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At 11:40 PM on New Year’s Eve, Megumi Fushiguro found himself throwing up in the bathroom of Nobara’s apartment.
It was a small get-together held by a handful of Jujutsu High students, and Megumi enjoyed all of their company, but he still happened to puke his guts out over the toilet bowl.
Yuji held his bangs back and cupped his layers into a ponytail. Some stubborn hairs fell astray from his grasp, sticking to the sides of Megumi’s temple, but neither of the two paid them any mind.
Megumi was fascinated by Yuji’s hands. Though he’d never admit that, for it’d sound alarmingly creepy, but he couldn’t help himself. Yuji’s palms were rough; calloused and permanently blood-stained, certainly not those of a boy’s. But, whenever Megumi caught strays of Yuji’s light back-pats or grips of the shoulder, it was prominent that they were not those of a man's either.
Despite how they were all in their early twenties now, Yuji’s touch didn’t seem to age with firm. They stayed golden, soft, and tender. Yuji’s hands felt like feathers of a swan as he held up Megumi’s hair, and normally, Megumi would be freaking out (internally). He was used to their physical touch, of course, it had even become their love language in a way, but support like this held such intimacy, it was hard to flag as casual as a high-five. Nonetheless, Megumi couldn’t focus on Yuji’s loving hands at the moment, because he was so sick his vision stirred.
It was quiet. It has been quiet since he started throwing up. Megumi hated that. He wanted Yuji to crack some stupid pun. To challenge Megumi by concealing his laugh in order to sustain his nonchalant demeanor. But that never came.
“You don’t get used to it, do you.” Megumi frames it as a statement. Yuji paused, the grip of his raven hair faltering before he breathed.
“No,” he said honestly, because they never held any secrets anymore. They were past that.
Except for one underlying one. One that always held a string of tension in the air between them— one that neither of them would ever bring up, even if the hushness of it all strangled them both.
Megumi wiped his hand across his mouth, spitting into the toilet again before flushing it.
Yuji grimaced, “You shouldn’t do that, Fushiguro,” he murmured, reaching over to the faucet to soak something Megumi couldn’t see.
“Flush the toilet?”
“Wipe your mouth,” Yuji corrected. He knelt down and gently cupped Megumi’s chin, turning him to face his best friend, before pressing a damp towel on the corner of his lips. Megumi couldn’t tell if Yuji used warm water or if his cheeks were just so heated. It was subtle gestures like this, purely out of Yuji’s kindness, that made Megumi fall for him. He hated his heart for always thudding an extra beat for something so casual, so friendly.
“It’s unsanitary with your bare hands.” Yuji looked at him. Scatters of amber in his iris. He was too close to be looking at him like this.
“I’m puking. I’m not gonna be very sanitary.” Megumi deadpanned, taking the towel to wipe his own face. He hated taking that chore away from Yuji, but he knew his codependency endangered his own well being.
Yuji pressed his lips together as he stood back up, “Fair point.”
Megumi blinked.
“Do you,” Yuji tapped his foot, “—do you think you’ll puke again? After this, I mean.”
He shrugged. “You know you can never tell when.”
Yuji was aware. It hauntingly came in episodes. He’d see Sukuna’s grin when he smiled in the mirror. Dead bodies were shadows of hanging clothes in his dimly-lit bedroom. His friend’s scars weren’t like his own. Whenever Yuji saw his scars in the mirror (and the lack of Sukuna’s marks), he wouldn’t feel guilty– rather just numb. Possession never truly goes away; Sukuna is forever a part of him. Maybe not replacing his brain, but he was there in Megumi’s face, Nobara’s eye-patch, Inumaki’s missing arm, and Yuta’s stitches that gradually healed across his forehead. But scars don’t heal. Not really. The reminder of never feeling in control of themselves again usually caused Yuji and Megumi to hurl.
“We don’t have to go back out.” Yuji offered to try and relieve pressure. Despite them both being possessed by Sukuna in the same year, Yuji had acted as Megumi’s guide through healing. Maybe it was because Sukuna was in Yuji for longer, growing a personal relationship with him. Maybe it was because Yuji’s presence has always brought comfort to Megumi.
Megumi fluttered his eyes. “Yes, . . we do.”
Yuji sat down on the unsanitary bathroom floor to meet Megumi’s gaze. “Okay,” he breathed patiently. He patted his thighs, a habit Megumi picked up on, for that boy was unable to sit still. “When do you want to go back out?”
The party music still blasted despite the closed door. Boisterous, colorful lights peaked from its crevice. Full of drunk twenty-somethings. That scene was hell for Megumi, who was already an introvert on top of being sick.
“Never.” Megumi groaned, sinking his face into the towel. He pretended it was held up by Yuji’s hands.
