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Umbreon (Japanese: ブラッキー Blacky) is a Dark-type Pokémon introduced in Generation II. It evolves from Eevee when leveled up with high friendship during the night. — From Bulbapedia.
Itadori is climbing through the window of the small school clinic, a backpack slung round his shoulders. His forehead is creased with focus, and it is midnight outside. Megumi is scrolling absent-mindedly through his phone.
Or, at least, that’s what he’d been doing initially, before this sudden and unexpected interruption.
“Hey, Fushiguro!” Itadori greets him cheerfully. He drops off the window sill and lands on the floor without a sound, feet wrapped up in only his socks. Where his shoes have gone is a complete mystery.
“Itadori, “ Megumi replies. His voice is a little slurred, and muffled by surprise, as well as by the fact that he should be asleep as of now, rather like some other people he knows, who should also be asleep instead of climbing through windows. “What are you doing? Why’re you even awake right now?”
“Ah,” says Itadori, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I thought we could hang out, y’know?”
“Now?” Megumi asks. He thinks about the botched Goodwill Event and the chaos of earlier today, and raises his eyebrows. “Aren’t you tired?”
“Mmmhm, kinda… But I think the adrenaline rush is keeping me awake. Mostly, I’ve been staring at my ceiling. So I thought maybe I’d come to check up on you!”
Megumi tries not to be endeared, but it fails, promptly and immediately, as Itadori tosses him a grin and cocks his head. His resounding silence unfortunately seems to give him away, because the other boy closes the window, leaving the curtains open, and pads across the room to join him in his sad little Injury Corner, where Kugisaki had kindly donated some of her fashion magazines so he could quote-unquote, “learn to rock that bod” and, this is the more important aspect of it, develop enough of a fashion sense to go shopping with her, probably.
Itadori definitely spies them on his way over, but the only thing he does is huff good-naturedly and pull two cans of soft drink out of his worn backpack. To his eternal shame, Megumi eyes it with interest that he’s evidently unable to disguise, and Itadori, without the slightest bit of fanfare, happily tosses him a brightly-wrapped can.
“Kugisaki was gonna come with me,” says Itadori, settling himself comfortably in the bedside chair, and it’s miraculous how comfortable he is, to be honest, considering how its cold, rigid frame had been voted first for three years running in the Annual Unofficial Most Actual Uncomfortable Piece Of Furniture event. Even Gojo-sensei avoided it, and he’d made it somewhat (explicitly) of a competition himself to have fucked people in or on every existing piece of free-access furniture (which mostly excluded people’s beds, thankfully, but not for lack of trying on his part) on the school grounds. Itadori sinks further into the chair, sighing.
“And?”
“And she’s hanging out with Maki-senpai. So she’s ditched us for tonight. And maybe for every night ever. We’re never gonna see her again, dude. We should congratulate her—she’s having a great time.”
“Wish I could say the same,” Megumi snarks. But he puts his phone away and tucks it under his pillow. “Seriously. What do you want?”
He’s a little more short-tempered than he usually is. But that should come pretty explicitly with the territory of having your late classmate, several months dead, come back to life in the most inane, immature way, and subsequently discovering that your own teacher—who is, coincidentally, the most inane, immature person who could possibly have been trusted with someone else’s life—had been essentially keeping him in his basement like some forbidden pet, and then, having to participate in a godforsaken Goodwill event where the afore-mentioned Goodwill seemed completely nonexistent, and then after that, getting beat up, and tucked up in some medical bed like an invalid.
Itadori furrows his brows and looks sad, and Megumi immediately regrets his sharp tongue. He braces himself for a whine, or a petulant, boyish protest, or a fraternal punch to the shoulder, as Itadori is sometimes known to do, maybe even a rolled-up magazine—he can see the half-naked celebrities and manga covers poking out of the other boy’s open bag—swatting his arm, or tossed at his head. ‘You’re always so straight-faced, Fushiguro! Lighten up!’ or something along those lines.
