

Megumi takes another bite, though it seems harder to chew with how wide he smiles. Nobara chides him for laughing with food in his mouth, so one of his hands flies to cover his lips, still laughing. Yuuji finds he can’t breathe, can only stare, mesmerized and in awe with the way Megumi absolutely blooms with delight.

“Did- uhm,” Yuuji blinks, suddenly bright with the intensity of the sparks in Megumi’s eyes when they look at each other. “You like it?”

“It’s amazing.”

Nobara gasps, so Yuuji turns to her. Turns, to escape the love-struck gaze that Megumi has, the fondness that drips from his words. One more time, reality hits him square in the chest, and he gasps too, pointing from the food to Nobara, who has started to gape like a fish. Points, too, from the food to Megumi, who has scolded his expression. Still fond, still amazed, but no longer smiling. He chews, instead, with the intensity he reserves for battle.

“You! You can taste it!”

Megumi nods.

“Oh, holy fuck.”

“Dude,” Nobara mentions, going in for another bite. “Thank fuck you have magic hands, Yuuji. What if the first meal Megumi tastes again is, like, burnt egg. Or super salty soup.”

Yuuji laughs at that, loud and brash and freer than he ever thought possible. He stops trying to pretend they're back in the Before, appreciating the moment, the present. The three of them, joking around and having a simple dinner, just like it should always be.

Nobara goes on to talk about their mission, and Megumi interjects once or twice, the two of them falling into easy banter. Sometimes, when Yuuji moves, his knee would bump into Megumi’s. He finds he doesn’t mind that, at all.

Turns out, Megumi and Tsumiki learned how to fold origami from Gojo. It wasn’t really a surprise.

Sensei didn’t seem surprised, either, when Yuuji shyly asked for his help to learn how to fold a flower. He wanted to make something important, something that Megumi would look at and feel at ease on the days Yuuji would be too far to reach him. It was much harder than he expected, but sensei was kind and didn’t tease him. Much.

“Hah, try this one, it’s very cliche, I know,” Gojo laughed, showing the easiest way to fold the flower, fingers quick and precise. “I’m sure Megs will love it, anyway.”

It’s March 14th, the sun high and beautiful, so they dragged their ass outside for once. Nobara wanted to have a girls only trip, but couldn't refuse Yuuji’s puppy eyes. She still dragged Maki away as soon as they left the subway station, mumbling about useless boys.

Yuuji doesn’t mind. He and Megumi had found a little park, thankfully empty enough for Megumi to call forth his divine dog. He, too, couldn’t resist Yuuji.

They’re sitting underneath the shade of a tree. Megumi has a book open, biting his lower lip and frowning the way he does when he’s trying to focus. He can’t read non fiction anymore, and says it’s not the same now that he knows there are worse fates. The new book is short, something that elementary students can read. Easy way to get into fantasy, or something.

“What is it?”

“Hm?”

“You’re staring.”

“That’s what eyes are for, Gumi.”

Yuuji lays resting against Kon, the large dog tired after running through the park. He knows it’s not real, but the dog is so fluffy, so close to the real thing, that Yuuji can’t help himself. Megumi doesn’t say anything else, but his cheeks start to turn pink. It’s a nice color on him, Yuuji thinks.

So, he picks up one of the wildflowers scattered around them. 

“We should see the sakura trees when they bloom,” Yuuji says, playing with the wildflower in his hands.

“We?”

“Yup,” he moves, placing the delicate thing on Megumi’s ear. Plays with his soft hair just long enough for the flower to stay, stark white over his reddening skin. “You and me.”

There’s a hint of a smile when Megumi replies with a faint okay, unaware of the silly, handmade origami rose sitting on top of his pillow.

Yuuji should be smarter than this.

After everything, after the Exchange Event, after Shibuya, after the Culling Games and Shinjuku, he should’ve fucking know better.

They can never get a moment of peace. He knows, deep in his bones, between his ribs, that everything is fine and they’re safe. That the worst is over and he gets to wake up day after day and decide what to do with his friends, even if Nobara is no longer that confident, if Megumi gets quiet and exhausted faster than usual. Hell, even Yuuji had to give up parts of himself in order to stay sane.

