Chapter Text
Megumi stared at the paper intently. The paper stared back. So many minutes trapped in that obtuse silence made him realize: Nietzsche really had been right about that whole abyss thing. Just a little longer and Megumi would get into a serious physical fight with that stack of cellulose.
He wasn’t entirely sure what was happening. Over the last three years making music with those blessed, but deeply unsettling people; Choso and Maki, his creativity had flowed like a long river cutting through a village, sustaining an entire population. It sounded exaggerated and dramatic, but Megumi had always been aware that his choices weren’t just his own.
The day he said “yes” to Maki might have been decisive in the course, or at least some small moment, of someone else’s life. Not that anyone’s life needed to be transformed, but a reflection, some spark of inspiration, a memory pulled to the surface through their music, all of it traced back to a single choice made a long time ago.
So, for fuck’s sake. Shit. Damn it.
It was infuriating not being able to transmute all his emotions into words inked onto that godforsaken sheet of paper. His creative block felt one step away from ripping out his entrails and making him beg for mercy.
Megumi, in his early twenties, had never even dreamed of the remote possibility of becoming a musician. He’d made his peace with things. Being in university, getting a degree in systems development, encouraged by Gojo, wasn’t that bad, even if he found developing systems profoundly dull.
But then there was that spring day, one of those where sidewalks are carpeted with flower petals mixed with dust and the lingering dampness of earlier rain, when it felt like a siren’s call drew him to the downtown theater where My Chemical Romance was playing.
The more he thought about that fateful day, the more ridiculous it became.
He’d been standing at the back because he was antisocial and hated human contact, and somehow that hadn’t stopped Maki from locking eyes with him, pointing at another guy a few meters away, and saying, “You two losers, we’re starting a band.” Obviously she was drunk, painfully obvious. Her girlfriend, when she came to pick her up, cried laughing at the story and said Maki would forget everything the next day.
She didn’t. Beyond remembering it vividly, she practically forced Choso to grab the drumsticks and show what he could do on the kit. She’d take the bass, and what naturally fell to Megumi was the guitar.
He’d never touched an instrument in his life. What came out of his attempts sounded like calves being born and desperately trying to crawl back into their mothers’ wombs. But as with everything, practice did its thing, and eventually he got really fucking good. That didn’t stop Kugisaki from mocking him every now and then for subjecting her to what amounted to war crimes.
Not only that, his compositions and voice, combined with the natural, effortless talent (unlike his own, it had to be said) of his friends, turned them into the most promising band of the year. They were selling out theaters, people lined up for arena shows, and their songs climbed the charts in a matter of minutes. Megumi even found the idea of going mainstream a little boring.
He was private. He didn’t use social media nearly as much as the other two, and his social circle was basically limited to the band members and whoever orbited around them, plus his family, which consisted of his sister and his adoptive father, who, by sheer irony (read: contrivance), had become the trio’s manager. Sure, a huge part of their success came from Gojo’s publicity connections, but still. It wasn’t like it should’ve gone this far.
So that was why he was on the verge of killing himself and becoming posthumous inspiration for Maki and Choso to write the next tracks for the album slated for the end of the year. No, he wouldn’t do that. He wasn’t even twenty-seven yet, and the idea of being immortalized in such a selective club honestly appealed to him. It sounded like a decent fate.
Back to the problem. Yes, his creative block.
I’m going to have to kill myself. There’s no way around it.
Another good idea would be to tear through space-time and prevent his own birth straight from his father’s scrotum, sparing himself every subsequent abandonment trauma and also avoiding disappointing thousands of fans across Japan who were eagerly waiting for his next creations, which, unfortunately, would never be born.
His thoughts or plans never got the chance to be finished, because Itadori was knocking on the studio door.
His eyes lifted from the page, and he quickly took his headphones off to answer.
Itadori was another part of his tiny social circle. Well, not really, to be honest. He was Choso’s brother and was often around the studio, the backstage, the celebrations, the trips, anywhere the band happened to be. They weren’t close at all. Itadori’s presence never bothered him, but there was something about him that left Megumi deeply pensive, teetering on paranoia.
Itadori looked around, searching for someone. His brother, Megumi assumed, even though he was close to Maki too. He even seemed to like Gojo. Kugisaki and Tsukumo didn’t even need mentioning, the three of them were basically best friends.
“Choso’s not here, right? I’ll come back later,” Itadori said, setting a bag of beers and snacks down on the central table near the black leather couch. “I brought these for all of you. Help yourself and keep up the good work.” He tried to smile, but it twisted into a grimace.
That was it. Exactly that.
