Chapter 1: mid-March to mid-April
Notes:
The beginning of this fic contains non-con of circumstance, by which I mean Megumi proposes an arrangement, but only under circumstances that leave him little choice. Sukuna accepts. It's unclear whether Megumi would be able to rescind consent safely, though he doesn't consider/try it. Sex is rough at times but not violent. After some time, their relationship develops, but there is still canon-typical violence and morality.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
I dreamed I was holding
A double-edged sword close to my body—
What does it foretell? It tells
That I shall meet you soon.—Manyōshū IV: 604
The air pressure swelled as Megumi approached Sukuna’s shrine. They were amongst mountains, but it felt as though Megumi was below sea level: the leaves, grass, rocks, and even light all hung heavily. With dense foreboding thickening the air, Megumi felt distinctly that he was descending to his doom. This was the last gambit of a desperate man. But waking up in a forest in Heian period Japan would do that to a person.
Clothed as he was now in a dark kosode, none of Megumi’s appearance immediately betrayed his origin; only his phone, now scorched and dead, and school uniform, packed away in his bag, evidenced his time traveling. But the heart-pounding dread still tasted like bile in his throat even a month after he’d first realized where he was—when.
The sun had been setting when Megumi first woke slumped against a tree trunk, his head throbbing. The terrible awareness that something was wrong had trickled into him like sharp ice over the next hour of wandering, during which Megumi found no path, no city, no Gojou-sensei or Kugisaki or Itadori. Instead he’d only come across an old-fashioned village with clothes hung out to dry, farming tools along the outer walls, and fires flickering for light.
He’d felt like a lost child, minuscule and alone and helpless with the huts and towering forests looming over him. Where was he? Hadn’t he just been fighting a curse with Gojou-sensei and Itadori? It’d been shaped like a crane, wings battered by the thicket, easy to suppress if not for how it had kept blinking in and out of his vision, freezing them in—in time. Could it be: similar to the tree and volcano-based cursed spirits, this crane manifested through fears of time and the lack of it, and Megumi had been struck by its wings, blacked out, and regained consciousness here, now, whenever now was.
Needing to speak to someone, truly anyone—for Megumi hadn’t been convinced he wasn’t dreaming, except he couldn’t rouse himself no matter what he tried, and Kon had seemed just as confused—Megumi skirted the edge of the village, trying to stay inconspicuous while looking in vain for any sign that his frightened suspicions might be wrong, but arrived at a shrine that only appeared to confirm them: olden architecture, but freshly built.
He’d knocked on the doorframe and, when the monk turned, bowed lowly. “Please, I need help,” Megumi had said, speaking as formally as he knew. “May I know where I am? And what year we are in?”
“Who are you?” the monk then asked, clearly looking over Megumi’s clothes and unkempt state. “A traveler?”
After some thought: “A man seeking refuge.”
The monk had frowned, the wrinkled, leathered lines of his face deepening. “And seeking more—the year?”
“Yes, the year.”
“Speak clearly,” the monk had demanded, gruff.
It’d struck Megumi then; although he was speaking traditionally, the terms he used weren’t known. “The season,” he’d tried. “The time period?”
Then at last, the monk understood. “You know not even of the child Emperor’s rule? It has been almost four seasons since the Later Emperor Ichigo ascended the Chrysanthemum Throne.”
Megumi hadn’t recognized the name. He figured he was likely in a time earlier than Meiji and earlier than Edo, too, since the monk failed to mention the shogunate. Distantly, despite the panic gnawing at his thoughts, Megumi had been grateful for his penchant for documentaries and even the recent wave of research assignments on ancient cursed spirits. He asked, tentatively, “Who is the ruling regent, while the Emperor is young?”
The monk stared at him suspiciously but gave Megumi an answer. “Fujiwara no Michinaga is the sesshou.”
The pieces had fallen together from that: the Fujiwara clan reached the height of their power in the early 1000s, which meant Megumi had been transported back a thousand years. He might have skipped out on history lessons in middle school, but Principal Yaga was stringent about his students learning jujutsu history, and the Heian Period was one of the highlights.
It was fortunate, in this unforgiving era; as the days passed, Megumi had known enough to not have to ask questions that would get him harassed, though he’d mainly kept quiet and to himself, trying not to blunder too obviously. The monk had been kind enough to let Megumi stay at the shrine for a week, at first to avoid the rain, then because it was apparent Megumi had nowhere to go, but Megumi did not venture further into the small town out of fear he might be provoke suspicion.
But it had worn on him to simply shelter in place, too. Passivity bred helplessness, and it compounded every moment that Megumi just sat there, eating bland meals of rice. From the moment he’d discovered he wasn’t in the modern era anymore, Megumi had been shadowed doggedly by distress, clinging to him like a curse. He’d been alone, horribly so, afraid to answer even the monk’s most inane questions lest his answers exposed his secret, and Megumi couldn’t even guess if divulging the truth would hurt or help.
He’d needed a solution, a way back, and surely, he’d thought, there must be something: a merciless era, yes, but also the Golden Age of Sorcery, that’d seen the rise of the three major clans, Sugawara no Michizane’s reign, and—Megumi had paused with a frown—the plague of Ryoumen Sukuna.
The name had rung in Megumi’s mind for weeks afterward, during the days with the curt but hospitable monk, who put him to work sweeping and washing clothes, and in the subsequent weeks, as well, when Megumi left to find the nearest jujutsu school to ask for aid. Heian-Kyo, former Kyoto, had been only a few days’ journey by foot, but the monk had been clearly reluctant to tell Megumi this, leaving him with more warnings than directions.
“Only death follows that path,” he’d said. Even when Megumi assured him of his convictions and training, the monk had sighed. “Even the strongest cannot win against a god.”
Megumi hadn’t understood then. But when he arrived at the capital city and found the jujutsu school, as his pulse quickened and world cracked and hope shattered, the name had echoed in his head again: Ryoumen Sukuna.
The sorcerers had been dead, nearly all of them—certainly all those who might have helped Megumi. A young sorcerer, stuttering in tears, recounted their demise: just one moon-cycle prior, the jujutsu sorcerers of the school had pooled their powers and attacked Sukuna only to be squashed like mites.
“His d-domain,” the boy cried. “I e-escaped, but I saw—and it felt—”
Devastating cursed energy had suffocated the school grounds, and no sorcerer veteran or powerful enough—no clan leader no Tengen—to help him had remained, but he’d stayed regardless, due to some vague notion of duty, in case curses manifested from the despair. He’d assisted the cook, though portions were unfulfilling, and with minor menial tasks, mainly keeping an eye out and to himself.
On his fourth day at the school, Megumi had met a man with the family name Zen’in. Blinding hope had jolted through him: the Zen’ins would listen if he showed them his cursed technique. But just as quickly, that optimism had crumbled. The man wasn’t of the Zen’in clan; he simply was a Zen’in. Perhaps he was one of Megumi’s ancestors, but despite being a sorcerer, he owned no money nor influence. The stores of cursed tools and library of inexhaustible resources, the web of contacts and connections, the wealth—none of it existed yet. Megumi was a generation too early in time to be able to rely on the clan.
Pessimism had stuck like a burr, hooked into his skin. After a week, the downtime and forlorn air had spawned their own melancholy in Megumi; the ordeal was a never-ending, surreal nightmare he couldn’t startle from, and he had no plan, not even the vision of one.
He’d laid those nights on a hard reed mat, curled on his side, shoulder and spine aching, desperately imagining that he might wake and see Itadori there or Gojou-sensei, who would lean over him and say, “Wow, you sure slept for a long time, Megumi.”
But the disconsolate mornings had come and gone, and Megumi had remained displaced a thousand years in the past, slowly desiccated of hope, as though it had been eroded from him by the watery rice, abrasive clothing, sleepless nights. After two weeks of the same—of nothing at all—the futility of Megumi's plans distilled into desperation, which had him contemplating that name again: Ryoumen Sukuna, the only familiar thing here.
But the people spoke of Sukuna in this era with utter terror. There was no air of triumph like in the modern day. Sukuna hadn’t been sealed yet, and the world knew him as the unbeatable, invincible King of Curses. He wasn’t the Sukuna that Megumi knew.
Megumi had to have been crazy to consider it, or simply utterly lost, or perhaps both. All sorcerers were some degree of insane, yes, but Megumi had known his idea was well past risky and more foolish. The people remaining at the school certainly hadn’t understood, pleading with Megumi not to go when he’d asked where Sukuna resided.
Yet here Megumi was, a week’s journey later. He recalled the way Sukuna had been fascinated by him in the future, curious about his technique during their encounter at the detention center. Maybe, just maybe, he would deign to help him, if Megumi could keep his head long enough to ask.
At the very least, he had a better chance here than at the Imperial Court, which Megumi would have thoroughly failed to navigate, or finding Tengen, who could stay hidden indefinitely. Sukuna was the most powerful being in this era; only the three vengeful curses could graze his strength. If anyone would be able to bend time, it would be him.
Megumi knew Sukuna was unpredictable and quick to kill, not even only if he was displeased but simply on a whim. But from desperation bloomed stupid, half-baked plans. Was that not why Sukuna had first shown interest in him? Megumi’s bold scheme to defeat Sukuna into restoring Itadori’s heart—that had probably been just as unwise as his current endeavor.
Ever since their fight, Megumi had puzzled constantly over what potential Sukuna saw in him. He’d been toyed with, Sukuna with his hands in his pockets, commenting casually on Megumi’s combat, before the act had given way to a truer resentment, Megumi had felt, as the cursed energy whipped him just as meanly as the hits torpedoing him through buildings.
Yet even then—even then, Sukuna’s temper had quelled. Whatever anger he’d held at the world for his sealing, whatever he’d projected at Megumi simply for being present, he’d worked it out in every blow until finally calming and inquiring instead about Megumi’s technique.
Megumi didn’t understand it, but that strange interest was his one advantage now, the ace up his sleeve. He’d need all his cards on the table just to win an audience, after which point he could only bet his safety on intriguing Sukuna again, somehow. So that was the measly gamble.
His footsteps were loud and obvious, as ungainly as the plan. There was no birdsong in this place. Even the trees bent to Sukuna’s will; every dust particle cowered. Megumi felt the pressure in his knees. It clogged his diaphragm. Go back, go back, the shadows between bones and skulls whispered, along blades of grass, under Megumi’s feet. The battle could not even be fought, let alone won.
But Megumi wasn’t here to fight. It wasn’t boldness that propelled him onward through the wall of malicious energy, but fatalism and hope. He took one step, then another.
Sukuna’s shrine stood in a clearing within the forest, the entrance marked by a red torii towering over Megumi’s head. Further was the building itself, only a single hall with stairs leading to its doorway. The roof was ornate, and stone shaped as curved horns grew from it. From the slats—were those humans skulls? Megumi swallowed thickly and tasted death on the wind. The wild weeds rustled, gusts whistling through the animal skulls littering the grounds.
Sukuna’s cursed energy felt like an ocean upon his head. It was nearly impossible to move. I’m going to die, Megumi thought, knew. His instincts screeched. But he steeled himself, took an unsteady breath, and crossed under the archway.
A figure appeared at the doorway of the shrine almost immediately, shadowed by the roof’s shade. They had their own potent cursed energy, although small compared to Sukuna’s raging aura. “A jujutsu sorcerer,” they said. “You come to your death so willingly?”
“Not my death,” said Megumi. “A conversation.”
The figure stepped forward into the light, revealing themselves to be dressed as a monk, with white chin-length hair. “There is no one in this world worthy to converse with Master Sukuna,” they snarled.
Megumi brought his cursed energy to the forefront, readying himself just in case. “I have something Sukuna would like to hear.”
Rage contorted the monk’s face. “Addressing my lord by name? Show some respect, you scum!” they yelled.
Their aura swelled, and suddenly shards of ice shot toward Megumi near the speed of bullets. Megumi ducked, rolled, and got his bearings in a crouch. One icicle flew past him and cold air gusted by.
“I just need an audience!” Megumi shouted. “I have news from the future.”
“Master Sukuna has no use for an oracle, especially not a pathetic one like you.”
Cool mist channeled by the monk then surrounded Megumi, and he leapt out of the cloud right before a column of ice materialized where he’d stood. He only mostly successfully avoided being frozen; Megumi’s foot was caught.
He brought his hands together and summoned Kon, who roared to the surface from below, breaking Megumi from the ice as he did. The monk wasn’t prepared for Kon’s speed; in moments, it covered the distance between them and crashed into Sukuna’s servant, sending them both flying back into the shrine, out of view. Megumi ran toward them. Then—
His blood shivered, and his heart stilled in his chest. He couldn’t hear over his fear. Malevolence itself stood in front of him, holding Kon in the air with a hand around his snout, muzzling him. His shikigami was struggling, lashing out, but Sukuna—this was Ryoumen Sukuna—was unmoved.
Megumi released his technique before Sukuna could destroy Kon, and Sukuna glanced, unimpressed, at his empty hand, one of only four. He was different in this time: larger than Itadori by good measure, with doubled arms, and half his face obscured by some type of wood; more intimidating, more formidable, which Megumi hadn’t realized was possible; just more in every way.
Megumi couldn’t move; he didn’t dare. Sukuna would slice his head off, or the very air would do it for him. He tried to breathe and wondered if Sukuna would kill him for it, but after a few unsteady moments, Megumi gathered himself. It was too late to turn back. He had confronted Sukuna before, just like this, and in the same way, his hands had trembled then; but he had done it.
Megumi saw Sukuna open his mouth and expected it to hurt, somehow. But Sukuna said, with the same silvery voice, sounding bored, “Are all you jujutsu sorcerers this annoying?”
Megumi was bowing before he knew it. “I am not a sorcerer from the school.”
“A curse user?” Sukuna asked, but before Megumi could correct him, continued, “Well, whatever. I dislike disturbances.”
He was next to Megumi in a flash. Megumi didn’t have a moment to even think of moving before Sukuna grabbed him by the throat, raising him off the ground like a doll. His grip was iron, and his nails stabbed into Megumi’s neck and drew blood. A helpless cry escaped Megumi before he choked as Sukuna squeezed, digging his claws in even further.
Megumi fought against the pain and panic overtaking his senses. The only reason he wasn’t dead already was because Sukuna enjoyed playing with his food. But he’d been at Sukuna’s mercy the moment he stepped close enough to feel his aura, and he’d still come this far.
“Nue,” he gasped, and his shikigami screeched as it flew in.
Megumi fell unceremoniously when Sukuna dropped him to evade, and he coughed, staggering back up to his feet while rubbing his throat. His hand came away smeared with blood.
With a single swipe of an arm, Sukuna swatted Nue away like a fly, and his shikigami became an orange blur until Megumi released it. He wasn’t trying to fight. What he needed was distance, time—an opportunity.
He turned and ran, trying to put space between himself and Sukuna. But immediately, he was wrenched back, Sukuna hooking the back of his collar and flinging him to the right. Megumi caught himself, but his ankle twinged on the impact.
Sukuna wasn’t in Megumi’s line of sight when he looked up. His cursed energy was a thick smog, and Megumi couldn’t track him with it. He looked around wildly—
Then a force struck Megumi in the back. Air slammed out of him, and he gasped and tasted blood as he flipped, only for it to happen again a moment later as his body collided into something solid and rough—a tree. Everything hurt. His insides felt pulverized.
Megumi struggled to his knees, losing his balance around the tree roots. In his swimming vision, he saw Sukuna approaching, slowly and self-assured. This moment was Megumi’s only chance.
Prostrating himself was easy, in the end, despite the anxious flurry of his nerves. Megumi bent low, touching his forehead to the ground, and kept his arms outstretched in front of him, palms facing up.
He heard Sukuna pause in front of him. A second ticked by. Megumi flinched when he felt Sukuna step on his fingers, but he didn’t draw them away.
“Not so boring after all,” mused Sukuna.
Megumi didn’t dare glance up. He grit his teeth and kept still. Sweat dripped from his hairline onto his cheek.
“Let us speak, then, jujutsu sorcerer. Your technique is rare,” said Sukuna. “Worry not, I find myself in a good mood today. You, after all, did not bring a pack of idiots with you like the last one.”
Megumi’s eyes widened; that was similar to what Sukuna had said to him back at the jail when they’d first fought. Hesitantly, he peeked up and squinted through his greying vision to make out the features of Sukuna’s face, regarding him with curiosity. When Sukuna didn’t cut his neck for having the audacity to look at him—dramatic, flippant curse that he was—Megumi pushed himself up more, until he was still seated but no longer bowing prone.
“I am from the future—a thousand years—four-thousand seasons from now,” he said, willing his voice to not waver. “I can be of use to you. I can offer you—”
“Ah,” interrupted Sukuna, “another oracle. What is it about you people, so stuck in your own delusion that it pushes you to include others in it?”
“It’s not delusion,” Megumi insisted, “nor am I an oracle. I am from the future and have…objects from my time to prove it. And stories, and knowledge.”
“Objects can be fabricated. I am all-powerful, not all-seeing. How would I know they are from the future? And stories, too. For example,” Sukuna remarked with a grin, “listen to my story of the future: there once was a jujutsu sorcerer with black hair who foolishly bothered the King of Curses, and when he offered nothing of value, his throat was slit and his heart pulled from his chest.”
Megumi said nothing but couldn’t help his flinch. Sukuna was murderous by whimsy. How could Megumi hope to convince him? His ribs hurt, throbbing with each galloping beat of his heart, and with Sukuna’s aura around him, Megumi could nearly imagine claws plunging into him. He was plagued with the memory of Itadori.
Sukuna crouched down in front of Megumi, casual and at ease. The eyes on the gnarled, wooden side of his face were vertical, and Megumi couldn’t pull his gaze away. It was like meeting Sukuna all over again, being caught by the sinister gaze.
“So,” Sukuna said, “go on then, tell me why I should spare you.”
And so it came down to this: the last gambit. “Myself,” Megumi said. “I can offer you myself. Whatever form that might take.”
“Yourself,” contemplated Sukuna.
He grabbed Megumi’s jaw, and his nails dug into his cheeks, squeezing, but this time he didn’t break skin. Megumi’s lips puckered forcibly, but he tried to stay pliant, wincing only slightly as Sukuna tilted his face this way and that.
Sukuna huffed a laugh. “What a mouth you have on you. So daring.”
Megumi grit his teeth when Sukuna forced his thumb between his lips, but the pressure was insistent, and not even a second passed before he let up. Sukuna’s thumb breached deep, stroking over Megumi’s tongue and prodding at his gums and teeth. The violation squirmed in his core, but Megumi didn’t bite and only stared up at Sukuna with thinly veiled apprehension.
Sukuna pressed down on Megumi’s tongue, forcing his jaw open further. Megumi felt like a horse, having its teeth checked for health before purchase, and his heart thumped so loudly he would bet Sukuna could hear it. Sukuna kept him like that for ages, Megumi tasting the mud and blood and cursed energy on the pad of Sukuna’s thumb.
A pointed nail dug into Megumi’s bottom lip as Sukuna began pulling away, and that, too, Megumi bore in uneasy silence before, at last released, Megumi wrenched himself back and wiped his mouth. He glared, trying to figure out Sukuna’s game.
“Stories and objects from the future,” Sukuna said, then repeated, “and yourself.”
Megumi twigged to that—that Sukuna was interested in Megumi’s offer of himself. In what way, he didn’t know: his technique, his knowledge, his…body? The taste of Sukuna’s skin lingered on his tongue.
“You seem to hold yourself in high regard, to offer yourself to me and expect me to want you,” said Sukuna.
Megumi chose his words wisely. “However you regard me—that’s my value. I am simply…hoping that you might see the benefits of hearing me out.”
“And what benefit does this give you?”
Megumi replied, “You are strong—the strongest. And so you’re the only one who could hear my story and understand it, do something with it.”
Sukuna barked a raucous laugh. “Flattery?” he asked with a wide grin. “If you are going to beg for your life, I prefer you to be crying.”
But Megumi instead peered at Sukuna, eye to eye through the blood dripping from his brow—a gamble again, but he remembered Sukuna enjoying his temerity in the future. “It’s not flattery,” Megumi responded. “It’s faith.”
That brought pause. Sukuna considered him. “Your words are pretty, but you are far from the first jujutsu sorcerer to try making a pact with me, seeking power beyond his means. It always turns into the same story—always so fucking boring.”
Megumi swallowed thickly. His heart was in his throat. “I know you in my time. One thousand years from now, you, Sukuna, are there. You know me. And you didn’t find me boring then.”
Sukuna paused, then his eyes narrowed. In a flurry of movement, Megumi was lifted and pinned against a nearby tree; bark dug into his back and shoulders as he flailed slightly, and his feet, dangling off the ground, kicked ineffectively until he blinked and gathered his bearings. Then he forcibly stilled and only grimaced, trying to avoid Sukuna’s sharp nails around his neck.
With a light touch, Sukuna traced along Megumi’s cheek, down his torso. He drew a line down Megumi’s side, and grasped his hip, holding him. Another hand—the third—brushed against his left thigh. Air stalled in Megumi’s chest. He couldn’t move; he couldn’t even look.
Sukuna cupped Megumi’s crotch, feeling him, and Megumi held his breath, his stomach somersaulting from Sukuna’s touch and the nerves. He shifted, struggling, trying to shrink away, but Sukuna’s hand simply followed.
He leaned in close, and Megumi could feel his smile against his cheek. “Tell me, little sorcerer, did I ever fuck you in your future?”
“No,” Megumi managed.
“Pity,” said Sukuna. “I wonder why.”
His fingers tightened, pricking Megumi’s skin and drawing a wince. But then a shivery sensation cascaded through Megumi’s body starting from his neck: Sukuna was healing him. The foggy ache in his head dissipated, and Megumi’s vision cleared.
Sukuna commented, “I tend not to enjoy when my meals fall asleep on me.”
Right. Megumi swallowed and felt Sukuna’s palm against his throat. “Here?”
“So eager,” Sukuna leered. A humiliated tremble burned through Megumi. He was hyperaware of every point Sukuna was touching him.
Then Sukuna wrenched Megumi from the tree and at breakneck speed transported them through the forest. When they came to a stop, they were at Sukuna’s shrine, tall and imposing.
The world swirled around Megumi as adrenaline surged through him. This had happened so fast; he wasn’t—wait—
With a clatter, Sukuna slammed the door open and tossed Megumi onto the floor. He landed on his back and scrambled to sit up as he stared at Sukuna. Tension rose. Again, Sukuna crouched in front of Megumi. One of his hands cupped Megumi’s cheek, and Megumi flinched.
He was expecting pain. But instead, Sukuna asked, “What is your name?”
Megumi thought about giving him a fake one. Perhaps that would explain why Sukuna didn’t recognize him in the future, even though they’d now met here. But lying would not win him any favors. He answered honestly, “Fushiguro Megumi.”
“Then, Fushiguro Megumi,” drawled Sukuna. He pressed Megumi to the floor, and all four of his eyes pinned Megumi down like chains. “Prove yourself.”
Notes:
The Heian period lasted from 794 to 1185 AD, marked by Emperor Kammu moving the capital to Heian-Kyo, former Kyoto. This era is characterized by a decline of Chinese influence in Japan and the development of what we’ve come to recognize as “traditionally Japanese”—clothing such as kimonos, food, literature, art, and culture.
Pre-Renaissance, before BC and AD were utilized for year-keeping, people used the regnal years of monarchs or the pope ("nth year of the reign of King X”) when tracking events. Japan still uses regnal eras officially; they are currently in the Reiwa era, marked by Emperor Naruhito ascending the throne on May 1, 2019.
Moon cycles and seasons were used to track time easily by non-scholars. Days were split into 6 daytime units rather than 12 hours, and each month was basically a moon cycle. The full moon occurred at mid-month, and the new moon was the last day.
The Fujiwara clan was a family that, generation after generation during the Heian era, effectively ruled over Japan by dominating/controlling regent positions in the Imperial Court. Fujiwara no Michinaga expanded the family’s power to its height by assuming various powerful positions himself, having his daughters marry emperors, and eventually becoming Chancellor.
The Emperor Go-Ichigo was a child when he ascended, around age 7-8 in 1017 AD, and Michinaga was regent throughout his rule, including when the Emperor grew older. Sesshou is the title given to the regent while the emperor is still a child, and kanpaku is the title for the regent "advisor" when the emperor is an adult.
Sugawara no Michizane was a political figure until he was dishonored and demoted. When he died in 903 AD, Imperial buildings were struck by lightning and members of the Imperial family died, which made people believe Michizane had become a vengeful spirit. To appease him, they built the Kitano Tenmangu Shrine in his name, which eventually led to Michizane being deified in the Shinto religion as Tenjin, the patron god of academics and learning.
In JJK, Gojou notes that the Gojou clan and Okkotsu distantly descend from the Sugawara clan and Michizane specifically, who is one of the big three vengeful cursed spirits in the sorcery world.
It is also stated that Tengen was helping spread Buddhism during the Nara period (710-784 AD) as the basis for sorcery.
Chapter Text
Terrible are the ocean billows;
Yet, shall we not set sail
With entreaties to the gods?—Manyōshū VII: 1232
Sukuna’s hands were everywhere. Megumi’s instincts rebelled against the mass of cursed energy squeezing in from all sides; he couldn’t simply lay back and show his belly. But Sukuna had him on his back in seconds.
Megumi was manhandled down, and one of Sukuna’s hands wrapped around a wrist, pressing and holding it next to Megumi’s head. The roaming touches were presumptuous and insistent, and within this empty shrine, there was no distraction from Sukuna’s aura, so forceful and dense that there was no room left for anything else, even breath. It made it impossible to think.
Roughly, Sukuna ripped through Megumi’s clothes, and Megumi shivered as his kosode fell apart in tatters. The air hit his exposed chest, and Megumi cringed back against the floor. He wanted to cover himself, to hide—to run—but Sukuna’s hands and presence were immovable.
Instead, Megumi had to simply allow this, breathing heavily as a blush bloomed on his cheeks and crept down his neck and chest. It was embarrassing and—and terrible, but Sukuna’s expression was burningly covetous. Megumi’s gut tightened despite himself.
He swallowed thickly, gaze flicking over Sukuna’s face and body. From here, looking up at him, Megumi could tell that the wooden mask was actually fused with Sukuna’s skin, obscuring half his face. The eyes on that side, vertically aligned, were within the wood itself, not quite under. Still, they were no less piercing.
Was it fear that made Megumi’s heartbeat thunder in his ears? Was it the rousing of his blood? Air felt thin, and Megumi exhaled shakily. He forcibly relaxed his tensed muscles, trying to ready himself. There was no point fighting this, and he’d come to Sukuna with eyes wide open; he’d known Sukuna could want or use him this way, and it’d changed nothing then about Megumi’s determination to approach him, and it changed nothing now. This was just—
Megumi caught Sukuna’s eyes, the blaze of them, and felt his gaze enchain him. His heart hammered. Then, with untraceable speed, Sukuna grabbed a fistful of Megumi’s hair. Megumi had one blinding second of surprise-slash-panic, and then Sukuna kissed him, hard.
It was rough and vicious. Sukuna bit at Megumi’s bottom lip, and Megumi gasped more from pain than pleasure, but his mouth opened all the same, and then Sukuna’s tongue fucked into his mouth. Megumi heard himself whimper. He couldn’t think past his tangled breath and the mouth stealing his oxygen.
The hand in his hair yanked again, pulling Megumi’s head back, and Sukuna moved down to his neck. His teeth were sharp; his tongue was wet and wide as he licked an upward line. Megumi shrank back, but he couldn’t contain a gasp when Sukuna retraced his path with small bites against his jugular, down to his collarbones. The mocking grin was obvious, even with Megumi’s eyes clenched tightly.
He blinked them open when Sukuna shifted back. A thumb found the corner of Megumi’s mouth, and Megumi was subject to Sukuna’s grin widen even further, crueler. “Drooling for it, aren’t you?”
Megumi’s insides flip-flopped, and his face burned. “That’s not—” He ducked his head, wiping at his mouth with his free hand.
But Sukuna was quick to ply Megumi’s hand away and pin it down, too. With a single finger, the razor-edge of his nail, he traced a long line from Megumi’s wrist to elbow, along the soft flesh of his inner arm. Then he did the same along Megumi’s side, down the ridges of his ribs, and Megumi’s heart kicked back into overdrive.
There was a fine line between adrenaline and arousal, and Megumi was held on that edge now, hot all over and quivering. Sensation sank in deep, deeper, as Sukuna’s hands roamed, palm hot against his sides, on his chest and stomach, then down to his thighs.
When Sukuna pushed Megumi’s legs apart as if it was his right, Megumi found himself helpless to resist. He was left spread wide and exposed entirely. The humiliation of it squirmed in his core already, but then Sukuna’s hips rubbed down against his, and an absolutely mortifying noise slipped from Megumi’s throat. Oh, god. He was hard, and the torn scraps of his clothes and undergarment did nothing to hide it.
Sukuna’s bottom-half was still clothed, but Megumi could feel that Sukuna was hard, too, which—oh. This was happening. Reality set in with startling speed, but Megumi had no time for rational thought before Sukuna moved against him again. A gasp escaped Megumi. It felt good, a hot wave of pleasure blooming through his body.
Megumi held back a whimper. He could feel the bulging, hard line of Sukuna’s cock, separated only by a layer of thin fabric, and Megumi trembled with—with desire. He wasn’t himself, or his brain had simply been fried by Sukuna’s scorching presence; that was the only explanation for why Megumi was reacting this way, why it was so impossibly hot.
Once, caught up in the moment, he had jerked off to it—this—the searing sense of Sukuna’s monumental aura focused on him. Curled beneath his sheets, pulling his cock as frenzied arousal rose through him, Megumi had conjured the memory of Sukuna’s rakish, mean grin and the sheer power of him.
After, Megumi had looked at the come on his hand and his soft, wet cock, and shame and fear had drained the pleasure from him. He’d wiped himself down immediately and sworn never to do it again.
And he hadn’t, honestly, but his thoughts still guiltily strayed to the night on occasion. Around Itadori, Megumi had sometimes felt the phantom of Sukuna’s gaze, and the hair on his arms would stand as Megumi suppressed a vulnerable shiver. He’d wondered if Sukuna somehow knew.
But now, Megumi felt even more exposed, unbelievably so. This was both everything and nothing like he’d imagined—it was simply more. He was high off the taste of Sukuna’s power, which bristled like electricity as their bodies touched.
Sukuna’s hand left Megumi’s wrist and slowly trailed down his body. Megumi’s next breath trembled, and when Sukuna reached his lower stomach, just above his hard cock, his hips bucked involuntarily, earning Megumi a low, rumbling laugh. “Good.”
The hand—giant and soft and hot—cupped Megumi’s crotch, and any remaining thought fell from Megumi along with a strangled moan. His mind was fuzzy, alight with sensation. He was—oh, god—he was humping Sukuna’s palm himself, like a mindless whore.
Some of the noises he was making, tiny involuntary things, and the way Sukuna’s chuckles vibrated through his core, and yet Megumi couldn’t stop. It was too much, and wrong, and everything Megumi had never known he’d be into, but horribly was.
Pleasure ricocheted through him as Sukuna’s hand moved, accompanying Megumi’s rutting. And Megumi was—he was going to come. His body acted of its own accord, and he bit his lip as he worked himself, desperately seeking more, and it built and built and—
The contact disappeared abruptly, and cold emptiness crashed down around Megumi. “No,” he whined, trying to chase it.
Sukuna laughed, taunting, and reality rushed back in. Megumi was suddenly, appallingly aware of himself, of his bawdy state. He grimaced, glancing down himself to his hard, glistening cock and heaving chest and legs splayed wide. But even as embarrassment trickled through him, arousal swirled just as thickly, a haze in the hot air between them.
A hot hand wrapped around his cock, Sukuna’s palm was wet with saliva enveloping Megumi, and he gasped as his hips jerked. Megumi could hardly bare it. His hands came up to cover his face, hiding himself, but he couldn’t stop his small whimpers, which sounded so loud in his ears.
Sukuna stroked him, twisting on each upstroke, and Megumi cried out as the pleasure rose again. His dick was so sensitive, it felt like, and his head was a hot muddle. It was too much; it was, it was—
Sukuna removed his hand, and the edge eluded Megumi again. His head tipped back, his hands clenched where they were covering his eyes, and Megumi groaned, biting his lips so he didn’t accidentally ask for more. He was shamefully aware of how much he wanted it, how much his body had betrayed him already.
“Was this what you desired all along?” Sukuna wondered, derisive. “You made noises about the future, but it seems you truly just wanted to get fucked.”
The words hit Megumi right in the gut. He swallowed and removed his hands from his face, shifting when he met Sukuna’s gaze. “I’m telling the truth,” he maintained.
Sukuna made a considering noise. “I will be the one to decide that.”
He kneeled back between Megumi’s legs and dragged Megumi to meet him, until his ass was against Sukuna’s thighs. One of Megumi’s legs was placed on his shoulder, which raised Megumi’s hips off the ground a bit, and the other was pushed even further to the side. The manhandling went straight to Megumi’s dick, an aching arousal. He was entirely as Sukuna’s mercy, though it wasn’t like he hadn’t been from the moment he stepped foot near the shrine.
The bulge of Sukuna’s erection was obvious under his kimono now, and Megumi felt so naked before him. His hole clenched in some combination of anticipation and apprehension. God, was he really going to do this?
There wasn’t a chance to think. Sukuna spat on his fingers crassly and brought them to Megumi’s rim without pause, and Megumi jumped, startled, at the wetness smeared there. It was so intimate, this part of him. No one else had ever touched him here, and now—
This was torture. Megumi’s body was ablaze with suspense as his heart spun nervously. Sukuna’s fingers teased over his hole, not entering yet but still so full of intent: Sukuna was going to fuck him.
Megumi’s breath tripped. He was hyperaware of it all, from the fingers and hands to Sukuna’s whole body and fiery presence. Suddenly, instead of good, it was only overwhelming. His next inhale wasn’t enough, and Megumi couldn’t make his lungs work.
The clarity was alarming and acidic. What was he doing here, not just in Sukuna’s arms, but in this time at all? It shouldn’t have been possible, time travel a thousand years into the past, but here Megumi was, awoken into the reality of these unknown depths. He’d done nothing else for a month but keep his chin above water, and yet somehow that’d resulted in him here, sunken so far and drowning by Sukuna’s touch. He shouldn’t; it was—
But then Sukuna covered Megumi’s body and kissed him, plying him with slow, arresting movement. His lips were softer this time and more gentle. Megumi’s focus shifted back to Sukuna, who was so broad upon him that he blocked out the rest of the world. There was nothing else except them for a moment, a shared breath.
Slowly, Megumi eased, coming unspooled again. The trepidation dissipated. A thumb rubbed over a nipple, then pinched, like Sukuna couldn’t hold back for long, and Megumi found himself leaning into it with a short gasp against Sukuna’s lips.
Sukuna leaned back then and appraised Megumi. Something in his expression must have been satisfactory, because Sukuna smirked, and it began again. Another hand returned to Megumi’s cock, thumbing at the sensitive underside. Arousal came roaring back. Megumi’s spine arched, and he groaned into the hot air, thrusting up for more.
This was nothing like that furtive fantasy of his, born from Sukuna’s alluring regard in the modern day. What Megumi had envisioned paled in comparison, and now his fear and lust combined into a reverberating thrill.
Sukuna’s finger was still against his rim, and Megumi rolled his hips into that, too. His nerves were alight at the idea, but so was the rest of Megumi’s body. He—he wanted it: Yes, Sukuna was going to fuck him.
From somewhere behind him, Sukuna drew out a small clay jar. Megumi couldn’t see the contents, but he figured it was oil, and his balls tightened with another kick of arousal. He was relieved to be afforded the luxury and just as anticipatory about it, to have Sukuna’s fingers inside him, to feel him, to be opened up and taken.
Megumi ogled Sukuna. His gaze caught on the image of his own leg hooked over Sukuna’s shoulder, then down the planes of Sukuna’s body, at his curse marks and his abs. At the—god—large mouth that bisected his stomach. Megumi nearly felt faint looking at it, curved in a small smirk.
Sukuna’s nails glinted, black and honed to a point, as he took the lid off the jar. Megumi’s hole clenched, this time in unease. The fingers near there were just as deadly.
“I’ll do it,” blurted Megumi, struggling up. He snatched the oil and clambered back, pulling his leg from Sukuna’s shoulder. Using Sukuna’s momentary surprise and curiosity, Megumi coated his fingers, and with only a single inhale of hesitation, he pushed one inside himself.
“Oh?” Sukuna asked with a taunting raise of his brow. His smile was cocky and amused but also hungry, and pleasure swirled in Megumi’s core.
He tried to do it clinically, but Megumi was shamefully turned on, and the oil was luxuriously slick. He’d need a lot; Sukuna’s bulge was large, the dark fabric distorted by his dick. And the more oil Megumi pushed into himself, the smoother and better it got. His fingers slid in and out of himself, one and then two, and Megumi flushed with each wet squelch they made.
He turned his head away, unable to bear the humiliation, and willed his voice to be steady. “Your nails. It wouldn’t—” Megumi cut off, biting his lip as he accidentally brushed over his prostate.
“These nails?” Sukuna asked, and Megumi glanced back at him, to his hand, which was held up. The nails were blunt and rounded; he had control over this, too. “As much fun as it would be to shred you to pieces, we can have some fun first, hm? And I must say, this is quite the performance.”
Megumi stilled, then flushed with embarrassment. The image of Sukuna’s mocking grin bounced around his mind. He grit his teeth, willing to no avail for his blush to disappear.
“Go on,” spurred Sukuna. “You look so pretty like that, fucking yourself open for me. So desperate, the little sounds you make. You need someone inside you?” He stroked a hand up Megumi’s leg, then pulled his thighs apart more for a better view. When Megumi still didn’t move, Sukuna spanked him, one thwap on the tender skip of his inner thigh that made Megumi jump. “Megumi.”
And with a shaky gasp, Megumi could only obey. Hesitantly at first, then back in the ashamed rhythm of it, he finger-fucked himself. He eyed Sukuna, his bare torso and kimono hanging dangerously low on his hips, and excitement thickened the haze of pleasure, overtaking the last of his embarrassment.
Megumi rubbed against his prostate, seeking it with a low whine. It was so good, and Sukuna’s gaze and touches made Megumi feel wild. His cock was so hard it hurt, and he kept working himself, adding more oil to get a third finger.
Sukuna moved leisurely as Megumi stretched himself. Comfortably between Megumi’s splayed legs, Sukuna hovered over him, then bent and nipped the jut of his hipbone. He scraped his sharp smile against the dips of Megumi’s ribs on his way up his body. Like a predator, a beast, Sukuna sized up his prey, readying Megumi for consumption.
He bit a nipple and tugged lightly, and Megumi’s back arched. His fingers faltered, stilling in his hole. “Ah,” Megumi gasped, as Sukuna grabbed his hair. He pulled Megumi’s head to the side, then harshly sucked a mark on his exposed neck.
And then finally, Sukuna rose to meet Megumi’s gaze. The blaze of his eyes was immobilizing. Megumi’s lungs were tight, and his fingers slipped from his hole with an appalling, sloppy squelch. He was loose and open, ready for Sukuna, and Megumi could almost imagine it, how Sukuna would discard the rest of his kimono, how thick his cock would be, how he’d fuck right in—
But then the hand in Megumi’s hair tugged again, this time hard, and with a pained hiss, Megumi was wrenched upright. Disoriented, he stumbled as Sukuna shoved him against the wall, holding Megumi there from behind.
Megumi didn’t even try to struggle. He attempted to brace himself with his hands, but only a moment later, Sukuna positioned him forcibly. He held his hip with one hand and kicked a leg outward to spread them more, until Megumi’s ass was sticking out. Two hands grabbed Megumi’s arms, pulling his torso more upright so his back was arched almost uncomfortably, and the hand in his hair dragged Megumi’s head back for good measure, baring his neck.
That same hand moved down to wrap around Megumi’s throat, a loose but threatening grip, and then Megumi was truly caught. He swallowed thickly, felt Sukuna’s palm against the bob of it. It should have been terrifying, and it was, but Megumi’s cheeks were flushed, and anticipation was rushing through him, too.
The hand on his hip squeezed tightly, hard enough to bruise, and moved to Megumi’s ass, which Sukuna spanked playfully. Megumi’s gasp shuddered against the hand at his throat. Then two fingers pushed into him, checking how wet and slack Megumi’s hole was. Sukuna tugged at his rim, stretching it, and Megumi keened. He couldn’t help the way he clenched, and Sukuna laughed.
“So needy,” he chuckled. It sounded like praise.
Sukuna pulled out, then returned with more oil, which he pressed into Megumi again. His fingers were so big, way wider than Megumi’s. What was two felt like four, and every time Sukuna exited him, Megumi felt like he was gaping. What would it be like, when it wasn’t just fingers?
Even this was too much. Small, overwhelmed noises were forced from Megumi’s lips, and the only sound otherwise was his hole squelching. Embarrassed, Megumi clamped his eyes shut, but the sensations simply became more vivid as a result. Everything fell away except Sukuna behind him, Sukuna finger-fucking him, Sukuna, Sukuna—
“Ahh,” Megumi gasped. He found himself pushing back to meet the thrusts. “Pl—” tumbled from him, before Megumi cut off abruptly, horrified that he’d been about to ask, to beg.
But Sukuna heard, and he was a creature without mercy. “You want me to fuck you?” he taunted. “Let me hear you say it, then.”
He crooked his fingers inside Megumi and rubbed unerringly over his prostate, and Megumi felt his mind light up. His balls hung heavy between his parted legs, and he ached with need to stroke his dick, which was leaking untouched.
“Sukuna,” Megumi rasped. He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t. It was—it was debasing and wrong, and it made his insides squirm with mortification.
“You jujutsu sorcerers, always so prideful,” Sukuna sneered. “But look at you. Admit it to yourself—you like it. You want it.”
Megumi was hot all over. This was the worst idea he’d ever had, coming here. But he needed Sukuna’s help, or at least to stay alive through this, and right now, as Sukuna’s fingers worked inside him, Megumi just needed more. Shame didn’t matter anymore.
In the end, letting himself say it was easy, because the words poured from him naturally; Megumi was a bad liar, but there was nothing fake about this. “Fuck me,” he said. “I do want it. I want—you.”
There was the slightest pause, and Megumi began to tense, somewhere between wishing he could turn and see Sukuna and being grateful that he couldn’t. Then Sukuna’s fingers pulled out, and the hard flesh of his cock replaced them at Megumi’s rim. Anticipation lit Megumi up like a firework. He quivered in Sukuna’s grasp.
“Most people would beg,” Sukuna commented idly. His tone became a high falsetto, mocking, “‘Please, take me, King of Curses. Oh, make me yours!’”
He pushed in, just the tip, and Megumi’s breath shuddered. “Sukuna,” he panted. Sukuna pressed in more, and it was so much as Megumi shifted back to meet him.
“But you decided to be bold. That is brave, jujutsu sorcerer.” He sounded impressed and amused both. Sukuna paused inside Megumi, and then pulled out and fucked in, hard. Megumi yelped, his knees buckling. “But also stupid.”
“Oh, god,” Megumi’s voice wavered.
His legs were weak, and he was held up only by Sukuna’s easy strength: one hand on his hip, two on his arms, and the heavy presence of one around his neck. Megumi felt consumed and surrounded on all sides, and now Sukuna was inside him, too, and it was—fuck. None of Megumi’s writhing moved Sukuna, who fucked him roughly without further pause.
The feeling was intense at first, almost too much, but there was no pain with how well he’d been prepped. He was so, so wet, and as pleasure washed over him, wave after wave, Megumi’s senses reduced to Sukuna nailing him, in and out and in, deeper until each thrust came with the slapping impact of Sukuna’s balls meeting Megumi’s ass.
Megumi struggled to keep himself steady as Sukuna rocked within him; his legs kept wobbling, but if he fell, he’d be impaled on Sukuna’s cock entirely. Maybe Sukuna noticed his state, or maybe he was simply cruel, because a moment later, the hand around Megumi’s throat squeezed, constricting his breath and blood. A hazy curtain descended over Megumi almost immediately. Alarmed, he floundered, and a foot slipped.
Sukuna released his choke, but he didn’t stop fucking Megumi, driving deep each time. His glee was clear as Megumi sputtered, panting as he scrambled to regain some of his own weight under him. The tips of his toes dragged against the floor with every thrust.
Megumi could do nothing but take it. He was just a body to Sukuna, a plaything; there was no familiarity or mercy, and Megumi had known, of course, that Sukuna wouldn’t know him, but was so—so rough and wild. In a way, Sukuna was probably punishing Megumi for the presumption that his body would be enough to stay his execution, even though it had been.
Then Sukuna choked him again, less tightly this time but with no less intent. “I could kill you right now.”
“But you won’t,” Megumi wheezed, panic streaming into the fog of arousal. His instincts stretched in two separate directions, and through it all, Sukuna fucked him, his bruising hands hot on Megumi’s skin.
Sukuna licked a line up Megumi’s spine between his shoulder blades, and Megumi shivered. With a huff of a laugh, he asked, sounding genuinely curious, “Why not?”
Megumi thought of Sukuna’s interest in him back in the modern era. If Sukuna had known him, or known of him and his powers, then surely it’d stemmed from this encounter here, in the past. Surely, he could convince him. “I know things—from the future, about the world, about sorcery and curses and you. I can be helpful. With all of that, and my cursed energy and technique. I can fight. And I can—I can withstand a lot,” he added, knowing what he was offering himself up for.
Sukuna thrust in forcefully, seemingly affirming Megumi’s claim. Megumi’s mind tumbled back into the sensation, almost lost to it before Sukuna prompted, “Go on.” He sounded amused.
Something clicked, in that crazy part of Megumi’s brain that had concocted this plan in the first place: Sukuna sounded amused, and he hadn’t killed Megumi yet, and he’d taken an interest in him, now and then. “Also,” Megumi gasped, holding back a small keen, “you like me.”
At this, Sukuna actually did laugh, loud and unashamed. “What a delight you are, Megumi. Okay then, sure, shall we play your game? Tell me something about myself—something you know from your future.”
A few ideas appeared in Megumi’s mind, but on Sukuna’s next thrust, he punctuated his mirth with a perfectly, exquisitely angled stroke against Megumi’s prostate, and his whole body thrashed. “Oh!” Megumi wailed. Spasms shuddered through him. “Oh, f-fuck.” Every nerve ending in his body was concentrated where Sukuna was plowing him.
Sukuna mouthed at the nape of Megumi’s neck, and his voice was so loud, right in Megumi’s ear, when he taunted, “Well? Something distracting you?”
Megumi choked on whatever words he’d been attempting. The air was fucked out of him, and his rational thought, too. Saliva dribbled from his mouth, and when he swallowed, it reminded him only of Sukuna’s hand at his throat. “Jujutsu sorcerers—ah!—they tried to kill you,” he managed finally. “They pooled their power, nearly everyone from the school, but you—you—”
He could just hear Sukuna’s grin. “I? What did I do?” Sukuna reached around and jerked Megumi’s cock, wet from the leaking head.
“You killed them,” Megumi panted. His voice shook, and it broke on a punched-out moan. It felt insane. He felt insane, fuck.
“Hm,” said Sukuna, a moment of dramatic, delighted contemplation, and then decided jovially, “Not good enough. Everyone knows that—how you pathetic, pain-in-the-ass jujutsu sorcerers interrupted my morning. Have anything else?”
But Megumi couldn’t think. It was like every fiber of his body was melting. “I can’t,” he wheezed. “You were—before—” But the words wouldn’t come, and his mind was occupied with only more, more, oh god.
“You are truly a whore for this,” Sukuna chuckled. He moaned softly, sounding satisfied. “So tight and wet. How lucky I am. A little pet harlot, all to myself, and apparently delivered to my doorstep by the universe itself.”
Megumi clenched around him, split open and raw. It was degrading, but it was fucking fantastic, too. Heat seared through him, and as Megumi moaned brokenly, he was faced with the startling, horrible realization that he was going to come. He was going to cream himself on Ryoumen Sukuna’s dick.
The thrusts were too precise, the angle too good. Megumi took Sukuna deep and shook with it, this feeling of being stuffed full. Noises he’d never heard himself make were pulled from him with every stroke, with every tug of Sukuna’s hand.
“I’m gonna—” he babbled. Everything was molten.
It rose and rose in his body, the electric waves crackling until Megumi tumbled over the edge with a choked groan, a white-hot flash. His body shook, spasming anew when Sukuna’s hand tightened. It was too much—
A sputtering gasp left Megumi, and his legs finally gave out from under him. He fell, but barely slipped a centimeter. Sukuna held him easily, then hoisted Megumi even higher, so his feet dangled helplessly. He showed no signs of stopping, fuck, and Megumi hung in Sukuna’s grip limply, continuing to be thoroughly used.
Sukuna fucked Megumi at the same unrelenting pace, with the same sadistic accuracy, and Megumi could only cry out in his arms as the pleasure flipped into painful overstimulation. He struggled feebly, legs kicking ineffectively, and tried to wriggle away.
“I can’t,” Megumi begged. “It’s too much, Sukuna. It’s so m—mm!”
The hand from Megumi’s throat moved and plugged his mouth with two fingers. Sukuna stroked his tongue, and then he pushed in deep. Megumi gagged. His eyes watered, blurring his vision. When Sukuna’s cock grazed against Megumi’s prostate on his next thrust, the tears spilled over.
His whole body was ignite, raw and hyper-sensitive. It hurt, and it wasn’t good, but every touch was enveloped the daze of orgasm, and Megumi sobbed as the painful sparks brought with them heat. There was no struggle left in him. Sukuna maneuvered his limp body and fucked him like a toy, a doll.
When, thankfully soon after, Sukuna came inside him with an off-rhythm stutter of his hips, then let go of him, Megumi collapsed, his strings cut. His body was trembling, jittery, and his arms ached where Sukuna had held him, but Megumi caught himself on elbows and knees before lowering himself down, prone on the tatami floor. He could feel the wetness of Sukuna’s come and the oil leaking out of him, smeared around his hole. How—how filthy, but also—
Megumi shook himself. The overstimulation shivers worked their way out of him, and he wiped the tears and spit haphazardly from his face, breathing heavy, mind reeling, an unspooled mess he now tried to find the ends of.
He could barely believe this was real, that he’d just—just had sex with Sukuna. Still, as he regained himself, it wasn’t regret that set it or even resignation, but instead a new resolve built from this fresh set of circumstances.
Megumi turned his head to the side and looked up at Sukuna, who stood above him arrogantly, his cock soft but still slick and shining. He was entirely nude, kimono discarded somewhere behind him. What power that body held, Megumi thought, in those four arms and eyes and imperious smirk.
“You were human once, centuries ago,” Megumi said. He saw Sukuna’s eyebrow raise in surprise. “A curse user, and a powerful one. Everyone you hurt during your life cursed you, and when you died—when you were killed—you became a curse yourself. No one could touch you, though: not you, or your human corpse, or this shrine. So now you’re the King of Curses. But at one point, before, you were human.”
And finally—finally—there was a flicker of interest beyond the carnal. Megumi was almost glad he was so fucked out; it hid the triumph from his face. Sukuna crouched next to Megumi’s prone body and stroked his knuckles down his spine, and Megumi wearily let him, not even bothering to try shifting away.
He watched Sukuna’s face, trying to decipher it beyond the curse marks and the mask and the swirl of those four eyes. This was what his hopes had come to. When Sukuna grinned, it was wide and dangerous, but his features lit up with pure delight. “Interesting,” he said. “How interesting, Fushiguro Megumi.”
Notes:
Tatami mats were originally a luxury item reserved for only nobility. Most people had dirt floors with mats. The Heian Period also gave rise to the shinden-zukuri style of architecture for aristocrats, which is categorized by its groups of buildings, many having external walls toward an undeveloped/outdoor space. The floors of these were mainly wood, and tatami was reserved for only the highest aristocrats until it became a traditional flooring.
Sukuna’s shrine is somewhat Shinto; it has an archway entrance (torii), grassy/natural shrine grounds, stairs leading up to the main building. The floors are wooden and tatami.
Chapter Text
Like the white cloud on the green hill,
Although I see him every day,
Our host is ever new to me!—Manyōshū III: 377
Megumi and Sukuna didn’t leave the shrine grounds for two full days. On the third, when the shrine’s store of rice was depleted, Sukuna left briefly and returned with more, plus vegetables and chicken. In addition to meat, which Megumi had sorely missed, the food was spiced and cooked to perfection, the best he’d eaten in a month by far, and he gratefully dug in without remark.
As the week progressed, it quickly became clear that Sukuna regarded Megumi as a small curiosity, the same as some sparkling but ultimately cheap trinket. It wasn’t that Sukuna simply kept him on display—no, there was far too much touching and talking for that—but that he valued Megumi only insofar as he could polish him, a stray pet taken in for its potential to be…trained.
Sukuna expected to be obeyed, and he fondled Megumi with casual presumption. It wasn’t always as cruel as the first time, but it was always as riotous and intense. Megumi got used to finding vague finger-shaped bruises on his hips after Sukuna took him. He was sore sometimes and had to sit stiffly, which Sukuna delighted in, the prick.
But still, their days together weren’t all sex; even if it had been possible to spend that much time solely within the throes of pleasure, Sukuna asked it of Megumi less than he’d expected. Instead, after winning Sukuna’s initial interest with his body, Megumi maintained it with tales of the future.
Sukuna didn’t quite believe him yet, that Megumi wasn’t an oracle and that he’d come from the future, but cursed spirits with extreme abilities were more common in this era, which made Megumi’s story plausible. If anything, it wasn’t time travel that surprised Sukuna, but that Megumi, as a sorcerer, would willingly offer him any information.
He was right to be suspicious; it wasn’t as though Megumi wanted to help this Sukuna, whose first and only nature was malicious. He endeavored not to tell Sukuna anything important, avoiding topics like modern sorcery, Gojou, the Zen’in clan, power struggles of the Court, and especially Sukuna himself; Megumi said nothing of his sealing, cursed fingers, and incarnation in Itadori.
Fortunately, the mundane was more than enough to capture Sukuna’s attention, to distract him from directly asking about such fraught subjects. Megumi’s basic worldview, a result of simply having grown up in the modern era, was exotic here. And so Megumi told Sukuna of his global world, marked by technology and industrialization, then of religion and schooling and offices. He roamed between topics. One day, Megumi explained trains and subways, then the difference between the two, and the next day, he talked about war, about devastation on a larger scale than imaginable.
And in exchange, Sukuna’s four eyes followed Megumi as he wandered the shrine. The building wasn’t structured for worship; there was no separate haiden, though right inside the entrance sat shelves with unlit incense, the closest Sukuna’s shrine came to an offertory area. The main room was sparse besides it. It contained only the chabudai where they ate meals, where Sukuna lounged with a scroll or book otherwise, and a few paper lanterns and charcoal braziers that Sukuna often neglected to light.
The bedroom contained a giant, luxuriously soft futon, a few shelves of books, and an array of Sukuna’s weapons. Sukuna never seemed concerned about Megumi using one against him, which Megumi chose to interpret as not an insult to his skill, but as a compliment to his intelligence. And outdoors was the wide expanse of the shrine grounds. The atmosphere still felt oppressively heavy and dense, and animal bones sparsely littered the wild weeds. Still, Megumi enjoyed the bright color and buzz of April. A climbing vine spiraled around one leg of the torii that divided forest from shrine.
One morning, the pale springtime light streaming in through the windows, Megumi found himself explaining timekeeping to Sukuna; perhaps finally believing him after a week, he’d asked how Megumi had deciphered that he’d traveled to the past and to when exactly.
“The four seasons together make one year, and then it cycles again. After twelve moon-cycles, you celebrate the New Year, right?”
“Omisoka,” Sukuna nodded.
“Our calendars aren’t based around the moon, but the length of a year is similar in both eras. Right now, we’re probably in the year 1015, or around then.”
With a scoff, Sukuna said, “More than that many years have passed since the beginning of our world. I have been alive for hundreds, and there are beings double my age.”
Megumi paused at that, his trail of thought struck blank. Tengen, he knew of, but even he wasn’t that old, and the idea of others— “There are—curses? Who are that old?”
“Curses, or simply sorcerers who have found ways to cheat their human flesh.” Sukuna laughed heartily at whatever expression Megumi was making. “Does that startle you? Worry not, I said they were double my age, not my power.”
With a thick swallow, Megumi regained himself. “Right.”
“So?” prompted Sukuna. “Why has your future forgotten the far past?”
“Not forgotten, necessarily. There are—well, there’s this concept of A.D. and B.C., and we count backwards from year 1 A.D.” Sukuna stared at him, and Megumi scrounged for an explanation. The more he spoke, the less it made sense even to himself. “Like, year 1000 B.C. was a thousand years before year 1 B.C., and year 5 was five years before; when we flip to the A.D. years, then year 5 would be 5 years after, and this year, that we’re in now, is around a thousand and fifteen from that point, or so.”
Sukuna fixed Megumi with a look so incredulous that Megumi was almost sure he was about to get thrown out. “What,” he began testily, “is the point of numbering these years, if you do not start counting at zero?”
Megumi shrugged. “I was a bad student,” he said, feeling sheepish. “I didn’t pay attention to things like that.”
“You are certainly some oracle,” complained Sukuna.
“Not an oracle,” Megumi reminded, by habit.
Sukuna ignored him. “Your timekeeping methods do me little good, other than telling me that your future is full of fools.”
“Well,” Megumi said, then risked, “Is it not enough to pursue knowledge just for its own sake?”
There was a pause, and Sukuna’s eyes glinted as he looked at Megumi, appraising. “You test me today.”
Megumi’s heart quickened, tripping over itself in haste, but a second passed, and then another. When Sukuna made no violent move, Megumi figured he was in the clear or, more likely, would pay for it later in bed. He took a breath. “You strike me as someone who enjoys knowing every intricacy of the world. And now I’m offering what I can of the same, for the future. Does this not satisfy you?”
Sukuna’s gaze narrowed, so focused that Megumi’s skin felt on fire. “Satisfy me,” he echoed, tone curled suggestively around the word. Then his lips lifted. “Yes, you certainly do.”
A flush colored Megumi. He looked away, feeling overheated with adrenaline still pounding through him. “That’s not what I—” He cut off, embarrassed, and bit out, “Do you want to hear more or not?”
“Mm,” Sukuna considered, and even that sounded lewd, before he gestured, “Go ahead. Tell me more of your boring tales.”
Megumi played with the sleeves of his kimono. This era’s Sukuna was difficult to read, even more so than his future counterpart. Megumi hadn’t been here long enough to experience much of his irritation, let alone be able to predict it. But at least this much Megumi did know: Sukuna never suffered boredom.
So when he took a breath and began talking about the seasons again, about why the weather changed, then about the solar system, Megumi knew Sukuna was listening.
Day by day, as Megumi’s time and tales at the shrine continued, he felt Sukuna’s curiosity solidifying from whimsy into true interest. It was a relief, for one, that Megumi was less likely to get himself killed now, and also the trigger for a new bloom of hope; his desperate, optimistic gamble, to beget Sukuna’s favor and eventual help, hadn’t been unfounded, after all, if this Sukuna took a liking to him, too.
So Megumi did what he could to keep himself in the King of Curses’ good graces. For all that it wasn’t about sex in surprising ways, it was still equally about that pleasure, that torment, that edge that Sukuna kept Megumi on before tipping him over with a skilled hand.
From the onset, it was clear Sukuna delighted in pushing Megumi until he was red and begging and overwhelmed, but he never truly hurt him. As a sorcerer, Megumi could withstand a lot, and he’d told Sukuna as much upon offering himself. But the worst Sukuna did was handle him roughly, in his unbridled, wild way. Megumi was often picked up and carried to the futon, pinned down by a single one of Sukuna’s hands, or left with marks on his neck or inner thighs. Some days he spent shirtless, ashamed and flushed at how his sore nipples stung against the rough fabric of his clothing.
Megumi should have hated it. Instead, he hated admitting that he didn’t. He couldn’t even imagine what Gojou-sensei or Itadori or, god forbid, Kugisaki or Maki would say, if they saw him now. Tsumiki had been a romantic, though always cautious; she’d turn her nose up, “Boys only want one thing,” and in the next breath, assure him, “You’ll find a sweet, nice man, Megumi,” and now Megumi was—
But he couldn’t help himself. He’d lost his senses, truly, to allow himself to fall into these pleasures, but Megumi was hopelessly, crazily aroused by it all: Sukuna’s smirking amusement, his vulgar words, the size of him.
Megumi sucked his first dick with Sukuna’s burning gaze searing him open, as if peeling his layers back and carving Megumi into simply a body, a vessel of lust.
It was hotter and wetter and messier than Megumi had ever imagined, and Sukuna’s hands cupping the back of his head made Megumi feel like he was cutting out the rest of the world, until this was Megumi’s only task—his only purpose. His mind went hazy with it.
“That’s right,” Sukuna murmured. “Look at you, so docile.”
Megumi pulled off, licking his lips to break the string of saliva, and tried to muster a glare. “I’m not docile,” he protested weakly.
With a chuckle, Sukuna brushed Megumi’s bangs off his face and took his cock in hand. He wiped the head along Megumi’s cheek, leaving a wet trail. Megumi held still beyond a shiver. “Then what would you call this?” Sukuna asked. “On your knees, letting me cover your pretty face with come?”
The taunt went straight to his dick, and Megumi whined, low in his throat. His cock stood against his stomach under his kosode, thankfully unrestricted, and he stroked it over the fabric, trying not to hump his own hand too obviously.
“Are you hard, Megumi?” Sukuna laughed.
Megumi felt the press of something—oh god, Sukuna’s foot—against his hand, nudging it to the side. Sukuna replaced the pressure, grinding lightly down on Megumi’s dick, and Megumi choked a shaky, “Fuck.”
Sukuna chuckled. He pressed a little more, and Megumi’s hips jerked involuntarily. Despite himself, with eyes flitting shut, Megumi rutted up against the soft pad of Sukuna’s foot. He couldn’t help it, not when it felt so—
Something brushed along his face, then prodded at his lips. Megumi’s mouth fell open, and Sukuna fed his cock back in, angled so it poked the inside of Megumi’s cheek, and then thumbed over the protruding bulge. He tapped Megumi’s cheek, beckoning.
Megumi compliantly blinked his eyes open, returning his gaze to Sukuna to meet the heavy weight of his leer. Desire burned all the way down Megumi’s spine. A shiver rolled through him. He sucked almost curiously, tonguing at the head and feeling the weight and thickness in his mouth.
“And you claim not to be docile,” Sukuna chuckled.
Adjusting his angle, he fucked into Megumi’s mouth shallowly, and Megumi wrapped a hand around the length he couldn’t yet fit. It was hefty and warm and already familiar. Sukuna’s breath shifted in that way it always did, and that was familiar, too. But feeling—tasting—Sukuna finish in his mouth was entirely new. Come coated his tongue as Sukuna’s hand tightened in his hair, and Megumi coughed, unable to swallow. He spat in his hand, then chanced a cautious glance at Sukuna.
He didn’t look annoyed or even surprised, only lazily amused. “Well, don’t waste it,” Sukuna said, raising his brow. He tugged at Megumi’s kosode and revealed his aching dick to the cool air.
Megumi shuddered, unable to find a single coherent thought. His mouth tasted like come; it was warm on his hand. His lips felt stretched and raw. “What—”
Sukuna nudged Megumi’s cock with his foot again, eliciting another tremble. “Go ahead, pet. Make yourself wet, and let me see you play with yourself.”
Oh. Oh. A bundle of shame rattled in his chest, but Megumi gave in, helplessly turned on, and obediently wrapped his hand around his dick with the spit and come—Sukuna’s come. Megumi stroked himself, and pleasure washed through him.
It felt so fucking good; it always did. No matter how Sukuna took him, it set Megumi’s nerves alight without fail. He was a live wire, and his blood prickled with sparks. The haze of lust descended even denser as Megumi worked himself eagerly.
He was close, so close, and his spine bent until he was resting his head against Sukuna’s thigh. Fingers combed through his hair, then tugged lightly, and Megumi turned his feverish gaze upward. The power of Sukuna’s body thrummed beneath his cheek, and his keen gaze met Megumi’s wet-lashed and watery one.
Only moments passed before pleasure began cresting over Megumi. “I’m—Sukuna, I—” he gasped, caught halfway to pleading. He needed—Megumi jacked himself, desperate, and then he was coming, cupping his hand over the head of his cock to keep it from spilling to the floor.
When the high receded, Megumi was still leaned against Sukuna’s thigh, panting sloppily against it. He righted himself with effort, feeling dazed, and could only blink at Sukuna when he crouched down in front of Megumi.
With a finger under his chin, Sukuna tipped Megumi’s head up. He grasped Megumi’s wrist with another hand, and then Megumi could only watch, wide-eyed, as Sukuna licked at the come.
“Oh my god,” Megumi whispered, mind muddled. He didn’t move and could barely find the air to breathe.
Sukuna’s tongue lapped over Megumi’s hand, across his palm and into the dips between his fingers, warm and wet. When he was done, Sukuna smacked his lips and grinned, “Yum.”
If it had been every day, Sukuna might have had Megumi addicted. The pleasures were unfamiliar but enthralling, and each time, it became easier for Megumi to yield to it, to submerge himself freely and drown. But after two weeks of frenzy, Sukuna began departing the shrine with more frequency, returning only in the evenings.
Megumi, left with nothing to do but wait, grasped at the chance to breathe. He wasn’t chained to the shrine in any form, a tacit approval to wander, so in the first weeks of May, Megumi began leaving the shrine, as well. To the forest and nearby river, or even all the way to the town, Megumi traveled the areas nearby.
Once or twice, far enough away that the forest came back to life with the sounds and rustling of birds and other creatures, Megumi thought of leaving. He could try his luck at the jujutsu school again or seek help at the Imperial Court in Heian-Kyo; no doubt the Fujiwara clan claimed powerful sorcerers to their name, and surely some method for time travel would emerge.
But as the month passed, slowly at first, and then rapidly building into something resembling a routine, Megumi realized he was getting used to living at the shrine. The food was good, and the uncanny stillness of the grounds became luxuriously quiet at night and early morning. Even Sukuna was now less of an unknown element.
Having endured weeks of repeated, bleak frustrations in this era before coming to the shrine, Megumi knew he couldn’t dismiss this newfound stability, even if he was now in the hands of a sadistic, hedonistic curse. It was better to live here than languish at the deteriorated school or drift from town to town, worn ragged by hunger.
So as the days grew longer and hotter, droning on with sun and cicadas both, Megumi decided to stay, returning each evening without fail. Sukuna mentioned nothing of the escapades save a certain satisfied gleam when he found Megumi waiting.
Slowly, Megumi studied his new world, both its geography and people. The sky was halved by mountains, the Japanese Alps as pristine and proud as a thousand years in the future. Beyond the thickly wooded forest, the nearest town to Sukuna’s shrine was built partially into the base of one’s slopes. The innkeeper, a man named Sato, informed Megumi that it was Mount Kurai.
This village boasted not only bountiful crops, grown with pure mountain water, but also artisanal pottery. Though the trek was too long for Megumi to travel to the other two main municipalities in the area, he learned from a traveling merchant that the provincial capital to the east claimed a medicinal specialty through its largest temple, and that the town on the far side of Kuraiyama traded both timber from its forests and its carpentry skill, as well.
This was a humble region, and its residents were, too. At first, most of the townspeople had been conspicuously uncertain about Megumi, knowing he resided at the shrine. No matter that Sukuna didn’t terrorize this village, there remained an obvious, natural sense of dread and taboo.
Only once, halfway through May for Aoi Matsuri, did Megumi see tributes brought to the shrine. After a trip to the river, he returned with Sukuna to the smell of incense, and on the veranda, on a small stand by the door, were peaches, sake, rice, and coins.
The date marked just how long Megumi had been in this era, how much he was missing, and Megumi found himself somberly brooding. Should he have tried to attend the festival, which was hosted by Kamo clan shrines? Would Sukuna have even allowed it? What if there was no one, no way—
Between his spiraling thoughts, Megumi didn’t ask then about Sukuna’s relationship to the people, about their fear and infrequent worship, but in the days after, he did ponder it. It took a couple more weeks, as Megumi continued visiting the town and the people warmed up to him, for their conversations to bear any fruit of that flavor.
After inviting him into the inn for drink and talk, Sato explained to Megumi that Sukuna had never come to the village himself, but that anyone who disturbed the shrine grounds incurred his wrath. Festivals were the only exception, as it was feared that not providing oblations on such auspicious days would displease Sukuna. It made sense; Sukuna wasn’t revered, but he was still, after all, a god-like being who resided in a shrine.
The sun was just beginning to dip, orange light flowing in from the windows, when Megumi felt that divine aura return to the area. He stood, a bit unsteady, and finished his drink with a gulp. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he said, pushing two coins to Sato. “I must return to the shrine.”
Sato bowed. “You’ve graced me with your presence, Monk-sama.”
Megumi paused at the title. He wasn’t—but it was an easy mistake to make, or perhaps, not a mistake at all; he’d been living at the shrine since mid-April, and things were shifting between him and Sukuna. That night, as Sukuna delighted in his slightly inebriated state, the designation flowed through Megumi’s mind again—the monk of Sukuna’s shrine.
It spoke volumes on how the villagers saw him, saw them, even if they didn’t truly worship Sukuna. Some people’s reticence made more sense, while others seemed willing and even wanting to speak on Sukuna, to gossip with Megumi as though equipping him with the tools needed to survive.
“They say he chopped the trees around his shrine with a flick of his finger,” one woman informed him a few days later.
Another warned him, “If you make a home with death, be not surprised when it swallows you.”
“We do not go near it,” a farmer told him of the shrine, shaking his head. He wiped his brow with a cloth. “That place is cursed. It would only be asking for trouble.”
“But he has not hurt you? This town?” Megumi asked.
“As we leave Ryoumen-sama be, he leaves us be,” confirmed the man. “Even the children learn early not to play in the forest or use the shrine as a game. Well, most of them.”
Megumi glanced back at the thick forest along the village’s edge. A game, echoed in him. “A test of courage,” he inferred, his mouth dry.
The man grimaced. “If you are kind, you will not mention it to Kida. His grandchild was one of the two last year to try it.” With a sigh, he added, “But with the summer nearing, perhaps our town has worse to worry about than a demon who does not leave his woods.”
Bile sat thick in Megumi’s throat, along with deafening thoughts of Tsumiki. “Sorry for the loss,” he said, dredging up condolences from the nauseating swirl in his stomach, and then took his leave quickly.
It became apparent that the townspeople feared more than respected Sukuna, and they attended to the shrine on festival days out of appeasement more than worship. Sukuna wasn’t seen as a deity, but as a powerful spirit who allowed them to live by his mercy and ambivalence. They weren’t wrong, of course, and yet this uncertain, panicky regard was, because it didn’t match.
As Megumi chewed over what he’d learned, that was the confused refrain he kept circling back to: it didn’t match.
Back when Sukuna first incarnated in Itadori, Megumi had spent days researching. Most of the sorcery world’s knowledge was hoarded by the higher-ups and elite clans, but Megumi had poured over the Nihon Shoki and other academic interpretations of Sukuna’s presence in it.
Unsurprisingly, Sukuna was described as a two-faced specter with inhuman strength, and the main book recounted how he’d been vanquished by a warrior general sent by the Emperor back in the 4 th century.
But Sukuna had more to his name than that single passage. In the folklore of this very Hida province, Sukuna had been considered a protector, a god. He had slain a dragon and defended this region, apparently, and been subsequently venerated. There weren’t many details of his deification, and what Megumi did find were all from small scraps of sources.