Lightening up is rather plainly the antithesis of what Megumi is, so he feels that it might be an unfair thing to demand of him, the complete opposite of his cursed technique, and anyways, it’s night, and they should be winding down instead of messing around like this, especially with the as-of-yet unknown Part 2 of the Goodwill Event occurring tomorrow, and Itadori might very well be targeted again, and—
—Itadori pouts. His cheeks puff out, these round, soft things, and it feels, not like a fraternal punch to the shoulder, god, no, nor a rolled-up magazine to the face, but more accurately, like lightning sparking in his ears and his brain short-circuiting.
A jolt travels up his spine, and Megumi’s muscles might be tenser than even the fucking Most Actual Uncomfortable Piece Of Furniture that the other boy is sitting on, but not really, he’s less sitting and more perching, thighs hanging off the stiff plastic edge, arms crossed neatly on the bed, and Megumi realises he is holding his breath.
“I want to spend more time with you,” Itadori frowns, his bottom lip jutting out, and Megumi’s eyes unerringly narrow in on the glossy curve, and the way his nose scrunches up. “Is that so bad?”
“Is that so bad,” Megumi repeats.
“I haven’t seen or talked to either you or Kugisaki in a while. Since I was, you know, ‘dead’. ‘S been a little lonely, and it can’t have been that good of a time for you, either.” He shrugs, his gaze fixed on the darkened wall. “But you guys—you still care so much. We only knew each other for a few weeks, I realised, when I was gone, but I still missed you. Ah, you know they say near-death experiences really bring people together? I guess that’s extra true for us! And though we were fighting apart today, you got beat up for me, right?"
The little room of the clinic is quiet, and empty—the only occupants, the two of them; the only sound, the sound of their breathing, and the rustle of cloth as Itadori shifts. He finally drags his eyes away from the wall, facing Megumi, meeting his gaze.
“Thank you for doing your best to protect me,” says Itadori, smiling. He’s moved closer, has made his way onto the cot at some point, and now he’s almost hovering on Megumi’s lap, hands burning like brands on his shoulders.
Itadori leans forward and Megumi sighs, imperceptibly, into the hug.
The next day, Ieiri-san says that Megumi is allowed to leave, and he ends up bringing with him three separate containers of pre-prepared food that had been kindly left at his sickbed: a Tupperware stuffed with cold pepperoni pizza slices, a tiny box of macarons that Gojo-sensei had already half-eaten before he’d given it to him saying “Ah, since you’re injured, Megumi, you can have these!”, and finally, a pink Hello Kitty thermos filled almost to the brim with a thick soup that Itadori had handed to him casually after they’d parted from the hug.
“Why is it…?” Megumi had asked.
“Oh, you know,” replied Itadori, sprawled on the bed, “it was on discount, and I thought it looked cute. I’ve had this thermos for three years and it’s still great!”
Megumi has not yet opened the thermos, or taken the matching Hello Kitty soup spoon out of its sakura-patterned napkin pocket. He has been looking at it. He is currently seated at his desk, in his room, at about 7 am in the morning, and the lid of the thermos is not unscrewing itself, and the soup spoon is not undressing from its lavish suit of tissue, and his stomach is rumbling, ever so slightly, as he clasps warm metal between his sore hands. He is still looking at the thermos.
“Crap,” he says.
Eating well is the first step to a full recovery. Ieiri-san herself recommended eating a balanced meal after Megumi was discharged from her care, or at least the care of the empty clinic room, and Megumi is holding what is most likely to be the most nutritious soup he will have ever consumed in his life. Itadori’s physically the peak of fitness, and he’s obviously supported that with a healthy diet. He’d fed his grandfather, and himself for several years, successfully. He can cook. This is the best soup Megumi will ever eat.
He unscrews the thermos, takes a tiny, miniscule sip of the steaming liquid within, and melts, the flavour sinking into his tongue and the warmth sinking deep into his chest, making itself at home. There’s a hint of ginger, a flash of heat, a mild, pleasant saltiness to the broth, and it tastes like comfort and ease and affection.
“It’s good,” Megumi says, quietly, to himself. He closes the container, tucks it away in his drawer to keep forever, and takes a limp bite out of a slice of cold pizza.
Pepperoni, usually, is only very mildly spicy but this particular batch of sausages is positively bland.