Still, all of this combined is not enough to stop him from waking up gasping and shaking, on the morning of his sixteenth birthday.

To make it worse, his brain replays his nightmare every time he blinks. The darkness betrays him, turning shadows into bodies, into blood, and he sees his sensei laying on the ground, blood pouring from his lips, his blue eyes no longer vibrant. He sees Nobara and Nanami in a desolate Shibuya station as they smile at him before falling down. Blood, dark red. Red, like the poison that overtook his best friend because Yuuji was weak and vulnerable.

He was doing so well.

When Sukuna’s laugh resonates in his ears, distorted and shaky, Yuuji stands up and rushes to his bathroom. It’s been- long. But not long enough. A few months, not even a full season, since he had felt this incomplete. Yuuji knows that healing is not linear, but fuck, he wishes it was. More than anything, Yuuji really, really hoped he’d wake up one day and everything would feel like a lost dream, a far away memory.

But he looks at himself in the mirror, and the face looking back at him doesn’t match what he remembers.

What made him different from Sukuna, back then? The eyes, yes, that much he knows, and- what else? What made his friends look at him and see him, Itadori Yuuji, the person that would do anything in and outside of his power to ensure the safety of everyone else?

His brain tries to recall what Megumi had looked like, how Yuuji knew it wasn’t him, and he blocks down that line of thought before he spirals more than he is right now. The King of Curses indeed, for the way he continues to curse Yuuji even after being killed.

He doesn’t even bother to turn off the bathroom lights as he returns to his bedroom proper, making sure there’s enough light in the room to wash away the remnants of his nightmare. Of abandoned, desolated houses, splattered with blood. Of long gone, obliterated buildings in what used to be an entire district.

Yuuji’s window doesn’t fully open, never did, even back on that very first night, too giddy and secretly scared to properly sleep, trying to listen to Gojo and Megumi’s quiet conversation. He settles on opening it as far as he can, breathing in the spring air. It’s way too early, no traces of the sun, and far too cloudy to make out the moon and the constellations.

Unfortunately, the gap on the window is too small for him to properly reach out, so Yuuji settles on sitting next to it on the floor with his back on the wall, chin propped up on his knees as he goes through his mental list. His name, his age. The friends he’ll celebrate his birthday with in a few hours, regardless of exhaustion. His wants and- no, not his fears. Not right now.

There’s a loud noise from the room next to his, something tumbling to the floor, followed by quick thundering footsteps, a door slamming on the wall before Megumi pushes Yuuji’s own door like it caused him personal offense.

Megumi’s hair is plastered on his face with sweat, and he breathes loudly as he stands there, one hand raised in the air from how hard he’d pushed the door, the other is clenched tightly by his side. Yuuji knows intimately what the look in his eyes mean - the wild, shifting gaze, the uncertainty. Like he expected to still wake up trapped. To not wake up at all.

His mouth parts a little, the very beginnings of Yuuji’s name on his lips, before Megumi walks over, stumbles actually, and falls into Yuuji’s waiting arms.

Megumi fits into his space like a puzzle piece, like they’re never meant to be apart. He burrows his face in Yuuji’s neck, arms circling his waist, trying to control his breathing while Yuuji does the same, one of his hands coming up to tangle in soft, dark locks. Megumi’s heartbeat is loud, beating fast like a hummingbird stuck in a cage.

It’s not so rare for Megumi to initiate touch lately, hasn’t been in a while, and they wake up tangled in each other’s embrace more often than not during movie nights. Sometimes just the two of them, sometimes with Nobara, when she’s feeling particularly dull and distant.

“Bad dream?” Yuuji asks, even if the answer is clear as day.

Megumi’s arms tighten around him as he nods. “Really bad.”

“Can I do anything to help?”

“Already helping.”