Now, after staying at Sukuna’s shrine, being here himself in Hida, in this era of myth-making, Megumi found himself curious. It was like a puzzle with pieces that almost fit but didn’t; the gap between that chronicled reverence and the current unease of the villagers gaped at him.
So it didn’t match, right now, but it had to at some point, and Megumi mulled over it endlessly: when, and how, and why would Sukuna leave his shrine to protect these people, and if he never did, then what truth had the legend stemmed from?
It seemed impossible that Sukuna would ever lift a finger to help anyone, let alone these towns of humans. He was just as ruthless, heartless, as he’d been in the future, when he’d crowed about massacring women and children. The only difference was that this era’s Sukuna hadn’t yet been deprived of his barbaric games for a millennium, and he often lounged around the shrine, a lazy god secure in the knowledge that he could simply rampage tomorrow.
And tomorrow came. When Sukuna returned to the shrine after a longer absence of five days, he was half-covered in blood. Megumi didn’t even bother wondering if any of it was his own; red spray speckled any relatively clean skin, and besides, well, this was Sukuna.
He cringed when Sukuna lifted him. The smell of iron was thick, and when Megumi’s legs instinctively rose to wrap around Sukuna’s waist, they slipped with blood, still wet and now smearing onto Megumi’s skin. Megumi wondered who it’d belonged to, who had died for Sukuna to be like this, worked up and rowdy.
He was impossible to ignore. A hand tugged at Megumi’s hair, tilting his head back, and those wicked, blood-stained teeth set themselves on his neck. At least Sukuna didn’t kiss him, making Megumi taste it. Another hand squeezed his ass, two fingers pressing toward his hole through his clothes. Megumi wasn’t in the mood, not with such fresh reminders of Sukuna’s depravity, but Sukuna worked his hard cock against Megumi’s, and the slow trickle of pleasure eventually became a pool.
By the time they were done, Megumi’s skin was streaked pink with dried blood. Sukuna licked his thumb and wiped a smudge away from Megumi’s cheek. Megumi shrunk back, grimacing. He was no stranger to having blood on him, his or someone else’s, but come was drying alongside it now, and Megumi’s heart sank in disgust.
“I’m going to go clean up,” he said, shoving past Sukuna to the wash area.
“Do not be so mad, Megumi,” Sukuna called after him, sounding amused. It was funny to him, like Megumi was as adorable and harmless as a tiny shih tzu yapping at a lion-dog.
Megumi grit his teeth, ignoring him, and stripped. He pulled a bucket of water from the wash tub and began scrubbing angrily at the blood and come. He couldn’t believe that he was so weak to it, that he’d liked—
After a few moments, Sukuna appeared beside him, a looming, roguish presence. He was still covered in blood, although it’d smeared and dried the color of rust. Idly, Sukuna scratched at some on his waist. The large tongue on his stomach smacked its lips.
Ugh. Megumi couldn’t help his contemptuous glare.
Sukuna laughed, boisterous, and needled, “Will you not ask who it was? Are you angry I killed someone?”
With a bitter shake of his head, Megumi turned back to the water. “I expected—I knew you in the future, remember? And I saw what remained of the school. I expected you to be like this.”
Sukuna fell silent, and when Megumi glanced crossly over his shoulder, he was being watched with curiosity. “You are the worst jujutsu sorcerer I have met,” Sukuna said with finality.
Megumi bristled. “Just because I don’t care about saving everyone in the world doesn’t mean I condone what you do to innocent people,” he snapped. Fury boiled over, and he turned on Sukuna with hands clenched, seeing red. “In fact, I hate it! You’re scum, returning here laughing about it. No, I don’t want to know who you killed today because if I did, I’d think about them every time we fucked.”
He threw the bucket into the wash tub, cursorily pulled his kimono on, and stalked into the main hall of the shrine. Sukuna followed at a more sedate pace. “You don’t want to save everyone?” he asked.
Megumi shot Sukuna his nastiest glare, then turned away. He tugged at his kimono, tying it messily. Of all the things for Sukuna to latch onto— “That’s not the point,” he bit. Sukuna grabbed Megumi’s shoulder, but Megumi wrenched away, spinning on him, and yelled, “Don’t touch me!”
Sukuna’s expression went still. His smile dropped. Megumi froze, too, as horror split through his frustration. What had he been thinking, acting that way to Sukuna? His legs felt weak under Sukuna’s clouding aura; Megumi was moments away from sliding to his knees and asking for forgiveness.
“Scared?” Sukuna taunted, his features easing into an amused jeer. “Worry not, Megumi, you are much more interesting alive.”
A hand raised, patting Megumi on the head, and Megumi didn’t dare move. He felt Sukuna comb through his locks, then unkindly tug on some. And then all at once, Sukuna yanked Megumi toward him with a fistful of hair. Megumi yelped as he stumbled, as he was pulled up by that grip, toes just barely scraping at the floor.
“S-Sukuna,” Megumi gasped, then wheezed as another hand wrapped around his throat.
“But,” Sukuna glowered, “I do not take kindly to being ordered around. Especially not,” he scratched slowly along Megumi’s front, down the skin exposed by his loose kimono, “by something I own.”
Megumi twisted, trying to get away from Sukuna’s nails as they broke skin, drawing thin welts with all the implications of Sukuna sinking his hand right in and pulling Megumi’s lungs out. “Please—”
Sukuna stopped just as abruptly as he’d begun. “Do not forget who you belong to,” he warned and then let Megumi go.
Subdued, Megumi shifted away and rubbed at his head and throat. He looked down at the four cuts blooming red on his torso, smarting in the cool air. They would heal in a day, paper-cut fine, and wouldn’t scar, but Megumi felt their imprints like he’d been flayed. “It’s impossible to forget,” he murmured, glancing up at Sukuna’s bloody visage, “but you should wash the blood off. It’ll start flaking as it dries.”
Sukuna’s laugh was half-surprised. But he turned and disappeared toward the wash area, and after a moment, Megumi heard the telltale splash of water.
The monk with the ice technique, Megumi learned, was Uraume. When returning to the shrine, even from his lengthier absences, Sukuna often brought cooked meals, pickled or preserved to last them a few days. But it wasn’t until early June that Megumi met the one responsible.
Uraume arrived one afternoon, the frigid swell of their cursed energy appearing right before the door opened. They were perfunctory about it: a greeting bow to Sukuna, a disdainful glance at Megumi, and boxes of food placed carefully on the table.
And then they turned to Sukuna once more and reported with a dip of their head, “I apologize that I have found no rumors nor texts on the matter, Master Sukuna, in this region. But I will expand my search outwards, or be more thorough, if you desire.”
Megumi blinked, confused, even as Sukuna replied, “No need for now. I will be joining you soon enough.”
Uraume nodded, then bid Sukuna farewell. “Enjoy your meal, Master Sukuna. My search yielded little information but many ingredients.”
“Oh?” Sukuna grinned. He pulled open one of the boxes and peered at his food in delight. “Very nice.”
Megumi did the same. His lunch was similar to Sukuna’s, though a different cut of meat, it looked like, alongside vegetables and rice. Not for the first time, Megumi marveled at how much better the meals were here compared to the school and the inns he’d stayed at on the road to the shrine.
He hadn’t asked Sukuna about it, figuring that Sukuna’s power simply earned him more from his hunts, but now, before Uraume could leave, Megumi spoke, “They didn’t have meat at the jujutsu school, when I was there.”
There was a pause. “You were at the jujutsu school?” asked Sukuna.
Megumi stilled. Had he really failed to mention as much in over a month here at the shrine? There wasn’t even a point in hiding it; Sukuna already knew he was a sorcerer. With a nod, Megumi replied, “Before I came here, I spent some time there. The one in Heian-Kyo.”
He figured Sukuna might be vexed by it or simply more suspicious, but instead, wicked mirth bloomed on his features. “So,” he leaned forward. “How many dimwit sorcerers were left? Have they learned their lesson?”
Megumi couldn’t withhold a grimace. As measuredly as he could, he said, “Well, I don’t think they’ll be attacking you again any time soon.”
Sukuna threw his head back in laughter, hearty and exultant. Even Uraume’s lips curved up—how unpleasant. Megumi bore it silently, trying not to let his aggravation show. “And you still decided to come here?” Sukuna asked, still chuckling. “Did you not think I would simply kill you, too?”
Mulling his words, Megumi shifted slightly. He’d known the risk, but how could he explain the strange and intense regard that Sukuna held for Megumi in the future? “I didn’t have any other options,” he explained. “And since I knew you, in a way…”
“So presumptuous. You do not know Master Sukuna,” Uraume sneered, and then they groused, “To think I am wasting my food on someone like you.”
Ignoring the barb, Megumi asked, though he found it hard to believe, “Is it difficult to find, or something? Meat, that is? Both the school and some inns I stayed at—they didn’t really have any.”
“Well, of course not,” sniffed Uraume with an edge of haughtiness. “They follow the codes and mandates of their precious leaders.”
Megumi stared at them blankly. Then Sukuna filled in, with scorn, “An old Emperor banned eating meat during the farming months awhile ago, and now they consider it unclean.”
And obviously, Sukuna didn’t follow such decrees. “We don’t have that in the future, any restrictions on eating meat,” Megumi told them. “Food is plentiful there, mostly.”
Their hands folded into their sleeves, Uraume replied, “Be grateful then that Master Sukuna allows you the same luxury. I would be more than happy to provide you with only rice.”
A glance at Sukuna showed him thoroughly entertained by Uraume’s scorn. Megumi sighed, setting aside the urge to be obstinate. “I am grateful,” he admitted truthfully. “My meals at the school were small and mostly rice. But your food is—it’s really good, even when it’s different from what I’m used to.”
Uraume paused, clearly surprised. They tilted their head. “Different?”
Megumi thought back. “The fermented fish from a few days ago,” he started. He could still taste the stark vinegar-salt of it. “In my time, that food has evolved to be raw fish, instead, served in small slices with rice.”
“Left uncooked, fish must either be fermented or served fresh,” Uraume pointed out. Then they frowned, looking thoughtful. “But with my technique to preserve it…perhaps.”
From Megumi’s other side came a noise of intrigue. “Try it, Uraume. I do enjoy my meals raw.” Sukuna grinned, and his abdominal mouth did, too.
One lazy afternoon, lounging in bed still, with his skin balmy in the warm air, Megumi told Sukuna about phones. His own was long-dead, and the screen was cracked in two places, but Megumi held it up as evidence.
“You can talk to anyone on this,” he explained. “You speak into it, and they’ll hear you from theirs.”
“A telepathy charm?” asked Sukuna, turning the phone over curiously. He poked at one of the cracks, then at the charging port. On the black screen, Sukuna stared doubtfully at his reflection.
“No, it’s through these things called satellites.” Megumi had no idea how to explain this. “They float in space around the Earth, and they work like…catching the energy, sorta, from one phone and sending it to another.”
“There is nothing up there, though, above the planet,” said Sukuna, matter-of-fact. “I checked once.”
Megumi’s eyes widened, in awe despite himself. He quickly schooled his expression, and replied, “Not yet, there isn’t. But humans have been to the moon. They’ve walked on it.”
“Walking on the moon, hm?” Sukuna echoed. He glared up at the sky through a window, as if wondering if he could, too.
Megumi smiled to himself. Over time, their conversations had become fun, in a way; he no longer worried about Sukuna growing bored, especially not when the reactions were often amusing, or even cute. He brushed a finger along one of Sukuna’s arms, tracing the band around his wrist. “Are you going to try?”
Sukuna caught his hand and hauled Megumi to lay atop his chest. “Maybe that bird of yours can fly us there,” he joked. His hands roamed down and splayed on Megumi’s lower back, resting near the curve of his ass.
Megumi rolled his eyes. “Nue is not a bird.”
“So how does your bird fly around in the future, with your sky-scraping buildings and ‘satellites’?”
“There’s still plenty of space,” said Megumi. “And we have veils, which prevent non-sorcerers from seeing what we’re doing.”
With a frown, Sukuna asked, “Why shouldn’t they see? Humans revere sorcerers as spiritual leaders. Even a curse like Sugawara no Michizane was given a temple to his name when they deified him.”
“Mm, well,” Megumi shifted. “Actually, in the future, humans can’t see curses. You need a certain level of cursed energy.”
Sukuna paused. “Why?” he asked in surprise.
“I don’t know, not exactly. Maybe it was Tengen, and he created a barrier or something that—”
“Tengen?” Sukuna groaned. “Of course that stupid hermit would have something to do with it.”
“You know Tengen?” Megumi pushed himself up on Sukuna’s chest.
Sukuna scoffed. “Of course. Somehow, he is both the most present and elusive fucker in the world.”
Megumi’s heart hammered, and he hoped Sukuna wouldn’t feel it. Through Tengen, Megumi could send a message to the future, tell them where he was, and get back. He kept his voice casual. “Do you know where he is now?”
“No,” said Sukuna easily, with a shrug that lightly jostled Megumi’s whole body. “As I said, he is elusive, always hiding in his barriers. Why?”
“No reason,” Megumi said. He shifted, trying to cover his disappointment. “Just didn’t see him at the school when I was there, that’s all.”
Sukuna hummed thoughtfully, a rumble through both their bodies, and didn’t say anything more.
One afternoon in mid-June, it rained, a heavy summer downpour that Sukuna sat outdoors for. Megumi joined him, carefully choosing a spot on the veranda under the cover of the shrine’s overhanging roof. Sukuna, lounging on the stairs, was soaked without concern.
Looking at him now, with the power of a sun and the indifference of a mountain, Megumi wondered again, the same as during his visits to the town: why did the Hida province regard Sukuna as a hero in the future? How much of the legend in the Nihon Shoki was true?
“Sukuna,” Megumi called, before he could think better of it.
Sukuna’s head tipped back. “Hm?”
“The stories I’ve read of you—” he began, then paused. It was a delicate topic to raise, and Megumi didn’t want to imply anything about Sukuna’s sealing. So far, he’d told him only tidbits—yes, Sukuna was powerful and feared; yes, the school still wanted him killed—that were the same now as in the future.
“In the Nihon Shoki?” asked Sukuna.
Megumi steeled himself and nodded. “They say you had four arms and two faces even back then, centuries ago. But it also tells the story of your defeat. I thought that that was when you’d died as a human and become a cursed spirit, but if you already looked like…” He gestured at Sukuna.
Sukuna seemed unbothered to disclose, “The text is right; I have kept this appearance for eras now, before the Nihon Shoki was compiled.”
“So—you were already a curse back then? But then, when were you human?” The thought occurred abruptly, “Were you not ever? Human, I mean.”
Sukuna dismissed it just as quickly, “No, I was.” He ran a hand through his wet hair, wringing the ends of water. A reminiscing, arrogant smile crossed his features. “But that is not the whole truth.”
“Then what is?”
Sukuna considered with a hum. “Megumi, tell me. Do you know,” He moved up the stairs to Megumi and leaned in close; a raindrop traveled along his cheek’s curse mark, then fell, “what happens when a human is so feared, so hated, that the people spoke his name only in scared whispers, lest they summoned him and the volcano he carried in his hands, his footsteps that made the earth quake?”
Megumi couldn’t find a breath. The air was hot with power. The rain sizzled, and steam rose from Sukuna’s body. “You—”
“I was cursed, a thousand times over, by their screams and their running, the way they’d scatter like animals when I appeared,” he mocked. “And it fed me cursed energy—power.”
As if for the first time, Megumi’s eyes roamed over Sukuna’s body with fresh horror. “So much power that your body had to change to hold it.”
“Had to evolve,” said Sukuna.
“So your body—” Megumi reached out shakily, and Sukuna allowed a hand on his chest, along the black curse marks that wrapped over his shoulder. It was solid and familiar, and yet, under this new revelation, wholly impossible. “You never died.”
“No.”
“Your body simply…morphed this way due to the cursed energy, the fear. But you’re still—”
“I am a curse,” said Sukuna easily, “but while my body is more curse than human, yes, it is not entirely.”
“That’s not—” Megumi shook his head. “You were—you were vanquished, though. The legend tells that you were defeated by a general under the Emperor’s orders.”
Sukuna chuckled, “As if any sorcerer from the Imperial House could have killed me. No,” he told Megumi. “No, it was a different sorcerer—older, more powerful—who possessed the body of that bastard Takefurukuma. And I was young. I did not yet possess the strength I do now.”
“He won,” inferred Megumi, “but he didn’t kill you.”
“He tried, at first,” Sukuna said. “But either I was too powerful, or he was too intrigued by who I was—what I was. Atop Mount Norikura we spoke, and then he left, claiming victory and earning his glory at the Court and in history.”
“And you—you, what, forgot about him and went on your way through the centuries?”
Sukuna laughed, a grin splitting his face like an old and violent scar. Behind him, the sky thundered. “I found his body, long-dead already and missing its brain. The man who’d possessed Takefurukuma was gone. Still, I razed his city for it, so none could be born with the same technique.”
Megumi eyed him. “And that was it?”
“What else was there? I do not concern myself with petty squabbles. Over the centuries, my power grew. And then, Megumi,” Sukuna leered, “you arrived at my shrine, ripe for the picking.”
A distant warning bell sounded in Megumi’s mind. “Your power grew,” he echoed. Sukuna nodded, but the pieces were already snapping together. “You’re still amassing power. The more people fear you, the stronger you become.”
Sukuna’s smug smile was all the confirmation Megumi needed. It was all a joke to him; it didn’t matter that someone knew his entire story, knew the root of his strength, when Sukuna was already too formidable to stop. Megumi thought of Sukuna’s fingers in the future, swelling in power until their seals could no longer suppress them. So, this was why.
“Did I answer your question, sorcerer?” Sukuna asked, tone mocking. “Do I sound now like the Ryoumen Sukuna of your stories?”
No, Megumi realized with a jolt. Because Sukuna was still currently the people’s malevolent god. The folktales about Sukuna lacked specifics and even contradicted each other, but they’d been consistent on a few facts: while Sukuna had plundered and destroyed many towns, the people of Hida regarded him as a hero, especially after he’d slain a terrorizing dragon to protect them.
But it didn’t make sense. If Sukuna’s power grew from their terror and dread, why would he ever allow them to feel the opposite, to honor him? And yet, the folklore did contain heroics, so the timeline basically demanded it. The myths had to stem from somewhere.
If those deeds occurred—if Megumi could make them happen—then perhaps Sukuna’s power would diminish, and his menace would terrorize less people in the future. Perhaps, so many wouldn’t die. But could the future be changed? Paradoxes could be real, yes—Gojou’s technique depended on it entirely—but if so, the myths Megumi had read would be obsolete regardless.
“You are thinking awfully hard,” said Sukuna, teasing but clearly curious. “Did my storytelling not meet your esteemed standards?”
Megumi scrounged for words. “I’m thinking about—this place,” he gestured vaguely. “Hida.”
“What about it?”
“This is the seat of your power, and has been, you said, for centuries. And yet, you don’t rule here.”
“What, like the Imperial House?” scoffed Sukuna. “Why would I rule?”
Megumi shifted, turning to look over the muddy shrine grounds. A bluster of wind pelted them with rain. He couldn’t bluntly state that he was wondering about lessening the people’s fear and Sukuna’s strength, in turn. “Power,” Megumi answered. “Legacy. Aren’t these things you care about?”
“Legacies are pretty words for weaklings to lie to themselves with, in hopes they shall be remembered after death. But I will not die. So what need do I have for legacy?”
Megumi’s lips pressed together. He glanced at Sukuna, then away, before risking, “You are lacking perspective.”
“Oh?” Sukuna’s voice went steely. His eyes narrowed at Megumi, but curiosity seemed to win over his pride. “Then lend me yours, Fushiguro Megumi.”
“This region, called Gifu in the future, is central to many trade routes. Emperors rule from this region. If you establish yourself as the protector of these lands—”
“—then I will be remembered, is that it?” finished Sukuna. When Megumi nodded, Sukuna chuckled. “But why as the ‘protector’? Could I not be renowned for flattening this region to the ground? Ryoumen Sukuna, destroyer of mountains,” he said with relish. “I say it flows well off the tongue.”
The image stuck thorny and crooked in Megumi’s mind. “Then who would be left to remember?”
Sukuna raised his brow. “You, apparently, Megumi, and every sorcerer before you and after, too. You sought me out because in a thousand years, the world still trembles at my name. Am I wrong?”
“No,” replied Megumi, subdued.
Sukuna spread his four arms wide, the expanse before them in his palms. The rain fell like shards from the clouds, which were dark and low enough to blend with the distant mountains. “Everything you see—I own it. It is mine if I decide it is. I do not need the opinions of people,” he spat the word. “I do not need their devotion.”
Megumi gazed upon Sukuna, the wild blaze of him, and asked only, “Then what do you need?”
Sukuna crowded in close, faster than a blink. A hand found Megumi’s hip, and Sukuna leaned in until Megumi felt enveloped, possessed. “Why?” he crooned. “Will you give it to me?”
“Sukuna,” Megumi breathed. His skin sparked all over as Sukuna bent and kissed the corner of his jaw. All Megumi’s thoughts and schemes fell away in that moment. Sharp teeth scraped lightly over Megumi’s neck, and despite himself, as the dark sky flashed with light, Megumi felt something in him catch.
Notes:
All my end notes for this chapter didn't fit within character count, so ask me for the full version!
The structure of Sukuna’s shrine is inspired by his domain, which takes the form of a Buddhist temple. However, here it also includes many Shinto architecture elements, such as the sanctuary hall and torii, because during the Heian era (and until the Meiji Restoration in 1868), Buddhism and Shinto were syncretized. When Buddhism appeared in Japan from China and Korea in the mid-6th century, it integrated with the indigenous Shinto, so traditions, religious practices, and shrines and temples often combined elements of both. As Sukuna was alive in this work prior to Buddhism’s migration, his shrine contains both Shinto and Buddhist elements.
The torii is the entrance arch to a shrine. Shinto shrines contain a honden, or main hall, which is the building that houses the enshrined deity. The haiden, which Sukuna’s shrine lacks in this work, is the main worship/oratory hall, where visitors can pray. If present, the haiden is placed in front of the honden, and they are sometimes connected. Burning incense is a purifying practice that was introduced with Buddhism. Offerings of food are present in both religions.
The main lighting sources in the Heian period were charcoal braziers, candles, and paper lanterns. Chōchin are hanging lanterns made by covering a bamboo frame with silk or paper. Although the earliest record of a chōchin is in 1085, paper lantern technology has been common in China since the Tang Dynasty (690–705 AD).
Sukuna’s shrine is in the province of Hida, in the modern-day Gifu prefecture, within the Japanese Alps. Hida’s capital was the modern-day city of Takayama, which also contained its provincial temple, or kokubun-ji, established in 757 after a smallpox epidemic. Hida’s carpentry was so renowned that during the Nara period, an official court position for Hida craftsmen was created. The province provided timber and metals from its forests to other regions.
Hida province had a relatively small population and was categorized as an inferior to mid-level country in terms of importance during the early Heian era. However, during the later Edo period, its importance rose because the Gifu region contained the Nakasendō, one of the five main routes of the time and one of two that connected Kyoto and the new capital Edo (modern-day Tokyo).
Aoi Matsuri is one of the three main annual festivals held in Kyoto, Japan. It is the festival of the two Kamo shrines in the north of the city, Shimogamo Shrine and Kamigamo Shrine. Both these shrines have been established since the 6th-7th century and are historical National Treasures of Japan today. They are named both for the Kamo river and the Kamo clan, early inhabitants of the area who helped establish it as sacred. The festival originated during the reign of Emperor Kinmei (539-571 AD) according to the Nihon Shoki. When the capital was moved to Heian-Kyo in the 9th century, Aoi Matsuri became an annual imperial event. As such, at the height of its grandeur, it’s plausible that celebrations would reach the Hida province. In JJK (in the official fanbook), the Kamo clan rose to prominence after inheriting the lineage of a man named Onmyouji, a powerful sorcerer during the Heian era, though there is nothing to suggest the clan itself did not exist prior to this.
The Nihon Shoki, completed in 720 AD, is the second-oldest book of Japanese chronicles and contains both historical and folk/mythological records. In the Nihon Shoki, Ryoumen Sukuna is described as an inhumanly strong man with two faces and eight limbs. During the reign of Emperor Nintoku (c. 313-399 AD), he terrorized and plundered towns until defeated by a military leader from the Imperial Court named Takefurukuma no Mikoto in 377 AD.
However, folklore in Hida regards Sukuna as a protector. He was the patron deity of the Senko-ji, Zenkyu-ji, and Nichiryubu-ji temples for feats such as defeating a dragon and praying for a good harvest, though none of these are recorded in the Nihon Shoki or outside of folktales. One of the stories expands on Sukuna’s last fight; he was ambushed first, then after a long battle, retreated to Mount Norikura, east of Takayama. He fought again there but eventually succumbed. Takefurukuma, impressed by his valor, offered him mercy if he surrendered, but Sukuna refused and was killed.
In 675 AD, Emperor Tenmu prohibited the consumption of cattle, dogs, horses, monkeys, and chicken during the farming months (4th-9th months of the year). Eventually, due to the influence of Buddhism and the scarcity of such domesticated animals, the ban expanded to be year-round. Deer, boar, rabbits, and wild fowl remained part of the Japanese diet, though meat was never an important staple in the first place. This ban on meat lasted until close to the Meiji era in the 1800s.
Chapter Text
Standing or sitting,
I know not what to do.
Though I tread the earth,
My heart is in the skies.—Manyōshū XII: 2887
By late June, the days began rolling together. The line between spring and summer was indistinguishable between hot days and cooler nights, and after all these weeks—during which Megumi visited the village a handful of times, and Uraume brought nigiri, which nearly made him cry, and Sukuna ate him out, which actually did make him cry—the sense of unfamiliarity had diminished.
Megumi had learned what to expect of this era, both of living with Sukuna and of the surrounding world. With its towering mountains and forests, nature ruled here, not man, who was only just overcoming his wariness of borrowing its power, for how many had died to floods and cold and sickness. Life at the shrine was fortunately less troubled by the environment, leaving Megumi to instead enjoy it in peace.
On his initial journey through the forest, approaching the shrine for the first time, Megumi had noticed how the trees stooped under the oppressive weight of Sukuna’s aura. The only animals present had been bones. Further out from the shrine grounds, though, the forest awakened with wildlife. There was a small, dedicated trail connecting the village and shrine, but Megumi had realized that because the townspeople rarely ventured on it, the stretch of woods outside the shrine’s reach was truly unsullied by man. A herd of deer called it home, and Megumi enjoyed exploring, winding around trees, glancing around and sometimes finding a doe peering at him, heedless of his presence.
One morning, Sukuna stood when Megumi was slipping on his zori for his walk, prompting a surprised question, “You’re going to come?”
Sukuna shot Megumi a lazy shrug, offering no explanation. But Megumi didn’t mind. He brought Sukuna along the usual trail, then turned to start wandering through untrodden underbrush. Summer’s first touches were apparent; blue morning glory stood out brightly amongst the branches, their vines wrapped around the thick tree trunks. Megumi picked one, twirling it between his fingers.
Sukuna, on the other hand, was not particularly interested in the familiar nature around them. Instead, he began peppering Megumi with queries. “Is this the same in the future?”
Megumi contemplated. “This is the same, or mostly,” he held up the flower, handing it to Sukuna to inspect. “I don’t know enough about…plants and vegetation to say how different everything is. But we have forests, too. Not in the cities I was telling you about, but around them and in parks, too.
“Parks?”
“Well, there isn’t as much nature in the future. Cities are much larger than towns—take up more space. So people have created areas that are preserved, or dedicated specifically to greenery.”
Sukuna frowned. “Greenery,” he repeated, rolling the word on his tongue.
“It’s different. Even a forest like this,” Megumi gestured, “would be explored and marked. It would have proper trails for hiking. The trees might be thinner—younger—and the path wider.”
“What is ‘hiking’?” Sukuna asked, sounding miffed now at the third consecutive word he didn’t know.
Megumi picked his way through thicker shrubs, shaking a twig from his sandal, and tried to find language Sukuna would understand. “Most people don’t live close to nature like this. But they still want to see it, be around it, for how beautiful it can be, like when trees turn red in the autumn, or just to relax. So hiking is when we walk around nature, and it’s usually on trails that are meant for it.”
After a small pause, Sukuna asked, “So experiencing nature is…rare?”
Megumi considered him. Of course the concept was foreign to Sukuna, whose world was made of vast green fields, forests blanketing mountainsides, and farming villages. On the other hand, Megumi had grown up within concrete and metal; the jujutsu school sat in its own pocket of woodland, but other than trips to the country, missions or otherwise, this was Megumi’s most constant exposure to nature. He’d been camping once with Gojou and Tsumiki—never again.
“For a lot of people, yes,” he replied. “That’s just the way it is, when civilization grows so large.”
Sukuna gazed around them. “You are implying that humans have destroyed nature to make room for themselves. But wildlife is not so easily thwarted.”
“Man’s greatest achievement is dominating the natural world,” Megumi said wryly. He sighed. “Sometimes, it’s a good thing, being able to protect people from…forest fires, tsunamis. But most of the time, it goes too far. You’re right—the environment is suffering in my time. People are always debating about it.”
Sukuna reached out and brushed his fingers along a nearby tree. “And no one stopped this? There are curses born from humans’ fear of the elements. I am surprised they allowed something like that to happen.”
Megumi’s eyes widened. The volcano-head and tree curses—he wondered if they were the same spirits in this era, or if the ones in the future were reincarnations, exorcised then reborn at some point from instinctual human phobias. Did Sukuna know them? Would the time curse also—
But Sukuna’s impatient, inquisitive gaze kept Megumi from traveling down that spiral. He refocused, thinking about the tree curse speaking into his mind, demanding time free of humans for nature to regrow. “There was an attempt,” Megumi answered. “At least, I think that was the curse’s objective. There are plenty of humans trying to solve the same crisis, not that there’s been much progress. So it’s…not a bad goal, but no sorcerer would let people die for it.”
With a sneer, Sukuna replied, “Humans die for less every day.”
Megumi sighed silently. There would be no convincing him, nor did he even want to try. Sometimes, Megumi agreed, honestly, in a vague, hypothetical way that always clashed with his direct experiences with death’s horrors. But he would never admit that to Sukuna, who would delightedly lord it over him. “Forget about it,” he said mildly. “This won’t be relevant for another thousand years.”
“Hm,” Sukuna mused. “But if we start now—”
Megumi swatted at him. “Stop,” he said, tone a bit harder than exasperated; even if Sukuna wasn’t serious, he could do it, simply decide to kill everyone one day, and even worse, would. Killing for purpose rather than whim was an improvement for someone like Sukuna.
Fortunately, Sukuna let the topic fade. They continued on their way, trekking through the forest’s brambles, and Megumi slowly relaxed once more. Off-trail, the woods contained many small wonders and curiosities: a plant low to the ground covered in snails, a trail of ants on a log, and, unfortunately, a large spider-web right in Megumi’s path.
He sputtered, swiping at the silky threads on his face. Sukuna chuckled heartily at his misfortune, but then he held Megumi still and carefully extracted the web from his hair. Megumi pinched his eyes shut and let Sukuna take care of it.
“Thanks,” he muttered.
Sukuna snickered. “Don’t look now, but there are spiders everywhere. Are you too scared? Should I take you back to the shrine?”
With a moue, Megumi grumbled, “I was just startled.” He began walking again. Laughing to himself still, Sukuna followed agreeably with his hands folded in his sleeves.
It was only a few quiet minutes later that Sukuna called, “Come look at this.”
Megumi turned to him and found Sukuna pointing out a small brown mushroom with white spots. “A mushroom?” he asked, leaning closer.
“It’s edible,” Sukuna told him. He plucked it and showed Megumi the underside. “See the ring around the stem here? If it has a double-ring, then the mushroom will break from the stem easily.” He demonstrated, flicking the cap from the stalk. “But if it does not, then this would likely be a different mushroom—one that is poisonous.”
Megumi took the mushroom cap from Sukuna, turning it over in his hand. He ran a finger along the fine gills. “What does it taste like?”
“Bad—bitter,” answered Sukuna. “Uraume and I have never found anything it tastes good with.”
With an amused glance, Megumi corrected, “I meant this one, not the poisonous one.”
“Ah,” said Sukuna. “Nutty, with a strong smell when cooked.” He bent and picked another, showing Megumi the same double-ring. “I will show you when we return.”
A small thrill buzzed through Megumi. “Okay,” he said simply, despite his heart picking up.
It was too easy to gravitate toward Sukuna, especially when he was lighthearted like this. When Megumi pointed out a bird’s nest, he moved in close to help Sukuna follow his finger, and they didn’t separate by much after that. Their arms brushed more than once while walking again. And when Sukuna found another type of mushroom growing on a tree trunk, he pulled Megumi in and stood behind him, chest to Megumi’s back as he delicately peeled the bark away and showed Megumi the hidden mycelium roots.
It was companionable and…intimate, somehow more than even sex, which was the most Megumi had been vulnerable with someone. As they wandered tranquilly, Megumi found himself stealing glances at Sukuna. Why did these simple moments of Sukuna’s regard excite him?
Sukuna’s monstrosity, both in Megumi’s existing knowledge of him and the glimpses he’d seen in this era, should have repulsed Megumi entirely, or at least certainly more than it did. Instead, it only placed Sukuna’s kindness toward Megumi in starker contrast, like a peek of sunlight on a stormy day.
It was special, and it made Megumi feel as much, too, a tiny glow in his core. He knew he needed to shake it off. It didn’t matter that Sukuna treated Megumi well. It didn’t change anything about who Sukuna was or what he did. Rather, it shouldn’t have—it shouldn’t have mattered; it shouldn’t have changed anything.
But then Megumi would peep at Sukuna and see his fierce presence and power, his sculpted body, and his attentive charm. Desire bowled Megumi over every time. He wasn’t strong enough to resist Sukuna’s allure.
“You look awfully serious,” said Sukuna, a mild taunt. He always found Megumi’s brooding funny, especially when it was clearly centered on Sukuna himself.
Megumi glanced away, wishing he had the high collar of his school uniform to hunch into. He mumbled, past a traitorous blush, “It’s nothing.”
Their walk took them on a meandering, half-trodden path through the thicket. Megumi, trying and failing to divest himself of this want, couldn’t help keeping his eyes out for any mushrooms, hoping to point them out to Sukuna, to earn his regard or even praise. Eventually, he found a small patch of the same spotted ones Sukuna had shown him.
Megumi stooped to pick one and checked its stalk. “Look, it’s double-ringed,” he said, brandishing it at Sukuna.
Sukuna took it from him. “We should have brought a basket.”
“You have four hands,” said Megumi, mostly in jest. He plucked the other mushrooms from the patch. “But no, see—if you won’t hold them, I can always just—” Showing off a little, he opened his shadow void and slipped the mushrooms in.
Sukuna’s face lit up, and he bent to examine the ground where they’d disappeared. “You keep surprising me, Megumi,” he said, impressed. “Can you get them out?”
Megumi obliged, with Sukuna watching raptly as his hand vanished into the shadowed hole. “Here.” Megumi held out the mushrooms.
Sukuna inspected them curiously, then handed the whole harvest to Megumi, who stored them away. “Convenient. What else can you put in there?”
“Weapons, usually,” said Megumi. “But probably anything, as long as I can handle it easily—if it’s not too heavy.”
“What about other people?”
Megumi frowned, thinking about it. “I don’t know. I can manipulate my surroundings with shadows, like creating a hole for someone to trip in. I can hide myself in any shadow—I’ve only done that once in battle, though, when I was fighting a curse. But another person in this void? It’s possible, but probably…unwieldy.”
Sukuna gathered some dirt, considering, and rubbed it between his fingers. Finding it no different than before, he let it fall. “You have potential,” he said as he stood, then pulled Megumi up, too. “Don’t waste it.
Megumi hastily stamped down his surprise; he didn’t want to inadvertently divulge anything about them in the future, about their fight at the detention center. “Thanks,” he replied, subdued, as he dusted himself off, an excuse to duck and hide his face.
Soon after, as the daylight warmed and morning mist faded, they began heading back to the shrine. Megumi was distracted once more, now thinking of how Sukuna in this era and in the future both viewed him as powerful. That was as far as the similarities between the two extended. What had Megumi been imagining when he’d approached Sukuna originally? It hadn’t been quaint walks in the forest, or amicable chats, or this air of companionship.
Forget arousal and lust; a small bud of a different desire was blooming in Megumi. He needed to nip it—Megumi had come here to win Sukuna’s favor, not give away his own in the process—but every passing day nurtured these feelings instead. It felt good, and so little else did right now. A stronger man than him in better circumstances would have trouble withstanding this pull.
Still, the slow current of endearment scared Megumi, because as he looked at Sukuna and felt a flutter in his chest, he knew this feeling wasn’t only in its infancy. Somewhere, when he hadn’t been paying attention—between the casual touches and stories they’d shared, and Sukuna lounging on his side next to Megumi in bed, and those covetous eyes and hands—these roots had grown deep and anchoring.
“You are distracted,” Sukuna said plainly, then with a teasing lilt, asked, “Am I boring you, Megumi?”
Megumi tried to school his expression. He felt oddly caught out, like maybe Sukuna knew that Megumi was the exact opposite of bored. “No, no, I’m not—”
“Now, surely you do not expect me to—”
“Wait!” Megumi blurted, grabbing Sukuna’s arm as he froze. Sukuna stilled, looking at Megumi in confusion. “Look.”
Ahead of them, camouflaged in the undergrowth, was a fawn. Megumi painstakingly crept forward, towing Sukuna with a tight grip on his wrist, holding him from making any sudden moves. A meter away, not daring to get closer, Megumi crouched slowly. The fawn was tiny, with big, pale ears too big for its head. White spots dotted its back.
Sukuna started, “Megumi—”
Megumi shushed him. “You’ll scare it,” he hissed without looking away. The fawn blinked its dark, innocent eyes, and he found his lips turning up adoringly.
“Megumi,” Sukuna said again, this time quieter, more of a low rumble than a whisper.
Megumi turned to Sukuna and found him already looking back with a soft expression. His heart skipped a beat. His smile slipped as he fought the flush flaring upon his face. “What is it?”
Sukuna only tilted his head curiously. The intensity of his gaze didn’t lessen. “Animals interest you a lot, hm?”
Megumi knew without a doubt that his cheeks were ruddy now. He turned away and mumbled, “Well, they’re nice.”
“Do you want it?” Sukuna asked, gesturing.
“Want it?” Megumi repeated. “Like as a pet?”
Sukuna paused. All four of his eyes blinked in surprise, and another moment passed. “Well, I meant to eat,” he said finally, sounding like he already knew how Megumi would receive that.
“Sukuna!” yelped Megumi, louder than he meant to be. The fawn jerked but didn’t move. Forcing his volume lower, Megumi whispered emphatically, “No, I do not want to eat it.”
“But the meat will be more tender,” Sukuna explained, as if Megumi didn’t know already. “Young ones always taste best.”
Megumi was no stranger to veal, but he couldn’t imagine harming this little creature. “I know, but I don’t want to—I wouldn’t—”
“Alright, alright,” said Sukuna accommodatingly. “It must be different for you, not used to hunting your own meat.” He stood suddenly, causing the fawn to startle again.
With a sigh, Megumi followed, rising cautiously. “It’s so small. I can’t even imagine hunting something that looks like that.”
“Well, you can take it as a pet if you want,” offered Sukuna, sounding both teasing and indulgent.
Megumi glared. “I am going to leave it here, where it’s waiting for its mother. And we are going to go back to the shrine.”
Sukuna’s features glinted with amusement. He always enjoyed when Megumi got feisty. “Oh? And what is there to do back at the shrine?”
Megumi began walking away, leaving Sukuna behind. “Don’t start,” he said, half-hearted at best.
On the path back to the shrine, Sukuna’s hands roamed, a brush down Megumi’s arm here, a hand low on his waist there. It was restrained to only simple touches, but each graze seemed to linger. At one point, Sukuna flicked lightly at Megumi’s neck, tapping a mark he’d left the previous day, and when Megumi scowled, he explained, wide-eyed and innocent, “I thought I saw a bug.”
Even as Megumi rolled his eyes, it was impossible to fight a smile from creeping up. Sukuna was always playful, not childishly, but in that he had no real worries and considered it fun to mess with others. His bright disposition had a different air, though, lacking much of its normal mocking edge. And perhaps it was simply the fresh air of the forest, the sun on his skin, and the wildlife they’d seen, but nevertheless, the sincere uptick of Sukuna’s lips was catching. Megumi found his mood lightened, as well.
He didn’t realize until the weight lifted just how melancholy he’d been. Megumi had resolved to see this plan through, even if life at the shrine was transforming into something new and unexpected. But it had stayed with him, regardless, the fatalistic resignation that’d brought him to Sukuna’s dwelling in the first place.
It wasn’t that Megumi despaired all the time; he was mostly comfortable, surrounded by nature with good food and company. But small solaces didn’t change the fact that it was difficult to be here, to endure and survive in this era, in a curse’s hands.
His sadness, deep in his chest, was an old, heavy one. It was misery, and mourning, and missing and being missed. But this sprout of affection for Sukuna, this bloom of cheer—they were purifying, like Megumi had finally dug out the rotted roots of past, fruitless hopes. So as they traveled back, Megumi’s heart floated, buoyant within him.
When Sukuna found a patch of brown-yellow mushrooms on a tree trunk, he plucked one and they both peered closely to examine it. “Is this one good?” Megumi asked.
“I haven’t tried it before.” Sukuna popped the mushroom in his mouth, obviously uncaring of any poison. He chewed intently as Megumi watched, but after a moment, sheer disgust twisted Sukuna’s expression. He spat the mushroom to the side, sneering, “Yuck.”
Megumi felt something bright bubble in him, tickled by the sight of Sukuna’s revulsion, and it made him grin, then laugh, full-blown. “Not good?” he chuckled.
Wiping his mouth, Sukuna wrinkled his nose and shook his head in response, but then his attention seemed to catch on Megumi. He commented, “This is the first time I have heard you laugh so openly.”
Megumi’s smile dropped as he stared up in surprise at Sukuna. Self-consciousness crashed into him. “I don’t…often,” he said, ducking his head.
Sukuna made a gentle noise of consideration. A finger found Megumi’s chin and tipped his face back up, where he found Sukuna smiling, lips lined with something warm. “You should,” he said simply.
And somehow, that was enough to ease the embarrassment, or at least catch Megumi with a different type. He blushed. It was like Sukuna always knew exactly what to say.
On the rest of the hike back, he stayed close to Sukuna, feeling his warmth. The forest went quiet again as they neared the shrine, and Megumi began spotting small animal bones amongst the twigs. But the air around them was still lighthearted, heartened by Sukuna’s radiating good mood.
Megumi wanted to partake, to chase that emotion, and to feel the glow on his skin. So as they reached the shrine, with Megumi stumbling up the stairs after Sukuna smacked him on the ass, he turned on Sukuna the moment they were inside.
Only twice before had Megumi initiated sex himself. But he kissed Sukuna, leaning up on his toes to reach, and then eased down to his knees. Sukuna’s warm expression turned to heat.
“Learning your place?” he leered.
Megumi shot him a mildly exasperated look. “Don’t ruin it.”
He tugged Sukuna’s kimono apart, revealing his soft dick, and leaned in, taking hold of it and mouthing at the head. The musk was familiar by now, and the taste, too. As Sukuna hardened in his mouth, Megumi sucked him like he’d been taught to, tongue against the shaft, and relished the way Sukuna’s thigh flexed under his free hand.
The motions weren’t quite practiced, but Megumi knew to lick at the slit of Sukuna’s cock, to try going deeper even if he gagged a little, to swallow around the head. He knew to gaze up at Sukuna, and today, when Megumi did, Sukuna’s expression was rapt and somehow kinder than usual. He cupped Megumi’s jaw and thumbed at his stretched lips, letting Megumi blow him at his own pace.
It was intoxicating, especially as Sukuna finally came, as his hand tightened in Megumi’s hair. The small sigh of a groan that escaped Sukuna went straight to Megumi’s head—he had done that, pulled that sound from Sukuna with his mouth, his hand, his body.
As Megumi pulled off and swallowed, Sukuna was already kneeling in front of him, reaching into his kosode. That first touch, the brush of knuckles down Megumi’s cock, made his hips stutter. And Megumi was so keyed up, alight, that the moment Sukuna’s huge hand curled around his dick, it was nearly enough to make him come. Pure, electric need overtook Megumi.
“I’m so close,” he whimpered, clutching at Sukuna, leaning his forehead on his shoulder.
“That’s right, Megumi,” spurred Sukuna. His deep voice vibrated straight to Megumi’s cock, making him shudder. Megumi was so weak to the way Sukuna said his name, that seductive and enticing drawl that dragged obscenity from him like a devil’s whisper in his ear.
The pleasure layered and rose, and Sukuna worked Megumi to the edge then over it, and with a small bitten-off cry, Megumi came in pulses over Sukuna’s hand, trembling helplessly as he was stroked through it. When Sukuna released him, Megumi sagged, boneless, laying all the way down to let his spine melt into the tatami. Sukuna’s hand landed on his chest and wiped something wet—
“Oh, gross,” Megumi complained with feeling. He shoved Sukuna’s hand away and stared down at the smeared come all over him. But his body was still tingling pleasantly, unwilling to muster any irritation. With a long-suffering sigh, Megumi rested his head back down.
Sukuna laughed, a deep throaty sound full of amusement, as he joined Megumi on the floor and relaxed in the quiet afterglow. He pillowed his head on two arms and closed his eyes, leaving Megumi free to peek at him. It was strange, perhaps even scary, how soft his muscled body could look. Sukuna’s chest rose and fell subtly, and his stark black curse marks breathed with him.
Recently, Megumi had been pondering their conversation about Sukuna’s origins, his strength, and the fear that empowered him, as well as the folktales of Hida considering him a hero. Megumi’s existence in this era blurred all the lines, including the one of time.
Was Megumi changing history, or could he, even? Maybe he would return to his time and butterfly effects would have toppled the world he knew. But it was more likely that the future was built upon what happened here; all of this had already long since occurred by the modern day.
What did that mean for the legends he’d read? They’d been correct about Sukuna once being a human, as well as the name of his killer, and it stood to reason that Sukuna would somehow become a protector in these lands, too. But Megumi simply didn’t understand how that would come to pass. What could ever convince Sukuna to allow these people to worship him? He was more likely to make an example of the village than to listen to Megumi about ruling and protecting.
But watching Sukuna now, how unwound and mellow he was, Megumi couldn’t shake the idea, perhaps irrational, that it would change things, somehow—that if Sukuna was considered a proper deity, it would make him better and save lives, that Megumi would be able to rely on him then, that maybe it would be okay.
Megumi sighed silently, finding his nerves. He didn’t want to give up without at least trying. Heaving himself up, Megumi crawled over and onto Sukuna and propped himself up on his chest as Sukuna blinked his eyes open. He traced a finger along one of the curse marks on Sukuna’s torso. “Have you ever killed a dragon?” Megumi asked.
“A dragon?” Sukuna’s tone was relaxed and obliging.
“From the legends I read, you are said to have killed a dragon,” Megumi told him. Sukuna made a thoughtful noise. “I think it was around this region.”
“Well,” said Sukuna, more awake now. “I killed a dragon cursed spirit in Tang a couple hundred years ago.”
Megumi shook his head. “I don’t think it’d be that one. Definitely Japan.”
“Maybe that blue fucker on the mountain,” said Sukuna, contemplative. “Mm, he’s usually polite, though.”
“On the mountain?” After a moment, it dawned on Megumi. Since summer began, there’d been an air of unease over the town, a dark cloud of cursed energy. Megumi had asked Sato at the inn, who’d told him about the serpent of Kuraiyama, which haunted the region each summer hunting people for food. Megumi sputtered, “Wait, is this the curse who feeds on humans, who the town loses people to each summer?”
“Probably,” shrugged Sukuna.
Megumi smacked him on the chest. “Then how is he polite?”
Sukuna laughed, “Well, he never bothers me.”
“The townspeople are worried,” Megumi said, testing the waters. “They’re saying it’ll wake up soon.” He’d been planning on investigating the mountain himself, but it was truly serendipitous for the serpent of Kuraiyama to be the dragon Sukuna was meant to kill.
But Sukuna was thoroughly unconcerned. “July already, huh?” he mused instead. His fingers traced a line down Megumi’s spine. “How eventful the past months have been.”
“‘Eventful’ is one way to put it,” Megumi huffed. His disappointment was set aside rather easily, with post-coital languor still keeping him loose. He lay down entirely on Sukuna, trying to share in his heat. But a moment later, Megumi was unceremoniously nudged away.
“Do not get your come on me,” Sukuna grumbled.
Megumi obligingly rolled off, though not without a sigh. “It’s your fault it’s on me in the first place.” Rubbing at the drying, tacky come on his chest, he complained, “Ugh, I need a shower.”
Sukuna glanced at him. “A shower?”
“To bathe,” clarified Megumi. He normally used the shrine’s wash area or went to the nearby river, which ran clear and cool from the mountains. As the days grew hotter, it was a common indulgence, and when Sukuna was around, he often sat along the bank and watched Megumi. But right now, all Megumi wanted to do was soak. “Oh,” the idea struck him, “are there hot springs around here?”
Sukuna played with a lock of Megumi’s bangs, which were getting longer. “No nice ones in Hida,” he answered, “but the trip would be a quick one for us.”
“For you, you mean,” said Megumi, leaning into it as Sukuna scratched gently along his scalp. His eyes fluttered shut. “You’ll have to carry me.”
Sukuna’s threat came sounding amused, “And if I just throw you, send you flying on your own?”
Megumi paused, a tiny jolt of pure animal fear kicking through him at the thought, the memory of Sukuna flinging him through a forest, launching him through walls of concrete. He managed, after a second, only a weak response, “I’ll have Nue catch me.”
Sukuna pushed himself up, and his eyes narrowed as he gazed down at Megumi. “Is something wrong?” He reached and easily pulled Megumi up.
“No,” said Megumi quickly, which was mostly the truth. Nothing was wrong, exactly; it had only been a reminder—a small, necessary one—that Sukuna was a curse, the king of them, and always would be.
But Sukuna didn’t push, taking him at his word. He helped Megumi fasten his kosode, shifting the collar to sit properly with a touch that brushed along Megumi’s neck, and by the time Megumi was ready, his unease had faded. Even knowing who Sukuna was, even having known, Megumi still hungered to be closer, lured by gentleness like this. In this era, or at least with Megumi, Sukuna’s hands wrought much more than destruction.
Right now, two of them were drawing Megumi into Sukuna’s arms while the other pair skated along his legs, helping them wrap around Sukuna’s waist. Once situated, there was a broad hand at the small of Megumi’s back and another between his shoulder blades.
When Sukuna stepped out and sprung into the air, even as the wind roared in Megumi’s ears and the ground below was swept into a blur, Megumi didn’t fear falling. He tucked his chin over Sukuna’s shoulder, gazing over his back. The expanse of Hida was spread below them, unpolluted by roads or railways or skyscrapers, and sheer awe caught Megumi’s breath for a few moments before Sukuna brought them to the mountain, rocketing down and cratering the rock where he landed. He split into a fast run, breakneck—and Megumi gasped and held on and felt Sukuna’s arms tighten around him—and leapt again.
When they descended this time, they were in a forest, and the air was thick with steam. Sukuna set Megumi down at the edge of the hot spring, and Megumi stared in wonder; it was huge and entirely undeveloped, unlike the onsen resorts he’d visited before. The volcanic smell and the hot air dispersed occasionally by small gusts—it was already soothing. Megumi took a long moment to close his eyes and breathe deeply, filling his lungs.
“Have you ever been here before?” he asked, turning to Sukuna. “It’s so nice.”
Sukuna was already stripping, tossing his clothes onto a rock. “A few times.” He stepped in, obscuring most of his body in steam, and glanced at Megumi. “Are you not getting in?” Then he smirked, “If you want my come on you that badly, you only need to ask.”
“Stop,” scowled Megumi.
Sukuna shot him a grin. “But you blush so prettily.”
Megumi turned away, undressing and placing his clothes with Sukuna’s. “It’s because the air is so warm,” he grumbled.
He ignored Sukuna’s laughter and carefully dipped his foot, nearly flinching when he found the water startlingly hot. But under Sukuna’s amused gaze, Megumi took one slow step in then another, and with a breath, lowered himself.
Sitting where he was, on a rock that allowed him to keep his head and upper chest out of the water, Megumi was across from Sukuna, who lounged lazily with two arms spread along the edge of the spring. He looked inviting, broad and wide, and Megumi warmed further before catching himself and glancing away.
After some time soaking, Megumi scrubbed himself down and rigorously rinsed his hair. The hot water lifted dirt from his pores, and dead skin came away like an extra layer, leaving him scoured pink and refreshed at last. His mind, too, felt cleansed, alleviated of its grimy stress.
Megumi pushed himself up and out of the spring, not wanting to swim in the dirty water around him, and shivered at the cool air. He was entirely bare in the steamy fog, water dripping from him, and Sukuna leered.
“You just had me earlier,” Megumi said, though he circled the spring anyway, walking along its rocky edge until he was just behind Sukuna, standing above him.
Sukuna tilted his head back and regarded Megumi silently, unusually solemn for a few seconds before his lips curled up into an appraising smirk. “Only your mouth,” he purred.
Megumi shivered, whether in cold or a new bloom of warmth, he didn’t know. He exhaled shakily and stepped back into the water next to Sukuna. Even though the heat had wrung Megumi dry of the energy for arousal, he was still unable to quell the urge to be near Sukuna, to touch him.
He sat and leaned back, resting his head on Sukuna’s outstretched arm on the spring’s brim, and when Sukuna didn’t protest or even tease, Megumi slowly relaxed, muscle by muscle. They lapsed into a comfortable silence, surrounded by the twirling steam and accompanying birdsong, and Megumi drifted like that into the sway of Sukuna’s aura. It seemed to envelop him, somehow soothing, and it made Megumi want to curl up in Sukuna’s arms for real.
Megumi snuck a glance only to find Sukuna’s lower eye already looking back. Caught out, Megumi froze, willing himself not to blush. But then Sukuna’s lips turned up, and it wasn’t at all mean or amused. That soft smile, within this mist like a veil around them, gave Megumi the push he needed to shift closer.
He faced Sukuna, moving onto his lap, and Sukuna met him halfway. His free hands brought Megumi to straddle him, and Megumi wrapped his arms around Sukuna’s shoulders. Their chests pressed together, and Megumi could feel each one of Sukuna’s breaths as he rested his head in the crook of his neck. He didn’t dare say anything, lest it break the quiet mood. But there was so much expressed already by the warm blood coursing through their bodies and so much, too, that Megumi didn’t have any words for.
A low exhale escaped him. Megumi felt something big and bruised and indefinite open in his chest, like a yawning cavity of yearning. It hurt, overgrown with thorny guilt. But Sukuna gently kissed Megumi’s temple, then the upper part of his cheekbone. The fissure widened between his ribs, and Megumi split open.
Notes:
art by @bricla22
I chose morning glory because not only is it a summer flower, but studies have shown that it was likely a blue or purple pigment back in the day, too. There are other-colored strains though, of course.
The Japanese species of deer is called the sika deer. Hinds (females) give birth to a fawn in May-June after a 7-month gestation period. A mother hides her fawn in the undergrowth/bushes after birth, and it’ll just wait there until the mom returns to nurse it.
The first mushroom that Sukuna talks about is the Amanita rubescens, which isn’t poisonous, versus the Amanita pantherina, which is. The second mushroom he finds isn’t anything specific, but it can be the nigikuritake, or sulfur tuft, which is poisonous.
Bathing was not a very common practice in the Imperial Courts at the time, which is the lifestyle we have the most recordings of in text. However, soaking in hot springs was a purifying ritual in Shintoism.
Tang is the name for China, based on the Tang Dynasty which ruled that region at the time Sukuna is referring to.
In JJK, it seems that the elemental curses, cursed spirits born from base human fears, reincarnate some period of time after they are exorcised, so the curses in this era are not the same as those in the modern age, though they are manifested from the same fears.
Chapter Text
You who know so well
How fleeting is our human life,
Do not wear out your heart,
You, a brave warrior!
—Manyōshū XIX: 4216
One week and a few days later, the dragon raided the town. Megumi first heard while bathing at the river, when the usual chatter of the men downstream was replaced by hushed, fearful whispers, as if they worried speaking too loudly would summon the evil back.
Rather than return to the shrine after washing, Megumi followed after the men to the village, where he found dismal and mourning airs. Cursed energy blared in dread. The children were subdued in the streets, and the farmers, distracted.
The dragon had seized Tsuda’s son last night. Their home on the village outskirts had been an easy target. Tsuda and his wife’s yells had roused their neighbors; a hole in the house and their son’s leg were all that remained. The dragon had killed, too, the town’s hopes from the past weeks that perhaps it wouldn’t prey on them, that it would slumber through the summer, that it’d be satisfied with the measly offerings of crops they’d left at the mountain.
From Sato the innkeeper, Megumi learned that if the Kuraiyama serpent followed its prior patterns, the beast would return in a few weeks to take another. It sent chills down Megumi’s spine, imagining such a creature, with the power to behave the same way each year, each appearance, and never be slain along its path.
It nettled, too, the feeling that he’d allowed this to happen with his hesitation. Megumi hadn’t wanted to risk fighting a special-grade curse alone, a suicidal mission even if he had been training like usual these months. Sukuna, on the other hand, could easily dispose of it, and he was even meant to kill the beast according to legend. But Sukuna was truly apathetic; none of Megumi’s wheedling had moved him. And now a life had been stolen.
When Megumi returned to the shrine that evening, Sukuna was lounging lazily, reading a book. Megumi took in the sight and sighed internally. He knew already that there would be no convincing him.
“You said you were only going to the river,” said Sukuna mildly, without looking up.
Megumi swallowed around the steely flint in his chest. “I heard the villagers talking. Someone was killed by the dragon last night.”
Sukuna didn’t so much as pause. “Is that so?”
It was futile to try making conversation about this, and Megumi didn’t bother with a response; one human’s death was to Sukuna the same as a trampled blade of grass.
He took a seat next to Sukuna, leaning in to peek at the book. This was pointless, as well, for the kanji was archaic and mostly unfamiliar to Megumi, who’d tuned out most of his classical Japanese studies. Life in this era didn’t require literacy, as it wasn’t typical of commoners, so Megumi didn’t need to read to get by. But at times like this, he missed it.
With a sigh, Megumi turned his gaze outdoors. The wind rustled through the high, wild weeds, and the forest beyond the torii was green. And yet beyond the trees was the village in mourning, and past that stood the mountain, where the air would taste metallic with blood.
The notion of doing nothing was impossible for Megumi. He’d known sorcerers since his youth, had seen their sacrifice and strength. He couldn’t escape the same call or the guilt that accompanied inaction. Megumi needed to make sure the dragon died before another villager was made victim.
But Sukuna—Sukuna was impossible, too. No matter if Megumi told the legend of the dragon, discussed legacy, or extolled the fight itself, Sukuna remained unconcerned. If anything, Megumi’s growing desperation entertained him. “You’re pouting,” Sukuna had laughed once, after falsely claiming he’d acquiesce if Megumi crawled to him. He’d caught Megumi’s bottom lip, pricked it with a nail, then bent to lick into his mouth. That, more than any debate, would be the result of asking once more.
But Megumi tried anyway. “You must exorcise the dragon on Kuraiyama,” he said, his usual refrain, then tacked on, “The people have been scared for weeks, and we did nothing, and now the worst has happened. And until something is done, they’ll continue to die.”
It was Megumi’s most pathetic attempt, a reasoning with no chance of swaying Sukuna, and they both knew it. But when Sukuna finally lifted his gaze, fixing Megumi with an incredulous look, Megumi stubbornly stared back. Even if Sukuna never fought for such pettiness as saving someone, Megumi had and would. There was a part of him that wished Sukuna would understand at least that and an even smaller slice, deep within, that wondered if Sukuna would ever agree not for the town’s sake, but for Megumi’s.
But Sukuna conceded only enough to oblige the conversation. “Humans know nothing but fear and death,” he said at last. “They fear a harsh winter, a storm that will take the roof from their home. They fear each other and for each other. They live and die, fuck and sleep. So the dragon will kill them. It is no different than a blizzard, except the season.”
“Non-sorcerers know fear, yes, but also the courage to overcome those trials. They plant their crops despite knowing it could all be lost. They always rebuild their homes.”
“You admire them,” Sukuna laughed roughly. “How moving.”
“I acknowledge them,” said Megumi. “They would take their dull pitchforks and sickles to the dragon’s lair if they hadn’t lost so many over the years already. Instead, even with the knowledge that one of them will die when the curse hungers again, they live on.”
“Yes,” drawled Sukuna, “that is their reality.”
Megumi’s mouth made a hard line. “An unfair one.”
Sukuna looked him up and down, appraising. He seemed to find something of interest in Megumi’s expression and with a glint, goaded, “You keep asking me to kill this curse. But what about you, Megumi? Will you help them?”
Stale resignation and anger mingled in Megumi’s chest, converging into some form of determination. It didn’t matter that the dragon was special-grade; Megumi had defeated that finger-bearing curse, and he could win this, too. His shadows felt cavernous in this era and its potent cursed energy, and all of Megumi’s ashamed, fearful, or lonely stresses carved that pool even deeper.
If the dragon died, the townspeople would likely still believe the deed to be Sukuna’s; none of them knew of Megumi’s power. The legend could still be written this way. Megumi hardened his gaze and met Sukuna’s. “If you won’t, then I will.”
A few days later, after a small breakfast in the late morning, Megumi prepared to depart. It would take him an hour to reach the village, time to cross through it, then an hour more to ascend Kuraiyama, plus however long it took him to actually find the dragon’s barrier. He would hopefully confront the dragon as afternoon morphed into evening, in the long shadows of the setting sun.
With his uniform torn and unraveling, Megumi wore hakama for easy movement, and pulled his boots from his pack of modern-day vestiges. He bent them at the toes and ankles, dusting the disuse off, and knew they would carry him easily up the mountain. And lastly, he secured a pack with food around himself, then tied his straw hat around his neck, letting it hang behind his head for now.
All through this, Sukuna simply watched. He made no moves to follow or delay Megumi and stood silently, attentively, at the doorway of the shrine as Megumi stepped out. Maybe Sukuna was curious about his abilities. Megumi got the feeling that this was a test of some sort, the answer to which would only be determined by Megumi’s success or death. Regardless, no help would come from this direction.
Unsure of what to say to Sukuna, Megumi only turned once as he left, right as he moved into the forest. Sukuna remained at the shrine’s entrance still, somehow both giving Megumi the chance to retreat and simultaneously challenging him onward. Resolve lifted Megumi’s chin the barest amount in that glance back, and he thought he saw Sukuna frown.
The village was forlorn when Megumi arrived. He felt invisible on the streets; everyone was preoccupied with the Tsuda family, with dread that they’d be struck next. He had to walk past the wrecked house to enter the mountain path, where Tsuda’s wife was slowly picking through debris. Her cheeks glistened.
Megumi turned away. He tugged his hat on properly for shade, for something to shadow his face, and continued on. It hadn’t rained recently, and there was a track of stones burnished with bloodstains from where the dragon had dragged the boy from his home. Megumi kicked some dirt over the rocks and turned a few over to conceal the rustiness.
Three hours past midday, under the sun beating down and with sweat beaded on his forehead, Megumi sat on a fallen log to eat, unwrapping his rice and umeboshi from the bamboo box in his sack. There were trodden paths up Mount Kurai—people came here to hunt, for timber, and for the cool mountain water—and Megumi followed one until he came to a small stream, where he nearly fell over himself to drink. Crystal clear and icy, the water was unbelievably refreshing. He pushed his bangs out of his face and sat there dripping for a moment. It was nearly time.
The climb was long but not arduous, though Megumi moved off the beaten trail soon after departing the creek. The dragon was clearly behind some type of barrier, since he couldn’t sense it, but he suspected its lair was upon a wide plateau nearby. Megumi summoned Kon to his side, and with senses alert, they picked their way through the mix of boulders and trees.
The dragon was large, Megumi knew, which meant its power would be spread thin throughout its body. The jaw and claws would be dangerous, as would any impact of its size, but as long as Megumi could avoid those, he could steadily weaken the beast then snare victory with his domain.
Blood thrummed in Megumi’s ears, an ebb and flow with his heart—the sense of vitality before a fight, the shallow thread of anxiety, the restlessness in his hands—but it was steady. Calm flowed through him, even as his heart hammered on; maybe this anticipation was his body’s resting state or perhaps its waking one, for the way Megumi finally felt roused.
The barrier was in front of him. Kon’s teeth were bared at the stench of cursed energy oozing from it. And Megumi, readying himself, stepped forward with a careful, unfaltering tread.
Heavy cursed energy surged over him, an instant fog, but it wasn’t nearly as dense as Sukuna’s. Megumi rolled his shoulders and felt the weight slide off his back. A beat, another, then the mountain thundered. The dragon appeared in an instant, flying straight for Megumi like a semi-truck barreling down the highway. It roared, mouth enormous, a dark tunnel, and the sound rumbled through Megumi’s bones and the ground, shaking him.
Kon yanked Megumi away right as the dragon plowed past and slashed at its huge hide. A single scale was torn off by the graze, but the dragon didn’t react. Its eyes were crazed, and the long length of its body coiled and tense. Up close, the curse seemed as large as the mountain itself.
Smoke and steam billowed from the dragon’s mouth as it appraised Megumi, and in between mats of mud and blood, its talons glinted in the afternoon light, nearly double the size of Kon’s. Adrenaline pulsed through Megumi, coating over his nerves. The scaffolds of a strategy dropped into his mind, and he got to work.
Kon released back into shadow, and Megumi summoned, “Max Elephant.”
But before he could move, the dragon took another pass. Megumi darted away from its swiping claws, blood racing, and managed to avoid their edges. Then a solid mass struck him from behind, and the world flipped on itself as Megumi was thrown. He crashed, hard, and felt the impact jolt through his whole body.
Disoriented and dizzy, Megumi tried pushing himself up. His hat had been tossed from his head, and the sun glared harshly in his eyes. It hurt; his whole body did. Something was broken, but the pain was all over, and he couldn’t immediately place the wound. But his hands—he checked them—were fine, still functional, which was all he needed.
Max Elephant built its tidal torrent and fired, and the dragon snarled as it was covered in the deluge. The force didn’t move it, but the wetness streamed down its scales. Steam began rising as the water evaporated, but Nue was too quick, lighting the air with crackles of energy, and the dragon screeched as electricity ricocheted along its whole length.
Megumi watched, grimly satisfied. His pain had sharpened into his left leg and chest, but he forced himself to stand and spat to the side, trying to rid himself of that iron tang of injury. Nue continued beating its charged wings at the beast, but the dragon seemed to sense Megumi’s vulnerability and turned on him. It rushed his direction, and the mountain rumbled with it, rocks vibrating beneath Megumi’s feet, up his leg as he tensed to leap out of the way. Pain cleaved up his knee, and his leg buckled. Megumi cried out. His vision dipped dangerously into grey as he hit the ground. He braced himself—
But a sudden force swept him out of danger, orange feathers encasing him. Nue tucked him in a crevice of boulders, where the dragon’s mouth wouldn’t fit, and Megumi regained himself. “Gama,” he summoned, and his toad’s largest, lumbering form hopped from the shadows.
Even at this size, Gama was much smaller than the dragon, but he clung well, which would buy Megumi time. The toad wrapped his tongue around the dragon’s neck, pulling tight in a chokehold and using the grapple to climb atop. The beast bellowed, struggling, and shuddered as Nue’s lightning struck. Boulders tumbled from above as the dragon’s tail whipped the mountainside.
Megumi steadied himself against a nearby rock, squinting to steady his vision. Cursed energy blazed over the plateau, and purple blood fell from its wounds as it raged. An aerial twist sent Gama careening away, landing defenselessly on the ground, and with a burst of speed, the dragon struck out for the shikigami. But Megumi released the technique right before collision, and the curse crashed heavily into the earth below.
The impact reverberated through Megumi, shaking his hurt leg, and he grit his teeth, only for his jaw to pang, too. One of his molars had been knocked loose, and the side of his face was numb. Megumi—Megumi was in over his head. This dragon was built for both massacre and hunting; it could raze an entire town to the ground as easily as it could pick a single victim from a hut. Megumi hadn’t predicted its precision, especially on top of its sweeping, crushing hits, one strong blow of which threatened to take his life. If only his leg wasn’t broken; if only Megumi could put pressure on it—
It wouldn’t be long now until the sun dipped low enough for him to use the mountain’s shadow, but he had to stall and survive first. And the dragon was fast. Its tail lashed out again, and Megumi was saved only by Nue’s wings cocooning him. The right side of his body seemed to crumble inwards even with protection, and Megumi gasped, coughing, as he rolled out of Nue’s limp form and pushed himself up. His lips were slick with blood. The backs of his teeth were coated with it.
He dissipated Nue and struggled to his feet, then immediately pulled forth another shikigami. Again, Gama sprung from the shadow, twisting his tongue around the dragon and constricted tightly once more, acting as Orochi once would have. The curse writhed and flipped in midair, throwing Gama into the mountainside. But the tongue’s grip endured, and momentum carried the dragon, too, into the rocks, where it crashed hard, then tumbled to the ground. It felt as though the crater of the impact dented Megumi’s body, too, rattling his ribs against each other, a gong in his skull. His lungs felt lopsided. He couldn’t see through the haze of hurt.
But Megumi could feel it now, finally. Shadows unfurled all around him as the orange sun sank below the mountain peak and cast the longest shadow of the day. The plateau dimmed. Night flickered alive. Megumi felt himself expanding, the bounds of his technique crawling outward and becoming a gluttonous, deep well of shade.
Siphoned through him, from the mountain’s shadow, from the inky crevices between boulders, the Ten Shadows intensified. Megumi ruled here, in his ocean of darkness, as the ground beneath his feet eroded away. There was nothing outside of himself, only a swarm of pain and anger and spite that built into a surge of resolve. Forget thinking. Forget logic. Forget fucking Sukuna loafing around his shrine.
“Domain Expansion.” Shadows stained Megumi’s insides, mingled in his blood, and he collected every flare and snarled, “Chimera Shadow Garden.”
The domain unfolded from Megumi, spilling over the plateau with no restraint. Megumi doubled himself, tripled himself, and his fearless puppets made sure the dragon wouldn’t be able to escape. Toads climbed as bubbles of shadow onto its body, sinking under scales and into wounds. Nue, then a second one, battered the dragon’s face. It howled, swiping at the toads, but couldn’t reach the shadows attacking its long midsection.
Megumi felt just as large as it. His senses were broadened, as if he’d stepped through a waterfall and found the sea beyond it. The power was heady and creased with his exhaustion, and Megumi stumbled, drunken. His vision spun as the dragon pulsed its cursed energy, winking the puppet shikigami out of existence. But he held strong, as did the domain. Winged toads leapt from the cliffside and rained down on the dragon, clinging to its nostrils, whiskers, and horns. Nue’s electricity poured from them. The air crackled, sizzling over Megumi’s skin.
Everything hurt. Megumi could barely move and instead simply swayed with the currents of shadow. All his cursed energy was bundled in the domain, and he had none left to reinforce and shield his body from the tremors of battle. Each roar of the dragon stabbed his ears; each solid impact rolled through his aching ankles. The beast’s tail struck the ground, and Megumi staggered, falling hard and only just managing to land on his relatively unhurt side. Breath left him, punched out. Megumi lay limply, his nerves screeching, and could only watch the struggle.