Yuji Itadori was like sunshine, or rather, like the sun itself. A presence so bright and warm it could blind anyone who got too close. The first time Megumi saw him, he considered stealing Gojo’s sunglasses because, seriously, it was too much. He was the kind of person who became a muse for countless artistic creations.
The problem-that-wasn’t-a-problem was that Itadori was the most radiant, affectionate, kind person on the planet to every other living being, except, of course, Megumi.
At first, he didn’t take it personally. Anyone with eyes could see they were natural enemies. Itadori was sun, light, smiles, the color pink. Megumi was moon, shadow, scowls, the color black. His personality didn’t help in the slightest when it came to any hypothetical attempt at closeness, so fine. That was that.
But, fuck, he was friendly even with Mai, Maki’s arrogant, technically-evil sister. So why the hell was he so cold and distant with Megumi? Why couldn’t he spare him a single, miserable smile?
Megumi had even seriously wondered if it was some kind of spiritual issue. A karmic contract from past lives or something, even though he didn’t believe in any of that. Because it made no sense for Mr. I-Love-You to be so I-Hate-You-and-Want-You-Dead toward him. It made no sense. There was no logic in the physical, earthly realm.
“You can wait here,” Megumi said, trying to meet his eyes, looking for any sign they were mortal enemies.
“Oh, no… I don’t want to get in your way,” Itadori said quickly, already backing toward the door. He was always polite. There was no way they were enemies. Shit.
“You won’t. I’m not getting anything written anyway,” he said, sitting down and rummaging through the bag. They didn’t know each other well, but ironically Itadori always brought his favorite snacks.
“Uh… that sucks. I’m sorry,” Itadori said, hand already on the door.
“Sit with me, Itadori.” Megumi looked up just in time to catch his definitely-not-friend trying to escape. “Choso should be here in fifteen minutes, max. Have a beer.”
“I don’t drink.”
They stared at each other. Megumi’s look said, “Are you serious?” while Itadori’s was more like, “Haha… God help me now”. Probably to avoid making things even more awkward, Itadori ended up sitting across from him, on the other end of the couch.
“So…” Megumi wasn’t the type to start conversations, but this entire situation existed because he also never tried to get closer. “How’s university?”
Itadori looked surprised for a few seconds, then slumped back into that wilted posture he adopted around Megumi.
“Uh…” He laughed awkwardly. “It’s fine.”
“I see,” Megumi nodded, cracking open a beer. He took a sip and looked away.
Fuck, Choso. Where are you?
“And the songs… how is it coming along?” Itadori asked after a long stretch of silence.
Ah, yes. The songs. The songs and Itadori… his two current problems, cozying up together like a conspiracy.
“Yeah… not great,” he laughed, just as awkwardly, and Itadori forced a small chuckle to match.
What a painfully uncomfortable situation. Worst of all, he’d put them both in it himself. Making friends had never been his strong suit.
“At some point the right inspiration will come,” Itadori said, rubbing his hands together, drawing Megumi’s attention to the sound of skin sliding against skin.
“Sure…” Another sip. “And dating, Itadori? Any girlfriend?”
He didn’t actually want to know about Itadori’s love life, but what else was he supposed to say in that strange, agonizing moment? He figured that was what men talked about. Ten more minutes of this and he’d have to jump out the window and postpone his goal of joining the 27 Club until his next reincarnation.
Itadori immediately looked down, unable to meet his eyes.
Yikes. Apparently a sensitive topic.
“No girlfriend… and you?” His gaze stayed fixed on the floor.
“That’s a relief,” Megumi said distractedly, letting out a small laugh.
What snapped him back to reality was the look of shock on Itadori’s face. “A relief?”
Megumi scratched the back of his head, nodding quickly while mentally agreeing that what he’d said sounded incredibly weird. Fuck. Forget ten minutes, he wouldn’t survive two.
“It’s just…” he tried to explain, already knowing it would sound worse. “I also… don’t… you know? No girlfriend here either.” He laughed, painfully awkward. His sense of humor had taken permanent vacation by now. Across from him, Itadori looked like a startled cat trapped in a cage. “Out of the seven people who live around here, we’re the only two who are single. It’d be awful if I were the only one.”
Itadori’s posture gradually relaxed, his lips almost, almost, curving into a smile.
“Not that I’m trying to jinx your love life,” Megumi added, just to be safe.
Itadori pressed his lips together, trying to stay serious until the very last second, but he couldn’t help it, he burst out laughing, even covering his mouth with his hand.
Yeah. Megumi got why everyone liked him.