They haven’t really talked about whatever has been brewing between them. To be honest, Yuuji doesn’t even know how or where to start. He’s observant, sure, but what if his own feelings are telling him something that doesn't really exist? Megumi said that Yuuji is similar to Tsumiki, so what if he means that the two of them are equally as important, but in a ‘Yuuji, you’re my best friend in the whole entire world’ sort of way?

He’d talked to Nobara about it, on Valentine’s Day, as she ate one of the chocolates from the box Maki had given her, giddy and shy. Nobara hadn’t been that shy when she bonked him in the head with her fist, however.

“You’re more of an idiot than I imagined.” Nobara had said, and yeah, well. That had been that.

Now, Megumi’s heartbeat has slowed down, back to what Yuuji deems normal for a teenage boy anyway, and his head has shifted from Yuuji’s neck to rest on his shoulder instead. Other than that, he hasn’t made any attempt to push them apart. So of course Yuuji has to go and ruin the moment.

“How did you know it was me?”

“Hm?”

“With-” Yuuji licks his lips, finds them dry and cracked and with a faint taste of iron. “With him. How did you know it was me? Every time he’d take over?”

For a moment, Megumi doesn’t reply. He doesn’t exactly freeze with Yuuji’s question, but his body stiffens, and he takes his arms from Yuuji’s waist to hold himself instead. Yet he stays, draped over Yuuji’s legs, seeking comfort, maybe. Then, he raises his head.

Yuuji doesn’t know if it’s a Zenin thing or a Megumi thing, to have eyes this beautiful. He knows Maki has similar slanted and sharp eyes, and remembers vaguely that her twin had too. But Megumi’s are so intensely vibrant, a green so sparkly that Yuuji had trouble looking into them in the beginning, scared of getting lost in them and not wanting to come back. Megumi stares at him, expressionless if not for the way his edges soften, as they always do, for Yuuji.

“I just did.”

Yuuji scoffs. “Yeah, right.”

Megumi keeps looking at him, shifting his gaze all over Yuuji’s face. If it were anyone else, he’d feel self-conscious and unsure. But Megumi had seen him at his worst, dragged him away from the figurative bottom of the pit, and Yuuji had done the same to him. There are few secrets to be kept from two souls that constantly seek each other, after all.

“Your eyes,” Megumi whispers, expression unchanging except for the faint darkening of his cheeks. “Always. And not just the color, but- there’s a specific kind of warmth that only you are capable of having.” He pulls himself away from Yuuji’s embrace, but doesn’t stray far, just shifts so that they’re facing each other. Megumi’s embarrassed, Yuuji notes, no longer managing to maintain eye contact as he finishes his reasoning. “You just make things brighter, instantly. There’s- a curse is not capable of that. That’s how I knew. There’s not much to say.”

Yuuji remembers the words The world is a lot less brighter now that you’re gone, written so long ago he doubts Megumi himself has any recollection, despite the similar wording. Yuuji scrambles to get up, ignoring the aching in his legs from sitting in the same position for a long time and holding someone else. He does remember to send a quick smile to Megumi in case the boy thinks he scared Yuuji away, or something.

He’d kept the letters inside his bedside table, where he’d reach into every night and commit the words to memory, until he saw their writing in his eyelids before falling into slumber. The edges are softer now, frail too, considering that before he retrieved them, they were hidden away to disappear with time.

When he returns to his previous space, it doesn’t take long until Megumi recognizes the papers in Yuuji’s hands. Immediately, Megumi’s face explodes with surprise, understanding filling the lines around his eyes as his lips part.

“Oh.” Megumi mumbles, attempts nonchalance as he turns his face away and glances up, staring at the glow in the dark stars that Yuuji placed in his wall. “You found them.”

“Yup.”

“Wh-, uh, where?” 

“The warehouse. Gojo-sensei needed me to do something there.”

“Fuck,” Megumi closes his eyes, throws his head back. “Of course.”

“You have a problem with my letters, Gumi?”

He’s still thinking about Megumi’s previous answer as he picks one of the letters, a fragile smile in his own face as Yuuji reads, only for show, of course. Yuuji could recite all three letters back to back with no issue. Maybe he should bother Nobara later, except she’d probably take the paper and burn it. And, even if Yuuji has memorized it, he needs to feel them to know they’re real. That he mattered then, that he matters now.

