Chapter Text
Fushiguro Megumi has seen plenty of terrible things during his time as a shaman so far.
He’s seen enough terrible things as a kid, but he’s seen more than enough to fit the description told to every would-be jujutsu sorcerer. The remains of those unfortunate enough to have been left at the mercy of a curse or to the curses themselves, grotesque and bubbling and opening their maws because there was nothing else they existed for. He’s seen the nature of all nightmares.
It’s not that he feels nothing when he sees these things—these grotesque, miserable, wretched sights. It’s just that it’s exactly as Gojou-sensei says—you’ve got to be a little crazy to be a jujutsu sorcerer, just a little messed up enough in the head.
(Because who in their right mind would give up their life to help people they don’t know? To deal with these wretched, disgusting things, to suffer from curses and losing people while everyone else gets to live a normal life?)
Even Fushiguro wouldn’t have cared. He wouldn’t have done a thing if it hadn’t been for their circumstances, for Gojou sweeping up to their shabby apartment door, promising, despite the sketchiness of it all, that Tsumiki at least would be fine. Cause that’s all Fushiguro cares about. That someone good like Tsumiki at least will get to live a normal life in relative comfort, because she never asks for anything more.
(But Tsumiki got cursed.)
But the world isn’t really fair in its fairness.
Because people die, good and bad, deserving of it or not. Because people die the most horrible of ways, whether they deserved it or not. Because that was an irreversible truth of the world, and it’s never been something Fushiguro’s let haunt him.
He doesn’t let it haunt him.
He can’t let it haunt him—
“Fushiguro.”
Fushiguro turns. His face is wet. Rain falls, hard and quick and it picks up from the soft patter only seconds ago, plastering his hair against his face, rolling down his cheeks for him in place of tears.
The rain muddles up the bright, dark red pouring forth from the gaping wound in Itadori’s chest. It drips, drips, drips, down onto the floor and creates a murky, dark crimson puddle. Fushiguro’s hands twitch at his sides, they curl and his mouth opens but he can’t speak. The dream won’t let him speak.
It never does.
(It’s just a dream.)
Born right from the memory.
Itadori stares directly across from him. The rain messes with the soft fuzz of his pink hair, it rolls down and smudges the dirt and blood off his cheek. It doesn’t do anything to the warmth of his smile though. Not to the gentle, bright curve of Itadori’s lips against his cheek as he smiles so hard at Fushiguro.
The wound in his chest is empty. Blood pours out, dripping down his bruised, beaten chest. Itadori’s body shakes once, swaying slightly from the missing weight of his heart, sitting in a pitiful, bleeding puddle somewhere on the floor behind them where Sukuna had ripped it out like it was nothing more than a burden.
Maybe Sukuna isn’t wrong about that, Fushiguro thinks in a daze. Itadori’s heart is too heavy and too precious. It’s a burden that shouldn’t be given to anyone else. Because even Itadori himself can’t take care of it, can’t hold onto it for the life of him because he’d rather become the vessel to the most wretched of all curses just to help two people he’s only known for a few months—to help Fushiguro, who he’d only met that night.
To do this crazy, shitty, unforgiving job with the promise of Itadori’s own execution hanging over his head.
( I can keep it. Fushiguro’s hands move. I can hold onto it, if you want. )
(Somewhere safe where no one else will have it. Not Sukuna, not curses or shamans alike. Sunken deep into the void of Fushiguro’s shadows, wrapped up in every shikigami he can master to keep it locked away like one of the world’s greatest treasures.)
Fushiguro tries to move. He tries even though he knows it’s useless. This is the part of this stupid, wretched dream where he can’t move. He still tries though, because what else can he do?
And this is the part of the dream where Itadori smiles. Smiles with the rain and blood dripping down his empty, empty chest but smiles like he’s just had the best day of his life.
Because people like Itadori —are so good it makes him sick. They act like they don’t care, hands behind their head, laughing away at the rest of the world but turn, running, running, running to help anyway. Run till they’ve got nothing left. Run themselves right into the ground and then crawl.
They’re kind. They’re idiots, and it’s enough to give Fushiguro a migraine.
Itadori might not look it at first, but it’d only take a few minutes to see what Fushiguro meant. You could peel away each layer of Itadori and he’d be right there to greet you, a bit of a grin, some stupid, crinkled smile and offer to show you around. You could ask for him to show the deepest part of what made him tick and Itadori would think, trying to figure it out himself and offer to go looking for it with you.
(Fushiguro wants to shout. Shout until his throat bleeds and something gives so he can get something back.)
“Fushiguro,” Itadori says, swaying on his feet. The dream doesn’t let him move or shout. Fushiguro can only watch. Itadori’s words slur a bit. He already sees the light in his eyes fading.
“Live a good life.”