Their mutual suffering didn’t last much longer, because moments later Choso arrived at the studio. Megumi was finally free to return to his depressive, disturbing thoughts brought on by his creative block.
[...]
His last interaction with Itadori caused irreversible damage.
For a few days, Megumi tried to convince himself that it wasn’t a big deal if one single person didn’t like him. Besides, he pinned the blame on his failure to give birth to new creations, because if he were busy writing and picking at his guitar, none of those thoughts would insist on living at the edges of his brain.
Except the thoughts had already grown lives of their own. They fed themselves, ran loose, drummed insistently, telling him it was his fault. But how could it be his fault? What the hell could he have done to make Mr. Sunshine hate him so much?
He decided to ask Kugisaki.
She might be close friends with Itadori, but she wouldn’t hold back any gossip. Something he wouldn’t be able to pry out of Choso even with a gun to his head.
“Itadori hates me, right?”
“I think so,” she shrugged, still typing on her phone with her long, decorated nails.
“Why?”
She stopped and finally paid attention to him. Her lips pursed, eyes narrowing. He had never seen her think this hard about anything other than her girlfriend.
“No idea,” she said at last, sighing as she went back to her phone. “Every decent person in this country should hate you.”
Megumi rolled his eyes and let out a heavy sigh, though she wasn’t paying the slightest attention to his suffering. His gaze drifted up to the ceiling, and for a brief moment he thought he should just let it go. His excessive concern over this whole thing was getting embarrassing. It really wasn’t that serious. Come on.
“Maybe he thinks you’re homophobic,” Gojo said, who was also in the room and had very clearly not been invited into the conversation.
“Fushiguro is homophobic?” Kugisaki dropped her phone, now dividing her sharp attention between the two men. “I thought he was gay.”
“I am not homophobic,” Megumi hissed, shuddering. “I hate your boyfriend because he had the nerve and audacity to date someone like you, not because I’m homophobic. Stop telling people I am!”
Kugisaki burst out laughing, and Gojo pouted, crossing his arms and lowering his sunglasses in an attempt to make Megumi feel bad. He found it disgusting. Not because he was homophobic, just to be clear.
His social circle was tiny because the few people in it were already hard enough to tolerate. Gojo alone consumed almost his entire reserve of goodwill.
Realizing nothing would come of that day, Megumi decided to leave. Even so, he made a point of saying goodbye to Choso, who would be staying late to sort out media files.
Choso was a few years older and insisted on trying to play the role of big brother, a role Megumi rejected every single time. It wasn’t annoying, exactly, but he didn’t want to step into that dynamic. Still, he admired him. Yes, he considered him a good friend.
Choso had been forced to deal with a lot on his own from a young age, after the early death of his parents and the lingering trauma of losing his twin brothers at birth. Despite everything, he was still kind, responsible, gentle. Gentle enough to not say no when a stranger asked him to join a rock band. Emo? Well, they still hadn’t defined the genre to this day.
The only thing that bothered him was the name. And honestly, “I Killed My Sibling” wasn’t the best band name for someone with such a sensitive history involving siblings. Itadori himself had convinced him to accept it, because it sounded badass and made for a funny acronym: IKMS. Of course. Suicide jokes were hilarious.
Speak of the devil, Choso was scrolling through photos and videos from his brother’s camera, transferring them to the computer. There was that too: Itadori was undeniably a constant presence. His lens frequently captured the trio’s best moments. Sure, the official photographers at events handled most of it, but Itadori’s camera was different. More intimate. Closer. Megumi couldn’t tell whether that was due to his technical knowledge from college or the man’s natural sensitivity.
According to Choso, Itadori had always liked recording moments he found interesting, ever since he was a kid. It ranged from short clips of sports games on TV, casual travel vlogs, to small documentaries about the flora and fauna of places he visited. It was no surprise that he’d chosen film as his major. Megumi admired that. Admired his drive to chase his dream instead of waiting for an opportunity to fall from the sky and make him an artist, like what had happened to Megumi himself.
They were both artists, but Itadori deserved more credit. He was complete. The radiant passion in his creations was unmistakable. Positive or negative moments were transmuted into pure art through his lens. Megumi, on the other hand, could only write about sins, tragedies, emotional abysses. His inspiration came mostly from the darkest parts of his life, how could he consider himself complete like that?
“Fushiguro! Hey! Look,” Choso called, waving him over when he noticed Megumi standing by the door, watching from afar, lost in his own head.
When he got close enough, Choso opened one of the videos.