Megumi is glad to be friends with Itadori. The world is not built to accommodate kind people. It is cold and harsh, and more often than not, society works on a system of survival of the opportunistic. Kind people are so easy to take advantage of. Itadori is a kind person. Megumi is glad to be his friend. Really, he is.
“Uh huh,” says Kugisaki, sounding sceptical as he tells her exactly what she’d asked him to tell her in the first place. “Okay.”
She glances over at Itadori—who is being launched into a tree by Panda-senpai, for some reason—and then back at him, still sceptical, and now with an extra dose of potent suspicion.
“You called me over to hear what I have to say, didn’t you?” Megumi says. “That’s it.”
He does not mention the thermos in the back of his drawer in his room, and he does not mention the picture he has on his phone of Itadori, cheek squished against his crossed arms as he falls asleep in his chair, nor his new collection of disposable chopsticks, and the napkin in his pocket. She casts him a rather dirty look.
“Friend, you say,” Kugisaki purses her lips. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Itadori has a bad habit of indulging people, Megumi thinks. It’s gotten him in a lot of trouble, dating back to months ago, when he’d acquiesced to that sport teacher’s call to competition on his old school’s track field, and then before that, when he’d—as Itadori has told him—pleasantly allowed his fellow clubmates to take the weird, wrapped, obviously abnormal object he’d found on school grounds, and then again, when he’d obediently led Megumi through a shortcut, straight to his school, where curses were wreaking havoc, and there are multitudes of other examples, obviously, but these are the few that Megumi can currently recall.
In all honesty, maybe Megumi, too, has a bad habit of indulging Itadori. Just a little, even when it’s troublesome. Because he always ends up answering his weird, inopportune questions, even when it really should be Gojo doing that, as their teacher and supervisor, or someone else who will pat him on the head instead of whack him with a paperback.
But Megumi does it anyway, and worst of all, he likes it. Itadori coming to him for help, that is. Being able to help him. Before she fell into her coma and consecutively couldn’t tease him anymore, Tsumiki liked to say he was infinitely tender towards the people he loved. Maybe that’s true. Or maybe it’s not.
Wanting to tie your classmate down with his own hoodie doesn’t usually count as tender, but as it is, Megumi feels a rather strong urge to wrap his hands around Itadori’s warm wrists—his fingers latching on beneath the pulse—and bind them together behind his back.
The higher-ups did that with him the night he swallowed the first of Sukuna’s fingers, Megumi remembers. He’d watched the first talismans be wound over and over the curve of Itadori’s arms, unconsciousness making him limp, and he’d quietly interrogated Gojo after Itadori had woken up and been weaseled into the deal, had asked him if there were marks left over from the chains.
“Are you invested in him, Me-gu-mi~?” Gojo had breathed, delighted. “He’s alright, don’t worry. But his eyes have gone so wide from shock. You’d like it.”
Megumi has found that Itadori looks like that almost all the time—his face sets like that naturally, curiosity rounding out the corners of his eyes until they soften and the dark of his pupils show. It’s not the worst expression he could have.
The worst expression Itadori can have is actually the one he’s wearing right now, bundled up in his brand new best friend’s atrociously muscled arms as they bid each other farewell after the end of the Goodwill Event. His cheeks are bunched up with happiness, his eyes scrunching as he grins, and it’s loud and bright and Megumi, fresh out of the clinical bed, can’t tear his gaze away from Itadori’s tossing head, soft pink hair flying. For some reason, the world seems to narrow down to Itadori’s ears, which are turning a ruddy red as he laughs harder and harder and harder.
“Todo’s going to break his ribs,” Megumi says, and he thinks about how tying Itadori’s arms together would make it so he wouldn’t be able to hug weird and erratically behaving senpais from Kyoto. Itadori keeps laughing.
Though they know that Itadori is strong—it’s been rather blatantly tossed in their faces enough times to be undeniable—Megumi can’t help but twitch as Todo lifts their teammate into the air and hugs him, broad arms swallowing up Itadori’s torso and blocking his head from view. Todo chortles loudly. Way too loudly. It’d be great if he didn’t.