His mind was outside his body, anyway, imbued into all of his shikigami. He and his shadows were one as domain endured, as Banshou silhouettes sprouted and stampeded over the clamoring dragon, as the shadow garden swallowed the curse’s energy like a gaping maw. Even there on the ground, clutching dirt and rocks, feeling them scrape into his open gashes as he tried to push himself up, Megumi was within that raging battle.
Soon the beast’s body was torn up, almost half destroyed entirely. Within the torn flesh showed a spine and thin ribs like a centipede, and blood poured from its broad wounds as it fought, still. It wasn’t healing anymore, though, Megumi noticed.
Fighting his body’s weak, shaking limbs, he rose unsteadily. His arm wouldn’t even lift high enough to swipe the blood from his eyes, so Megumi knew that pulling a sword out now would be useless. But with the beat of battle underfoot, he was all instinct, all animal. Megumi beckoned, and Totality emerged with a growl, its claws sharp and eyes keen on Megumi and their prey.
The thud-thud-thud of Megumi’s heart melded with Kon’s steps as he took off and gained speed, as he hurtled at the curse, a black-white-deadly blur. A hot pulse of cursed energy did nothing to slow him, and Kon ripped headfirst through the dragon’s body, severing its damaged middle. The spine splintered, and the back half began disintegrating.
All that was left was the struggling head, devoid of claws or body or tail. Megumi staggered to it, feeling every step as a deep, agonizing throb. He clutched his right side and felt wetness seep between his fingers, but his vision hazed when he tried to look down at himself, so Megumi only held himself and gazed through grey at the dragon.
Even just its head was larger than Max Elephant, towering over Megumi. But the fight was nearly over. Megumi didn’t need to speak for Totality to know his intent. A clawed fist punched through the dragon’s eye. One wasn’t enough. But Kon gouged the curse’s head again and again, unaffected by how squelch of flesh and spew of blood. Megumi watched dimly, his ears ringing as the dragon bellowed.
It shot a haphazard beam of cursed energy from its mouth, a last, desperate gasp, but neither Megumi nor his shikigami were in its path. Instead, the beam razed a ridge into the mountainside, and rocks tumbled. The quakes echoed through Megumi’s broken leg, and he stumbled hard, which hurt, it hurt, shit—and buckled to the ground, barely managing to catch himself.
But it was over only a moment later, as with a final rending blow, Kon tore the dragon’s skull from its body. Slowly, the remains began evaporating, leaving only a few stray scales behind, and the mountain quieted, save for Megumi’s rasping breaths. He sagged. Air hurt as it passed through him, and his chin itched where blood had dried over it, dripping down to his neck. Megumi drooped, unsteadily collapsing down to his back on the bloody mud. The mountain was steeped in the smell and carnage of battle, and Megumi’s pain was so inescapable it was numbing.
His domain released. All the shikigami dissipated, and alone laid Megumi, staring up through the greyed red of his vision at the orange sky. The mountain was still, as if the very wind hesitated to blow after such a fight. Relief, too, was slow-moving; satisfaction belatedly lurched into Megumi.
It was over. His domain, even against this fearsome beast, hadn’t collapsed in on itself, hadn’t been spread too thin, and Megumi had won. The people would be safe now, and they would believe the hero to be Sukuna. And Sukuna himself—had he discerned Megumi’s triumph when the dragon’s barrier shattered? Did he know? Would he come—
A figure appeared above Megumi, blocking the sky from view. Megumi closed his eyes, tired and acquiescent. “You did it,” said Sukuna.
Megumi coughed, two torturous hacks that tore his insides out. Blood splattered from his mouth and dribbled from his lips. “I told you I would help them,” he managed, voice wet and wheezing, drowning in his own maimed lungs, “if you wouldn’t.”
Sukuna shifted next to Megumi, and when Megumi opened his heavy eyes, he was crouched. His head was cocked to the side as if curious. An ache beat through Megumi; he yearned to know what Sukuna was thinking.
One of Sukuna’s hands touched gently down on Megumi’s chest, and the pain began easing, the prickle of it shivering through him. It felt like exhaustion had come with the healing, for how heavy his body felt when it was stitched back together. But Megumi shakily turned over onto his front and pushed himself onto elbows and knees, spitting the last of his red-tinged saliva. It mixed in with the rest of the gritty, soaked ground. Then weakly, Megumi pushed himself into a sitting position and wiped his mouth.
His head pounded. There was only so much Sukuna could do to ease the strain of the fight, and Megumi was nearly depleted of cursed energy. Dizzy, he put his face in his hands, blocking out even the dimming evening light.
“I’ve never met anyone as fucking contradictory as you,” said Sukuna. “Risking your life so foolishly, and for what? Humans who will take sick and die come winter?”
No, not the humans, Megumi thought, or at least, not only them. It was about the story, which would live on, and on, and on. He replied, “You have to kill the dragon.”
“Hm? You get hit up here?” Sukuna asked, flicking Megumi on the head. Megumi flinched. “You just did that, Megumi.”
For a moment, Megumi thought about lying. But Sukuna was already here; he would realize soon enough the consequences of Megumi’s battle. With a weak breath, Megumi clarified, “In the myths, you kill the dragon. So the people—so they’ll—”
Sukuna paused. A second ticked by. “You aim to make me a hero,” he said finally. It was a statement, an accurate inference, but laced beneath with confusion and anger.
Without responding, Megumi rose unsteadily and teetered across the plateau to one of the few lingering dragon scales. He bent to grasp it, only for it to resist his attempts, too heavy for Megumi’s exhausted body. Frustration flooded into him, a bone-deep pang.
Then Sukuna was there, lifting the scale easily, tossing and catching it with a hand. He appraised it suspiciously. “The scale?” A moment later, he glanced in the direction of the cliff that overlooked the town and immediately understood. “So you have been scheming. You want them to think it was me.” His eyes narrowed, staring Megumi down with building ire. “All those questions you asked, all the stories you told about legacy and emperors—you wished to stifle my power.”
“Sukuna—”
But a hand shot out and grabbed Megumi’s face like a muzzle. Sukuna squeezed painfully and leaned in close with furious eyes. They were all Megumi could see. “I should have known you would be so conniving.”
Fear struck at Megumi’s core. He clutched at Sukuna’s arm, and his eyes watered as sharp nails pricked him. Exhausted and scared, Megumi had no energy for pretense. “Let me explain,” he implored, muffled by Sukuna’s hand, only for the pressure to slowly increase around his head, Sukuna’s grip tightening. That reflexive sense of mortality crashed into Megumi, panic, the awareness that Sukuna could crack his skull, but he wouldn’t, but he would—
Then abruptly, Megumi was released. He stumbled back, bending over his knees and trying to gather himself. His pulse was thrashing, pounding between his ears. Sukuna’s voice filtered in, harsh, “Go on, then. Tell me about your schemes.”
Megumi took a deep breath, trying to settle himself. He rubbed over a cheekbone where Sukuna’s nail had bitten in. The fear had jolted Megumi awake, at least, but his heart was shivering against his ribs, anxiety just under his skin. “It’s not some—some manipulative, devious scheme.”
After Sukuna’s refusals, as Megumi contemplated exorcising the dragon himself, he’d realized that as long as he wasn’t seen and didn’t claim glory, the townspeople were likely to assume it was Sukuna; there was no other god-like being with so mysterious or fearsome a repute.
The legend of Sukuna’s heroics, therefore, didn’t actually require his presence here. But he was here, and the deed was done, leaving Megumi to now assuage Sukuna’s anger. Today would unfold in one of two ways now: either Sukuna affirmed his apparent victory himself, and the legend would circulate faster, more smoothly, and with less variation, or he simply killed all the townspeople and put an end to this now.
“I would have killed the dragon anyway to save them,” Megumi said. “For them to see you as their protector—that’s not the main point, only some of it. The stories already say you did it. It won’t ‘stifle’ your power. How could it, when you’re still who you are in a thousand years? Nothing will change.”
“If nothing will change, then why do you insist on it?” Sukuna’s gaze was firm.
“This is only one region. Only the people affected by the dragon will care about this, so let them feel safe.”
Sukuna’s lips twisted. “I don’t care about the safety or peace of humans.”
Megumi shifted. His head hurt. He wished that he wasn’t so powerless, that he could do more than just plead, that Sukuna would just heed him. “You already leave the people of this town in peace unless they bother you, which they rarely do. They leave offerings at the shrine, Sukuna—already, they do that. In comparison, this isn’t much more.”
“It is a region’s worth of people who would revere me as a protector,” Sukuna sneered, his disgust clear.
“A region, perhaps, but not the world,” said Megumi. “The world will fear you. I say it honestly that you are dreaded in my time. They can both be true—that you are the King of Curses and that you saved this town—because it already is.”
Megumi swayed where he stood. Even in the shadowed, dim light of the evening, his eyes throbbed. Sukuna caught Megumi by the shoulders, steadying, and didn’t respond, which was at least not refusal.
After a quiet moment, staring absently at the curse marks on Sukuna’s chest, Megumi asked lowly, “Would it be so bad? Aren’t you curious?”
“Megumi,” sighed Sukuna.
“A different type of power is still power,” Megumi insisted. “And they would still fear you, dragon slayer.”
“Knowing someone as fearsome and actually fearing them are two very different things, sorcerer.”
The words rang in Megumi’s ears. He was so tired. “If you wanted them to fear you that much, you would have been terrorizing them already, stolen them away at night like the dragon.”
When Sukuna didn’t reply for a long moment, Megumi tipped his heavy head back to look up at him. He hoped Sukuna could read the hope on his face. This would change things, not just for Sukuna or for the townspeople, but for Megumi, too. Because if Sukuna allowed himself to be seen as a hero, then maybe Megumi would feel better about—maybe it wouldn’t be so wrong.
“One region,” Sukuna mulled, testing it aloud. He slotted Megumi with a firm look and said, “If I make you claim credit for your victory, this would be for nothing.”
Megumi shook his head, immediately regretting it when his vision swam. Sukuna anchored him once again. “I still saved them. That makes it worth it.”
Sukuna rolled his eyes, muttering, “Goddamn jujutsu sorcerers.” He frowned at Megumi, then seemed to come to some decision. “Alright,” he said, “let’s see what happens when the people worship me.”
Relief soaked through Megumi, dissolving the ragged remains of his energy. He slumped, adrenaline abruptly drained, only to find himself lifted entirely into Sukuna’s arms and made to lean against his chest. As Sukuna walked to the precipice, where the village could be seen below, Megumi stayed quiet; he didn’t thank Sukuna—to do so would imply Sukuna had done this for anyone but himself, and no matter his reason, Megumi wouldn’t provoke his whim.
Together, they gazed over the cliff’s edge. There were people gathered, drawn to the sounds of battle, all ogling up at Sukuna with awe. “You know they are dead if this farce becomes bothersome,” Sukuna plainly stated.
Megumi knew. It was a risk to put the townspeople on Sukuna’s radar like this, but there’d been no other way to save them from the dragon. He gripped the collar of Sukuna’s kimono and didn’t respond.
With a casual toss, Sukuna threw the scale down the mountainside. The villagers would understand; they would believe the dragon had been slain by Sukuna. The scale would tell its tale, and the people would spread it like wildfire.
“Let’s go,” said Sukuna, turning away without waiting.
Megumi felt the power shift in Sukuna’s body as he pushed off the ground, and they launched into the air. He hid his face in Sukuna’s neck, trying to escape the bite of the wind. When they landed, though, it wasn’t in the familiar, compressive atmosphere of the shrine; instead, Sukuna had brought them to the river, which rushed noisily in the low light.
Lifting his head some, Megumi asked, “Not the shrine?”
Sukuna deposited him gently at the water’s edge, and Megumi immediately sat, relieving his shaky legs. Sukuna knelt with him and pulled Megumi’s boots off, then ripped the tatters of his clothes down the middle, baring him to the evening air. “You do not like sleeping dirty,” explained Sukuna.
“Thanks,” Megumi said, watching Sukuna. He couldn’t read Sukuna’s expression, didn’t know what the firm line of his mouth meant as his eyes roamed Megumi’s body, only that the mood was oddly subdued, especially after their earlier parley.
It was with a near-silent sigh that Sukuna helped Megumi into the shallows, seating him in chest-high water and holding him in place against the current. Megumi scrubbed himself slowly, red draining into the river. His side was tender where a sharp rock had gauged him. He tried washing out his sticky, matted locks with what strength had returned to his limbs, then opted to simply duck his head underwater until the river ran clear. The whole affair took only minutes, but Megumi’s body felt heavy and waterlogged by the time he was done.
He didn’t even bother attempting to stand, knowing he’d only slip on the rocks below. Leaning back against Sukuna’s legs and looking up at him, Megumi said, “Okay.”
But instead of moving them to the shore, Sukuna tilted Megumi forward again. He cupped water and brought it to the back of Megumi’s neck, where he cleaned the hair at his nape. A hand urged Megumi down, and he went obediently, submerging himself once more. Then, finally, when Megumi was allowed back up, Sukuna was satisfied.
He gathered Megumi in two arms and stepped from the river, dripping, then picked up only his boots, forgoing the scraps of Megumi’s clothes. With a single strong leap, the world blurred around Megumi. He clung to Sukuna, shivering wet in the brisk, cool air.
In mere moments, Sukuna had them back at the shrine, where he placed Megumi on his feet just inside. Megumi found a cloth and wiped himself down, rubbing vaguely at his hair with sore, exhausted arms until Sukuna took over.
After, as he nudged Megumi toward the bedroom, Sukuna said, “History will never remember me as benevolent, no matter what you try.” So, he hadn’t quite believed it when Megumi had said the legend wasn’t the main point.
“Isn’t history my specialty? In this, it will,” said Megumi, then assured, “But that still won’t change who you are.”
Sukuna huffed something like a laugh. “No, it would take something truly immense to achieve that.”
Megumi glanced up at Sukuna: his black markings, his eyes, the shadows of him in this lantern-lit evening. He towed Megumi along by the hand, a soft grip. Exorcising the dragon had been to save the townspeople, yes, and for the possibility of changing Sukuna, too, so less people would die from his menace. But it’d also been for Megumi, himself, for this: a feeling that emerged painfully when fatigue washed his hesitations away; a pang both lonely and yearning; soft, honeyed froth.
They went to bed and slept, or at least Megumi did, wrapped into the weight of Sukuna’s arms around him. His dreams were a red blur of shapes, of clashes, of hunger. In the morning, when Megumi shuffled sleepily from their room, the dragon scale had been placed alongside offerings at the top of the shrine’s stairs, and incense was burning.
Notes:
The style of book binding referred to in this chapter is an accordion/concertina-style folding called orihon. It originated in the Tang dynasty in China (618-908 AD) and during Heian Japan. The famous The Tale of Genji was bound in the orihon format. Sukuna, however, wouldn’t be reading this work, because Genji was written mostly in kana and not in kanji (a masculine pursuit at the time), which meant it was for women.
The legend about the dragon and Sukuna is slightly different than the actual events that take place here. Nichiryubuji temple was founded by a man with two faces and four arms who defeated a poisonous dragon dwelling in the Hida region. However, this myth is combined with the folklore about Kuraiyama being connected to Sukuna.
Chapter Text
When we think that we alone
Are steering our ships at midnight,
We hear the splash of oars
Far beyond us.—Manyōshū XV: 3624
Peace descended upon the mountain and town for two blissful weeks. Summer crashed into the region with torrential rain and a roar of heat, but the village folk remained in good spirits; they were better equipped for humidity than a dragon.
Even on stormy days, offerings were left at Sukuna’s shrine, right outside on a stand next to the door, and Megumi became used to waking to the wafting scent of incense. He wasn’t sure Sukuna liked it, exactly, but the worshippers stayed unobtrusive and out of sight, so Sukuna didn’t bother with them, which was good enough.
When Megumi trekked to the village, the townspeople regarded him warmly, even more so than before. Being the keeper of Sukuna’s shrine earned him recognition and reputation, both, as well as caring.
Sato’s wife asked after Megumi’s health when he visited the inn, always with an offer of a full meal. The farmers greeted him, and one of the clay artisans presented Megumi with a small vase depicting the battle.
“I shall travel to Owari,” he told Megumi with passion. “My next piece will be born at the Sanage kiln.”
It was beautiful—sancai-glazed with a stylized, four-armed Sukuna rending the dragon in two—even to Megumi’s untrained eye, and he thanked the man warmly. Sukuna was unimpressed when Megumi showed him that night, but Megumi displayed the vase on a shelf, a reminder to himself of his own feats.
Defeating the dragon had been a return to form for Megumi, who hadn’t realized until afterward how tense and useless he’d felt without training and the icy clarity of combat. Megumi didn’t know how he would be faring without Sukuna’s healing, or if he even would’ve survived, but it was still refreshing, within this riptide of helplessness and circumstances outside his control, that there were still battles he could win.
But there was one thing in the aftermath of Megumi’s fight with the dragon that wasn’t peaceful: his own relationship with Sukuna. After Megumi recovered entirely, the sex became punishingly aggressive, and he was quickly reacquainted with the acute, heart-rabbiting adrenaline of Sukuna’s vindictive focus narrowed on him.
He pinched Megumi’s tongue between thumb and finger and made him beg for release. He choked Megumi on his dick, then told him to stretch himself and make it a show, which had Megumi squirming in humiliated arousal. Bruises on his hips purpled, then yellowed, then slowly disappeared, as Sukuna didn’t heal them.
“Are you pleased with yourself?” Sukuna had asked Megumi the first day after, a disdainful question he did not, for once, seem interested in the answer to.
And Megumi had realized then no matter Sukuna’s kindness in healing him and helping him wash, the acquiescence to Megumi’s plan still came at a price. It wasn’t as though Megumi had somehow forced him—no one could—but uncertainty slithered into their interactions regardless.
Rather than invoke Sukuna’s wrath, Megumi’s actions resurrected the past skepticism about him and his intentions, though with a different flavor of distrust. Megumi’s triumph at Mount Kurai seemed to shift Sukuna’s perception of him, adding a…wariness, perhaps. More than once, when Megumi glanced his way, he found Sukuna already gazing intently back, eyes sharp, as if trying to see through his skin.
“You are stronger than I believed,” commented Sukuna one day.
It was raining heavily, and under the dull thrum, Megumi thought through his response. “I only just learned to control my domain a few months before I was transported here. It’s incomplete, still, due to its barrier.”
“A strong technique, regardless. If you mastered it, or perhaps utilized its weaknesses to your advantage…” Sukuna trailed off, looking thoughtful.
“What do you mean?” Megumi asked.
But Sukuna only tipped his head to scrutinize Megumi again and didn’t deign to answer.
Such was the way their conversations often petered into silence these days, one of the other ways Sukuna’s suspicion hung over them. Sukuna also left the shrine for longer on his usual excursions; he was sometimes gone for a few days at a time, and Megumi uneasily figured he was traveling further from the region to find towns to plunder.
As the days rolled into mid-July, the weather became more forbidding, too. The air felt dusty with heat, and for all Megumi could reinforce his body with cursed energy to prevent sickness, he couldn’t escape being wrung dry by the sun.
“You should invent air conditioning,” said Megumi as he fanned himself pitifully; even this was too much when he was spread out on the floor, trying not to move. “I’m sure you could do it.”
“I am sure, as well,” Sukuna glanced down at Megumi from where he sat next to him, “if you tell me what air conditioning is.”
Megumi rolled over with a groan, brushing against Sukuna’s thigh. Sukuna didn’t sweat; his cursed flesh didn’t have the pores for it, even. “It’s unfair that you don’t have to feel this,” he complained. “It’s so hot.”
Sukuna pushed him away. “You’re pathetic.” Then, with a sigh, “Come. Let’s go to the river.”
Megumi perked up, overeager even in the face of Sukuna’s patronizing expression. “Can we go up the mountain? It’s cooler there.” He could nearly feel the same clear, chilly waters he’d drunk from before his fight with the dragon.
But when they neared Kuraiyama, Megumi found nothing refreshing. Cursed energy flared from the mountain, and Megumi’s hands tightened around Sukuna as concern sparked.
“Why is there so much cursed energy?” He climbed from Sukuna’s arms when they landed and turned in a slow circle, finding residuals and cursed auras with his eyes focused. “The dragon is dead.”
“This is not the dragon, but other curses. Smaller ones,” said Sukuna. He followed at a sedate pace as Megumi inspected their surroundings.
Even just in their immediate vicinity, one curse slithered over the roots of a tree while another crawled over a boulder. When a third appeared from below ground, Megumi summoned Kon, who sprang immediately to the kill. “Were there always this many?” Megumi asked dubiously. He’d seen none when traversing the mountain just two weeks ago, though admittedly his attention was elsewhere. “Did you know they were here?”
Sukuna nodded easily. “The dragon’s death created a power void on this mountain. These curses are here to occupy its seat, showing themselves now that there is no larger curse to threaten them.”
Megumi frowned, “But—”
“What?”
“You’re here,” said Megumi simply, because it was obvious to him. “How can there be a power vacuum when your shrine is,” he pointed down the mountainside, “right there?”
“The same reason the dragon resided on Kuraiyama in the first place: I allow it to.”
Megumi contemplated that, then realized, “Like you allow the humans to live where they do.” After a pause, “But they’re curses.”
Sukuna’s eyebrow lifted. “What is the difference between human and curse to me? My territory extends far. None of them are a threat to it.”
Movement caught Megumi’s eye, and his attention turned to where Kon was chewing his way through yet another curse. Two more snaked their way through the trees. Megumi climbed up a few rocks to reach a better viewpoint, and Sukuna jumped up to join him then made a considering noise and began climbing even higher, bounding atop boulders that Megumi clambered over to follow. The sun-baked stones seared at his palms.
It was blazing hot where Sukuna brought them, heat rising off the rocks without any tree cover, but from this vantage, Megumi could see the true extent of the problem. An endless horde of curses wandered below them, like ants swarming after their hill was disturbed. The mountainside seemed to move with them, to hum with their moans and chatter.
“These curses…” said Megumi. “If they come down the mountain, the village will be in danger.”
They weren’t deliberately heading for the town, but the proximity meant the curses would inevitably roam there. It spelled doom for the town—any and every encounter with a curse, especially any deaths, would increase their cursed energy, which in turn would attract more.
Megumi needed to stop them, somehow, but low-grade or not, there were simply too many. His heart sank, then went lower, because the one who could purge these curses would refuse. Megumi knew. He still asked, “Can you kill them?”
And there it was—Sukuna looked almost bored with the question, like he’d known, too, that Megumi would ask. “They are your precious humans.”
A pang of hurt struck Megumi, along with fear for the town. He knew—it was a pointless question, a foolish request to make of Sukuna, who cared for nothing but his own whim. If Sukuna wanted to kill the curses, they would already be dead, and Megumi couldn’t sway him now. He had learned as much already.
“How long do you think it’ll take before they catch the scent of the town?” asked Megumi, a bit hollowly.
Sukuna tilted his head. “A few days, I would think.”
Icy trepidation trickled into Megumi from the top-down. What could he do except convince Sukuna to step in? But with the dragon, he’d tried for two weeks to persuade Sukuna to no avail. Only when Tsuda’s son died had Megumi taken up arms himself. He didn’t want someone to have to die again before taking action this time.
He needed to act now, before it was too late. “Then I need to prepare.”
Sukuna bent toward Megumi and peered at him with condescending glee. “Need to make sure they still see me as their protector?” he asked. “Their reverence hasn’t affected me, Megumi. You’re wasting your time.”
Megumi didn’t flinch, didn’t even lean back. “Their lives come first, same as with the dragon. There is no mountain of curses in the stories, anyway.” He turned and jumped down to a lower rock.
Sukuna followed Megumi down to the trail. “You plan on fighting them now?” he sounded doubtful. The curses kept their distance from Sukuna, his aura drowning them like river rapids atop rain.
“I’ll come back in a few days,” Megumi said. Already, his mind spiraled.
Sickening fear curdled in him at the sheer number of curses, all sowing death where they crawled. And to think it was his fault—that killing the dragon spawned this.
Sukuna wouldn’t help, and Megumi wouldn’t even hope for it, especially when Sukuna didn’t even trust him anymore. The jujutsu school was too far and too weak for Megumi to rely on; these curses probably wouldn’t even have made it here in such numbers if the school was still fully operational, if Sukuna hadn’t killed them all—well, if they hadn’t tried to kill Sukuna.
Megumi was on his own, this time again. “Let’s just go back to the shrine,” he said.
Sukuna looked amused, but he didn’t poke at Megumi’s dark mood. He lifted them to the shrine, where Megumi somberly set his thoughts to preparing his cursed energy and weaponry. The mountain’s blight clung to him as dread.
Two days later, Megumi put on his boots and returned to the mountain. His pack had enough food and water for the day, and he stored two cursed swords from Sukuna’s armory in his void.
After he passed through the village, Megumi found the curses not far from the base of the mountain, near but not at the outskirts. He let Nue and Kon sweep the area while he cut the remnants down with his sword. The plan was to keep clear of curses a certain width of space between the village and mountain—a no man’s land of sorts.
By the time night fell, Megumi was tired but not overly exhausted. He’d used his domain around midday, when the sun was high and his energy low, but his shikigami had been enough for most of the curses. None of these spirits were higher than third-grade, so the work was repetitive but not overly strenuous; it was less expending his cursed energy and more staying alert and on his feet all day that drained him.
Sukuna was gone when Megumi arrived back at the shrine, and not feeling his presence nearby, Megumi didn’t bother searching. He washed himself of the blood and dirt and stretched his feet, massaging his calves.
That night, though Megumi usually slept fine without Sukuna, the silence felt startling. His worry made him restless. Megumi shifted and stared at the far wall until fatigue finally sank him into sleep.
At dawn, Megumi left for the mountain and found the same swirling mass of cursed energy. The dent he’d made in the swarm had been filled by their endless numbers. Megumi and his shikigami became a tornado of exorcism: a curse with one eye fell to his sword, a fox-like creature was torn through by Kon, Banshou and Nue’s water-electricity combination fried swathes of curses to dust.
Again, it wasn’t difficult, only tiring, especially as the hours passed. Like with the mole-like creatures under Yasohachi Bridge, a single swipe of his sword was enough to exorcise each curse. But there were simply too many. How long would he have to keep this up? How long could he?
Sukuna was at the shrine that night; Megumi felt his aura the moment he stepped far enough from the mountain’s blare. Still, Megumi took the time to wash outside before entering. He found Sukuna lounging against a wall of the main room, looking over a set of knives.
He assessed Megumi with a frown. “The offerings from this morning are untouched,” he said. “You left that early?”
Megumi nodded, hissing as he set his sore feet on the tatami floors. Even in his modern boots, Megumi’s legs protested the endless activity. “The earlier I reach, the more time I have, and I need as much as possible,” he told him. “It’s endless.” He took a seat next to Sukuna, resting back against the wall with a low exhale, and immediately dug his thumbs into the pad of his foot.
Sukuna hummed then asked, “Are you going back tomorrow?”
Megumi glanced at him, but Sukuna’s expression gave nothing away of his opinion. “Yeah,” he answered finally. Sukuna didn’t respond, so Megumi didn’t try to justify himself. He sighed, “It’s so fucking hot though, and I couldn’t even get to that creek today because of how many curses were close to the village.”
“They’re migrating,” inferred Sukuna.
With a noise of assent, Megumi replied, “They’re moving toward the cursed energy of the town. Honestly, I’ve never seen so many curses roaming all together before. They usually stay around where they manifest.”
“Not weak curses,” Sukuna corrected. “If they have no territory, they wander.”
With another sigh, Megumi closed his eyes and tilted his head back. “They’re all low-grade, that’s for sure. But there are just—so many.”
He nearly drifted off there, sitting and resting his eyes, until he was woken by Sukuna’s skeptical voice, “Tired already?”
“Early morning,” explained Megumi with a yawn. Slowly, stiffly, he stood. The bottoms of his feet stung. He stretched his arms, clenched his fists a few times, and felt his knuckles crack. “I should sleep. I have to—tomorrow.”
Tonight, too, Megumi went to bed alone. Sukuna didn’t join him. In the dark, quiet room, the oppressive dismay of the coming fight sank into him. Megumi tried to push it aside, to think instead about how kind the townspeople had been recently: the offerings at the shrine, the smiles he received, the pottery gifted to him. These weren’t people who deserved to be terrorized by curses, and Megumi found satisfaction in protecting them. He would do what it’d take to keep them safe.
But when he arrived at Kuraiyama for the third day, the scourge had spread even worse. Cursed spirits moved steadily toward the town, like the tide washing in. Megumi badgered them back, trying to hold the invisible line he’d drawn. His domain helped, especially as it spread without a proper barrier, spread thin but still strong enough to take out these weak curses, but using it left Megumi fatigued and dehydrated by the end of the day.
Megumi staggered back to the shrine even later than the previous night and fell into bed with Sukuna, too tired to even savor the body at his back. He found strength only to tell Sukuna, “Wake me up before dawn.”
Sukuna’s lips pressed together as he hummed, barely an acquiescence, leaving Megumi to wonder if he actually would. But after sleep took him, it felt like only moments before Megumi was being shaken awake.
“This is foolish,” Sukuna commented as he watched Megumi gather himself for the day. “You will not be able to stop them all.”
“I have to do what I can. Even if the villagers can hold some of these curses off, they’d be overrun soon.”
Sukuna sighed. “Is it tradition for you jujutsu sorcerers to martyr yourselves? To be so self-sacrificial?”
“We’re not,” Megumi said shortly, which was the truth, proven by Gojou, by what happened with Getou, by Megumi’s own selfish convictions.
“You are,” insisted Sukuna. “Your birthright is not only an innate technique, but an inheritance of an early death. For honor? For duty?” Sukuna’s voice was hard. “Go, Megumi. Go save the humans. Let them cheer my name even louder.”
So, Sukuna was angry. But Megumi didn’t have the energy, the time. He went.
The fourth day was even more taxing. The pain behind Megumi’s eyes sharpened into a headache, but he couldn’t stop—didn’t know how to stop when there was always another curse, when the spillover would affect the village, when he had caused this himself by killing the dragon, inadvertent though it’d been.
Stars were bright overhead by the time Megumi pushed the curses back enough for the night. He made it halfway down the mountain, toward the village, before reconsidering returning to the shrine. At this time of night, there was no point; he would get barely an hour of rest before needing to make the long trek back.
And oh, he was so tired. Sleep beckoned tantalizingly, enveloping his head in a haze. Megumi’s steps dragged, catching on underbrush and roots. He tipped himself into a soft spot, moss-covered and plush, and collapsed into exhausted, dreamless slumber.
Megumi woke with a jolt in the early reaches of sunrise. Curses were near, buzzing along his dulled senses. Day six, or was it still five? Megumi began anew. His shikigami exorcised more than he did, with Megumi unable to think, to see, to fight beyond a small circle around him. The sun blazed ceaselessly. The air was hot, and his breaths were dry and scratchy with every panting huff. Fatigue lapped at Megumi. He was bleeding from somewhere.
Megumi’s head swam, heavy, by the time he limped into the shrine well into the night and found Sukuna. “I can’t,” he protested weakly when Sukuna reeled him into his lap. He was dirty and streaked with soil and exhausted.
But a hot hand wrapped around Megumi’s cock, around both of theirs together, lubricated with oil. Megumi clung to Sukuna’s shoulders, letting him take his weight, and whimpered as his drained body somehow found arousal.
“Even when you don’t believe you want it,” Sukuna chuckled, low in his ear.
Despite his fatigue, it didn’t take long for Megumi to finish. He slumped in Sukuna’s hold and dropped into blissful oblivion right there.
He woke in bed a little past sunrise the next morning and prepared hurriedly. “I have to go back,” Megumi said, feeling restless, almost vibrating through his skin. There was an odd energy in him today, not vigor but some frenzied drive that kept him on his feet. “My presence is keeping them back. If I just stay there longer—”
And Sukuna let him go, looking contemplative. It was impossible to figure out what he was thinking, not when Megumi hurt even sliding his boots on, when his arms ached as he stretched. He thought of Tsuda and Kida and Sato, their families, and all the other people he’d met at the village, as well as other distant towns that would be affected if Megumi couldn’t eradicate the curse horde.
No, Megumi couldn’t give up. This was who he was as a jujutsu sorcerer. He would fight even though he was alone, even though it stung and filled him with a muddled, feverish hopelessness. Kugisaki would have loved this, Megumi found himself thinking, as Nue swooped through a barrage of wasp-looking spirits. Itadori, with his bottomless willpower, wouldn’t even have stopped to rest.
Megumi’s focus wavered; his vision swam enough that it looked like each of the curses was doubled, then tripled, or perhaps there actually were that many. Gojou-sensei would have crossed his fingers and made this all go away, made it all stop, and Megumi missed that assurance so acutely it hurt.
He just wasn’t—he wasn’t strong enough. Chimera Shadow Garden was a powerful weapon, and Megumi was learning its non-edges and depths with continued use, but it sucked the very life from his veins to repeatedly use with just barely enough break in-between.
It wasn’t a matter of power against these low-grade curses; it was a matter of time, pace, and stamina. No one could sprint a marathon, but slowing down was a death sentence when running for his life, for all the lives of the townspeople. The cursed spirits crept around Megumi like a river slowly eroding a rock. This tide wasn’t a tsunami but a slow current, and here it was, slow and steady as it won the race.
Megumi stayed on the mountain that night and the one after, too, and again, until day-night-day-night was a series of broken images and flashes of clarity between instinct and weariness. His cursed energy stewed shallowly, weak. He drank and splashed water on himself in the heat of midday, then fell asleep right there on the bank of the creek, and when he woke to the moaning of a curse, Megumi had a print of dirt on his cheek. He rubbed at the dry, caked mud and summoned Nue.
The sun beat down on him. Megumi could barely see through the muddle of his mind. His body was sapped entirely, a bag of skin around a skeleton. Streaked with grimy sweat, with blood on his arm, from where he didn’t know, Megumi just wanted to sink down, down, down into the shadow void himself and just sleep. Sleep. All he wanted was rest, oh god, let this end.
It was the third or maybe fourth day without break that a different, stronger cursed aura landed near him. It wasn’t Sukuna. Megumi turned and was met with Uraume, their hands folded into their sleeves. “Master Sukuna wishes for you to return to his shrine.”
Megumi blinked slowly, then peeled his eyes back open. “Now?”
Uraume’s gaze was flat. “If not now, you would soon collapse where you stand.”
“I can’t leave now,” said Megumi, fighting to make his lips move. “I have to—I need—” He gestured weakly around, despairing when he saw even Kon, the shape of his shikigami clarifying slowly to his vision, flagging in energy.
The low groans of cursed spirits droned around them, adding to the static in Megumi’s head. Then frigid air spread around Megumi, and a moment later, with a loud crack, ice crashed over the curses near them. The muttering, murmuring voices stopped.
Megumi’s ears rang. He stared blankly, then said finally, “Thanks.”
Uraume observed him with disdain. “You are a mess, sorcerer. Eat this and return to the shrine.”
The proffered food barely tasted like anything on Megumi’s parched, tired tongue, but he ate ravenously, suddenly starved, then drank his fill of water. It helped only somewhat. His body needed sleep, too, but Megumi couldn’t—he needed to hold his line, for it would all be lost if he didn’t.
For one irrational moment, he thought of defying Sukuna. But the notion withered as quickly as it sprung up. Both he and Uraume knew that he didn’t dare; Megumi didn’t even want to.
Without bothering to repeat themselves or escort Megumi to the shrine, Uraume departed. Silence swam around Megumi’s brain as he sat on the ground alone. His stomach was sated and thirst slaked, but his head teetered upon his neck, and his eyes, probably red, felt so sunken into his skull, so dry and throbbing, that Megumi half-expected himself to be bleeding from them. Each blink threatened to pull him into unconsciousness.
But Sukuna would be angry if he didn’t come immediately. Megumi knew what was expected of him—he was a storyteller, a companion, a…toy—and he’d abandoned that duty this past week by prioritizing something over Sukuna’s pleasures. It didn’t matter that Megumi was trying to save lives; to Sukuna, nothing stood above his whims.
Painfully, nearly falling, Megumi staggered to his feet and with every step sharply aching, made his way down the mountain. His progress was slow, probably, but Megumi couldn’t tell how fast he was moving, only that he somehow was, in the general right direction.
The sky dimmed, or perhaps it was his eyesight. Without combat and curses nipping at his heels, Megumi was drained of even the residue of adrenaline. The fatigue was more consuming than ever. He wanted to collapse and sink to his stomach here and let the ground consume him, so he could sleep like a babe in a womb.
Ah, how he missed small comforts. Even the shrine lacked the coziness he’d taken for granted in the future. Megumi longed. How would it feel to sleep in his own bed, to again have Ieiri-sensei heal his injuries with the smell of smoke clinging to her, to see Gojou-sensei waiting on the bench inside the clinic or maybe right outside it, with a grin and a teasing knock at Megumi for getting hurt in the first place? He’d never been this tired, past the point of even the sensation of sleepiness. Flashes of his thoughts formed into fantasies, memories, some delirious combination that made him hurt with nostalgia.
Dusk darkened into night, and Megumi kept going, every step a single second from dropping into unconsciousness. He blinked and found himself stumbling, nearly falling asleep on his dragging feet.
There was a chill in his chest, and he was shivering, a fact Megumi realized only after some time, cold even though it was a humid summer night. His head was a bowling ball, trying to slide from his neck to the ground. Sleep hung over him.
I can’t, he decided. I can’t, and the ground looked so good right now. It was right there, and he was so tired, and Sukuna told him to return, but Megumi couldn’t, he couldn’t, not like this. He slid to the dirt where he stood under a tree. The moment Megumi’s head hit the dirt, he was out.
When he jerked awake some time later, Megumi felt for the first time in days that his rest had been more than a brief second. With a soft groan, he pushed up and sat up against the tree, then weakly wiped the drool from his mouth. His hand came away smeared with dirt.
With a sigh, Megumi forced himself to stand. Every fiber of his body screamed, like a wailing car slamming on the brakes, frayed machinery creaking from overuse. No more, it begged, no more.
But Megumi compelled his weak feet onward. The trek was familiar now, and it seemed he’d made it to the outskirts of the village before collapsing last night. The rest of the trip took triple its normal time, with Megumi gradually making his way through the town and forest.
As he approached the shrine, Megumi’s ears picked up voices, and he picked his gaze up from the bone-dry ground. A man was prostrating on the veranda, right outside the doorway, his voice desperate enough to carry, “—beg of you, Ryoumen-sama. A monster plagues our sick home, and people are dying—children. My child,” his voice quivered with fear. “I bring offerings, the best my household can offer. Please—”
“You believe these useless offerings entitle you to make requests of me?” Sukuna’s voice cut in, hard and uncaring.
Apprehension welled in Megumi. He felt Sukuna’s cursed energy grow annoyed, dark, and knew instinctively that Sukuna was about to kill this man. Scrambling up the stairs, Megumi pushed past the man and into the shrine building with a clatter. His eyes met Sukuna’s. “I’ll go.”
A beat of silence rang through the shrine as they stared at each other. Slowly, the murderous tension dissipated, and behind him, Megumi heard the man shift. “Thank you, thank you,” he gushed, and when Megumi turned, he’d lifted his head—rather boldly, Megumi’s mind supplied—and sat up. “Monk-sama, if you would follow me—”
Sukuna quelled him with a flare of cursed energy. “Megumi will come later,” he said, a clear dismissal.
The man fell over himself to obey, fortunately not foolish enough to push his luck or Sukuna’s mercy. “Yes, yes, of course,” he agreed hurriedly. Bowing low at the waist, he scuttled from the shrine.
“You are late,” said Sukuna coldly when the footsteps receded. “I expected you back earlier, last night.”
Megumi shifted, suddenly self-conscious of how filthy he was. “I fell asleep on the way,” he admitted. “I haven’t had the chance to wash or—anything.”
“And yet you run to the aid of a pathetic man who brought,” Sukuna picked up and dropped some coins from a small stack, then scoffed, “money.”
“It’s not about what I get in exchange. They don’t deserve to be killed or hurt, and it’s probably low-grade—I can help.”
Sukuna stood, towering in his ire, even carefully restrained. He crowded in until Megumi’s back was flat against the wall. “Still so duty-bound, Megumi?” he sneered. “Still feel the need to exorcise some pathetic flyhead when you take a curse up your ass every day?”
“Don’t be crude,” Megumi frowned, irritation spiking. “I don’t help people indiscriminately, but they’ve been nothing but kind to me. Why would you think I wouldn’t?”
Sukuna scoffed. “With the dragon and now these measly pests, you aim to protect an entire province of people. That does not seem very discriminating to me.” His eyes glinted. “Careful, Megumi, or I might believe your dishonesty extends to the nonsense you spouted about fairness and justice.”
Megumi shook his head and insisted, the same, common refrain, “I haven’t lied to you. There’s just no reason to decline.”
“The reason is the state of you,” snapped Sukuna. His cursed energy erupted savagely, and Megumi recoiled. Every one of his instincts told him to kneel, to cave, to submit. He felt his head bend. But then Sukuna traced a small cut on Megumi’s neck and used that finger to tilt his chin back up. “You forget your place, too caught up in what they need,” he said. His gaze pinned Megumi down. “You do not belong to them, Megumi.”
Megumi ached. “Then help me,” he nearly pleaded.
“Stop being petulant,” Sukuna sighed, pushing away from Megumi.
“You could end it, all of this,” said Megumi, bitterness now escaping him. “You could help or—or train me, and it would be over sooner, but no—no, you won’t, right?” he laughed, acidic. “You won’t, so now I’ll go and save that man’s child.”
Sukuna didn’t reply. He only stared down Megumi’s defiance with distaste. After a moment, Megumi pushed off the wall, wincing as he walked across the room. He grabbed a jug of water and drained half of it like a dying man, then poured the rest over his head. His face dripped. Without looking at Sukuna, Megumi stumbled from the shrine, a mix of spite and adrenaline and fear and disappointment carrying him, and went to the village.
The sick house was on the outskirts, and Megumi felt the curse’s presence upon approach, a thick cloud amongst the dreadful stench of vomit, sweat, and malady.
“Monk-sama,” the man from the shrine turned from where he’d been speaking to the herbalist, “thank you for coming.”
Megumi barely nodded his direction, focused instead on gathering the dregs of his weary mind and body. He told the man to wait and went around the back, where the curse emerged, dripping in pus.
It was revolting but weak; the exorcism took less than a minute. But Megumi’s arms ached when he swung his sword, and his fingers cramped around the hilt. He winced and held them stretched until the spasm abated.
The man was waiting by the entrance when Megumi rounded the building’s corner. “It’s done,” he told him.
The man bowed low, his head nearly at his knees, as he thanked Megumi repeatedly. Then he added, “Please, pass our thanks to Ryoumen-sama, as well. My wife will cook for you tomorrow, and I will deliver it.”
Megumi dug his thumb into the ball of his sore hand. “Leave it with the rest of the offerings, in the morning,” he said; this man would not survive interrupting another one of Sukuna’s days.
“Of course,” the man gushed, bowing again. “Truly, thank you, Megumi-sama.”
“You’re welcome,” Megumi replied tiredly. His mind was already blurring again, fantasizing about soaking the tension from his muscles in a hot spring, about sleep, about rest. With a short goodbye, Megumi took his leave, dragging his feet along the dirt path leading into the forest.
Sukuna was wrong; there was satisfaction to be found in saving people. Megumi wasn’t deceitful, not to Sukuna nor to himself; Megumi could admit that Sukuna was the glaring exception to his convictions, by circumstance at first and, later, something scarily fond, but that didn’t mean Megumi wasn’t also a jujutsu sorcerer. It helped somewhat to have this reminder, this familiar shape to re-map himself to.
His life had been defined by being a sorcerer: instead of being sold to the Zen’in clan, he—or rather, his technique—had been bartered to jujutsu society, and his value to the institution derived from his ability to grow into a ruthless machine for exorcism. Gojou-sensei’s half-jokes about killing the higher-ups were tiresome, but Megumi had felt the touches of that corruption for years. This life was one long, twisted journey of death and decay.
Despite it, Megumi did take pride in having the power to save good people, to make the world a fairer place. When he was with his friends, the reality didn’t seem too stark. But he was by himself now, entirely; it wasn’t only the fights that wore on Megumi, but the fighting alone. Maybe jujutsu sorcery was an individual sport, but Megumi hadn’t yet been able to beat that instinct from himself, to look over his shoulder and make sure his teammates were okay or hope for support.
Whatever relief Megumi felt from being able to take up arms again came with this sludge of fatigue, as well as a reminder of why it’d been so long since Megumi had felt this way—why even now, rending curse after curse to dust, Megumi felt so lonely.
As he walked back to the shrine, miserably feeling every centimeter, every pebble, every uneven bump, Megumi’s losses came to the forefront of his mind. Time was passing without him, and he was stuck here, repeating the same grueling routine each day. Sometimes Megumi looked at his reflection in the water and barely recognized this forsaken, drained shell of a person.
Gloom descended into the same fog of exhaustion he’d been carrying overhead all week. Within that murky smokescreen, with a heavy heart and heavier legs, the realization welled within Megumi like an oil spill: oh, he’d missed Itadori’s birthday.
He was missing everything, everybody. And in this era, he had no one, because Sukuna didn’t trust him—because Megumi had forfeited that. The Sukuna who’d asked curious questions lounging in bed, who’d taught him about mushrooms, who’d kissed his cheek at the hot spring, was lost to Megumi now.
But shame crept in, too, that Megumi was even hurt by the distance. Sukuna was an island without bridges, and it should have been enough for Megumi to stand on the other side of that ocean of a moat. It should have been a relief.
How could Megumi yearn to make Sukuna look at him, to make him bend even a centimeter for him? That desire was a seismic shift, and the fissure within was filled with rotted bones of guilt. All the people Sukuna had killed watched Megumi from beyond the darkness.
Lust was one thing, but this warmth and endearment betrayed Megumi’s every conviction. Sukuna deserved to die a cruel, long death as justice for everyone he’d hurt. And yet Megumi looked at him and ached.
What did it say about him, that Megumi enjoyed Sukuna’s attention, that he wanted to be more than a passing fancy to him? Why did it hurt, the memory of Sukuna helping him wash in the river, a sweetness Megumi hadn’t received since?
The guilt was a deep, grotesque thing, eating like acid at his insides. Megumi had become someone not worthy of being saved by his own moral code. What would Gojou-sensei say? What would anyone in the jujutsu world?
Megumi agonized over this wavering sense of self. He was warped by the radiation that poured from Sukuna, unable to think when he was near him. Sukuna was a volcano, the peak and the eruption, and Megumi was the trees, catching flame from the sheer heat of it even before lava drowned him. Like a frog slowly being boiled, Megumi hadn’t noticed the warmth until it’d abruptly gone cold.
Now he had no support, no refuge—no one. Fighting alone so endlessly took its toll, and Megumi was battling on two fronts, between the horde of curses and this rift with Sukuna. The solitude reminded Megumi just how far he was from his own time and life. He missed having a day without paranoia or discomfort, without wondering if he’d ever get back, without a life he’d never imagined living taking him over like the slow creep of mold. His hands trembled.
He kept thinking about the small moments, flashes of happy memories preserved like photos in his mind: his friends laughing, and his family of Gojou and Tsumiki, and sitting on the stairs with the second-years after training, and shopping in Shinjuku, and watching the newest movie, and eating conbini ice cream, and breathing a sigh of relief that the subway wasn’t crowded, and the sputter of the coffee machine in the morning, and eating pizza with Itadori and Kugisaki, and, and, and—
Something jittery, some frenzy, some delirious, horrible monster of a thing clung to his insides, corroding. He wanted it out, wanted to reach in and rip his heart from his chest and beat the misery from it. The need was so visceral, so thick in his mind, that he could taste it. He would reach his hands into his mouth while his teeth scraped his knuckles raw and pull his lungs out, so he could find his old self in that space between his ribs and mourn it.
His tongue tasted like ash. Anguish threatened to explode from him in a thousand different ways. Megumi’s fingers burned with the need to destroy something, to rip it to shreds, to feel his fingers bleed and nails break against it. This wasn’t anger; it was self-immolation. It would take his distress with it and leave him cleansed—exorcised.
Fuck the curses, he thought nastily. Fuck Sukuna, and the dragon, and fucking time travel, and the whole goddamn world. Megumi wrenched forward and kicked at a rock, felt pathetic and stupid for it, then kicked another, and it didn’t help, and he felt some bundled, terrible, inside-out lamentation build and build and build and—
—Megumi let go. Air split from him until his lungs were empty, until the forest rang with it. His scream echoed in his ears and then faded.
The resulting silence was bleak. Megumi felt naked and exposed standing there, listening to his own harsh, sad breaths. Abruptly, seeping from the pit in his chest, hot tears burned at his eyes. His throat tightened, and his next breath was half a gasp. He wanted to go home.
Megumi lurched against a nearby tree and slid down its trunk, collapsing with his face between his knees. He felt so small—aimless. The tree roots dug into him, and dust and blood were caked to his skin, but Megumi wept like that, deep, wracking sobs shaking through him. He folded his arms around his head and let sorrow merge with the soreness of his body until he was simply one hurting bag of misery.
He hated crying; it made him feel so pitiful, with all his pains and anxieties reduced down to just sad, sad, sad. After the initial wave, Megumi coughed a few times, feeling bedraggled and miserable as he tried to stop his tears.
This is what it would be like, he knew with sinking certainty. He could see the days set out in front of him. This world was unfamiliar and isolating. Sukuna didn’t trust him. No one was coming to rescue him. And he couldn’t go back, though he wanted so badly his home—home—or, at least, to not be so alone.
A figure appeared in front of him. Megumi stared at him, wet eyes wide. He hastily wiped his cheeks, leaving them a smeared mess of dirt and tears. “You’re here,” he said, confused. “What are you—”
Sukuna looked almost as taken aback. “You screamed.”
“Oh.” Something deep in Megumi’s chest quaked, shaken by the fact that Sukuna had heard him and come. Again, shame washed through him; Megumi didn’t want to be moved by Sukuna. He looked away, rubbing at his nose, and forced a laugh. “It’s nothing.”
Sukuna crouched down. “Then why are you crying?” He put a hand on Megumi’s shoulder, close to his neck.
“Don’t,” Megumi flinched, pulling away from Sukuna’s grasp. “I don’t want—”
Sukuna sighed but acquiesced, neither reaching out again nor raging that Megumi had refused him. He sat back on the ground next to Megumi, waiting patiently as Megumi gathered himself. In the face of Sukuna’s quiet scrutiny, there was little room for tears. The dense block in Megumi’s chest dissipated enough for him to breathe and collect his frayed ends.
As Megumi’s mind quieted, he found the forest around them silent, as well. The air between them was waiting. He shifted to a grassier spot and found an explanation. “It’s stupid, okay?” he grimaced. “And it has nothing to do with the townspeople, before you ask. I was just thinking about home.”
“About the future?”
“Not just the future,” said Megumi. “But home—my life and everyone I knew there. And—and who I was then.”
Sukuna eyed him with sudden clarity. “You dislike the ways you’ve changed since coming here.”
“I’m away from everything I’ve ever known. Even you are—” He shook his head, trying to avoid questions along that line. “In my time, I’m still a student. And I trained every day to get stronger and protect people, and I was able to go on missions to exorcise curses.”
“Is that not what you’ve done this past week? And with the dragon?”
“It’s different,” Megumi fidgeted, plucking grass from the ground. “The dragon made me realize how much has changed, that it’d been so long since I’d fought. And killing the curses on the mountain is…futile. They’re never-ending, and I’m fighting by myself, just helpless, with no support. And I’m—with you,” Megumi’s voice wavered, and he stopped and took a long, shuddering breath. “Every day, I’m losing more—” of myself. “I just miss—I miss my life.”
“Megumi,” murmured Sukuna, and it was how soft his voice was that made tears well again.
Megumi blinked a few times, then gave in and wiped his eyes. “I’m fine,” he said. “I didn’t mean for you to hear me.”
Sukuna sighed. “So this is what’s been eating at you?” Megumi glanced up at him in surprise. “You have been acting like a child lashing out.”
A fresh wave of hurt and humiliation surged through Megumi, and he clenched his fists to keep them from shaking. Blinking back tears, he replied softly, “I’ve been doing my best.”
“I do not require your best,” said Sukuna, “not if it involves wasting your days fighting pests. I told you, Megumi, you don’t belong to them.”
Megumi sniffled then exhaled gustily. “You don’t even trust me anymore,” he said, feeling all at once like he was revealing too much, laying himself bare.
“I trust no jujutsu sorcerer. I never have, and you are no exception, Megumi.” Hurt began blooming before Sukuna continued, “I simply miscalculated your daring, that you tried to act without my knowledge, though perhaps I should have known, with how boldly you came to my shrine in the first place.”
“Daring, maybe,” Megumi said, quiet around the sorrow. “And for the dragon, I admit, I was thinking of your legacy. But with the curses on the mountain, it isn’t about you being seen as a hero or anything but protecting them.”
“Your intentions matter little, nor does whether the humans believe it’s you or me fighting,” Sukuna countered. “Those people see you as an extension of me. They call you my monk, my shrine’s keeper. Have you heard them?”
Megumi nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
“They assume your actions are by my permission or even command. For each curse you exorcise, so lives another reason they view me as a protector.”
So it wasn’t just the dragon, Megumi realized, understanding now how the legend had grown in Hida and stuck within history. He pointed out, “It is with your permission. You wouldn’t have let me fight if you truly didn’t want me to.” Megumi paused, his eyes narrowing. “But if you knew what it would do—how it would affect their perception of you—then why?”
“I wanted to see how far you would go,” admitted Sukuna, “and now I have. No scheme involves pushing yourself to hysterics, not like yours. This wasn’t some acted performance.”
“No, it wasn’t,” agreed Megumi, almost wishing it had been.
After a longer moment, in which Megumi collected himself, Sukuna stood and held a hand out to help Megumi up. “Then let’s return to the shrine.”
But Megumi didn’t want to go back. He wanted to throw himself into the river and feel the water wash over him. He wanted to gasp for air and feel reassured at being alive instead of this mire. Mostly, he wanted to just sit here in one place, too wrung for anything else, and let the world bury him.
He just needed a minute later, needed time to sit with himself; Megumi knew being at the shrine would be different now, after whatever understanding Sukuna had gleaned from him here. He didn’t know if he was ready. “I’ll find my own way back.”
Sukuna’s brow raised. He beckoned with his proffered hand, and this time Megumi took it, allowing Sukuna to pull him from the ground. They paused, hands still linked, and Sukuna scrutinized him. Megumi held his gaze tiredly but without flinching, and after a second, Sukuna backed away and let go, apparently satisfied.
“Be back by sundown, or I’ll collect you myself,” Sukuna told him, a threat in one part and an assurance in another. “Do not return to the mountain.”
Megumi nodded, and Sukuna took his leave, disappearing along the path to the shrine. Watching him go, Megumi felt a bit dazed, like tears had washed his sorrow out and left him with only the echoes of the last few minutes, with Sukuna: hearing Megumi and appearing soon after, keeping his distance when Megumi jerked away, and admitting to seeing now that Megumi wasn’t acting or manipulative.
There was a cavern in his chest, and homesickness leaked down its sides like tar, but Sukuna had burrowed there, too, in that hollow space, and he helped keep Megumi from caving in entirely. A soft melancholy swept over him, made of sadness and guilty resignation.
Megumi idly fiddled with a low branch of a small tree, flicking it. It quivered back and forth. He did it again, and this time the twig broke. With a sigh, Megumi bent and picked it up, wincing as his legs and back protested, then after a pitiful second, tossed it back down, feeling restless.
What was he doing, other than aimlessly commiserating with himself? He’d told Sukuna he would return to the shrine later, but there was nothing for Megumi to do here but wallow and prod at his sore muscles and heart. He was tired of being cold and lonely. The sun was out there.
“Wait!” Megumi called hoarsely. He cleared his throat and said, knowing Sukuna would hear him, “I’ll come with you.”
And as Megumi gingerly limped the forest trail to the shrine, Sukuna was there, waiting. He held out a hand when Megumi was close enough, and Megumi slipped into his grasp. Immediately, from the tips of his fingers up, a cool stream of healing washed his aches away. Megumi’s despondence lifted, too, or rather, settled, as ripples did into water.
At the shrine, Megumi fell into bed as soon as he washed, waving off Sukuna’s question of food. It was light out still, but Sukuna entered after Megumi and sat near his head, blocking out the sun. Megumi gazed up at him tiredly until his swollen eyes slipped shut.
When Megumi woke, he was alone on the futon, but Sukuna was nearby, absorbed in a book. Light streamed through the windows; Megumi had slept through the night and into the day.
Sukuna looked up when Megumi shifted. “Finally awake?” he greeted.
Megumi scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling the echoes of yesterday’s tears as low-level exhaustion. Fighting dregs of sleep, he asked, “How long was I out? What time’s it?” He needed to return to the mountain.
“Mid-morning.”
A stab of panic, then resigned dread replaced the grogginess. Megumi fought his fatigue and moved to stand. “Why didn’t you wake me? I need to go—”
“No,” said Sukuna.
Megumi paused, looked at him. “No?”
“No.”
“Sukuna,” he protested. No matter what Sukuna had said yesterday or the fact that Megumi himself didn’t truly want to go, he needed to. “I have to go, to at least check, so—”
Sukuna rose and approached, and Megumi leaned into it when a hand came up to cup his cheek. He’d missed it, this warm touch. “Your time, your body, your energy. They belong to me,” said Sukuna, with no room to argue in his tone. “Not to them—the curses or the humans.”
Despair tugged at Megumi. His heart sank, and his jaw clenched as he glared. “I have to,” he repeated, trying to impress his urgency upon Sukuna. “As long as the curses are roaming to the village, I can’t stop.”
“Look at you,” Sukuna pointed out. “A week, and you’re at your limit. And for what—one or two towns?”
“Towns of people. It’s not just—a set of empty houses. They have lives, families.”
“You owe them nothing.” Sukuna sounded almost confused by Megumi’s insistence.
“It’s not about me,” said Megumi quietly. He sighed when he felt Sukuna’s thumb trace over his cheekbone. “They are owed a good, fair life, and I can give that to them, Sukuna, or at least prevent it from being stolen. So I have to go.”
Sukuna’s hand dropped from his cheek, and Megumi felt strangely bereft. He watched as Sukuna’s expression turned flinty. He hummed, considering for a few seconds, and slowly smirked. His voice was casual, easy, “Then I’ll kill them.”
Megumi’s heart froze, then tripled over itself in panic. “Sukuna—no, you—” But Sukuna grabbed him, lifting Megumi easily even when he struggled. “Sukuna, you can’t!”
The distress and helplessness of the past week crashed back into Megumi. No, no, this couldn’t be happening. It made him nauseous that he’d been comforted just last night by sleeping next to Sukuna, who was now—who was going to—
Megumi couldn’t fight; he had nearly no cursed energy left. He was, and the village was, entirely at Sukuna’s mercy. How had Megumi fooled himself into thinking that ever wasn’t the case? Sukuna shook Megumi, jostling him. He slung Megumi over one shoulder. “Stop struggling,” he said as they departed the shrine grounds.
They stepped past the torii, and suddenly the world around them shimmered, shifting somehow, and disappeared. Megumi blinked, shock stilling his floundering. No, it wasn’t the world; the forest remained untouched. Only Sukuna’s shrine had vanished, and where the entrance and building normally stood was now just an empty clearing. “What…”
Sukuna didn’t answer or wait before leaping high into the air. Megumi winced, trying to hold on despite how Sukuna was carrying him. The shrine’s now-empty glade stuck out plainly within the forest, and he stared in confusion. Then the village appeared under them, and Megumi’s panic returned for a blinding moment.
But Sukuna carried them past it, and Megumi realized right as they landed that they were on the mountain instead. It took a second to sink in, and then the terror abated in a mixture of surprise and relief. Megumi’s heart trembled in both aftershocks and this brand-new shift in his world.
“You—” He gaped up at Sukuna as he was set on the ground.
“Me,” said Sukuna, with relish.
Megumi didn’t want to question his good fortune, whatever reason that had turned Sukuna’s whim on the curses instead of the humans, and didn’t dare comment on it. Instead, now given a moment to process what he’d seen at the shrine, Megumi asked with disbelieving awe, “The shrine is your domain, isn’t it? It felt like you, but there’s no barrier, so I thought it couldn’t possibly be.” He barked a stunned, dry laugh. “I can’t believe it.” To think all these months Megumi had been living in Sukuna’s domain, unable to distinguish it from reality.
“Well, it is deliberately incomplete. If I imbued it with my technique, no one would be able to enter, including Uraume. But,” Sukuna bragged, “I don’t need a barrier.” If the domain had been complete, the guaranteed hit effect would have killed Megumi the moment he stepped in range, a possibility Megumi hadn’t even considered. It was a terrifying thought.
“I didn’t even know that was possible,” he said, trying to stamp down on phantom fear.
Sukuna asked, tone cocky, “Jealous?”
Megumi huffed, trying not to show how the sight of that jaunty grin, something he hadn’t realized he’d missed, set him at ease. He watched as Sukuna turned to survey the forest. Most of the curses had hidden upon their arrival, but Megumi could feel their cursed energy writhing amongst the trees and rocks.
Sukuna’s eyebrow raised as he looked around, and he noted, impressed, “You cleared nearly half the mountain.”
Had it been that many? The fighting was a delirious blur in Megumi’s memory. “I didn’t realize,” he replied quietly.
“Next time you fight, I wish to see your domain,” Sukuna commented. Then he put his hands together, and Megumi felt Sukuna’s aura pulse, a heartbeat, as he uttered, “Domain Expansion: Malevolent Shrine.”
Like a drop of water into reality, a shrine rippled outward into existence. It wasn’t exactly the same as the one they lived in—the shrine building was smaller and more gaping mouth than wood—but it impressed itself upon the environment without a barrier, without a single seam, and rolled further than Megumi could see.
It was astonishing. Sukuna wasn’t only strong in terms of raw power, but also refined in his utilization. Megumi ogled, trying to take it all in. “Well, mine doesn’t compare to yours.”
Sukuna seemed pleased. “Your technique has its uses. Come,” he beckoned, “hide in my shadow, Megumi.”
Megumi looked at him askance. “The curses won’t do anything to me.”
“Not from them,” Sukuna said mildly. “From me.” Raising a hand, nails gleaming, he explained, “My technique targets anything with cursed energy. The domain is above-ground, so you need to be under it.”
With a nod, Megumi stepped closer to Sukuna. He’d done this once before, against the finger-bearer under Yasohachi Bridge, when he’d pulled Kon and himself into the curse’s shadow during the chaos of his domain. Sukuna’s shadow was larger and more potent, and it was easy for Megumi to tuck himself into that shade. The last thing he saw before sinking entirely into darkness was Sukuna watching with interest.
Sound muted immediately, like Megumi had dipped into a pool. He could see, but only as if through hazy, murky waters. Shadow had no mass, no air, no presence. It was a vacuum, deadly to anyone except Megumi, and though he was comfortable here, connected to the shadows themselves, the odd non-sensation of not being able to feel anything was still disquieting.
It didn’t take long before Sukuna called for Megumi to return, his voice reaching faintly. Megumi slid from the shadows, standing, and scanned the mountain. The curses were obliterated, most gone entirely and others in chunks that were actively dissolving to dust. Sukuna’s shrine winked out of existence as he released his technique, and the resulting calm was nearly deafening.
Megumi could hardly wrap his mind around it, the end of this struggle, the mountain finally free of foreign cursed energy. Sure, there would always be a few curses, but the horde was destroyed. The crushing weight of responsibility, guilt, and dread dissipated, leaving Megumi so light that he was nearly dizzy. He took a moment to breathe, then looked up at Sukuna.
He was undeniably the King of Curses, who could take a mid-morning break to level a mountain and return in time for lunch. But Sukuna didn’t lift a single finger for anything he didn’t want to do, no matter how effortless it’d be. Megumi didn’t know if Sukuna was treating him preferentially, as an exception, or if he’d done this not for Megumi, exactly, but for himself, because Sukuna wanted Megumi available to him at the shrine.
Perhaps it didn’t matter. Regardless of Sukuna’s reasons, the dragon and curses were exorcised, Megumi was healed, and the villagers were alive. Something frazzled and restless in Megumi’s chest—the rabid, wounded animal spitting mad at being cornered—finally settled. He linked a finger with one of Sukuna’s and leaned his head against his arm.
When Sukuna gazed down at him, Megumi offered a small lift of his lips and said, “Let’s go make up for lost time.”
As Sukuna lifted him and took them back to the clearing, where he re-invoked his shrine as it had been, a fantasy struck Megumi, one oddly nostalgic for something never experienced and that could never be: this same life, but home.
Notes:
Sancai-glazed ceramics are associated with Tang Dynasty (618–907 AD) figures and pottery in China, but they became popular in Japan and surrounding regions, as well. Sancai-glazing is characterized by predominantly the colors of brown or amber, green, and off-white, plus some occasional blue.
Japan does have its own history of ceramics, but most of it developed in the late Heian period or after, such as ash-glazed pottery, the successor of sancai-glazed. The Six Ancient Kilns of Japan, or major sites where pottery was produced, were only labeled as such in the 20th century post-war period, but the kilns themselves dated back to the later Heian era.
Before that, from the Nara to Heian era, the Sanage kiln was one of the most eminent, standing 20 km west of the modern city of Toyota in the Aichi prefecture. Prior to the Meiji Restoration in 1868 (which restored imperial rule to Japan), Aichi was split into Owari (the west section) and Mikawa (the east), which is why anyone traveling to the Sanage kiln would be going to Owari. Seto, one of the later Six Ancient Kilns, is nearby.
Before glazing, pottery was stoneware and earthenware. Other than time period, pottery also was categorized based on the way it was fired, made, and used, e.g. Haji pottery which is plain, unglazed reddish-brown and used for basic functionality and Sue pottery, which is believed to have developed in Korea originally, and is blue-gray fired at a high temperature. Sue pottery was actually really popular in the Nara period (pre-Heian) until sancai-glazed pottery was immigrated from China.
Chapter Text
I saw this house
Standing on the river-bank
Where shone the setting sun.
I came hither, powerless indeed
To resist the charm of its shape.—Manyōshū XVI: 3820
In the week after they cleared Mount Kurai of cursed spirits, Megumi half-expected his and Sukuna’s relationship to be tentative. But Sukuna didn’t dither or do anything by halves; with his suspicions about Megumi assuaged, Sukuna was now satisfied, and confidently so, that Megumi’s plan to make him a hero in Hida was simply a recklessly ambitious lapse in loyalty rather than the guileful reason he’d come to the shrine in the first place.
And whether it was that assurance or how pitiful Megumi looked, whining always about the growing heat, the distance between them began to close once more. Even through intermittent bouts of guilt and doubt, Megumi welcomed it, realizing now how much stability Sukuna gave this unfamiliar, arduous life.
So when Sukuna began asking for stories about the future again, Megumi fell easily back into that role. He would have been content with that return to how things had been, but it didn’t take long for Megumi to notice how different, how personal, their conversations felt now.
Rather than treating Megumi like a textbook or scholar, Sukuna now asked after Megumi’s own feelings and opinions. When Megumi explained climate change, referencing the greenery, parks, and hiking he’d told him about before, Sukuna asked, “Doesn’t it bother you, though, since you like animals?” And during discussions of school-wide exams and rankings, Sukuna brought up Megumi’s previously implied delinquency. One time, he paused Megumi’s story about art galleries just to ask his favorite color.
Another day, back on the subject of phones—a long, fraught interrogation on how Megumi could possibly not understand something he used every day, and Megumi replying that wi-fi was invisible, somehow—Megumi drew keyboard characters and kaomoji in the dirt with a stick, and Sukuna pointed at one with an underscore for a mouth and said it looked like him.
Between Megumi’s stories, the meals they shared, the sex, which was hotter than it’d ever been before, and the time Megumi spent around the shrine, walking within the forest, to the town, or the river, the days passed quickly, blurring together.
One hot afternoon, as Megumi sat on the bank of the river and soaked his feet, Sukuna, leaning against a nearby tree, idly slung a rock. It skipped nine times upriver, which Megumi counted before tossing his own stone into the shallows with a roll of his eyes.
A certain summer peace surrounded them, with the hazy heat of the air, the drone of cicadas, and the quiet murmur of water. It was then, in that comfort, that Sukuna ended up asking about Tsumiki. She was a sore subject, even more so now that Megumi couldn’t go visit her—what if she’d woken up and he wasn’t even there? Anxiety gnawed at him when he thought of her, so he hadn’t told Sukuna much beyond mentions of having a sister.
But if there was any time to talk about her, it was now, when Megumi could stare over the slow-moving currents and not look at Sukuna as he explained what had happened, how she was in a coma, and how she hadn’t awakened even after exorcising the cursed spirit under Yasohachi Bridge.
Sukuna was quiet for a long moment, and Megumi glanced back, worrying that he’d angered him somehow. But rather than annoyance, he saw thought. “She was marked by a curse, you say?” Sukuna mulled.
Megumi’s heart rose to his throat. He turned from the bank, facing Sukuna fully. Did he know something, somehow? Had he heard of this before?
“She probably ingested a cursed object,” said Sukuna, “though it’s surprising that she still sleeps.”
Megumi blinked. “You mean, she’s a vessel? But she hasn’t changed—hasn’t incarnated.”
“The cursed object must be in slumber, too, though such a thing is less common.” Sukuna paused and gazed upon Megumi with something akin to sympathy. “If she absorbed it entirely, you must know it isn’t possible to extract it from her.”
Megumi thought of the Death Paintings killed by Itadori and Kugisaki, or Itadori himself, whose life was tied to Sukuna’s. “I know,” he said, downcast.
So there were low points like this, which left Megumi lonely, and high points when he found himself smiling as he spoke. But whether tinged with homesick nostalgia or more pleasant reminiscence, they spoke often about Megumi’s life, the one he’d confessed to missing, with his friends and family and creature comforts.
He didn’t know if Sukuna did it on purpose, out of pity or curiosity or consideration, but it settled Megumi to be asked not just about his world but about his place in it. He recounted the cold January morning when the first and second-years had gone to the beach on a crazy whim, the cafés along the walk to middle school, the small house he’d lived in until Gojou bought him for the jujutsu world.
“My whole life was decided for me when I was around four, when my technique manifested,” said Megumi. “My good-for-nothing dad had sold me to the clan I came from. Gojou-sensei stopped the sale, but only with the stipulation that I’d train and become a jujutsu sorcerer. So there’s been no other option for me, ever since I was a child.”
“Most people with powerful techniques choose a path in life that utilizes it, even if given another option,” pointed out Sukuna. “Would you have chosen something different? Ignored your power?”
Megumi shrugged. “Probably not. Even if I hadn’t been introduced to the school so young, growing up seeing curses is…well, it makes it hard to worry about things like grades. I can’t imagine myself joining the workforce, wearing suits to work.” He gave a wry smile, thinking of Nanami. “But I think sometimes it’d be easier if I could see my life as one I chose, instead of one I was given.”
“No,” mused Sukuna, “you have chosen it; you do every time you decide to save someone, like when you returned to Kuraiyama over and over again, when you fought the dragon yourself. You cannot expand a domain without knowing your technique intimately, without wanting it.”
Megumi turned Sukuna’s words over in his head, considering the times he’d nearly chosen the opposite by summoning Mahoraga, as well as the times he’d chosen to fight. Perhaps Sukuna was right. Living as a sorcerer was a continuous decision each day to grow stronger. “That’s a good way of looking at it, I guess,” Megumi said quietly.
Sukuna hummed. He rubbed Megumi’s back, then moved up to comb through his hair and tuck a messy lock behind Megumi’s ear. “It might be foolishness to battle so endlessly, to try and save all these humans,” Sukuna said, “but it is your foolishness.”