And then Itadori’s body goes crashing into the ground and Fushiguro watches it all, unable to do a damn thing.
(This part isn’t a dream.)
And then this is the part where Itadori dies.
(What even is a good life, you idiot?)
“Fushiguro?”
(Help me figure it out.)
“Hey, Fushiguro, you alright dude?”
Fushiguro’s head splits a little when he opens his eyes, making him question the nature of all right. The sunlight streaming from the open sliding doors of the training room feels a little brighter than he’d like, a little harsher on him as he lays on the tatami flooring. He gathers his barings back, remembering where he was and why he’d come looking to blow off some steam in the first place and—
Itadori’s, big, wide eyes staring down at him as he crouches, looking over Fushiguro curiously, face too close—
Too close.
“What are you doing, idiot?” Fushiguro says, low and a little rough as he shoves Itadori’s head to the side.
Itadori lets out an offended noise in protest, lip pushing out into a bit of a pout. Fushiguro calms the loud, loud echo of his heart, of the previous, frenzied thoughts all crashing around each other and the nightmare of a memory plaguing his waking moments. All centering around the bumbling idiot next to him. He stifles it all so none will leak out.
(None of it will drown Itadori, engulfing him whole the way it wants to.)
“I kept calling your name but you weren’t answering!” Itadori protests. He shrugs it off, grinning anyway as he leans back and grabs his bare ankles. Fushiguro briefly eyes the taut, bare line of Itadori’s calves up to his loose shorts and stupidly bright yellow t-shirt. It’s a far cry from Fushiguro’s black sweatpants and long-sleeve shirt, and looking at Itadori both hurts his eyes and makes him feel a little refreshed. “You were knocked out, man. Tired?”
“You’re here to train?” Fushiguro asks instead. “Instead of watching a movie?”
Today’s another rare day off. Gojou’s gone off on a mission and they finished their last assignment late into the night yesterday, spilling out of Ichiji’s car and back onto campus licking their wounds and slumping into their beds. Fushiguro just couldn’t stand another restless night of watching Itadori’s heart get ripped out of his chest and decided the dreams couldn’t haunt him if he was too tired to even dream.
“Hey, man, I take this just as seriously,” Itadori says, jerking a thumb to himself. “Movie comes later. It’ll feel way more rewarding anyway after I work out a bit!”
Fushiguro almost wants to tell him he should just go and rest and watch a movie. Just rest. But he knows it’s the fact that Itadori’s here, trying to train, trying to get better, that makes the vicious emotions bubbling up in the depths of Fushiguro’s shadows all the more reverent.
The same way Fushiguro trains, hard and diligently, because he intends to make sure what happened before doesn’t happen again. That his own failure, his own weakness doesn’t force Itadori to play the cards he should never play or give up the things he should never give up.
(Not for anyone else, at least.)
“Want to go at it a bit with me?” Itadori offers. Fushiguro gives him a dull look. “Come on, don’t be like that. This is no place to doze off anyway. Seems like it was giving you nightmares or something.”
Fushiguro bites off the urge to tell him how right he was. “I’ll pass. I’m done for today.”
Fushiguro stands and Itadori cranes his neck up, watching him as Fushiguro rolls his neck, flexing out his arms once to loosen them from the stiffness.
(And maybe, maybe , just a bit for show—)
“True,” Itadori says, rubbing his chin. “You do seem beat. Get some sleep.”
Fushiguro flashes him a look beneath dark lashes but Itadori ignores it, waving him off and turning as he starts to spread his legs and gets ready to stretch. Fushiguro half turns, watching him faintly over the top of his shoulder as Itadori pulls one arm over his head, shirt rising up and showing off his hip, and then the muscled line of his torso and lightly tanned skin.
“It’s rare to see you let loose like this anyway,” Itadori says, a loose, almost dopey grin on his lips. “You must’ve really gone at it. Good job, good job~”
Itadori’s warm, light praise does something funny to Fushiguro’s ears. But Fushiguro instead hesitates beside the sliding doors, watching Itadori pull his leg further apart and start pulling himself forward, bending to try to stretch.
There’s a bit of dryness that follows Fushiguro’s mouth. He stares after Itadori, rubbing the back of his neck. His finger’s itch and Fushiguro turns back to him, opening his mouth.
But for a moment the image flashes. He sees Itadori hunched over, slumped face forward and limp and drenched in blo—
“I’ll help you,” Fushiguro says before he can take it back. Itadori perks up instantly, grin widening as he whips his head around. “Move over.”
“Alright!” Itadori says, not even missing a beat. Fushiguro shoves his head a bit and he just laughs, “I really gotta stretch better this time. Think I almost pulled something the other day.”
“That’s what you get for being careless,” Fushiguro says.