Yuji laughed. “Okay, then,” he took the towel from Megumi’s grasp, much to his dismay. He almost found himself leaning into the touch before Yuji stood up and wringed the towel out by the sink, the running faucet acted as white noise to Megumi, who wanted nothing more than to sleep.
“Alright.” Megumi huffed when he forced himself to stand. Yuji held his hand out to help him, but Megumi waved him off. “But in twenty minutes, I’m going home.”
Yuji folded the towel back on the rack. “I’ll drive you,” he offered.
“I’m not the one who’s been drinking. Besides, we drove here separately.”
“I’ll walk back!”
Megumi laughed. An honest-to-God laugh. Yuji was fully serious. He wasn’t sure whether to be offended or to giggle awkwardly along with him.
Yuji’s hands grazed the doorknob, but he reeled back in hesitance. He glanced at Megumi for permission.
“Ready?”
“Hell no,” Megumi, after realizing his bangs had been pushed back this whole time, quickly swooped them to the side. “But . . . yeah,” he finished, steadying himself behind Yuji.
Yuji flashed a smile before opening the door. Immediately, Megumi wished he never gave him the word. He should have spent more time sitting on the bathroom floor with him. But he hadn’t. And now Maki and Nobara invaded his personal space like moths to a flame.
“Ew. Don’t have sex in my bathroom, please.” Nobara yelled over the music. That’s disgusting, Megumi thought with flushed cheeks. Fortunately, Megumi promptly learned that you can’t see blush in dark, yet blaring party lights.
“Had a little too much to drink, Megs?” Maki teased. Megumi typically hated it when people called him by his first name. Maki, being his close cousin, was one of his few exceptions.
Megumi wished that was his issue. But he never drank. Yuji—knowing Megumi’s strict sobriety—nervously shuffled, a twitch nearly impossible to see under circumstances like these, but Megumi distinguished it. He always does.
“I’ll be alright,” Megumi replaced one lie with another lie.
“You need an uber home?” Nobara’s question was laid with a more serious tone. He shook his head.
Megumi forced himself to strain through those dreadful twenty minutes. Too many things were happening at once. And instead of distracting him like it should have, he was stuck reeling back through massacre after massacre on top of people touching him, screeching over blasting pop music, and every piece of furniture and floor tile being repulsively sticky. And his shirt was way too tight.
He was quiet. Nobody noticed–which was fine, but his lack of speech wasn’t the selective muteness like he hoped it would be. Alternatively, it was how Megumi could possibly cope with the endless stirring in his head. It spun, climbing up the back of his neck through his lobe through his forehead. It ached, scarring as a throbbing so agonizing it clawed at his throat.
Or, maybe, he was just starting to cry.
“You okay?” Yuji asked, standing above him. He made a vague gesture with his hand, like he was about to nudge him, but retrieved his arm as if he changed his mind.
Megumi held himself around his knees in front of the couch. Sitting on the rug beside it.
“Headache,” was all he managed to voice.
“I get it.” Yuji recognized, sitting beside him.
No, you don’t, Megumi wanted to say, but he knew that would be ignorant. Yuji definitely understood every pulsing jab of ache.
But, right now, as Megumi lay vulnerable on the floor— he loathed the very idea of Yuji having the same dreadful experience he’s having. Their whole intimacy of quiet understanding was bittersweet; the feel was nice, in the way that he wasn’t alone, but why must Yuji endure such pain?
It felt like his body was yearning for a lost piece of something, there was an empty spot where another ancient curse would be. Missing. It took a piece of everything he held dear, then took a piece of him, too. It was unfair. How could Sukuna take so much and just leave? Not even his hunger was fulfilled by the end. Of course, Megumi is glad he was not made as Sukuna’s permanent vessel. But he was something. Now he just feels like a walking corpse.
“You’re so much more than him, you know.” The ‘him’ dragged against his tongue, at least in Megumi’s head, given that it was so jarring to him on how a man could read his thoughts so well.
Yuji let his head limply fall back against the couch and lean his head, ever so slightly, to face him.
“I know,” because a part of Megumi did know. He was satisfied with himself before Sukuna came, after all.
“No, you don’t,” Yuji faced back towards the people hoarding in the kitchen. They looked like they’d suffocate in there. “You’re still whole, no matter what it might feel like. I know that may seem obvious, but . . . everyone here, they still– care about you, they still love you, Fushiguro. Despite everything that you didn’t consent to. And you’re not alone.” Yuji looked back at him. He could stare at Megumi’s face for a lifetime. It was both a blessing and a curse with Sukuna’s scar feathered over his jaded eyes remnant of pearls.
“Ever since you brought yourself back, I’ve never once felt lonely like I did before. Not once.”
Megumi’s lip quivered. He wouldn’t let himself cry now. He can’t. He held in the stinging sensation, but Yuji’s words still cleansed it.