And at that, finally, Megumi huffed a dry laugh.
With time, as they moved toward the end of August, their relationship shifted, a new level of comfort arising from the conversations they shared. They moved only past Sukuna’s skepticism in the aftermath of the dragon, but also past how they’d been at the beginning, into something warmer.
It was tranquil in a way that Megumi felt he could trust, even considering how the last period of peace had devolved. Whether because Sukuna had healed him repeatedly—when Megumi had been exhausted by the curses and homesickness, after the dragon, and even when they first met—or because Sukuna had destroyed the curse horde rather than the humans, or because he’d come to Megumi in the forest when he’d yelled, Sukuna’s help became something Megumi could rely on, even if it often arrived later than he hoped.
Any possibility of returning to the future hinged on that willingness to help. Megumi had planned to ask for Sukuna’s help only once he’d won his favor, on the assumption that if Sukuna liked him, he’d be more willing to forgive the transgression of soliciting his strength.
With the way Sukuna looked at him sometimes, the way he expressed interest in Megumi and perhaps even showed concern, Megumi figured he was close to gaining the goodwill he’d once believed would acquire Sukuna’s help.
But as the dust settled and his emotions did, too, Megumi slowly realized what it truly meant for Sukuna to have done these things for him. On Kuraiyama, Sukuna’s main motivation in killing the curses hadn’t been Megumi, per se, but Sukuna’s own desires, in that he wanted Megumi’s energy and attention to himself, whenever he pleased, which was often. Sukuna had rid himself of the interruption while declaring Megumi belonged to him.
The realization fell over Megumi like a bag of bricks one morning, when Sukuna caught Megumi from behind, bent him over, and pressed the impression of his grin into Megumi’s neck atop a softer kiss. A stone of understanding sank down, down, and hit the seafloor at the pit of his stomach: the more Sukuna liked him, the less willing he’d be to help Megumi leave.
There was no chance Sukuna would let Megumi go home if he wanted to keep him. But there was also no way Sukuna would let Megumi live if he didn’t want to keep him anymore. And so what could Megumi do? Surely not push Sukuna away, which was a bleak notion to even imagine, leading Megumi to an early death or another round of distance, skepticism, loneliness.
The only option was to simply ask, Megumi decided. If not now, then when? The longer he waited as they continued like this, the more Sukuna would enjoy him, covet him—and what a heady rush of an idea that was, one Megumi had to shake off. Sukuna already knew of not just Megumi’s hope to return to the future, but also his plan to ask Sukuna’s assistance, for Megumi had declared as much when he first arrived at the shrine. It wouldn’t be a surprise; Sukuna couldn’t expect him to have given it up.
So one night, as they laid on their backs outdoors, Megumi’s head resting on Sukuna’s arm, and stared at the stars between quiet murmurs about space rovers and sci-fi movies, Megumi fell silent, contemplative, and then simply started, “You know I came here, to the shrine, because I wanted to eventually ask you to help me get back to my time.”
Sukuna shifted, turning his attention to Megumi in full. “I know.”
Megumi took a breath. He looked at the sky, at the Lyra constellation, a reminder of the summers past, a thousand years from now. “Will you?” he asked quietly. “Help me get back?”
The arm below him tensed. “Even some things are beyond me, Megumi,” Sukuna said after a moment. Disappointment sank through Megumi, but then Sukuna added, “None of my searches bore fruit.”
Megumi sat up, surprise ringing through him, and gazed down at Sukuna. “You’ve looked.”
Sukuna quirked his eyebrow. “My time away from the shrine is often academic, not violent in nature. Uraume keeps an ear out for any word, as well. Did you think I would learn about the existence of time travel but not try and partake?” he asked, amused.
So again, it wasn’t for Megumi, but for Sukuna’s own purposes. That was okay; Megumi could at least learn what he could. “So what did you find?” he asked. “Nothing?”
“Nothing,” confirmed Sukuna. “There are some techniques that slow time or the perception of it, to make the user faster or others slower. Some domains might make two days feel like half of one. But time travel itself—there’s no true evidence of it, only speculation and fiction, the likes of false oracles and madmen with impossible schemes.”
“But—” Megumi sighed, drawing his knees up and wrapping his arms around them. He felt Sukuna’s hand come to rest on his mid-back. “But if the curses born from the elements are here in this era already, then the time curse that sent me back here should exist, too, right?”
“The cursed spirits of nature are in your era?” Sukuna asked curiously.
Megumi nodded. “Whether they’re the same exact cursed spirits or not, they’re manifestations of the same fears, and a fear of time is just as constant. So wouldn’t the time curse be here? It has to.”
“Whether or not the curse has been born yet, I haven’t been able to find it,” Sukuna said. “Perhaps it’s the same curse, traveling through time itself?”
With a frown, Megumi shook his head. “It doesn’t matter unless we’re able to get to it,” he said, then sighed. “Maybe they’d be able to track it down in the future.”
“How?” asked Sukuna, skeptical but intrigued.
Megumi had no real answers, though. “There are fewer powerful cursed spirits, so maybe it’d be easier to locate it. I don’t know. Gojou-sensei could find it, maybe, if he knew where to look, what to look for.”
“You have a lot of faith in this Gojou.”
“He’s the strongest,” explained Megumi, the usual refrain.
Sukuna bristled. “Have we fought?”
“What?”
“Me and Gojou—have we fought?”
Megumi realized his mistake too late. “No,” he answered hesitantly, hoping Sukuna wouldn’t prod.
Fortunately, Sukuna only asked, “Who would win, do you think?”
Megumi shrugged. He couldn’t really guess, even, never having seen the fullest extent of either’s power but knowing that both Sukuna and Gojou were both far too powerful to lose easily, or at all. He felt like the world would be ripped apart. “I honestly don’t know,” he replied, and offered just a tidbit, so Sukuna wouldn’t ask about his own power in the future, “but Gojou-sensei has the Six Eyes.”
Sukuna grinned then, his gaze sharp. “Yet he has never tried to fight me?” he laughed. “Sounds as though he’s too scared to test his precious technique.”
“It’s complicated,” Megumi hedged. “You’re not around each other a lot.” It was technically the truth.
“He would be first on my list,” Sukuna grumbled.
A wave of melancholy hit Megumi. He missed Gojou, flightiness and all. “I’m sure he would be honored,” he said, a bit doleful.
His tone was catching, apparently. After a long pause, Sukuna’s voice was lowered, almost gentle, when he prompted, “Megumi?”
Megumi closed his eyes for another drawn-out moment, then peered down at Sukuna. All these months, he’d tried not to rouse Sukuna’s suspicions about the modern day, about the fact that he wasn’t, in fact, still in his four-armed curse form or that he was constantly in the proximity of sorcerers without being able to kill them. But Sukuna was still his only hope in this era. Megumi asked softly, “Will you tell them? When I disappear in the future, will you tell Gojou-sensei what happened to me, that I’m here? So that they can get me back, somehow.”
Sukuna sighed, reaching a hand up to brush aside Megumi’s bangs, and didn’t say yes or no. “If I had done so in the future, would they not have already succeeded? You would already be taken from here in that case. But months have passed, and here you are.”
Megumi’s brows furrowed as disquiet poured into him. He stared down at his hands and picked at a nail. “Maybe it takes months, then, to get me back.”
“Or perhaps there’s no way,” came the response, sympathetic but firm.
Sukuna seemed content, though not overly smug, that Megumi would be stuck here with him, if so. Still, was he even telling the truth? Megumi didn’t think Sukuna had lied to him before, for there was rarely a reason to do so for one with such boundless power, but he couldn’t tell now.
Disappointment and some doubt sat heavily in Megumi, and after a moment, he ducked his head again, shoulders hunching, and chose not to reply. Sukuna’s hand fell from Megumi’s hair to his knee, which he squeezed. The night’s breeze swept past them.
September brought crisp, autumnal mornings paired with the same scorching afternoons of summer. Occasionally, Megumi caught a greeting or small talk when a familiar face from the town visited the shrine with offerings.
The frequency of Megumi’s visits to the village had decreased as he spent more time with Sukuna, who didn’t leave as often, either. And though being with Sukuna was thrilling, brain-melting, Megumi did miss seeing the people, those he considered friends, or at least closer-than-acquaintances, as well as the bustle of village life.
When Shimoda, one of the town’s many farmers, arrived at the shrine one morning with a request for aid, it clicked for Megumi that he missed not only the village and its people, but the satisfaction of helping them, as well. After exorcising a fish-like curse from the rice paddies that day, Megumi told the gathered farmers that he would come visit when he was able—when Sukuna let him.
Megumi didn’t mind being…kept at the shrine by Sukuna’s desires or, honestly, his own. The town was rarely in urgent need, since any curse appearing now was solitary, no more than a wild creature easily dispatched by sickles or pitchforks. These were small curses, small helps, and small satisfactions, which felt nothing like the dragon, with his heart pounding like the ground vibrating beneath his feet, or like the curse horde, which had been a quicksand of fatigued delirium. But the minor exorcisms mattered to Megumi more, in a way, than the abstract knowledge that he’d saved the entire town and much of the region. The solid, gratifying work steadied him.
He began training again, nothing fancy, mostly practicing with weapons from the shrine’s arsenal. As Megumi expected—even anticipated—Sukuna watched him more often than not. The same curiosity that’d been sparked by seeing Megumi kill the dragon and swarming curses underlaid Sukuna’s keen interest now; he liked seeing what Megumi could do.
Megumi tried to stamp down on his self-consciousness when he swung the polearm he was using and went through the motions Maki had taught him. He knew this was one of his weaker points, though he had improved since training, but Sukuna didn’t laugh or tease.
“Bend your knees more,” he abruptly said one evening, making Megumi startle and lose track of his motion.
“What?”
“Your knees,” Sukuna repeated. “Your center of gravity is too high.”
Questioning Sukuna was pointless, Megumi knew; it was much less tiresome to simply obey. He moved into his normal stance, then lowered, feeling his core shift. “Like this?”
Sukuna strode over and raised a hand, palm facing Megumi. “Strike me,” he ordered.
Megumi eyed him for a second, but when Sukuna didn’t elaborate, he swung. The difference was immediately apparent, even as the polearm whacked against Sukuna’s unmoved hand. “That was stronger,” Megumi remarked, trying to memorize the feel of it, the impression of the weapon against his palms and the ground on his feet.
He spun the pole and struck out again in the same posture. Sukuna caught it, then nodded. “Better.”
Megumi straightened and looked up at Sukuna, who gripped the polearm right above Megumi’s hand. “You’re helping me train?” he asked dubiously.
“You were hysterical, but you were one who asked,” said Sukuna with a laugh, “and I decided it would be fun.”
A few days later, Sukuna handed Megumi a sword, broader than the two currently stored in his void. It was polished-grey and honed, similar in shape to Megumi’s old favorite in the future, and it absolutely wasn’t a training arm.
Megumi hefted its weight, feeling the balance and cursed energy flowing through it. “I already have two of your swords,” he said. “What’s this for?”
“A game,” Sukuna replied with a grin. Two of his hands, the lower ones, linked behind his back out of sight. “Land a strike on me, and I’ll reward you.”
Megumi eyed him. He knew he wouldn’t be able to deal a blow, but both the challenge and prospect of a prize made him want to accept anyway. “With what? Whatever I want?”
“Have something in mind?” Sukuna chuckled, “If you want me to fuck you again after this, I am happy to oblige without a deal.”
A traitorous laugh pressed against the exasperated press of Megumi’s lips. He rolled his eyes, moved into a fighting stance, and then attacked.
It was only sparring, but as with when he trained with Gojou-sensei, Megumi pulled none of his punches. He slashed at Sukuna, only to be barred by a casual grip around his forearm. Megumi switched his hold, aimed a stab at Sukuna’s chest, and was blocked by Sukuna grabbing the sword itself between his thumb and two fingers.
Kicking out, Megumi withdrew a meter. Sukuna could have disarmed him there, he knew. Well—he could have killed Megumi, if this had been a real fight, if Sukuna had any inclination of doing so. Taking in Sukuna’s arrogantly casual stance, Megumi narrowed his focus and again approached. This time, his maneuver was halted by a hand closing over his on the hilt. Megumi scowled. Sukuna was teasing him.
A palm stopped Megumi’s swing while fingers grazed up his spine. An arm impeded a roundhouse kick, but while Megumi’s legs were spread, he felt a light, barely-there touch high on his thigh. Heat burned through Megumi. He didn’t try kicking again.
When Sukuna rubbed along his chest, right over his nipple, Megumi was done. He put some distance between them, then hurled his sword at Sukuna with his nastiest glare.
Sukuna vanished from view. The sword landed harmlessly on the ground. And a strong, muscle-corded arm wrapped around Megumi from behind, pulling him backward into a body. Sukuna’s breath was hot on his ear, and Megumi shuddered, then sagged in his hold.
“You’re too fast,” he grumbled, “and you keep—”
Sukuna laughed, and Megumi felt it vibrate through his whole body. “Keep?”
“Touching me!” Megumi snapped. He spun in Sukuna’s arms, facing him. They were pressed entirely against each other. “You’re supposed to be training me.”
“Not all your opponents will fight fairly,” said Sukuna.
Megumi rolled his eyes. “I assure you, no one will be fighting like you.”
“Like what?” baited Sukuna. “Like this?”
His hand drew a line along Megumi’s thigh and cupped his ass. Megumi leaned into it, heat traveling up his spine, coloring his cheeks. He felt Sukuna’s fingers tighten and noticed another touch near his chest.
Megumi gazed up at Sukuna, at his darkened, intent eyes, and then threw his fastest punch right at his cheek. Sukuna caught it barely a centimeter from his face. They both froze, staring at Megumi’s fist.
And then a wide, toothy grin split Sukuna’s face, and he laughed brightly and said, “Good!”
With a frown, Megumi grumbled, “Not good enough.” But he allowed Sukuna to pry his fist apart and lace their fingers, to pull Megumi impossibly closer and into a deep, consuming kiss.
So Megumi’s training, with some interference, continued, and his trips to the town for conversation and exorcisms did, as well. It was during one of these visits—a longer one, since Sukuna had said he’d be back late before departing that morning—that Megumi was first told of the construction and expansion of Minashi Shrine. Sato, his eyes gleaming with pride, informed Megumi of Hida’s determination to consecrate the mountain, no longer a lair of fear but the grounds of triumph.
Sukuna’s final, sweeping destruction of the cursed spirits on Kuraiyama had dismantled the swarm in full, and Megumi’s consistent effort over that week and in exorcising the dragon had claimed the territory in a sense. So on the same grounds that Sukuna had summoned Malevolent Shrine, this town and two others near Mount Kurai were immortalizing the events of the summer.
“There was a shrine on those grounds already, though derelict. We shall revitalize it however we can, make it larger. Minashi Shrine will become the pride of our people,” Sato told him. “There will be rooms for you and Ryoumen-sama, if my lord wishes to reside there.”
Megumi doubted Sukuna would, considering his own shrine was his domain—it still made his mind spin—but he nodded his thanks, expressed interest in hearing more, and then let conversation wash over him as an inn guest asked Sato a question.
Minashi Jinja rang a distant bell, though Megumi struggled to remember clearly and didn’t know if he was just inventing the familiarity. And if it did exist, he wasn’t sure who the enshrined deity of the shrine had been. But if Sukuna was made the focal of a shrine built by various towns all in collaboration, then his legacy as a god, a protector, would spread even further than it already had. Where before Megumi had only assumed word would circulate, Minashi Shrine served as a material symbol of Sukuna’s deification throughout the Hida province.
This is what Sukuna had agreed to, and surely he couldn’t be angry at the fulfillment of that expectation. Yet on the way back through the forest, Megumi couldn’t help but mull it over, worrying what Sukuna’s reaction would be and wondering how to break the news.
He didn’t need to, in the end. When Sukuna returned that night, he informed a dozing Megumi of Minashi Shrine’s construction himself. “The humans are building a shrine on Kuraiyama,” he said, his voice quiet in deference to Megumi’s groggy state, roused just enough to take in Sukuna’s form in the dim candlelight.
“I know,” Megumi murmured, blearily watching Sukuna strip. “I heard from the villagers today. This town and its two neighbors are combining efforts.”
Sukuna slid into bed, his body a long line of warmth against Megumi’s side. “You were right,” said Sukuna, “about the region worshipping me after I claimed your victory over the dragon.”
“And the curses, too, that came after, I think. Kuraiyama is a holy place for them now.” He snuggled into Sukuna, then asked quietly, “Are you mad?”
Megumi felt Sukuna’s considering hum vibrate through him. “No,” Sukuna said finally, as if he was almost surprised himself, “I find myself curious. No one believes me benevolent, but their fear has diminished. I expected as much when I agreed to throw that dragon scale to them. There are benefits to being revered,” he admitted, “but this is still…new to me.”
“It’s good,” maintained Megumi. One of Sukuna’s arms curled around him, and as Megumi drifted off again into sleep, he added, “I’m glad you’re not angry.”
Between the sparring, the exorcisms, and the rest of the time he spent with Sukuna, which was nearly always, Megumi was content. Some days he woke up and felt anxiety and doubt rise at the sense of Sukuna’s aura. Other days, though—most of them—Megumi yearned only to be closer and easily tamped down any lingering shame. The same closeness they’d shared at the hot springs, Megumi now found in the quiet of the shrine, and it wasn’t only once or twice, on occasion, but each day.
When Megumi ambled from the bedroom in the mornings, he often found Sukuna at the doorway, gazing pensively out over the shrine grounds with his arms folded. Then Sukuna would turn to him, and sometimes his expression would become amused, if Megumi was covered in marks or walking oddly from the night before, but sometimes his eyes would go soft, or at least, softer. In the cool, early autumn weather, before the sun was high, Megumi would rifle through the offerings from the farmers, finding fruit for breakfast, and then he’d sit out on the stairs of the shrine with Sukuna and enjoy the dewy air.
He’d told Sukuna the truth that day, when he’d cried in the forest, that Megumi was doing his best. Maybe some even greater best existed, like what Gojou-sensei had pointed out about Megumi’s mindset, a perspective that could illuminate a different, unconsidered path. But if such a course existed, it was invisible to Megumi, who’d chosen this one and found himself swimming deeper.
Beyond the stain of sin, Sukuna brought a stability, excitement, and safety that Megumi craved and sorely needed. Each morning waking up at the shrine, each meal they shared, each night that Sukuna followed Megumi to bed—it became easier with every passing day. He’d learned Sukuna, who knew him in return, whose endless curiosity made Megumi want to open himself up to find more and more to offer.
“I want to see your domain,” Sukuna told him one afternoon, the sun bright.
Megumi looked up from where he sat on the shrine stairs with a cloth over his head, a vague attempt at shade after they sparred. Sukuna was never affected by the heat, damn him. “Now?” he asked.
Sukuna nodded, beckoning Megumi up. He dematerialized Malevolent Shrine with a rush of alleviating air pressure that made Megumi’s ears pop, and then the clearing stood empty for Megumi to lay his own domain.
“It’s incomplete,” said Megumi, trying to temper Sukuna’s expectations. “Barrier techniques are difficult for me, so my domain can’t trap anyone. It just…expands, I guess.”
If anything, Sukuna looked more intrigued, not less. “I remember you mentioning so. Come, show me.”
Wiping his brow, Megumi drew on his technique. The shadows coalesced. Megumi’s cursed energy bubbled, zinging within him, and it was easier than ever to summon his domain; the muscle had been thoroughly worked during his fights with the dragon and low-grade curses and, since then, rested enough to grow.
Chimera Shadow Garden unfurled around them, a black-tar wave upon the avenues of grass and leaves, rocks, and trees. The sun dimmed, blocked out only somewhat by the wavering scaffolding of his barrier. There were spots where Megumi could see through to the forest around them.
Still, when Megumi glanced at Sukuna, he was looking around with an impressed, pleased grin. He reached down, dipping a finger into the fluid shadow. A toad climbed over his hand. “Very interesting,” Sukuna decided. “Mastery of this domain will make you a fearsome sorcerer, Megumi.”
It thrilled Megumi to hear him say it, not just the faith that Megumi would complete his domain, but also that Sukuna still considered him a sorcerer, not some stray of the jujutsu world, and a powerful one at that. To be complimented by the King of Curses was such a heady rush.
Feeling lighthearted and playful, Megumi focused his energy, his shadows, and then made them tap Sukuna on the shoulder from behind. Sukuna turned and found one of Megumi’s puppet-selves, which leaned in close, then another clone on his other side, which wrapped an arm around Sukuna’s and waved up at him. After a stunned pause, Sukuna looked back at the real Megumi, who also waved cheekily.
Sukuna’s eyes positively gleamed. “How long can you hold that?” Sukuna asked, looking between all three of them.
Megumi knew exactly what he was thinking. He released his shadow-selves back into the darkness, huffing a laugh at Sukuna’s pout. “Not long enough for what you’re thinking,” he teased dryly.
“How many replicas can you create?” Sukuna’s tone was flirtatious at first, but as he looked around the domain again, inspecting the shadows with his own aura carefully restrained, his genuine curiosity won out. “When surrounded by shadow, your control over the intermediary becomes absolute…which allows you to create doubles, triples, yes?”
“None of the clones are sentient like my shikigami. They are imbued with instructions, in a way, and respond less to my actual will,” said Megumi, “but yes, pretty much.” An idea struck Megumi then, as he spoke of his shadow duplicates. “Actually…”
“What is it?”
Turning his gaze to his hands, Megumi formed them into the shape somewhat clumsily, known to him but unpracticed. Maybe this was a good time—as good a time as any, really—with his cursed energy brightly sparking within him. “Do you want to see a shikigami exorcism ritual? I’ve been meaning to try this since I first activated my domain.”
“An exorcism ritual?”
“To gain control over a new shikigami,” explained Megumi. “To summon one at will, I have to first exorcise it once.”
Sukuna’s interest was palpable. “So the shikigami are progressively more powerful?” he asked.
“It depends,” Megumi told him. “The match-up and compatibility of powers matter when it’s a one-on-one fight. Each shikigami is best fought in different ways. I’ve been having trouble exorcising this one, but with my domain, I think I can.”
“What is it?” Sukuna asked.
“You’ll see,” said Megumi, hiding his amusement, already anticipating Sukuna’s face. He formed Banshou, Nue, and Kon from the shadows, then warned, “Don’t kill any, okay? It’ll void the ritual if I have help.”
Sukuna nodded, expression glinting with excitement. “Go on,” he said eagerly.
Megumi’s hands formed the shape again, and he conjured, “Rabbit Escape.”
The flurry surrounded him and Sukuna, an overwhelming wave of white and fur and small creatures. Megumi held his ground, waiting for them to scatter. When the initial eruption dispersed Megumi looked to his side. A rabbit sat on Sukuna’s shoulder peacefully, and another was caught in his hand, held away from his body.
In absolute distaste, Sukuna asked, affronted, “This is what you’ve had trouble exorcising?”
Megumi nearly started laughing at Sukuna’s incredulous expression. Between the weak rabbits not living up to expectations and being faced with something he couldn’t kill, Sukuna almost looked at a loss. And the rabbits made him seem so soft. Megumi was instantly endeared to the sight.
“It’s not about their strength,” Megumi said with clear mirth, not bothering to hide it. “They just run away too quickly. My barrier doesn’t prevent escape, but with how powerful my shikigami are in my domain and how I can create doubles, I think I can catch them all before they get away.” He gestured to where Banshou and Nue’s water-electricity combination was sweeping the rabbits into oblivion. Kon was chasing down strays, including ones that had scattered past the domain’s edges.
“So you needed control of your domain before you could deal with these,” concluded Sukuna. He peered into the beady eyes of the rabbit he was holding and grimaced when it wriggled from his hand. Still sounding miffed, he grumbled, “What, though, is the purpose of having a shikigami this weak? They appear to be useless.”
Megumi disagreed, remembering the fight with Hanami, when he could have used a few seconds of distraction to call for help, or when Todo was beating the shit out of him. “I can definitely think of a few instances where Rabbit Escape would have been helpful. When you’re not all-powerful,” he gave Sukuna a pointed look, “sometimes you need to flee.”
The rabbit on Sukuna’s shoulder stared at Megumi, sniffing with its little nose. Other than the runaways Kon was hunting, this was the last one left, and Megumi took a mental snapshot—Sukuna’s bemused expression, the rabbit’s ears twitching—before gently lifting it from him.
The poor thing looked just like an actual rabbit; it felt wrong to kill it. But when Kon came bounding back, the strays taken care of, Megumi threw this one to him, and a single swipe of Kon’s claws dissolved it into shadow. Rabbit Escape fell into Megumi’s control immediately, some subconscious awareness of the shikigami blooming within him.
“Is it done?” Sukuna asked.
“It’s done.” Megumi breathed in, felt the power of the Ten Shadows swirl in him, and upon his exhale, released his technique.
The world took on startling color when the domain vanished. Green resaturated; blue bled from the sky. Megumi winced. With how dark his domain was, the sun always felt especially glaring afterwards, as if the day wished to trumpet its triumph over Megumi’s small pocket of shadow. The afternoon’s heat didn’t help either.
Sukuna stepped in front of Megumi, his large frame blocking the sun. Megumi squinted upward, but even the light behind Sukuna’s silhouette was too bright. He slumped comfortably into Sukuna’s chest.
“Once your cursed technique has replenished, summon them again,” Sukuna said. “I want to see how much more pathetic they are outside your domain.”
Megumi rolled his eyes, but after a minute, when he felt the ill effects of using his domain ease, he put his hands together, and the rush enveloped them, a blinding white in the light of day. The rabbits buffeted them lightly as they tumbled and ran past, bumping against Megumi’s legs.
After the herd scattered, Sukuna was left holding one. “I can kill this one, right?” he asked.
“Don’t,” Megumi groused. He extracted the rabbit from Sukuna and cradled it protectively, denying him his kill. Sukuna only laughed.
Plum season had passed with the summer, but pickled umeboshi stayed well, and Megumi ate it frequently with rice. Uraume’s meals were still the best Megumi could get in this era, though he enjoyed snacking on peaches and other pickings from the villagers’ oblations.
Sukuna, on the other hand, didn’t usually partake in the food left by the townspeople. He ate frequently, if not every day, but kept to only what Uraume prepared, either freshly delivered or stored in an ice box that Megumi had helped them fashion with their technique.
Still, Megumi’s choices from the offerings always seemed to interest Sukuna, who observed him habitually. His heavy regard always felt like a touch. Even today, as Megumi ate, Sukuna lounged on his side, head resting on one hand, and simply watched him.
“What?” Megumi asked, glancing up from his bowl. Sukuna’s lips curved up slowly, but he didn’t say anything. Megumi shook his head, then asked, aiming for exasperated but landing more on fond, “Aren’t you hungry?”
Sukuna eyed him, ardent and serious. “I am starved,” he replied, his voice a low rumble.
Megumi paused, his chopsticks halfway to his mouth. His mouth went dry. He swallowed thickly. “Ah.”
Sukuna pushed Megumi’s hand toward his mouth. “Eat faster,” he demanded.
Megumi’s heart picked up, and anticipation buzzed through him. He considered Sukuna, the graceful ease, the breadth of him, the skin peeking from under his kimono. After one more small bite, Megumi placed his chopsticks down politely. He met Sukuna’s hooded gaze and announced, “I’ve eaten my fill.”
It was bold and presumptuous. Megumi didn’t look away from Sukuna; he wanted to see him catch his meaning. A beat, and then there it was: Sukuna’s eyes darkened, and his lips spread into a fascinated, predatory grin. “Oh, is that so?”
They looked at each other, and Megumi felt the pull between them like an actual tether. So when Sukuna beckoned silently, come hither with a curl of his fingers, Megumi couldn’t help being drawn forward.
Sukuna shifted onto his back, supporting himself on two elbows. He parted his legs, and his kimono drifted open, revealing the smooth skin of his thighs and the curse marks around them. Megumi’s breath caught, and he chewed at his lip, unable to look away. He tracked it feverishly when Sukuna bent one leg, making the fabric fall and bunch at his crotch.
“Come, Megumi,” he purred with a smirk, expression enticing.
Arousal thrummed through him, and Megumi crawled the remaining distance to Sukuna. He touched Sukuna’s calf and stroked his hand up, to just above Sukuna’s bent knee. He was overwhelmed by the choices. Did he want to kiss Sukuna here, this pale, tender skin of his inner thigh, and bite along the curse mark band? Did he want to cover Sukuna with his body and mark the underside of his jaw? Would Sukuna let him?
Megumi pulled Sukuna’s kimono open entirely, baring his soft cock and ripped, muscled body. His curse marks rose and fell with Sukuna’s breaths, shifting with every small movement. Desire filled Megumi. He swallowed audibly, his eyes roving over Sukuna’s body spread below him.
Sukuna was whip-smart and hedonistic and uninhibited in a way that got Megumi hot all over. The confidence was compelling. The shamelessness made Megumi’s heart dance. Fuck, it was sexy.
Sukuna’s biceps bulged obscenely the way he was relaxing back onto his elbows, and his pecs did, too, and Megumi’s fingers itched to touch, to feel him all over. The sight of Sukuna’s dick, hardening even without a touch, made Megumi’s mouth water.
“What are you waiting for?” Sukuna’s grin was enticing, taunting, and very amused. “Want me to order you around, is that it?”
He was absolutely the biggest bully, delighting in Megumi’s indecision. But secure in the knowledge that Sukuna wouldn’t hurt him—not really, not at all—Megumi was able to look at him without fear, and in this new light, Sukuna was…charming.
What was Megumi waiting for? He was unbelievably attracted to the glimmer in Sukuna’s eyes when he found something intriguing, and he wanted more and more for that thing to be Megumi, himself.
Megumi traced a line from Sukuna’s knee to his foot, and he thumbed over his ankle bone, over the curse mark circling it. Holding Sukuna’s eyes, Megumi leaned in and kissed the soft inside of his raised knee. He placed another kiss higher, on his lower thigh.
Sukuna’s eyes didn’t waver. Megumi’s heart pounded, and heat unfurled through his core, but he watched Sukuna watch him as he moved higher: a kiss to the curse band around his upper thigh, then a small bite, suck, lick, for a mark that wouldn’t show.
One part of him wanted to reach for Sukuna’s cock, to feel that length in his hands and the small twitches of Sukuna’s thighs as Megumi sucked him off. But he had a goal, a want of dizzying proportions, a curiosity that could only be sated through doing.
Megumi shifted upward, bypassing Sukuna’s crotch, and peppered kisses along the v-line of a hip. He braced himself on Sukuna’s abdomen, felt the subtle fall of an exhale, and gave himself no time to retreat. Heart in his throat, Megumi leaned down and pressed a breathy, hesitant kiss to the large mouth on Sukuna’s stomach.
Sukuna’s body tensed on a quick, indrawn breath, but Megumi didn’t relent. He grasped Sukuna’s sides as he would his cheeks and kissed that mouth, the indistinct impression of lips, until they parted under his touch and Sukuna relaxed under his hands.
Desire rushed to Megumi’s head; to think that he’d caught Sukuna off-guard, that Sukuna was letting him have him like this. Megumi let Sukuna take more of his weight and licked at the bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth.
Then finally, the tongue peeked out and tentatively met Megumi’s, and he sucked on it, just the tip. Suddenly, the chaste nature of his intentions, to learn Sukuna, to admire this part of him, now spun into something lewd. Megumi burned beyond belief. If it licked into his mouth, this tongue would fill him, so wet and big, and fuck, it made him faint just thinking about it.
“Look at you,” Sukuna murmured. One of his hands found Megumi’s head, combing softly through his hair, a gentle hold.
When Megumi pulled away, breathing heavily, Sukuna traced over his slick lips, almost as if marveling, with two fingers. Megumi’s mouth fell open readily as they pressed inside.
This body bared before him was powerful, Megumi knew. He’d seen the large, monstrous mouth grin widely and lick at blood smeared on Sukuna’s stomach, but oh, how shy it was kissing Megumi now. And those hands—Megumi had been at the receiving end of their violence, but he’d been touched by them, too, and brought pleasure. Megumi laved Sukuna’s fingers—the same that sorcerers feared and curses ate for power—and let the taste of them intoxicate him. He playfully caught the tip of one with his teeth and smirked around it at Sukuna, who laughed.
When he let go, the fingers slipped from his mouth, and Megumi’s grin softened into a smile. The space between them was magnetized. Sukuna’s two free hands found Megumi’s sides, holding his hips as Megumi made his way up. He touched his fill, over the curse marks, thumbing over a nipple, along the ridges of muscle, and Sukuna remained unmoving save small shivers. Exhilaration thrummed through Megumi.
He pushed on Sukuna’s chest and requested, “Lay down.”
Sukuna went, lowering himself flat on the ground. His newly freed hands found Megumi’s thighs where he straddled him, and the other two continued stroking along Megumi’s sides, the lines of his ribs.
The intensity of Sukuna’s gaze didn’t lessen. Megumi almost couldn’t bear it, and he lowered his gaze and traced a line up Sukuna’s chest to his collarbone. The air in Megumi’s lungs was filled with something indescribable, and as he kissed the hollow of Sukuna’s throat, it felt like he was impressing its shape into the skin there.
He drew back and slowly looked up. And for all their months together, this specific expression of Sukuna’s was new to Megumi, something between anticipatory and obliging, as if he was eager for and unafraid of what Megumi would do next. What a sly one Sukuna was, always giving off the impression that he had Megumi right where he wanted him.
Megumi wished to have him, too, to capture that fervor in his palms. As though the wilderness itself coursed through him, Sukuna was a force, never serious or grounded, and it made Megumi think of his shikigami and the exorcism rituals, of taming these creatures before they listened.
The wild urge to pin Sukuna down and own him rang through Megumi. And from the indulgent, perhaps even fond, gleam in Sukuna’s eyes, Megumi was struck by an instinctive sense that he would succeed if he tried.
Sukuna’s gaze narrowed. “What a dangerous look you have on your face, Megumi.”
Megumi loomed over Sukuna. He felt his mouth spread into a grin, then replied, “All the better to eat you with.”
“Oh?” said Sukuna, with pure intent, not bothering to ask about the reference.
When he began pulling Megumi down to kiss him, Megumi pressed back with a hand between them. Sukuna raised his brow but allowed Megumi to lean in close, to nip at the underside of Sukuna’s jaw and kiss his cheek. Megumi felt Sukuna’s hot exhale on his face.
Feeling fiery and dangerous, emboldened by the growing wonder on Sukuna’s face, Megumi took his bottom lip between his teeth, as he’d done with the mouth on his midsection, and flicked his tongue out to taste it. Their air was shared for a single breath. And then finally, finally, Megumi kissed him deeply. He licked into Sukuna’s mouth and took control, tangling a hand in Sukuna’s hair to tilt his head back. Again, Sukuna let him.
When he pulled back, Sukuna’s expression was the softest and most curious Megumi had ever seen it. Whatever fascination Megumi had sparked when they met, it’d clearly transformed into something unpredicted.
For me, too, Megumi wanted to tell him. Instead, he kissed Sukuna again, sinking into him. Sukuna’s lips moved against his, and his hands were tight on Megumi. All twenty fingers clutched him, and every single one left a phantom imprint of heat, like a brand.
“Be greedier,” Gojou-sensei had said. And Megumi was. He let himself have this—dangerous, stupid, wrong, but so, so good—something he wanted, just for himself. The guilt-ridden shame had dissolved during the weeks together since the dragon and curses on the mountain. Only desire remained. The lust had been coaxed from him at the beginning, but there was no justification or excuse now. Megumi kissed Sukuna because he wanted to, because he liked it—because he liked him, so much.
Megumi panted against Sukuna’s mouth. He was over-poured, a well filled to its brim. With every movement, he spilled further into Sukuna’s hands. Megumi could hardly take it. “Sukuna,” he whispered, kissing his cheek. He nosed along the line of Sukuna’s jaw and curse marks, and when he reached his ear, bid him, “Touch me.”
And then Sukuna shifted. He surged up and kissed Megumi fiercely, keeping their lips locked as he maneuvered Megumi to the side and rolled them over. When Sukuna pulled back, he was propped above Megumi, blocking out the rest of the world with his broad figure. Megumi was submerged in it: his want and passion and hopes. To the thrumming pulse of yearning, to the faintly fond crinkle of Sukuna’s eyes, to the glow of mutual warmth between them, Megumi surrendered.
Megumi was giddy and pink as Sukuna kissed him lightly. He didn’t know what expression he was making—flushed, red bitten-lip, and breathless, probably—as Sukuna withdrew. But their bodies were close enough that Megumi felt Sukuna’s breath catch and saw his eyes widen as he beheld Megumi’s overcome state.
“Do you feel good, Megumi?” Sukuna asked, sincere, without even a trace of teasing.
Arousal and affection zipped through Megumi, swirling in his core. “So good,” Megumi hummed happily. He combed his fingers through Sukuna’s hair.
When Sukuna cupped his cheek, Megumi leaned into it. He let Sukuna ply him with kisses and bared his neck for him, let Sukuna disrobe him and mark his body. With a low groan, Megumi shifted when Sukuna wrapped a hand around his aching cock, teasing with a light stroke. There was no time for oils and so no need.
Sukuna spat coarsely into his hand and stroked Megumi, smearing the wetness around. Then he paused, looking deviously inspired, and Megumi had a single moment to be suspicious before something hot and sopping and thick—the tongue, oh god—licked up his crotch, shaping around his cock, and soaked him.
Megumi’s spine unbent as the tongue retracted, but then Sukuna ground down, rutting against him, and pleasure lit Megumi’s nerves up. He cried out, unspooling. Electricity fizzed through him with every thrust of Sukuna’s hips, and he heard himself making these small noises: whimpers, keens, hitches in his breath.
Sukuna watched him with all four eyes, and he was so close, devouring those sounds straight from Megumi’s mouth. Megumi didn’t dare look away. The intimacy was exquisite and intense, and his heart clenched dangerously in his chest.
Here was the fall. He’d been traveling down a slippery, endless slope; it had only ever been a matter of time. Sukuna held and touched and ruined him, all so gently, and Megumi could do nothing but be undone.
He clutched at Sukuna’s shoulders, digging his nails in so he didn’t fly out of his own skin. It was too good—he hadn’t thought it could be better, that something so simple could be so overwhelming. But the rumble of Sukuna’s low moans resounded through Megumi, and it felt like they were being joined in body as one.
Arousal built through both of them, higher and higher. With the sensation of Sukuna all around him, as Sukuna stroked him so deftly, exactly as he liked, Megumi tumbled over the edge, coming all over himself and adding to the sloppy mess of his crotch and stomach. Sukuna didn’t pause, milking him through it as Megumi’s hips jerked. One of Megumi’s hands instinctively unlatched from Sukuna’s back to cover his mouth, the whines pouring from him, but Sukuna caught him immediately and pulled it away, pinning Megumi’s wrist down.
“Don’t hide,” Sukuna crooned, still working his hips in the mix of sweat and come and spit. “Look at me, Megumi.”
Megumi’s eyes fluttered back open, and he was struck immediately by Sukuna’s piercing gaze. His heart ached, filling with something fragile but sharp but beautiful, shards of glass, even as his spine melted into the floor beneath.
“Look,” Sukuna repeated, “and see what you do to me.” Megumi peered down their bodies, to Sukuna’s flushed cock rutting next to Megumi’s spent one. “Do you like that?”
Warmth rolled through Megumi. Today, it seemed Sukuna was intent on asking him. It always made Megumi burn all over, the way Sukuna so commandingly, self-assuredly, pointed out Megumi’s reactions as indisputable proof of him liking it and being easy for Sukuna. There was no way to deny it when Sukuna peeled away all the layers of Megumi’s inhibitions. But this was the first time it had ever truly been a question.
“Yes,” Megumi breathed. He pulled Sukuna close with his free hand. “I want to see you, Sukuna—”
Sukuna smeared a hand through Megumi’s come and then took his cock in hand, jerking himself fast. His lips found the corner of Megumi’s mouth in a tender kiss, and it was somehow more intimate than any they’d shared before.
A spark of heat rolled through Megumi as Sukuna groaned and came in hot spurts on Megumi’s crotch, his soft cock, his stomach. Megumi shivered, feeling marked and possessed, and met Sukuna’s pleased expression. He took a deep breath, settling within the unique taste and flare of Sukuna and his aura.
Sukuna hadn’t even fucked him, but Megumi felt wrecked, completely taken apart. His body was weak, and his heart, weaker. How sweet Sukuna had been to him recently, and oh, how Megumi adored it when he was. As the year spun from summer to autumn, the connection between them only grew.
Quietly, gazing up at him, Megumi mourned for this Sukuna. These were the parts that would be forgotten by history, that were scrubbed from the records. The first thing Sukuna proclaimed upon incarnating in Itadori had been massacre. What had happened? What would?
“You’re thinking too hard,” said Sukuna.
“One of us has to,” replied Megumi, his voice barely over a whisper. It was teasing yet sodden with heavy yearning.
Megumi reached up, his hand nearly trembling. His palm hovered tremulously above Sukuna’s cheek, and it pained him, almost, a brightness clogged thick in his throat. His fingers brushed against Sukuna’s cheekbone.
Sukuna observed him in silence. Then he tipped his head and met Megumi’s palm, and his four eyes fluttered shut.
Notes:
art of the rabbit scene by @vvytril (ty!)
and art of megumi cupping sukuna's cheeks inspired by the last scene here i think by @loajzezThe Minashi Shrine is located in Takayama, Gifu Prefecture, which is within the borders of the old Hida Province. The date of the shrine’s construction is unknown but it appears in official records during Emperor Seiwa’s reign in 858-878 AD. The enshrined deity of Minashi Shrine is unknown.
The Lyra constellation is visible in Japan in the summer. The Tanabata festival in July-August celebrates the reunion of Orihime and Hikoboshi, the Vega star of the Lyra constellation and the Altair star of the Aquila constellation respectively.
Chapter Text
The tumbling water breaks upon the rocks
And rushes to its pool—
There, in the water stilled
I see a shining moon.—Manyōshū IX: 1714
Megumi hadn’t known it could be like this: Sukuna, them, life. The weather cooled as October stirred. The farmers spoke of nothing but the harvest as they began draining their rice paddies. The air was fresh and bracing; the sunlight kissed Megumi’s skin warmly.
The atmosphere around the shrine, once oppressively menacing, was lighter than Megumi had ever experienced, and the air between him and Sukuna was, as well. Megumi’s routine, which he’d settled into over the months, was unchanged only in the most basic sense.
He still picked fruit from the village’s offerings in the mornings, still bathed in the washtub or river, still ate Uraume’s food. He still traveled to the town, trained, exorcised curses, and returned back to Sukuna. And they still slept together, both in the crude sense and not. But it felt as though Megumi had stepped from one life into another yet again.
He’d never been this relaxed, for one. Megumi brought home a sack of clay from a local artisan one evening, and Sukuna leisurely observed him, interjecting only sometimes to offer to slice the slab. Megumi’s figures were mostly misshapen, and he never improved much, for even when Sukuna was content to simply watch, Megumi often found himself distracted. It was difficult to touch Sukuna with clay all over his hands, after all.
Soon, Megumi traded his clay for a go board. It was Sukuna’s suggestion; he claimed go would be just as creative a pursuit, though after a few games, Megumi figured Sukuna only meant that in regards to the inventive variety of ways he would beat Megumi.
“I’m never going to win,” Megumi grumbled, surrendering yet another game.
“Perhaps if you would accept the free moves afforded to you.”
Megumi scowled. “No way, I’m not that much lower-ranked than you. Ranking systems don’t even exist in this era.”
Sukuna began separating the tiles for another match. “Then why keep complaining that the rules are different in your day?”
“Because they are,” Megumi groused, which, while somewhat true, wasn’t the only reason he kept losing. Sukuna was clearly better at this game, with centuries of experience behind him, while Megumi had never been the biggest go enthusiast. Still, it was pleasant to sit across the board from Sukuna and watch him think, smile at Megumi’s moves, or, perhaps especially, stare confusedly at the board after Megumi made a few subtle changes.
Once, when Uraume arrived at the shrine and Sukuna stepped away to greet them, Megumi moved a few of his stones around, capturing one of Sukuna’s and enlarging his territory. When Sukuna returned to play, his hand was half-outstretched before he stilled. “You changed something,” he said, eyes narrowed.
Megumi fought to keep his face straight. “What do you mean?”
Sukuna looked between the board and Megumi’s bowl of prisoners, then laughed in disbelief. “You are a cheater.” He sounded delighted.
“I’m a winner,” Megumi sniffed. “I don’t take attacks on my integrity lightly.”
“The only thing about you with integrity is your competitiveness,” chuckled Sukuna. He reset the board exactly as it’d been, ignoring Megumi’s pout.
Megumi resignedly placed a stone, then watched Sukuna capture three of his on the next move—show-off. He grumbled, “Like you’re any better.”
After a week of lengthy matches and losses, Megumi convinced Sukuna to try a simpler game and taught him gomoku. Megumi, with his black stones, always went first, and he watched gleefully as Sukuna grew more frustrated and suspicious as he failed to eke out a win.
“There is no reason for me to be losing this much.” The accusation was clear.
“Mm,” Megumi hummed, “I guess you just weren’t paying enough attention to the rules.”
Sukuna wrinkled his nose. “Attention? There is nothing to it; we alternate turns and aim to set five stones in a row. And yet, somehow,” he glared, “you are cheating.”
“I’m not!” Megumi protested, biting back a smile. He cleared the board and placed his first stone.
There was a pause as Sukuna studied that single piece, and then it seemed to click. “I see now! Whoever plays black has an advantage.” His gaze twinkled. “You truly are devious, Megumi. Let me go first.”
“No, no,” Megumi waved a hand dismissively, not even bothering to hide his amusement now, “younger player goes first.”
A laugh burst from Sukuna, and he was still grinning as he shook his head and said dramatically, “And now you conjure false rules just to suit yourself. How will I ever win and collect my prize now?”
“Oh, and what prize would that be?” Megumi asked, though he already knew.
Sukuna smirked without a word, leaving Megumi to deal with a sudden onslaught of thrill and fondness, butterflies in his stomach. He ducked his head, unable to tamp down on a growing smile, only for Sukuna to reach across the board and tip Megumi’s chin up with a finger. He thumbed over the surprised curve of Megumi’s mouth and murmured, “Pretty.”
Sukuna won that game.
Of all that had and hadn’t changed in these autumnal months, the largest shift was Sukuna, himself. Megumi could hardly recognize the Sukuna of his memories, the incarnated version in Itadori or even the Sukuna who’d dug his nails into Megumi’s neck upon their meeting, about half a year ago in April.
That Sukuna felt like a distant specter, a faded impression. This Sukuna—Megumi’s—cherished him. It was the only word Megumi could find to describe the tender lilt of Sukuna’s smiles, the gentle embrace he often enfolded Megumi in from behind, the brash and teasing humor that lured a laugh.
A previously frozen future unfurled in front of Megumi, waiting for him to bundle it in his arms. Sukuna’s amorous attention focused solely on him made Megumi feel buoyant constantly, floating above the clouds. Sukuna’s four eyes carved into Megumi and saw him at his core, as if all Megumi’s insecurities and hesitations were gossamer thread, unspooled into Sukuna’s waiting hands.
With little between them now, Megumi wanted him badly, nearly all the time, and Sukuna was more than happy to oblige. He left the shrine less than ever, choosing to spend his days with Megumi or to linger even when Megumi went to the town, so he would be there when Megumi returned. It was somehow so wondrously intimate, from their conversations to the quiet glances they shared.
Sex, too, felt so deep, in both meanings, no matter whether it was sweet and honeyed, with Sukuna’s breath catching and Megumi murmuring encouragements into the hollow of his neck, or much more carnal and feverish, like now—now, with flames in Megumi’s heart, heat licking through his veins, a smokey daze in his head. A single look from Sukuna was conflagration catching.
He sat on the far side of the room from Megumi, relaxed in a casual and unaffected posture, arrogantly certain that he was making Megumi burn without a touch, just by the searing, scorching graze of his words. His voice flowed over Megumi, into him. “I’ll make you feel good,” Sukuna promised, imbued with intent. “Are you not curious about how it feels? Have you thought about it, Megumi? Have you wondered?”
Megumi nearly choked as he swallowed thickly. His heart thrummed in his throat along with arousal. It was hard to think with his brain dissolving into static, caught on this idea. He couldn’t muster a response.
Sukuna’s lips curled slowly into a smirk. “So you have,” he answered himself, pleased. “Did you get yourself off dreaming about it, hm? Fucking me. Being inside.”
Oh god, the way he said it, how filthy it sounded from his mouth, the words dripping like an aphrodisiac from his tongue—Megumi couldn’t bear it. His thoughts spun around that image: Sukuna on his hands and knees, maybe? Or Megumi between his spread legs, or maybe Sukuna riding him, all that power hovering over Megumi, taking his pleasure.
“Megumi,” Sukuna drawled, his voice smooth and sultry, “are you hard?”
Megumi’s face caught fire. He scrambled to draw his knees up so they covered his lap from view, but couldn’t help a shudder as Sukuna traced his eyes down Megumi’s body and focused there. He nearly whimpered when Sukuna stood. Anticipation burned through him. “I—” Megumi started, stopped, swallowed around his dry mouth and wet his lips.
Sukuna approached slowly, prowling toward Megumi and boxing him in. He towered silently for a moment, then said with the slightest, commanding tilt of his chin, “Show me.”
The flush bloomed through Megumi’s whole body. His cock ached, he was so hard. He stared up at Sukuna’s amused, nearly taunting expression and couldn’t catch his breath. Slowly, like Sukuna’s demand itself was pulling them apart, Megumi parted his legs bit by bit and bared himself entirely to Sukuna’s knowing eyes.
He was leaking at the tip, his cock red. Sukuna’s leer made Megumi want to squirm, to cover himself. But he didn’t. The embarrassment added to the heat, and Megumi was on fire as he sat there in his half-open kosode, hands clenched into fists and tucked so closely to his body he was nearly sitting on them, and let Sukuna see what his teasing won him.
With a foot, Sukuna cursorily nudged at Megumi’s leg, pushing it further to the side. Megumi was helpless to resist. His hands clenched in an effort to not hide himself, because Sukuna would definitely laugh if he did, and then he’d make Megumi remove his hands, which would be even more exposing, and oh, how Megumi burned with just this. He’d never been this turned on, undone by the barest touch and even before it.
Sukuna moved forward into the space between Megumi’s legs, and the predatory slink of that step hooked in his gut. Megumi shivered. His breath tripped when Sukuna’s foot then found his inner thigh, tracing briefly over the sensitive skin there. Goosebumps shivered over Megumi. Oh god. He could hold back only half his whine when Sukuna pushed down on his thigh, to the side, so Megumi’s legs were truly and fully spread, hips open and cock ruddy and glaring.
Bending down, Sukuna hovered close and leered at Megumi, who tipped his head back against the wall to meet his eyes. If he looked desperate enough, maybe, then Sukuna wouldn’t be able to resist. He knew what Sukuna liked—the parted lips, the teary eyes—and didn’t need to feign any of it. “Sukuna, touch me.”
Sukuna’s smirk melted into a smile, an actual soft one that made Megumi’s stomach flutter in a whole different way. “Megumi,” he murmured, “how exquisitely you blush.”
At that, color bloomed darker on Megumi’s cheeks, splotchy red down his neck and chest. When Sukuna crouched between his spread legs, Megumi could feel his radiating warmth achingly close, like a sparking field of charge. He wanted Sukuna’s hands on him everywhere, wanted his hands on Sukuna. And well, Sukuna hadn’t said he couldn’t touch. Megumi stroked up the curse marks on Sukuna’s chest and shoulders, linking his fingers behind Sukuna’s neck. He tried to tug him closer, for a kiss, for anything, but Sukuna didn’t budge.
“I asked you a question,” commented Sukuna, seemingly offhand as he ignored Megumi’s desperation. “I can see how hard you are,” he chuckled, “but tell me, have you thought about it—fucking me?”
Megumi stared at him, eyes wide. Of course he had, and Sukuna knew that, surely. But it’d always been fantasy; all these months, they’d never, and Megumi hadn’t found the chance or courage to initiate because he’d never. He knew how Sukuna liked him, open and needy, willing to lay over his lap and have his ass fondled and fingered, so the idea that Sukuna had thought about it, too, was crazy—it made Megumi feel insane, his mind a muddle. He could barely form words. “I didn’t know you’d—that you’d want to—”
Sukuna tilted his head and leisurely looked Megumi up and down, lingering appraisingly on his cock. He smirked, almost to himself, and then touched Megumi finally, a hot hand upon the flush on Megumi’s chest. “I admit I enjoy seeing you writhe around, split open on my cock,” Sukuna said with a sly grin. He pinched a nipple briefly, grin widening at Megumi’s shudder, as he traveled down Megumi’s body. The barest brush of Sukuna’s finger low on his stomach made Megumi’s gut swoop, heat coiling tight.
“Sukuna,” Megumi gasped, with only half of his breath.
Skipping entirely over Megumi’s cock, Sukuna hand found Megumi’s upper thigh. He was so close to where Megumi was throbbing, desperate, and Megumi couldn’t help a whimpering gasp. He felt Sukuna reach behind his balls, stroke along his taint. It was too much already, it was— “Being fucked so beautifully.”
“Oh my god,” breathed Megumi, filled to the brim with want.
Sukuna placed a hand on the wall next to Megumi’s head and leaned in close. Megumi’s heart skipped, his blood trembled, as Sukuna nosed along his jaw. He could nearly feel the curve of Sukuna’s lips when he asked, “Tell me, though, who do you belong to?”
Megumi shivered. “You,” he murmured.
“All of you, yes?” prompted Sukuna. He traced a line along the vein on Megumi’s cock, base to tip, and Megumi’s hips jerked.
He nodded feverishly, pleasure twisting through him as Sukuna played with him.
“Then who does this belong to?” Sukuna asked. He tapped the head of Megumi’s cock, right on the slit, and ignored Megumi’s full-body twitch.
Megumi couldn’t think ahead of Sukuna’s questions, couldn’t identify intent. He could only answer, “You.”
“Then if I wish to put this thing I own to good use, you should listen, should you not?”
Oh. Oh god. Megumi blinked his eyes open, not knowing when he’d clenched them shut, and met the glint of Sukuna’s gaze. The air in his lungs was thin and insufficient. Megumi inhaled shakily and somehow found himself agreeing, “I should. I should listen.”
Sukuna peered at Megumi, his expression wolfish. Every line of his body screamed predator, closing in on the prey he’d ensnared. He said, with the easy, lazy assurance of being obeyed, “Then fuck me, Megumi.”
Megumi swallowed hard. He was dead meat. There wasn’t a single thought in his head, only sirens blaring at the dangerous curve of Sukuna’s presumptuous smirk. “Yeah,” Megumi replied weakly, reeling. “Yeah, I can do that.”
Sukuna took him to their bedroom, towing Megumi by a hand, their fingers linked. He disrobed casually, looking huge, muscles rippling as he laid down, and Megumi stood there, rooted to the spot with his cock aching, unable to pull his eyes from the curve of Sukuna’s ass, how thick it was, and the brawn of his thighs.
Then a foot hooked the back of Megumi’s knee, tugging him forward, and he stumbled into the space between Sukuna’s spread legs. Fuck. He felt so small, fitting easily with Sukuna’s bulk on either side of him, under him, where usually Megumi’s hips stretched impossibly wide around Sukuna. It whirled in Megumi’s mind, a hot clench all the way down his spine.
This was insane. He slotted against Sukuna and even dry, it felt so good that he couldn’t help a few eager ruts. Sukuna’s chest rumbled as he chuckled. “Come,” he beckoned and tilted his hips up. Megumi’s brain short-circuited.
Even though Sukuna didn’t need to be stretched, with the control he had over his cursed flesh, he still told Megumi to prep him with oil to smooth the way. And while Megumi had fingered Sukuna a few times before while blowing him, this felt like a whole new ballpark, slicking him up so Megumi would be able to fuck him. It was overwhelming. Megumi needed fucking training wheels or something, because holy shit.
He could hardly believe he was doing it even as he lined himself up. The head of his cock was near Sukuna’s rim, not even touching it, but just the suggestion of the thing brought Megumi humiliatingly close to blowing his load right there. “Are you ready?” he asked unnecessarily.
Sukuna grinned down his body at Megumi, the cat who’d won the cream and devoured it. “Are you?” he shot back.
Megumi managed a steadying inhale then slowly, holding his shaft tight, pushed in. “Oh my god,” he gasped immediately, jerking. He slipped out when his hips stuttered.
Sukuna laughed indulgently. “Having trouble? Scared?”
Megumi glared, knowing that his blush was creeping down to his chest. Lining himself up again, holding his breath, Megumi slid into that heat. It was indescribable. Not a single thought remained in his head. It was all wet, tight pleasure as he bowed over Sukuna’s body and bottomed out.
“Sukuna,” Megumi panted, clutching Sukuna’s hips tightly, hard enough to leave bruises on anyone else.
Megumi’s hips rabbited helplessly. His fantasies had imagined it feeling like a blowjob, but Sukuna’s hole clenched around his cock, clutching him, sucking him deeper, and Megumi thrust in, again, again, desperately chasing the edge.
He was going to come way too soon, and it’d be over embarrassingly fast. But he couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop. He was so keyed up—had been from the moment Sukuna looked at him daringly, mischievously, and purred, “Megumi, I have a…question.”
Megumi looked up at Sukuna, and his eyes widened when he saw him. Sukuna’s hips were moving with Megumi’s, meeting his thrusts, and he wasn’t loud or overwhelmed, but he had one arm thrown over his face. His mouth was slack, his chest heaving, and one of his free hands was clenched in the sheets. The image burned into Megumi’s mind. “Oh god, Sukuna.”
How could he hold out after such an erotic sight—that he was doing this to Sukuna, that Sukuna liked it, that his chest was red and maybe his face, too, if he were to look at Megumi?
Megumi’s hips stuttered. “Let me see you,” he pleaded. “Sukuna, I’m—”
And Sukuna did. His arm left his face, and he pushed himself up onto his elbows, allowing Megumi to see his expression, heavy and dazed yet still somehow managing to look entertained by Megumi’s desperation. “You feel good, Megumi,” Sukuna said with a low, pleased hum.
Megumi fucked in, and Sukuna made a small, choked noise, and that was it. Megumi’s vision nearly blanked as he came, plunging hard into Sukuna as he chased the heat, the high, oh god, how was it so good?
When he came back to himself, he was slumped partially over Sukuna, who was still hard below him. Megumi blinked, looking up at Sukuna and the tense line of his jaw, the shudder of his chest as he took a deep, restrained breath.
Megumi collected himself, and with a torturous shiver, pulled his soft, wet dick out. He leaned down and pressed a small, chaste kiss to Sukuna’s larger mouth, and when he felt his stomach clench, he moved down to Sukuna’s dick, flushed and leaking precome.
Blowing Sukuna was a practiced thing for him now, and Megumi wrapped his lips around the head, suckling, and flicked his tongue at the slit. Then, almost curiously, Megumi reached down and rubbed around Sukuna’s rim, which earned him a low groan of an exhale.
This was the hottest fucking thing in the world, Megumi’s brain told him, almost outside himself as he pulled off Sukuna’s cock to watch his thumb play with Sukuna’s hole, then push inside. Come—Megumi’s come—leaked out, and Megumi let out a soft, shaky noise at the same time as Sukuna.
Sukuna wasn’t really vocal, but he didn’t need to be when his thighs trembled, when his rim fluttered around Megumi’s fingers, when his cock twitched as Megumi returned to sucking it. He was close. Megumi worked him over, and Sukuna came with a satisfied, gravelly sigh.
He was the first to recover, already sitting up fully as Megumi swallowed and wiped his mouth. Despite sounding a bit breathless, Sukuna still teased, “Looks like I need to train you in more than combat, even if you did know what to do after you finished.”
“You’re so full of it,” Megumi rolled his eyes, secretly pleased, as he crawled over and climbed into Sukuna’s lap.
Sukuna caught his chin and kissed Megumi chastely. Then he grinned, smug, and leered, “Full of you.”
His arms fully embraced Megumi, who tucked his face into Sukuna’s shoulder as they melted into the afterglow, quiet and comfortable.
After a bit, carefully not glancing Sukuna’s way, Megumi found the courage to ask, “It was good, right? I’ll get better—”
“Megumi, hush,” Sukuna interrupted. He turned and kissed Megumi’s temple. “You are already the best I have had.”
Megumi’s heart melted, and he hugged Sukuna tightly. Somehow, in spite of his better instincts, it was easy with Sukuna, or at least, the sailing was smooth now. The days moved easily from one to the next, and each brought something new, layers of soft, gentle, glowing moments that cocooned his heart, a shelter.
Megumi should have known though, should have sensed, that the calmest waters always came right before the plunging waterfall.
One late evening near the end of October, sitting next to each other during dinner, Megumi leaned over, clicking his chopsticks playfully toward Sukuna’s food. He wasn’t expecting Sukuna to block them and move his bowl away.
“You cannot,” said Sukuna.
Megumi pouted, “We share food all the time.”
Sukuna eyed him. “It would make you sick,” he said slowly, as if just realizing something. “It—eating someone of your species—it isn’t healthy.”
It took Megumi a moment. His heart sank before his stomach rolled. His eyes found the meat in Sukuna’s bowl, one piece with a bite: red, cooked, tender—human. Nausea hit Megumi in the gut. An unpleasant, clammy layer of sweat broke out all over his body.
Megumi rose jerkily, dropping his bowl with a clatter, and rushed outside. His mouth tasted like bile. He dry-heaved in the bushes, feeling the food he’d already eaten roiling in him. Blood pounded in his ears, and his vision grayed around the edges. People—Sukuna ate people, so casually, cooked by Uraume, like they were just…cattle or fish.
“Megumi,” a distant voice leaked in. Megumi could barely hear anything over his heavy breaths.
Sukuna pulled him upright with a gentle hand on his waist, and Megumi stumbled, holding onto him to keep from falling. He stared at Sukuna with wide eyes. The sick sense of horror was back. “You eat humans,” he choked out.
Delirious with shock, Megumi watched him, hoping for a shake of his head, a frown in denial. But Sukuna’s nod was clear. “Not always,” he said, as if that was a comfort, “but sometimes, yes.”
Megumi wrenched away from him, feeling a hot, humiliating wash of tears building. He didn’t know from which well it sprang: the disappointment or the awfulness or the shame.
How could he have not considered this sooner? He thought of Sukuna returning bloody to the shrine and the larger mouth licking its chops. Megumi should have recognized the signs and figured it out. If he hadn’t been so blinded—
He mashed the bases of his palms to his eyes, trying to hold back the tears. That mouth—he had kissed it. It had brought him pleasure. He’d moaned around that tongue that ate those people, the desecrated, cooked pieces of them. Those teeth had left marks on him and Megumi had wanted it.
Stupid—he felt stupid. Sukuna was a curse; his ethics weren’t any better or different from the rest of them just because he was the most powerful. Megumi had known this, had always known it, except he’d allowed himself to move past the guilt as Sukuna became sweeter and kinder towards him.
Mortification tainted all those tender feelings now, stabbing at a wound that had just finished closing. Megumi wiped at his cheeks, his chest feeling mangled and pierced straight through. His hands shook.
“Megumi,” Sukuna said again, approaching him. Megumi kept him at his back, hiding. “It’s okay.”
He felt Sukuna’s hand on his shoulder, and Megumi jolted away. The sadness and disappointment and shock—all of it turned to an odd sense of betrayal in him, an anger. “It’s not okay!” he snapped.
Why couldn’t one thing be easy? Finally, just as he’d believed he could have peace, Sukuna ruined it. Storming into the shrine building, Megumi found their bowls. His own lay on its side where he’d dropped it; his rice was scattered on the floor. Sukuna’s dish sat peacefully, untouched. But at least, Megumi noted with grim, furious satisfaction, his chopsticks were splayed messily on the table, put down in haste—good. He grabbed Sukuna’s bowl, feeling it in his hand like poison, pushed back outside, and hurled it all at Sukuna.
“How could you do something like that?” he yelled. “How can you—” But Megumi knew how. This was Sukuna, a killer, who saw humans as nothing more than a nuisance, or perhaps, well, an easy meal.
He clenched his hands and glared, then stalked past the offering stand, where incense had burned down to its end, back into the building and to the bedroom. The futon had never looked less appealing. Just today, after Sukuna roused him with a gentle hand, Megumi had leaned up and kissed him good morning, had smiled against the very same mouth that—
So instead, Megumi sat against the wall, let the flash of anger settle back into sick dismay, and felt thoroughly sorry for himself. It wasn’t Sukuna who had betrayed him; Megumi had betrayed himself by getting this close and expecting more.
And the worst part—the worst part was this wasn’t a dealbreaker. What would Megumi do? Leave? He needed Sukuna, and he wanted him, and he cared for him. At this moment, however, it felt like the very him in that equation had changed.
Maybe if Megumi had known from the start, it would’ve been easy to roll this into the once monumental task of accepting his feelings for Sukuna through the shame. But he thought of Sukuna saying, “Someone of your species,” and it was no less than an earthquake through a recently smoothed path.
Sukuna didn’t join Megumi in the bedroom until later, when Megumi had eventually migrated to the bed and was laying awake, unable to sleep. Illuminated only by the low candlelight, which flickered across his curse marks and within his eyes, Sukuna appeared starker, more luminous, as he took a seat next to the bedding.
He studied Megumi quietly, then said, “I thought you already knew.”
Megumi shook his head, shifting his gaze to the ceiling. “It caught me off guard,” he admitted. “I should have—I should have figured.”
“It is not often,” Sukuna said, trying again for reassuring.
“Even still,” replied Megumi. “I know they don’t mean anything to you, but they—” He sighed. “It doesn’t matter; it wouldn’t change anything.”
With a sigh of his own, Sukuna asked, “Would you keep a bird from flying, Megumi? Or a whale from owning the seas? The folly of man is to think he can control the nature of things, and this is mine.”
For a long moment, Megumi didn’t speak, turning Sukuna’s words over in his mind and matching them easily to his own. Yes, he knew this of Sukuna, one of the many things he’d learned about him. “I know,” he said finally. “I just need time.”
Sukuna’s expression twisted oddly, something Megumi didn’t recognize on his features. “Do you want me to leave?” he asked, and Megumi realized then that he was unsure.
His heart wrenched that Sukuna even asked at all, that he offered to give Megumi space. It was hard to maintain the same level of disgust in the face of a new, striking circumstance.
“I don’t know,” Megumi said, his honest answer. If he'd been asked two minutes earlier, he would have said yes, but Sukuna’s hesitance, genuine and deferential, was written on his face, and Megumi was weak before it.
Their eyes met, and for once, Sukuna’s gaze seemed wary. “Do you want me to read to you?” he asked abruptly into the silence.
Megumi blinked. “Read to me?”
Sukuna nodded, turning behind him to pull a book from the shelf. “This is the one I was telling you about—the poetry collection, the Manyoshu. I have a kanshi collection, too, if you want.”
Megumi stayed quiet, not knowing how to respond, and eventually Sukuna opened the book and flipped through the pages randomly, landing near the middle. With the candles dimming, Megumi could barely see, and he considered Sukuna, who skimmed the text with ease. “You don’t need any light?” he asked, just to confirm a suspicion.
Sukuna replied, “I can see in the dark.”
“Oh, okay.” Megumi sat with that; so, the shrine’s candles and lanterns, lit by a flame from Sukuna’s finger every dusk, were for Megumi’s benefit only. His heart squeezed, but he didn’t say anything else.
So Sukuna read to him: a poem on spring, then one about a little boat, then about nature or something of the sort. “Do the vast oceans die? Do the mountains die? Verily they do—for lo, the waters vanish from the seas…” Sukuna’s voice was calm and smooth, flowing over the verses, and Megumi listened for a while, trying to follow aurally.
But eventually, his attention dropped off. He couldn’t concentrate; his mind returned again and again to the sight of human meat in Sukuna’s bowl. This revulsion would embitter him, he knew; if he didn’t let it go, he couldn’t continue on this path, living at the shrine with Sukuna. But Megumi wanted to, to keep the bright, golden haze of their better days, which had become precious to him. And so he had to lose this instinct that made him sick at the thought. It needed to simply become a new shade of Sukuna as a curse to him. But how could it?
The line of thought sank in deep like dread, and Megumi refocused on Sukuna’s voice. He hadn’t stopped reading, probably accepting that Megumi didn’t have the capacity to listen closely, and the low tone was lulling, even despite Megumi’s doubtful heart. Eventually, as the candlelight shivered faintly against Sukuna’s silhouette and the poetry washed over him, Megumi drifted to sleep.
In the morning, Megumi woke alone. He wandered habitually to the offerings to pick his breakfast, then froze at the sight of the fruit. He was hungry, but the thought of eating after yesterday made Megumi queasy. He left the food there and joined Sukuna on the stairs empty-handed.
“Are you feeling better?” Sukuna asked, the first to break the silence.
Megumi nodded uneasily. At least compared to last night, he actually was, other than the hunger. But it didn't change the fact that he would likely think about this every time they ate together. He’d told the truth yesterday; he needed time to accept this—to accept himself, whose eyes flicked to Sukuna’s lips and even now didn’t only think about the meat.
After a small shared silence, during which Sukuna didn’t push and Megumi didn’t offer any of his own thoughts, Megumi gave in and picked a pear, then headed indoors. Sukuna didn’t follow him.
The following days were made easier by Sukuna, who for the first time seemed tentative. He didn’t seek Megumi’s body, though after a few days, Megumi gave it, even if he turned his face away when Sukuna leaned to kiss him. And each night, Sukuna offered to read poems from the Manyoshu.
They ate their meals separately. Megumi picked at his food outside on the shrine steps or in the bedroom, far from Sukuna who stayed in the main room. Sukuna’s eyes narrowed in concern each time Megumi collected his meal and left, but he didn’t pull him back or push his presence into spaces Megumi went to be alone.
But after almost a week of the same, Megumi missed him acutely. He was tired of staring at the tree near the torii or the wall in an empty room, deprived of conversation. His chopsticks sounded starkly loud when they clacked against his bowl. The meal tasted bland; his chewing was dull.
Good food had been Sukuna’s first favor to Megumi, and it was a cornerstone of their routine together—one of the most constant markers of their shared life at the shrine.
He wished he could eat with Sukuna, to have those comfortable silences again, but old guilt reared its head. Megumi couldn’t imagine himself eating knowing Sukuna had humans on his plate, but he couldn’t envision Sukuna changing, either, not when he’d been so upfront about it.
Distance returned between them, caused this time by Megumi’s unease. Near the end of the week, Megumi stayed in town longer after an exorcism and ate at Sato’s inn.
When he returned to the shrine late that night, Sukuna asked, “Have you eaten? You took no food with you.”
Megumi replied, “I ate at the inn in town.”
Sukuna’s expression stilled, but before Megumi could worry or grow at all alarmed, Sukuna sent Megumi a wry grimace and only nodded.
After a few hesitant moments, Megumi joined Sukuna at the table, watching quietly as Sukuna sharpened a set of new knives, sliding the blades between two fingers.
The meal hadn’t been enjoyable, exactly; it’d lacked meat and was blander than Uraume’s cooking, and Megumi had spent the entire time wondering what Sukuna was eating, until he could barely stomach another bite. But time spent with the townspeople—conversations with Sato and a small, choppy bow from Kida, who still treated him gruffly—helped Megumi truly see the deification of Sukuna.
The farmers were in high spirits; it had been a good harvest season, and they attributed that in part to Sukuna. This was a small, rural farming town with only pottery, woodwork, and crops, no gifts of great value, but their offerings continued growing in size, and at the inn, Sato updated Megumi on Minashi Shrine’s ongoing construction.