He settles down directly behind Itadori, feeling the faint heat radiating off the body before him. He stretches his legs out beside Itadori’s, trying to ignore the flicker of pride he feels when his feet stretch just a bit past Itadori. Fushiguro isn’t anywhere near as flexible as Itadori strangely is, so he’ll have to accommodate. Fushiguro’s eyes linger on the bare strip of Itadori’s neck, dipping to the collar of his shirt and he calmly presses his hands into Itadori’s shoulder blades, applying pressure.
“Ready?”
“Yessir!” Itadori says. Fushiguro rolls his eyes, pushing forward and Itadori exhales, letting his body bend forward. “Ugh. That feels way better, man. Thanks.”
Fushiguro doesn’t say anything. He feels the warmth of Itadori’s body radiating right through his palms, warming his hands. Fushiguro’s fingers flex against the back of Itadori’s shoulders, one hand hesitates, inching downwards.
Itadori groans a bit, leaning forward even further as Fushiguro helps press him down. Itadori sighs, huffing once through his nose to hold the stretch. He kicks an ankle over Fushiguro’s to help hold him in place and Fushiguro works hard to ignore it.
“Want to join me for a movie after?” Itadori says, leaning on his forearms now against the floor. Fushiguro’s weight is an added bonus to rolling out that crick in his back. “You can pick this time.”
Fushiguro’s hand drifts a little lower, searching for the thing he wants the most. Itadori blinks against the floor, shifting a bit under Fushiguro’s weight so he can half-turn his head. “Fushiguro? You good?”
Ba-thump. Ba-thump. Ba-thump.
Fushiguro lays his palm against the curve of Itadori’s back. He feels it, thumping peacefully beneath his fingertips. Fushiguro stares at the spot, as though he could see through the shirt and skin and bone to the soft, thundering thing in the curve of Itadori’s ribcage. He counts to the beats in his head, reveling in the sound.
“Alive!” he imagines Itadori cheering, jumping around beneath his fingertips. “See? I’m alive! Hey, Fushi, I’m right here!”
Itadori’s heart beats. Fushiguro shuts his eyes, leaning his head forward.
Itadori jolts at the added weight. He blinks, once, twice, before owlishly craning his head over his shoulder. All he can see are the unruly spikes of Fushiguro’s hair, sticking up every which way like a sea urchin. Fushiguro’s head presses against Itadori’s back, his entire weight resting against him with one hand dropping, almost lip to Itadori’s hip and the other rests just on the curve of his shoulder, almost touching the nape of his neck.
“Fushiguro?” Itadori says, “Did you…. Did you fall asleep? ”
Itadori listens, straining a bit and sure enough—all he can hear is the barely-there sound of Fushiguro’s light breathing.
Itadori stares at the top of Fushiguro’s head, bewildered and pleasantly surprised good ol’ Fushiguro was that comfortable enough to knock out beside him. Or maybe he really was just that beat. Itadori shakes his head, grinning a bit. He tries to adjust his stretch, trying not to disturb the teen behind him.
(He doesn’t notice the almost peaceful way Fushiguro’s shadows subconsciously bubble, swelling up against the tatami flooring, as though to swallow the two of them whole. To whisk them away, somewhere no one could see.)
“If you were tired,” Itaodori laughs. “You could’ve just said so.”
…
…
…
“Uh, hey, Fushi?” Itadori tries again, huffing a bit from the strain. “I don’t mean to be rude, dude, but could you… uh… wake up? This stretch is starting to hurt now…”
Itadori sweats.
“...Fushiguro?”
“...Fushiguro, I’m not going anywhere, you know?”
Fushiguro jolts. He freezes for a moment, eyes traveling quickly across the room—the tacky poster of the bikini model on the wall, the fraying pictures pinned up nicely, the little bits and pieces of all these things that whispered a quiet, gentle cry of— I’m here, somewhere lives here. Someone was alive here.
His head snaps forward and Fushiguro’s mouth goes dry. His hand gathers a fistful of sheets while the other hesitates, burning like fire against the smooth, tensed line of muscle rising and falling beneath him.
(He knows this dream too. He can’t complain, when it’s a far, far cry better than the others, but still —)
This dream doesn’t help him either.
Itadori shifts beneath him, the fold of his hoodie bunched up a bit around his head. His eyes watch Fushiguro, bright and earnest, full of nothing but him, but they grin a bit too with his sheepish smile, the faintest bit of red starting to color up from Itadori’s neck. Fushiguro feels the heat pool into his gut, down to his fingertips and straight to his head.
His finger’s flex against Itadori’s stomach. They inch their way upwards, skirting and hiking up his shirt along with it. Itadori shifts again, exhaling a bit at the touch, a bit antsy. Fushiguro’s eyes shoot right back up to his face.