“I still haven’t regretted saving you, either,” Megumi looked at his lips in the midst of a long, tired exhale. He’d let himself take one selfish glance every now and then, but in such a tender moment like this, it was dangerous.
Yuji pulled away when nobody dared to lean in. “That makes me glad,” Yuji chuckled softly, his grin fading as soon as it came. When Megumi kept staring, Yuji shuffled.
“Let’s go.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah. Fuck this party,”
Yuji came to his knees, lowering an open palm out to Megumi, who still gawked blankly.
“Don’t you want to watch the countdown?”
Yuji shrugged. “It's hard to care about that right now.”
Megumi laughed. Softly, carefully, sketched with a cautious edge. “Okay,” Megumi took his hand, allowing Yuji to hoist him up. “Ow, fuck,” he groans, the blood rushing to his head again. Yuji bit his lip to keep himself from laughing at him.
Yuji let go of his hand when he realized they’ve been holding one another for too long.
“Hey, Kugisaki,” Yuji grinned at her, concealing the depressing ambience that Megumi had when he lingered over him.
“What’s up?”
“Fushiguro’s not feeling well. I’m gonna take him home.”
She glanced at the two of them. “Before the ball drops?” She regretted it as soon as she said it and displayed remorse by putting her drink down. “Not important. You two have fun,” she dismissed, trying to desperately regain her consciousness despite the amount of drinks she poured down.
“Don’t drink much more, you’re a lightweight,” Yuji teasingly warned before bringing Megumi out the door.
As soon as the cold, nightly air hit Megumi’s face, his head finally felt light on his neck again. He sighed with relief, breathing in the fresh crispness of the wind. Two leaves outside Nobara’s apartment skimmed together, tenderly brushing stems, and the ruffling felt like instrumentals to his ears.
“Are you still with us?” Yuji sneered, leaning beside him. Megumi shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can you even drive legally right now?” He asks the important question.
“I weigh, like, two-hundred pounds.”
Megumi raises a brow.
“Pure muscle.”
“Uh-huh,” Megumi hums, unamused. Crickets chirped their music when he walked down the sidewalk.
“I’m just saying, it’d take a lot of drinks for me to be actually drunk.”
“I wouldn’t know. Twenty years sober.”
“Ha.”
Yuji fumbles for longer than necessary with his keys to get his car to blink on. He steps into the driver’s seat, ending the miniature can-Yuji-even-drive debate. Megumi doesn’t need to tell Yuji to drive slow. He already does, shifting the car from its parallel parking space while biting back curses between gritted teeth. He drove five below the speed limit.
When Yuji reaches Megumi’s apartment, he’s asleep.
He likes to watch him sleep. If brought up, Yuji would frantically explain that it’s not in a creepy way–which of course it isn’t, but the habit does take the best of him. When Megumi isn’t having a nightmare, he looks so calm. Like nothing in the world could never hurt him, and it hasn’t even dared to try. He’s a light sleeper, the way his eyelashes flutter ever so slightly tells Yuji that. So, he’s careful to not wake him as he removes his seatbelt, and carries him bridal-style into his own apartment.
Yuji already has Megumi’s house keys–an idea suggested by Nobara in case of an emergency (Yuji believed this counted as one).
He softly shut the door and carried Megumi to his room. It was messy; unlike him, but Yuji gave him the benefit of the doubt and assumed he'd been busy. Besides, it was none of his business. He places Megumi on his bed as gently as he’d handle an antique. He removed Megumi’s sticky, crimped button-down and brought the sheets to his chin.
His eyes grazed across the picture before him; a painter admiring his canvas. Only the sight wasn’t something Yuji created, but simply supported. If Megumi was the canvas, Yuji was the stand. He couldn’t take credit for something so effortlessly beautiful. Or, maybe, in a way, Yuji was the painting and Megumi was the artist. Throughout the years, Yuji has Megumi to thank for the person he ended up becoming. The person he ended up staying as.
Yuji takes in the pattern before him, carving it into his eyes, and keeping it into his photographic memory for safekeeping. He gives one final half-hearted grin before turning, deciding that privacy was all but Megumi needed at the time being.
For the first time in a while, he was wrong about what Megumi wanted.
Megumi’s hands gripped Yuji’s wrists as he turned to leave, “Stay,” he muttered.
Yuji’s heart nearly jumped from his throat. “You scared me,” he tittered to himself. “I thought you were asleep.”
“Was,” He yawns. “I think I woke up when you walked away.” Megumi doesn’t question how Yuji is in his bedroom.
“Man, are my footsteps that heavy?” Yuji joked. Megumi didn’t laugh. Yuji’s face shifts.
“I have to go, Fushiguro,” Yuji persisted, ignoring his original request.