If there was any chance of changing Sukuna, who ate humans, yes, but who hadn’t blatantly killed or plundered recently, it would be through this goodwill with the villagers.
And Megumi could only hope and continue his exorcisms as Sukuna’s monk, doing what he could, because that flicker of shame and repulsion lingered, even as he craved Sukuna’s presence.
The next afternoon, Megumi returned to the village to check on a young boy, the son of the farmer Nakada, who he’d torn a small, pesky curse from yesterday. The sun was high—Megumi pulled his wide-brimmed hat on—because he’d timed his departure to eat dinner at the inn again. Sukuna knew it, judging from his stewing.
But Megumi brushed a hand along his shoulder and offered, “I’ll be back for poetry tonight.”
For a moment, he thought Sukuna would argue, asking Megumi to return sooner. But he only replied, if begrudgingly, “See you then.”
At the town, the boy was feeling better, more lively, and Megumi accepted Nakada’s gushing thanks. Harvested rice hung in bundles on towering racks next to the drained paddies, and as Megumi wandered from Nakada’s home toward the inn, he took it all in with interest. Shimoda had been happy to explain the process to Megumi on a prior trip to town, when the farmers had been brushing water from the grains. Megumi had been in the past nearly the entire growing season, and looking upon the fruits of their labor now, he was filled with greater admiration for the people.
Something like pride glowed in his chest, that he’d been able to keep them safe through the summer, that they could produce and harvest their crops without worrying. He wished—he wished Sukuna cared as much, that Megumi could share that gratification with him and not be met with derision.
But of course, Sukuna’s disregard for humans was so much more dreadful and upsetting than simple scorn. Eating at the inn was the best solution for Megumi; he could avoid seeing Sukuna’s choice of meat while still not having to eat alone and face the muted disappointment on Sukuna’s face when Megumi ran with his food to the bedroom, and he also didn’t need to see Sukuna’s choice of meat. They could have the rest of their time together, just not the meals; this was the only way.
Megumi had just turned onto the path toward Sato’s inn when he caught hint of unfamiliar cursed energy. It stemmed from a man at the inn’s door, kneeling next to a pack on the ground. Squinting, Megumi tried to make him out in the low light.
It was no one he recognized. As he stepped closer, Megumi saw the man readying weapons, tucking them into his clothes. He had a rope dart looped in his hand, kunai sharp on its end. In the small mass of cursed energy surrounding him, Megumi could tease out the presence of multiple auras—cursed tools, probably in his pack.
He was a sorcerer. Megumi hadn’t come across any since the time he’d spent at the jujutsu school prior to coming to the shrine. That had been over half a year ago now, so he wasn’t sure if this was someone he’d met then or not.
“I exorcised all the cursed spirits in this town,” Megumi said as he approached, a bit wary. “You’ll find no work here.”
The sorcerer sprang to his feet, eyes wide as he turned. Megumi frowned; he was jumpy, inexperienced—probably not a curse user then. “A jujutsu sorcerer,” the man noted, surprised. “You live in this town?”
With a nod, Megumi replied, “As I said, this village is clear of curses.”
A shadow crossed over the man’s face. “All but one,” he said. “Do you not know? The curse who slaughtered the sorcerers from Heian-Kyo’s jujutsu school resides near here.”
Megumi’s heart quickened. “You’ve come to kill Ryoumen Sukuna,” he stated, not a question.
“I will avenge my fallen comrades,” the sorcerer said, looking determined and bitter, “by ridding the world of that demon.”
A flash of rage kicked through Megumi, so potent it nearly surprised him. He shoved it aside, this irrational notion that no one should kill Sukuna, that he didn’t deserve—and asserted, truthfully, “You would die. Sukuna will kill you.”
“Accompany me, then,” the sorcerer said. “Your cursed energy is strong; I can tell. With you, I would stand more of a chance. We can gather sorcerers from my family or survivors from the school and—”
Megumi cut him off with a raised hand and sharp shake of his head. He tipped his hat up to look the sorcerer in the eyes, deadly serious. “Heed me well. Sukuna is too powerful. You would die before even reaching his shrine. You—anyone from the school. I was there, six months ago. There is no one left. What are you doing here, repeating history?”
Dismal silence fell over them. But after a pause, the sorcerer tilted his head curiously, contemplating Megumi. “How are you alive, then, if you live in this town? Have you never encountered him?”
Megumi fought the urge to shift in discomfort. He knew it wouldn’t go over easily that the town knew him as Sukuna’s shrinekeeper and had a lie prepared. “I keep to myself—”
But Sato’s wife chose this moment to peep her head from the inn, perhaps hearing the noise and tiring of it outside her doors. “Monk-sama, Minamoto-san,” she bowed shallowly, “are you staying for a meal?”
Megumi panicked and declined automatically, even though he had planned to, as his attention caught on the title she’d used. When she disappeared back inside, Megumi looked at the sorcerer, Minamoto, who stared back in shock and disbelief.
“Monk?” he repeated. “Of this area? But there is only one shrine—” He cut off as he realized, expression contorting. “You—”
“You misunderstand,” Megumi jumped in, trying to placate him.
“Liar!” Minamoto cried. He readied his weapons immediately, face pulling into an angry snarl. “Curse user!” he accused. “Servant to the King of Curses! You are no better than him.”
Megumi took a step back, putting distance between them. He’d appraised Minamoto as relatively untrained, and unless he had a surprising technique, Megumi was the stronger of the two. But the accusations cut into him—curse user. If he hurt this man, self-defense or not, wouldn’t that make him so? “There’s no need for this,” Megumi held his hands wide. “I will not fight you.”
“Good,” spat Minamoto. “Then you will die quicker by my hand, and I will go exorcise Ryoumen Sukuna myself.”
“The people of this village revere Sukuna as a god,” warned Megumi. “If you care for them at all, you will leave.”
Minamoto’s rage only built. “Non-sorcerers are ignorant of the truth about him, if they worship him. But you know and still follow him. Not only do you betray your kind, you place your faith in a curse. Disgusting!”
In a flash, Minamoto launched the rope dart at Megumi, aiming right for his face. Megumi dodged, letting it fly past him, and looked back to where the kunai was embedded in the wood of the inn behind him. Minamoto yanked it back by the rope, and Megumi evaded again as it sped past his head in the other direction.
“You’ll hurt someone,” Megumi said, outrage mounting.
“Hopefully, you,” Minamoto said.
He swung the rope dart again, and this time, Megumi sidestepped and moved in close. He kicked Minamoto in the side, reducing his force at the last second, and pushed him off balance. Minamoto was fast—a facet of his technique, perhaps—but he was an amateur fighter, and his footwork was sloppy.
Minamoto jumped back in a blink of an eye and stood at the ready, but he seemed discomfited, aware now that he was outclassed. Megumi brought his hands together and pulled Nue from the shadows.
His shikigami swooped in without electricity at Minamoto, whose eyes widened before he was tossed a few meters back. In his periphery, Megumi could see a few village people hurrying, avoiding the fight.
“Leave here,” Megumi demanded. “This is not worth your life.”
“I would die a thousand times to vanquish that scum,” Minamoto bit, his teeth bared.
Megumi let his disdain slip through. “Even a thousand lives wouldn’t be enough,” he sneered.
Nue picked the man up and flung him far, away from the town’s center, toward the outskirts on the opposite end from the path to the shrine. Then Megumi grabbed ahold of Nue’s leg and flew the short distance to where Minamoto was picking himself out of the underbrush. He landed gently, Nue’s wings spread wide behind him, casting them an imposing silhouette in the setting sun.
“Monster!” Minamoto cried, anger and frustration twisting his features. A scratch on his face welled red. “How could you?”
With a pang, Megumi sympathized. Minamoto’s vengeance was desperate; perhaps he’d lost a loved one when the jujutsu sorcerers attacked Sukuna. “Did Sukuna kill someone close to you? Family?” he frowned.
Minamoto paused. “My sister,” he answered reluctantly, his voice bitter. “She was a master of reverse cursed techniques—a healer. They prevented her from joining the fight, but Sukuna killed her regardless. He killed them all.”
The thought of it sank into Megumi as dismay, leaving him unbalanced. “If Sukuna killed my sister, I would want to kill him, too,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I would succeed.”
“That only makes you a coward,” Minamoto said with finality.
Adjusting his hat just to give himself something to do with his hands, Megumi shifted. “I can respect your convictions. But your sister would want you to live instead. Get stronger.”
“Spare me the advice, you damned curse user.” Minamoto pointed at Megumi, furious. His hand was shaking. “I will kill you, do you hear me? I will curse you.”
He was gone in a second, disappearing fast out of sight. Megumi stared after him, feeling shaken. The glisten of unshed, frustrated tears in Minamoto’s eyes stuck with him. Never before had Megumi been on the receiving end of such potent hate; he’d never been painted as the evil one.
He lived nestled in this bubble: a space around the shrine, the town, and its people where Sukuna wasn’t murderous. Objectively, Megumi knew how ruthlessly Sukuna killed people, how entertaining it was for him. This week had been a stark reminder of it.
But he’d been able to start overlooking Sukuna’s less pretty tendencies because of how Sukuna so sweetly doted. The adoring way he looked at Megumi made it difficult to see Sukuna as Minamoto did. Yes, for now, they weren’t eating together, but it was still Sukuna the rest of the time. He’d changed, and Megumi had, too; they’d both mellowed.
Sukuna, who’d killed Minamoto’s sister and said this was his nature, had been troubled and hesitant with Megumi this week, afraid to push past the walls Megumi had hastily constructed. And despite Sukuna’s inability to help with time traveling, Megumi still felt he needed him, in a different sense now, for how Sukuna could make Megumi smile with near ease, how he held him so gently, how he made his chest feel tight.
Guilt sat within him as Megumi made his way back to the shrine; one of Sukuna’s victims took on character as a woman, a sister, a healer. But Minamoto’s threats hung heavily at Megumi’s shoulders, echoing. He couldn’t help the way his thoughts drifted to worry about Sukuna, instead.
The thought of impossible harm coming to Sukuna, of his expression twisted in pain, of him bloody or hurting—Megumi shook himself. It made his stomach roll, a visceral sense of dread, even more than the death of a faceless stranger he didn’t know. Megumi hurried.
Sukuna looked surprised when Megumi arrived at the shrine. He was eating, or at least a bowl of food, barely touched, sat in front of him. “You’re earlier than you said.”
“I know,” Megumi replied, pulling his sandals and hat off. He stood for a second or two at the doorway, gazing upon Sukuna. Why did his heart ache so?
“Megumi?” Sukuna asked. He looked ready to push his bowl away, out of sight.
Why did he yearn? Megumi approached a bit cautiously and, mustering himself, asked, “What are you eating?”
“Not—” Sukuna started, then settled simply on, “Beef.”
With a long, tired exhale, Megumi sat down, facing Sukuna. After a moment, he plopped his forehead on Sukuna’s shoulder and closed his eyes, trying to relax into the hand that came to card through his hair.
“You’ve killed so many people,” he began. Sukuna’s fingers stilled. “And you—you eat them. I know it’s your nature. I know that’s who you are. But it makes me sick to think about it, their bodies used like that.”
“Megumi,” Sukuna sighed, his tone indecipherable.
Megumi looked up, then, trying to impress upon Sukuna how important this was, how much it mattered, even if Sukuna thought of the humans as nothing. “I can’t stomach the idea of sitting next to you and knowing—seeing it happen.”
“Okay,” said Sukuna.
“Okay?”
“No more, then,” Sukuna elaborated. Megumi’s eyes widened. “Uraume prepares any animal just as well, anyway.”
“You would—stop?” Megumi asked, nearly disbelieving. His hand came up to clutch at Sukuna’s arm.
Sukuna’s lips lifted. He brushed his knuckles along Megumi’s cheek gently. “I want to share our meals together, not to see you hide away. I care for it more than I do what I eat.”
Megumi’s breath stalled. How could bitterness and guilt linger under such a tender dismantling of Megumi’s fears? “Thank you,” he said, and it came out as a soft whisper.
“The things you desire—ask them of me,” Sukuna told him. “I would provide what you need, to have you here.”
Megumi felt a smile on his lips, and he bent his head to have, for a moment, this feeling to himself. And then he looked up at Sukuna and requested, “Eat with me.”
So it wouldn’t be easy; the waters would be choppy, riotous, and the world outside this valley clamorous. But until Megumi could get home, this life was theirs, and Megumi realized with a tremor how endlessly possessive he was of it.
Tsumiki’s face flashed in Megumi’s mind. Maybe Minamoto was right. Megumi was a coward. But he didn’t know what he feared more: losing Sukuna or losing himself in the process of keeping him.
By the first weeks of November, those days agonizing over Sukuna’s diet were long past. He no longer consumed humans, and Megumi’s own perception shifted, too, as it sank in repeatedly how significant Sukuna’s concession had been.
Sukuna had previously obliged Megumi’s asks without issue many times, but usually only for smaller things. Other than claiming victory over the dragon, which Sukuna had done out of his own curiosity, he’d never before compromised on something he claimed was part of his nature. And now he had, for Megumi’s comfort, because Megumi requested it. It wasn’t Megumi who’d been chipped away this time, but Sukuna.
All the doubts and fears about Megumi losing himself, prompted by Minamoto’s scathing accusations, settled to a bare simmer. It would never be easy, and Megumi had known this for months; Sukuna would never not be a curse, and Megumi would never not fight against the unfairness of widespread harm.
But Megumi trusted, not that there wouldn’t be other hardships, since their days had been interrupted before by the dragon, curse horde, and Minamoto, but that he and Sukuna would keep each other through it all. So as the weather chilled and the trees turned red-yellow-orange, Megumi found himself swept up in the light, refreshing air.
The villagers arrived one afternoon with more oblations than normal, and from one of them, Megumi learned it was a festival. Notable of their offerings was sake, made from the next town’s shrine for the occasion, to be used for rituals and to drink.
“It will not affect me,” Sukuna told Megumi, tasting it later in the evening, “but it tastes good. You should have some.”
Megumi remembered the last time he’d been inebriated, so many months ago, soon after Aoi Matsuri in May. Sukuna had made Megumi ride him for the first time, taking full advantage of Megumi’s lowered inhibitions and freely spouted moans. He’d sucked Megumi off afterwards, laying him back and bending to take his cock down his throat, heedless of Megumi’s thighs clenching around Sukuna’s head.
This time, Megumi eyed Sukuna suspiciously, his lips quirking as he quashed his mirth as much as possible. He wouldn’t mind being at Sukuna’s mercy again, to be pliable to their shared desires even more than normal.
They partook that night on the shrine’s veranda, under the light of the full moon. Megumi felt himself flush red, and his lips tingled, numb. His head swam when he turned to look at Sukuna, who sat seemingly at ease but with all four of his eyes hooked on Megumi.
Megumi’s gut swooped. He crawled unsteadily to Sukuna and wrapped his arms around his neck. “Hi,” he whispered.
Sukuna’s lips turned up, and Megumi was filled with the urge to kiss him, and so he did without thinking. “Hello, Megumi,” said Sukuna, fondly amused, when they parted.
“Hi,” Megumi repeated. He pressed his mouth to Sukuna’s again, then again, and whispered, “Hey,” and the whole thing made him giddy inside, fluorescent, and Megumi giggled against Sukuna’s lips and kissed him and said, “Hi, Sukuna.”
“How sweet you are,” he murmured. Sukuna’s arms enveloped him so securely, and Megumi wanted nothing more than to sink into them and stay there.
“This feels so good,” Megumi told him. “When your arms are, like, around me. Ah, but you wouldn’t know—have you ever been hugged by someone with four arms?”
“No,” Sukuna answered. His smile widened, and Megumi traced the corner of it with a finger, captivated by that humor.
“That sucks,” Megumi told him with emphasis. “It’s great.”
Sukuna turned his head enough to kiss Megumi’s finger. “You offer plenty to delight in even with only two arms,” he chuckled, eyes crinkling. “So eager for me, Megumi. And the sake has you so pink.”
“’S not just the sake.” Megumi stroked over the curse marks on Sukuna’s cheek. “It’s you.”
Sukuna huffed a charmed laugh. As though he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t bear to do anything else, he cupped Megumi’s face and gazed upon him, and then pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.
Megumi hummed happily. “Again,” he demanded. And Sukuna, lips still turned up, kissed his cheek next. “Again,” Megumi repeated, and his other cheek got the same sweet peck. “Again!”
“Where else?” Sukuna hummed. “Here, perhaps?” He kissed the tip of Megumi’s nose. His thumb brushed over Megumi’s smile. “Here?”
“Yes,” Megumi breathed.
And Sukuna met him for something joyous and bright and ardent.
When they pulled back, Megumi combed his fingers through Sukuna’s soft hair, marveling. Oh, he adored him. The alcohol buzzed through his brain, but Megumi focused on Sukuna and nothing else. “Let’s go somewhere,” he said abruptly.
“Go somewhere?”
“Yeah,” Megumi nodded, the idea gaining momentum in his head. “Take me somewhere, Sukuna. Anywhere. Somewhere you like.”
Taking a moment to think, Sukuna suggested, “There’s a lake. You would like it, I think.”
“That sounds nice,” Megumi hummed excitedly, “and we can swim.”
The world blurred as Sukuna stood, carrying Megumi with him. “Ready?” Sukuna asked.
Megumi tightened his hold, his chest pressed to Sukuna’s. Just seconds later, Sukuna leapt, and cold air rushed into them, blustering in Megumi’s face. He buried it in Sukuna’s neck, but the rush of weightlessness and the cold sobered him some regardless.
By the time they touched down lightly, Megumi was clearheaded enough to fully appreciate the splendor, which he was grateful for. The lake was a wide and expansive thing, a blanket over the landscape that fluttered with the wind. Megumi could smell the fresh waters, nearly taste them. He drifted forward along the grassy shores, bewitched.
“Sukuna, it’s beautiful,” he said. He smiled. “You’re right. I do like it.”
Sukuna wrapped an arm around Megumi’s shoulders, and his other hand on that side found Megumi’s. “I discovered this place as a human.”
Megumi glanced up at him in surprise, then looked around with renewed interest. “Has it changed a lot?”
“Very much,” answered Sukuna. “These trees—they were hardly even saplings then. The lake has gotten larger, it seems. It has been awhile since I’ve come.”
“What would you do here? Just come to relax?”
Sukuna hummed. “Swim, bathe, rest. I would sleep on the shore, listening to the water.”
Megumi extricated himself gently from Sukuna’s hold and walked to the lake’s edge. He crouched down and dipped his fingers in. “Did you ever bring anyone with you?” he asked, peeking back.
“No,” answered Sukuna, watching Megumi. “I tend to keep beautiful things for myself.”
Even tipsy, Megumi could barely meet the intensity of his gaze. He ducked his head, turning back to the lake, but couldn’t hide his smile.
The moon lit the landscape in a pale, white glow, and cast in that light, the pristine vision of nature humbled Megumi. He looked over the lake and tried to imagine it: Sukuna, probably how he looked in Itadori’s body, without the curse marks and two of his arms, dozing next to these very waters, on this shore, hundreds of years ago.
“Are you going to swim?” Sukuna asked after a few peaceful moments of quiet.
Megumi turned to him. Sukuna was stripping, leaving his clothes in a messy pile, and Megumi gave his broad, muscled body an appreciative once-over.
“In a second,” he replied, and playfully, added, “I want to watch you.”
Sukuna grinned, all teeth, and approached the water. He ruffled Megumi’s hair, brushed a small touch on the side of his neck, and then dove far into the water, disappearing under the surface with a splash.
When Sukuna surfaced a minute later, his hair was dripping and plastered to his forehead. Megumi’s eyes caught on him and the way Sukuna’s hair like this made him appear softer or younger, maybe—fluffier, even wet. He couldn’t help but smile when Sukuna shook himself off.
“You look good like that,” said Megumi.
“Like what?” Sukuna asked, pushing his hair back off his face.
Megumi pouted. “Well, I was gonna say—with your hair messy, on your face.”
Sukuna looked at him for a beat of silence, his lips quirking, and then he submerged his head once more, popping back up immediately.
“Better?” he teased genially, swimming closer before holding out a hand. “Come swim?”
Megumi agreed this time, standing and pulling his clothes off, and the moment he was bare, Sukuna surged up and hauled him in, tossing Megumi a ways into the water.
He plunged in, his entire body flooded immediately with cold. Megumi sputtered to the surface. “It’s freezing!” he yelled.
Sukuna appeared next to him, cutting through the water in moments. He appeared concerned. “I did not think—” he said. “Let me take you back to shore.”
But Megumi was already bobbing, kicking to keep himself afloat and warming his body steadily. “Don’t worry, I’ll get used to it.” He splashed Sukuna, leaving him blinking all four eyes in surprise. “See? All good.”
Sukuna smirked, and the next thing Megumi knew, he was being tugged underwater. His eyes clenched instinctively, but when he felt Sukuna’s hand on his cheek, Megumi squinted them open, acclimating himself to the water.
It was crystalline, clear even if he couldn’t see far in the dark. Sukuna hovered underwater above Megumi, and past his figure, like a halo, the surface of the water shimmered with the moon’s light.
There, within the lake, they met in a soft kiss. Bubbles escaped Megumi as they parted and he smiled, and Sukuna towed them to the surface. Megumi wrapped himself around Sukuna’s torso, clinging so he wouldn’t have to float himself, and absorbed the warmth he radiated even now.
They swam together for a while, bare bodies playfully sliding past each other in the water. Megumi tried to dunk Sukuna with his whole weight and failed, while Sukuna kept challenging him to races, pointing arbitrarily and taking off before Megumi could even agree.
When Megumi eventually tired, he returned to the shallows, finding a rock to sit on so the water only came up to his waist. But with his shoulders bare in the wind, getting goosebumps, Megumi shivered. “Now, it really is cold,” he complained.
Sukuna, paddling idly nearby on his back, flipped over and floated over to Megumi. “I should have realized before even bringing you here,” he said regretfully, a furrow in his brow. “I only feel temperature mildly, so I failed to consider it.”
Megumi paused, forgetting about the cold. “I never thought about that,” he mused. “Your body doesn’t feel sensations the same, does it?”
“Sensation is muted compared to when I was human,” Sukuna answered off-handedly, then confirmed, “So it’s not too cold?”
“Maybe a little,” admitted Megumi, rubbing at his shoulders.
Sukuna pushed himself out of the lake, water cascading down his body. Megumi watched as he broke a few large branches from a tree and piled them along the shore, near where Megumi sat. Then Sukuna cupped his hands, uttering, “Open.” Flames erupted from his palms, spinning in a small fireball, and Sukuna skillfully directed it to the branches, which caught.
An orange glow of heat and flame suffused them. “Thanks,” Megumi smiled at him when Sukuna rejoined him in the water.
With the fire behind him, Megumi relaxed and watched Sukuna continue to enjoy the lake. He vanished below the surface for long minutes at a time, sometimes emerging as a distant dot in the water, and other times popping up near enough Megumi to splash him.
In the spans of silence, the placid, restful lake sank into Megumi, like he was metamorphosing into a single droplet of this water. The fanciful notion struck him, formed from the picturesque peace, that it would be so easy to slip away from his world and into this one. The moon, pale overhead, regarded him.
Water crashed into him, breaking Megumi from his reverie. “What are you looking so serious about?” Sukuna asked, drifting over to him. He looked ready to splash Megumi again.
Smiling genuinely at Sukuna’s concern, Megumi shook his head. “Nothing.” Shaking himself of any melancholy, Megumi beckoned, “Come see.” He cupped water in his hands, the way Tsumiki had shown him years and years ago, then tilted it until the moon’s glowing face reflected in the pool brightly. “I’ve caught the moon in my hands.”
Sukuna peered over his shoulder and huffed a small laugh. With two fingers, he made a walking gesture over the reflection’s surface. The water rippled, and the moon’s face wavered with it. “See, now I’ve walked on the moon, too.”
Megumi let the water fall from his palms. Rather than laughter, a wave of adoration smashed into him, and Megumi turned to Sukuna, almost astonished by its ferocity. It was nothing out of the ordinary, honestly—Sukuna always had a quip, was always attentive to Megumi’s stories and self. But occasionally, like now, Sukuna would say something smart and delightfully funny and teasing, and Megumi could only think to himself: yes, him.
“What is it?” Sukuna asked, when Megumi had stared too long.
Megumi was caught on the vision of him, softened and mellow with his hair dripping on his forehead, illuminated by the moon’s white light and the fire’s orange. “Do you ever miss it?” he found himself asking.
Sukuna cocked his head. “Miss what?”
Pulling his gaze away, Megumi looked aimlessly around them, then explained, “Feeling things—sensation: the cold, or warmth, or the sun on your skin. Do you miss it?”
Sukuna contemplated and slowly spoke, “I miss…light, maybe. The heat of it. Or the way my skin would raise, when the hair on my arms would stand up on end at the sight of something magnificent.”
He expressed it so plainly. Megumi ached for him. How could he have ever thought to put distance between them? He remembered Sukuna’s incarnation so vividly, when Sukuna had laughed and savored the light, saying it truly did feel better on a human’s flesh.
All this time, had Sukuna been missing those experiences? “Is it different,” Megumi asked, “when I touch you?”
“It’s all different,” answered Sukuna, but as if discerning Megumi’s worry, elaborated, “But the flesh of a cursed spirit has its own pleasures, as well.”
Yes, Megumi thought wryly. He was very familiar with those pleasures. The breeze swept past them, rustling through the trees and their hair. Was this yet another line between him and Sukuna, one Megumi would never understand or bridge? He couldn’t imagine not feeling the wind or water or warmth, or feeling it differently than it was. “What’s your favorite?” he asked.
Sukuna floated closer, peering at Megumi. “When you are on me,” he replied finally, after a long-drawn pause. “When you sleep on me.”
Megumi’s breath was thick, watery, as if he’d been submerged into the depths of the lake. His next inhale was full of a keen, infinite emotion that grew between them, expanding. Megumi’s kiss, when he pressed it to Sukuna’s waiting lips, was soft and chaste.
Sukuna pulled Megumi to him, and Megumi went. The fire crackled on behind them, and Megumi was consumed by it as Sukuna lit his blood ablaze. Every glimpse into Sukuna was the shining moon, revealed by parting clouds. Megumi craved it, a blind man on a dark night.
There was something enchanting about the way Sukuna touched him, the way Megumi’s touches were received. Megumi was cupped gently into Sukuna’s hands and in the pale light of that celestial body, swept into desire.
Sukuna took them to the shore and laid Megumi there, atop their clothes on the grass. The gentle, windswept waves lapped nearby, and Sukuna tasted like the water, the wind, the power of a rocket leaving to space. Megumi was in that fiery trail.
He moved against Sukuna with slow-building intensity. This was what it meant to have a body, he tried to show Sukuna, to make him remember. Let Megumi sleep where Sukuna slept on these shores. Let them be joined, a human and a memory of one.
“Tell me what it feels like for you,” Sukuna whispered. “It’s been more than a thousand seasons for me.”
Megumi gathered it all within him, and through his body, impressed those pleasures of the flesh to Sukuna. The wind was a kiss on his cheek. Water lapped as Megumi sucked at the underside of his jaw, to his neck. The heat of the flame, of the sun, burned in the imprints Megumi made as he clung to Sukuna.
“Do you feel it?” he breathed against him. “The ground below us. The grass. The life.”
“I feel it,” said Sukuna, looking only at Megumi.
His fervent passion melded into Megumi’s, and through him, Megumi hoped Sukuna would discover those sensations again. When they were finished, they lay on the shore long enough for the branches to burn entirely, flickering to embers, until only the moon’s light shined.
Sukuna held Megumi close. And then he asked, curious, “What am I like in the future?” and Megumi’s heart tumbled.
“Dangerous,” he said after a second. “The King of Curses, the most feared in our time.”
“You’ve said as much,” said Sukuna. “But what about to you?”
“To me?”
“Who am I, in the future, to you?”
Megumi shook his head. “I mean—I don’t know you that well,” he said, contemplating it. “You think I have potential as a sorcerer, but beyond that, we barely know each other.”
Not for the first time, Megumi wondered why that was the case. As they grew closer here in the past, the inconsistency plagued him. Because surely, surely, after these days together, Sukuna would have seen Megumi in the future and known. Had there been recognition in those eyes, when Sukuna first saw him? When they talked at the jail? All Megumi remembered was the anger, the danger.
“Why?” asked Sukuna quietly.
“It’s complicated,” Megumi hedged after slight hesitation. “In the future, we fought each other. Well, you were—” he thought of everything Sukuna had said then and shrugged, unable to explain. “I don’t know.”
Sukuna’s eyes were wide. “Why would I—why would we fight?” he asked, bewildered.
Megumi frowned, discomfited. “I didn’t know you then,” he told Sukuna. “And you—I don’t know why, but…you didn’t know me.”
Stilling, Sukuna whispered, “Impossible.” He grasped Megumi’s hand, entwining their fingers. And tenderly, like a whisper in the wind, Sukuna pressed Megumi’s knuckles to his lips and fervently promised, “I would know you.”
It was worship of their own kind. Time flowed between them, in what they shared now, in what Megumi had pulled from the future and Sukuna from the past.
Misfortune had brought Megumi here, but a pearl had grown from that ash, and now fondness flowed endlessly between them. He kissed Sukuna, tasting the indescribable feeling on his lips, and the bright moonlight swathed them like silk.
Notes:
art of tipsy megumi by @vvytril
art of sukuna above megumi on the shore of the lake by @pemulungroti
Go, the board game, was invented in China more than 2,500 years ago. It reached Japan in the 7th century CE and became popular in the Imperial Court in the 8th century. Go is played on a board with black and white pieces called stones. The goal is to surround the opponent’s stones and capture them—the pieces then termed prisoners—as well as claim as large a portion of the board as possible. Japan utilizes territory scoring, which counts the number of empty points/intersections on the board enclosed by the player’s stones.
Player ranks in go were formalized in Japan in the 17th century, centuries after the Heian era. Lower-ranked players are afforded a handicap, usually a free move or two at the beginning of the game. Go’s long history makes it difficult to know how different the game was in ancient eras, but it appears that the main basic rules of go have not changed much over time. However, there are many rulesets, and some new rule additions attempt to make the game more balanced in the modern day.
Gomoku, or Five in a Row, is played on a go board, where players attempt to make a row of five in any direction of their pieces. The first player gains a considerable advantage, winning on average 67-percent of the time. Black always plays first.
Pears are in season in September and October.
The rice harvest process involves draining the rice paddies of water then brushing the grains with a stick to help dry them. The farmers then harvest with a sickle. They tie the bundles and hang them upside-down on tall racks so the rice can further dry in the sun. The racks are are some three or four rows high; one person climbs on a ladder while another throws bundles up to them.
The Manyoshu is the oldest extant collection of Japanese waka (poetry written in Classical Japanese). It was compiled at some point after 759 AD in the Nara period. Kanshi is the term for poetry written in Chinese by Japanese poets. It was the most popular poetry form in early Heian. The earliest collection of kanshi is one of the earliest works of Japanese literature entirely, the Kaifuso, which predates the Manyoshu by at least nine years.
The Manyoshu contains over 4,500 waka poems collected in 20 volumes, on topics such as banquets and trips, nature, mourning, and love.There are many poems with little boats in the Manyoshu, but the poem mentioned is specifically number 2998 in volume XII.
Troubles are many in the path of a little boat
Making port through the reeds.
Think not I have ceased visiting you—
I who would come this very minute.The poem Sukuna is shown reading is number 3852 from volume XVI. The full version is below.
Do the vast oceans die?
Do the oceans die?
Verily they do—for lo,
The waters vanish from the seas;
The green mountain becomes bare and barren.Every poem epigraph at the beginning of each chapter of this work is from the Manyoshu. They are some of the poems Sukuna read to Megumi.
The first written record of the rope dart is from the Tang Dynasty (618-907 AD).
In the Heian Period, sake was used for religious ceremonies, festivals, and drinking. Shrines began brewing sake in the 10th century, and before that, it was a government-monopolized commodity.
Chapter Text
Though men say
An autumn night is long,
It is all too brief
For unloading my heart
Of all its love.—Manyōshū X: 2303
With December came light frosts in the morning when they woke, which Megumi enjoyed crunching around in briefly before tracking wet footprints back into the shrine. It wasn’t cold enough yet for snow, nor would it be for a few weeks still, probably, but Megumi could see the white peaks atop Kuraiyama and other mountains in the distance.
The afternoons were pleasant with the sun high and bright, and Sukuna’s fire in the irori radiated heat indoors. No longer did they bathe at the river, now too cold; instead, other than infrequent visits to the hot springs, Sukuna warmed water for the shrine’s wooden tub, where they sometimes soaked together. Megumi never tired of seeing Sukuna relax, eyes closed and head lolling back, hair hanging onto his forehead. As Megumi undressed to join him, Sukuna would often fold his arms along the rim and rest his chin upon them, lazily watching.
As winter crept steadily toward them, Megumi divided his days unevenly between the town and mostly Sukuna, dazedly enfolded in one continuous blur of tenderness. The night of the full moon, halfway through December, the temperature dipped, and Megumi curled up next to Sukuna and touched him softly. He stepped outside the next morning to a blast of cold air. White, icy frost coated the grass, and Megumi shivered, wrapping his arms around himself; he couldn’t roam around shirtless, anymore, it seemed.
Megumi liked the winter—it’d be his birthday soon, though he tried not to think about how he’d missed Gojou-sensei’s or how they’d be missing his in the future—and he enjoyed mornings like this, when the air itself nipped the sleep from him.
It was Sukuna, though, whose eyes truly lit up when he sauntered outdoors after Megumi. “The first real frost,” he said, with feeling.
“Will it snow soon, do you think?” Megumi asked. He smiled gratefully when Sukuna threw a blanket over his shoulders.
“Another week or two, maybe,” Sukuna said, looking over the shrine grounds, up at the sky curiously.
“Can you really tell, or are you just saying that?” Megumi teased. “The great Ryoumen Sukuna sniffing the air like an animal, predicting the weather. Does the wind smell different today, my lord?”
Sukuna grabbed at him playfully, wrapping his arms around Megumi’s midsection and swinging him. “You lay around by my fires,” he complained dramatically as Megumi cackled, “and take my blankets. And yet you call me an animal, like I’m no better than your dog.”
“Don’t bring Kuro into this,” Megumi laughed.
He got his feet on the ground, and, towing Sukuna along, picked out a persimmon from the offering stand and handed it over to be sliced. They trained that morning, until the frigid air was harsh on Megumi’s nose and lungs and red was high on cheeks. He summoned Kuro later, both for practice of his cursed energy and also as an indulgence, because he enjoyed watching his rabbits or Kuro frolic the shrine grounds on occasion.
After lunch, Megumi rested by the fire, and Kuro curled in front of him, his head in Megumi’s lap, ousting Sukuna from his usual spot. Instead, Sukuna lay flat on his stomach on the floor next to Megumi, pressed against his thigh. Megumi was enclosed by them, and the warmth and silence were nearly meditative, easy to sink into.
He was contemplating a nap of his own when Sukuna shifted. “Megumi,” he groused, tugging on his sleeve.
“What is it?” Megumi asked, charmed by Sukuna’s sleep-laden voice.
“Stop playing with your dog,” was the complaint.
Megumi let a smile grow on his face. He knew what Sukuna wanted. “I’ll go on a walk with you later,” he assured.
After a moment, in which Sukuna decided if he was amenable to a delay, he grumbled, “Not later. Now.”
He pushed up and draped himself along Megumi’s back, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Megumi ignored him genially, continuing to scratch at the side of Kuro’s face, watching contentedly as his dog leaned into his palm, asking for more.
Then Sukuna’s lips pressed against his neck, a nibble of a kiss, and he mumbled-whined, “Megumi.”
Megumi broke then, grinning down at Kuro with a laugh. He cupped his dog’s face and rocked it back and forth playfully. “Is Sukuna pouting?” he asked Kuro. “You can see him, right, laying all over me. I bet he’s sulking, hm? Even though I told him I’d join him later, he’s so impatient.”
Kuro, as a shikigami, understood speech better than actual dogs, of course, and he tilted his head curiously at Sukuna, who’d propped his chin on Megumi’s shoulder.
Megumi felt another laugh bubble from him, his heart light. “Yeah, you know him,” he said. “That grumpy guy is Sukuna.”
Sukuna nipped at Megumi’s neck, harder now at the underside of his jaw. “Stop ignoring me.”
With a huff of a laugh, Megumi turned his face to Sukuna and pecked him on the cheek. “In a bit,” he told him, snuggling back into his hold. He wanted to stay like this for just a moment longer, with Sukuna’s fingers on his skin right under his collar’s hem, Kuro settling with a snuffle on his lap, and winter not yet at the doorstep.
Sukuna acquiesced. He joined Megumi with a gentle hand on Kuro and slowly petted his head. A tight emotion lodged in Megumi’s throat at the sight: a lack of fear, but with steady awareness of that conspicuous absence, like he should be afraid given Shiro and Orochi’s deaths, but wasn’t. Sukuna’s touch, light and careful, was one Megumi knew intimately. How could he fear that for his shadows when he trusted it on himself?
He would have liked to remain there, comfortable in the circle of Sukuna’s arms with Kuro warm in his lap, but Megumi suspected Sukuna had some specific plan in mind, and he didn’t want to ruin it.
He roused, and both his dog and Sukuna perked up. “Ready for a walk?” he asked, and Kuro’s tail thumped, wagging excitedly.
Sukuna didn’t have much thicker-lined clothing at the shrine, so Megumi pulled on a long-sleeved kimono and layered with two haori as they left to the forest and wherever Sukuna’s mystery destination was.
Kuro trotted along gamely, sniffing the air audibly when he caught an interesting scent, and scampered around with his nose in the underbrush. The canopy above was red and yellow and orange and green, a wildfire of color.
They’d been leaf-peeping at Kiyomizu-dera a week or two ago, at Megumi’s request, and Megumi made this same trip to the town every few days, but it always hooked his breath, the vibrant tunnel of fallen leaves and flaming branches above.
Not long after they left, Kuro returned proudly from the bushes with a bone in his mouth. It looked like a femur; Megumi honestly wouldn’t be surprised if it was, though he could only hope it wasn’t human.
He felt distaste spill into his expression and glowered, “This is your fault.”
With a laugh, Sukuna crouched in front of Kuro and held out his hand, into which Kuro obediently dropped the bone. “And I’m sure the way he spends most of his time killing has nothing to do with it at all.”
Testing the waters, Sukuna tossed the bone ahead of them on the path, and Kuro immediately ran for it. He bounded back happily, then dropped the bone at Sukuna’s feet, his tail wagging.
Megumi watched semi-indulgently as Sukuna picked up and threw the bone again, further this time into the forest thicket. Kuro sprang after it, kicking up flurries of fallen autumn leaves as he ran.
The game of fetch kept up as they walked, on the main familiar path until Sukuna deviated and led them along a smaller, less-trodden trail. Sometimes Sukuna tossed the bone nearby, and other times he launched it so far and fast that Megumi couldn’t even follow the throw. Kuro always came back successful though, having learned the bone’s smell, and Megumi glowed with pride, pleased at the impressed quirk of Sukuna’s brow.
“Good boy,” Sukuna praised, ruffling Kuro’s fur vigorously, before tossing the bone again. Megumi gazed fondly at Kuro bounding away, then turned his sights on Sukuna.
He sidled close and latched onto Sukuna’s waist, peeking his head under Sukuna’s arms on one side to look up at him. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” He was dying of curiosity—if they were walking, surely it couldn’t be far, but he was equally certain it was someplace he’d never been, now that they headed away from the town.
Sukuna slowed now, with Megumi dragging behind him. “It’s meant to be a surprise,” he reminded.
“Hmm,” Megumi pouted up at him, or tried to. From this angle, Megumi’s view of Sukuna’s face was obstructed by the bulge of his pecs. Megumi eyed them, distracted. They were so—needy, or rather, he needed, and—well, why not? He reached up and cupped one, palming it.
“What—what are you doing?” Mirth crept into Sukuna’s voice as he stopped walking entirely.
Megumi reached around his other hand, too, and groped Sukuna’s other pec. They were more muscular than soft, without much give, but Megumi didn’t mind. They were still heavy and huge in his hands. He squeezed appreciatively and said, blithe, “Just warming up my hands.”
One of Sukuna’s hands came up to cover Megumi’s, checking them. His tone sobered. “Is it truly too cold?”
“No,” Megumi snickered. He tweaked one of Sukuna’s nipples. “Stop worrying, I’m just playing.”
“Oh. Well, in that case,” Sukuna began. But noise from the treeline had them separating, Megumi retracting his hands. Kuro came loping back into sight, bone held between his teeth.
Sukuna reached and accepted it, and Megumi couldn’t resist palming his ass, out of sight of Kuro, as he threw the bone again. Once Kuro was out of earshot, Sukuna turned on Megumi and said, with thinly veiled amusement, “What, is this some ploy to make me reveal our destination?”
“Well, now it is,” Megumi said. “How about this, if you tell me, then I’ll do something for you.”
“And what would that be?” Sukuna could never resist taking the bait.
Megumi could make him give in, he would bet, and he had just the thing. As casually and innocently as he could manage, as though he wasn’t suggesting something more for himself, Megumi said, “I’ll sit on your tongue again.” He patted Sukuna on the stomach. “This one.”
A single beat of pause, and then Sukuna was hiking Megumi up into his arms. One hand cupped the back of Megumi’s head and held him still as Sukuna kissed him deeply. “You—Megumi—” Sukuna didn’t even seem to have the word for it.
Megumi gave him a playful peck, laughing against his lips. He patted Sukuna on the shoulder, a signal to let him down, and Megumi slid from his grasp and danced away along the path, leaves crunching underfoot. “No deal?” he teased.
Sukuna followed close behind. “You are a wild thing,” he remarked.
Megumi playfully snapped his teeth at him. “Only when you don’t give me what I want.”
With a fond sigh, Sukuna beckoned Megumi back to him. “Come, I’ll take us there faster, so we can be back before the sun sets this evening.” As he collected Megumi into his arms, the usual hold for traveling together, Sukuna smirked and added, “But I assure you, I will be collecting.”
Megumi huffed, burying his smile in Sukuna’s shoulder. “Oh, whatever will I do?” he bemoaned, deadpan.
Sukuna was still chuckling when he asked, “Ready?” Megumi nodded.
But Sukuna didn’t leap to the air as Megumi expected; there was a moment, a split second of utter stillness, and then Sukuna ran. Wind gusted by Megumi’s ears, and he hung on as Sukuna diverged from the path, maneuvering through trees quicker than he could track. They cut through the forest, the leaves, until the autumnal woods blurred into a world of red. Faster than falling through air, Sukuna accelerated, but it was effortless for him, his body steady under Megumi’s tight hold, and he didn’t let up at all until coming to a smooth, easy stop.
Megumi was out of breath, adrenaline and awe racing through him, when Sukuna let him down. He peeled his hands from around Sukuna’s neck with difficulty and sagged against the firm wall of his body, laughing lightly to exhale some of the rush. Idly, as Megumi released his cursed technique and returned Kuro to the shadows, he wondered if Sukuna could outrun a bullet train.
“You’re the wild one,” Megumi said, catching his breath. With one more stocky inhale, he looked around. “So where have you brought us?”
A temple stood before them, larger than Sukuna’s shrine, with a bell tower gate and main hall. “The Hida Kokubun-ji,” Sukuna answered.
“But what if you’re seen?” Megumi asked, looking around. “Will you rein your cursed energy in?” At Kiyomizu-dera, Megumi had wanted to stay out of sight, away from the priests who might take issue with Sukuna and get themselves killed, so they’d sat atop the roof of the shrine, looking over the vast forested mountainside and Heian-Kyo below from an even higher vantage. But Sukuna had brought them directly to the entrance of this temple. There were cursed energy residuals around the grounds; one of the monks was likely a sorcerer, or at least had a technique as many did in this era.
“What if I’m seen?” Sukuna countered, a wicked glint in his eyes, and Megumi glared until he rolled his eyes and answered, “We are still within Hida; this is the nearest town to yours. They would be fools to try anything.” Still, with only a small grumble, Sukuna contained his aura, forestalling any interruptions.
Megumi was left free to glance around with fresh interest. Compared to Sukuna’s shrine, this temple was more integrated with its town, and other residential buildings were nearby—so these were the people helping construct Minashi Shrine with the villagers.
Sukuna linked his hand with Megumi’s and brought him forward, through the shadowed tunnel of the bell tower arch, then back into the light on the other side. It was apparent, immediately, what Sukuna had brought them to see.
A yellow blanket shrouded the far side of the shrine grounds, like a field of flowers spilling from the roots of the tree at its center. “A ginkgo tree,” Megumi smiled, moving toward it.
A soft padding of leaves covered the ground already, and more were falling still from the branches. This tree wasn’t the largest he’d seen, but it was tall enough already to create a shower of twirling, spinning fan-shaped leaves. With every gust of wind, more fell. Feeling like he was standing in the summer sun, Megumi spread his arms wide. Some of the leaves caught on him. One landed in his hand.
He’d always seen the ginkgo leaf drop with people around, never in privacy and the good cheer to do this, but it was easy to let go of lingering inhibitions when Sukuna had planned this for them; Megumi remembered his eager expression at the frost in the morning.
Bending, Megumi scooped up some leaves and tossed them, watching them flutter slowly down, whirling through the air. Bright was Megumi’s smile as he turned back to Sukuna, who was watching him. “This is amazing.”
Gathering another handful, Megumi swanned closer then blew the leaves directly into Sukuna’s face, earning a startled half-laugh in response. Megumi didn’t let him stay back. He tugged Sukuna under the branches and made him look up to share in the sight.
Sukuna bent and picked up a handful of leaves himself, nearly double the amount Megumi had gathered, and flicked them back into the air. Megumi grinned, catching some.
“More?” Sukuna asked. He swept his foot quickly through the blanket of leaves, which generated enough force to kick nearly half into the air again. They flitted around, tossed and flying, until some fell into Megumi’s cupped hands. He poured them over Sukuna’s head, who stood still obligingly before reaching up and shaking a branch over Megumi.
They settled eventually at the base of the tree, atop the carpet of golden leaves, within the silent rain of the ginkgo shedding. Megumi rested his head on Sukuna’s shoulder and took it all in: the tree above, the shrine around them, and the town and people beyond.
Like at Kiyomizu-dera, he was overcome by a similar awareness of this chronicled realm—a full, consummate world. Depictions of the past were always in black and white, faded gold and broken pottery in museums that were chipped and dulled or refurbished through the ages. How oddly startling it was, sometimes, to see the past in color, so brilliant and vivid and teeming with life.
Sukuna made it easy to enjoy; he brushed his fingers meditatively over Megumi’s arm, up and down and up and down, until Megumi was barely doing more than resting his eyes and feeling the gentle, cold breeze blow past them.
They chatted idly, there under the ginkgo tree: about references in the Manyoshu’s poems that Megumi didn’t understand, and about Megumi’s tales of the future; Sukuna was curious about traffic jams. They spoke about Uraume, too, and Sukuna told Megumi how they met, how he valued Uraume’s services.
A story came to Megumi in a lull, pulled from the closeness he felt in that moment to the past and its depictions, of lords and companions, loyalty, and a grand era.
“Did you know,” Megumi began, then paused. “Well—you couldn’t.”
“Hm?”
“It’s another story from the future, around six hundred years from now. Japan will be a warrior land—samurai—and there’ll be a man, Oda Nobunaga, who will work to join all the lands into one nation. He was as smart as he was cruel and ruthless: the Great Unifier.”
“Sounds like a fun man,” Sukuna commented.
“Well, that’s not this story,” said Megumi. “This one is about his companion, a man named Ranmaru. Nobunaga loved him, they say. Or, at least, that they were lovers.”
“A man?”
“Yeah,” said Megumi. “Although it’s funny—some retellings in the future depict Ranmaru as a woman.” Sukuna hummed but didn’t say anything, and Megumi continued, “Ranmaru was loyal to him—the most loyal. He fulfilled Nobunaga’s last wishes, even when it resulted in his death. Both their deaths.”
Sukuna tilted his head, shifting now to look at Megumi. “What happened?”
“There’s a practice in the future—when the warrior clans rule Japan—called seppuku. It’s ritual suicide. When you are beaten, you have the honor of killing yourself, and that prevents you from being captured, tortured, from betraying your allies to your enemies.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Sukuna sneered. “Killing yourself, to what, deny your opponent the pleasure of doing so?”
“Surely you can understand that in battle, victory is sometimes assured long before the defeated is dead. In those cases, this was a ceremony, a ritual to restore honor before death, by death.”
He could nearly hear Sukuna’s frown, his interest piqued by morbid glee while simultaneously dripping with condescension. “Alright,” he said eventually, “I understand. Now, go on.”
It was a macabre story, but Megumi enjoyed telling it, laying in Sukuna’s arms while the ginkgo tree lost its leaves. “Nobunaga wished to commit seppuku, and he told Ranmaru to not let the invading forces inside his chambers. Those were his last words, apparently: telling Ranmaru to not let them in.”
“So Ranmaru failed to protect his lord?”
Megumi shook his head. “His lord wished to die, and Ranmaru respected it and obeyed. Plus—he committed seppuku, too, right after.”
“So he died with him,” Sukuna concluded.
“But before he did, Ranmaru ignited the temple they were in, and the flames kept anyone from capturing even their bodies.”
Sukuna made a considering noise. “Not only preventing capture,” he inferred. “He successfully cremated his liege and himself all in one go.”
Megumi let the story rest with them. He remembered fighting Sukuna the first time and battling the finger-bearer under Yasohachi Bridge. The last, sacrificial gambit of Mahoraga had always been Megumi’s trump card, but oh, how his heart had pattered with fear both times.
“It must have been scary,” Megumi mused. “It’s a story of honor and love, but bringing death upon yourself is always scary, even if you know you would die anyway.”
Sukuna’s hand, gentle on his cheek, turned Megumi’s head to look back at him. “When have you nearly killed yourself?” he asked with a frown, watching Megumi intently.
Megumi’s smile wavered. “A while ago,” he dismissed, “as my final chance to take the curse down with me.” Ignoring Sukuna’s dissatisfied grunt, he leaned up and pressed a chaste kiss to the underside of his jaw, a silent request to move on. “It’s ancient history now.”
“Never again,” Sukuna said, mild in tone but clearly a serious last word on the subject. “I would destroy anything, or anyone, seeking to harm you.” His eyes were sweet and his hands careful as he brushed a lock of hair from Megumi’s face, pulling a ginkgo leaf from his tresses.
A thudding sound interrupted them. Megumi turned; a monk stood at the open door of the shrine’s main hall, staring at them with wide eyes. Next to him was Kida, with equal shock.
Sukuna didn’t make a move to let Megumi go or allow him to stand. After a beat of gawking, Kida seemed to remember himself first; he bowed shortly and escaped back into the shrine.
The monk looked between Sukuna and Megumi for a moment more before the shock wore off. He rushed down the shrine’s stairs and fell to the ground at the base of them, prostrating himself fully. “My lord,” he gasped. “Welcome. Forgive us; this lowly one did not realize you would grace us with your presence today.”
“We came to see the tree,” replied Sukuna. Megumi glanced up at him, surprised; Sukuna usually didn’t interact with the humans, or at least not in any conversation but demands.
“It’s beautiful,” added Megumi.
The monk twitched in his bow, almost glancing up. He was scared, which was a given for anyone meeting Sukuna for the first time. “I am pleased you find it to your l-liking,” he stuttered nervously. “May I assist in a-any other way? Though the temple is dedicated to the M-Medicine Buddha, I am s-sure, perhaps—”
Sukuna cut him off. “No. We wish to be entirely alone,” he said, the non-order of someone used to their desires being commands.
“Of course,” the monk rose, still bowing. Megumi could nearly see the relief leaking from him. “Thank you, Ryoumen-sama, Megumi-sama, for honoring us today,” he concluded, then hurried quickly into the shrine.
Megumi stared at the door he’d disappeared through. “He knew my name,” he mused.
Sukuna raised his brow. “Why would he not? The town knows you well, and some of them likely come to this shrine.”
“I guess,” Megumi murmured, more to himself. “Well, you’re right about the townspeople; that other man was Kida, one of the farmers.”
Though the temple grounds were quiet once more, the sense of privacy was lost, and Megumi was aware again of the day’s passing and dusk’s approach, as the air turned cold to his skin, even enveloped by Sukuna. They stood, dusting themselves of stray leaves, and Megumi pulled Sukuna in for a short, caring kiss and thanked him.
“I wonder if this still stands in the future,” Megumi contemplated, touching his palm to the trunk. “Ginkgo trees live for so long. There are many over a thousand years old in my time. Maybe this is one of them.”
Sukuna touched the tree over Megumi’s hand, which was encased by his size. He stood with his chest at Megumi’s back and was quiet for long enough that Megumi glanced back at him. His expression solemn, Sukuna told Megumi then, “I know not what becomes of us or if you return to your era,” he linked their fingers, “but we should come here, in your time, to see this tree if it still stands.”
Megumi gazed at their hands, entwined, a sight that traveled from his eyes to heart to soul, reaching through his body for Sukuna. The ginkgo leaves fell around them like stars, and in that space, they were seasons, a moon and sun, a promise—long-lived things.
Megumi took one breath, then another. He rested his head back against Sukuna’s chest, then simply couldn’t help himself and turned to hug him tightly. It was love. Of course it was. For months, the feeling had expanded through the branches of his being, and now it was rooted deep.
“Yes,” he said, a wishful daydream in this slice of gold sunshine. “When I get back, I’ll bring you here.”
With a finger, Sukuna tilted Megumi’s chin up and cupped his face dearly. It was clear since the night at the lake that Sukuna thought often of the fragment Megumi had revealed—that Sukuna hadn’t remembered Megumi, or wouldn’t, and had hurt him. So perhaps both of them viewed this tree in a quiet, aching way: a symbol of the world standing strong against time.
They left the shrine soon after, walking the trail back. The sunset bathed the world in an orange glow, and the forest was ablaze with it, ignited in that golden light. Catching Megumi craning his neck, staring as they walked, Sukuna picked him up—it took some maneuvering, some confusion as Megumi let Sukuna handle him, sputtering, “Wait, wait,” as the layers atop his kimono slipped when he flailed, until Sukuna held him firmly—and placed Megumi on him, seated high on Sukuna’s shoulders.
Two of Sukuna’s hands found Megumi’s ankles where they dangled, and he held them gently as he walked along the path. Despite being exposed to the cold, Megumi enjoyed the new height, which let him reach out and simply pluck a red leaf from a nearby branch.
The tree themselves enfolded him. It was wondrous to look up and feel the setting sun cast dancing shadows on him through the rustling leaves, to look down and see the same as oddly patterned, speckled light on Sukuna.
The memory of Sukuna speaking to the monk calmly, without his usual gleeful viciousness, impressed itself upon Megumi. “I’m glad I saved the villagers,” he found himself saying, wanting to verbalize that bloom of pride. “Not just because I like their company, but—it was a good thing, and I’m glad I did it.”
The town and its inhabitants were a cornerstone of his time in this era, and it was a part of Megumi that he hoped to share. He didn’t care if Sukuna would tease him, if he would disagree, even, or point out that humans had died since the summer and would continue to as the cold weather brought illness with it.
But Sukuna gazed up at Megumi from between his legs and said, “You did well.”
It was a simple remark, but air stood still in Megumi’s lungs. His heart beat on, a thump thump thump, full of mourning. The ways Megumi wished Sukuna would be—approving of Megumi’s satisfaction with a compliment rather than scorn, conversing with a human, being sweet and kind and changing his food, and opening himself to Megumi—Sukuna was slowly filling those fanciful notions with reality.
And yet, at some point, he would be taken from this world, sealed away for a millennium. It wasn’t right, Megumi thought. Something must be wrong; there was no reconciling the Sukuna he’d known in the future and the one carrying him now, his thumb idly stroking back and forth over Megumi’s ankle bone.
Megumi’s assumption had been that the timeline couldn’t be altered, that the history he’d learned in the future would indeed come to pass in this era. But if events were changing, what then?
He only wished his research into Sukuna had been more thorough or that he remembered it more clearly. Had there been mentions of a monk connected to Sukuna? Uraume wasn’t in any texts, he was pretty sure, and he had no memory of a figure who might have been Megumi, himself.
Much of history had been lost to time or only found in niche, controversial sources. Even half of what Megumi had referenced regarding the dragon and its slaying had been speculative, based on folklore. There was no reason to believe that just because something or someone—himself—didn’t appear in the historical texts, that it didn’t happen or exist at all.
And yet the monk had known him as he knew Sukuna. If Megumi’s name had spread with Sukuna’s, then surely the same myths on Sukuna would have recorded him. But they hadn’t. Could history be altered then—if Megumi could be added, could Sukuna’s malevolence be erased?
Sukuna’s head tipped back, looking up at Megumi curiously. “I can nearly hear you thinking,” he teased. “What worry is so loud in your mind, Megumi?”
How intimate it was still, to hear his name from those lips. Megumi knew who Sukuna was and what he’d done. He remembered how heartless Sukuna had been when they fought at the jail and how devastating it’d been for Megumi, young and scared and desperate. But he couldn’t imagine Sukuna doing that to him now.
He should have felt something different around Sukuna—guilt, anger, sadness—but Megumi was filled to the brim instead with possibility. It stuck deep, this idea, that maybe Sukuna’s future could be reshaped, and with him, the world’s.
Megumi softly traced the bridge of Sukuna’s nose, drawing a line up to his brow, through his soft hair against Megumi’s thigh. A slow trepidation crept into him, but it came with determination. “I need to tell you something,” he said.
Sukuna appraised him, then easily reached up and helped Megumi down. When Megumi was steady on the ground, he stepped back, putting a scant amount of space between them. Sukuna eyed that gap and asked, “What is it?”
“I didn’t tell you before—” Megumi stopped. He didn’t know how Sukuna would react and could only trust that Sukuna would understand not only why Megumi had kept this secret for so long, but also why he was telling him now.
Sukuna’s eyes narrowed. The air tasted dangerous. He seemed to know, instinctively, like a wild beast sensing an imminent disaster, that Megumi was about to reveal the irreversible.
“In my time, you aren’t the same, Sukuna,” Megumi began. He reached out for Sukuna’s hand, then at the last moment decided against it. His hand hovered helplessly between them, then dropped. Heart pounding against his throat, Megumi revealed, as plainly as he could, “At some point, Sukuna—and I don’t know when or how but—you get sealed.”
Sukuna straightened, and his presence seemed to double in size. Megumi tried not to shift, but the pressure was immense to bow, kneel, beg for forgiveness. He flinched when Sukuna grabbed his jaw and forced Megumi to meet his gaze. His sharp nails didn’t prick or even touch Megumi’s skin, but his grip was tight, and it was enough to send Megumi’s heart galloping wildly.
“You are lying,” Sukuna hissed. His voice was cold and deadly. Sukuna’s anger—the taste of it was almost foreign for how long it had been.
Sweat trickled along Megumi’s temples, and he struggled to steady his nerves through the roar of adrenaline. A part of him thought of just agreeing, admitting yes, he lied, of course he did. But no, there was no escaping this; either he was a liar or the bearer of impossible news, and Megumi didn’t lie to Sukuna.
“I don’t know what happens,” Megumi managed through Sukuna’s hold on his cheeks, “but you’ll incarnate into a vessel. You come back.”
“But I was sealed,” Sukuna repeated, disbelieving.
His nails bit in slightly now, and Megumi winced. He reached up and enclosed a hand around Sukuna’s wrist. Megumi didn’t pull, but it was a silent request to let go regardless. After a beat, Sukuna released him, and Megumi relaxed a small amount with a sigh, still holding onto his wrist.
“No one could destroy you,” he said, gazing down at the single-banded curse mark under his palm, at the lines of Sukuna’s hand, at his knuckles and his elegant, deadly fingers. Megumi looked up, watching Sukuna now. “No one could destroy you,” he repeated. “Your fingers—they were…severed from you and scattered, each holding a part of your power. Each one, a powerful cursed object. Sukuna, I—” he couldn’t go on, the words like sand in his throat, screws in his tongue, especially facing Sukuna’s twisted expression, “I don’t know what happens.”
“Well, that seems unlikely,” Sukuna snarled, “considering you seem to know so much more than you ever divulged.” He wrenched his wrist from Megumi’s grasp and spun away.
“This was the only thing—Sukuna—” Megumi was stricken by that turned back, the fury.
“Oh,” Sukuna sneered, whirling back to face Megumi. “Then, finally the oracle plays his hand. What do you want, Megumi? Will you offer a pact to save me from my fate? Will you tell me how to escape it in return for—power, riches?”
Hurt bloomed sharp and jagged between Megumi’s ribs. “Stop, Sukuna. You know I’m not an oracle. I avoided the full truth, I’ll admit, but I’m saying it now. But your first instinct is to—to rage at me.”
“You told me flowery tales of phones and buildings that touch the sky, of history yet to come, and through it all, you failed to mention I would be sealed through those years and never see it myself.” Disgust tainted Sukuna’s features.
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” said Megumi, then amended to admit, needing to be honest in this, “I wasn’t sure if I even should.”
“Is that so?” Sukuna’s voice was razor-edged.
“It would save people, if you were sealed,” explained Megumi, feeling Sukuna’s aura darken with each word. “You can’t kill people, like that, can’t hurt anyone. So I thought—” he cut himself off and turned his head, unable to look at the contempt being cast at him.
“Well, here we are, and now you have.” Was it disappointment, anger, in his words? “So what changed?”
Megumi glanced at him then away. You, he didn’t say. Us. “The people of Hida began worshipping you. You’re regarded as a deity, and they bring offerings to the shrine. And Sukuna, you don’t—you don’t hurt them.”
“Maybe I should,” proposed Sukuna, a cruel, frivolous smile splitting his face. “You’re right, Megumi. I have been distracted recently.”
Megumi felt his expression screw up. He tried and failed to keep his voice steady as horror twisted through his gut. “Why are you being so—so vile?”
“Why do you expect anything else, Megumi?” Sukuna spat. “If you think—”
“You’re not listening,” Megumi interrupted desperately, unable to bear hearing this. “The cursed energy from your fingers attracts curses, and people die anyway, even when you’re sealed. But if you’re not—”
“Not what? Not a curse?” Sukuna’s tone was all condescension, so mean, so unpleasant it made Megumi wince. “Did you forget, Megumi, that this is my natural state—that people cower when I look at them, that I kill them for less? Did you not learn this, that I eat them, that I cut them to bits and have Uraume cook them for me?”
“But you stopped!” Megumi implored, “You stopped, and you can stop this. Don’t turn anyone else against you, or they’ll retaliate, and if the Court sends its assassins or someone powerful—”
“I assure you, there is no one in this world strong enough to kill me,” said Sukuna. It wasn’t boastful; it was fact. Megumi didn’t know how Sukuna had been sealed, but he couldn’t imagine it.
And yet it plagued Megumi, thoughts of sorcerers invading, the sealing, Minamoto’s threats fulfilled, innocent people dying, Sukuna— “Don’t give them a reason to hate you. Revenge would only end in bloodshed.”
Sukuna looked at him, disbelieving. “Let it, then,” he said. With a shake of his head, he barked a laugh. “Ah, you, Megumi. After all this time, I believed you would know better. But to think you would try, so often, to change something like me.”
Frustration shot through Megumi. He snapped, his volume rising, “You don’t understand, you infuriating—” He clutched his hands in his hair and then flung them wide. “I’m not trying to change you! I’m trying to—Sukuna, I’m trying to save you!”
Silence descended upon them as Megumi’s voice echoed through the forest. Sukuna stared at him, and Megumi, his chest heaving, feeling off-kilter and pained, stared back.
When Sukuna didn’t reply, Megumi continued. “If you don’t give them a reason to seal you, then maybe—maybe you won’t be. If they worship you, if you’re a god to them, then maybe time can be changed—somehow, Sukuna, I—”
“Don’t be foolish, Megumi,” said Sukuna gruffly. His anger was draining. “Events are set in time. You know this; your knowledge of the future was of value in the first place for that very reason. Traveling to the past does not give you the power to change anything.” Sukuna’s brow furrowed. He didn’t seem to know what to think of Megumi in this moment. With a sigh, lacking any bite, he said, “Save your rescues for the pathetic mongrel humans who need it.”
He turned and walked away, leaving Megumi bereft on the trail. The cold set in, frigid in Megumi’s lungs, and any measure of response abandoned him. He didn’t call out, didn’t know what to do, and felt stricken.
But when Sukuna was some distance away, he paused and looked slightly back. His expression mirrored Megumi’s. “Are you not coming?” he asked.
Megumi’s feet stuck for a second more, then he hurried along the path. They didn’t speak, really, on their way back to the shrine, and Megumi was too subdued and nervous to break the silence. He kept thinking of things to say, wishing the words would find him.
It scared him, too, how easily Sukuna had proposed killing the villagers, even if it had only been a deliberate barb at Megumi. That monstrous being from history simmered under a thin layer of skin, waiting to be let out. But it wasn’t the same as with Itadori, a vessel of suppression; the Sukuna capable of slaughter was the same one Megumi fell asleep with every night. To separate them spelled only despair.
Megumi had made his decisions: to accept Sukuna, to be with him, to care for him. It hadn’t been just once; every day he woke and decided the same by staying and by wanting Sukuna. He had chosen now, too, by revealing this secret.
He still knew no way of returning to the future. Even if Sukuna didn’t believe the timeline could change, could Megumi not hold out hope? It was all that remained for him; he had lost everything he’d known to this era and gained a new life from it. How could time not change, when Megumi had been so thoroughly?
That night, when they reached back with Megumi shivering in the cold air, Sukuna continued to be curt with him despite lighting the hearth with a blazing flame.
As Megumi readied for bed, Sukuna stood at the doorway of the shrine building, gazing out over the grounds with a pair of arms crossed.
Megumi approached quietly, wrapped in his sleeping yukata and a layer for warmth. He reached out delicately and touched his fingers to Sukuna’s shoulders. Come to bed, was on his tongue. Let me not have ruined us.
“I will return tomorrow,” said Sukuna abruptly. Megumi jerked his hand back.
“Should I…” he trailed off.
Sukuna turned and, taking Megumi in, his unsure and tense expression, cupped his face with two hands. “Stay here,” he said, then kissed Megumi deeply, and then was gone.
The night was lonely and cold. The fire burned continuously through the dark, but it wasn’t enough to make up for the way Sukuna would curl around Megumi, holding him.
Worry shivered through Megumi until he succumbed to sleep, and then he woke to the smell of incense, as he was accustomed to, but an empty shrine. Offerings lay out front as usual, and Megumi found something easy to eat and sat alone by the hearth.
Late in the morning, in a tight flurry of cursed energy, Sukuna returned; Megumi felt his aura from afar, a menacing cloud storming in. But the first figure to appear was Uraume.
Their anger showed clearly on their face as they marched into the shrine, straight to Megumi. Shock stunned him as Uraume grabbed his collar and shook him. “You did this,” they spat.
Megumi slapped Uraume’s hands away. “Uraume, wait!” he exclaimed. Pain shot through him when Uraume kicked out, pushing Megumi up against a wall.
A sharp, icy shard encased their finger, and they brought it to Megumi’s throat. “You brought this on Master Sukuna, with your schemes and humans and wanting him to be a god. He was a god already! But you weakened him through your deceit, you two-faced sorcerer.”
“That doesn’t—” Megumi argued back, leaning away from the jagged ice. His brain caught up, and he froze. “Wait, Sukuna has been weakened?” The bitter threats against humans from the previous day fell into a new light.
Uraume bore their teeth with obvious restraint, appearing as though they’d like nothing more than to stab Megumi straight through the eye. Then Sukuna appeared at the doorway, cutting a towering silhouette. “Uraume, enough,” he ordered. “Megumi is never to be harmed.”
Megumi expected argument, or reluctance, but Uraume’s frigid mist dissipated, and they withdrew immediately. “Master Sukuna,” they bowed at the waist and stayed that way.
Sukuna scrutinized them for a moment as he approached, then dismissed, “Go. I’ll meet you there tomorrow.”
Uraume nodded, said, “I shall be waiting,” and slipped from the shrine with a single backward glance at Megumi.
A few seconds of silence passed while Megumi composed himself. Sukuna didn’t kiss him hello or even really smile at him; the only indication that Sukuna wasn’t truly upset was the way his expression had softened when he’d turned from Uraume to Megumi.
With a slight tilt of his head, Sukuna asked, “Have you eaten?”
Megumi shook his head. “I was waiting for you.”
They ate lunch quietly, side by side, and Megumi’s mind raced over things he could say, but in the end he couldn’t find the words to ask where Sukuna had gone the previous night.
A memory came to him, from back in May, when Megumi was still learning about Sukuna. He’d boldly asked of Sukuna’s origins, his time as a human. Megumi then had been daring, or at least stubborn enough to keep his fear from restricting him. But hesitation gripped Megumi now, digging its claws in with a different, new fear of losing Sukuna.
Perhaps back then, he hadn’t had anything to preserve. But all Megumi could imagine now was trampling this thing he considered so precious, lumbering clumsily while trying to navigate the atmosphere. The ebb and flow of them was exhausting sometimes; how many times would the same distance grow, only to be closed by a step forward or their inability to stay away?
He didn’t say anything, and Sukuna didn’t say anything, though Megumi caught him watching him while doing some watching himself. Megumi’s thoughts swirled around the block of anxiety in his head: regret in steady flow, frustration that Sukuna held him at a distance, and relief that Sukuna was eating with him.
“Have nothing to say?” Sukuna asked finally, as Megumi was nearing the bottom of his bowl.
Megumi startled, looking up with wide eyes. He swallowed quickly, coughing a bit. Sukuna’s expression was daunting but not angry. Quietly, he inquired, “Where did you go last night?”
Sukuna’s lips quirked. “Uraume,” he answered easily, tone casual. He raised his brow, as if daring Megumi to ask something less obvious.
But Megumi only nodded choppily, and they lapsed into silence again. Sukuna looked almost disappointed when Megumi gathered their dishes, as if he’d expected more, but Megumi left with only a muttered word about cleaning up. He kicked himself for it as he went; he never usually announced that he was going to wash the dishes.
At least the repetitive motions of dunking and scrubbing the dishes were meditative, and Megumi used this moment to set his head on straight. He hadn’t been this nervous around Sukuna in ages, and it rankled him to be reduced to some scared, cowardly thing.
From Megumi’s viewpoint within the shrine, he could see out to the veranda, where Sukuna sat lost in thought. The sunlight hit him directly, but Sukuna seemed unbothered to have it in his face.
Megumi set the bowls to dry and wiped his hands, gathering himself. A sore spot in his chest ached. He didn’t want to spend another night alone. Intimacy with Sukuna had become a craving; the ways he felt so seen, so precious, when he woke to Sukuna observing him in the mornings, with the bedroom was suffused in dewy light—Megumi wanted that now, all the time.
Longing pulled him toward Sukuna, as though his feet moved on their own. The bright afternoon made Megumi squint when he stepped outdoors, but he focused his attention on Sukuna, who half-turned with a curious slant of his head.
Still, no words came to Megumi; he couldn’t describe the pains and yearnings of his heart—the reasons he had told Sukuna in the first place and how it hurt that it had caused this uncertainty. All Megumi wished was to be close.
He sat behind Sukuna and wound his arms around his waist, pressing his face into Sukuna’s back and eliminating the space between them. “Don’t be mad,” Megumi murmured.
Sukuna’s body shifted under Megumi’s, but he didn’t touch him, didn’t turn or cover Megumi’s hands with his own. “If I was angry, you would know,” he replied, quiet.
Megumi sighed, “Sukuna.” The appeal was in his tone.