Megumi knows first-hand how much strength is packed into those arms, how easy it is for skin to bruise under the force of their blows, and Itadori does too, right? He spent over half of the Goodwill Event dicking around with Todo, coming out of it with bruises and scrapes and tender muscles, which is admittedly the best possible outcome of physical combat with Todo, and actually, why the fuck did Itadori get to come out of it unscathed? Is he special, or something?
(Or something, mocks a voice in his head.)
There is a giant smile plastered on Itadori’s stupid face. He seems basically unbothered by the risk of being crushed to death, and actually, is fully reciprocating the hug—to Todo’s obvious elation—and Megumi tamps down on the urge to shout at them to stop messing around, for Todo to put Itadori down.
Kugisaki glances at him, and she seems to find something extremely distasteful in his carefully composed stare. She wrinkles her nose and groans, but he doesn’t notice. Megumi continues to track the movement of Itadori’s head, and the way his hoodie bunches in around his waist beneath Todo’s grip.
"You know what, even though you followed me around so much that it got annoying, I'm really gonna miss you, dude," he hears Itadori say brightly in the distance. "Thanks for all your advice! Make sure to text me, okay?"
Todo says something. The awkward angle he’s holding Itadori at makes the red cloth of his collar drag downwards, showing the base of his neck. Megumi puts his hands on his knees and does not scowl.
Nanami Kento has returned from a mission. He has successfully exorcised a second-grade curse, and has emerged largely unharmed, and with no casualties on the part of both civilians and sorcerors, which is all in all the ideal mission. He has also missed lunch, and is currently suffering from the discomfort of a knot in his lower back.
Megumi knows this because he is suffering the discomfort of Itadori telling him, in not excruciating, but nonetheless unwanted detail, about the first-grade sorcerer’s day, and how he arrived just a few hours ago looking tired and sweaty and generally dishevelled, and how maybe he’d like to go out to eat in the afternoon, before he’d have to go on another mission, and don’t you think, Fushiguro, that he might like something to eat after he showers, as well, since he missed lunch, Fushiguro, do you happen to know what Nanamin likes? Wait, would it be called lunch if it’s after lunch? Wouldn’t it be a mix of lunch and dinner? Do you call that dunch? Linner? Lincher? Wait, Fushiguro—
“I think we’re done for today,” says Megumi, tapping out of their sparring session.
Itadori plops himself on the ground and keeps talking. “Nanamin always looks out for me, so I want to do something nice for him. Ahh, I’d make him soup, you know, but I don’t have any clean containers that I can use. Plus, my thermos is gone. You remember it, right? The Hello Kitty one? I put soup in it for you!”
“Maybe you should just leave him alone,” Megumi tells him, standing up straight and letting his training sword swing to his thigh.
Itadori squints. “Hey, speaking of—didn’t I give you the thermos, Fushiguro? Do you still have it?”
He is tilting his head again, in his earnest confusion, and the fluffy pink puff on the top of it is ruffled, small grains of gravel caught in the soft strands from that one point during their spar when Itadori had dodged his strike with a prim, perfectly-executed forwards roll. After the forwards roll, Itadori did a flip that sent him over Megumi’s half-turned shoulder and would have given him the easy win if it wasn’t for Kon, who’d lunged at just the right time to pin Itadori’s arm between his bright, white teeth.
Megumi remains silent and does not think about the metal container in his bottom drawer, the one that is covered in dust, and perhaps, maybe, smells slightly of stale, spoiling soup.
“Ijichi-san’s probably going to bring something for him anyway,” he says instead, averting his eyes from Itadori’s puzzled stare and looking at the shikigami happily panting at his feet. “He’s nice like that.” Yeah. He’s very nice. At the grand old age of 26, Ijichi-san placidly agrees to most things that are demanded of him by other people, regardless of their age, albeit with copious amounts of sweat and stammering laughter, and when Megumi approaches him later to see about requesting a meal to be left at Nanami’s door (“You’ll tell him it was your idea,” he threatens) he is as placidly agreeable as he always is, which is very nice indeed.