So, Yuuji clears his throat, starts at the top, tries to replicate the cadence in which Megumi talks as he reads: “Itadori, Gojo made me write this. I didn’t-”

“Stop!” Presumably, Magumi tries to take the letter away, cheeks aflame. “You piece of shit, fuck you.”

“It’s a beautiful letter!”

Megumi huffs, still blushing, still beautiful. “It’s a mistake, that’s what it is. Don’t- don’t laugh at me-”

“I’m not!” Yuuji replies, except he totally is, arms up to the sky, even if Megumi could take the papers from him without any effort, if he really wanted to. “I love it, especially when you wrote that it was too quiet without me around.”

“I never said such a thing.”

“Yeah, duh, you wrote it,” Megumi scowls, looking seconds away from murder, but Yuuji doesn’t mind. He clears his throat again, ignores the way their mingled shadows shift and bubble. “’I apologize for all the times I yelled at you for your loudness. The silence is much worse.’ Like, are you kidding me? That’s so-”

He falls.

Wait, no. Megumi pulls him down, using the darkness between them to drag Yuuji into his familiar domain, and Yuuji’s laughing, choking up in the shadows that Megumi is so proud of. Yuuji is aware of the danger, and yet his trust in Megumi runs so deeply, so intertwined with his DNA that he feels nothing except fleeting touches when they finally exit the domain into a familiar room.

“You are so embarrassing.” Megumi says, and he did not bother to turn on the lights in his own room, so that’s where they travel to. “So embarrassing, God, shut up, I wrote that when you died, you asshole.”

Yuuji is still laughing. At the situation, at how Megumi looks like he’s five seconds away from smouldering Yuuji with his pillow. He’s not surprised at all to come out of the shadows and into the soft bounciness of Megumi’s bed. How forward, his mind supplies, and Yuuji’s laugh ends immediately.

Thankfully, Megumi rolls out from above him before Yuuji has a moment to collapse, fitting on the space beside Yuuji, closer to the bed’s edge in a way that leaves Yuuji pressed up on the wall. He doesn’t feel trapped at all, and can’t stop another burst of laughter.

“Well, Nobara wrote me a letter too, so no need to be embarrassed, dude.”

Megumi blinks, before turning to hide his face on his pillow, like he wants to smoulder himself now. Yuuji can’t have that, not when he finally found the courage to confront Megumi about this.

“I mean, she didn’t write me two, so…”

Megumi stops trying to kill himself. He lifts his head just enough to stare at Yuuji like he just got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“You read the other one?”

Yuuji blinks. “It had my name, of course I did.” Then he shrugs, turning around so that he can give Megumi his full, undivided attention. “Was that okay? I mean, like I said, it had my name, so I assumed.” Shit. Okay. He’s had them for months, but maybe the letters were left in the box for a reason. Yuuji winces. “I’m sorry.”

Sighing, Megumi turns back to the ceiling. He’s biting his lower lip, but Yuuji perseveres and stares at his whole profile, the scars. Tries not to melt at the way Megumi’s lashes flutter.

“No. Uh, yes. It’s okay. They were written for you, you should’ve read them. They were just…”

“Heartfelt?”

It’s barely there, but Yuuji catches how Megumi flinches. He’s still worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, and Yuuji hopes he doesn’t break skin.

“Hey, it’s fine,” Yuuji shrugs, moving without thinking to place his thumbs, underneath Megumi’s lip, pulling it away. “If anything, they helped me a lot. Whenever I felt sad, I’d read the letters. I think I have them all memorized by now.”

Megumi huffs an incredulous laugh, reaching up to grasp Yuuji’s hand with his own. They’re cold and clammy, powerful and reliable. Yuuji holds on like a lifeline.

“You read them enough to memorize them?”

“Yup! Every night, without fail. My favorite line from Nobara’s letter is when she described me as, and I quote, ‘a dumbass with a stupid heart of gold that didn’t know any better, and now rests in pieces.’”