With a low exhale, Sukuna gave in. His hand came up to envelop Megumi’s linked ones at his waist with a careful, soft grasp, like he was securing Megumi to him. “I have no expectations for jujutsu sorcerers but stupidity and arrogance,” Sukuna told him. “But you—Megumi, you were better than the others. You are. But I was disappointed, for a moment, thinking I was wrong—that for months, I had been wrong.” He sighed, then added, a bit wry, “But I’m beginning to believe you could never disappoint me, even when my expectations stand so high.”
Megumi’s reticence and regret dissolved, and he took a shaky breath, pressing a small, relieved smile into Sukuna’s shoulder blade. “Such flattery.”
Finally, Sukuna turned in his hold, dislodging Megumi enough to pull him by his side. “No,” mused Sukuna, as Megumi settled and met his eyes, and there he was again, the tender Sukuna he knew. “It’s faith.”
Leaning into him, his head on Sukuna’s shoulder, Megumi started, “I didn’t mean to break that trust. I just—it’s hard sometimes. I’ve felt a lot of…guilt, being with you, being here.”
“I remember,” said Sukuna, “when you cried.”
Megumi’s lips lifted sardonically. “Not my best moment,” he said, then sighed. “You’ve done many things I can’t forgive. And the jujutsu world would have my head for just being here. But these last few months—it’s been so different, so peaceful. And I thought, ‘What if I could have this?’” he reached for Sukuna’s hand, “…or something like that.”
“You can,” replied Sukuna, almost a promise, if it wasn’t for the specter of the inevitable hanging above them: Sukuna’s sealing, or Megumi’s desire to return to the future, however it could come, or injury, or sickness, or simply the crack between them widening into a real, unbridgeable rift. “Until—”
“Don’t,” Megumi interrupted. “I don’t want things to change, between us.”
They sat quietly with that, and then Sukuna said, “I should not have spoken to you that way. Or distrusted you.” After a second, he added, “Or threatened the people under your protection.”
“An apology?” Megumi asked before he could stop himself, sitting up and facing Sukuna.
Sukuna’s expression shifted—hardened. “A statement of fact.”
Megumi fidgeted with Sukuna’s fingers, and they both watched it: the interlink of their hands, Megumi’s idle trace of Sukuna’s knuckles, the lines of their palms.
Beings like Sukuna apologized only to those they found more precious than their pride, and Sukuna was careful about Megumi the way Megumi was for him. They were two houses, alike in dignity, with glass walls and a garden of stones, both unwilling to tread too heavily. The notion ignited a flurry of feeling, like slow fireworks.
“Uraume said your power has reduced,” Megumi said finally, the question he’d been sitting on since lunch. “Is it—because of the worship?”
Another of Sukuna’s hands stroked up and down Megumi’s back, an assurance. “The change is slight but should be of no consequence,” he replied, then chuckled, “Uraume disapproves, but there is no creature in the land, curse or sorcerer, that could challenge me and win.”
“I thought you would be…y’know,” Megumi waved a hand around, “about something like this. Like how Uraume was so angry.”
“Uraume blames you for something I accepted and allowed to happen for months,” said Sukuna. “They are…biased, and perhaps displeased with me for permitting it at all.”
“Why did you, then, knowing it was affecting you all these months?”
Sukuna’s eyes glinted. “Curiosity,” he answered, and at Megumi’s dissatisfied frown, added with a mischievous smile, “And, Megumi, because at the point that their worship was widespread enough, I, too, did not wish for things to change, between us.”
A blush bloomed on Megumi’s cheeks, and he ducked his head. “Don’t mock me,” he grumbled lightheartedly.
“I’m not,” Sukuna protested. He turned Megumi back to face him with a gentle hand, studied him, and repeated seriously, “Megumi, I am not.”
His earnest tone cut in easily to Megumi’s heart, which thrummed. His rib cage quaked with the force of Sukuna expanding within him, so close under his skin Megumi felt he might burst with it. He snuggled closer, brushing a kiss to Sukuna’s shoulder before pillowing his head there. Gazing over the shrine grounds, he asked, “So what will you do now? About being sealed?”
The word hovered between them, solemn. Sukuna carded his fingers through Megumi’s hair, which hung longer now. After a few seconds, he replied, “Uraume and I are handling it.”
“Handling it?”
Sukuna made a noncommittal noise. He turned his hand over and gripped Megumi’s, cradling it. “Preparations,” he said, testing the word, “though we are yet to know if our ideas will bear fruit.”
“Will you leave again, tonight?”
Maybe there was a tremor in his voice, or perhaps Sukuna just knew him well, but in his tone was recognition of that dismay. “Tomorrow,” he said quietly, “but it will take longer this time—two weeks.”
Megumi lifted his head, turning to look at Sukuna. “Two weeks?” he asked, surprised. “But—”
It would be the longest Sukuna had been away from the shrine, even including last spring, when he used to disappear for days on end and leave Megumi with nothing to do but explore the area.
“Fret not, Megumi,” Sukuna kissed him, then swept Megumi into his arms and stood. “Today and tonight, I am yours.”
Megumi poked him. “You’re always mine,” he grumbled, earning a laugh.
They spent the rest of the day close. Sukuna sat Megumi in front of him and carefully trimmed his hair, snipping with his technique until Megumi’s bangs weren’t in his eyes. They went to the river together, ate dinner, then cuddled as Sukuna read poetry.
In bed later, with hearth fire and lantern-light dancing across their bodies, Megumi sucked Sukuna off and fingered him, slow and shivery, as Sukuna’s hand cupped the back of his head, tugging gently at his hair.
Then Sukuna brought Megumi to lay atop him, back to his chest, and brought him off with a hand. He rested his head on Sukuna’s shoulder, tipped to the side, letting Sukuna nibble a mark on his neck, and writhed as the pleasure steadily built. His toes curled, and his spread legs shook, and he pleaded breathlessly until Sukuna assured him, his low voice in Megumi’s ear, “Shh, I have you.”
After, Sukuna helped him turn over and settle into his side. Sleep soaked through Megumi almost immediately, and he watched Sukuna lick then wipe his fingers off before curling around Megumi. They slotted together easily, and gathered in that warmth, Megumi slept.
The cold woke Megumi the next morning. He blindly patted the futon next to him and found nothing but empty space. Sukuna had left already? Without waking him?
The concern crowded out the remnants of slumber, and Megumi rubbed at his eyes, looking around blearily with a long yawn. Then distantly, from outside the bedroom, he heard voices: Sukuna, he thought, and someone else.
He strained to hear them, not wanting to get out from under the blankets, but eventually curiosity won over. Megumi wrapped himself up and went to eavesdrop. It was Sukuna, his voice rumbling and familiar. “Bring him hantens, fukagutsu—however you humans survive the winter. By tonight.”
Megumi couldn’t pick up the response, only a low murmur likely of acquiescence, but he smiled, touched. He hadn’t even asked, and yet Sukuna had realized how cold the weather had become, that it might be even more so in his absence, and was planning for it.
After making sure the villagers had departed, Megumi quietly slipped from their room still folded in the blankets and drifted over to Sukuna near the shrine doorway. He huddled into his side and an arm wrapped around him immediately.
“Good morning,” Megumi murmured. “Are you leaving soon?”
“Good morning to you,” said Sukuna and answered, “After breakfast.”
Megumi huffed and teased, “What if I feel like skipping breakfast today? You’ll never be able to go then.”
“Stop tempting me.” Sukuna’s hand drew vague shapes on Megumi’s arm. “Come, you must be hungry.”
He brought them back into the shrine to eat, where the burning hearth chased the cold away. Megumi leaned quietly against Sukuna as he chewed and stared at its glow.
Two weeks was nothing; Megumi had been alone for much longer and usually welcomed it. But even the bright sides seemed bleak. He would rather have Sukuna than have this time to himself, even if it meant he could reflect and settle into this person he’d become, whose conviction to save deserving people had somewhere, somehow, come to include Sukuna.
Sukuna wasn’t good. He undermined everything jujutsu sorcerers stood for. Megumi knew. He knew. But after breakfast, Sukuna gathered Megumi into a hug and bussed kisses on his cheeks, his nose, over his eyes clenched tight in laughter.
He pulled back and gazed down at Megumi, then touched his cheek, still a bit cold in the morning air. His brow furrowed in worry. “I lit the hearths, lanterns, and candles around the shrine, and they will not extinguish. Heat your water, Megumi, to wash and for your tea, and stay warm, yes?”
Megumi’s lips quirked. His heart sang. He reached his arms around Sukuna’s neck and hoped Sukuna could feel the devotion in each line of his body. “You be careful, too.”
“Worry not. I will return soon,” said Sukuna. A vow.
Megumi kissed him. “To me,” he said. Another.
Notes:
art of the ginkgo scene by @beetlethirteen
art of megumi and sukuna leaf-peeping by @WitthausX
Momijigari is the Japanese tradition of leaf-peeping and seeing the red leaves in the autumn. Japan has such a wide north/south variance that up north, leaves can turn red in September or so, but in Hida/Takayama/Kyoto, the best time for leaf-peeping is in late November to early December.
Kiyomizu-dera is a temple overlooking Kyoto founded in 778 AD, though most of its current buildings were constructed in 1633. It’s known as a leaf-peeping destination and the best time to visit is the first week of December or so.Hida Kokubun-ji is a temple in Takayama, Gifu. A kokubun-ji is a provincial temple created by order of Emperor Shomu in the Nara period (710-794 AD), after a large smallpox outbreak. The Emperor ordered a monastery/nunnery in every province. One of the surviving deity statues from the temple is of Yakushi Nyorai (Japanese) or Bhaiṣajyaguru (Sanskrit), the Medicine Buddha. Presumably, the kokubun-ji in Hida, to some degree, served as a refuge for the sick or weary travelers.
Ginkgo trees are unique in that they lose all their leaves over the course of a very short period of time, sometimes even a day or three. This usually happens after the first hard frost of the season, meaning sustained below-freezing temperatures. According to average temperatures in Hida in December and January, early to mid-December isn’t unlikely for the first hard frost, although given that climate change has delayed the ginkgo leaf drop by a few weeks over the last few decades, the first frost actually probably would have been earlier in the Heian era. Ginkgo trees are naturally insect and disease-resistant and are considered sacred trees especially at shrines, so they are often long-lived.
The story recounted of Ranmaru and Oda Nobunaga is a real one. Mori Ranmaru was one of Nobunaga’s most loyal attendants who protected him at the end (the Honno-ji incident, where Nobunaga committed seppuku). Seppuku first developed in the 12th century.
Hantens and fukagutsu are winter-wear, thicker-lined or padded with cotton. An irori is a hearth, basically stone-lined pit sunken into the floor a bit for cooking and heating the home.
Chapter 10: mid-December to New Year's Eve
Notes:
Familiarity with Ch 136 of the manga will enhance your experience of this chapter but isn't strictly necessary
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The vivid smile of my sweetheart,
That shone in the bright lamp-light,
Ever haunts my eyes.—Man'yōshū XI: 2642
Megumi woke abruptly in the dark, and one look through the window told him it was the dead of night. He scrounged sleepily for Sukuna before remembering.
After a moment, pulling his hand from the empty spot Sukuna usually occupied, Megumi rolled back over in bed and drew the sheets to his ears, trying to force himself back to sleep.
It didn’t come. This was the second night without Sukuna, and Megumi’s mind wandered. It was easy to imagine them—Sukuna was probably working through the night, even if Uraume needed sleep. Was it snowing, where they were? Neither Sukuna nor Uraume would need protection from the cold.
Were their preparations going smoothly? With a simmer of guilt, Megumi wondered whether these plans would hurt anyone, now or in the future.
In the modern era, Sukuna had seemed spiteful and even ready to die with Itadori when he tore out his heart. Megumi wondered what had changed; perhaps Sukuna’s plans had been impeded between now and the future, so his contingencies had been moot. Maybe it was because he was in a vessel that could suppress him, because Megumi hadn’t told him—
Megumi rolled back over, facing the bare space next to him on the futon, and tried to wash the thoughts from his mind. Eventually sleep did return for him in a slow, tired creep.
When Megumi woke the next morning, he was, predictably, alone. He plodded to the offerings, grabbed breakfast, and then looked around the grounds. It hadn’t snowed, though the sky above was overcast.
Time alone could be good for him. He’d been playing around with artisanal clay he’d received from a potter in town at the beginning of autumn. When Sukuna was around, Megumi never seemed to find the time or motivation, but now he fashioned the slabs into figures of his dogs, only slightly ill-proportioned.
With little else to do and lots he was curious about, Megumi’s trips to the town ran longer, beholden to no one. He ate at the inn and sometimes drank sake with Sato and Nakada. It was enjoyable, and other than the lonely nights, Megumi was content.
The fourth day was largely the same. Megumi invited Sato to stay for a bit in the morning when the villagers came to drop off their offerings, and they shared hoshigaki companionably on the shrine steps.
In the evening, Megumi ate alone and couldn’t help but think of Sukuna. He missed him, of course; the vacancy next to him was glaring. The air seemed to form around Sukuna’s usual shape, the curl of his smile, the covetous way he touched Megumi.
Arousal simmered under Megumi’s skin as night fell. His body was addicted, used to being touched regularly, and he was on-edge without his usual outlet. Megumi pulled himself off in bed, desperate, thinking about Sukuna’s hands on him or Sukuna licking his way into Megumi.
His face heated. He wished Sukuna was there to delight in Megumi’s want. Grabbing the oil, Megumi wet his fingers and stroked around his rim, pushing in with two.
“God, Sukuna,” he breathed into the still air. The bedroom’s hearth fire cast dim, vague shadows on the far wall of Megumi writhing, fucking himself. It was blindingly good.
But after Megumi came with a gasp of Sukuna’s name, as he came down from the high and his mind cleared of arousal, loneliness sank into him. He traced over Sukuna’s vacant pillow and sighed, wishing, Come back soon.
It occurred to Megumi around noon, two days later, that it was the winter solstice, his birthday. He lasted until the evening, when the sun was setting, barely visible through the grey sky. It was then that a slow, sad despair rose like floodwater around him, and Megumi sat by the fire, and sat, and sat, and let it submerge him.
Tsumiki had always planned something for Megumi’s birthdays. And last year—when she hadn’t been able, it’d been Gojou at his door with a small cake, perhaps somewhat less cheerful than normal, checking his phone, distracted by the looming threats Getou had made, but still nevertheless there, as he always was. It wasn’t the matter of Megumi’s birthday itself but the reminder of them and the life lost to him.
Wrapped up in Sukuna and the golden haze of their life, such musings normally felt so distant. But in the cold, dreary weather, old memories like mist sank into him, then rose through the swollen bruise of his heart to quiver in his bottom lip and spill soundlessly as tears. It wasn’t harsh or angry or violent. Megumi was just lonely—just sad. He lay in the dim fire-lit room and grieved.
Quiet, quiet, to not let the hearth or shrine walls hear him, to not allow this pain to stain them, Megumi wept into a clenched fist, making small, choked noises as sobs wracked him. He and his desolation lay together on the shrine floor, staring together at the flames. The heat dried his damp cheeks, wet lashes, and hairline where tears had run.
It was good that Sukuna wasn’t here, so Megumi wouldn’t have to see his pitying, sympathetic expression. Even Sukuna’s ability to pull Megumi into his good humor wouldn’t have been welcome now, in the quicksand of this mourning. Here he was: a year older, a thousand years in the past, yearning for solace.
And yet it did not come. He was one body against the universe, tossed around by unfeeling, ceaseless time, and the burden jammed in his throat like a curse. Eventually, Megumi mustered the immense effort to scrape himself off the floor. Sodden exhaustion drew him to the bedroom, where he pulled a sack from the bottom of their bookshelf.
The bag contained his old belongings from the future: his phone and the distressed material of his uniform, buttons having fallen off, only one of which he still had. Megumi pulled out his phone, turning it over in his hand. It sat innocuously but felt odd in his palm, too heavy and too light simultaneously, with cold, smooth metal and glass.
What a strange, muddy emotion it evoked in him, to see it after all these months. The screen glinted, the cracks on it cutting through his reflection. Between them, he could see the glisten of his cheeks. His eyes were swollen.
Megumi still held his phone when he slipped under the covers. He curled up with it, as if he’d just plugged it in and was checking his messages one last time or setting his alarm. But the screen was blank, and charred metal stared at Megumi accusingly; back in the early summer, he’d tried to charge it with Nue’s electricity only to fry it entirely. It’d never work again.
There were so many things Megumi would never again be able to do, if he was stuck here—if he stayed.
Lately, perhaps in being with Sukuna, Megumi had been so happy with even the simple and ordinary: a walk through the forest, reading, waking up together, a visit to the inn. But those everyday routines tasted bitter in this moment, like acidic aftertaste.
He’d never ride in another car, or watch another movie on his laptop in bed, or thrum with the bass from his headphones. He’d never visit Tsumiki again. He’d never know if she woke up.
Instead, Megumi would grow old here, and then he would die, by illness, a curse, or simply the years rotting in him. How could he even consider remaining here when it meant losing so much?
And yet, bundled in his chest was not only the damp dirt of his misfortune, but the wasp that built a home from it, too. So at least, Megumi thought, as a fresh wave of tears leaked from him, that even if it stung, he would have Sukuna.
Alone as he was on the seventh day, Megumi jumped between missing Sukuna and missing the future. His heart was split in two. In Sukuna’s absence, without the overwhelming torrent of his regard, it was easier for quiet pangs of homesickness to sneak in.
But after lunch, Megumi forcibly shook himself by readying to go to the town. It was snowing, a light dusting. He spent some time with Sato, then did a quick exorcism at the sick home, again plagued by a curse born from illness.
That evening, the first thought that filtered in when Megumi entered the shrine was that it was dark. The main room was less illuminated, as if a lightbulb had fused. But they had no lightbulbs, only—Megumi froze—candles and paper lamps.
Around a quarter of the candles were out. Some smoked, but others were plain and untouched, as if they’d never been lit in the first place. Megumi peered at one and reached out. Though a puddle of melted wax sat around the blackened end of its wick, the liquid wasn’t even remotely hot. It was unnatural, disquieting.
But the main hearth of the room seemed fine, burning its roaring fire as usual. Heat emanated from it, and Megumi toed off his fukagutsu and placed them next to it to dry before venturing to the bedroom.
The main fire in this room was the same, as well. But one of the lanterns was extinguished here. Megumi eyed it with concern, not sure what this meant.
Maybe this change was nothing of note, but a sense of wrong stuck to him. He picked at his food that night, missing Sukuna and trying to bury the seed of worry, and later, Megumi gazed at the darkened corner of the room until slumber overtook him.
In the morning, one more of the lamps had flickered out. The bedroom’s main fire was okay, but when Megumi emerged into the main hall, he found its hearth burning smaller, dimmer. Was he imagining it, his concern creating more reasons to worry?
Maybe Megumi was overreacting. Fires went out; it was weirder that Sukuna’s didn’t. But Sukuna had clucked over Megumi like a mother hen and assured him that the fires wouldn’t extinguish. So what was wrong?
With the main hearth burning weaker, the room was cooler—not yet freezing but close to it around the edges. Megumi didn’t have the power to mend the unnatural fires, and he could barely stand to stay in the main hall, sitting and staring at the atypical dips and flickers of the flame.
He’d told Shimoda he would help him fix his roof that day, so Megumi didn’t linger long, trying not to think about it even as he pulled on his winter clothes in relative darkness. The day in town was strenuous, with Megumi sweating hard despite the icy edge of the air, and it helped keep his mind from concerns over fires and the shrine and Sukuna.
The tension returned during his trek home, though. Plowing through the muddy snow, Megumi couldn’t shake the sense of dread. He wanted so badly to return to Sukuna’s smile, to the embrace of his arms. There was always this anticipatory thrill, as Megumi put his pack away and toed off his boots and hung his hat, when he glanced at Sukuna waiting for him before finally closing the distance. But every thought of Sukuna right now brought the image of the lanterns flickering out, one by one.
Arriving at the shrine, wondering if any more lamps would be dim inside, Megumi reached for the door in trepidation. And his hand went right through it.
He went rigid, heart ratcheting up several gears, and stared at the sight, at his fingers halfway within the wood. Sweat prickled at Megumi’s nape. He pulled his hand back, watching it slip from the immaterial image of the door.
Extending his hand again gradually, carefully, Megumi touched it again, and he went through the wood like it was air—or rather, he realized, nearly choking on the thought, a projection upon it.
It looked like when Megumi reached into his shadow void, his hand disappearing past the barrier of reality, appearing cut off. But this wasn’t Megumi’s doing. It wasn’t in his control. Confusion and nauseating worry thundered through him, his heart beating loud in his ears. He didn’t want to let his thoughts go the direction he could feel them leaning, but—
No, see, the veranda below his feet was fine. The stairs had held his weight. But the doorway—and the rest of the shrine? With a breath, Megumi pushed himself through the image of the door with no resistance, as easy as any other step.
Indoors was darker, dismal. Without wood at its root, the flickering flames looked all the more unnatural. A few more of the lamps had gone out. Smoke drifted from a nearby candle. The cold air from outside was at Megumi’s back, freely moving into the shrine from the gap of the door.
Megumi turned back to it and hesitantly reached out. This time, his hand met solid wood. Relieved but bewildered, Megumi slid the door open and stepped out, then closed it and tried from there. It was material, solid under his palm. He shook it, testing and finding it tangible to the touch. What was happening?
The rest of the day’s grey light went to checking every surface in the shrine: the wood floors and tatami, the walls and doors, and the fires burning low or not at all. Megumi tested the stairs again, then patted down the struts. He tried the door, over and over, and couldn’t find another crack, any other sign that it wasn’t actually real, that it was Sukuna’s domain and tied to him innately.
When the sun set entirely and the shrine was cast into darkness, without most of the lanterns lit or the equipment to do so himself, Megumi had little choice but to retire to bed. He scrounged around for sleepwear and put his fukagutsu nearly within the hearth, so they would be dried, hopefully, by the small fire. And then, fitfully, he slept.
But the next morning, the shrine was dim. The bedroom’s fire was out. Megumi scrambled to the main hall and found his boots sitting in an empty hearth. There was no flame, not even smoke. None of the lanterns were lit.
For the first time in months, Megumi was gripped by an icy, terrible sense of helplessness. All the tense worry of the past days crystallized into fear, the same sickening sense when Megumi had realized he’d traveled back in time or on the mountain with the swarm of curses. That last time, Sukuna had been there to help, to resolve Megumi’s dread. But this time—
Megumi’s blood rushed in his ears. He ran from the shrine, to the veranda, half-expecting or hoping Sukuna to be waiting there, an explanation ready. This was a prank, taken too far. Please, wouldn’t Sukuna’s large figure emerge from the forest or appear behind him in an instant?
“Sukuna?” Megumi called. His voice carried over the empty, snowy clearing. No one answered.
Hot tears burned Megumi’s eyes. He shoved the despair down, blinking furiously, and looked around. It had only been a week and a couple days, and this was Sukuna; surely nothing terrible could have occurred.
But Sukuna’s sealing was bright in Megumi’s mind, a blaring siren, a blighted lighthouse beckoning. Megumi didn’t want to hone onto that port. There had to be another reason.
He didn’t even know where Sukuna and Uraume had gone, so he couldn’t follow. He hadn’t asked—why hadn’t he asked?—where Sukuna was going or if he was meeting with someone. The only hint was Sukuna telling Uraume that he would meet them the next day, but there was a big difference between a few hours of travel for Sukuna, who could probably get to China in that time, and Megumi, who would barely reach Kuraiyama.
What if something happened? What if they never returned? What if Megumi was just stuck here, alone, lost? No one else knew he was from the future. No one else here knew him at all.
He couldn’t just sit around. Megumi summoned Kon, who knew their scents. “Find Sukuna,” he commanded. Kon took one look at him and loped across the shrine grounds. Megumi slipped his boots on, slightly wet, and followed through the ankle-high snow. He hugged his clothes tighter around him and ignored the frigid air burning his nose and lungs.
Kon deviated from the path a little ways into the forest, and Megumi scrambled after him, crunching through the untouched snow and dead, brown leaves beneath. Desperate hope spread through him, rising his heart from the pit of his stomach as Kon unerringly led him through the woods.
They came to a small clearing. From here, with the canopy of trees parting, Megumi could see Kuraiyama clearly. And he knew immediately, even before Kon stopped and sat, the scent trail lost, that this was simply where Sukuna had leapt to the mountain from.
Despair welled through Megumi again, slogging at his feet. Even Kon looked defeated. He whined at Megumi, butting his head into his arm, but Megumi could only stand there, crushed, before sagging against a tree and looking around at the pristine snow. Sukuna had been here. His footprints were beneath the white. The power of his jump would have shaken the ground and grains of soil and dirt from the earth. But he was gone now, and something was wrong, chillingly wrong.
The entire day, Megumi fretted, wandering around the shrine aimlessly like he could summon them back by simply treading the floors to dust. He stayed awake that night, unable to sleep, and sat vigilantly near the door. The shrine stayed steady below him, but at some point in the night, the walls began to shimmer strangely, and freezing air trickled in. Without the fires, too, Megumi was chilled to the marrow of his bones.
Bring him back, he pleaded to the stark snow covering the shrine grounds, to Sukuna’s forest, to his faltering shrine and his empty hearths and his home. He wanted nothing else.
But it was freezing, and Megumi’s head hurt with it. His nose ran and eyes watered with every gust of wind that audaciously invaded the shrine. His skin was dry and raw. Megumi could only pull on layers of clothes, and wait, and wait.
By early morning, when the townspeople arrived through the snow with their offerings, Megumi was drained. He huddled with Kon and Nue but was tense with cold otherwise. The biting frost made it hard to think of anything else, including Sukuna, despite Megumi’s stubbornness to stay near the entrance of the building.
Sato was among the worshippers today, thankfully. And as the villagers looked confused at the state of the shrine, with its vanishing walls, Sato tentatively crossed the threshold and approached him.
“Megumi-sama,” he greeted. “The shrine—what has happened?”
Megumi shook his head, unwilling to voice any of his anxieties and stress about Sukuna. “I need firewood—or charcoal,” he said instead. “Can you bring some? Enough for—enough for a few days.”
“I—” Sato began. He stopped, then nodded. “Yes, of course.”
But it snowed again that late morning, and by the time Sato returned, Megumi was shivering and aching. His body was stiff, and his extremities were numb with cold. Snow had drifted in through the phantom walls and roof and now coated the floors as a fine dusting.
Sato looked around, concern clear. “If I may, Megumi-sama, the main construction of Minashi Shrine was completed recently. We were meant to extend an invitation soon, after completing an altar in the haiden, but for now, would you consider staying there? Your rooms are built and furnished.”
Megumi looked at him blankly before rousing. His lips hurt, dry and cracked in the cold air. The thought of warmth made him ache. But Sukuna—he needed to be present, when Sukuna arrived. “I can’t,” said Megumi, a bit desperately. “When Sukuna gets back, I have to be here. I have to see—”
Sato bowed his head. “Though it might not be my place to say, I believe Ryoumen-sama would find you easily and that he would not take offense to you having moved. You need shelter.”
“But—”
“Please, Megumi-sama.” Sato hesitated, then continued, “In these months, I have come to think of you as—as a son, in a way, or at least a friend, though I hope I do not offend. I would ask you to take care of yourself. You will freeze if you stay here.”
And what could Megumi say to that, when he so wretchedly wanted out of the cold, as well? “Okay,” he breathed, almost to himself, then again, to acquiesce, “Okay.”
Sato looked relieved, his kind face relaxing. “May I help in carrying anything you wish to travel with?”
Megumi gazed around. His and Sukuna’s things lay scattered around the lived-in shrine. They weren’t all necessary for just a few days away, but Megumi could already see snow coating the pottery lined near the altar. Some of these wouldn’t last exposed to the elements.
“I can do it,” he mumbled, and slowly, sorely picked his way around the shrine, shivering still. He gathered their belongings: clothes, oils, soaps, cookware, the go board and stones, Sukuna’s books, and his arsenal of weapons, including ones nearly too large for Megumi to carry, like the spear. Each item, Megumi tucked into his shadow void. It had only been eight-and-some months. But Megumi had accumulated his own decently-sized collection of effects, too, like the clay for his pottery and a set of dishes he liked.
Disassembling it all now, Megumi was struck by how much of a life he and Sukuna had made together in this shrine, and it pained him to see it slowly emptying. But he would keep their things safe, at least until Sukuna returned—and he would, he had to—when they could come back here.
On a shelf in the main room sat the very last thing, the clay pot depicting Sukuna’s battle with the dragon. Megumi thumbed over the art with a sigh. Whether the shrine’s disappearance was due to Sukuna’s diminished strength or—or his sealing, Megumi had caused this, with that fateful decision with the dragon. The clay pot served as an accusing reminder.
With cold, stiff fingers, Megumi slid it into his shadows. He turned back to Sato, who was waiting. “Okay,” he said. “I’m ready.”
Sato brought them to the inn first and fed Megumi a hot stew. It warmed his insides thoroughly, and Megumi gratefully dug in, pressing his fingers to the outside of the bowl to thaw them.
While the cold slowly leaked out of him and Sato disappeared into the inn to check on his wife, the weight of Megumi’s decision sank into him, all the way to his core. His shadows felt heavy with his and Sukuna’s belongings, the proof of their shared time.
Sato returned from the inner rooms eventually. “It would be late by the time we arrive, Megumi-sama. Will you not stay here for the night?”
Megumi glanced in the direction of the door, cringing at the thought of the frigid weather waiting outside. But he needed to be somewhere Sukuna could reach him, where Megumi could receive him well. “No,” Megumi shook his head, “He wouldn’t want to come here.”
Sato respected him too much to question it. He nodded, even if doubtful. They bundled with layers and stepped out, allowing bitter gusts of wind to crash into them. Perhaps alone, Megumi could have flown with Nue, but with Sato, they could only walk, and it took more than an hour on a slippery, trodden path of muddy sludge before they arrived.
Minashi Shrine’s torii stood proudly at the top of a short flight of stairs. Beyond it were large, expansive grounds, currently covered in snow. The path was lined with unlit toro lanterns, and the shrine itself was more complex than Sukuna’s, with two separate buildings, a smaller, open-air one in front.
Sato pointed out an awning on the side of the building that contained firewood as they hurried up the path and stairs and into the haiden. The simple worship hall was only sparsely equipped, with a large shelf for offerings as well as incense stands.
Past that was the honden, which appeared similar to Sukuna’s shrine, though without the horns curving from its roof. At last, indoors, the silence and lack of cold hit with an almost deafening impact. It wasn’t quite warm, but the walls sheltered them from the biting wind, which was enough.
The hearth in the center of the room already had firewood in it, and there were two nearby low tables in this main room. A keen, pained sense of respite spread through Megumi.
“Thank you,” Megumi said, “for your help today, Sato. I—” He didn’t know how to continue.
Sato bent his head. “It was more than my pleasure, Megumi-sama. Please, let me show you the rooms. There are two, though if you will only require one…”
The larger of the two was meant for Sukuna, and a smaller, though still lavish, was for Megumi right next to it. Megumi went straight for Sukuna’s room. “We’ll only need one. But right now, regardless, I’m by myself, so…”
“Of course,” Sato murmured.
Megumi thanked him again, right inside the door. “I do consider you a friend, you know,” he added, rubbing at the back of his neck, feeling awkward. It had been awhile since he’d spoken personally at such length with anyone but Sukuna. “You couldn’t offend me with something like that.”
Sato’s eyes crinkled when he smiled, and he bowed low. No matter how friendly they were, there was always a gap, a distance, with the way the villagers treated him: as Sukuna’s more than as himself. But Sato came the closest to seeing Megumi as a person outside of Sukuna, too. It was refreshing, even through the worry, to be able to rely on him.
Cast in the setting sun of the winter day, Sato departed. Megumi sent Kon to escort him, and after watching them cross the shrine grounds and disappear down the mountain path, he was alone in this unfamiliar shrine. He’d visited a few times before, over the course of its construction, but not since it’d been completed and certainly not for any reason like this.
Retiring to the sanctuary hall, Megumi summoned Nue, asking it to strike the hearth with a short, sharp jab of lightning. The wood caught, and he sat heavily by the fire and stoked it, poking without really seeing at the tinder. As the cold left him, it became the worry of the days past that gnawed at his chest instead. Megumi slumped wearily, tired and full of fear for Sukuna. But there was nothing he could do but remain here and rest for now.
The next day passed without event, other than Megumi’s ongoing, watchful vigil. Offerings arrived in the late morning to the open-air haiden out front; the villagers had tried Sukuna’s shrine first and brought news of it having dematerialized even further.
The next day, there were some among the townspeople who Megumi didn’t recognize, and it took him one more morning, when he saw Kida and the monk from the Hida Kokubun-ji together talking, to figure out why; the neighboring towns were bringing oblations as well now. Megumi felt hesitant around the new faces, but at least it meant he didn’t go hungry, even without Uraume’s food.
The temperature rose the afternoon of the twelfth day of Sukuna’s absence, melting the snow into puddles and crystalline mud. Megumi thought about checking on Sukuna’s shrine but wasn’t sure there was anything to go back to, and in the end, didn’t venture out.
It would be alright, he told himself. Sukuna would be back in two days. He’d return and tell Megumi what happened, and he’d be safe. He had to be.
A thin sliver of the moon shone above that night. In a few days, it would be entirely unlit, and the month would end—New Year’s Eve. Megumi sat wrapped in his blankets on the stairs of the shrine, breathing in the icy air until his nose and sinuses were dry, and was alone.
It was morning. Rain, or rather sleet, pounded on the shrine roof, beating down on the wet dirt and dead grass. Megumi sat with two blankets on Minashi Shrine’s veranda, at the entrance of the haiden, and covered his nose to keep the harsh air from chafing his insides.
Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow Sukuna would come. And yet he waited and watched outside, hoping.
The storm picked up, and cold water sprinkled on him with each gale of wind. The lines of sleet changed direction as the trees beyond Minashi Shrine’s entrance rocked back and forth.
Then, past the torii, along the edge of the tree-line materialized a figure. Hazy through the downpour, Sukuna appeared as almost a ghost, blurry around the edges as he approached. Was it his imagination, a shadowy hallucination born from his worry and longing? Megumi staggered to his feet as Sukuna strode across the shrine grounds. He wanted to run to him but couldn’t figure out how to move; his legs were weak and trembled under the crippling weight of this sight, at last, thank the heavens.
It was real, not a trick of the eye or his heart deluding him. Relief crashed through Megumi like a tsunami, a wave of a thousand curses, his heart beating again when for days it’d been frozen. This wasn’t a dream; it couldn’t be, when Sukuna rushed to him and came to a stop at the base of the shrine’s steps. He was drenched, and the slight uptilt of his face caught the rain as he stood there, right outside the cover of the shrine’s overhanging roof, and looked up at Megumi. He was okay.
“You’re back,” Megumi managed. His voice broke, thick and raw and full of emotion.
Sukuna’s tone was rich in the same way. “Megumi,” he uttered.
He reached and grasped Megumi’s wrist, gently tugging him forward. The freezing rain hit Megumi’s arm, then face, as he leaned in. Megumi kissed Sukuna as it soaked them. Icy water landed on his closed eyes, his cheeks, his head and neck, but Megumi only pulled Sukuna closer and felt cool, wet skin against his. Sukuna’s lips tasted like nature, like thunderstorms, like the summer in this cold, and so, so dearly familiar that it hurt. He was okay.
Megumi shook with the sudden easing of his worry, like the barbs had unhooked all at once from his skin. Tears sprang to his eyes unexpectedly from how much lighter he felt. He wrapped his arms around Sukuna’s neck and clung.
The weather was an afterthought as Sukuna drew Megumi into it entirely, out from the cover of the shrine. Megumi wrapped his legs around Sukuna’s torso and kissed him, again and again. He cupped Sukuna’s face and drank him in.
Sukuna held his weight solidly. When they shifted back, Megumi blinked his eyes open, dripping with water, and found Sukuna gazing up at him, all four of his eyes ardent.
The raindrops glistened like diamonds in Sukuna’s hair, and Megumi gently wiped the water off his face. He absorbed it covetously—the way Sukuna’s eyes fluttered delicately and closed, almost reverent, and the way this expression was for Megumi, alone.
He was here and real and okay, and they were, too, at last reunited—the most genuine, precious thing to Megumi. He pressed their foreheads together. “You’re alright,” he said, begging.
Reaching his arms around Sukuna’s shoulders, Megumi clutched him as tightly as he could, and Sukuna crushed Megumi to him just as hard. They were drenched, but Megumi could think of nothing but Sukuna returned to harbor, finding Megumi where he waited.
Sukuna seemed to realize the cold then, as he pulled back and took Megumi in. He walked them into the shrine and deposited Megumi near the fire. He knelt in front of him, and with fast, intent hands, stripped Megumi of his clothes, one layer at a time. Megumi allowed himself to be moved, his eyes caught on the almost frantic shadow upon Sukuna’s features as he looked Megumi over.
“Sukuna,” Megumi murmured, a question in the undercurrent. The urgent silence frightened him.
Sukuna brushed Megumi’s wet hair from his face, baring him to scrutiny, and cupped his cheeks, and the other two hands found Megumi’s bare, damp shoulders. His hold was tight—fraught.
Then, from where he knelt in front of Megumi, Sukuna’s head bowed forward, and his forehead met the center of Megumi’s chest, above his heart. For a moment, everything was silent. The fire flickered. Wood cracked.
Megumi understood keenly, from the curve of Sukuna’s neck, that the worry had been mutual. His chest filled as he took a breath, deep, and upon his exhale, Sukuna sagged, too. His hands slipped from Megumi’s face and shoulders, and he squeezed him into a close embrace.
“I left you,” Sukuna said, his mouth against Megumi’s skin. He pulled back, as if he couldn’t bear to look away for even a moment. “My domain—the fires—”
“It’s okay,” Megumi rushed to assure.
But Sukuna went on, “It was meant to keep you safe, but it collapsed—”
“Sukuna,” pleaded Megumi, cutting that jagged edge of self-recrimination off. “Sukuna, I am safe. I’m right here, it’s okay. I was fine.”
“If you were, there would have been no need to move to this shrine,” Sukuna insisted. He shook his head in disgust, aimed at himself. “I was too far North, too far away. By the time I realized what happened, that my control had slipped, it had been days.”
“Was it—” the sealing? “Did something happen?” Megumi asked quietly. “I thought—when the fires started going out, I thought you’d been harmed.”
“Not harmed,” said Sukuna. “It was the distance. Once, the effect of traveling so far was negligible. But the waning strength of my cursed energy—I told you it was a trivial loss, Megumi and it is, but over such a large range…” he sighed, the line of his jaw hard.
Megumi thumbed over it, plying the tenseness from Sukuna with a soft touch and kiss. “You’re here now.”
“I should have come earlier.”
“You couldn’t have,” countered Megumi. He didn’t want Sukuna to blame himself; he’d just wanted him back, and now he was. That was what mattered. “You went to prepare for being sealed. That was—that’s more important than making sure I’m not cold for a day or two. I figured it out, didn’t I? I’m okay, Sukuna, trust me. What matters is that you are.”
“Megumi…” argued Sukuna.
“Let’s go back,” proposed Megumi, hoping to cheer him up. “I made sure our things weren’t damaged by the snow. Now that you’re here, we can return to the shrine.”
Sukuna paused. “If you wish to,” he said finally. “But—if the details of my domain blur again, then the shrine would be dangerous for you again, at least now in the winter. Perhaps, if you are amenable to a delay, only when the last snow melts?”
A spur of anxious confusion struck Megumi towards this Sukuna, who seemed so strangely willing to surrender his strength. “It doesn’t bother you?” he asked, skeptical. “This isn’t right, Sukuna! You shouldn’t be—you can’t just resign yourself to the idea that your domain might become less refined.”
“Megumi,” Sukuna began. The corners of his lips ticked up in amusement, and though Megumi couldn’t fathom for what, it was a relief to see him smile again with that teasing humor. “The level of refinement it takes to maintain a domain as a permanent, livable space is immense. I am not resigning myself to anything but simply being practical given the circumstances. Circumstances that include, for one, your needs in the winter.”
Megumi didn’t respond for a long span. He stared past Sukuna’s shoulder at the far wall, listening to the sleet on the shrine roof, and gathered himself: his hopes, his fears, his desires. “But what if losing power is why you get sealed?” he asked finally, words clearly marked with dread.
Sukuna’s brow raised. “And the alternative? Do you propose I avoid being sealed by gaining back my lost power? Do you want me to go kill everyone, remind them of their fear of me?”
Megumi sputtered. “No!” He grimaced, then replied with a sigh, “No, of course not, Sukuna, fuck.”
“Is this not what you desired, when you defeated the dragon in my name?” Sukuna didn’t sound angry; he was simply stating facts he’d accepted months ago. But it cut deep that this was Megumi’s fault.
They’d had this same conversation just before Sukuna left two weeks ago, though in the hypothetical then. Now it was starker, the evidence of Sukuna’s lessening power obvious in the immaterial lines of his shrine. And Megumi found that he couldn’t stand it, the result of his old machinations.
He couldn’t blind himself to the outside world’s perspective of Sukuna, still the King of Curses no matter how caring and tender he was toward Megumi. Sukuna losing strength was certainly something Megumi from months ago would have celebrated. But Megumi now could only think of how it’d affected Sukuna, how it might hurt him, even if he was still the most powerful.
“If it means you get sealed, then it’s my wish no longer,” Megumi sighed, then with a grimace, pleaded, “I hate this, all this planning. If we just stay how we are, Sukuna, then surely nothing will happen. If we just—” he cut off, barred by a gentle finger to his mouth.
“What hope you inspire in me,” said Sukuna, almost forlorn, “but I am not a creature of hope, Megumi, and I doubt you are, either. We cannot change what has already happened,” he continued. “I did hope, unable to imagine what would keep me from finding you earlier than when you said we met.”
“Finding me?”
Sukuna's lips curved up, a bit wry. “Your father leaving, the jujutsu school that holds you beholden—I wondered why I failed to step in and save you from that. I wished to. But now I know: I was sealed and will incarnate once it has happened already.”
Two infinite emotions cleaved straight through Megumi. They filled him, this love and grief. He met Sukuna’s kind eyes for a moment, then had to look away, at the fire burning low. “We can’t just give up,” he whispered.
Sukuna hummed. “I planned for it, Megumi, yes, but will not walk to my demise so easily. Don’t forget who I am. My power is not relative to others; it is singular. I am not simply stronger than others—what others? That cannot be taken from me. I might be weaker than I was six months ago, but if the sun dims during winter, is it not still the sun?”
“But you—but you value power, right? I know you do. And you’ve never shied away from attaining the things you want.”
“I am getting what I want,” said Sukuna, his gaze fervent. He leaned in and kissed Megumi, chaste one second, then deeper—consuming. He tipped Megumi back to lay down and hovered over him, blocking out the world beyond. He glowed in the fire’s light, a blazing ardor. “I would lay waste to that which stands in my way.”
Megumi met Sukuna’s gaze, and chills traveled down his spine from the sheer intensity of the way Sukuna looked at him. Their conversation dissolved in his mind, overwhelmed. “Sukuna,” Megumi murmured, turning his face away. He glanced at the hearth. The embers, like fireflies, flit in the air.
With a gentle hand at his chin, Sukuna turned Megumi’s face back. “Let me look at you.”
Megumi’s lips curled up. Aiming for humorous and lighthearted, trying to erase the pain of the recent days, he quipped, “It’s only been two weeks.”
Sukuna bent to kiss him, capturing his lips in a small, gentle gesture. “I should have done this before my departure, so it would have tided me over.” He swept Megumi’s hair from his forehead and studied him. “Now I can only fill the gaps of your absence in retrospect.”
“Then fill them,” Megumi breathed.
Sukuna touched his thumb to Megumi’s bottom lip. “Open,” he said, and Megumi’s mouth parted. He licked the pad of Sukuna’s thumb and tasted him.
With a sweep of his hand, Sukuna set the fire in the hearth burning bright and high again. Heat radiated from it, between them. Sukuna’s gaze didn’t even waver from Megumi’s for a second. The way he looked at him and kissed him and touched him, as if imparting primordial knowledge to his body—it made Megumi feel like the center of the world.
How else could he hear a declaration like this, that Sukuna would choose Megumi, and not be hooked into that gravity? Sukuna was his mooring: an anchor, a mountain, the earth below. And Megumi was hopelessly in his orbit.
After, when Megumi was drifting lazily, laying on top of Sukuna, he propped his chin on Sukuna’s chest, looking up at him. “Your preparations—how did they go?”
Sukuna traced a hand along Megumi’s back, a light and meditative touch. He seemed absorbed in it, reacquainting himself with Megumi. “When I searched for answers about time travel,” Sukuna told him quietly, “I met a sorcerer offering pacts, promising passage to the future through cursed objects. It was jest or delusion, I thought.”
Megumi pushed himself up to his elbows, his thoughts suddenly picking up speed. “Passage to the future?” he asked tremulously. “Cursed objects?”
“I thought about it,” said Sukuna, clearly knowing where Megumi’s mind had led him, “but he is untrustworthy. Pacts need not be truly equal; the only requirement is that both parties agree to it. And his offer can only be the means to serve his own purposes.”
“But my purpose is to get to the future, Sukuna,” Megumi crawled up his body and supported himself on his hands, so his face loomed above Sukuna’s. “If I can use him, I don’t care if I’m involved in some—”
“No, Megumi,” said Sukuna. “It’s—it wouldn’t work for you.”
“But why?” asked Megumi, righteously enraged. “If you’re making a vow with him—”
“I’m not. Uraume is, so they can join me—us—in the future.”
“You, Uraume—what’s the difference? If this man can take me back to my time, then it’s worth it.”
“Your service to him is worth it?” Sukuna asked, raising a brow. The question was rhetorical. “Dying—is that worth it? Being turned into a cursed object?”
Megumi froze. “What?”
“You said my power would fragment into cursed objects, and that I would travel to your time before incarnating in that way, yes?” At Megumi’s hesitant nod, Sukuna continued. “This is the same principle; the cursed object slumbers until it finds a vessel.”
“But only curses can be cursed objects. Uraume is human.”
“The vow,” answered Sukuna, “and the man’s technique. It will happen nearly simultaneously, but Uraume will have to be killed without cursed energy to become a curse, then the vow will allow this man to make them a cursed object and carry them to the future.”
Megumi fell silent, unease growing in him. “You said…service is a condition of the pact, too?”
Sukuna smiled without mirth. “Uraume is not the first sorcerer to bind themselves to him. The others, however, are forced to remain in stasis until unsealed. Uraume, though, will be awakened earlier.”
“So Uraume will be—sealed, too, to travel to the future with you, then awakened by this man for his purposes,” concluded Megumi. His brain reeled, the roar of the river rapids, a waterfall. There was no space to think. “So it’s done?”
“It’s done,” confirmed Sukuna. “This sorcerer…” he sighed, “he is the worst of men, conniving and overconfident. But the vows are set; at the very least, he cannot betray us.”
“You don’t trust him, even considering that?”
“No, he is trouble. I am certain it was this man, centuries ago, who—” Sukuna cut off and sighed. “Never mind. Simply know that I would not allow him to touch you. His curiosity is dangerous, violating that which should not be tampered with, and his ambitions even more so.” His mouth made a bitter line. “But I must use him for my own purposes now. When Uraume awakens in your time, they will complete the preparations then, and that is mostly all I need from this sorcerer.”
Megumi scrubbed over his face with a long exhale. “What about me? I can’t stay here, Sukuna, not forever. You know this.”
Gently, Sukuna drew Megumi’s hands from his face. “Megumi,” he began, and Megumi could tell what he was about to say.
“Don’t,” he whispered, because if Sukuna said it aloud, then all of Megumi’s own doubts and desires might coalesce into a decision he wasn’t ready to make. And maybe Sukuna could see that in his expression, because he didn’t push.
But that night, they lay awake in each other’s arms and simply existed together, in this pocket, almost outside the passage of time. Sukuna consumed the lands with his every step and gesture. He was a force in itself, who could rule the world until it ate from his hand but instead chose to keep company with Megumi. And in turn, Megumi—
“I want to be with you,” confessed Megumi into the darkness. “Somehow, Sukuna, in the future, or just—” here.
Sukuna’s body rose and fell against Megumi’s in a deep, deliberate breath. “Not even you can know what so far in the future holds. But if that is what you desire, Megumi, I will make it so.”
So quiet into the space between them, Megumi asked Sukuna to weave their shared dream into reality, “How? Tell me,” he begged.
“I have only faint ideas,” admitted Sukuna, “for now, at least. But even if you wouldn’t know me yet in that era, and though I might not—not know you—” He sounded pained, a soft grief within each word, spun sugar fleeting yet sweet. “Megumi, whatever comes, my plans will always include you—somehow, like you said.”
Megumi pressed himself closer to Sukuna. It echoed: somehow.
Tsugomori was two days later. The new moon wouldn’t be apparent until night, when the sky remained dark without that pale light, but it was obvious in the hurried bustle of the entire town.
The offerings that morning had been abundant. The special New Year’s foods lined the altar, a veritable banquet. Unlike Megumi, Sukuna didn’t bother perusing the boxes, though; he was waiting for dinner, he told Megumi, which Uraume would bring and stay for. Though they weren’t the celebratory type and didn’t participate in any festivals, apparently Sukuna and Uraume had spent the turn of the year together often, if not every time. And now Megumi would join them.
“I’m glad you’re here for tonight,” said Megumi a while after lunch. His head was in Sukuna’s lap, and he preened and shifted comfortably as Sukuna combed his fingers through Megumi’s hair, untangling it with pleasant tugs at his scalp.
Sukuna replied, “I tend not to follow human traditions, but it is a day to celebrate, is it not? Your birth. I figured,” he said amusedly, “that without me here, you would likely fail to mark the occasion.”
For a second, Megumi didn’t understand, wondering how Sukuna had known about his birthday, but then it clicked; birthdays were observed collectively with the New Year, and commemorating an individual was a relatively modern concept. “Ah,” said Megumi. “We do the same thing in the future, though it’s mostly for religious or traditional reasons—celebrating birthdays with the New Year, I mean.”
“Only ritualistically? Humans do not celebrate aging a year older in the future?”
Megumi shook his head. “People celebrate their birthdays on the actual date they were born every year. It’s usually just something small, with friends or family.”
“So you know the day of your birth?” Sukuna peered at Megumi curiously. “Are you a child of the spring? It strikes me that way, with how sweet you are.”
A smile playing on his lips, Megumi answered, “Not the spring. It’s actually right between the end of autumn and beginning of winter—on the solstice.”
Sukuna roused, straightening. His hand stilled in Megumi’s hair, and his gaze sharpened. “But the solstice has passed.”
Megumi nodded, hoping Sukuna wouldn’t be too disappointed.
A pause, in which Sukuna closed all four eyes and sat with that, and then he said regretfully, “I missed it.”
“I didn’t tell you,” Megumi protested. “You couldn’t have known, Sukuna. It’s alright.”
“I should have been here,” Sukuna groused. “My absence from you caused more problems than it cured.”
Megumi shook his head. “Missing my birthday wasn’t a problem. I needed the day to myself, I think. I was…sad.” He watched Sukuna’s expression soften at that and added, “Celebrating with you today suits me a lot better.”
Sukuna leaned down and kissed Megumi on the forehead. “Happy birthday,” he said, voice honeyed.
“To you as well,” said Megumi.
With a small laugh, Sukuna shook his head. “I haven’t celebrated my birth since I was human.”
Megumi sat up, throwing his arms around Sukuna and kissing him. “Today we will,” he declared. Intent on a release for this joy bubbling through him, he pushed Sukuna down and slotted their bodies together.
As if into a saccharine daze, they fell together, reminding themselves again that they were here together, and afterwards stayed closely entangled, making out languidly by the fire. Megumi’s body still sparked pleasantly from how good it’d been.
He’d made to spoon Sukuna, one of his favorite positions, where Sukuna would reach back to palm Megumi’s ass and help him set a rhythm, to get deeper, and goad Megumi on with a grin over his shoulder. But Sukuna had instead moved atop Megumi, pinned his wrists by his sides with two hands, and lined himself up with the other two before sinking down.
It was lewd and new, still, the incredible vision of Sukuna riding him, but infinitely intimate, with how known they were to each other now in every form. At one point, when Sukuna released his hold, Megumi had sat up and clutched at his torso, burying his face in Sukuna’s chest then looking up and begging for a kiss.
Now, wrapped in Sukuna’s warmth, Megumi was sated and then some. His heart felt soft. Something in Megumi had shifted the past two solitary weeks, then again upon their reunion. All Megumi’s secrets and desires lived within Sukuna, in the space between his shoulders, the crease of his brow, the faint dip of his dimple. He wanted this always: the fire at his back, holding Sukuna, feeling his breath catch against Megumi’s lips.
“You are perfect,” Megumi whispered.
Sukuna leaned in again for a peck. “Hush,” he groused. Perhaps it was the glow of the flames, but his cheeks shone a little red.
Megumi was so caught up in it that he didn’t register Uraume’s presence until they closed the door of the shrine deliberately loudly. Sukuna pulled away, licking his lips, and Megumi had to curb the urge to grab his clothes and cover himself. He was usually unbothered; this was hardly the first time Uraume had walked in on them.
But this was the first time Megumi was seeing them since he’d revealed Sukuna’s sealing—since Uraume had made a binding vow with someone they didn’t trust as a result. Uraume was looking at Sukuna and him with the same mild amusement as usual, though, unsurprised to see them together and not particularly upset by it.
Sukuna fixed Uraume with a look and grumbled good-naturedly, “I’m going to tie a bell to you, Uraume. Stop sneaking up on us.”
“If you wish it, Master Sukuna,” they agreed serenely, the corner of their lips turned up.
Megumi relaxed, his nerves lessening. He withheld a smile of his own as he leaned over and grabbed his hanten, pulling it on, and gave Sukuna his discarded kimono, too.
A bit tentative, he greeted, “Happy New Year, Uraume.”
Uraume returned his regards easily, assuaging more of Megumi’s concern, then held out some containers, “I brought osechi-ryori.”
Like the townspeople’s offerings, the food was less extravagant than the vast variety and presentation of the osechi Megumi was used to. In this era, it was mostly nimono, but unlike the villagers’, Uraume’s contained fish and meat, a true feast to delight in.
Dusk arrived soon after, the day startling short in winter, and they dined together sitting around the table. Uraume ate almost daintily, so different from the way Sukuna and Megumi often laughed over their meals or shared food, but they didn’t seem to mind when Sukuna poked annoyingly at Megumi’s chopsticks or when Megumi parried him right back.
Megumi didn’t feel like an outsider, and Uraume seemed comfortable, too, but there remained a vague silence between them. It was mostly fine; with Sukuna as their intermediary, his loud and boisterous personality crowing over Uraume’s food and telling tall tales of past hunts, the room filled with an easy atmosphere. But anytime he quieted, absorbed in his meal, the hush between Megumi and Uraume loomed.
Megumi took a sip of sake, steeling himself. He thought of new beginnings in this new year. And delicately, knowing Uraume would understand him, he asked, “Are you not angry?”
In his periphery, Megumi saw Sukuna glance toward them, then deliberately away. Uraume took a moment to reply. “If your caution is truthful, then the sealing is inevitable—my lord’s and now my own. It would make little difference to negotiate on how or why or place blame.”
“But to be made a cursed object, to die—that’s—” Megumi shook his head.
“My service to Master Sukuna is also not under negotiation,” Uraume said mildly but with finality.
Megumi nodded, a jerky thing. “That’s—that’s good.” He picked around for something else to say.
But Sukuna jumped in, rescuing him with his usual brand of friendly jeering. “How painful it is to listen to you two dance around each other,” he noted. “Everything has been resolved already. There’s no need for this unease.”
“Don’t be rude,” Megumi glared. He flicked Sukuna on the arm. “We were resolving things right now, until you interrupted.”
“It’s resolved,” Sukuna said again, firmly. “Right, Uraume?”
Uraume nodded. “Yes.”
Sukuna picked up some food with his chopsticks and held it to Megumi’s mouth. “Now eat, Megumi. Uraume worked hard on this.”
Megumi chewed obediently, noticing the quiet smile on Uraume’s face. He swallowed fast, and said, “It’s really good, thank you.”
He wouldn’t say the tension dissipated entirely after that, but Megumi figured that perhaps it would with time. And the grim question of how much of that time they actually had, Megumi reserved for later or at least not today, a night meant to celebrate the year gone by and invite only good for the future.
Like on all winter nights, darkness rolled over the landscape quickly after sunset, and without the moon, the stars glinted brightly. The three of them ventured outside an hour or two before midnight, Megumi bundled in both heavy clothes and Sukuna’s arms. They settled on the shrine’s steps, Megumi leaning back in Sukuna’s lap, while Uraume stood placidly on the veranda nearby.
Sukuna had been right; things were resolved, as much as they could be, regarding his sealing. Maybe in this coming year, they would settle into fresh versions of the same cherished routines: living at Minashi Shrine on the mountain, with offerings from not just a single town but many, and together in new ways they were discovering still.
Megumi thought of Sukuna’s relief upon their reunion, the frantic way he had looked him over, and the later reveal that he’d planned to return for his birthday. These small, startling moments with Sukuna pressed into Megumi and dwelled now in the cage of his ribs. He was reminded of them every beat of his heart, every kiss, every soft glance.
In a couple of hours, those memories would be of last year, in the past, but Megumi would keep them close, tucked away for safekeeping until quiet moments at night, gazing at Sukuna next to him and being filled thoroughly by affection. And they would make more.
A solemn, metallic hum reverberated through the air, reaching them from a distance. Joya no Kane had begun at the temples. Every five to ten seconds, another low echo of the temple bell sounded out. It was quiet and unobtrusive this far from the source, but a marker of the new year’s approach nevertheless.
“Which temple do you think that is?” Megumi mused.
“The Hida Kokubun-ji, probably,” answered Sukuna. “It’s not far from here.”
Despite not deferring to the bells with silence, their murmurs were still quiet and meditative in the night. Megumi clasped Sukuna’s hand and gazed over the Minashi Shrine grounds, at the forest beyond and the sky above, and counted 21-22-23- as clangs vibrated in the air. A pensiveness pervaded the air, as if all three of them were using the hum of the bells to reflect; a lot had happened recently, after all, much of it painful. But Megumi didn’t want this night to be somber. He contemplated for a moment—
Struck by sudden inspiration, Megumi was suddenly clambering from Sukuna’s lap and into the haiden, where the remaining offerings sat. He dug around past the stacks of jubako, for the container of incense sticks. Grabbing three, he returned to twin curious expressions, though Uraume politely declined when Megumi offered one to them.
Sitting next to Sukuna, Megumi described, “There are these things in my time called fireworks. I don’t know if they’ve been created yet or not. But basically, they’re these big bursts of light and flame shot high into the sky—like a giant star of color.”
Sukuna peered up at the twinkling sky, considering it. “And what of the incense?”
Megumi brandished them at him, shooting Sukuna his most winsome smile. “Sparklers!”
“Sparklers?” Sukuna repeated with amusement, used to this by now.
Megumi gave him one of the incense sticks. “Have you heard of gunpowder?” Sukuna nodded, so Megumi continued, “In incense sticks, small amounts can be used to make the ends light up, like a firework right in your hand.”
Sukuna twirled the incense stick between his fingers. “But this doesn’t have gunpowder.”
“The gunpowder is used for the sparkling effect, but also to make sure the flames don’t extinguish in the wind,” he explained. “But your fires don’t go out.”
Sukuna’s eyes widened, and in that pause, Megumi realized what he’d just implied about his trust, steadfast even now. But Sukuna recovered quickly; a blink, and the shock was gone, replaced by curiosity. The moment passed. “So you want me to light these?”
Megumi nodded, holding them out. “Please.”
Sukuna did so, uttering, “Open,” before the tips of the incense sticks lit with a bright drop of flame.
Megumi waved one around. The fire flickered and danced in the air but didn’t extinguish. Satisfied, he beckoned to Sukuna. “Watch this.” And then with his pseudo-sparkler in hand, Megumi wrote quickly in the air: Ryoumen Sukuna.
The flame lit its path and the aftermath lingered, fading only after it’d had a chance to make its impression. “My name,” said Sukuna, delighted. He held his incense stick up and nudged Megumi. “How is yours written?”
And as the distant echo of bells from the kokubun-ji reached them, Megumi wrote his name on the air, and Sukuna traced the imprint of light with his own flame. Again, they repeated, then wrote Uraume’s, too, when they relented and joined them on the steps. Sukuna wrote tree and ice, and Megumi wrote shrine and stone, crafting their own motley poem from their surroundings.
Eventually, as the sparklers’ glow vanished into the night, always an impermanent thing, and Sukuna’s fire ate halfway down the incense sticks, their game petered out, leaving a quiet sense of satisfaction. Sukuna doused the flames. The faraway bell continued to ring.
There was a sense, an awareness, that lingered in the smoky air. Just like nature around them—the trees and snow and flames—the three of them, too, would rise and fall, as though the world was taking one simultaneous breath.
“When I’m sealed,” Sukuna began, and that air caught in Megumi’s chest, “I suspect this is what I will miss.”
Megumi’s heart wrenched. He turned to face him, “I will be there when you incarnate. And even if I don’t know you then, you are a part of me.” He brought Sukuna’s hand to lay over his heart, to feel the beat of his blood. “And Uraume…” he glanced at them, “I don’t know, but I’m sure—”
“I will be there, Master Sukuna,” Uraume spoke, with not even the smallest edge of hesitation. “I will come.”
Life was transient by nature, but in the end, love and loyalty scattered its vestiges as pearls—as shimmering seeds to grow anew. That was what Uraume would bring to the future for Sukuna, and perhaps Megumi would, too. The sound of the distant bell quivered through the air, hanging between them. Seconds passed, and another toll didn’t come.
The silence pulsed. That had been the last one, then; it was midnight, and the new year was here. They stayed outside for just a bit longer, until Megumi gave in, drowsy and wanting to retreat from the cold. The hearth indoors burned bright, without wood. Sukuna carried Megumi to their bedroom while Uraume took the untouched one next door.
“No poetry tonight,” Megumi said, head heavy on his pillow the moment he lay down. They’d resumed that bedtime routine yesterday after retrieving their belongings from Megumi’s shadows.
“I figured,” Sukuna replied with a chuckle. He spread out next to Megumi on his side.
“Will you wake me up for the sunrise?”
“That would be mere hours away,” said Sukuna. “You need sleep. There will be other sunrises.”
Megumi yawned, burying his face into Sukuna’s chest. Sleep beckoned, and he was too tired to argue. “Alright,” he agreed, yawning again, and lasted not even a minute longer before drifting off.
That night, Megumi dreamt vaguely of Sukuna and of wind at night. He sat on a paper airplane, flying far above an ocean, toward a city on its shores with the star-dotted sky glowing above. The world was dark and vast.
Dawn’s sun roused him, streaming pale light into the room. Unlike at Sukuna’s shrine, their bedroom at Minashi-jinja faced east, which since moving, Megumi had considered a bothersome disruption to his early morning dozes. But today, it allowed him to wake to see hatsuhinode as he’d wanted to.
And so Megumi thought, as he wandered outdoors and found Sukuna there on the veranda, along with the year’s first sunrise, bright and clear from their high vantage on the mountain, that this new path unfolding slowly before him could bring good things.
Notes:
art of megumi making a clay kuro by @beetlethirteen
art of freezing megumi and sato coming to the rescue by @beetlethirteen
Megumi’s birthday is on the winter solstice.
Hoshigaki are hachiya persimmons that are peeled and hung to dry and shrivel until sugar coats their surface. It’s a labor of love because the persimmons have to be massaged every day for like weeks and the longer you go, the sweeter it is, so they’re usually ready in early winter it seems and preserve decently well.
Toro are these stone or wood lanterns that are seen often lining shrine and temple paths. They were exclusively in Buddhist temples from the Nara period (when the oldest extant lanterns can be found), but in Heian Period were used in Shinto shrines too. Minashi Shrine is a Shinto shrine.
The last day of the month back in Heian Period, which used the lunisolar calendar, was called tsukigomori, the day of the new moon. Lunisolar datekeeping was also why the full moon marks the middle of the month, usually the 13th day. The last day of the month is also called misoka. The last day of the 12th month, or New Year’s Eve, is called omisoka, or sometimes otsugomori. Japan switched to the Gregorian calendar at the beginning of the Meiji era (1868 to 1912 AD).
Osechi-ryori are traditional Japanese foods for New Year’s. It’s pretty extravagant with a number of foods served in these bento-like boxes called jubako. The tradition has been around since the Heian Period but back then only consisted of nimono, a pretty rustic veggies and maybe meat simmered in broth.
On New Year’s Eve, Buddhist temples ring the temple bells 108 times, with the last one exactly on midnight. This is called Joya no Kane. Hida Kokubun-ji is a Buddhist temple.
The first confirmed reference to gunpowder in China is from 808 AD. The earliest fireworks in China were in the Song dynasty (960-1279 AD), so perhaps sparklers existed, but maybe not in Japan yet.
Senko hanabi, or incense-stick fireworks, are sparklers in Japan. Obviously, Megumi’s version don’t come close to the ones with gunpowder. There’s something called mono no aware, which is a Japanese term for the awareness of impermanence and transient things and the wistfulness you get thinking about it.
Hatsuhinode is the first sunrise of the year in Japan. It’s a special thing that people often wake up to see. And hatsuyume is the first dream of the year, in which it’s considered lucky to dream about Mount Fuji, a hawk, or eggplant.
Chapter 11: January to mid-February
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Having met you as in a dream,
I feel I would dissolve, body and soul,
Like the snow that falls,
Darkening the heavens.—Manyōshū X: 2342
The overcast winter skies cleared somewhat around a week into the year, leaving the world bright, almost painfully so, with sun rays reflecting off the snow. Dry and cold air bit at Megumi’s nose when he stepped out every morning, but it was always with Sukuna’s warmth beside him.
Their new routine wasn’t far removed from their old one—they played go to pass the particularly frigid days, bathed in the shrine’s wooden tub, and lounged in bed, Sukuna murmuring poetry into the ridges of Megumi’s ribs or spine as he had him—but it was new in the crisp mountain air. The quality and variety of offerings, from three towns, not just one, caught Megumi’s interest each morning.
Megumi settled, not easily, but with grace regardless. The entire first week after Sukuna returned from his preparations, Megumi kept glancing at the hearths, candles, and lanterns, driven by a compulsive need to make sure they were okay—that Sukuna was okay. If Sukuna noticed, he didn’t say, and Megumi couldn’t tell if his overly solicitous nature those days was his way of comforting Megumi or Sukuna’s own need of reassurance in the same vein.
There was little to do during the winter, and neither of them were inclined toward much more than talking or fucking or cuddling. The winter had always meant an uptick in cursed spirits and peril, but curses appeared with little frequency—a few minor exorcisms at the sick house, yes, and flyheads roaming the empty paddies—leaving them unbothered by anything truly dangerous. By moving to Minashi Shrine, Sukuna had claimed the mountain in full.
So there, in their new home within the snow and slopes of Kuraiyama, a certain cheer bloomed in Megumi. He felt like a child again—a child he’d never had the luxury of being. He launched snowballs at Sukuna, calling his name and waiting for him to turn before aiming for his face. And whether it hit or not, Megumi would run, scampering through the halls of the shrine until Sukuna caught him and threw him over his shoulder.
The mountain’s forest was dense, but Megumi found gaps to sled down the steep hills, and soon, small snowmen and rabbits dotted the shrine grounds. After rolling around enough that his fur was covered in white, Kuro would prance over, endlessly interested in the round yukiusagi, and paw at more than one. Sukuna always took Megumi’s hands when he went back inside, casting Megumi an exasperated look when he found his fingers chilled but carefully massaging them until feeling and warmth returned.
They returned again to Sukuna’s lake, which was frozen over. The ice settled under their feet, an odd, bouncy zinging sound that reminded Megumi of sci-fi movies, which he recounted animatedly until Sukuna began towing him across the expanse, at which point Megumi fell quiet, cautious, watching his steps as he waddled. In the center of the lake, they were surrounded by a blue-green-white glacial world, all to themselves, and Megumi leaned back against Sukuna, holding his hand, and felt at peace.
Other days were spent traveling to different hot springs and further south, too, for respite from the cold. Even in this era, or perhaps even more so, differences between regions stood out to Megumi, from the weather and landscape to the bustling merchants, farmers, seafarers—people. Sometimes they strayed close to humans or sorcerers, but it was playful, not anxious, the way Megumi tugged Sukuna away and how Sukuna allowed himself to be pulled along.
“Someone’s going to see,” Megumi said once, on the outskirts of a town they were passing. Even still, he tilted his head back to give Sukuna access to his neck, where he could feel Sukuna’s lips curve into a smile.
“You want to make sure no one sees you so desperate and flushed, is that it?” Sukuna teased.
Megumi instinctively rolled his eyes before pausing to actually think about it. He nudged Sukuna back to gaze fondly up at him, hands linked behind his neck. “No, not that,” Megumi said. “I don’t want anyone to see you. The way you hold me and look at me, when you kiss me—that’s only for me.” Then Sukuna waylaid him with peppered kisses until they really were nearly seen.
And back at the shrine, escaping from the cold to the cozy, reliable fires, warming themselves with tea, smiling through the steam, Megumi had Sukuna.
One late afternoon in January, when Megumi returned from the town, he found Sukuna sitting near the hearth. When he noticed Megumi, Sukuna slipped his hands behind his back, and a sly smile grew on his face.
“What is it?” Megumi asked, already feeling his lips turn up as he toed off his boots. Sukuna had visited Uraume today, and he sometimes brought a gift back with him.
“Come and see,” Sukuna said, but when Megumi approached, he withheld his surprise with a grin, keeping Megumi’s lunging hands at bay with ease.
“Sukuna!” Megumi whined. He tried to reach, impossibly, around Sukuna, and it was then he noticed the bowls on their table. It was food—ingredients. Megumi paused, then asked, “What’s all this for?”
Finally Sukuna showed his hand. “Look.” He unwrapped a small package, revealing a block of paste that Megumi half-recognized but wasn’t certain about.
“It’s—”
“—miso,” finished Sukuna.
In surprise, Megumi glanced up. “I thought this was a delicacy. Something only the Imperial Court would have.”
Sukuna grinned. “I sent Uraume to Heian-Kyo.”
The miso was darker than usual, but when Megumi scooped some with a finger and licked delicately, the nostalgic, familiar flavor burst on his tongue. “I know I mentioned missing miso, but I don’t think I realized just how much until right now.” He looked back at the ingredients, then at the unlit hearth, where a pot of water hung. Megumi peered inside and found kombu steeping. “Miso soup,” he realized, then turned to Sukuna with a startled smile. “You’re going to make me soup?”
“You did say you missed it.” Sukuna shot him a satisfied look before uttering, “Open.” He ignited a medium flame under the pot. “I gathered everything you mentioned; it wasn’t much.”
“It is pretty easy,” said Megumi. He surveyed the ingredients. “I can help.”
“You can help by tasting when I’m done,” chuckled Sukuna, shooing Megumi to the other side of the table.
Megumi went. He didn’t know where Sukuna’s confidence for this came from, though he figured from the same well as the usual arrogance. He huffed, “Well, you’ve never made this before, so…”
“This soup is broth, tofu, and some mushrooms,” Sukuna said mildly, shooting Megumi an amused glance. “Do you need instructions?”
With a scowl, Megumi most definitely didn’t admit that Tsumiki had needed to walk him through the recipe more than a few times before it’d stuck. “I can cook,” he grumbled.
Sukuna agreed easily, “Of course.” Megumi rolled his eyes, suppressing a fond smile.