“You can, you know,” Itadori tries. His face flushes a bit darker. Fushiguro starts to wish this dream could last longer. Longer. “Do more . I’m not gonna break, man.”
No, Itadori would surely not break. Fushiguro had watched him leap up several stories, smash through windows and seemingly indestructible walls—and the sheer thought of all that, of all of Itadori, strong and a bit wild, a little unkempt and grinning, bright now spilled out into the bed beneath him, letting Fushiguro’s hand move, letting Fushiguro hold him—
(It’s enough to drive him crazy.)
“Don’t,” Fushiguro can’t help but say, since it’s a dream anyway, as he leans down and his head slides right beside Itadori’s, lips by his ear and he revels in the way Itadori tenses beneath him. “Take it back.”
He catches a flash of Itadori’s grin, feeling his warm hand settle on the back of Fushiguro’s neck.
“I won’t.”
(Fushiguro hates himself, just a bit more, when the dream is wrenched away later, much, much later, after keeping him up, with the lingering memory of his fingers on Itadori’s skin, holding his back, his hip—and he drags his hands over his face, ignoring the stiffness in his pants and—)
“You look terrible. ”
Fushiguro gives Kugisaki the darkest, driest look he can muster. Sharp, dark lines curve under the smoother line of his eyes, outting him for his lack of sleep. He sits, hands resting over his knees and trying to look the most unapproachable he could possibly look.
Kugisaki takes it all in stride, examining him over the top of nicely polished fingernails. Some of the edge to his look is lost on the fact that Itadori is grinning right beside him, swinging his feet like a kid at the playground over the top of the stone steps as the three of them wait.
“What did you even do ?” Kugisaki asks airily. “Aren’t you the kind of guy who’s in bed before nine like a grandpa?”
He’s actually not. Fushiguro knows sleep can come slim with their sporadic missions, as much as their seniors might try to keep it on more normal standards, so he believes in getting sleep as much as the next person. But he’s had his fair share of late nights.
“Did you stay up too late reading that new book you got?” Itadori asks beside him. Fushiguro slowly forces his muscles to relax, forces his mind to clear any lingering traces of the dreams that’d kept him up last night.
“He got this new book last time we went out, when we checked out this bookstore,” Itadori explains to Kugisaki. She makes a vaguely interested noise, her eyes mostly on Fushiguro, squinting, trying to pick him apart to see if there’s anything interesting worth hammering into. “Was it really that good, dude?”
Fushiguro, wisely, decides to keep his mouth shut.
“Well,” Kugisaki says, setting a hand on her hip. She motions for Itadori to scoot and he obliges, bumping into Fushiguro whose lips dip into a scowl but he doesn’t make an effort to move when Itadori slides up right next to him and Kugisaki neatly takes a seat beside him. “ I for one don’t have time to waste. Where’s our stupid teacher?”
“He said he’d be here real soon!” Itadori says excitedly, holding up his phone and pointing to a blurred screen of texts between him and Gojou. Fushiguro scowls at the sight while Kugisaki raises a brow. “Come on, the wait will be worth it since he said he’ll treat us to something good!”
“There’s probably a mission involved,” Fushiguro says.
“I want to beat you up for saying that but he’s probably right,” Kugisaki agrees. Itadori deflates a little. “There’s always a catch.”
“Maybe it’ll be an easy mission then! Something quick and then we can—”
Fushiguro pauses, eyes flickering upwards at the new presence across the campus courtyard. Kugisaki briefly follows, peering around Itadori’s shoulder to get a look.
There’s three men only a few feet away from them, being led by a flustered looking Ichiji. Two of them are robes while the other is in more business clothes, holding onto his suit jacket as he surveys the entire school. Kugisaki quickly grows uninterested, but Fushiguro keeps his eyes on them, watching as they cross the courtyard, only about to relax when it seems like they’re headed for some kind of meeting with the principal.
“Who’s that?” Itadori says, finally noticing the group. “Some other sorcerers?”
“Who cares,” Kugisaki says. “Text Gojou again. Is he really on his way?”
“...they work for the elders,” Fushiguro says, because he’s breathed the air of the jujutsu world a little longer than his two friends beside him, arguably since birth, but the blood that runs through his veins isn’t of any concern to him. “Probably just here for a meeting.”
Itadori’s satisfied with his answer, turning to his phone. Fushiguro relaxes a bit, keeping his fingers loosely laced together as Kugisaki pushes into Itadori’s side, commenting about the nature of his texts with Gojou and—
One of the men in a monk’s robes stops, half-turning. He’s got to be somewhere only in his mid-twenties, young but aged, with his head close shaven and large, audacious beads hanging from around his neck. He carries a staff with him, gilded and gold.
Fushiguro tenses. His fingers twitch against his knees so he laces them together. He wills the sorcerer to keep walking, to turn around without another word.