“Oh…” murmurs Itadori. Kon lifts his head at the disappointed edge to his voice, whining softly, and he picks himself up from Megumi’s feet to pad over and slump into Itadori’s lap. Rubbing his pointed ears—dubiously textured, since they were formed from shadows as is the rest of Megumi’s shikigami, but still soft—doesn’t cheer him immediately, but the tension easing out of Itadori’s shoulders makes Megumi feel somewhat satisfied, and very much relieved at having avoided the brunt of Itadori’s (wholly misplaced) sorrow.
Crisis 1: Thermos, and Crisis 2: Sad Itadori successfully averted. Crisis 3: Nanami Kento? Status yet unknown.
“What about a massage?” says Itadori suddenly, perking up. Megumi blanks.
“Sorry, what ?”
“Since Ijichi-san’s already going to bring him something to eat, I should help with his sore shoulders,” says Itadori determinedly. He starts rolling up his uniform sleeves and the gesture inadvertently exposes the reddening bite mark from earlier. Kon’s shaggy head noses at the indents left behind by the impact of his own teeth and starts licking at it.
“He works really hard,” the other boy explains sincerely, “so he deserves it. And I’ve given a few massages in my day—people say I’m good at it.”
What about me? A voice mutters in Megumi’s head. Do I deserve it? Can you give me a test-run, just to make sure?
Itadori’s hands are warm and strong, his body limber. He is very gentle, despite being wholly capable of throwing a car, and his fingers card through Kon’s thick fur with a striking tenderness, scraping the skin underneath in a soothing way with the blunt ends of his nails. Kon’s eyes are half-lidded and he looks to be enjoying himself. Megumi notes how this is not even a full massage.
“See? Even Kon likes it!” chirps Itadori proudly. “Don’t you? Does that feel good, boy? Are you a good boy? Yes! Yes you are!”
Megumi, sometimes, has a habit of indulging Itadori.
“It’s troublesome,” he starts, and both boy and dog turn to him with identically wide-eyed expressions, perfect mirrors of each other in that aspect, “but we could borrow a box from Gojo-sensei. And you can bake him something. We’d be recycling. Ijichi-san’s just gonna bring him rice or something simple.”
“You mean Gojo-sensei’s sweets boxes?” Itadori contemplates. “Well, it’s not the best thing, but it’ll do.”
He nods approvingly. “Great plan, Fushiguro! Dessert and lunch!”
“That’s a kind gesture,” Megumi says.
“I won’t have to do the massage!” This is good news. Crisis 3 successfully averted. “Well, I’d better be going! See ya later, dude!”
Megumi furrows his brow. “Wait,” he says, almost yelps. “...I’ll help.”
Itadori has his right hand buried in the voluminous mass of Kon’s furry ruff, and he scratches it idly, slender fingers threading through soft, enveloping black as he kindly rejects Megumi’s offer of assistance.
“Nah, dude, this is my choice. I don’t want to distract you, or hold you back.” He shoots a sheepish grin, eyes scrunching up into thin, happy slits. “Thanks for training with me! You were on fire today. I’m gonna have to go now, though, or else I won’t have enough time, ‘specially cause I have to convince Gojo-sensei to get rid of his trash first, but I promise I’ll be back in time for lunch, alright!”
The back of Itadori’s uniform shirt is damp with sweat and plasters stubbornly to the curve of his back. Megumi’s gaze is anchored to the glistening nape of his neck. He decides this is fine.
“Something’s been up with you lately Megumi,” Maki says, pragmatic and straight-forward and cutting cleanly to the epicenter of whatever matter she has decided is of utmost importance this current moment.
She has her arms crossed. Her booted foot is tapping, one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, on the polished wooden floor of the hallway. Megumi nods his head in greeting and puts his newly printed collection of Itadori pictures away in his bulging folder.
Maki looks down, her eyes widen briefly, and she jerks her head up just in time to see Megumi raise his own, wiping off the remainder of a smile to face her properly.
“You know what,” Maki decides. “I don’t want to be part of this.”
“Inumaki-senpai,” says Megumi, politely. He approaches the other boy with quiet, measured steps.
“MAYO.”