He folded his arms on the table and rested his chin on them, watching Sukuna work. The dashi heated slowly, and Sukuna pulled the kombu out before it became slimy. He added the bowl of bonito flakes, preserved from the fatty, late autumn catches of skipjack tuna. His movements were assured and easy. Megumi had seen Sukuna cook before, but not often and not like this; usually he only grilled fish or warmed Uraume’s food.
Dousing the flames, Sukuna stirred the dashi, and then, apparently satisfied, turned to Megumi. “It has to steep,” he informed him.
Megumi perked up. “For how long?” he asked.
Sukuna eyed him, a small uptick of his lips betraying his mirth. “Not long enough for what you want.”
They stared at each other, and for a second, Megumi thought maybe he would simply jump Sukuna right now; Sukuna could multitask, surely, with his four arms—but from that very image sparked a giggle. Megumi cracked first, then Sukuna followed, snickering at themselves. “Come here and kiss me,” demanded Megumi, wanting his overdue welcome back.
Sukuna shifted around the table to him and did so, a sweet thing, and Megumi chased his lips when he pulled back. “You are lovely when you’re eager,” Sukuna nearly purred.
“And you are very handsome in the kitchen,” said Megumi. He walked his fingers along the curse marks on Sukuna’s chest, moving up to his hair, where he tugged lightly. “Come on. We’ve definitely only needed like five minutes before. It won’t take long.”
“Perhaps you have only needed five minutes before,” Sukuna teased.
“I can’t help it,” Megumi conceded easily. “You’re really hot.”
Sukuna’s eyebrow lifted, and his smile morphed into a haughty smirk. “Normally your seduction involves stroking something other than my ego.”
“Well, is it working?”
“No,” Sukuna chuckled.
Megumi’s gaze narrowed. He met Sukuna’s eyes and slowly drew the collar of his kimono to the side, exposing his neck, then shoulder, then chest. Gentle arousal coiled in Megumi as Sukuna’s focus caught on his bare nipple. Megumi flicked a thumb over it and pinched lightly. Cocking his head slightly, he gave a smirk of his own. “And now?”
In the pause before Sukuna moved, Megumi knew he had him. He was seized in a hard, ardent kiss, a hand tangled in his hair. Sukuna squeezed Megumi’s jaw with a hand and licked into his mouth, tongue lapping over his.
“Sukuna,” Megumi gasped. He tipped his head back as Sukuna nibbled along his jaw. “Touch me, come on.”
Finishing with the mark he was sucking into Megumi’s neck, Sukuna pulled back…and then pulled all the way away.
Cold air crashed back into Megumi. He shivered, looking at Sukuna in disbelief. “Seriously?”
“Are you not the one who wanted miso soup?” Sukuna responded, a cheeky grin firmly in place.
Megumi couldn’t believe the gall of him, with his infectious, crude humor. Covering his face, trying and failing not to laugh, Megumi shook his head. “You are such an asshole.”
“Many people would say so,” agreed Sukuna.
With an exaggerated sigh, Megumi draped himself over the table and sulked up at Sukuna, who had returned to the hearth. He was pouring the dashi into another pot through a bamboo strainer, not spilling a drop. “I’m gonna collect later,” announced Megumi.
Sukuna lit a medium fire under the dashi. “If you wish to start keeping track, I think you’ll find that I am the one owed a debt.”
“Oh, yeah?” Megumi asked, fidgeting with the ingredients—enoki mushrooms, yum.
Sukuna lightly swatted Megumi’s hand away. “I distinctly recall you offering me a deal. Remember? I rush us to Hida Kokubun-ji and you will…”
Megumi straightened. His body went hot all at once. “…sit on your tongue,” he finished. An incredulous laugh bubbled out of him. “You’re going to make me wait to have soup now? After saying that?”
The dashi began boiling, and Sukuna’s attention turned back to it, very deliberately ignoring Megumi after sending a sly leer his way—okay, so Sukuna was serious about the cooking. Well, it wasn’t a hardship to watch: those smooth, skilled hands, scooping the mushrooms into broth; the keen concentration as he gauged the soup’s heat; the gentle light hitting him, a winter day of soft sun and flames.
Sukuna diminished the fire somewhat again and started stirring in the miso slowly, letting it dissolve entirely before adding another dollop. When the broth was combined, still with one hand mixing the dashi, Sukuna grabbed the large slab of tofu with another. He needed no knife or even his sharp nails. When he held the block above the pot, the tofu simply fell in as neatly sliced cubes. Lastly was the seaweed, mitsuba, and green onions. Again, there was no knife. As the stalks splashed into the soup, they broke apart in even cuts with not even a flick of Sukuna’s fingers.
Megumi was mesmerized by both the sight and mouth-watering fragrance. Sukuna sipped, considered, stirred some more, a few more times, and Megumi could nearly taste the soup already. “Mm,” Sukuna hummed then declared, “Good.”
Megumi straightened, excited, watching Sukuna serve them. “Isn’t it your first time tasting this? How do you know what it should be like?”
“Doubting me already?”
“No, no, it’s just that—” Megumi’s protest died when a bowl was placed in front of him, steam twirling from truly picturesque miso soup. Tofu and mushrooms bobbed among the green garnishes and seaweed. The color was perfect. Megumi picked up his bowl, fingers instantly warmed, and took a sip. The taste zinged in his mouth and through him. Megumi couldn’t help a small noise of absolute pleasure. “Sukuna,” he breathed, forgetting his skepticism and taking another drink, “this is so good.” He picked up a piece of tofu, which came with seaweed tangled around it, and let it all melt on his tongue in rapturous delight.
“You like it?” Sukuna asked.
Megumi nodded furiously, uncaring of being rude as he began gulping and shoveling the soup into his mouth. “It’s amazing. You’re amazing. I can’t believe you were able to make this so easily.” He pointed at Sukuna with his chopsticks, threatening. “Why are you just sitting there? Have some.”
Sukuna obligingly picked up his bowl, sipping considerately, but he seemed more interested in watching Megumi than in tasting it himself. Megumi flew through his first helping, held his bowl out—and Sukuna’s smile, when he turned away to the hearth to serve more, was tiny and pleased—and devoured his seconds, as well.
Satisfied and heartened by this taste of home gifted to him, Megumi rested his chin on his hand and regarded Sukuna with a joyful smile. Sukuna’s expression mirrored Megumi’s, his eyes warm as he peered at Megumi over the rim of his bowl. Tipping his head back, Sukuna swallowed the last of his broth, then wiped his mouth with a thumb.
“Thank you,” said Megumi. “Did Uraume tell you what to do?”
“…No,” came the reply. Megumi laughed, and Sukuna grumbled, “I am a more experienced chef than you think. They only gave me the barest of directions.”
“I know you are. Watching you cook was, um—” Megumi always enjoyed Sukuna’s casual, domestic displays of power. “I like seeing you in your element, how refined and precise your technique is.”
“More sweet words,” Sukuna hummed. “Perhaps I can demonstrate just how…refined my technique can be for my next meal?”
“Next—” It took Megumi a moment; the meal had nearly made him forget. But Sukuna’s hand went to his obi, slowly loosening his kimono, and desire bloomed within Megumi. “Oh, yes.”
Sukuna was unhurried and brazen, and anticipation filled Megumi as the clothing parted, slipping from Sukuna’s shoulders to reveal him. After all this time, Sukuna’s nudity was familiar, but Megumi’s eyes never failed to catch on every line. His pulse climbed; he wanted to touch.
Sex between them was often intimately saccharine and slow, Megumi’s body against Sukuna’s, their hearts together. But other times, it was like this: Sukuna’s abdominal mouth opened, and his tongue stuck out, waggling suggestively. The hypnotic tension in the air popped. Megumi nearly shrieked with laughter. As he kept giggling, a hand clasped Megumi’s ankle, reeling him toward Sukuna with a playful tickle at his heel, and Megumi knew that this was it for him—his sunny, charmed life.
As they kissed, he was undressed by Sukuna’s quick hands. Then, both naked, Megumi pushed Sukuna onto his back and climbed to straddle his thighs. Already, a simmering arousal hummed through him. He tugged at his cock, biting his lip as he looked over Sukuna’s body, his muscles and cut abs. “Have I ever told you what a washboard is?”
Sukuna tilted his head. “No,” he replied, the question in his tone.
Megumi pressed his lips together, holding back a laugh, and said with a shake of his head, “Never mind.” He was still smiling when he leaned down to lick along the closed ridge of the abdominal mouth. “Hello,” he told it, grinning as Sukuna groaned in exasperation. “Are you going to treat me right today?”
“Why do you insist on talking to it?” Sukuna asked, not for the first time.
“Well, it’s only polite,” Megumi snickered. He spat in his hand and jacked Sukuna’s cock a few times, thumbing over the head. Playing with it, feeling the heat and hardness, Megumi felt his mouth actually start to water. “Fuck, I want to blow you.”
“Are you expecting me to refuse?” Sukuna’s brow lifted.
“I don’t know, maybe pretend to decline at first,” Megumi said, then made his voice deeper, acting, “like, ‘Oh no, Megumi, I’m supposed to be eating you out right now, come up here and sit on my tongue.’”
“That is not at all what I sound like.” Sukuna rolled his eyes even as he gamely lifted Megumi from his thighs to his torso, just above the mouth.
Megumi kneeled above him, tittering, and reached back to pat Sukuna’s stomach. “That’s what this big guy sounds like.”
“The big guy is my dick,” said Sukuna, tone serious.
A blink, then Megumi cackled, absolutely delighted. Sukuna looked pleased, with his own wide, tickled grin. When the laughter rang out, eventually drifting into a quiet, solid happiness that they luxuriated in, Sukuna’s hands roamed up from his thighs and ass to pull Megumi down, and they kissed and sank into each other.
As Megumi rocked gently against Sukuna, something wet licked at him, earning an approving noise. The tongue was wide and thick and coated in saliva, and Megumi shivered as arousal coiled tighter low in his gut. He drew back to sit upright, bracing himself on Sukuna’s chest so he could hover above the mouth, letting it get at him how he wanted.
Once more, Sukuna’s tongue slavered over his inner thighs, and Megumi gasped, legs quivering in anticipation, “Ah, fuck.” His balls nearly ached with how Sukuna was avoiding his crotch entirely, and Megumi reached down with a hand only to be batted away.
“Your friend wants your cock all to himself,” Sukuna said, the bastard.
“Fuck you,” Megumi huffed a laugh. Sukuna was so mean, and Megumi couldn’t help how he adored it; he ate the taunts out of the palm of Sukuna’s hand and felt hotter for it.
At least Sukuna made good on his word. The tongue glided up between Megumi’s legs and finally, fuck yes, laved over Megumi’s taint and balls, soaking him with a single swipe. Desire kicked straight up Megumi’s spine. He keened, biting his lip. It was too good, too fast. “God,” he breathed. Megumi rocked, chasing the slobbery friction and pressure.
The tongue curled over Megumi’s cock, shaping itself almost like a hole, a pocket of wet heat, and Megumi couldn’t help rolling his hips, trying to fuck it. His crotch was drenched already as he and Sukuna moved together. The tip slithered back to Megumi’s hole, slathering its path with spit and prodding at his rim. It was big—too big to take inside—but Megumi wanted it, craved it, imagining the tongue up in his guts, soaking Megumi with saliva so Sukuna could just fuck right in.
He could hear noises escaping him, loud and airy, broken whimpers. He was an absolute mess and sounded like it, too, with pleas pouring embarrassingly easily from him. He couldn’t—couldn’t—
Megumi covered his mouth, muffling his moans, but soon his palm was soaked with his own spit as he cried out unintelligibly for more, more. He felt so exposed, heat twisting through him, a loud groan spilling out.
The tongue prodded steadily at his hole, unrelenting, and entered him. Megumi choked on a moan, a gasp. He felt it in his head, a steamy mess, and bit down on the pad of his palm, holding on for the ride.
Sukuna grasped his hand, though, and pried it away from his face. “You will hurt yourself,” he said, almost lost in the sound that tumbled from Megumi’s now slack mouth. It crossed every wire in Megumi’s mind to hear Sukuna speak so mildly while there was already a mouth eating him out. He knew by Sukuna’s heavy gaze and breaths that he wasn’t unaffected, but Sukuna was just lounging back, not even trying, so casual while Megumi—
He threw his head back as the tongue fucked in and out, testing his hole. Another cry was only half-swallowed, and unable to stand how loud he was being, needing something to brace himself with, Megumi instinctively drew his other hand to his mouth. But Sukuna caught him by the wrist halfway and kept Megumi’s hands out to the sides.
Megumi’s mouth hung open. Drool slipped from the corner of his lips. “Sukuna, please,” he begged wetly. The tongue slid to Megumi’s front, prodding behind his balls and over them, and Megumi wailed as his body jerked. Only Sukuna’s grip on his arms and thighs kept him steady, but that hold kept Megumi exposed, unable to even move or shift or do anything but grind onto the tongue and let lust overtake him. “I can’t—I need—”
His mouth felt so empty. The gasps were so loud to his own ears when they filtered in. He wanted to kiss Sukuna, to suck on his tongue, to be consumed, but he could only chew at his bottom lip in this position, needing something—
Sukuna’s fingers found Megumi’s mouth immediately. He parted Megumi’s lips with his thumb and pushed inside, hooking into Megumi’s cheek to stretch it obscenely. When Megumi dazedly met his eyes, Sukuna smirked. Pleasure shivered through Megumi’s whole body. He felt used, filled on both ends. The abdominal tongue wriggled inside him, stretching his rim, and it was so big that it rubbed against Megumi’s taint and inner thighs and balls, too—
Megumi’s jaw clenched as heat jolted through him to a new height. It was so much. His teeth dug into Sukuna’s thumb near its base, but Sukuna could take it, he knew, so Megumi held him in his mouth, suckling and muffling his cries around the digit.
And Sukuna didn’t remain idle any longer. The two hands around Megumi’s wrists angled his arms back, so Megumi’s chest perked out toward Sukuna, and the last hand roamed. Sukuna tweaked a nipple, cupped the shallow curve of Megumi’s pec, splayed wide on his stomach. He palmed his ass and spread it for the tongue to reach deeper. There was no focus to it, only heat sparking through Megumi’s whole body. He rutted into the air helplessly, getting close, so close.
“Fuck,” Sukuna said in that low rumble. “You are a vision, Megumi.”
Tears gathered in the corners of Megumi’s eyes. He needed—needed more. “C’mon,” he pleaded. His legs were weak, splayed now more than supporting him, and he was seated entirely on the tongue. When Sukuna angled Megumi down, his cock slid with every thrust against the wide pad. The tip curled within his hole as Megumi’s hips stuttered.
He felt the tears slip down his cheeks as he rode the flood of pleasure. Around Sukuna’s thumb, Megumi’s whines were slurred and garbled as he neared the edge. His hips were stretched straddling Sukuna’s torso, and sitting on his fat, wet tongue, feeling absolutely devoured, Megumi’s body trembled, jerking, and then Sukuna rubbed at the head of his cock, and everything whited out—
When his vision returned to him, his muffled shout still ringing between them, Megumi blinked, dazed, and slowly opened his mouth, letting Sukuna’s thumb slip out from where he’d bitten down hard. He’d shot all over Sukuna’s torso, come mixing into the wetness, and now the tongue withdrew from under Megumi to lick it up.
“Holy shit,” Megumi panted. Sukuna let his arms go, and Megumi barely caught himself on Sukuna’s chest as he collapsed there. It was wet between them, but Megumi was soaked everywhere, so it hardly registered. He reached down and positioned Sukuna’s hard cock between his drenched thighs.
Sukuna’s hips stuttered, and he groaned, “Ah, fuck, Megumi.”
Megumi’s legs felt boneless, but he clamped them around Sukuna’s dick. It slid easily, fucking Megumi’s thighs in small, rolling movements. It wasn’t long then before Sukuna came, his rhythm devolving into a few hard jerks. Megumi couldn’t even feel it mixed in with the sopping mess of his crotch, but Sukuna’s hand cupped his ass and thighs moments later, spreading the wetness around.
Satisfaction washed over Megumi. Sukuna brushed a hand up and down his spine, and he snuffled sleepily into Sukuna’s chest, feeling totally melted. A pause made Megumi glance up, and he found Sukuna staring at his thumb, bending it this way and that, testing.
“What is it?” Megumi asked languidly.
Sukuna held his thumb out to Megumi. “As feisty as ever,” he hummed, tilting it so Megumi could see.
Megumi grabbed Sukuna’s hand to hold him steady and peered at it. There, around the base of Sukuna’s thumb, was a ring of teeth marks. He’d broken the skin, and deep red-purple cursed blood had welled. Unable to look away, Megumi asked, “Are you going to heal it?” He was of two minds himself, having wanted to leave his mark, to own Sukuna like he owned Megumi, but finding himself unsettled by the sight; he’d never been able to break through Sukuna’s skin before.
With a tiny ripple of reverse cursed energy, the skin closed, but only enough that it still showed as tiny, fresh scars. “I like it,” Sukuna said, holding his thumb up in the flickering light of the hearth.
After staring a moment longer, Megumi rested his head back on Sukuna’s chest. He breathed deeply and felt Sukuna’s chest rise and fall beneath his. As long as Sukuna was happy, then he was, too. A small smile crept onto Megumi’s features as his mind softened into a tired doze. He closed his eyes right there on Sukuna on the floor.
“Really took it out of you, hm?” Sukuna teased, with the same lighthearted tone as before.
Megumi ignored him, unwilling to open his eyes to glare. He mumbled, getting his last word in, “Well, pretty sure me and your second mouth are married now.”
“Oh, is that so?” Sukuna chuckled. “And what about this mouth?”
Megumi’s own words registered then. He lifted his head. Sukuna’s lips, still curved up, were set with something uncertain. Tremulously, as Megumi reached up and gently touched Sukuna’s mouth, time stood still between them, a shared moment. His heart beat against Sukuna’s. “This one, too,” he said.
And Sukuna exhaled.
Rustling woke Megumi early one day, during the hours he considered more night than morning. He blearily blinked. Sukuna was pulling on his clothes.
“Sukuna?” Megumi mumbled. “Are y’ leaving?”
“Good morning. I tried not to wake you,” said Sukuna in a whisper. “To Uraume, remember?”
“Mm, it’s okay,” Megumi said. He reached lazily for Sukuna, not willing to extend his entire arm from the warmth of the covers, and Sukuna came easily. Megumi touched his cheek and kissed him, then asked, “Why so early?”
Sukuna pulled the blanket higher over Megumi. He tucked the end of it around his neck, snug around his ears. “I can be back before you’re awake in the morning.”
Megumi shook his head, eyes slipping shut as sleep crept over him again. “Don’t rush for me. I’m going to town to get more clay today anyway. Might stop at the inn.”
A light touch brushed over Megumi’s bangs and forehead. “Then I shall return for lunch,” said Sukuna.
“Invite Uraume, too,” suggested Megumi.
Even without looking, he could hear Sukuna’s smile. “Sure,” he said. “See you later.”
“See you.” Megumi peeked open to watch him step from the bedroom, then let his drowsy eyes close once more.
When pale sunlight streamed into the bedroom, Megumi slowly roused, in stages first, then all at once. Through the walls, he heard the low murmur of voices as the villagers arrived with their offerings. He savored the warmth for some minutes more then dragged himself out of bed, pulling a hanten over his clothes to amble out from the sanctuary hall to the haiden.
Most of the people had left already, and the smell of incense swept around Megumi with the brisk breeze. One last man, dressed in monk’s robes, was bent over near the offering stand. Megumi tipped his head and greeted, “Good morning.”
The monk startled, jerking upright. “M-Megumi-sama,” he bowed, “I am delivering s-strawberries.”
Megumi recognized him from the Hida Kokubun-ji, though he still didn’t know his name; the monk always seemed intent on making as little conversation as possible. “Thanks,” he said, aiming for gentle.
Today, too, the monk didn’t stay long, skittering from the shrine soon after. Megumi followed him out from the haiden’s cover, onto the veranda lit by the sun; the warmth felt good on his wind-chilled skin. On the far end of the shrine, near the torii, three deer roamed openly, moving away only when the monk hurried past them. Megumi watched them fondly.
With a deep, refreshing breath, Megumi let the morning soak into him. He wandered back indoors to make himself tea, then back out to sit in the open air. Every steamy inhale and sip felt cozy, and he leaned against one of the pillar struts and gazed over the grounds. Winter was melting, at last. Last week, at the beginning of February, the overcast skies had given way to sunshine. Snow lingered on the ground still but mostly icy and glistening, without its fresh, powdery texture, in all the untouched, shady corners of the shrine, around tree roots, and in the underbrush of the forest.
It was fine weather for the trek to and from the village. With a glance at the sun’s position, Megumi sipped the last of his tea and pushed himself up; if he was to be back by lunch, there was no time to dawdle. He quickly changed and grabbed some fruit from the offerings: a bowl of small, wild strawberries, plus two kumquats.
The day slowly warmed as Megumi made his way down the gentle slope of the mountain path. It took around an hour, plus some time within the village, being stopped by various friendly faces along the way. The potter’s house was past Sato’s inn from this side of town, but Megumi went there first and picked up a small sack of clay, looking forward to making a set of clay shikigami to match the ones of Kuro and Shiro now displayed in their bedroom.
When he arrived at the inn afterwards, Sato greeted him warmly but busily, bustling in the back rooms with a few boxes. “Will your usual meal suit you?” he asked, and Megumi called an affirmative back to him.
Kida was also here, and he glanced at Megumi but didn’t say anything as Megumi took a seat at a table near him. Sato arrived with Megumi’s stew not long after. “Thank you,” Megumi said. “Come, join me if you can. I have fruits from the shrine.”
“Unfortunately, I must finish my work for the morning,” said Sato, gesturing to the back, “though you honor me with such a generous gift, to share what was offered to you.”
“Well, offered to Sukuna,” Megumi amended.
Sato raised his eyebrows. “I believe, to the people of Hida, that is not so large a difference as you might believe.”
He excused himself then and left Megumi to consider it. Savoring his stew, Megumi was filled with a warm, pleased glow at the idea that he and Sukuna were seen as a…unit, a couple. Within his chest, ribs like an embrace, Megumi’s sweet Sukuna made his heart dance. How long ago it’d been since Megumi hadn’t even wanted this, let alone dared to hope for it. And now, beyond hope was faith. He was Sukuna’s and had been, in the townspeople’s view, as well. But now they saw Sukuna as his, too, at least in a sense.
Megumi smiled to himself, hiding his face as he drained his bowl. The kumquats, when he bit in, were tangy, a little too much of a kick after the savory, hot stew. Megumi ate one but put the other back in his bag—maybe Sukuna would want it. The strawberries, though, were perfectly juicy and burst like small candies in his mouth. He munched happily, discarding the leaves back into his bowl.
When Megumi was finishing up, he glanced behind himself, toward the entrance. The sun was high; it was nearly time to return for lunch, but maybe Sato would have a moment to see him out. Turning back to his food, Megumi’s eyes caught on Kida, who was looking at him. For the first time since he’d met him, Megumi saw Kida smile at him. It was an odd expression on his serious, wizened face. Megumi paused chewing, swallowed a bit thickly, and hesitantly quirked his lips up.
Kida’s smile widened then, but somehow, there was a tinge to it, a sinister shadow along its edge. Megumi’s heart picked up. He knew that face; he’d seen it at the jail, facing the finger-bearer playing with him and Itadori, and against Sukuna back then: the gleeful face of someone watching prey step directly into the palm of their hand.
Megumi scrutinized him, tensing. “Is something the matter?” he asked finally, when Kida didn’t say anything.
Kida stood and moved to sit across from Megumi at his table. He glanced at the bowl of strawberries, and Megumi followed his gaze; it was nearly empty, with a few strawberries left, mainly leaves. “How was your meal, Monk-sama?”
Megumi stared at him uneasily, a sense of foreboding rising. Goosebumps broke out over his skin. The hair on his arms rose. His eyes caught on the empty bowl of strawberries, suddenly aware of how many he’d eaten. “What—” It was a wild suspicion, born instinctively from the eagerness on the features of this man, who had never looked at Megumi with anything but short, stiff politeness. “What did you do?” These strawberries weren’t even from Kida; they’d been brought to the shrine by the—the anxious monk from the Hida Kokubun-ji. And with a terrible jolt, Megumi recalled the times he’d seen them together.
Kida leaned forward, and Megumi leaned back, blood rushing in his ears. “Only what I should have done the moment you attached yourself to that curse.”
Megumi shoved himself back from the table, feeling wrong. He pushed up to stand, and—and flames, like acid, erupted in his gut, then in his throat. Megumi’s breath caught as pain burned through him. He grabbed at his stomach, eyes wide, and reeled around to look at Kida. A crazed gleam contorted his expression. “Kida—” Surprise and betrayal and horror seethed through Megumi.
Kida bore his teeth. “Do not speak my name, you false holy man. You—you are nothing but evil, consorting with that demon. He took my grandson from me, killed him—ate him, leaving nothing but bones! My daughter’s son, and he took him from us for nothing but wandering through that damned forest.”
The world was crumbling around Megumi. The poison ignited in his chest, and Megumi clutched at himself, trying to muster a word. But through his shock, he could find no words in the face of such spitting rage.
Kida brandished a knife, a curved farmer’s tool with a wicked edge. “And you—you make us honor him like a god? Never have I faced such humiliation, such dishonor. The people of my home pray to him and celebrate that he does not slay them for daring to breathe, and that is something to worship?”
The words rang in Megumi’s head as if he’d been struck by a bell mallet. The metal of the knife caught the light from outside. He could feel the poison spreading in him, and panic was at its heels. Focus evaded him. Should he fight? No—no, he needed Sukuna, who could heal him, could help.
“I could only hope the poison would do its job, as the kokubun-ji’s monk assured.” Kida approached with his knife. “But how fortunate of you to come to the inn today, so I can be sure.”
Megumi staggered back on weak legs, with wide eyes. He caught himself on the front wall of the inn to stay upright and brought his trembling hands together, trying to concentrate on his cursed energy, when—
“What are you doing?” Sato appeared in a blur, launching himself at Kida. He grappled with him, holding Kida back. “What have you done?”
“He is a demon!” Kida snarled. “They both are. Ryoumen Sukuna,” he spat, “and his lover come to make fools of us, to have us worship evil. After what the monster did—”
A new wave of pain seared through Megumi, and he couldn’t bite back a gasp. Kida and Sato’s shouts and Megumi’s own thoughts dissolved into acidic hurt and desperation and—and he needed help—Sukuna—
He reached blindly for the door and fell backward through the gap into the bright light of noon. The sun reflected brightly off the dregs of snow, or maybe it was just Megumi’s head, aching, with his brain inflamed, his blood swollen.
“Megumi-sama!” Sato called.
He tried to scramble after him, but Kida grabbed him, yelling, “He deserves to die!”
Megumi pulled his eyes away. He staggered to his feet then down the road, arms clenched around his middle. If he could get to Sukuna, it’d be okay. Freezing-hot, like cold lava, the pain radiated through his body, shivers through his muscles that made it impossible to lift his feet. It hurt—the poison slithering, insides boiling, blood melting into a burn. The inn wasn’t far from the border of the village. He could make it. He could.
“Megumi-sama, are you alright?” an alarmed call came from his left. It was Nakada, his hands hovering as if to catch Megumi if he fell.
Megumi couldn’t even think to explain. He shook his head mutely. “N-no, just—” Each breath stabbed at his lungs, needles through paper, like his body was rejecting the air, not expanding enough to inhale.
“The herbalist!” Nakada reached out, steadying Megumi when he stumbled. “Stay here, stay still. I shall return with help, Megumi-sama.”
Megumi shook him off. “No,” he insisted, then coughed. The iron tang of blood bloomed on his tongue—fuck.
There was no time for Nakada to argue. He fretted a moment more before leaving, an urgent sprint in the direction of the herbalist’s house. Megumi didn’t stop—couldn’t. Medical remedies wouldn’t help anyway. The poison wasn’t purely cursed energy, but it was imbued with some; Megumi’s own reacted harshly trying to stop it. Sukuna was his only chance.
He pushed on, through the pain. Sweat poured down his face, but was it that which blurred his vision or the toxin? Megumi didn’t even register the cold anymore, or the sun, or anything but the path in front of him—one step, then another. If he fell now, he feared he’d never get up again.
Megumi wasn’t far on the mountain path when his body began seizing. It started as cramps, a deep, gnawing pain through his torso that seemed to spread outward quickly. In a moment, it was pure agony. A gasp tore from him, and his throat burned. The resulting cough ripped at his lungs, but—but no, he needed to move. One step, then another—
Megumi put weight on his right foot, and his legs buckled. He fell to his knees, to his elbows, and the impact disappeared into the pain of it all. Megumi pressed his forehead to the ground hard, like that could make it stop, grit his teeth, so the pressure would abate. He scratched at his chest, needing to scrape it out. Nothing helped.
Another cough wracked him. He tasted blood, and it scalded his gums and lips as it dribbled from his mouth onto the dirt below. The poison was collapsing him from the inside out, a fire snaking through his bones. Fucking Kida and that monk from the Kokubun-ji. Megumi had been complacent—stupid.
His right hand cramped torturously, every tiny muscle tightening. Megumi screamed through it, a weak, soundless thing, and tried to crawl along the ground, dragging himself. His tongue was numb, his vision grey around the edges.
Finally the spasm in his hand subsided. Megumi had no room for relief, only a desperate, final bid. His fingers were hooked still, unable to unclench entirely, and he slid his other hand into that curl, pushed his palms together, and urged, come on, come on.
The shadows listened when his body didn’t. Kon took one look at Megumi and knew his will immediately. But he didn’t dash off in the direction of the shrine. His Divine Dog lifted his snout to the sky and howled: a call, a summoning. Something wet trickled down Megumi’s cheek from his ears, perhaps blood, or his brains, spilling out of him. Megumi didn’t know how long he lay there prone on his stomach, shivering—dying. It felt like eons.
“What happened?” Sukuna demanded, breaking through the ringing silence left by Kon’s cry. His voice floated above Megumi, sounding like it was coming from all directions. “Megumi,” he implored.
Megumi’s body screamed as Sukuna turned him over onto his back and surveyed the damage with wide, panicked eyes. Sukuna, Megumi tried to plead. But his voice didn’t work. All that escaped with a single, pathetic whimper.
Through his blurry vision, Megumi saw Sukuna’s expression twist in fear. Cursed energy flared through the air, filled with potent, dangerous rage and alarm. Megumi choked on a thick glob tasting of iron, paralyzed as the poison clotted his blood, and another low whine of pain slipped in his weak, shaky exhale.
Sukuna brought a hand over Megumi’s face, and even through the numbness, Megumi could feel the bubbling tingle of his reverse cursed technique. It—it burned though, when it usually didn’t; the poison was fighting back, immediately eroding the newly healed flesh of Megumi’s insides, and it hurt, and Megumi couldn’t even move his mouth, feel his tongue, to tell Sukuna. He met his eyes fearfully and tried to make him understand. The helplessness gripped him. He didn’t want to die like this, with Sukuna’s usually soothing presence going berserk around him. Despair filled Megumi like a poison of his own. A tear slipped from his eyes.
The healing stopped. Sukuna appraised him. “Fuck,” he snarled. And then he stabbed Megumi in the neck.
Shock kicked through Megumi, replacing his blistering blood with confused terror. Why was Sukuna hurting him? Another tear spilled down his cheek. Was Sukuna going to kill him, give Megumi an easy death? Megumi groaned in pain as Sukuna’s nail sliced deeper, most definitely cutting the carotid and jugular on that side. If this was death, it was far from merciful. His nerves were crisped from the toxin, but Megumi could faintly feel the sensation of blood leaking from him, the poison having made it thick and congealed.
Then Sukuna braced a hand on Megumi’s chest, placed his mouth there over the wound, and began to suck. Pain seared through Megumi’s neck, but he was made of the sensation entirely, and the pull on his skin blurred terribly with his throbbing insides. A delirious confusion rippled alongside.
After a moment or minute or more, Megumi felt the soft tingle of Sukuna’s healing again. He steeled himself for that renewed agony—but it didn’t come. The cutting burn in his throat eased; this time, the reverse cursed technique worked.
Bloodletting, Megumi realized distantly, with some combination of torment and relief. Sukuna was immune to poisons. He was pulling the tainted blood from Megumi’s body and replacing it at the same time.
Sukuna tilted Megumi’s head to the side, stretching the skin of his neck to make blood spurt even more. Yet still apparently unsatisfied with the flow, he pressed down around the base of Megumi’s neck, trying to force out more, but only succeeded in obstructing air. When Megumi choked, a half-whine, Sukuna let off.
He moved down his body to tear the clothes on his leg off. The femoral artery was next. Sukuna plunged his fingers into Megumi’s thigh and slashed open a hole to siphon blood from. Again, he drank, swallowing the bitter toxin easily, and again, the healing followed quickly.
Slowly, feeling returned to Megumi’s body, and he shivered but still couldn’t move. He could only take it with a whimper, feeling every sharp, slicing incision, when Sukuna moved to Megumi’s other leg and plunged two fingers straight into his flesh. Sukuna scraped around in his muscle ruthlessly, but he had no time to be gentle when Megumi needed this horrid, clinical efficiency.
It scrambled Megumi’s mind. He kept flickering in and out of awareness, and he wanted to be outside himself, to just close his eyes and let Sukuna do what he needed to. But as the paralysis eased, so did the muffle on his suffering, and the pain anchored Megumi, awfully, to reality. As Sukuna placed his mouth over the newest hole he’d made and began drinking, Megumi trembled. Everything was hazy, from blood loss or toxin or perhaps the overwhelming shock.
Sukuna speared Megumi’s side next, right between two ribs. And this one—this one hurt the most. With a wheeze, Megumi tried writhing away from the invading pressure, but Sukuna pinned him down. “Hold still,” he urged as he tore the hole deeper and skewered a second nearby. “Your blood has stopped flowing. I have to remove the fucking poison from everywhere.”
Megumi’s brain blanked entirely after that, trying and mostly failing to block out the agony, even worse than the poison. Sukuna’s nails scoured his insides to tear open as many veins as possible, and the toxin burned Megumi’s flesh on its way out. His lungs, right then left, were flayed then healed, then his stomach, too.
The prickles and fizz of healing converged so closely with Sukuna’s bloodletting wounds that Megumi wasn’t sure what was happening to him and where on his body, only that he was reduced to a bundle of flesh and nerves and bones, and that he was in Sukuna’s hands—yes, these hands, safe and powerful, and he trusted them, even when it hurt—one of which was in Megumi’s chest, moving with an odd squeezing motion. And as Megumi’s blood pumped through him, finally free of poison, he realized: Sukuna was massaging his heart.
Megumi stared up at Sukuna, whose mouth dripped with blood, and through his relief managed only a whispering attempt at his name. His throat hurt; Sukuna had torn his vocal cords when he stabbed his neck earlier, and bodies took time to recover from even healed wounds.
Those uneasy eyes met Megumi’s. “Shh,” Sukuna hushed. Tension seemed to leave him, too. They had turned a corner; Megumi would be okay. “I have you.”
Eventually, finally deeming Megumi stable, Sukuna gently, so gently, pulled his hand from Megumi’s chest before healing his heart, flesh, and sternum. Megumi quietly watched Sukuna wipe his mouth, smearing blood all over his face. Fierce and deadly and rattled, Sukuna bent and kissed his forehead softly, and Megumi felt his eyes slip shut. His body was one single ache. He felt like his bones had been carved from him and replaced at odd angles. Exhaustion engulfed him, and he seemed to sink into the dirt, ready for a long rest to wash out the sensation of fading and healing multiple times over. He was so tired.
But catching himself, Megumi fought to stay awake, to assure Sukuna he was okay. Because what a fearsome, unsettled expression that was, shadowed on Sukuna’s face. The curse marks were striking in the bright afternoon. Megumi tried to reach for him and managed only a twitch of his fingers, but Sukuna noticed and clasped Megumi’s hand in his own tightly. Another hand cupped his cheek, a soft, tender motion. Megumi could feel the wet blood from Sukuna’s palm spread to his cheek.
“Who did this to you, Megumi?” Sukuna asked with a voice of night.
Megumi’s eyes flicked instinctively in the direction of the village. There was a beat, and too late, he realized his mistake. “No,” Megumi gasped weakly.
But Sukuna was already moving. He lifted Megumi into his arms, cradling him protectively against his chest. Drained and unable to move, to muster a thought, hurting still by sodden remnants of pain, Megumi slowly succumbed to fatigue. The vision in one of his eyes tinged by blood. Unconsciousness loomed and slowly folded over his body as Sukuna took one step, then another. The last, blurry, red image burned through Megumi: Sukuna facing the town, the sun high behind him.
Slowly, sound filtered back into Megumi’s awareness. It was loud, and the racket only compounded the ringing fogginess of his mind, but after a few moments, it resolved into distinct noises: thundering crashes, squelches, screaming—people screaming. And smoke, the smell of it.
Megumi took a reflexive breath, and a wretched cough tore through him. Agony bloomed in his chest, and Megumi gasped, a small cry, but was quieted quickly by the familiar, prickling cool of healing. Still, even as the pain dissipated, his head swam and his face itched where the dried blood pulled at the skin of his cheek.
Struggling against heavy exhaustion and a sticky crust of blood, Megumi forced his left eye open. But between his eyelashes, Megumi’s vision was grey and blurry. He was moving, being carried solidly by something—no, someone: Sukuna. His head was pillowed against Sukuna’s bicep, held in his lower pair of arms.
He blinked again and again, until he could make out his surroundings. The bright day stung his eyes, so Megumi squinted. A shadow darted over him, one of Sukuna’s upper arms slashing through the air. A fresh torrent of cries erupted. Nausea swirled in Megumi as recognition seeped in. The world was steeped in a bitter iron smell, in cursed energy so potent he couldn’t pinpoint the source with his senses. Megumi knew, though. Even without seeing, he knew.
With effort, Megumi turned his head to look. The first thing that registered was the blood. The town was crimson. It stained the streets, soaking the dirt and snow into a garish, sickening mud. People were yelling for each other, pleading for mercy.
No, Megumi begged, screaming it inside. He struggled to move and barely managed to lift his hand. “Suk—” he croaked.
Sukuna ignored him or perhaps didn’t hear above the din, of the people or whatever was ringing in his mind, blotting his aura. A man, missing an arm and spouting blood from his wound, lurched lopsidedly away from them. His cries for help blurred with the rest of the clamoring. As Megumi watched in horror, the man stumbled and fell, still clutching that gaping stump of his shoulder. Even from this distance, Megumi could see, then couldn’t stop seeing it, over and over in his mind: the small twitching attempts of the man to crawl.
His muscles wouldn’t work. He couldn’t move. Megumi managed to kick out and felt Sukuna’s hand tighten on his leg. “They—” Megumi wheezed, then hacked, “—didn’t—” He needed to tell Sukuna the villagers weren’t to blame, to make him understand. If Megumi could only make his lungs and throat work, then Sukuna would stop.
He would stop this—Sukuna’s hand slashed roughly, and three houses crumbled, smashing to the ground. A woman screamed as her roof collapsed on top of her—this massacre.
Megumi struggled, pushing against Sukuna’s chest. He choked on his own saliva, and while coughing, managed a cry. “Stop!” he begged.
But Sukuna didn’t. He held Megumi in two of his arms, and with his other two cleaved the village from the earth. It wasn’t contained; it wasn’t playfully sadistic, the way Sukuna usually was, just crooking a finger and letting his power sever curses and people apart. This was brutal, and violent, and enraged.
The red fury mutated into the haze of blood suffusing the air, so saturated Megumi tasted it. Sukuna wasn’t listening, and he wasn’t stopping. His expression was livid, twisted cruelly. All four of Sukuna’s eyes were pinned on the villagers, and he took his technique like a broadsword to the town. An ugly, sad desperation crawled within Megumi. He had to—
Sukuna grabbed a woman by the throat, his nails digging into her neck. And that was—no, please, that was Nakada’s wife. Megumi couldn’t bear to witness this. He struggled and pushed, forcing function into his weak, tremulous limbs, but still, Sukuna held him and didn’t let go, and he didn’t let her go, either. She kicked out at Sukuna, trying to scramble away, but Sukuna’s effortless grip was like steel. Her leg connected with his stomach below Megumi, and a second later, the air was split by a scared, piercing scream. Sukuna’s large, feral mouth had caught her foot.
It happened all at once. With a single tightening of his grip, Sukuna crushed Nakada’s wife’s throat and threw her away, and ripped her body, oh god, from her leg. Blood gushed. Megumi heaved himself out of Sukuna’s arms. He hit the ground, his shoulder jarring at the impact.
Her leg—the squelch and snap of her limb rang in Megumi’s ears. Sukuna’s mouth held it by the ankle, and blood spilled from the torn thigh, the ragged flesh. Her blood splattered on him. Revulsion flooded Megumi, and his stomach turned. He flinched when the mouth dropped the leg. It hit the ground next to Megumi with a soft thud in a puddle of its own blood. Nakada’s wife’s body was far from them, and Megumi knew without looking that she was dead.
Megumi stared up at Sukuna in shock. It didn’t make sense—it couldn’t. This was Sukuna, who was kind, who was his, who was—himself. Yes, Sukuna’s hard, crazed expression softened when he beheld Megumi, but only by a bit, and when he reached a hand down, Megumi saw the movement only out of the corner of his eye. He'd noticed, stricken, the sight beyond Sukuna.
The path he’d taken through the town was obvious, for there was no town left. The last of the shouts and groans of pain petered out, and Megumi realized it was too late to ask Sukuna to stop. The people were gone already. Their bodies were torn to pieces.
Megumi forced himself onto his hands and knees, tensing his muscles as his body wavered. He wiped at his right eye until red no longer tinted his vision, and then got one foot under himself. His legs buckled as he tried to take a step, and Megumi hit the ground hard. Pain ricocheted up his thigh. But it was nothing—it was nothing compared to—
Sukuna hoisted Megumi up, a hand around his chest. The moment Megumi had his feet on the ground, though, he shoved away. Meter by meter, Megumi staggered his way past Sukuna to the savaged trail of bodies. Corpses littered the paths of the village, all facing away from Megumi; they’d been running away when slaughtered. Limbs and blood and guts were strewn carelessly. The snow was melting into it all, a bright red slush.
Shimoda—the farmer had once told Megumi about cultivating rice, and oh, the pride in his voice then, and Megumi had helped fix his roof just last month, and it was collapsed now atop his body, its wood soaked and swollen with his blood.
A woman was slumped lifelessly over a windowsill. Her head was missing. A child’s body, in half.
Megumi stumbled and fell, tripping over someone’s—he tasted bile—someone’s torso. These were the people he’d spent the year with, whose offerings and food he’d chosen from for breakfast every day, who had clothed him for the winter, who’d worked hard and lived peacefully and smiled at him in welcome—good people. And Sukuna had—not just killed, but brutalized them.
Megumi’s hands and knees, already bloody, sank a little into the damp ground as he pushed himself up. He was a second from crumpling entirely but went on and on.
A child’s severed hand lay on the ground, and a few meters away was a section of their arm. Megumi recognized the herbalist from half his body, cut down the middle. His guts spilled over the ground.
Each body, each person that Megumi knew, each memory that rose to his mind seeing these faces—desolation wrought its unkind fingers through that space in his chest where he held Sukuna. His ribs felt knotted.
The inn still stood, the only familiar sight on this gruesome path Megumi no longer recognized. Kida lay between him and the building, but Megumi barely glanced down. There, his tortured eyes could see, by the inn’s entrance: a body.
Megumi approached the building, the way he did every week, the way he had just an hour earlier. The form became two as Megumi drew closer. Sato was bowed, bent over his wife, shielding her. Their bodies were still intact, exactly as they’d died. The only wound was a single line through them both, made obvious by the blood seeping from the lethal slice.
Megumi knelt unsteadily, collapsing to the ground hard. Anguish ripped through him. He touched Sato’s shoulder, hands shaking violently—and Sato’s upper half slipped from the bottom with a wet peel, and he rolled off his wife to land heavily on the ground next to her. His lifeless face stared up at Megumi. From the open flesh, now blood streamed, soaking into Megumi’s knees by the bodies.
A second passed or a hundred. Megumi stared in muted, dull horror. The image impressed itself onto his vision. He blinked. It blinded him: Sato, never anything but kind, regarding him as a son, helping him to Minashi-jinja, eating sweets with him; Sato, with his lifeless expression frozen in fear; Sato, executed by Sukuna when he had saved Megumi from Kida, jumping into danger without a thought.
The heavy presence of a curse appeared behind Megumi. He turned slowly. Sukuna was nearly unrecognizable. No, not unrecognizable—he looked exactly as he was depicted in the stories, as Megumi had been taught when he was young. Blood drooled from his abdominal mouth, mixing in with the rest. His curse marks shone black under the smears and splatter of blood.
Megumi’s Sukuna, the one enclosed in his heart—right now, that Sukuna was submerged by murder, by this stranger standing in his place. Distantly, collapsed houses burned, ignited from their hearth fires, from a need for warmth now obsolete. The air was hot and metallic and smoky, and Megumi felt faint. He forced himself up, and when his legs buckled, Sukuna caught him easily. His hands, so familiar, and yet Megumi felt each finger like poison.
He wasn’t steady enough to hold his own weight, but Sukuna did, even as Megumi rebuked, begging, “They didn’t—” He clutched at Sukuna’s shoulders to shake him, to make him see what he’d done—oh god, what had he done?
Impossibly, Sukuna’s voice was the same. He had wished Megumi good morning just that day in the intimacy of their bedroom. “You do not need to speak,” he said, tone soothing, mistaking Megumi’s faltering voice for pain.
And it was, but it was the taste of this, too, the ash and dust of death. “They didn’t do anything to me!”
Sukuna’s expression hardened. He was rage embodied, his features sharp with it as he cursed, “They hurt you.”
“No.” Megumi shook. “No, they didn’t! Just one—just one, and Sato, he saved me, but you—how could you—”
“I need no reason,” Sukuna snarled, cruel. He seemed almost beside himself. “One is enough. I’ll kill them all, these fucking humans and their insolence.”
Megumi didn’t know this being standing in front of him. How could this Sukuna be the same as his? Dreadful recognition spilled into Megumi like an inkblot, staining thick like tar and smog, of a long-wrought legend of a killer, a plunderer, a curse—Ryoumen Sukuna.
He took a step back, then another, legs shuddering. Adrenaline dimmed the pangs lancing up Megumi’s calves, his thighs, leaving only his soul in wrung, mangled torment. Distance between them grew.
He looked at Sukuna and saw him, bloody, vicious, the monster made of fury, a typhoon of wrath flooding the streets with red, and it built and built, this feeling of being lost and of losing, his, Sukuna, and Megumi’s hands trembled as he closed them into fists.
“Megumi,” Sukuna said, his voice plain. He neared slowly, cautiously, and came to a stop in front of him.
It was all wrong; the lines of him, the power, the shape of his spirit—blood coated it all. Megumi didn’t know him, this evil in the form of his beloved, except Sukuna gazed down at Megumi with an uneasy, sorrowful expression that betrayed the tether between them. His cursed energy wavered, but still Megumi commanded forth the shadows. He tipped his head up and regarded Sukuna, and through grief and pain and whypleaseno, Mahoraga’s call on his tongue was nearly an afterthought. “Sacred treasure—”
Sukuna reached out and covered Megumi’s hands with his own. Slowly, softly, steering Megumi from the edge, Sukuna pried his fists apart. “Megumi, don’t.” His voice was gentle but resigned, his eyes full of pity.
Megumi fought him weakly, aching all over. “S-swing—” But even as he said it, the cursed energy behind the words sputtered out. The shadows didn’t listen; he didn’t want them, not really, not when it was Sukuna—and it was him, horribly, had always been him—and the incarnation quelled even as Megumi repeated, “Swing and—”
“Stop, Megumi,” said Sukuna, sharper this time. Sukuna’s hands cradled his, his grasp strong as he entwined their fingers to keep Megumi from forming shapes. Megumi couldn’t—he couldn’t—
Distantly, he realized he was crying. “Why?” he choked out.
He lurched forward when Sukuna drew him in. The grip on Megumi’s hands never wavered. Sukuna’s two other arms wrapped around Megumi solidly, and he was lifted back into that iron embrace. Blood slipped wet between them.
With his chin on Sukuna’s shoulder, Megumi’s eyes swept over the carnage: the townspeople’s bodies strewn in pieces; blood, viscera, and fear; cursed energy polluted the village, a haze of death. Sukuna clutched Megumi, holding his hands still, but comfort was a bare memory, a mirage he’d finally caught up to. There was nothing left. The village was torn asunder. One building after another, flames caught and spread, enveloping the homes and people.
It was shattered, the world. Anguish hollowed Megumi, and he wept like that, staring at the gruesome bloodbath with stricken, wretched eyes. The sun was shining—how was the sun still shining?
There was that fissure in his chest, the place he kept Sukuna tucked away. Guilt had been shaken from it in the last months of peace. But now the cavern was flooded with blood, his Sukuna drowned there, and to the surface floated the corpses of the people he’d killed, the ones Megumi never knew and those he did. Sato’s lifeless face peered at him.
It was shock, or mourning, or heartbreak. Megumi had thought—well, it ached to even think of now. They weren’t creatures of hope, Sukuna had claimed, but oh, Megumi had so fervently wished for a truth to be born from their sweet murmurings under the cover of night.
How utterly, terribly wrong Megumi had been to hope he could change the King of Curses, or that he already had. The fantastical dream of folly was dead, and on this pyre of a town, it burned.
Notes:
art of megumi throwing snowballs at sukuna by @beetlethirteen
art of the reunion scene from last chapter and the bloodletting by @MaetheEllen
art of sukuna holding megumi (from sato's pov) by @emsie_pems
Yukidaruma are Japanese snowmen that are two stacks of snow. And yukiusagi are snow rabbits with red eyes and ears from the berries and leaves of a bamboo.
The first time the word miso appears in Japanese literature is in the Heian Period, but its predecessor hishio likely arrived from China a century or two before that. It was reserved for the elite and was apparently eaten directly.
Tofu was introduced to Japan during the Nara period (pre-Heian). And enoki mushrooms are winter mushrooms, in season from September to March. Mitsuba is Japanese parsley, grown wildly. And bonito flakes or katsuobushi are made from dried, smoked and fermented skipjack tuna.It’s likely that snow wouldn’t usually melt this early in Hida, especially due to the elevation.
The Pillow Book by Sei Shonagon, written between the 990s-1000s, mentions small, wild strawberries as a treat. Strawberries are one of the first fruit to be grown/harvested early in the year without actually being a “winter” fruit like persimmon.
Kida’s knife, the farming tool, is a nata, which is a brush knife that’s slightly curved.
Chapter 12: mid- to late February
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
If the thunder rolls for a while
And the sky is clouded, bringing rain,
Then you will stay beside me.Even when no thunder sounds
And no rain falls, if you but ask me,
Then I will stay beside you.—Manyōshū XI: 2513-14 (Dialogue Poems)
Megumi’s skin was numb, and the chill didn’t register as air blew past his face. As Sukuna flew, the landscape blurred below them, and Megumi watched without seeing before closing his eyes. The smell of smoke from the town lingered.
The river flowed freezing, but after Sukuna tore his ragged clothes off, Megumi sat dully in the shallows, water to his chest, and even then barely felt the cold. The current ran red around him, and Megumi stared blankly until his eyes couldn’t follow the traces of blood anymore.
Sukuna kept his distance, though in his periphery, Megumi could see him washing. After a moment, Megumi turned away. Exhaustion clogged him; there was no emotion left in him to muster.
Megumi lay back, there in the water, and exhaled until he was entirely submerged. The river passed over him, tinged pink from the blood in his hair, and he stared through it at the broken, refracted sky.
The screams of the villagers echoed still, and his eyes stung, but water took his tears immediately. Megumi’s lungs strained. Bubbles escaped him, the last of his air. He squeezed his eyes shut, felt the pull of the river around him, and then broke back through the surface with a gasp.
Sukuna was above him, about to reach in and drag Megumi out. He was washed of blood, but even cleaned, all Megumi could see in those hands and body was massacre and panic. It played in his mind, a constant, delirious reel.
“Megumi,” Sukuna broke the silence. His name felt faraway, through fog. Then again, “Megumi?” A hand tipped his chin up, and Sukuna surveyed him with a frown. He touched Megumi’s cheek then his forehead and neck. “A fever. Is it the poison?”
Megumi stayed quiet, lightheaded and tired. He didn’t feel hot, or cold, or anything at all. Sukuna’s hands, as Megumi was lifted, felt painfully tight around him, protective, the only sensation to break through the haze.
They were naked, but it didn’t matter. There was no one to see. There was no one.
When Megumi woke, he was cold. Voices, hushed but close, floated over him. He listened for a bit: “—not the poison—” someone said at one point; “—exhausted—the shock—” came from the other. The low murmur enveloped Megumi as he drifted off again.
He had a vague awareness of stirring a few more times, but Megumi was cognizant only later, roused by a hand on his shoulder and gentle shake. Sukuna’s face was in view when he blinked his heavy eyes open, and Megumi’s lips turned up. “Hey,” he greeted quietly, his throat a bit scratchy. “G’morning.”
Sukuna took a moment to reply, and there was a tinge to his voice when he corrected just as softly, “It is evening. You slept through most of the day.”
Megumi glanced at the windows—they weren’t in their bedroom—then back at Sukuna, who looked sympathetic. All at once, the realization doused Megumi. His smile dropped, and he felt his expression twist. “Oh—”
“You’ve taken sick,” Sukuna informed.
Megumi blinked at him, reeling. His mind was rotten, peeling apart. Sick? The soft sheets scratched at his skin, and after another moment, the vague sensation of discomfort resolved into a feverish full-body ache. His lips parted to say something, he didn’t know what, but his inhale snagged on his dry throat, and Megumi coughed.
Another figure appeared then: Uraume. They touched Megumi’s cheek with a finger, and an ice chip grew on his tongue. Megumi sucked on it tepidly as he surveyed their surroundings. This was Senko-ji, the temple Uraume kept.
Before Megumi could question it, Sukuna explained, “Uraume has been keeping you cool the past two days. After—” He paused. “You had a fever, and we can only wait for it to break. That was why I brought you here, so Uraume could—since you needed—” Sukuna stopped just short of rambling and sighed. He ran a hand through his hair, looking uncomfortable.
Megumi’s head throbbed. He couldn’t bear to hear anymore of this. Swallowing the last tab of ice, he said shortly, “I need rest.”
Sukuna glanced up, almost startled to receive a reply. “Of course,” he nodded. He dismissed Uraume with a single look, leaving just the two of them.
Sukuna sat cross-legged at Megumi’s bedside next to his head, and Megumi stared up at the ceiling without acknowledging him. The room slowly darkened. Neither of them spoke. Grief rose through Megumi in that silence, leaking from the ragged scars of his insides. The town—the people—had been running scared, all of them, and the red-dyed memory still rang in him. Megumi despaired for them, for himself.
His jaw tensed, and his bottom lip wobbled, and Megumi clenched his eyes closed. Tears spilled over his cheeks. His next breath hitched and hurt. A small sound left him, and Megumi heard Sukuna shift. When he peeked through blurry eyes, he found Sukuna on the edge of restraint, hands clenched.
A pang tore through Megumi. “Sukuna,” he choked out, desperate still for him to fix everything, somehow, in his infinite power.
“Megumi,” Sukuna whispered, forlorn, and how could Megumi do anything but reach for him then?
His hand met Sukuna’s in the middle, and Megumi clutched at him. Tears dampened his pillow as Megumi turned his head and sobbed into it. He felt another of Sukuna’s hands envelop his, holding Megumi tight. Those hands—just days ago they’d savaged the town, the people Megumi had come to care for. But he was so, so tired and so lost, and there was no one to turn to but Sukuna, his only lifeline in this era.
“You are safe, Megumi,” Sukuna murmured fervently against the tangle of their fingers. “It’s alright.”
But he was wrong. Megumi was unscathed in only the shallowest sense. His heart was shredded with the rest: the villagers, this life, and them.
Megumi’s fever broke the next evening, and Sukuna made them stay at Senko-ji one more night before deeming him well enough to return to the shrine. It’d been three days in total since Sukuna had massacred the town, yet it felt painfully fresh every moment. Sometimes he could still smell the smoke and blood. Megumi had left them there to burn. The only consolation, if it could even be called that, with how swamped he was by sorrow, was that the villagers had been cremated in those flames.
He was too feeble to protest when Sukuna carried him to Minashi-jinja in his arms, the way they normally traveled, but Megumi managed to weakly push away when they landed, intent on limping along the path himself.
Staring down the grounds at the buildings, an odd dissonance struck Megumi. The herd of deer sniffed curiously around the stairs, scampering away upon noticing Sukuna. Life…was continuing. The breeze still rustled through trees. How strange that the world could keep spinning when Megumi’s had come to a standstill; it was almost uncanny that the shrine remained untouched, that it hadn’t crumbled with Megumi in the wake of this disaster.
Not too long ago, he’d sought refuge in Minashi-jinja, and he’d been anxious then, but it hardly compared to how imposing the grounds felt now. The unlit toro along the path loomed. Megumi couldn’t imagine stepping into the building, reentering a life he wasn’t sure he could live anymore.
He hadn’t, in the past three days, been able to figure out what to do. Should he leave? Could he? Did he even want to? If he fought, it would be simply ending it all, or at least himself. But Megumi glanced at Sukuna, at his expression, doleful but determined, and even through everything, his heart still echoed: how could he ever?
And yet, the carnage was just an hour down the slopes of the mountain. The earth and snow and river were tainted by the town’s blood. The life he and Sukuna shared together had been killed along with the villagers.
Hopelessness swelled over Megumi with each step. Sukuna hovered behind him, but Megumi watched his own feet on the stairs to the veranda. It didn’t feel like coming home. A thick haze of disquiet hung over his head, and his heart buzzed in his chest, agitated. Megumi stood at the threshold of the haiden, on the brink of accepting this, pretending it was okay, simply by his passive indecision.
It sank into him, the dread, and he—he couldn’t. Turning to Sukuna, plea on his lips for time or space or anything but this, Megumi found him staring at the offering stand. He followed his gaze: the incense had burned entirely, and ash hadn’t been cleaned; some fruit remained, innocuous but tainted by the memory of those strawberries and the monk.
“These residuals…” Sukuna breathed, and Megumi’s heart froze, then thundered.
He focused his eyes, and they appeared immediately, a murky blue on and around the stand. Having spoken to the monk and Kida, Megumi already knew who the cursed energy belonged to, but he recognized them from the Hida Kokubun-ji, too, when they'd visited the ginkgo tree.
He stayed silent as Sukuna approached the altar, bending to examine the residuals closer. Megumi stood still and quiet, as though that could keep Sukuna from remembering. He didn’t want him to go wild with fury again. But Sukuna tensed, and trepidation swelled in Megumi. Inevitability gathered overhead like storm clouds.
“The monk, from the kokubun-ji,” announced Sukuna, voice low and angry. He turned and found guilt or perhaps fear on Megumi’s face, which brought pause. “You knew already?”
“No—” Megumi tried.
Sukuna bared his teeth. “Just one, you told me, but there are more.” It wasn’t a question. His cursed energy whipped through the air, overwhelmingly vicious. “Not just one human, but the schemes of sorcerers, too, from the other towns of Hida.”
Megumi stepped forward, his hands out placatingly. “That’s not true.”
“Will you start lying to me now, Megumi?” Sukuna glared. “That monk was the one to poison you—yes or no?”
Heart in his throat, tasting blood on his tongue, Megumi ducked his head. There was no point even trying to lie; they both clearly knew the answer. “Yes,” he said, “but—”
Sukuna was already moving, past Megumi and out of the shrine. Ugly, awful urgency split through Megumi, and with his flagging energy, he gave chase.
“Stop!” he called, voice cracking on the shout.
Yet Sukuna ignored him, already halfway down the path. Nonono—
But Megumi was still feeble; his foot caught in his rush, and he tumbled from the first stair. The world spun as Megumi fell, shoulder hitting the corner of a step hard, and he crashed dazed to the ground.
A beat, then the pain and humiliation descended upon him. Megumi lay there, not even bothering to move, feeling pathetic and weary, and tried to swallow back exhausted tears. Sukuna was next to him in a second, his temper quieted for the moment. The cool sparks of his reverse cursed technique fizzed through Megumi as Sukuna helped him upright. And they sat there, on the ground, and watched each other.
“Stop,” Megumi said, his voice torn. He was so tired. Fatigue baked into his bones, and his heart dropped with it. “All this rage. Sukuna, you can’t—” he sighed. “It isn’t worth this destruction.”
“What is not?” countered Sukuna. “You?” His gaze softened, but his tone was resolved, solidly set. “Do you remember when you first arrived at my shrine? You told me your value is for me to determine, that however I see your worth, then that is what it would be.”
He cupped Megumi’s cheek, tipping his head up. Nausea rose at Sukuna’s fierce expression. The protectiveness had lost its soothing warmth; all Megumi could feel was the scorching air of the town, ablaze. Megumi turned away. “Sukuna—”
But Sukuna continued, “You are worth a thousand of these villages to me, Megumi. A million of their lives for yours.”
He was going to be sick. “You’re not saving my life anymore,” Megumi said past the acidic guilt in his throat. “I’m alive, Sukuna—you did it. This isn’t about me anymore. It’s about you and—and revenge.”
“Revenge?” Sukuna sneered. “I am reclaiming power I should never have lost in the first place. The humans became bold in my complacency. The audacity to touch someone who is mine will not go unpunished.”
“They’re dead!” the cry tore from him. Frustrated tears seared at Megumi’s eyes, and he swiped at them angrily as he pushed up and past Sukuna, needing space. He faced away, staring with dismay at the shrine’s torii and the path past it, and huffed a pained laugh. “What punishment is left?” he asked. “They’re gone.”
Sukuna rose, too, coming to stand by Megumi’s side. “Not all of them. Not even the sorcerer with those residuals, who is directly responsible for nearly killing you.”
Megumi’s heart sank lower, lower, stuck in his motionless feet. Was he dreaming, for his life to decay in a day, all at once? What could this be other than a nightmare? “I’m alive, Sukuna,” Megumi implored, turning to him. “I’m right here, and I’m fine! I’m fine, but it’s like you’re not seeing me—” His voice broke, but Megumi forged on. “I didn’t die. And all I want is for you to stop, Sukuna—” Megumi grabbed him when Sukuna turned his face away, to make him see it was okay, or could be. “Look at me!”
Sukuna clasped his hand over Megumi’s, and his grip didn’t hurt, but it wasn’t gentle either. He drew Megumi’s hand from his face, separating them. “You ask the impossible of me.”
“You promised,” Megumi said brokenly. “You said all I had to do is ask. Don’t act like this isn’t within your power. You just need to stop, Sukuna, and not harm anyone else.”
“And allow a threat to you to live.”
Despair climbed through Megumi until he was wound entirely in its bitter branches. He covered his face with his hands, bent his head and took a breath, then another, trying not to cry. He couldn’t do this. From that misery spilled desperation: “Then I’ll leave.”
“What?” Sukuna asked, stunned. “Megumi—”
But the idea was gaining momentum in Megumi’s mind. “I’ll leave,” he repeated, meeting Sukuna’s eyes. “I can’t be here, if you’re going to do this. I’ll find that sorcerer Uraume made a pact with and return to the future. I don’t care if I have to be part of some crazy plan. I don’t care if I have to—to die and turn myself into a curse. But I can’t—I won’t be here with you if you do this.”
Sukuna’s features twisted, anger at Megumi rising. “You would give this all up?”
“What life do I have here?” Megumi spat, volume building. “You killed everyone, Sukuna! You took everything from me!”
“Oh, everything?” Sukuna echoed, disgusted. “They almost took you from me. I care not at all about the town or offerings or worship. I would be satisfied with just you, Megumi, but clearly the same cannot be said about you, for me.”
Heartbreak cut him. It ate at his insides to hear Sukuna so callous of not only the villagers, but of Megumi’s own feelings, which ached and ached. “Not when you’re like this. Not when you’ve already—” his words splintered, the edge of despair. “I am yours, but where is my Sukuna?” he cried. “We were happy, but now you’re so full of anger.”
“You know who I am,” said Sukuna. “You knew, from the beginning, who I would be. My nature—as myself, as a curse—you have never avoided the truth of it. Why are you starting now?”
“Because this is not all of your nature.” Megumi reached for Sukuna, and his hand trembled as he cupped his cheek. “Because I do know you. And it doesn’t have to be like this.”
But Sukuna damningly shook his head, dislodging Megumi’s palm. “It must,” he insisted, “for this will never be permitted to happen again. I will not let him live after having done that to you—to us.”
Megumi detested the monk, too, for crossing that line, hurting Megumi so foolishly, and for the torturous poison. But this was even more potent, Sukuna’s virulent wrath that Megumi couldn’t allow to fall on another town. “There is no us if you do this.”
“Listen to yourself!” Sukuna grated out. “They poisoned you, nearly killed you. You would have died in another minute, and you want them to live so badly you would leave?”
“It’s not ‘them,’” said Megumi. “One sorcerer, but you would murder them all. Innocent people. I can’t live with more death.”
“You cannot know it was only him,” Sukuna argued. “First, it was one, then another from a different town.” He gestured widely, the entire region in his sights. “This entire region knows you by reputation, and there are many more who would do you harm.”
“That doesn’t mean,” Megumi bit, “that you can just kill everyone!”
“You insufferable sorcerer!” Sukuna snarled. He wrenched Megumi forward by a collar, shaking him. “Do you want to die?”
Megumi’s heart galloped, jolted by adrenaline and instinctive fear. Sukuna wouldn’t, but he reacted regardless. “So you’ll kill me?” he asked, barking a caustic, sour laugh. Sukuna’s hand went slack in surprise, and Megumi pushed back. He flung his arms wide, presenting himself to Sukuna for the goddamn taking. “Good! Then kill me! Because I must already be dead, to stand by and watch this happen.”
“How can you protect them?” Sukuna asked, only barely subdued. “They hurt you, distrusted you, and schemed to kill you, even when you saved them.”
“They were scared. They thought they were protecting their families, their homes.” A thought occurred to Megumi, and he had no patience left to suppress it. “Just like you. Right now, with me, with this—you’re doing the exact same thing they did.”
Sukuna’s voice was dangerously quiet. “Because I’m scared?” he repeated.
The last vestiges of their fight drained out of Megumi entirely. He whispered, “Because you’re protecting me.”
Sukuna stilled, and his mouth twitched, just the barest flicker of emotion, before he turned abruptly and stalked away. His aura spiked in such anger it nearly sounded like a roar. He made an aborted jerk of a motion, and pure cursed energy barreled from him, hitting one section of the shrine with a thundering boom. The side of the building exploded with splintered wood in all directions, and Megumi flinched.
He could see the heaving breaths Sukuna was taking, enraged and frustrated within the typhoon of his cursed energy, and his own sounded loud in his ears. Dejection tumbled down Megumi’s chest in the pained silence.
Sukuna tensed, and his four hands clenched. Then, mind made up, he turned back to Megumi and demanded, “Make a pact with me.”
Megumi blinked. “What?”
“A pact. You stay here—”
“Sukuna—”
“You stay here,” repeated Sukuna stubbornly. Megumi didn’t cut in again. “At this shrine, you stay. Do not leave, Megumi. And I won’t kill any of those fucking humans you saved.”
Megumi stared at him, filled with plunging realization, like cold water up to his ears: this was what it meant to be possessed by Sukuna. Megumi’s requests mattered only until they interfered with Sukuna’s own desires, and the highest of those was having Megumi.
He remembered clearly Sukuna’s reasons for acquiescing over the past year—that he’d wanted to keep this life with Megumi unmarred, uninterrupted. Anything he’d conceded to Megumi had been in the interest of their shared time. And now he would keep Megumi here, captive in the shrine in a way he hadn’t been even at the beginning. But there was hardly a point now. Their life was ruined already. What was left to salvage?
Megumi stayed silent, reeling. When he didn’t respond, Sukuna huffed, brushing past in disgust. The white of his kimono, the anger in his stride, the rawness of his features as he turned away—the image embedded in Megumi as regret.
In that moment, two halves of certainty sank into him: that if Sukuna killed the other humans, Megumi would die fighting him, and he didn’t want it to come to that; and that his Sukuna was hurting, and Megumi’s heart bled. He loved him—he didn’t want—
Megumi grabbed the corner of his sleeve. It tugged on Sukuna’s next step, and he stopped—it stopped, everything, the world around them.
Sukuna stared at where Megumi clutched his kimono. “Megumi?” he asked, hopeful.
And Megumi said, “Okay.” He ducked his head, unable to face him, and repeated, “Okay, I agree to your pact. You won’t kill them, and I’ll—I’ll stay.”
Slowly, the tension evaporated from Sukuna, and his cursed energy receded until Megumi could breathe easier. The wind swept across the shrine grounds, and they were quiet.
“I am—glad,” said Sukuna finally, shifting.
Megumi stepped away from him. “And I’m a prisoner here,” he sighed tiredly. There was no anger left, nothing really but resignation.
He just wanted to sleep, to rise tomorrow to a different reality. Yet this was no mere nightmare, easily washed off alongside dregs of slumber. Whatever childish fantasies Megumi had dreamt were over now; he was horribly awake.
Sukuna didn’t stop him as he returned to the shrine. Light streamed into the main room of the honden from the gaping rupture in the wall and roof. Broken wood planks lay on the floor, but Megumi ignored it all, unsteadily making his way to the living quarters.
The two bedroom doors stared Megumi down. It would be—not easy, but habitual, to enter the one he and Sukuna shared. But the rift between them was found here, too. The idea of sleeping in that futon made him anxious. He couldn’t be passive anymore, even if it was just this one thing within the long, long future of this life. Megumi turned deliberately to the unused room and went inside.
The bedding was untouched and cold when Megumi lay down, and the walls unfamiliar and bare, shelves empty. But Megumi pulled his blanket up, turned onto his side, shivering, and stared blankly ahead. He waited for fatigue to quiet the static buzz of his mind.
Megumi didn’t know how long had passed when he heard Sukuna outside the room. The door slid open. Megumi kept his back to it, not even bothering to feign sleep, but Sukuna didn’t enter. He only uttered, “Open,” quietly, and the hearth next to Megumi caught with a small warm fire.
After a moment longer, the door shut again, and Sukuna’s footsteps receded back to the main hall. Megumi watched the flames, felt the lick of them along the insides of his rib cage where his heart strained for Sukuna, for before, and finally gave in to sleep.
Routine, a new one, didn’t arrive easily. Each day was its own unease, another bitter brick in the wall between them. Sukuna and he didn’t talk. Megumi could barely look at him without seeing the phantom of violent ferocity.
There was a layer between life as it once was and what Megumi lived now, like a coating of dust or cinder. How could these be the same floors, the same walls, the same table and food and hearth? The same sky outside, more blue every day?
Minashi-jinja felt foreign in a way it hadn’t even when Megumi first arrived here, when—Sato brought him here for shelter. That yet unused hall with firewood in the hearth had felt more alive than this cracked shell, haunted by the specter of the villagers who no longer brought offerings.
The neighboring towns’ people, too, didn’t appear in the subsequent days. Megumi wondered if they knew Sukuna was behind the massacre. Perhaps the kokubun-ji’s monk was preaching so, spinning a new tale of Sukuna’s deeds, but this time true.
The lack of incense in the mornings made it difficult to breathe. It gnawed at Megumi that he couldn’t go see the town, the people and the ashes of what was left. He couldn’t make sure their bodies weren’t being picked apart by curses or maggots. Megumi had nothing to memorialize them with, no photos or tokens.