Fushiguro’s shadows bubble up a bit at his feet. The eyes of his shikigami peer up at him, waiting.
( Leave us alone .)
The higher up jujutsu sorcerer turns, walking right toward them. Each jangle of the pieces around his staff jar Fushiguro to his bones, grating on his ears.
Kugisaki glances once to him, finally noticing the taut air around Fushiguro. Her eyes slide right up as the shaman stops beside the three of them, a few feet from Fushiguro’s side.
The shaman’s lip curls back. His face is cool, but it does nothing to mask the loud, soothing contempt that colors every wrinkle of his face. It’s the same moment Itadori finally looks up, openly raising his brows at the shaman’s appearance.
(Fushiguro wants—)
“So this is Ryomen Sukuna’s housing vessel?”
The three of them fall silent for a moment. In an instant the wary, uncaring look in Kugisaki’s eyes shifts into one of colder contempt, disdain coloring her smooth features. Fushiguro stays silent, keeping his fingers tightly laced together as he stares into his own shadow casted right before him.
Itadori looks surprised for a second before his face clears into one of understanding, open. He nods, standing up and rubbing the back of his neck. The shaman tilts his head down, watching Itadori as he offers him a bit of a grin. “I, uh, guess that’s me. I know the name’s not great, but you might like it better if you call me by my own.”
Itadori holds out his hand, bowing a bit. “I’m Itadori. Itadori Yuuji—”
The shaman’s staff smacks Itadori’s hand away. It only catches his fingers since Itadori jerks his hand back before he can hit it with enough force, looking up at the higher ranking shaman in silence.
“Hey, mister ,” Kugisaki says, prim voice laced with venom. “You got a problem?”
“I had heard rumors,” the shaman says. “But I never imagined them to be true.”
He eyes Itadori’s uniform with disdain, from the bright red of his hoodie to the emblem patterned onto their buttons. His lip pulls back in disgust.
“You’re really running around, calling yourself a sorcerer? ”
Kugisaki hisses something vile between her teeth. Itadori keeps a bit quiet, not out of meekness or sheepishness, but out of a wiser, larger than life personality. It’s not like this is back with the Kyoto kids—and even that managed to work itself out in the end. Kamo even offered to exchange numbers, even though Fushiguro had told him not too and everyone else had told him to delete it too.
Fushiguro’s foot starts to sink a bit into his shadow. He presses his forehead to his locked hands. The shaman observes them in one fell swoop.
“Sorry,” Itadori says. “Uh, can we help you?”
“Help,” the shaman says, thinly like a sneer. Kugisaki drums her fingers against her knee. “There is nothing you can do to help, cursed vessel.”
Itadori scratches the corner of his cheek, where his little marking sleeps. Guys like this seem like they’re all full of hot air, anyway. He doesn’t know much about the way the jujutsu world does stuff, but Fushiguro made it seem like this guy might be a little important, so he should probably just let him run his mouth and be done with it, right?
“You’d even go so far as to bring down one of the good names of the Three Great Clans,” the shaman continues. Itadori’s just a bit surprised people like this, who seem to cause trouble right out of dramas, really even exist. “Running around with this bright young man and this woman here, wreaking havoc and destruction wherever you go.”
“Hey,” Kugisaki says, standing up. “I asked , is there something we can help you with? We were just minding our own business before you came here.”
“What is he,” the shaman says, looking at her in disbelief. “Your comrade? ”
“What’s it to you?” Kugisaki spits back. Itadori rubs the back of his neck. “You know how rude it is to come marching over here and start spouting—”
(No, this is just how it is, isn’t it?)
People are just allowed that right. The right to feel contempt when they look at Itadori, to feel fear and vile and something disgusting—
“The young Zen’in boy here,” the shaman says. “You may not know, but I hear great things. He has potential beyond what has been seen in quite some time. A cursed vessel like you should have no place near him—”
Fushiguro opens his eyes. His fingers are cold as the eyes of his shikigami narrow. He hears the low, rumbling snarl start up, leaking out into the surface.
Itadori shouldn’t be anywhere near him?
(Try it.)
Fushiguro raises his head. His eyes are dark. He moves to stand, shadows licking at his feet.
(Try to take him away from me—)
“Actually, his name’s Fushiguro.”
The shadows at his feet still.
“Fushiguro. Not Zen’in,” Itadori says. “That’s our senpai. She might not really want to talk with you either though.”
Kugisaki presses a hand to her mouth, she feigns dainty surprise, but she stifles a short bark of laughter. The shaman stops, looking at Itadori, as though he couldn’t believe the soft, pink haired teen was saying anything at all—
But Itadori calmly jerks a thumb to Fushiguro, looking unbothered. “‘s kinda rude that you’re going to be talking to us without getting our names right. Did we spit on you or something dude?”