The lighting was dark blue, the edges vignetted, the image not very sharp, grainy all over, clearly zoomed in. The song they were playing was from their latest album, about reading between the lines when a love was nearing its end. In the footage, Megumi looked worn down, desolate, but it was all part of the performance. The camera lingered on his face, distant eyes, lips moving quickly through the lyrics. It drifted now and then to his fingers flying over the chords. When Maki’s part came in, the camera stayed on him as he closed his eyes and let the emotion of the song run through his skin. When his part returned, his eyes snapped open and locked directly onto the lens, as if the fourth wall had shattered. The video ended there.
He didn’t remember the whole thing very clearly, but he knew that every now and then he’d spot Itadori in the crowd, even though Choso and Maki had asked him a million times not to do that because it broke immersion. It wasn’t exactly his fault. He was often distracted, and his gaze just happened to land on that pink hair in the back. Maybe he should suggest dyeing it immediately.
He braced himself for another scolding.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Choso said, smiling at the screen. “My brother’s really good. He’s amazing.”
“He is,” Megumi agreed, straightening his posture.
“He doesn’t even complain that you always ruin the shots,” Choso teased with a laugh. Megumi sighed.
“Sorry,” he said sincerely, and genuinely considered training himself to never subconsciously look for Itadori on stage again. “Though he doesn’t need to complain. He already makes it very clear how much he hates me on a daily basis.”
“Huh?” Choso spun his chair to face him. “Hates you?”
“You never noticed? He never said anything?” Megumi was surprised.
Weren’t they the kind of brothers who loved each other, stuck together, shared every secret, would give their lives for one another? Was it possible Itadori had never mentioned how much he hated his brother’s bandmate?
Choso laughed. “Trust me. He doesn’t hate you. Not even close.”
Megumi crossed his arms and looked away. Of course Choso would say that. He was a damn pacifist, after all.
“Oh yeah?” Megumi said, bored and rhetorical. “Well, I just came to say goodbye. I’m heading out.”
“I’m serious,” Choso cut in. “Yuji doesn’t hate you.” He turned back to the computer, where countless images were scattered across a folder. Megumi noticed there really were a lot of him, but that was normal. He was the lead vocalist, after all. “We’re going to his game tomorrow. You can ask him directly,” his smile was warm, but slightly forced, with a hint of humor to it.
What was so funny, exactly?
“Choso, I’m not going to ask your brother if he hates me. He’s way too polite and nice to ever admit that out loud,” Megumi rubbed his forehead. He really should drop the topic.
“Then don’t ask, but go. Huh? You’ll go, right?” He really was a good friend, and probably just wanted his brother to have a little more support in the stands, considering he was his only living relative besides the unhinged uncle who’d ended up in prison.
Maybe he and Itadori were on the brink of becoming enemies, but Itadori had done a lot for the band with his audiovisuals and artistic eye. Megumi had no real choice but to agree. Otherwise, his conscience wouldn’t let him rest for weeks.
“Fine.”
[...]
Megumi could hardly believe he was sitting near the field, in the guest section, waiting to watch Itadori show off his baseball skills.
He didn’t understand baseball at all, not really. He’d had to play once in high school, but whatever knowledge he’d had slipped right through his fingers the moment he graduated.
So watching Itadori felt like trying to understand a poem in a foreign language. Beautiful in aesthetics and theory, but completely nonsensical to his eyes. He couldn’t decode what he was seeing. Occasionally he asked Choso what was happening, and Choso answered with enthusiasm, but he couldn’t do that the entire time.
Megumi followed Itadori’s movements more than the small ball. He was wearing the light-colored uniform of Tokyo University’s team, dirt smeared on his knees, that easy smile appearing even in moments of tension. Still, his expression stayed serious, like he couldn’t afford to falter for even a second. He looked good like that. Megumi hadn’t been wrong, he really could be the muse of countless creations. The whole image could easily be the subject of a pop rock love song.
Every time he moved, the stands reacted, a rising murmur, as if everyone were holding their breath while eagerly waiting for what came next. Maybe he really was popular. No surprise there. Itadori was effortlessly magnetic. If Megumi weren’t so comfortable in his own position as a rockstar, he might’ve felt jealous.
As the end of the game approached, Choso explained, far too loudly, that this was a decisive moment and that Itadori needed, at the very least, to put the ball in play to keep the team alive.
Megumi watched as Yuji positioned himself by the base, gripping the bat firmly. The opposing pitcher threw the ball for the first time; the umpire announced something that made the crowd boo. On the second pitch, Itadori didn’t swing. On the third, Megumi unconsciously leaned forward.
When the bat finally met the ball, the sharp, dry crack echoed across the field.