“That’s so morbid.”

“Yeah, well. I know it’s her way of saying she’d miss me.”

“Hm,” Megumi grumbles. He seems at war with himself, brows furrowing, lips twitching like he wants to bite at them again. He doesn’t look at Yuuji when he asks: “What about my letter?”

“Your letters?” Yuuji corrects.

“Yeah, whatever.”

Yuuji would like to ask ‘What do you mean?’ just to hear the actual words. But Megumi looks panicked, tense in the way he gets when he’s trying not to be vulnerable, putting his walls back up brick by brick.

“That’s a loaded question,” Yuuji mumbles, adjusting their hands so that he can lace their fingers together, because the moment asks for such tender touch. “There’s a lot that I love about your letters. I liked it when you said you saw me when you closed your eyes, even if the context was not the best. Oh, yeah, and the second letter-”

Megumi interrupts with a deadpan: “What second letter.”, which Yuuji promptly ignores.

“Man, everything about that one was amazing. Like, I really can’t pick a single sentence. I liked when you said you missed me, and that you enjoy my company.”

“I’m not enjoying it right now.” Megumi lies, because his thumb is tracing patterns on Yuuji’s skin, and he’s still here. Still laying next to Yuuji like it’s the most natural place in the world, and there's nowhere else he’d rather be. Yuuji shifts, turning so that he’s no longer on his side.

“There’s a sentence I like, though. It goes like: ‘Tsumiki would love you, I’m sure. I think I’m starting to.’” Yuuji laughs, heart beating so fast he’s sure Megumi can feel it where they touch. “Don’t tell Nobara, but that’s my favorite part of all three letters.”

Megumi is quiet for a moment, enough for Yuuji to worry he’s misspoken. Then: “That’s not what it says.”

“Huh?”

“The letter. Tsumiki. I didn’t write her name.”

“Yeah, it’s called paraphrasing. I thought you were smart.”

Finally, Megumi huffs what could be a laugh, or a choked up sob hidden in a sigh. Yuuji assumed it would be more cathartic than this, laying out the truth, opening up the door for Megumi to reply with an admission of his own feelings. Instead, he feels at ease, breathing softly next to his best friend, their hands intertwined, fates connected by mutual vows of trust.

Suddenly, between a breath and the next, Megumi stands up, shifting so that his back is facing Yuuji, feet on the floor. Their hands are still clasped together, but Megumi has ceased caressing Yuuji’s hand with his thumb. Instead, he taps the skin with his pointer finger.

“If-” Megumi starts to say, before turning to look at Yuuji from his shoulder, eyes guarded. “If I show you something, do you promise to keep quiet about it?”

Yuuji blinks. “Do you have more cute shikigami I don’t know about?”

“No.” The answer comes too quickly, so Yuuji narrows his eyes. “Fine. Yes, but not now.”

“Okay.”

“Promise me.”

“You’re so intense. I promise I’ll not make fun of you.”

That seems to be enough. With a soft squeeze, Megumi lets go of Yuuji’s hand, standing up to browse his closet. It’s no surprise he knows his way in the darkness. While he’s gone, Yuuji sits up against the plush pillows, knees bouncing with nervous energy.

Before Megumi sits by his side, he closes the door. Not all the way, just enough so that it’s not wide open. Then he turns on the lamp, and the bed dips with his added weight. In his hands is a familiar envelope, the type of which Yuuji would be able to find even if blind. He knows what this is before Megumi says anything.

He doesn’t, handing the letter as if he was seconds away from walking to an executioner’s table. When Yuuji opens it as carefully as he did the other ones, he finds that the contents are short, barely even a full paragraph. The ink is fresh, a dark blue that stands out over the cream colored paper, so it must be recent.

Yuuji, it reads.

Happy Birthday. 

I’m glad to know you’re still the same, despite the hells you’ve been through. I’m glad we met, too, and that I get to see you smile again. Not as wide as before, but beautiful just the same. You make me happy. You must know that, by now. I hope this is enough to make you want to stay.