Fushiguro’s head clears. He stands up right beside Itadori, looking darkly at the shaman before them. “What do you want?”
The shaman bristles. He can’t believe the audacity. Kugisaki snorts for the three of them. “Have you no respect? Do you know who I am?”
“Not really,” Itadori says. “I keep telling you, we never got through any introductions. Are you sure you don’t got the wrong people or—”
“Just know this, cursed vessel. You know nothing of how much my fellow shamans and sorcerers have suffered, because of curses like you. If you knew what was good for you,” the shaman says clinically. “The greater good—you would let them lock you up and keep you there until the day of your execution—”
“Aw, but there’s no fun in that, is there?”
The shaman freezes, whirling around. He has to crane his neck up a bit as bright, snowy white tufts of hair tickle the breeze. A lopsided grin curves over a sharp jaw, crinkling the corner of his blindfold.
“Well,” Kugisaki mutters, crossing her arms under her chest. “About time.”
Fushiguro doesn’t quite unwind. He stays, ready and coiled while the shaman is still here and stands before Itadori beside him.
Gojou stands right in front of the shaman, looming, lips curled up into a mischievous, almost playful little grin with his hands in his pockets, a plastic bag swinging from around his wrist stuffed full with what looks to be souvenir sweets all over again.
There’s a few leaves hiding in the back of his hair. Kugisaki keeps quiet, wondering if their teacher put a bit more hustle into his return than he let on.
“Satoru Gojou,” the shaman says darkly. “So you were here after all. To think they let you leave this vile thing run around as he pleases—”
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that,” Gojou says lightly, voice almost smooth. It makes Kugisaki grimace. “I’ve got a nice leash on him, right Yuuji?”
“Huh? Uh, yeah, sure,” Itadori makes a face, suddenly looking a bit put off. “Wait, did you say—”
“So it seems like there’s not really anything else you need to move your lips and waste your breath around here, right?” Gojou prompts, still grinning. The shaman bristles. “Unless you’re here to confess. Are you a secret fan? All you lackeys for those old, rotting prunes tend to be secret fanboys, huh?”
“Watch your tongue—”
Gojou sticks his tongue out. The shaman balks. Gojou sways a bit, sauntering forward like one big cat until he looks right down at the huffy little shaman before him.
(A big, lanky jungle cat, all flashing teeth and ivory claws and he grins —)
“I wouldn’t worry your pretty head too much about Yuuji,” Gojou says, almost humms. “I’m the only one who needs to worry about his death since I’m the only one strong enough to kill him without any problems, right? They wouldn’t be calling someone like you .”
Kugisaki makes a face and Itadori deflates a little, but he doesn’t deny it.
The shaman’s face turns red, but the paleness creeping up his throat and turning him ashen wins over. Gojou leans, further down, closer.
“So why don’t you go and join that little meeting?” Gojou almost sings, tilting his head to the side. “To where you’re actually needed—I think they could use some tea right now anyway.”
The shaman looks like he’d say a million more things, but in the face of the mortal god Satoru Gojou, all egos and prides crumple to nothing— are nothing compared to the sheer size of Gojou’s own ego. He grips his staff until his knuckles turn white, sweeping off with a flare of his robes.
“Ugh!” Kugisaki complains, grabbing her hair. “Ugh! That pisses me off! What the hell is there problem anyway? Is that how everyone here talks? If that’s what the elders are all like, then I’m going to rip my hair out—”
“Now, now, no need to get worked up!” Gojou cheers, swinging around on his ankle and facing them. “Your beloved teacher has returned~ Did you all miss me?”
“Yeah!” Itadori says energetically. Kugiskai and Fushiguro say nothing. “Did you have a good trip? How’d it go? Where are we going now? A mission?”
“This is why Yuuji’s my favorite,” Gojou humms, obviously pleased with himself as he fishes out a box of mochi and drops it into Itadori’s surprised hands. “And no mission. I promised a meal, didn’t I? We’re going to Ginza for something good tonight.”
“Ginza?” Kugisaki perks up, eyes turning into stars. “We’re eating in Ginza?”
“Yahoo!” Itadori cheers, throwing his arms around Gojou who laughs, looking far too pleased with himself while Kugisaki claps her hands beside them, the two already reduced to half the working brain power. “We gotta eat something good! All you can eat!”
“All you can eat? We have to do something more luxurious than that!”
“Whatever you want!” Gojou says, riding the high with his hands in the air as Itadori hangs off him. “My treat!”
“Gojou-sensei, our hero! We missed you!”
Fushiguro has the distinct feeling that there had been a mission planned, but he doesn’t say anything about the shift in plans, standing up and dusting off his pants as he falls into line behind them, pretending to look annoyed and shaking his head at the sheer ridiculousness of it all.