“Please don’t,” He said again. “Sleep here, or something.”
“You sure you’re not drunk?” Yuji laughs. He laughs so he can flag the situation as comical: nothing to be taken seriously. Megumi didn’t just ask Yuji to sleep in the same bed with a dead-serious glint in his eye. He drank something.
To tell the truth, Megumi was drunk. Yuji’s mere attendance was nothing short of intoxicating.
“I don’t want to be alone.” Megumi admits at last. It’s him; raw and vulnerable, naked, asking for Yuji’s warmth. He gaped.
“Okay,” Yuji breathed, turning to face him again; his heart aches. Megumi’s grip against his wrist falters, growing shy, and he shuffles to the corner of the bed to make as much room as he can. It’s not a lot. Yuji awkwardly ambles beside him, teetering under the bedsheets with no knowledge on what is considered as too ‘intimate’ for the two males. He didn’t want to seem as intruding, or, in a worst case scenario, taking advantage of Megumi’s vulnerability.
Megumi didn’t think like that at all. Instead, he found himself now wide awake, cursing himself and wondering, Why the fuck did I ask him that? with multiple exclamation points.
Yuji isn’t angry that he did (moreso joyous, but he can’t think like that), he’s just too awkward with how to handle his movements. He shifts, trying to get comfortable, but he moves like his limbs don’t fit right under his bones.
Eventually, Yuji’s constant maneuvers get to the point that one of them has to address it, so Megumi calmly states: “You can relax.”
Those words began to unknot the string held tightly between them, keeping them separate; the inability to touch the other. The string–merely just a thread now, was slowly starting to loosen. The words linger for minutes after Megumi said it in some dimness of Yuji’s mind, swirling a clustered mix of thoughts, such as, growing embarrassed that Megumi noticed how much Yuji was moving. Blushing cheeks when it means they’re so close, Megumi can make out the smallest of fidgets. But he exhales, adjourns his tense shoulders, and he can finally breathe.
“You have nice sheets,”
“Thanks . . . I got them off Amazon.”
Yuji laughs. Megumi smiles, turning to face him. There must’ve been something in the air, because Megumi hasn’t smiled this much in months. And when Yuji’s eyes meet his, Megumi’s grin only grows wider. Then, quickly, he finds that he feels bare. Not just from the absence of clothing, but–
“Wait,” Megumi mumbled, smudging his eyes with his fingers. “Did you take my shirt off?”
Yuji’s eyes grew drawn, mouth flickering silently. “I don’t– no–” he’s horrified to realize how it looks. “Not, not in a weird way, it’s just– your shirt was sticky, I think Nobara spilled something on it, and–”
It’s Megumi’s turn to laugh with his teeth. The boy next to him awkwardly chuckled along. “I’m messing with you, Itadori, I’d hate to sleep in that shirt. It was suffocating.” Megumi whirls to look at the ceiling again when their faces grow too close. He clenches his jaw, chewing on swarming thoughts. “Weirdly enough, I still feel like I’m drowning a lot.” He admitted.
“How so?” Yuji asks.
Words die before Megumi can breathe life into them. “Too many feelings, I guess. Unreciprocated ones. Dark ones.” He turned to his side, head resting on the cold pillow that brought goosebumps to his cheeks. “I feel so much, Itadori.” Megumi’s voice cracks on a precarious margin; he bites his lip, scared that he will finally break if he talks more.
But Yuji looks at him like he’s the only boy in the world. So, Megumi, of course, continued.
“I don’t want to feel anymore,” he buries his head into the pillow, allowing tethered hair strands to fall amidst. When Yuji eventually reaches his hand up to cup Megumi’s cheek and make him look at Yuji with such semblance, he finally breaks– along with that snapping thread.
He cries. And those cries turn to sobs. His face buried into Yuji’s chest—head nuzzling and lips quivering there—and Yuji’s fingers skulked to the back of his head, twirling careful knots in his undercut; soothing the raven silk. Megumi’s cathartic breaths were broken and stuttered. It was panicky, as if he didn’t know how to control his breath, but Yuji cooed softly into his ear. He didn’t tell him anything stupid like just breathe, but simply reminding him that I’m here was more than enough for Megumi’s puffs to steady.
“Fuck. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t talk like that, Fushi.” Yuji tells him. It was more soft than shut up, but that’s what Yuji really wanted to say. He wanted to be harsh. Apologizing for crying was so stupid. Megumi never made, or even hinted, at the fact that crying in front of him would be unnecessary or embarrassing. Why would Megumi feel that way towards Yuji?
Megumi doesn’t pull back. “Okay,” is all he managed to say. They laid there; legs entangled, taking in each other's scent. Yuji idly fingered Megumi’s hair like threads to sew.
Megumi nearly slips off into sleep before Yuji speaks again.