The ball soared high, cutting across the open field, far too distant to be easily reached. People jumped to their feet, screaming. Itadori ran past first base, then second. Megumi almost lost his breath when he saw other runners advancing too.
Was he going to make it?
When the ball came back down, it was already too late. A runner touched home plate, the scoreboard officially flipped. The game ended right there, decided by the run Itadori had set in motion. Home victory.
Of course he made it.
Megumi only realized he was smiling when he heard Choso say, “He’s incredible, isn’t he?”
Yes. Shit. He was incredible. Painfully incredible.
How could Yuji Itadori be socially, artistically, academically, and athletically gifted? Did the Universe realize how unfair it was to give so many skills and talents to a single person?
After a few minutes, Itadori joined them, accompanied by one of his friends. His radiant post-victory smile died the instant his eyes landed on Megumi.
Ah, yes. How kind of him… Megumi wanted to crawl into a hole in the middle of that field and never come out.
“Oh—hey, Fushiguro. Didn’t know you were coming too,” Itadori said, clear exhaustion in his voice.
That was what came out of his mouth, but in Megumi’s interpretation it sounded more like: Go away, I hate you and want you dead. Looking at your face is like being a vampire burning under the tropical sun.
“Fushiguro!” the tallest guy among them practically shouted his name, momentarily interrupting his thoughts. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m a huge fan of I Killed My Sibling,” he continued, without ever offering his hand for a greeting. Megumi raised an eyebrow. “Now tell me—what’s your type?”
What?
Choso and Itadori looked at him expectantly, holding back laughter as they followed the other guy’s lead. He didn’t really have a choice, did he?
Megumi had never thought deeply about what kind of person interested him, mostly because no one ever had. He’d had a few brief crushes back in school, but nothing memorable.
“I think… someone compassionate. And… with an unshakable personality,” he answered at last.
That was it. If human beings were born as blank pages and only later shaped their essence through experiences and choices, then someone who stayed firm in what they believed in, what they had chosen and molded for themselves, was the kind of person who attracted Megumi. In the real world, it was easier to create alter egos and pretend to be something you weren’t: to avoid discomfort, to climb higher, or simply because you couldn’t deal with yourself. So someone brave enough to be themselves and stand by it, that was who Megumi wanted beside him.
“That’s boring,” the other guy replied, almost huffing. Choso chuckled, glancing at Itadori, who remained serious. “Your answer was way better, bro. When you said that you liked—”
“Shut up, Todo,” Itadori cut in, louder than necessary, catching Megumi off guard.
“But—”
“No,” Itadori interrupted again, gently grabbing his friend by the collar. “I was fifteen.”
“You’re embarrassed because—”
“Todo. I was fifteen.” Itadori fixed him with a serious look, and Todo finally shut up. He sighed, slowly releasing the collar, then turned back to Megumi. “This is my friend, Aoi Todo. Sorry about his behavior,” he laughed awkwardly. “Your answer was really good, Fushiguro. More philosophical, right?”
It sounded like mockery, but Megumi decided to let it slide this time.
“What was your type at fifteen?” Megumi asked directly, ignoring the whole situation. Damn it, now he was curious.
“Women with—” Todo started.
“SHH,” Itadori rubbed his temples. “Can we go eat? You guys must be starving.” And just like that, he let Megumi take his curiosity to the grave.
Still, one thing stuck. Women. Itadori was straight. Did he know Megumi was gay? Maybe he was the homophobic one after all. Megumi was definitely picking a fight with Gojo when he got home.
They took the food to the shared dorm room for a bit more privacy, since Choso and Megumi were technically famous and attracted stares wherever they went on campus. During lunch, Megumi stayed mostly quiet. Every now and then, Choso and Todo carried on the conversation, talking about the game, music, and the current political climate. It was worth noting that not once did Itadori address him, or even make eye contact.
The guy really hated him. Truly.
Some corner of his fertile, disturbed artist’s imagination insisted that maybe he could try to get closer, form a friendship, but he absolutely didn’t have room for that. Which, again, was fucking irritating, because Itadori was friends with practically the entire world.
It felt like having a panic attack in paradise. There was nothing wrong with Itadori not wanting to be his friend, but Megumi couldn’t make peace with it.
“How are your rabbits?” Megumi asked quietly, directly to Itadori, forcing him to finally look his way.
Megumi knew a few things about him. Many of them he had no interest in knowing, but Choso couldn’t shut up about his beloved brother, and unfortunately, Megumi had a very good memory.