Inumaki crosses his arms over each other and shakes his head vigorously, warding him off. “TUNA,” he says. “TUNA TUNA SALMON MAYO.”
In a burst of extreme athleticism, he spins on his heels and sprints away, flying over the gravel path and jumping several hedges and also Kugisaki, who is sorting her large and impressive collection of nails in varying shapes and sizes—there looks to be a particularly rusty one, which he supposes she is saving for a particularly sadistic occasion—out on the grass.
“SALMON MAYO COD,” shouts Inumaki passionately from the distance he has relocated himself to. His eyes are wide and accusing, and the whites very visible in spite of the many many metres now between them. “COD.”
Megumi makes a noncommittal noise and looks down at his copy of BINDING VOWS TO BESTOW ON OTHER PEOPLE FOR BEGINNERS in mild disappointment.
“Hm.”
Poor Megumi’s been going through some troubles recently, Satoru’s observed, with a distinct measure of delight, and a not a small amount of amusement.
He’s been a troublesome kid before, getting into fight after fight in middle school and then growing up into a sullen, grumpy little teenager who pretends he’s not soft and squishy on the inside, and who never appreciates Satoru’s kindnesses as he truly ought to, but it’s always been—if you were to ask Satoru, and you should, really, since this is his ward—very cute!
This is also very cute, obviously. Megumi mooning over sweet, cheery Itadori—and it’s quite possibly the most cliche thing Satoru has seen, and he’s seen many, courtesy of his large and admirable collection of movies, each injected with a myriad of different filmic formulas and television tropes—and the two of them dancing around each other, a situation quite reminiscent of puppy love, and ah, isn’t that the most adorable thing?
It’s sometimes unclear which one is the puppy in this situation—at first glance, it would be Yuuji, eager and earnest and wide-wet-eyed. At another first glance, from a different angle, it would be Megumi, whose signature shikigami were actually dogs, and who had the blessed fortune of having the character for it in his own name. At a first glance with Satoru's six eyes, which are obviously superior to any other pair, they are both just as doggedly adorable as the other, though perhaps Megumi's teeth are sharper, and Yuuji's demeanour brighter, and perhaps only one of them is so feverishly devoted to the hunt.
Haha, puppy love indeed!
“Should you be encouraging this?” Nanami tells him, exasperated, with a touch of admonishment. What a spoil sport. His mouth thins into a disapproving line as Megumi smoothly guides Yuuji away from a gushing store advisor, his hand pressing into the small of the other boy's back. "And on a mission, no less?"
“Of course,” says Satoru happily. “They’re so charming together, don’t you think? Like two dogs in a playpen!”
“Should you really be calling your students dogs?” Nanami sighs. His dour expression almost matches Kugisaki's in the background, where she is dully watching Megumi clutch the loose folds of Yuuji's hoodie and press him closer, possessively.
Satoru ignores him. Megumi’s just growing up!
“Ah, there you are, Fushigu—what are you doing?”
Megumi looks up calmly. “I’m summoning one of my shikigami,” he says.
“Okay, but why?” Kugisaki frowns. “There’s no occasion for it, is there? You’re not training. Itadori’s not here and asking you if he can pet them. I’m not asking to pet them. You’re usually the kind of guy to conserve your energy until you need it.”
Kugisaki’s eyes narrow, and suddenly, a very heavy pressure seems to weigh down the air. “This is something to do with Itadori, isn’t it?”
Megumi looks up at her scowling face. He looks down at his shadow.
“Keep an eye on Itadori,” he instructs, ignoring Kugisaki’s deadpan expression.
At his command, Kon sits, his dark eyes peering upwards and his tail wagging furiously. His jaw falls open in a doggish grin upon recognition of Itadori’s name—Megumi owes this to the fact that Itadori is the only person who will wrestle with him and feed him homemade chicken nuggets, which shikigami are not usually fed, and also because Itadori’s hugs incite a deep and pervasive joy in his shadow beasts. Megumi is sure he will follow this particular order with more dedication than anything else he has ever done.
“If anyone tries to touch him, you have free reign.”
“Bark! ”
“Good boy.”