“Fushiguro—sorry, did I wake you?”
“No,” he lies. “Continue.”
“I’m . . . worried.”
“You worry too much, Itadori.”
“It’s about myself this time.”
Megumi stiffens, “How so?” His fingers begin tracing patterns along his back, coaxing his back muscles, tracking the shape of his spine.
Yuji sinks into the touch, but he doesn’t want himself to get euphoric from it. Not this time. He shouldn’t allow himself such a luxury.
“I’m worried about how much I want you.”
His fingers stopped their mindless massage. Megumi’s eyes are wide now, and the shocked, blushing expression he’s giving makes him grateful for the darkness.
“I think I’ve found myself needing you. I feel like it’s unhealthy. Everyone else is great, don’t get me wrong, but . . . you fill a hole. Maybe it’s the part that Sukuna took with him.” Yuji’s voice is like petalled sugar in Megumi’s ears.
“Fushiguro, I think I’m—”
“Itadori, stop, please.” Megumi begged. He can’t take this. He can’t. If Yuji tells him any more, he’ll give into selfish urges. Of course he’s in love with Yuji, because the universe isn’t fair. Yuji is too pure for someone like Megumi. To give in and accept his love would be a sin of greed.
“No,” Yuji’s voice broke, now hyperaware of their close proximity. “No, you— you know I can’t. You can’t ask me that.”
Megumi knew he was right; it was a cruel plea.
“You can’t ask me that, either.”
Yuji didn’t ask him anything—not out loud—but they both understood what he meant. The silence stretches and it gnaws and it’s uncomfortable.
“We should get a farmhouse, out in Sendai,”
“Don’t talk like that.”
“With those horses I loved to pet as a kid,”
“Itadori—”
“We can hang our dirty laundry up on the clothesline. We can have a proper funeral for Wasuke and Tsumiki there. I’ll make sure the water pressure for the shower is way too much—just how you like it. And we can get a farm dog named after your shikigami—”
“Kuro and Shiro,” Megumi gave in and allowed himself to laugh. Just this once.
“Yeah,” Yuji snickered along. “We can get two, then.”
“Like we can afford a barn.”
When Yuji spared another laugh, he noticed that they’re still so close together. Yuji’s chin still rests atop Megumi’s head. He’d call it cuddling, but Megumi would probably hate that word.
“There will always be more curses to exterminate.”
Megumi’s smile faltered. A fate in where Yuji is destined to exterminate over and over again is a torture he can’t bear to see him in.
“Maybe you should’ve just been a firefighter.”
“I can’t move on from jujutsu, not after — everything.”
There’s a sharp crackle of lightning outside the tiny bedroom, and in that flash of light, they can see each other’s faces. Just for a split second. Both of them looked so disheveled. Looking up at one another’s features, wallowing in their embrace and savoring it as if it was the last they could before the thread severed them both. Megumi mapped every mole on Yuji’s face like they were stars and his bangs were the completed constellations Tsumiki taught him. Yuji was the sun; Megumi, an orbit.
Yuji dared to cup Megumi’s face like he had with the washrag. Only now, there was nothing except for a bare finger’s trace. His thumb moved idly. For Megumi, the touch was tantalizing. His lips parted and he swallowed as if parched. In a way, he was.
The way Megumi looked at Yuji was scrutinizingly painful. It was as if he were examining him, bait itching for him to take. Sometimes, Yuji would recognize the look Megumi would give him. It mirrored his own. But—like how he’d drown in Megumi’s gaze—he’d also drown in doubt and uncertainty. To ruin a bond like theirs would be to suffer till death. And Yuji didn’t feel like dying anytime soon.
Megumi’s hand crawled to Yuji’s waist, coddling his side. The tip of his thumb lightly grazed bare skin, but didn’t dare to slither under.
It felt dirty. Like doing something while afraid of being caught. But they’re alone and they always have been. So maybe it was just so scary to be so vulnerable. To be so selfish; to want something and to take it.
Yuji’s head turned—ever so slightly, cautious and weary— to fit between his nose and cupid’s bow. His breath was that of a phantom’s over his lips. As if they were in a trance, and Yuji was. He was absolutely enamored. He didn’t know what to make of Megumi’s touches; and to be honest, Megumi didn’t, either. He just knew that he wanted it, and with the new philosophy Yuji was confiding him with: to want is to take.
Yuji slowly craned his neck in order for his lips to ghost Megumi’s own. This is dangerous for their string that tethered them. Their string was sewn with everything they had shared. A scar; a look; a soul.
Megumi’s thumb flicked at where Yuji’s shirt had ridden up.
Then, in a sudden, impatient crackle — Megumi crashed their mouths together. It felt so sudden despite taking such an agonizingly slow amount of time: like an instrumental trying to keep up with the beat.