They were small, trivial things: Itadori had two rabbits, one named Kuromi and the other My Melody. He liked chamomile tea because it supposedly calmed him down. He’d stayed loyal to the bands he listened to at thirteen. He had terrible taste in movies, despite being a film student. He collected plushies of all kinds of random animals just because he loved anything that breathed… ahem, except Megumi. He worked out religiously but always showed up in baggy clothes. He had more female friends than male ones because he felt he could truly be himself with them. He kept every confession letter he’d ever received. Things like that. Choso really could talk less.
“They’re good! Lately they’ve been sleeping all cuddled up—it’s so cute,” Itadori replied with a small laugh. “And your dogs?”
“They’re good too. They like sleeping with Tsumiki, but I’m not sure they cuddle,” Megumi smiled. Itadori smiled back briefly before turning his attention to Choso and Todo, who were talking about something else. “Would you like to meet them someday? Choso said you love dogs.”
Itadori raised both eyebrows and opened his mouth to answer—but needed a moment to bring his words into the physical world. “Uh… I can’t. I’m allergic to fur.”
“Don’t rabbits have fur?” Megumi frowned, genuinely confused.
“They’re different species,” Itadori said flatly, as if Megumi were the dumbest person to ever walk the earth. The silence that followed drew the other two’s attention as a bonus.
Right. There was absolutely no fixing this. Fuck Itadori. Fuck that brat. Fuck him. He didn’t care.
“I’m leaving,” Megumi stood up and said, specifically to Choso.
“Already?” Choso lifted a hand, gesturing for him to stay.
“Yes. I have to go write a song about killing a sibling or something,” he mocked, and left without looking back. Without checking the others’ expressions or trying to understand what had just happened.
No. Seriously.
Fuck Itadori.
[...]
“I hate that brat. I want him to blow up. I want to never have to look at his face again.”
Hm. No. That wasn’t a very good lyric.
“Die, drummer’s brother. Die, die, die.”
No, that’s too much.
If that week could just end already, Megumi would be grateful. Not producing anything was bothering him on a personal level, but once Friday came, he’d go home, lock himself in for three days, and wouldn’t have to look at Itadori’s wretched, punchable face ever again.
He was fully aware he was being childish. Dislike wasn’t hatred. He didn’t need to take it this far. His emotions were hurting himself far more than they were affecting Itadori. He was used to melancholy, but anger, that was what ate away at his soul and wrecked his health. He wished he could summon a monster to trample him and free him from that filthy feeling.
Until that happened, unfortunately, he was being downright unpleasant to Itadori.
The guy was filming a short behind-the-scenes video for the recording of the new album. It was already March; he should’ve had something in the works by now. That, combined with his complete lack of desire to interact with that pink-haired presence, had him on the verge of snapping. He ignored his movements, refused his snacks, barely replied to his greetings when he showed up at the studio. It didn’t go unnoticed by the others, but Choso didn’t interfere, he seemed to understand the situation, at least broadly.
On one particular day that week, the two of them were alone, and Megumi was staring intently at the paper once again. If, by some stroke of magic, it turned into an abyss, he’d jump without hesitation.
He felt the side of his face burn under Itadori’s lens, trying to capture the moment. Besides being embarrassing, he didn’t even want to be in that stupid video.
“Please don’t film me,” he asked, polite but curt, not lifting his eyes from the page.
“Okay…,” Itadori put the camera away and fell silent, watching him.
“What?” Megumi sighed and finally looked up, only to find Itadori visibly uncomfortable.
“It’s just that you’re paying me for this and—”
“I know,” Megumi cut in, eyes dropping back to the paper. “Film the instruments or something. Anything. Just don’t point that thing at me.”
Itadori nodded quietly, and they didn’t speak again. That must’ve been clear enough, because in the days that followed, Itadori really didn’t aim the camera at him anymore.
By Friday, Maki and Choso had gone out drinking with their respective partners, and Megumi stayed behind at the studio, clinging to the hope that something might magically sprout from his head and decorate his drafts. He wasn’t giving up on that shitty abyss. He might not write about killing his bandmate’s brother, but something had to come out.
In the enormous silence he loved with all his soul, he scribbled word combinations and half-formed sentences over and over again. Anyone looking at it would say he wasn’t literate. Maybe he wasn’t suffering enough. Maybe he needed a brand-new disaster in his life to finally create art.
A knock sounded at the door, and he already knew it would be Itadori. No one else would walk into that room on a Friday night. He waved a hand to signal it was open and went back to tapping his pencil against the desk.
“Hey,” Itadori came in, leaving his jacket on the couch.
“Hey,” Megumi didn’t bother looking at him.
“I just came to grab my external hard drive—I forgot it here,” he explained, already moving to look for it.
“Okay.”