He doesn’t say anything either, forcing the feeling back. His shadows bite at his ankles, lips pulling back into a snarl as they darkly watch the bald shaman disappear into the principal’s office.
“Fushiguro! Let’s get something good! ”
And they wink out, dipping back to where they belong, placated enough for now as Fushiguro follows behind Itadori, sliding his hands into his pockets.
This idiot.
The low drone of the movie still playing on the common room tv fills the silence. The light from the screen bathes the walls in a flicker of warmer colors. Fushiguro half-hears what the people in the movie are saying, the noise like a warm hum of background music as he surveys the mess in front of him.
Itadori’s sprawled out over the length of the couch, half balled up with his face tucked into one arm, laying himself over the curve of the couch’s armrest. A blanket tangled up in his legs, half-drawn over him while an empty bottle of a sport’s drink sits on the floor, just out of reach of Itadori’s fingertips. He’d been badgering Fushiguro to watch with him once he was done with his book and once Fushiguro had finally finished, heading out to the common room to keep good to his word—this was the sight waiting for him.
The idiot sleeps without a care in the world.
Fushiguro stands right before him, knees lightly touching the edge of the couch as he starts to move some of the bowls Itadori had set out, stacking them together for it to be cleaned later in the morning. He fishes, searching for the remote so he can turn the movie off and rouse Itadori up enough to help him walk back to his room. Fushiguro can sometimes just barely manage to lift all eighty kilos of the guy.
(He’s working hard to make that easier too, but that’s neither here nor there and nothing Itadori needs to worry about.)
Fushiguro catches a glint of the remote stuck between the cushions. He leans over Itadori, reaching around his side for it.
The movie drones on behind him. There’s the soft hum of music filling the air. The colors from the screen become warmer, filled with more life behind him. He doesn’t remember what movie Itadori had been watching.
“She won’t ever stop helping them because she’s an idiot.”
Fushiguro pauses, just catching one of the character’s words. His fingers barely touch the remote.
“They just keep taking,” the woman’s voice continues. “Taking and taking and taking. They don’t care. They’ll never give those pieces back. She’ll keep giving and they’ll keep taking and she won’t get any of it back in return.”
He’s an idiot.
(Fushiguro’s an idiot.)
But still, his eyes turn, following the motion of his head as he glances back to the screen. He wills, with every fiber of luck in the world for Itadori to stay sleeping beneath him, Fushiguro half curved over his snoozing form as the screen shifts and he hears the dialogue clearer, focusing on the screen.
The movie paints both of them in something warm. The woman on the screen shakes her head, running a hand through her hair. There’s an orange glow from the sunset behind her, showing the sky turning darker as night falls and she sighs again, trying to hold a cup of sake to her lips before giving up. The older woman beside her is silent, listening.
“She won’t stop,” the other woman agrees. “That’s just how she is.”
“I know it,” the original woman says. “I know it and I hate it.”
Her eyes are filled with warmth. They burn through the screen. It makes Fushiguro want to turn it off. He doesn’t really want to see this.
(He doesn’t.)
“I want to take everything from her,” she whispers, whispers like no one else in the world should ever hear it. “I want to take it all so no one can take anything else.”
She shuts her eyes. She looks up, gaze burning—
“And I want to give her everything,” she says. “So I can fill up every missing piece.”
(So we can be made up of each other and no one else.)
Fushiguro lets the noise drone on. He doesn’t really hear the dialogue anymore, or the music either. He sits, just lightly enough on the dip of the couch with Itadori’s curled up body right behind him, tucked in to face the inside of the cushions. He can feel the warmth of it, smell the fabric softener of Itadori’s hoodie as Fushiguro turns a bit, looking down at Itadori beside him.
(Don’t.)
Fushiguro’s hand reaches out. He lets it hover over Itadori’s shoulder, hesitating before it moves of its own accord, sliding to press two light fingers against the side of Itadori’s neck. He feels the skin, vulnerable and soft dip at his touch and he moves, careful until he feels it—the calming, steady, lulling pulse of Itadori’s heart beating, his pulse throbbing, life moving through him.
“I’m still here.”
Wake him up. Something says. Just take him back to his room.
Fushiguro turns his body, leaning quietly, softly over Itadori. He covers him up, the black of his clothes like a shadow casting itself over Itadori entirely, enveloping him whole and hiding him from the rest of the world.
Fushiguro’s hand moves from his throat, fingers pausing only for a second before he presses the back of his knuckles against Itadori’s cheek. The small furrow of Itadori’s brows eases and he shifts, moving and turning his face. Fushiguro keeps silent, watching in silent reverence as Itadori presses his cheek a little more to his hand, mumbling something incoherent in his sleep before he sort of sighs, a bit of a huff, and relaxes all over again.