Yuji’s fingers slid from Megumi’s cheek to his undercut and restlessly scrunched his fingers there, pulling the boy closer. Now, he was euphoric. Megumi’s touch was an exhilarating poison.
Yuji’s hands in his hair drove Megumi crazy, and his lips on his drove him even crazier. He wanted more. God, he was so cautious and scared — for what? For fear of being selfish? If he was just a tidbit more selfish and refused this, he might’ve very well killed Yuji. That’s not very altruistic.
Their desperate, craved dance had turned into a labyrinth of unspoken words. The rhythm of swiping tongues and clashing chapped lips felt famished and starved, and Yuji grew clumsy.
Eventually, the hand from the back of Megumi’s neck tracked to trace his barren spine before stopping at his lower back, then shadowed back up again.
Megumi wet his lips and pressed deeper, rewarded with a relieved sigh from Yuji in return.
They made noises. They made vulnerable sounds for each other's ears only. Yuji whimpered pathetically as Megumi parted for a second to catch his breath and press their foreheads together, before his top lip pursued Yuji’s bottom lip again.
They were a mess. They were starved and stuffed and grew hungry again. Yuji broke away to pant in the crook of Megumi’s neck. Then he peppered lazy kisses on his shoulder and up to the back of his ear; leading to his final, intricate act, and placed an open-mouthed kiss right above Megumi’s eyelid — on the scar of twin claws that Sukuna gave him all those years ago.
Megumi gasped. A sharp inhale. But he didn’t pull away. The act was just . . . unexpected. It was so intimate, like a delicacy only the two would understand. And all Megumi wanted was more of it.
He, with a smile he couldn’t hold back, kissed the healed scar on the corner of Yuji’s mouth.
Yuji giggled like a giddy teenage girl. Megumi loved that sound despite its childishness. He kissed his glabella and the root of his nose, following the elongated scar Mahito had given him back in Shibuya. A city that was currently being rebuilt. A city that bustled with life and was stripped of it, but still persisted to grow anew.
Megumi’s fingers pulled back to grab Yuji’s wrist, a habit that used to be a harsh tug now so tender when he brought Yuji’s left hand to his lips and kissed the core of his missing ring finger. A vow he made when he was roughly sixteen. Not to ever be able to get down on one knee, in front of a tall curvy woman, and ask her to be his wife without the reminiscence of his best friend forever serving as a sacrificial reminder.
What were you thinking, Itadori? Megumi wonders as his lips caress missing fingers. Did you want me to be that indebted to you? He looks back at Yuji, whose darkened eyes glisten white as if something were awakened. Did you want me to always be yours, in some absent of mind?
“You always vowed to make me yours,” Megumi says aloud. Yuji bit his lip, hot with blushing cheeks, but still not daring to retract any fingers or a face too-close.
“No,” he corrects, kissing Megumi again to make up for lost time. “I'm yours. You’re living for yourself. Not for anyone. You aren’t anybody’s. I chose to always remember you, even if you didn’t decide to live in the end. I wanted to. My first and last love, one that could never be replaced, because nobody could ever understand me like you do. In a way, I guess that makes me yours. I want us to be our own person, though, just with connected souls. But I’m no poet.”
“You don’t have to be,” Megumi said once his thoughts recollected. Yuji’s way with words, despite being such an idiotic ball of sunshine (one that Megumi became dazzled with), still cut him deep like a blade. It was a clean cut.
Megumi asked, “Is this a dream?” which made Yuji laugh.
“I hope not,” Yuji says as the moonlight creates a white silhouette at the tips of his hair. Megumi marvels at the alpenglow.
Yuji buries his face in Megumi’s bare chest again and shakes. “I love you,” he shuddered. “I love you for all the times I wanted to say it and when I didn’t. I love you, I love you, I love —”
“Stop, stop. . .” Megumi holds Yuji tighter. Everything was so overwhelming. So many things were happening at once and yet it all felt like his favorite dream.
As the moon disappeared into the trees, and the two are fluttering on the edge of sleep — Megumi tells him,
“I love you too.”
He didn’t know if Yuji heard it, but saying it out loud felt like he was on cloud nine.
Yuji did hear it while cradled in Megumi’s arms, and that felt nice, but hearing his words aloud felt better. He kept him closer.
When morning comes, Yuji is gone. Megumi, eyes still closed lazily, reaches out to the empty dip in the mattress where his body used to be.
It’s cold.
His eyes jutted open, and at once, negative assumptions began to swarm in a hive around his head. Fuck. He thinks, fuckfuckfuck, I scared him off. I shouldn’t have been so passionate. He was mistaken. He was still drunk, wasn’t he?