Itadori would be gone in a few minutes, and everything would be fine. Perfectly fine.
Maybe not.
A sharp, grating sound tore through his ears, forcing him to clap his hands over them. He spun around immediately, only to see the worst possible sight: his beloved guitar on the floor, right next to a horrified Itadori.
“I’m sorry! I really am, I swear. It wasn’t on purpose—I bumped into it trying to reach the HD and knocked it over. I’ll pay for any damage,” Itadori’s words tumbled over each other as he crouched to pick the instrument up.
“Don’t touch it,” Megumi said coldly, stepping forward to grab the guitar himself and inspect it. Finding nothing wrong, he turned back to Itadori. “There’s no damage… but seriously, what the fuck is your problem, idiot?” His brows knit together, his free hand clenching into a fist. “Can’t you pay a little more attention? Is there something wrong with you? A disorder?”
Itadori stared at him, mouth open. A few seconds later, after processing the words, he looked down in silence, still crouched on the floor.
That was the moment Megumi realized he’d fucked everything up.
Let’s break this down. Why all that drama? His guitar was just an object, a tool to show his music to the world, not something sentimental that needed to be protected at all costs. If it broke, he could just buy another one. And bringing up some kind of disorder… that was way too far, even for Megumi, knowing what Itadori’s life and childhood had been like. His conscience practically ripped his own brain out and tossed it aside. Regret hit him instantly.
“Look, Itadori—”
“Sorry,” he said, barely audible. His hands rested on the floor.
“No, it’s just—”
“I really am sorry.”
Megumi sighed and crouched down to his level. “I’m the one who should apologize.” Slowly, Itadori lifted his gaze to meet his, and Megumi noticed how bright his eyes were. Shit. He really had crossed the line. “I’m sorry. I must be out of my mind to treat you like that.”
“I understand…”
“You shouldn’t,” Megumi set the guitar down on a chair in a quick motion and moved closer. Too close.
He studied Itadori’s face. Golden-brown eyes with that abandoned-puppy look. Thin lips almost forming a pout, eyebrows trembling just a little. Damn… even like this, miserable as he was, he was beautiful.
“I’m just stressed because of writer’s block. It won’t happen again. I’m sorry.”
The other looked away and nodded.
“Maybe you need a break from work.”
Itadori wasn’t an idiot. He always knew what to say.
“You’re right,” Megumi smiled and ended up sitting down on the floor.
“Let’s go out tonight,” Itadori sat down too. “Let’s drink a little.”
Huh?
“You don’t drink—”
“I’ll have one can,” Itadori said, clenching a fist and lifting it. “Let’s distract ourselves together.”
Huh???
[...]
Let’s recap.
In the days following the fateful game, Megumi had been genuinely stressed, imagining countless ways to kill Itadori and translating them into chords on his guitar. Then he gave up and settled for simply not looking at his face anymore. And… after all that, here he was, sitting across from him at a bar table?
That month was a mess.
Megumi knew the future didn’t exist. The future was just a set of consequences from the past combined with choices made in the present, so, technically, it wasn’t real. Still, if he told his January self that he’d be drinking a beer with Itadori a few months later, it would be pretty funny.
Even if the future didn’t exist, he really wished he could know what their relationship would look like by the end of the year. Just out of… curiosity.
“I needed this too,” Itadori said, taking a small sip from his can. “I’m working on a project that’s been… complicated.”
“Why?”
“If you had the chance to be immortal… would you want it?” He looked straight at him. His eyes were so focused that Megumi almost caught a glimpse of genuine interest.
“No.” The answer was on the tip of his tongue.
To him, there was no reason in the world worth immortality. Life only mattered because it was fleeting.
“Me neither…” Itadori set the can aside and sighed. “That’s why it’s hard. How am I supposed to make it believable that immortality has always been everything the protagonist wanted, in a twenty-minute short?” He covered his mouth with his hand and stared up at the ceiling.
Megumi wanted to know what he was thinking, but they’d never be close enough for him to ask.
“Do you need to make him like immortality?”
Itadori turned his gaze back to him. The corners of his mouth almost curved into a smile, but instead he let out another sigh and nodded slowly.
“The script isn’t entirely mine.”
“Have you ever heard that metaphor about how a happy oyster doesn’t make pearls?” Megumi began. Itadori shook his head. “I read it in a book once. Oysters only produce pearls when they’re hurt—grains of sand pierce them, and they start creating a smooth sphere to protect themselves. They turn suffering into beauty.” Itadori was listening closely, though his brows remained furrowed. “Happy people don’t feel the need to create art. Creation always comes from pain—but pain… can be curiosity too.” Megumi paused, waiting to see if Itadori would say anything. When he didn’t, he continued. “Maybe the immortal in your script needs suffering for the short to be interesting. Just liking immortality isn’t convincing.”