(Without a care in the world.)
Fushiguro’s other hand grips the back of the couch, holding him steady as his fingers drift up, running once through the soft, short tufts of Itadori’s almost pinkish hair. Itadori sighs again, looking satisfied. Fushiguro cards his fingers again, slowly, taking his time, the way Tsumiki might’ve done it for him once upon a time and Itadori’s entire face is one of bliss.
His heart is quiet. But it’s loud. So loud. Fushiguro thinks it might make him deaf, the way it shouts. He’s the lowest of all idiots. If Itadori knew he’d never let Fushiguro call him the idiot ever again.
Itadori’s name hangs on his lips. Fushiguro leans forward.
(He wants—)
“Even you won’t miss such an opportunity when it is what you want most, will you, Fushiguro Megumi? ”
The sound of the chilling voice, lined with a sneer and almost amused, amused contempt douses ice over Fushiguro’s eyes, stilling everything else, ripping away the warmth and leaving nothing but quiet coldness.
Fushiguro stares back into the piercing, blood red eye crinkled up into the makings of a real sneer against Itadori’s cheek. Sukuna’s mouth moves, lips curling up.
“You needn’t look at me with such contempt ,” Sukuna says, slow and uncaring. “This brat is the one who chose me. I did nothing.”
Fushiguro doesn’t really care. He knows it’s pointless to play with the words of a curse, especially one as insidious as Sukuna. He’s been on the receiving end of his attempt at taking his life, Fushiguro’s seen what he’s capable of.
Seen him rip Itadori’s heart right out from him —
“He has no idea, you know,” Sukuna says, sounding almost bored. But Fushiguro hears it—the inkling of something like that amused contempt from earlier. Fushiguro’s nails bite into the back of the couch. “This brat is a fool of the highest grade. He does not see your eyes—how you watch him.”
Fushiguro says nothing.
“This fool,” Sukuna continues, lips curling up wider into that sneering grin. “Trying to live the way he does… Hah! The way he even thinks so kindly of you… when even you, compared to all those mindless, walking pieces of filth… want something from him.”
Sukuna’s eye narrows. He peers right up at Fushiguro, lips curling as he joyfully proclaims—
“You want to ruin him,” Sukuna says. “Devour him whole… does that make us so different, Fushiguro Megumi?”
“It does,” Fushiguro says, voice low, trailing ice. Sukuna’s eye narrows almost into a slit, amused. Because you don’t want him the way I do.
(You don’t.)
“Shall I show him?”
Fushiguro stills.
“Here, in the innermost place we share…” Sukuna says, letting his words slither around Fushiguro’s neck, tightening like a noose as he lets his implications sink. “Show him what you want to do… what you want from him…”
Sukuna’s lips pull up into that leering grin. Fushiguro’s nails split the back cushion of the couch.
“Because, Fushiguro Megumi, you should not forget —” Sukuna disappears against Itadori’s face, gone like a shadow of nothing, but his voice still continues, ripping into Fushiguro’s ears—
“He is also mine .”
Below him Itadori’s brows suddenly furrow. He huffs, turning his head a bit and looking bothered. Fushiguro feels something dark crawling up from his chest, flooding his throat.
“Itadori,” Fushiguro says, “wake up.”
Itadori’s lips move and he grips the front of his hoodie, mumbling something. Fushiguro’s heart twists, something ugly. Itadori turns his head again, lips pulled into a frown, brows furrowed, a line of sweat trickling down the line of his chin, down his throat as the top of his ears start turning red—
“ Itadori.” Fushiguro jostles him awake, grabbing his shoulder in a vice grip. “Itadori!”
Itadori’s eyes shoot open, wild and frenzied in surprise. The blush crawling up his neck stops and he looks around, startled out of his mind. Fushiguro freezes for a second above him, quickly moving aside as Itadori squints, suddenly looking confused.
“Holy shi—huh? Wha? Fushi?” he shakes his head. “‘Sup man? What’s…” Itadori yawns, rubbing at his eyes and shaking his head again to clear the fuzz. He half sits up, rubbing the side of his face. “Goin’ on?”
Fushiguro cuffs him over the side of the head. Itadori whines, curling up in defense. “Wha’d I do? I was just sleepin’—”
Itadori blinks. “Did you want to sleep on the couch too?”
Fushiguro’s hands go in for a second strike and Itadori splutters apologies, breaking out into sleepy, heavy laughter as he fends his hands off, face colored in mirth.
“You want to ruin him.”
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was right. Maybe Sukuna’s definition of ruin wasn’t all that wrong from what Fushiguro wanted after all. Maybe that did make him just as wretched.
But if Itadori was still willing to stay beside him, despite knowing that—
Then there was no reason for Fushiguro to let him go.