Megumi forces his legs to swing over the bed. He tosses on a plain black shirt and panic seeps in once he sees the hallway is empty. Itadori really is gone, he thinks. Or maybe it was just a dream. He’d prefer that over Yuji leaving.
Then the smell of milky batter wafts.
He stormed to the kitchen to see his best friend, staring stupidly wide-eyed at him; spatula in hand.
“Fuck,” Megumi said aloud, because honestly, that short-lived hysteria was closer to killing him than that cramped, overstimulating party. “You’re making pancakes?”
“Yeah,” Yuji flashed a toothy grin. “I mean, I figured when you woke up, you’d be hungry. And being surprised with pancakes would probably make you happy.” Yuji studied Megumi’s pissed expression, and his face falters.
“But now I’m thinking . . . that wasn’t a good idea?” He lowered his cooking utensils.
“No, it’s just — fuck, Itadori. I thought you . . .” Megumi rubbed the back of his aching neck, glanced behind him, then back at the boy, “—Left, or something.”
Yuji grimaced, like the very idea brought such foul disgust. “Shit. I’m sorry,”
“It’s fine.” Megumi sat down across the table, which already had a syrup bottle next to a plate with utensils displayed. His apartment used to feel agonizingly empty. Now, oddly, it feels small — not in the narrow or claustrophobic sense, but filled with the company of another person.
Yuji pulls out a batch of miniature pancakes, puts a delicate three on Megumi’s plate, and passes them to him.
He takes a bite. He tried not to think about where his mouth was earlier. He chews.
“Cinnamon?” Megumi asked, face brightening.
Yuji nods.
Megumi dipped his head in acknowledgment, cheeks flushing, and continued to eat. They’re sweet buttermilk, dappled with crispy burnt edges, and charmingly sweet. Kind of like the boy in front of him, but he didn’t want to be corny.
It's awkward. Neither of them are talking. The conversation is forced.
Yuji leaned back and sprawled his muscled arms on the sides of the table and thrums nails against the overly-expensive marble. His fidgets stress Megumi out. He wants to ask him what he’s thinking about, but he’s afraid of the answer.
“Are we not gonna talk about it?”
Megumi jitters with the fork. To mention it would make it real, and he didn't feel like dealing with either the fantastical nor realistic option.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Yuji thinks. “No . . . but it’ll kill me if I don’t.”
“Yeah,” Megumi swallowed. “It’ll kill me, too.”
Yuji doesn’t want to start, but he knows he has to. Otherwise, no talking would get done. He busied his hands with the cooking of pancakes. “I meant what I said.” He clarifies, itching his heel with his toe.
Megumi paused; his fork scraped against the glass plate. “Yeah?” He deadpanned, but his voice wavered, his mask slipping.
“Yeah.”
Megumi sighed and swiped his hair with his sweaty palm (this makes him self-aware of how messy his bed-head is), and he gets up from the chair. He turns the counter and stands behind Yuji, who pretends that he’s too busy with pancakes. He picks up the cinnamon powder and sloppily sprinkles the pancakes. He’s shaky with his movements, self aware of his raven-haired best friend lurking behind him, watching his movements, and suddenly Megumi steadies those movements.
Megumi placed his pale hand atop Yuji’s tan, scarred knuckles, their broad shoulders bumping, and he slowed down Yuji’s shakes. Yuji’s breath hitches, ultra aware of the deliberate touch. The sensory.
“You’re putting on too much.”
“Right,” Yuji chuckled awkwardly. “Sorry. Was . . . were the — uh, — last pancakes good?”
Megumi smiled and turned to look at him. “Yeah. Yeah, they were good, Itadori.”
Itadori. Yuji hated that nickname. It felt foreign across Megumi’s tongue. It was affectionate, a name that carried so much, but it still felt like a boundary that needed to be crossed.
“I’m glad.” Yuji turned to look at him too. They’re close. Megumi glanced at his lips. Yuji took that as an opening.
He kissed him. Gradually, steady, as to not scare a frightened animal. A deer in headlights. His lips slowly mouthed Megumi’s, and his eyes flitted closed after wavering for a moment. Yuji wanted to know at that moment if he’d pull away; if he’d still have that same shimmer in his eyes from last night. Megumi did.
And Megumi kept his eyes open. Watching Yuji as his head tilted with the symphony of his lips, as his fingers reached up to tilt Megumi’s chin.
When Yuji pulled away, blush creeps up his neck to immediately meet sea-green eyes already watching him. He hauled his fingers away and instinctively retracted the eye contact. Megumi kept staring.
“Yuji . . .” He coos slowly, thawing the letters out on his tongue. Yew-jee.
Yuji embarrassingly found his jaw hanging open.
“Megumi,” Meh-goo-mee. He smiled. He knew how much Megumi hated his name; its feminine origin, the reminiscence of his clan behind it, but Yuji loved it. It felt like a vulnerable piece to him. Saying his given name felt as if he were telling a secret.