Silence.
“You’re always like this, aren’t you?” Itadori finally said.
Had he said something wrong?
“Like what?”
“Needing suffering to create.”
He felt caught red-handed. As if the mask he’d built over years had been torn away in a blink, without any real intent to do so.
“Well… I don’t totally agree with the metaphor, it’s just that—” Megumi tried to backtrack, but Itadori’s posture didn’t waver. “I’ve never tried to create something that came from a positive impulse…”
Itadori nodded and looked away, toward the curtain beside them that blocked their view of the rest of the bar. The privacy that had once felt welcome and comforting now felt suffocating. Maybe that was why Itadori hated him, he could see how mediocre he was. How he’d never fought for what he wanted. He’d always noticed how Megumi preferred to stay in his comfort zone and found it pathetic.
Megumi thought so too.
That was why being validated by someone like Itadori, someone genuinely earnest, genuinely driven, might help his conflicted mind.
They didn’t talk anymore that night, and Megumi definitely didn’t manage to distract himself. The truth was, his mental state only got worse. Which, technically, should’ve been good for making art, but that last conversation had taken a chunk out of his sanity and confidence.
He was stuck in the past. Stuck with all his shadows, and now that they’d been named so many times, there was nothing left to say about his feelings.
After hours of drinking in silence, Itadori said he was heading out.
“Bye,” he waved, but if Megumi didn’t ask directly at least once, he wouldn’t be able to sleep that night. “Hey, Itadori.”
“Yeah?” He was still seated, about to pull the curtain aside.
“Why do you hate me?”
His conscience had already given him an answer, but he wanted to hear it from Itadori’s mouth.
“Huh? I don’t hate you.” Itadori didn’t try to justify himself or ask why. He was just direct, like Megumi was some kind of unhinged overthinker. Maybe he really was.
“Okay. Why don’t you like me, then?”
His eyes sharpened, his full attention settling on Megumi’s face. Megumi couldn’t read his expression, but he could swear Itadori was choosing his words carefully before finally speaking.
“Because you’re unattainable.”
[...]
He had his answer, and still didn’t sleep that night.
Unattainable?
In the dictionary: unattainable; meaning impossible to achieve, reach, or acquire. Often used to describe things that are impractical, unfeasible, or beyond reach
Megumi considered himself good at reading metaphors, understanding subtext, reflecting on meanings and symbols. Still, he couldn’t understand what Itadori meant by that. Not at all.
How could he be unattainable if they were in direct contact? Almost every day? How could he be difficult, no, impossible, to reach?
Itadori was the storm shaping his coastline, and the sand didn’t even realize it. Slowly eating away at stone, reshaping it, deciding what it would look like from then on. He was going to lose his mind, if he hadn’t already.
If he was unattainable, then Itadori was incomprehensible.
All his theories and guesses were wrong. Even with the answer, he still didn’t understand. It was unbearable. Maybe Itadori was his pearl, no, that wasn’t it. He was the sand that hurt. Yes.
Megumi opened his notes app.
Unattainable ≠ Incomprehensible
Up late again, trying to make some sense
You hide the answers, let me bleed in your shark tank
You paint me crazy, obsessed, out of my mind for you
Then somehow the tables turn
Am I unattainable?
Or are you just incomprehensible?
And I can’t seem to let this go
I wanna throw my guitar away
Rip every page I ever wrote
’Cause all my time belongs to you now
Yeah, the tables turn again
Am I unattainable?
Or are you just incomprehensible?
Ok, so that was it…
He needed to tweak some rhymes and figure out which chords would work with Choso’s drums and Maki’s bass, but for a draft, it was pretty good. Together, they could work out the rest of the song and focus on the bridge.
Itadori had wrecked his sanity over the past few weeks, that was true, but as he’d already observed, that was his driving force. No hard feelings here. Okay, maybe a few. He’d definitely keep thinking about what the hell being unattainable meant, and why anyone would hate him for it.
Sleep started creeping in, so he quickly saved the file as a PDF and sent it to the group chat so his bandmates could give their opinions. Sleeping with half his duty done felt great.
[...]
In the morning, he woke up to the sound of a notification that, for some reason, hadn’t been silenced like all the others.
New message.
Itadori: wow, this one’s on fire!
No. He didn’t do that. There was absolutely no way he did that. Seriously.
Megumi opened the chat window with trembling hands and confirmed it.
He did.