The other letters ended with a simple signature, a loopy FM that could only belong to one individual. This one, despite being equally as simple, as devastating as the others, ends with: Megumi. 

And it’s a change so small, so innocent in the grand scheme of things, but it’s enough to make Yuuji laugh. Because this is a love letter. It has ‘happy birthday’ in it, yes, but more as an excuse than anything else. And so Yuuji laughs, and drapes himself over his fuming best friend, the only one that manages to bring out the best Yuuji has to deliver. Not his other half, no, he’s not incomplete with Megumi around, but he’s also not incomplete with Nobara.

If anything, both Megumi and Yuuji are complete people, as complete as teenagers can be, but together they’re better. 

Yuuji is still giggling as he tries to pick himself up, making sure Megumi knows he’s laughing from happiness, and not making fun of how the letter was written, the words put to paper. The tenderness, the simplicity. Yuuji laughs with unbridled joy, purely. Megumi loves so clearly, in everything he does.

“I’m not leaving,” Yuuji manages to get out through his laughter, trying to catch Megumi’s fleeting gaze, trying not to topple both of them over the bed. “Megumi, I’m not going anywhere.”

“If you’re going to-”

“’m not making fun of you. I’m assuaging your fears.”

Megumi’s lips are twitching, but he’s still not looking at Yuuji. “You don’t know what that means.”

“Yes I do, I’m smart.”

“What does it mean, then?”

“Well-” Yuuji opens his mouth, then stops, blinking. “Don’t change the subject.”

“There’s no subject to change.”

“Yes! You confessed your feelings to me!”

Yuuji has both of his arms wrapped around Megumi’s torso, so he feels when the other boy freezes. Megumi uses his crossed arms to try and hide his flaming face. Yuuji has no idea what he’s so scared of, considering Yuuji wasn’t trying to hide his own blooming affections. Oh, well. Maybe he wasn’t that clear.

So, Yuuji pouts. “Lemme confess to you, too.”

That gets Megumi’s attention, makes him turn his face to stare wide-eyed at Yuuji. He looks stupid, mouth hanging open, as if the idea of Yuuji reciprocating his feelings never even crossed his mind. As if everything they have been doing so far is close to platonic. As if Yuuji didn’t go into the darkest parts of his soul and dragged him back while bleeding and wounded.

“I’ll stay with you. You hear me? I’ll stay and we can have home cooked meals and do our laundry together.”

Megumi’s eyes flutter shut at that, and the smile that stretches his face is soft, but not fragile. He looks content as he moves forwards to gently brush their noses together, and Yuuji can’t stop the giggle that bubbles from his throat.

“Stop laughing.”

“Nope, I’m happy, and-” Yuuji repeats the nose brushing, hoping it is just as delicate. “You love me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Don’t have to. I love you too, by the way. In case it wasn’t clear.”

The thing about Megumi is that he can only have a few emotions at a time, or else he collapses.

This, too, is one of the things Yuuji knows, has seen on multiple occasions. It’s not that Megumi smiles openly, not really, but he got easier to read, and so Yuuji has been able to tell when he’s about to smile, when he holds them back. The silent uptick of his lips when someone makes a dumb joke and he can’t afford to lose his cool persona. The proud smirk that lasts a second when he figures something out. 

Yuuji’s favorite smile is the one Megumi has when he’s truly happy, and not just enjoying himself, and it’s such a rare sight he has to catalogue them all in a separate box in his mind.

It’s all in the way Megumi’s face looks, how his lips stretch lazily, slowly, until they threaten to show his teeth. It makes his cheeks scrunch up until Megumi has to close his eyes. A shame, of course, but Yuuji is simply trading one beauty for another.

“You’re embarrassing.” 

“So you’ve said.”

“I love you,” Megumi finally says, and yup. This right here is Yuuji’s favorite sight. “Can I kiss you, now?”

Yuuji complies, of course, holding back his own laugh to finally press their lips together. After all, he can’t ever deny Megumi anything.