“I want to kiss you again.” Yuji tells him.
“After I brush my teeth.”
Yuji leaned in anyway. “Yuji,” Megumi whined, pressing his palm to Yuji’s forehead. “You’re so clingy already.”
“But there’s still pancakes to eat! I made too much batter.”
Megumi waved. “Give the rest to Kugisaki. As an apology gift, or something, for leaving the party early.”
“Ah!” Yuji gasped. “It’s New Years!”
Megumi’s brows furrowed. “Nothing gets past you, Yuji.” He mocks sarcastically. Yuji flapped his hand. “No, dude, I was planning to make a new years toast. Big speech and all,”
“Really? I figured speeches weren’t really your strong suit.”
“First of all,” Yuji puts up one finger, “—how dare you. Second of all, I had bullet-points in my notes app and everything!”
“Okay,” Megumi leans against the counter. “Read them to me.”
Yuji grins cheekily and quickly fills two cups of water. Before Megumi can ask what that’s for, Yuji had already slid him a cup. He scrolled through his phone and leaned across Megumi.
“Actually, this is all pretty corny.” Yuji backtracks. Megumi chuckles low in his throat. “Instead,” Yuji lifts his cup, “A toast to us and that barn in Sendai.”
Megumi’s eyes brighten, ever so slightly, at the quip. He has dreamt of it. The rosy backdrop glows of the sun as they sit on the porch, on old wooden rocking chairs, matching their old skin fifty years from now.
“Thought it was a farmhouse,” Megumi corrects, a twinge of humor in his tone, as he lifts the cup.
“They’re the same thing, Megs.”
His lips curl into a delicate smile at the nickname, and he clicks Yuji’s cup. The water swished. “Real farmers would disagree.” Yuji takes a swig of his drink. “Megumi . . .” He begins, voice suddenly ghostly and serious. Megumi perks up his head.
“I really do love you; I have since we were kids.” His fingernail anxiously clacks against the counter.
He knows. He believes that, in some vague outermind, they have both always known. Their love for each other was always too deep, too intimate to classify as something strictly platonic. And yet, neither of them took the first perilous step until now. Megumi’s lip purses, unsure of how to respond other than the most vulnerable option: “I have since you ate that finger.”
Now it’s Yuji’s turn to be surprised. “What? No way.” He’s wearing that shit-eating grin.
“I’m serious.”
“Haha! Tell me, Megs,” Yuji found this incredibly entertaining. “Was I like your ‘knight in shining armor’?”
“It wasn't like I actually knew it back then. You're so annoying.” Megumi playfully palmed the back of Yuji’s head, ruffling his hair. It's oddly affectionate.
“You don’t mind it.” Yuji stated, and rubbed the back of his head.
Megumi hated how he was right. Yuji comes from behind the counter and lightly rubs past Megumi to lay on the couch. “You want to watch a movie?” He shuffled in the cushions.
If Yuji was anyone else, Megumi would tell them to get out and to not make themselves at home. But Yuji is the boy he’s been so deeply in love with since high school, so there’s not much he can do.
He shimmied beside Yuji. Their knees are touching. They’re too scared to move closer — as if they didn’t cuddle hours ago.
“You in the mood for a romcom?” Yuji asked, scrolling aimlessly through Megumi’s Netflix account (full of nature documentaries).
“Under the circumstances.”
Yuji’s more than satisfied with that answer. His grin only widens when he thinks about what those ‘circumstances’ imply. Megumi hates how loud Yuji thinks. Megumi also wants to move closer.
Yuji, being the mind reader they both have always been, asks him a deadly question: “Can I put my arm around you?”
Megumi cringed. He cringed because, yes, that is something he wants. It’s so cheesy. Embarrassingly cheesy.
“Whatever,” he said simply, and acted as if he didn’t shuffle himself into the perfect position for Yuji to be able to do so. Acted as if he didn’t rest his chest on Yuji’s heartbeat to make sure it was still there. Megumi began to feel sick again, such as he had last night, with the thought of Sukuna tearing out Yuji’s heart. How he held it out to him– like some fucked-up Valentines’ Day present. He hated it. He hated how he’d have to bury his cheek and ear on Yuji’s pec to feel and hear the thudding of his red, pulsing heart to make sure it wouldn’t run away again. It was childish. It was comforting.
Feeling that Yuji’s heart is still in place, and feeling that his body is still his own, Megumi began to fall asleep to the white noise of trash TV.
Yuji knew he was napping, despite just waking up, with how his muscles relaxed and he didn’t feel as tense and skittish with his childhood best friend’s arm around his shoulders.
He’ll leave Megumi’s place when Megumi asks him to leave. He’ll ask to be his boyfriend tomorrow.