But paying his respects became the only thing that got Megumi out of bed in that first week after. He found the incense from the bare offering stand and, on a thick scroll with ink and brush, painstakingly wrote all the names he knew. It was inadequate, miserably so; he could only approximate how their names were written and didn’t know many of the women or children.
But Megumi fashioned a small altar within the honden itself. He placed the scroll within it and lit incense every morning, in a sense anointing this shrine as not for Sukuna, but for the people he’d killed. It barely helped. The air still felt somehow both empty and stifled, and Megumi both defeated and restless. He missed not only the townspeople but the village and journey itself, the simple joy of walking in the forests of Kuraiyama, now barred to him, and returning back to Sukuna, who was often waiting.
Megumi rotated between his room, the main hall, and the shrine grounds, and Sukuna gave him space, which was only rarely a relief. Megumi missed him, too, then felt guilty over it, but no bridge could fix this, and he wouldn’t even want to cross one. The only other face Megumi saw was Uraume, who brought food to the shrine more frequently. Megumi didn’t speak to them much; he mostly kept to his bedroom, and Uraume’s attention was usually occupied by Sukuna.
A few days after the full moon, though, Uraume arrived when Megumi was laying aimless and melancholic in the main room, and while depositing food into the ice box, Uraume glanced at Megumi sidelong, almost awkwardly, and quietly inquired, “How are you?”
Megumi sighed. He turned away, staring through the open doorway to the shrine grounds, where Sukuna was. “You’re really asking me that?”
“Master Sukuna was with me when he heard your shikigami’s howl,” said Uraume, perhaps aiming for helpful. “He was…concerned.”
“Great,” Megumi replied dryly. “Look what his concern got me.”
“You are alive,” pointed out Uraume, as if Megumi wasn’t awfully aware.
He shook his head. “But at what cost?” he asked, then answered himself, “An unnecessary one. He could have saved me without killing them or stopped at only the culprit. There was no need for them all to die.”
“Master Sukuna wished it,” said Uraume, and that was even worse than Sukuna’s defense about unknown, lingering threats.
Megumi’s shoulders sagged. He’d never felt so alone; they would never understand each other, even when it came to Sukuna. He didn’t respond, and Uraume dropped the conversation, too.
But at the shrine doorway before departing, they turned back and prompted Megumi, “If you have any requests for food…”
Megumi’s heart leapt to his throat. Just weeks ago, Sukuna had made him miso soup, remembering Megumi’s wish for it from an offhand comment. “No,” he answered hastily. “No requests. Nothing—nothing special. I don’t want anything like that.”
The next evening, his refusal came back to bite him. Uraume’s prepared meal, damn their meddling, was communal, which meant Megumi couldn’t take his portions and hide in his room. He sat at the table quietly, trying to pretend he was alone and carefully not reaching for food at the same time as Sukuna.
But the silence was broken anyway. “Why do you insist on punishing yourself, depriving yourself of things you enjoy?” Sukuna sighed. Clearly, he’d heard Megumi declining Uraume’s offer—of course he had. “Megumi, your guilt is misplaced.”
Megumi glanced up, barely mustering a glare. He just wanted to eat then sleep and not let the low simmer of grief overwhelm him in between. “And you have none at all. One of us needs to feel something over what happened—what you did for me. Why wouldn’t I feel guilty?”
“You truly fault yourself for it?”
With an askance look and vague, sinking sense of disappointment, Megumi asked quietly, “Did you think I wouldn’t?”
Sukuna pushed his rice around, taking a long moment to think. “Not directly. You normally don’t blame yourself over something outside your control.”
“Well, I blame you more,” Megumi sighed.
With a frown, Sukuna replied, “You should blame the humans, for what they did.”
“Don’t,” snapped Megumi. “Who should I blame? Sato, who restrained the man trying to kill me? Who helped me come to Minashi Shrine when your fires went out?” Sukuna’s expression twisted, stricken; Megumi didn’t care. “You should have thanked him that I was even alive when you found me. But you killed him instead, him and his wife.”
Megumi shoved away from the table and left, back to his lonely bedroom. Maybe once, he would have blamed Kida and the monk, agreed that they at least deserved it. He would have thought them foolish for even trying to cross Sukuna. But Kida had only gone to such lengths because Sukuna killed his grandchild and worshipping him was a step too far. Megumi understood it. He thought of the sorcerer from months ago, Minamoto, who sought revenge for his sister’s death alongside the sorcerers of the jujutsu school.
Were they truly so wrong? Could they be blamed for attacking when Sukuna had taken lives and loved ones from them in the first place? They’d paid the ultimate price for it, and now Sukuna stood within a lake of good men’s blood. Megumi had been so blind.
He’d tried not to close his eyes to Sukuna’s true nature, but as they’d grown closer, his soul had cried afoul, clamoring that malevolence couldn’t possibly be all of Sukuna when he so kindly and intently cared for Megumi and, in a different way, for Uraume. He’d thought to himself: this is not a curse; he is not a curse, or at least he is not the curse we thought he was.
But Sukuna was. He always had been. Maybe Sukuna wasn’t entirely a weapon for massacre, but that penchant was innately part of him. A sheathed sword was still as sharp. For months, Megumi had ignored its edges, telling himself that Sukuna had changed just because he didn’t return to the shrine bloody anymore, because he didn’t eat humans anymore, because he’d compromised.
Yet how many people had Sukuna killed during his preparations in December? Megumi hadn’t even thought to ask, and now he didn’t want to. Would Sukuna even have cared to remember? People weren’t individuals to him. There was no Kida or Sato or Nakada in his mind, only the mass of humans from the village. He didn’t distinguish between Kida trying to kill Megumi and Sato saving him. One person’s insolence, one person’s threat, represented the entire town. And so the involvement of the Hida Kokubun-ji’s monk condemned not just the neighboring village, but the entire region as well. Only the pact kept Sukuna at bay. But Megumi withered at the prospect of staying on this endless path of outrage, guilt, and woe.
An hour or two later, when the sun had set, Sukuna came to Megumi’s room, sliding the door open. He sat right outside the threshold in the hallway.
Megumi, resting against the far wall with his legs drawn up, found his voice first this time. Megumi didn’t really want to talk to Sukuna, but he didn’t know how to not, either. Sukuna read him like a book, spine cracked already. It was habit for his heart to reveal itself to Sukuna, for his feelings to join the rest of the secrets and stories Megumi had confided in him before.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, through his hair, and thunked his head back against the wall. There was so much in his mind and yet— “I’m so mad at you,” he said, which barely even skimmed the surface.
“I know,” Sukuna replied gently.
“You don’t regret it, and even if you did—even if you did, it wouldn’t bring them back.” Megumi hugged his knees closer to his chest. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this,” he admitted.
Sukuna looked uncertain, but he replied, “You do not need to do anything but be here.”
So Megumi gave in, that night. He didn’t protest when Sukuna shifted, making to move into Megumi’s room. He didn’t leave when Sukuna sat next to him, and he didn’t not lean against him. Guilt ate at Megumi, but it was so easy to let Sukuna hold him and have someone.
The passivity was—simple. Committing to his anger was so infinitely draining. The fighting and tension only exhausted Megumi; neither he nor Sukuna conceded. So as February progressed into its later stages and the weather slowly warmed, Megumi stayed at the shrine, day after day, and didn’t do anything at all.
The sun didn’t kiss his skin; the rain didn’t feel wet. The wind turned the planet past him, and only Megumi was wilted still, a man made of decay stuck in rotted soil, while the trees regained color and grass broke through the last frosts of winter. They’d made a pact to preserve their life, but this was barely an existence.
The rift between Megumi and Sukuna widened each day, though it wasn’t for a lack of clinging, miserable desperation. The loneliness slid into Megumi through his empty hands, his husk of a body, and muffled the guilt enough that he couldn’t help himself.
He went to sleep alone in his room until he woke covered in a thin layer of clammy sweat, and then he crawled back to Sukuna to curl into his side, heart in his throat. In the mornings, Megumi would realize who had caused the nightmares that plagued him, and he would wrench himself away. But Sukuna would come to him soon after, beseeching, “I dreamt that you—” and clutch Megumi tight.
They took turns seeking each other out in the nights, to fill the chasm with something, anything, of before. It was precarious, the balance they set. Sukuna gave whatever Megumi asked, but Megumi didn’t want to ask even when he did. Their interactions were tinged with grief from Megumi’s end and penitence from Sukuna’s. But Megumi knew Sukuna would do it again if he had to, and that was why it hurt so much, their desolate back and forth.
His ribcage was shattered wide open, and like Sukuna’s mouth grinning, it dripped with blood, with anguish and agony, with the ashamed addiction that drove Megumi to open his arms for Sukuna, to open his legs. It was disgraceful; Megumi felt betrayed by himself. But he was so alone and sad, and his heart craved the comfort of Sukuna’s touch, and his body knew only to lean into it.
They lay in the main hall of the shrine, and the day was bright, both outdoors and within the room, through the unfixed puncture. Slow and ardent, Sukuna moved inside Megumi. Air ached in his lungs.
This tenderness was a slice of before, but it was a pale imitation, a performance born from their yearning. It didn’t fit, not anymore. Megumi didn’t want Sukuna to be gentle. He needed him frenzied, untamable, to hurt him, so Megumi could see the wounds of his soul upon his body, proof of his pain. He hoped Sukuna would carve him open and reveal the geode he’d become, stagnant and stuck in this place with grief and sorrow crystallized in his chest.
“Stay with me,” Sukuna pleaded into Megumi’s neck. He nosed along his jaw, and his hand tightened on his hip, and Megumi’s legs wrapped around Sukuna’s body with a low, hurt sound.
Their bodies were an afterthought. It was their hearts, reaching. They had named every star in the sky together and counted every blade of grass. Their life had been a shared one in this pocket of time. But they would never slot together the same way again; their edges were roughed and reshaped, worn by the fracture.
Sukuna kissed Megumi’s collarbone, an agonizingly tender thing, and Megumi stared up at the blue blue blue sky above them, through the broken walls of the shrine, and knew it was over.
Commotion outside broke the quiet of the day. Megumi went to the doorway, shadowed by the haiden’s cover, and found Sukuna at the far end of the shrine grounds, regarding intruders with disdain.
Three sorcerers, their cursed energy flaring, stood on edge with weapons ready. At the front of the pack was the young sorcerer from months ago, Minamoto, who Megumi had chased from the village, and Megumi heard him declaring all three of the same family, a rich and powerful offshoot of the Imperial dynasty. “We shall put your reign of terror to an end,” Minamoto, the main one, snarled, as spiteful as Megumi remembered him.
He brandished a number of paper talismans in his hand, and even from here, Megumi could see the power they exuded, not at all the shabby, makeshift seals Megumi would expect from a sorcerer of Minamoto’s amateur caliber. Fear, or some nervous emotion like foreboding, stuck in Megumi’s throat.
His feet moved. When he emerged into the bright daylight, Minamoto’s eyes caught on him, shifting from Sukuna. Shock twisted his features. “You!” He took a step back, confidence wavering. “You were supposed to be dead. The monk said the poison—” he cut himself off, but it was too late.
Distantly, Megumi felt surprise flutter through him. Of course; the culprits weren’t only the nervous monk and Kida, an old farmer with a grudge. This was planned: the poison from the medicinal goods of the Hida Kokubun-ji to eliminate Megumi, and the seals from Minamoto, who’d sought a weakened, unsupported Sukuna.
“Ah,” said Sukuna, his voice the honed edge of a blade. “So it was your plan, the poisoning?” He flexed his hand, nails sharp and glinting.
Dread clogged Megumi’s veins. Death loomed in the air, an inevitable specter. He ran down the stairs, yelling, “Wait!”
But the shrine grounds were too long, and Sukuna, too angry. His fingers flicked, and the two other sorcerers with Minamoto collapsed, the tops of their heads slashed off. Their bodies shuddered, one last gasp, so quick the deaths had been, before blood poured over the ground.
Megumi stilled, horror winding within his lungs. Only Minamoto remained alive, splattered with the flesh of his brothers. He, too, was frozen, his eyes wide and terrified. And Megumi knew this scene well—had been on the receiving end of it: Sukuna playing with his food, drawing the fear out until he could taste it. Minamoto staggered back, tripping on the leg of his comrade.
“Shall I show you what happens to people who displease me?” Sukuna grinned, wide and monstrous.
Megumi couldn’t watch this. It wasn’t panic or worry or fatigue that drove him; bitter anger gnashed within, and he raced down the shrine grounds, yelling, “Stop, Sukuna!”
Perhaps it was the blaze of his cursed energy or the ire in his voice, but this time Sukuna heeded Megumi’s cry. He turned from Minamoto, biting, “Why?”
Megumi crashed into Sukuna, grabbing an arm with both hands, and looked up at him to implore, “Don’t.”
“Let me go,” said Sukuna, apparently unwilling to just pull himself from Megumi’s hold.
“Leave it, Sukuna,” said Megumi. “I’m tired of begging, having you ignore me. And I’m so tired,” his voice wavered, “of death and killing. We made a pact, so we could stay like this, and you’ve already—” He glanced at the shrine entrance, the two dead bodies, with despair thick in his lungs.
It seemed Minamoto had fled, vanishing into the forest with his speed technique. Sukuna followed Megumi’s gaze and noticed, too, then glared at the loss of the third body he’d wanted to mince. “He is not one of your precious townspeople,” said Sukuna. “An outsider, not from this region, and no one you care about. He planned the poisoning, Megumi, and I will not tolerate that. You made no pact to keep him alive.”
But that wasn’t true, Megumi realized with a jolt. He had saved Minamoto, too, by driving him from the town and an early, fruitless death at Sukuna’s hands. It would trigger the pact, if Sukuna killed him—if Megumi let Sukuna go.
The awareness stuck, along with the terrible sting that Sukuna had no problem breaking the spirit of their pact. He knew Sukuna understood Megumi’s intent, yet he twisted the semantics to suit his purposes, to kill the two Minamoto sorcerers without consequence, to give chase to the other.
It would never stop, Megumi realized. This would be it, his life. The next time the jujutsu school attacked, Sukuna would tear flesh from bone, spine from back. And Megumi would have to stay, because he’d sworn to.
It wasn’t even anger, this acrid taste in his heart. Mourning, contempt, duty—they coalesced in Megumi and hardened there, cold. The fires were quenched, and all that remained was that cavern in the dark. Sukuna was in there, but it was the ghost of him.
And Megumi felt empty, so empty, as he gazed up at Sukuna and saw him as if through water. “Yeah,” Megumi lied. And he let Sukuna go.
The lure of vengeance was too strong. Silence beat for a moment, but Megumi’s expression was steady; there was no fear in him that Sukuna would know he was bluffing; there was nothing in him at all. And so Sukuna went, with a last squeeze of Megumi’s hand, to hunt Minamoto through the forest.
Megumi was left there at the suddenly silent shrine. He stared hollowly at the bodies of the sorcerers, their blood pooling thick under the torii, and at the woods beyond. Life was just beginning anew in the world. Spring was near. But Megumi was surrounded only by death.
He knew it was Sukuna’s fault, ultimately, for killing Minamoto’s sister and plundering enough infamy that the jujutsu school had tried to intervene in the first place. But in that moment, a visceral hatred for Minamoto filled Megumi. He’d saved him, and Minamoto had wasted it, that chance for a life outside the cycle of retribution. And now he’d ruined Megumi’s by bringing that same death and revenge to his doorstep.
Sukuna would—would he die? Megumi felt sick just thinking about it. Would the pact kill him?
Megumi had made his decision in telling Sukuna that the vow didn’t apply to Minamoto. Already, a minute had passed, and Megumi failed to do or say anything, to call Sukuna back. But could he really let Sukuna just—die, or face whatever consequences the pact would wring from him?
Apprehension submerged Megumi. The image of Sukuna suffering alone in the forest was—terrible, terrifying, especially on the heels of these smaller memories of vulnerability: Sukuna’s secret, pleased smiles, Sukuna begging, “Stay,” Sukuna admitting to Uraume and Megumi that he would miss them—companionship—when he was sealed.
Megumi knew Sukuna needed to be stopped, to pay for the slaughter of the town. He knew. But he didn’t want him to die. That certainty filled Megumi from the very core of his soul, something fundamental, like his sense of himself, his name, the shadows impressed upon the insides of his skin.
This hum of his heart, the love he held for Sukuna—it urged Megumi to go, to do something, anything, if only to be there and take responsibility. He would need to leave the shrine to follow Sukuna, which would break his side of the vow. But Megumi was a bag of bones and heartache. Fatalism sank in. Who cared, at this point, if the pact claimed him, too?
Megumi summoned Kon. His shikigami looked at him, ready, and he commanded, “Take me to Sukuna.”
Kon was moving before he even finished, the manifestation of his soul. Megumi followed. He stepped over the dead bodies at the entrance of the shrine and didn’t glance down, eyes ahead, as he crossed the threshold.
No power immediately executed him for it, this second betrayal. Megumi swallowed thickly, trepidation swirling, and continued. Either Sukuna’s side of the pact was already broken or Megumi’s consequences would arise later. But either way, he needed to hurry.
He ran behind Kon on the mountain trail. They diverged soon from the route that led down to the town’s remains. Instead, Kon led Megumi toward the neighboring town, the one with the kokubun-ji. This path—it was a mirror of the one they’d traveled in December, while leaf-peeping. Sukuna had carried Megumi on his shoulders then, letting him touch those branches.
Kon took them further and further, and Megumi ran until his lungs burned. He didn’t know what he hoped, to stop Sukuna or save him or simply see him. But he needed to—
There, in the distance, was Sukuna’s figure, leaned heavily against a tree. And on the ground, Minamoto, or rather his body, sliced in pieces. Sukuna was—
Megumi stared in growing horror as he slowed and reached him. Blood leaked from his abdominal mouth, soaking his kimono, and Sukuna’s hands dug into the tree’s trunk, holding himself upright. His eyes were closed, but at the sound of Megumi’s approach, they opened.
There was a moment, hanging in the air, like they were meeting for the first time again.
And then Sukuna hauled himself from the tree and snarled, “Megumi.” His foot caught, and he staggered, nearly falling.
“Sukuna!” Megumi cried, jumping forward instinctively then going rigid, arms frozen outstretched.
“You knew,” Sukuna accused, his cursed energy boiling.
Sweat broke out on Megumi’s forehead, and his heart tripped in fear. Even when Megumi had slain the dragon, revealed his plan to Sukuna, he hadn’t looked at him with such rage. This was—this was the crazed wrath from when Sukuna first incarnated, his eyes blazing.
“You’re here,” Sukuna spat, chest heaving not with breath, but with fury, “because you knew I had broken my side of the pact by killing him. You knew, right, Megumi? That he was one of the ones you saved.”
“Sukuna—” Megumi started. Words failed him. He couldn’t look away from Sukuna’s state, the pain he was in. His mind was static.
“You let me go after him, and you waited long enough for me to kill him, didn’t you? So that pact—ha!—could weaken me. Did you want to finish me off yourself?” Sukuna shuddered, wracked by a spasm, then grinned wide and lethal without any humor at all. “Or just watch me die, Megumi?”
Megumi shook his head blankly. Every accusation, each tremor, the sight of him, carved Megumi’s heart from his chest. “I didn’t mean to—” he attempted, but Megumi couldn’t bring himself to lie again, or to voice the truth.
“Either you are a fool, or you are doing your best impression of one,” sneered Sukuna, “if you truly think I would believe you did not mean this.”
Megumi’s fear was swallowed by rising anger. Sukuna’s cursed energy battered him still, but it was tattered, worn, and familiar to Megumi. “Perhaps it’s you who is the fool,” he countered, “if you can’t see why this happened at all. It was you who slaughtered the town, who offered the pact, and you who broke it.”
“To keep you safe,” said Sukuna. “But you—lied to me.”
“You prioritized my safety over me, my will. You knew I just wanted—peace. That for once, I had it, with you—but then—it wasn’t your choice to make, killing everyone for me.”
“Spare me the philosophizing,” said Sukuna. “It was my choice to act as I did. And it was yours to do what you did. Does it please you, that your decisions have led to this—the fulfillment of your first scheme with the dragon? You made me a god, reduced my power, Megumi, and now you’ve killed me.”
Megumi blinked, trying to keep stinging tears from his eyes. “All I wanted—” He cut himself off, turning away from that poisonous, hard gaze. “It hardly matters now.”
His eyes found the scattered chunks of Minamoto’s body, of his head, face-down in the dirt. Sukuna did this, even knowing Megumi’s wishes. Minamoto had been young, he remembered. Megumi had scorned him then, but now he felt only a deep pang of sympathy.
Minamoto’s arm lay severed, and his hand still clutched the seals, beige ribbons with writing. With a start, Megumi recognized them: no, not makeshift at all, but perhaps crafted by his clan, some of the most powerful talismans he’d seen, and…the same seals on Sukuna’s fingers in the future.
Megumi’s vision seemed to tunnel. His mind ground to a halt, hooked on them. Was this—
Sukuna coughed and staggered, dragging Megumi’s attention back. Blood dripped down his chin. His knees hit the ground hard, but he caught himself on two hands, then let out a dry bark of a laugh, an angry, scornful thing, almost aimed at himself. “Lost your tongue?” Sukuna jeered, when Megumi didn’t move, frozen. One of his free hands ineffectively wiped his mouth. “You always have so much to say, storyteller. Tell me: how does this one end? My soul fragmenting while you watch, victorious?”
Megumi couldn’t muster a single sound thought. He was shaking, a dry leaf in the wind, feeling weak and tiny. Because he understood now. The realization slotted into place between the talismans and Sukuna, his soul splintered by the pact.
“You get sealed,” Megumi said, nearly outside himself, the same thing he’d once told Sukuna on a reflection of this very path.
Sukuna sneered. “When? After I am already dead? It is too late for—” and then he froze, and his wide eyes found Megumi’s. Whatever expression he found there, a bitter chuckle escaped him. “Of course,” Sukuna whispered, then hung his head. “Of course it’s you.”
Blood splattered from Sukuna onto the ground. Megumi couldn’t make himself move, standing above him, and felt like he was watching them both from afar. The distance between him and Sukuna was chasmic.
“I will kill you for this,” said Sukuna, his voice quiet and strained but furious, “rip you from limb to limb, until there’s not even a body. You think I would simply let you—”
One of Sukuna’s free hands twitched, and Megumi’s instincts took over. The trees behind him cracked thunderously as they were axed, but Megumi had dodged to the side. He rolled, got his feet under him, and circled behind.
Heart pounding, Megumi opened the shadows below Sukuna. He wrapped his arms around Sukuna’s neck from behind, and through the dematerialized ground, moved him bodily to lay on his back. Sukuna struggled, gnashing, but he couldn’t reach Megumi. A line of four trees fell, sliced diagonally by a twitch of a finger.
Shadows surfaced strategically in small pockets, submerging enough of Sukuna’s body, forearms, and tips of his fingers that he was pinned and subdued. His frayed cursed energy pummeled Megumi futilely.
Megumi didn’t think—couldn’t. He knew what he had to do, what he actively was, but couldn’t stand to recognize himself as doing so. Megumi was a shadow of himself in that moment, and Sukuna, a curse.
He pulled the seals from Minamoto’s clasped hand, more than twenty. And then from Megumi’s void rose a sword. The hilt felt foreign, like his palm wasn’t his, and he stared down at Sukuna with eyes that didn’t see.
Megumi knelt at Sukuna’s side, gripping the sword, and held it over Sukuna’s hand. His eyes found the target, the base of Sukuna’s finger, where it met his palm. He was shaking; the weapon quivered in his grip, unsteady. This sword—the awareness spilled into him that Sukuna had gifted it to Megumi while helping him train, a memory colored by tender encouragement. And Sukuna’s face, so dear to him, was now stricken by pain and betrayal. What—what was he doing?
Megumi crashed back into himself. Reality shattered the block in his mind, like surfacing from the river. Sound unmuted. The forest was quiet around them, but Megumi’s breaths were loud to his own ears. Sukuna coughed wetly.
The sword fell from his limp fingers, and Megumi bowed over Sukuna. “Oh god,” he cried, clutching at him. His soul cried out for Sukuna’s, but it was too late, it was— “Sukuna, I’m sorry.”
Grief poured from Megumi. His hand found Sukuna’s cheek, but Sukuna turned his face away with a snarl. “Comforting yourself with my body after you broke it?” he spat. Sukuna wrenched in his binds. “You fucking brat. Do not insult me.”
Megumi withdrew, sitting up. His shoulders were heavy with sorrow. “This will save you,” he said, a pathetic consolation. “You won’t die this way.”
Sukuna laughed, a derisive sound Megumi had never heard from him before. “I would rather,” he said, then fell silent with a pained noise.
Immobilized and hurting, Sukuna could only track Megumi with his eyes, only snap angrily. It was horrible—bile was bitter in Megumi’s throat, and his stomach squirmed nauseously. But in the end, it wasn’t a matter of whether Megumi could do it or not. He had to.
Megumi grasped the sword again, one Sukuna had given him, stronger and more honed than any of his others, and in one full, sharp motion, brought it down.
There was a pause, then Megumi pulled the sword back, and Sukuna’s finger lay there, severed from his hand. He reached and picked it up, parting the finger from Sukuna entirely, and it took Megumi three tries to get the talisman wrap started, with how his hands trembled. But slowly, unsteadily, the finger was bound by the seal, covered entirely, and the first of twenty was done.
Then again—and again—and again, Megumi did the same to the next finger, and the next. Even in his shaking grip, the cuts were easy, which was the worst part; the sword slid smoothly through Sukuna’s flesh, weakened over the months of worship. It felt wrong, like Megumi should need to hack and chop at them, but instead the fingers split and cursed blood spilled onto the forest floor, and Megumi moved onto the second hand.
Hot tears bit at his eyes, but Megumi blinked them back, didn’t let Sukuna see. He focused on wrapping the pinky of this hand, his own fingers slick now with blood.
“I should have killed you when you were nothing but a whore to me,” Sukuna hissed, raging. His face had lost some of its complexion. Megumi tried not to look at him or react, but his wince gave him away, and Sukuna laughed, cruel and hoarse.
Megumi didn’t have the capacity to block out Sukuna’s insults, his threats. Each one burrowed into Megumi: that he’d kill him when he came back, he’d flatten his ribs, that he’d pull Megumi’s arms off and heal him and do it all over again.
He could only go on. It was too late for anything else. Sukuna’s blood soaked into his skin, staining him. It burned in Megumi’s bones. One by one, he cut along the lines of Sukuna’s fingers then enveloped them in the talismans.
These seals would hold, not forever, Megumi knew, but for a thousand years, until the incarnation in modern Tokyo. For now, they would hold and let Sukuna sleep—
But who was Megumi kidding, telling himself this was the merciful way to both stop Sukuna’s rampage and keep him from dying? He wasn’t doing Sukuna any favors. He would be stuck in Itadori’s body and suppressed, murderously livid about it. This was betrayal, clear to them both. It had been back at the shrine, when Megumi lied. Just a few weeks ago, Sukuna had been covered in Megumi’s blood to save him, and now Megumi was cutting him, making him bleed.
The third hand was the same, except the blade was losing its edge, slowly worn down by even Sukuna's weakened flesh. The dulled metal caught on some of the cuts, and it was sickening then, as Megumi had to saw at the tendons to separate the fingers, the wounds torn and messy.
Sukuna didn’t seem to notice a difference. He’d fallen quiet, and when Megumi glanced at him, he looked dazed. His eyes were open but unseeing, and his body lay limp, so devoid of Sukuna’s usual presence that he was nearly a corpse already.
As each fragment of his soul was sealed, he lost more of himself. Megumi couldn’t think about it. If he did, he wouldn’t be able to—finish, and the only thing crueler would be to leave Sukuna partially sealed. The void of his shadows felt hollow when Megumi pulled from it his two other swords, which wouldn’t last as long but would be enough for these last seven—six, now, moving to the thumb—
Oh. Megumi stared and stared and stared and felt himself cave in, anguished. There, around the base of Sukuna’s thumb, was the scar of Megumi’s bite. Like a guide to slice, the marks stood out pale. Megumi would have to cut right over them, where his teeth had broken skin just a month ago, where Sukuna had looked and declared, “I like it.”
The disquiet Megumi had felt then at the notion of Sukuna’s waned impenetrability—Sukuna had been right; this was the culmination of Megumi’s efforts to diminish his power. Tears welled in his eyes. He was made of guilt.
“Megumi?” Sukuna asked, when Megumi gave in and touched his shoulder briefly. His voice was subdued and tentative, like a confused child, words blurring together. “What’s going on? I can’t see.”
Megumi’s expression crumpled, and he took a heaving, shuddering breath as tears spilled over his cheeks. “Everything’s okay,” he lied, because it was too late for honesty now.
He stabbed the sword down with his wavering strength and pierced clean through the thumb. Then Megumi sat there, his forehead bent to the upright hilt of the sword, covered in blood, and watched his tears drip down to the dirt. Oh god.
One more hand, and he would be done. The pile of sealed fingers sat by his knee. He couldn’t—couldn’t do this. This was Sukuna, his, who made him happy, shared his time with him and worried over him and cared, who’d told Megumi to laugh more and then endeavored to make it so, who smiled so pleased when he succeeded.
But reality had dismantled that dream of a life. Megumi had only memories and mourning now. He felt empty, vacant. Four fingers left. Then three. Then two.
Sukuna shifted. “Megumi, something is wrong.” Worry laced his tone. With heartbreaking urgency, Sukuna insisted weakly, “Megumi, you need to get out of here. I can’t—like this, I can’t—”
“You’ll see me again,” Megumi told him, voice watery and weak. One more finger. “You recognize me, don’t you? In the future. You know me, but you—” He couldn’t bring himself to say it, the truth of Sukuna’s hate.
“Megumi, don’t—don’t cry,” Sukuna reached out, the stumps at his knuckles ragged and trickling cursed blood. It had pooled in his open palms and flowed down now over his arms.
Megumi finished enfolding the last finger. “Sukuna,” he murmured, tremulous. He clutched at Sukuna’s wrist, feeling the wet skin and bone under his fingers. The curse mark band was slowly fading. “I’m sorry,” he cried, “I’m so sorry.”
He touched his trembling hand to that dear cheek, to Sukuna, his, who had tucked into his heart and changed him by simply being. Megumi didn’t know how to exist separate from him.
But Sukuna was entirely still. The pact was completed by the double-edged sword of what they’d been. At last, the King of Curses was sealed. His curse marks faded, leaving his skin blank, and under Megumi’s hand, the body began disintegrating, leaving nothing but dust for the black hole of Megumi’s soul.
No no no, he wasn’t ready, he couldn’t bear to see, he shouldn’t have, no no, not his—
Megumi slumped in the spot where Sukuna had laid and wept. His heart twisted. The air in his lungs was poison, but there was no one left—how could he have—an animalistic wail tore from his throat, and Megumi screamed into the shadow he had left.
Sukuna.
Oh god, what had he done? Let him die for it, for this agony to end. The rain could sweep him away and lightning might strike him down and it would be mercy, oh god.
Megumi curled on the ground in the blood, in the dissolved pool of his own spirit, gutted by guilt. There was no comfort, no solace, no life in this dead dead dead world. Regret was an ocean, and Megumi was sinking.
Because the truth was, Megumi would have stayed here, in this time. Even though the future waited, even without the pact, Megumi had already chosen. His heart had decided for him in between the meals and conversation and nights, together, and mornings, together.
But his soul only bled with it now, that choice, because he’d made a different one today. It haunted him already, that wasted, wistful dream—and it was too late, too late, too late—that he would have stayed.
Notes:
The Minamoto clan was one of the most powerful, derived from the Imperial family, during the Heian Period. They were members of the Imperial family who were not in the line of succession.
Senko-ji is the Sukuna temple in Hida.
Chapter 13: late February to mid-March
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
On an evening when the spring mists
Trail over the wide sea,
And sad is the voice of the cranes,
I think of my far-off home.—Manyōshū XX: 4399
The notion of moving felt far away. Megumi’s body was separate from him, his legs numb and the ache of his bloodied hands muffled. But thoughts of the fingers roused him.
In a small mountain in their seals, they sat where he’d left them, innocuous and unmoving. Despair blotted through him. Megumi reached out slowly, saw his own fingers shaking violently. Revulsion turned his stomach, and he gagged at the thought of—of touching them, holding them, a mockery. Turning away, barely holding himself up on weak, trembling arms, Megumi vomited what little was in his stomach. Tears mixed into it, and his nails bit into the dirt as he clenched his hands. He tasted like sick, like blood, like salt.
A choked sob escaped him, and it felt so sudden and loud in the silent forest. Megumi turned back to the fingers and collapsed there, staring at them, that pile of bones. His breaths were unsteady. His lungs rejected air, convulsing against the idea of living, of going on. No, he couldn’t move, couldn’t dig himself from the ground. There was no point. All Megumi wanted to do was let himself cry then drown in it. He’d stay here, inanimate and deadened, and eventually his skin would grow down into the dirt, and the earth would cover him layer by layer as time passed his blissfully unconscious body. And maybe in a thousand years, Sukuna would come here and find the burial mound Megumi had become.
Night fell, a sudden shift to dark, and Megumi stared at the trees above, the thin canopy silhouetted by the stars, and barely saw them at all. The hollow cave between his ribs had spread to his senses. Reality didn’t feel real. It couldn’t possibly be.
This trail, this forest—how could they lead to the same place where he and Sukuna had made golden promises? That day, so brightly it had begun, with Sukuna playing fetch with Kuro and his eagerness to show Megumi the glowing leaves of the ginkgo tree. But the monk from that very temple had poisoned Megumi, and on the walk back to the shrine, Megumi had revealed Sukuna’s sealing to him, which now haunted him, the prophecy fulfilled.
That monk lived still. But what did it matter? A part of Megumi thought briefly of justice, but it vanished quickly into the fog of his dazed exhaustion. Revenge didn’t save anyone; he could barely fault the man for his actions, anyway. And it was too late.
The sky was light when Megumi next noticed it. Had he slept? He didn’t feel rested or unrested either way. Waterlogged and sunken-in, Megumi lay limply. He scrubbed a hand over his face, his cool, damp cheeks, and felt the scratch of the dried blood on his palms.
It wasn’t a sense of responsibility that moved him eventually. Flies buzzed around, attracted to the stench of Minamoto’s body, and Megumi had been ignoring the whine of their wings, even when they landed on him. But when a fly found Sukuna’s fingers, he swatted at it almost instinctively.
He pushed himself up, waved a hand over the stack, and gathered them toward himself. And so easily the fingers came, lightweight and without resistance, rolling down the pile. Megumi swallowed, his throat thick. He pulled his hanten off, and tasting acid as he touched the stained seals and shape of Sukuna’s fingers, Megumi folded them into the cloth, one by one by one by one by one, all the way to twenty.
It was impersonal to count them, so unsafe to carry them this way. But Megumi couldn’t bear the thought of touching Sukuna with his shadows again when he’d trapped him once already. This sensation of things being wrong—it would plague him, he knew. Each breath he took, each bend of his fingers, each blink evoked the phantom of Sukuna, vestiges climbed down from the mountain. As Megumi tied off the sleeves and made a bundle, he recalled with a pang how Sukuna had asked the villagers for these winter clothes for him.
Regret wasn’t simply a desert to wander; it was quicksand, and Megumi wished it would pull him under. Just as Sukuna’s fingers were swaddled, let Megumi be enveloped, too. By the time he stood, the misplaced sections of his soul bundled in his arms like a babe, Megumi was weeping, tears tracked down his cheeks and quivering chin.
It took immense effort to begin and more effort every step. Megumi couldn’t think, couldn’t look at the ground, which invited him to simply sleep and slip away. This one, his brain told him. This one was enough. He’d carried Sukuna away from the dark mud of carnage. But Megumi’s feet continued, ahead, ahead, even while dragging.
Blood pooled, drying and stained rusty at the entrance of Minashi Shrine. Some habit had brought him here, an emergency autopilot of his mind. Megumi didn’t stop, didn’t look down at the two bodies. What did they matter? In this shrine, Megumi had mourned too soon, over the town and people Sukuna killed, without knowing the taste of true grief, of what was to come.
Echoes filled the air, and each whisper eroded him. Here, on these steps, they had written their names together on New Year’s Eve. Here, in this main room, they had shared their meals. Here, in this room, this bed, they had come together as one soul.
The shrine was suffused with Sukuna, with their life. Megumi couldn’t stay here; already his heart pattered with fast, jittery shivers. The hearths and lanterns were dark, but the walls and floors felt on fire. It closed in on him, the smoke and cinder.
Everything was like they’d left it. The sheets were tangled and messy from their last night. How Megumi wished he hadn’t pushed Sukuna away so many times these past weeks. The distress from the village’s massacre barely registered now, buried under this knowledge that Sukuna and Megumi would never—never again.
It was terrible, what Megumi had done. Everywhere he looked was evidence of the life he’d taken from Sukuna and himself: the poetry collections, the books, Megumi’s clay figures. Even on the bottom shelf, his bag of belongings from the future was stained by the memories of stories he’d told. His head swam with misery now. Approaching Sukuna—what had it brought him but tragedy?
He emptied the pack carelessly, letting his phone land with a clatter and his uniform button roll across the floor. Then with slow, gentle, shaking hands, Megumi placed the bundle of Sukuna’s fingers into it. He tied a cross-body sling, so it was bound to his chest, and cradled his arm around it.
And with only that, slipping his worn boots on, Megumi left. There was no belief in him, no faith, that it would be okay. Blood was still flaking from his hands. He couldn’t stop, couldn’t stay, on the verge of disintegrating into nothing if not for a fervent delirious responsibility: he had to take Sukuna’s fingers somewhere—somewhere safe.
The walk took an hour or maybe triple that time, slipping by without recollection. For the first time since the end of it all, Megumi went to the town, if it could still be called that. The bodies had been cleared, and all that remained were the surviving buildings, scorched and barely standing. The air was grey, and ash mixed with dirt; plumes puffed up every numb step Megumi took.
Not here, not here. He couldn’t stop here. The blackened rubble of the inn sat crumbled, and a sense of wrongness bubbled in Megumi, at himself, that he couldn’t muster an emotion. He remembered his sorrow at Sato’s death, at the townspeople's, but the same visceral feeling escaped him now.
He hugged Sukuna’s fingers close, pressing them to his chest. Every beat of his aching heart rang through them. Megumi was broken, his mind out of place, detached from the world by a coating of grief. All that was left of him was the splintered thread that linked him to these fingers.
Some feverish muscle memory traced the familiar, now charred, roads of the town, then Megumi walked on and on and on. Dusk settled at some point on his trek, though Megumi barely noticed. So long ago, on this path, Sukuna had found Megumi crying, worried at his scream. He’d been comforting then in his own way, though Megumi hadn’t understood. That day, Megumi had chosen happiness, seeking the warm glow of Sukuna that lightened even his homesickness. He’d followed Sukuna on this trail back to the shrine—to here.
The forest path opened into the empty clearing. Spring hadn’t arrived yet, but the grass was overgrown. Saplings poked their heads up near the roots of the tree line. There were no signs of life beyond that, no movement or blood or bones, and yet the clearing brimmed with ghosts, with apparitions of memories painted onto the air directly.
This was where Megumi had waited with the fires flickering out. This was where they’d trained. Megumi had tamed his rabbits here. They’d shared sake under the moonlight. This was where Megumi had first asked Sukuna about his origins, where he’d first arrived to make his gamble.
He’d wanted to move back here after Sukuna returned in late December, but they’d agreed to wait, so Sukuna could ensure Megumi’s warmth and safety. The irony made his eyes burn. Wait for what—this? The end of them had been only desolation. He wanted to yell for Sukuna, helpless and irrational: Come to me when I call. But he wouldn’t. Even residuals of Sukuna’s aura had disappeared.
And as a thousand years passed, this clearing would remain empty. The saplings would sprout into trees, strong ones with sturdy trunks, and their branches would grow wide until the space was claimed by the forest. Perhaps a city would burgeon atop that, eventually. But it would be gone, this place where they’d made their memories, transformed by time and its inexorable crawl.
Megumi remained in the clearing for a moment, a minute, an hour more. It beckoned to him, enticing, a low rustle on the wind telling him to lay down in the imprint of their old bedroom, to simply rest his head there. Every second it became more tempting, a tug on the frayed nerves peeking from his raw skin.
But Megumi knew: not here, not here either. He needed to keep moving so his feet wouldn’t sink into the mud. And he would, he would, just—Sukuna. Megumi’s last long look became a lingering, sore thing.
Then a presence landed behind him, and the world froze. A force threw him back, and he had time only to throw his arms around the bundle, to shield it, as his limbs were encased. Megumi pulled in a sharp breath as bone-chilling cold seeped into him. Ice enveloped him to his chest, including Sukuna’s fingers in his hold.
There was no sense of surprise. His mouth formed around some instinctive response, but when Megumi opened his eyes, words left him, chased by the face of such fury. The placid, calm Uraume was a storm now, their features twisted. It wasn’t only rage, but disbelief, too, and anguish.
“You—” Uraume snarled, grabbing Megumi by his collar. They shook him, and Megumi didn’t fight. “All those words about helping, saving. But you failed to tell us you would seal him.”
Megumi stared, feeling his gaze come from some faraway place within him. It could almost be the same as back then, when Uraume had threatened Megumi. But Sukuna wouldn’t—couldn’t—appear and tell them to quit. The ice sank deeper, sharper. He tried to muster some resistance, but the burn of the cold was nearly welcome.
“I didn’t know,” Megumi answered finally. His voice was scratchy, the first words he’d spoken since—since.
Uraume jerked him again, a violent jolt. “You conniving fucking sorcerer. Are you even from the future?” they asked, disgusted. “Was any of it true, or did you plan it all—coming from the jujutsu school, selling your body for a chance to hurt the King himself?”
Even if he’d been able to find any words, Megumi couldn’t defend himself. It didn’t matter that this was the last thing he’d wanted, that he loved Sukuna with every atom of himself, that that was perhaps why; sealing Sukuna was the only thing he’d done that mattered. It was so glaring, so unavoidable, that everything else faded away. Explaining would be worse, since the sealing had only saved Sukuna’s life because Megumi had orchestrated his death to begin with.
Up close, Megumi could see the disarray of Uraume’s hair, the bags under their eyes, and the sight shattered whatever vague reply he’d been assembling. At the lack, though, ice grew along Uraume’s fingers until jagged frozen points dug into Megumi’s neck.
Uraume looked him up and down, and pure disgust contorted their expression. With a crack, the ice shattered, leaving Megumi suddenly free, but he was wrenched forward and thrown across the clearing. The world blurred, and he hit the ground hard, scraping his arms where they’d risen protectively. Sukuna—
“Fight me!” Uraume yelled. “Fight back, so I can be done with you. So I can—” Megumi saw the moment Uraume noticed the fingers. They froze. “Is that—is that him?” Uraume asked, voice hard and suddenly deathly quiet. “The—the fingers?”
Megumi’s arms tightened around himself, pressing into the bumps and lines of the sealed fingers. “Uraume—”
“Give them to me,” said Uraume, the words spilling from them as they stalked forward, desperate. “Give them—let me see him!”
Uraume grabbed the pack, yanking it, and Megumi wrestled ineffectively at their prying hands. Panic shot through him. “Stop!” his voice broke free of his throat, louder now and alarmed.
Megumi heaved back, snatching the sack from Uraume. He fell backward when it gave: not Uraume, but the cloth. The bundle ripped, torn by their fighting, and Megumi’s heart stopped as Sukuna’s fingers were flung from the tear by the force of it and landed soundlessly on the ground.
There was silence. They stared, the two of them, at the scattered fingers. Some were near and others further, hidden in the grass. Megumi’s panic washed out of him, and underneath was the same empty despair. He trembled. As he bent and picked up one of the fingers, feeling the paper of the seals, the edges of the layers, Megumi saw his hand was shaking.
This was what was left of Sukuna, these inanimate, lifeless, vulnerable things that couldn’t move. It was wrong, so wrong. Blinking his watery eyes rapidly, Megumi picked up a second, then a third.
In his periphery, he saw Uraume slump to the ground. Knees curled to their chest, they brought their hands up, holding a finger to their face. Uraume pressed it to their forehead, to the top of their bent head.
In the quiet clearing, Megumi could hear their soft cries. He swallowed thickly, then ducked his head and picked up another finger. Nothing he could say would be welcome. But fresh waves of tears seared his eyes with every one of Uraume’s hitched breaths, each low, desperate, “Master Sukuna.”
As Megumi gathered the fingers, kneeled in the grass and combing through its reeds, he cried freely. He worried his lips, trying to keep from sniffling too loudly, hoping to simply disappear into the ground. But he couldn’t rest, not until—11, 12—
Uraume was the one to break the sodden hush. “I looked for your body,” they said, voice small and almost disbelieving. “I thought—when I found he was gone, when I saw those sorcerers’ bodies, I thought: surely, Megumi would have fought with him. I knew—I knew you were upset with him, but it never even crossed my mind. You must have been killed, I thought. You had to be dead, because otherwise it would mean,” their voice broke, “you left him.”
“I—” Megumi sat there, staring at them in the wild weeds, and couldn’t say more than a word.
Uraume’s remaining anger bled into misery. Despondent, they continued, “I looked—that entire day. The forest, the shrine. But all I found was signs of you leaving: your trinkets in the bedroom. You sealed him and ran.” They sounded so lost, tormented and confused. “I thought he meant as much to you as you did to him.”
Megumi’s heart wrenched. “He did,” he pleaded.
“Liar,” said Uraume, a quiet, hurt thing. It carried none of the ire from before, but the sad, barbed point tore through Megumi regardless. It had been a lie he’d used, in the end.
Megumi watched quietly from his own seat in the grass as Uraume found a few fingers of their own, clutching them with paranoid vehemence. He was so blindingly aware of what he’d taken from them.
Gazing down at the wrapped shape of the fingers, Uraume spoke, “Do you even know what you were to him? He would have burned the world for you. But you sealed him for a single measly town of humans.”
Megumi exhaled through the heavy block in his chest. Uraume was right; even if Sukuna’s actions had been unnecessary, perhaps irrational, as he painted the town with broad, bloody strokes, it had stemmed from his protective flame. “It couldn’t continue,” Megumi said, the same empty words he’d told himself a thousand times. “Sukuna killing people, the survivors seeking revenge then dying by his hand. It wasn’t about the town, or some monk.” Megumi swallowed. “All I wanted was him, but I couldn’t—I couldn’t be with him knowing it would just go on and on.”
“So you betrayed him?” Uraume laughed without humor. “The one he’d given so much—” they cut off with a rough shake of their head. “That monk is dead, you know.”
Megumi stared at them blankly. “Sukuna?”
Uraume barked a laugh. “Me, you fool. Did you really think Master Sukuna would just allow that sorcerer to keep his head? Pact or not.”
With a sigh, Megumi hung his head. When Sukuna had killed those other two Minamoto sorcerers, Megumi had been furious and betrayed that he’d broken the pact in spirit, by semantics. But now there was only resignation. “You see?” he asked. “This is why.”
“Keep your justifications to yourself,” Uraume scoffed. “He is a curse. What did you expect—forgiveness, mercy?”
Megumi shook his head, picking at a reed. “He said that, too, that this was his nature. But I know it wasn’t, at least not all of it. It’s more insulting to imply he couldn’t have curbed his instincts, as if he would allow himself to be purely controlled by the whim of his nature. No—it didn’t stem from his nature as a curse, but as himself.”
“And the difference? The humans—they were nothing to him regardless.”
“Because he could have stopped,” Megumi said, feeling that old helplessness ring in him once more. “He could have stopped, but he didn’t—wouldn’t. Sometimes, he’d speak to them, you know, when they came to the shrine. Sukuna had the capacity to see them as people. But he chose this.”
“Chose—” Uraume’s cursed energy spiked before they visibly restrained themselves. “Careful how you speak,” they warned, “or you might just push me to kill you, after all.”
Glancing up, Megumi asked, “Will you not?” He rummaged within himself to care either way, but the feeling evaded him.
Uraume made a noise, aiming for a haughty sniff and landing more on a sniffle. “Unlike you, I do not betray my lord’s word, and he said you were never to be harmed.”
Megumi tried to wrap his mind around that, those words remembered so distantly. “But he’s gone now,” he said helplessly.
“No, he’s not,” said Uraume, their grip on Sukuna’s fingers tightening. “And even if he was dead, his will would live on. No matter that he was sealed, no matter that it was you,” they took a shaky breath, “Master Sukuna’s plans in the future involve you, and that still stands, as well.”
An odd pressure pressed at the inside of Megumi’s chest, fresh pain from an old hurt. “How would his plans involve me if he forbade me from making a pact with the same sorcerer as you?”
Uraume traced over one of Sukuna’s fingers, a gentle, wistful thing. “Master Sukuna was stubborn about you,” they said. “He thought he had more time to find another way. We heard rumors of a new cursed object, a cube formed from a monk named Genshin, that could seal people agelessly.”
Their words came to rest at Megumi’s feet, begging to be questioned, examined—so Sukuna had looked, wanting to bring Megumi with him. But would he have searched this much if he hadn’t known what would happen to him? What did it say that so soon after Sukuna learned of his own sealing, two methods to travel to the future appeared? Megumi lacked the energy, the will, to ask and confirm it, what he already knew about Sukuna’s possessiveness of him, which kept Megumi regardless of his desires.
Uraume sighed. “You took that from him,” they said plainly. “Time. And so now I will complete his preparations however I can. Genshin’s cursed object is an unknown. I shall tell Kenjaku, the sorcerer who has bound me, to offer you the same pact.”
Between the pain and guilt of sealing Sukuna, it had been the last thing on Megumi’s mind, how this affected Uraume. They would die soon, be cursed, and sealed. Still, the way Uraume spoke of it was clinical, matter-of-fact, like their anguish stemmed from not their own fate, but only Sukuna’s.
Megumi asked after a moment, “You’re not upset? That you’ll have to—give up your life, become a curse?”
Uraume’s eyebrows furrowed, and they tilted their head in consideration. “What different worlds we are from,” they mused, then answered, “To become a curse can be…evolution. And being sealed—if it means I can see Master Sukuna, assist Master Sukuna, then there is no better fate for me.”
Megumi’s stomach sank at Uraume’s words, their tone, as though it was that simple. What loyalty flowed from Uraume, that they would sacrifice everything to carry Sukuna’s will forward. Megumi had shattered their life, sealed their fate as he had Sukuna’s.
The full measure of the loss poured into him, not just for Sukuna or himself, but Uraume, too. It ate at the tiny spark this conversation had brought him. So when Uraume stood, still holding some of the fingers, Megumi didn’t stop them. It was easier this way; Uraume would take care of Sukuna better than Megumi could.
“Where will you go?” he asked.
“North, to prepare myself.” Uraume eyed Megumi, who was still curled in on himself. “And you, I would gamble, are running to the sorcerer's school, right?” they scoffed, a bitter thing. “I should have known.” They dug in their clothes, then pulled something out and tossed it at Megumi. “Take this. I want no reminders of you.”
It was Megumi’s uniform button, salvaged from their bedroom. The reminder, the mention of the sorcery school, Genshin’s cursed cube, all in this clearing where Megumi had once lived—the unraveled threads of his mind buzzed like static. He blankly watched Uraume leave, taking with them the small commiserating sense of kinship and shared loss, and was left alone once more.
Megumi sat there, with the torn bundle, his uniform button, and most of Sukuna’s fingers cradled in his lap. The cold seeped out of him and the emptiness back in.
When Megumi’s consciousness found his body again, it was daytime. He bundled the remaining fingers into the torn pack, tying it secure around his torso again, and made himself stand.
The pain of leaving the clearing was muffled by Uraume’s grief and scorn. The lifeless town, Sukuna’s lifeless soul, Uraume, who would give up their life soon—maybe it was better for Megumi to join them. But did he want to make a pact with that sorcerer, Kenjaku? Was there another way through the cursed object Uraume had mentioned?
Megumi’s heart warred at the idea of returning to the future, to—to Sukuna. He could barely stand the thought of facing him, of Sukuna’s rage and fury, and yet what Megumi wouldn’t give to just see him again. The fingers, though, tucked against Megumi's chest, were his priority. The school wasn’t a bad idea; the fingers had ended up there anyway, and it was better than them being eaten by curses.
Heian-Kyo was a week away, a journey Megumi had made once before, when he’d traveled from the school to Sukuna’s shrine. That time, desperate hope had pushed Megumi onward, but this time, it was a simple need, not for his empty self, but for Sukuna.
The sun was high, and it continued to be as the days flicked by. Its glare above cracked the sky, a gaping wound, and Megumi’s head hurt as he trudged in a daze. The hours seemed to slip by; he blinked and found himself on the same endless path, only darker or brighter.
Megumi didn’t understand it, this world where the weather was considered pleasant. He traveled through villages, and people stepped from their homes and turned their faces upward with a smile, all when there shouldn’t have been light at all. Town after town, Megumi numbly made his way to inn after inn, eating bland meal after bland meal just to keep enough strength to drag his feet. It felt like a hole in his brain, seeing these people—alive, living—and wondering how they couldn’t feel how wrong it was, the world off its axis.
Sometimes he almost hoped he would take sick, that his frail body would collapse and die on him, so he could simply stop. But it carried on somehow, instinct stronger than his ragged mind. His soul must have been back on that forest path where he’d sealed Sukuna, lost him, lost himself, for all Megumi felt like a person. He was adrift, a vanishing, lonesome ghost slowly wafting between towns and people.
Grief was a deafening thing. Megumi made his mouth form words, and he talked to humans, innkeepers, and monks who pointed him on his way. He reached the jujutsu school and was subject to their awe as they realized what he was carrying. The sorcerers talked to him, at him, and still, Sukuna’s silence was all Megumi could hear. The absence of him was loud and tinny, like the low tone of a dead phone line.
“You defeated Ryoumen Sukuna?” the question came, along with, “What is your name? What family do you hail from?”
No one recognized Megumi. The school had recovered some since last year, and Megumi saw none of the faces he’d met then. He was grateful; words escaped him, and the ability to engage even more so.
Megumi kept the fingers enfolded and tied to his body still, shielding Sukuna from curious hands. The sorcerers’ inquiries flowed over and off of him, but eventually, the chatter seeped into those crevices and gaps, and the reality of his situation filtered in: they saw him a—a hero, Megumi realized. The ensuing bolt of revulsion broke through the hollowness, and Megumi’s insides wrung themselves. Look what had become of him, displaced by time to bring about his own suffering and be awarded for it.
The sorcerers sat him down for a meal, and Megumi went despite his nausea, the anxious turn of his heart, because he had no energy to protest. Eager eyes turned on him for explanations, for a story. But Megumi met their questions with a shake of his head or short dismissal, letting them believe his explanations were trapped within the trauma of the fight. What fight? There had been nothing in that forest but him and Sukuna and betrayal.
The queries, though, gave Megumi glimpses into what he’d missed while in his own world with Sukuna. Did he know the Limitless technique user from the Sugawara family? Was he sponsored by the Fujiwara clan? They asked if Megumi was one of the warriors sent by the Imperial Court to kill Sukuna, to hunt him down after the Minamotos were killed.
Megumi didn’t reply, his weak mind clasping that thought: the cycle of revenge had ended; the Imperial sorcerers would find no one, and Uraume hadn’t killed Megumi. It was over. But there was no relief. Megumi didn’t care about preventing vengeance or justice. It was the innocent lives he’d mourned, and now Sukuna.
“Are you truly a sorcerer?” one of the young men asked as he showed Megumi to a private bedroom.
Megumi blinked, looking up from where he was re-securing the bundle of fingers. He could almost feel himself responding, but it didn’t quite reach his tongue.
“Your cursed energy—” the sorcerer clarified at Megumi’s blank look, then shook his head. “Well, the amount you have, of course you must be. But it is…erratic. I have never met a sorcerer of your caliber who lacked control of his cursed energy. You must tell us how you defeated Ryoumen Sukuna.”
The words sank in like a faint echo. Megumi stared at the man, uncomprehending. His cursed energy—it felt distant from him, the same way his body did these days.
After a moment, the sorcerer’s expression shifted uncomfortably. “My apologies, I misspoke,” he said hastily and ducked away.
Megumi blinked slowly, then turned, entering the room they’d cleaned for him. It was odd, sleeping indoors again. On his trek, Megumi had waited until exhausted to simply drop to the ground, strings cut, and rest on whatever soft patch of moss he could find. But here, he was faced with this prospect of night, separate from day, of hours when he should be resting and there was nothing to do except that. But the futon—he couldn’t. The imprints of Sukuna’s fingers pressed into his palm, and Megumi crumbled even further. In the end, he could only bring himself to curl in the corner of the room, hugging Sukuna close, and wait for morning to come.
The sorcerers’ inquisitiveness slowly petered out over the next day or two. Megumi discovered a tree somewhat isolated on the school grounds and found himself there often, sitting against its trunk. He cradled the bundle of fingers, wondering dully what he was hesitating for; he’d arrived, and here was a safe place, and yet Megumi looked at these young, wide-eyed sorcerers and couldn’t help but hug the fingers tighter—not them, not yet.
They would attempt to destroy the fingers, Megumi knew, because sorcerers had tried over and over in the future, chopping at them, blasting them with cursed energy, burning them. He understood now, that this past would lead inevitably into the world he was from. But the fingers would be indestructible. Megumi didn’t know why, when Sukuna’s skin had given way to Megumi’s teeth and the swords, perhaps not easily, but nevertheless split.
He could only assume it was these final weeks: the massacre of the town, the thick smog of fear and shock, the wreckage of his and Sukuna’s life following it; and Megumi’s deception, too, and the fact that it was him, that he had taken those blades and cleaved Sukuna’s soul from him. “Of course it’s you,” Sukuna’s voice echoed. Could it be? In the throes of that betrayal, the spitting anger full of threats and insults, Sukuna’s cursed energy had surged, making him and his fingers invincible once more. And so this, too, would align with what Megumi knew of the modern day.
If they would just keep the fingers here, under lock at the jujutsu school, then the fingers wouldn’t be eaten by curses, wouldn’t be party to killings. But Megumi was resigned to stark reality: no matter how he warned, the fingers would be scattered. Whether it was hubris or naivety that led sorcerers to use the fingers for warding off curses or other purposes, these fragments of Sukuna would disperse over a thousand years, accessible to those who would do harm with them.
The lives lost to the finger-bearing curses in the future—the men at the jail, the victims of the bridge curse, many more—Megumi could assume that the fingers’ long upcoming history was made of similar events, and here he was, the cause of it all.
As the spring equinox crept closer, a week and some days away, Megumi, or the ruins of himself, drifted in and out of the school, barely interacting with the others. Under his tree, he sat unmoving, staring up at the branches, then down at a line of ants crawling. It was a tree, as he knew trees to be, and those were ants, as he had seen his entire life. It was odd, how some things didn’t change through time and how much else did.
Megumi’s hand moved in repetitive strokes over the bundle, and he closed his eyes, hoping for a dreamless sleep.
“So,” a voice accosted him, and Megumi ignored it until it continued, “the other keeper of Sukuna’s shrine.”
Pulse speeding up, Megumi opened his eyes slowly, appraising the man. His aura wasn’t threatening, but Megumi was on edge immediately, perhaps from the stitches across his forehead or the smarmy smile splitting his face with the same violence. This man knew more than he should, than anyone should anymore. “Other?” Megumi asked after a moment. His voice was raspy.
“Other than Uraume, I mean.” The man’s ingratiating grin widened. “Sukuna did not tell you about me?”
Megumi bristled, gaze narrowing. So this was Kenjaku, the sorcerer Uraume had made a pact with, who Sukuna had sought. “Uraume told you to find me.”
“So you do know me,” he said. “Allow me to introduce myself properly then. I am Kenjaku.”
Megumi stayed silent, but when Kenjaku raised his eyebrows, waiting, he bit out, “Fushiguro,” and then, “You’re here to offer me the same pact as Uraume.”
A brief pause, then: “You sound as though you are refusing it already.” Kenjaku’s head tilted curiously.
Megumi took a breath, steadying himself. He thought of Sukuna’s tone, tough and sharp, when he called Kenjaku a madman, telling Megumi he didn’t trust him. And when Megumi threatened to leave, to find this mysterious sorcerer, Sukuna’s rage had peaked before he’d offered a pact of his own.
Maybe if there’d been no other option, he would have said yes to this man. He might even have welcomed it, to die and sleep for a millennium. But Megumi couldn’t accept Kenjaku’s offer when Sukuna had been so vehemently against it. He wouldn’t spurn Sukuna’s protectiveness this time.
Rumors of the cursed cube made from Genshin’s remains had reached the school, too; Megumi had heard the sorcerers discussing it during mealtime. With more time, if he could slowly gather the will to move, to search, he could find it. Then he would see Sukuna again, tell him something: I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have, I wish things had been different.
Megumi took a quiet, subtle breath. “I am refusing it,” he said, picking his words, forcing them out.
“This is not a decision to make so lightly,” said Kenjaku, his pleasant tone missing now. “Many sorcerers have agreed already, to evolve as curses. Do you not have regrets? Would you not want a second life?”
A laugh nearly burst from Megumi, almost startling him. The irony burned bright. He was made of regrets. It wasn’t a second life he needed, though, but to return to his first one. “I have no desire for that,” he said. Pushing off the ground with one hand, holding the fingers secure with the other, Megumi stood. “If I find no other means, perhaps we’ll speak again,” he conceded.
“It is short-sighted—” Kenjaku began, but Megumi shook his head. He began walking away, senses attuned for sudden movement or noise. But all that came with Kenjaku’s voice, hard, “I am still talking.”
Megumi turned back slightly. “There’s nothing else for me to hear from you. Your pacts, your plans—they’re not for me. Not now. Tell Uraume I’ll make my own way.”
“Very well. I am not in the business of forcing people into pacts,” Kenjaku’s expression was vexed, even as his mouth widened into a forced, angry smile. “Fushiguro, right? I shall remember that.”
Fixing Kenjaku with one last flinty look, Megumi turned away, returning indoors to his room. He took a shuddering breath, feeling the air thin as apprehension gripped him. Everything seemed to tunnel around him as reality hit afresh. Megumi clutched at the bundle of fingers and bent his head to them, filled with a new wave of pain.
He was gone, Sukuna was, to a place Megumi couldn’t reach yet, and their memories were made of Megumi’s guilt, suffused in small realizations of ways he’d wronged Sukuna: using his trust for his betrayal, avoiding telling Sukuna that his vessel will suppress him, and cupping his face as his body disappeared, a final violation after Sukuna had turned his face away, snarling, “Don’t touch me.” Megumi had foregone Sukuna’s will while sealing him, ignoring the enraged claim that he’d rather die, whether Sukuna had meant it or not. It had been asking the impossible of Megumi. But he wouldn’t deny Sukuna again now, which meant not only declining Kenjaku, but also choosing to not waste away here and figure out how to travel to the future. But where would he find the strength?
A day passed after Kenjaku’s visit, and Megumi spent time staring out of the school’s entrance, trying to imagine himself departing into the unknown again. The world beyond seemed glaringly bright, bustling in anticipation of the farming season, and Megumi felt so barren in comparison. He wouldn’t last, wandering alone, alone, alone.
His body—what body? He was a sack of flesh, barely even able to go through the motions of surviving because of how keenly eating and sleeping reminded him of Sukuna. The rest of it—living—made his brain rattle, like old bones in the wind. It wasn’t only regret or guilt. His hands were sick with loneliness.
Megumi’s unmoored thoughts strayed to Sukuna constantly. It was vicious and inescapable, the tangle of sorrow. Happiness was stained with grief. Each memory he had of them ached like a blackened bruise. He was lost, for how could his heart know his name or shadows when it had known his love for Sukuna, too, and yet Megumi had still betrayed that, the constant beat?
Back in the summer, Megumi had been ashamed, thinking his feelings for Sukuna made him worse than the people he declined to save. As they’d grown closer and Megumi more content, he’d regarded Sukuna as the changed one, slotted in among those Megumi wished to protect. But he realized now that Sukuna simply existed outside his convictions entirely.
And what kind of sorcerer was he, if he could defend Sukuna, the most dangerous of curses? Maybe Megumi wasn’t one anymore. When was the last time he’d used cursed energy? His technique sat dormant in him, and Megumi was a dying machine, filled with static and dulled impressions of life.
How little time they’d had together, in the end: only one year. And yet it had been an ocean in a droplet, with high tides and low tides, treasure within wrecks on the seafloor, and a riptide that pulled Megumi in, and in, and in.
Why? Why had Megumi been given these months, only to have them taken from him so abruptly? Why had he been cursed by the time spirit that day, one year ago? Megumi simultaneously longed for more time and none at all. He wished he’d never been sent back here. It was a curse to be made so keenly aware of the transience of time, always passing, to be forced to walk the steps of a past he’d already lived the future of.
The loneliness, guilt, and regret, the anger at himself and Sukuna, the mourning—they distilled simply into a festering mass of negative emotion. What did it matter what name Megumi called it, this ugly wound lining his soul? It all felt the same, just a lowly, sad sad sad creature crying in the grooves of his flesh. Megumi wanted to excise it from himself, to exorcise that hurt out. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt.
Something wretched and grieving twisted in his soul, and—and Megumi felt it before he saw it. Cursed energy seeped from his pores like sweat, wept from the cracks in his hands, swelled like blood from a thousand cuts, and then thickened, as if tangible. The cries of his heart escaped into the air.
“Well, hi,” said the curse. “Recognize me?”
Megumi blinked. As he watched, the curse gathered form, resolving into a white feathered body, a long black neck, thin legs and a beak: a crane. It had come from—from him, manifested from his cursed energy. He’d never heard of this before, not for a trained sorcerer, but the cursed spirit was impossibly real.
He unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth and licked his dry lips. Stunned, he croaked, “What—you—”
The crane cocked its head, staring at Megumi with beady eyes. “Come on, sorcerer,” it said. “Perk up. What happened to that fighting spirit?”
Recognition trickled into Megumi’s mind like cold ice melting, dripping down into his consciousness. “I know you,” he said, eyes widening. “You’re the—” Time curse. The curse that sent him back here. The one that began this all.
“Well, my name’s not ‘the,’ but I’ll let it slide this time,” the crane said.
Megumi stared. For the past weeks, he’d been disappearing, begging the universe to dig its fingers in and absorb him. He’d forgotten himself, and he could tell now how unsettled and turbulent his aura was. With effort, Megumi reeled it in, folding his energy into his body once more, and began to feel more like himself. “I created you,” he said, mostly a question.
The crane cackled, the sound reedy through its beak. “You wander around like an untrained child with all that cursed energy, then act surprised when you manifest a curse?” It made a noise like a sigh. “Well, I suppose it is uncommon in the era you’re from, a sorcerer creating a curse.”
Megumi frowned, discomfited. “Because I didn’t control my cursed energy, didn’t expend it.”
“And because you’re a mess of gloom right now,” the crane said mildly, with another throaty laugh. It scrutinized him, then rapped him on the face with one quick wing. Megumi flinched back, shielding himself. “Focus, sorcerer. I need you awake for this.”
“I’m awake,” Megumi grumbled, and it was the truth for the first time in weeks, since the massacre of the town. Slowly, the rusty gears of Megumi’s mind began turning. It hit him then that the curse was here, in this time. It was miraculous, or it would have been, except that Megumi had created this curse himself. “I created you,” he repeated, stunned as the pieces came together, “and you—in the future, you send me here.”
The crane’s eyes seemed to gleam. “And a year after that, you manifested me. So it must be clear now, smart sorcerer that you are, why I sent you back in time at all.”
Megumi couldn’t catch air. “Because you needed me to be here, in this era. To create you in the first place.”
“Bingo!” chimed the crane. It peered at him, gaze piercing. “Did you think it was a coincidence? You, sent here, to this time?”
The thought roared through Megumi’s mind, a train crashing into the station, a plane hitting the runway too hard. He’d been sent back here for this, for this exact thing to happen to him, all of it: living this year here, creating the crane curse, being with Sukuna, hurting him. “You did this to me,” Megumi’s voice wavered.
“In a way,” conceded the curse. “But you agreed to it.”
Heart hammering, Megumi could only ask, “What?”
The hair on Megumi’s arms stood on end when the crane leaned in seriously. “Listen carefully, Fushiguro Megumi,” it said. “Traveling someone else through time is a much different beast than moving just myself. Even explaining my technique doesn’t give me enough of a power boost.”
“So you have other self-pacts,” Megumi filled in, thinking about Nanami’s overtime. “Like what?”
The crane rustled its feathers. “Do you know the lifespan of a crane?” it asked.
Megumi frowned. “I don’t—” he sighed, frustrated by its evasiveness, the lack of explanation. “Thirty years?”
“Not regular old boring ones,” scoffed the time curse. “Cranes of myth.”
A pause, and as it slotted together in his mind, Megumi replied, “A thousand years.”
The crane’s head bobbed in a nod. “One thousand years—that’s how near or far I can send you, Fushiguro,” it said. “And, on top of that, to make that happen, whoever I’m moving through time—you—must agree to it, must say yes.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Megumi said, anxiety bubbling as a helpless sense of confusion swirled in his chest. “I didn’t say yes when you hit me in the future, when you sent me back here.”
“You hadn’t yet,” the crane acknowledged, “not in your perception of time, at least. But the agreement had already been made in time itself.”
And with a crushing sense of realization, Megumi breathed, “Because I say yes now.”
The curse’s wings fluttered. “That’s ri—”
“No,” Megumi cut it off, pushing to his feet. It was a terrible notion, a brick lodged in his brain. He shook his head. “I won’t.” After a moment, almost desperate, came, “I can’t.”
Why would he say yes to such a thing, to being sent back here? This year with Sukuna was embedded into the beat of Megumi’s heart, and he’d loved it, of course he had, had loved Sukuna, his. But it ended in tragedy. Sukuna had killed the townspeople then broken the pact, which led to the sealing—to Megumi sealing him. And now Megumi was barely a person outside rot and melancholy.
And yet—and yet, his soul yearned. Because between the bad and worse, their time together had been the best thing in Megumi’s life. Sukuna had been—hope, the searing heat of his touch, good food and company, stories on early summer afternoons, I thought I saw a bug, bathing in the river, the cool shiver of his healing, training together, poetry at night, flushed tipsy kisses, the moon in the lake, leaf-peeping, a burning hearth, sparklers, snow, soup—everything.
“We should come here, in your time,” Sukuna had said of the ginkgo tree.
Megumi took a shuddering breath and bowed his head. His hands came up to touch the bundle of Sukuna’s fingers, still fastened protectively on his chest. Megumi could nearly feel them calling—him. It wasn’t responsibility or regret that moved Megumi then, but the love at the core of his being.
He looked up at the time crane, the subject of the last memory he had in the future. That couldn’t be all there was of Megumi in that era. It was time for the crane to return his favor.
“I’ll make a pact with you,” Megumi said, his words dimmed by the past but strong. “I’ll say yes. And you send me back to my time, a thousand years in the future.”
If the crane could have smiled, it would have then. Its cursed energy flared, and the touch of the aura made Megumi think back to waking up one year ago, in an age then unknown. It felt so long ago already, yet these months lived in his shadow now. No matter where he went, or when, he would carry them with him.
That night, Megumi finally laid on the futon in his room rather than resting up against the wall. He curled on his side, around the closed bundle of the fingers next to him. With gentle hands, Megumi slowly untied the pack, letting the cloth fall open to reveal the sealed fingers within. He picked one up and imagined holding Sukuna’s hand, the way Sukuna would entwine their fingers and press a kiss to Megumi’s knuckles.
The sealing talismans had no frayed ends, but Megumi picked at the end until it came up and slowly peeled the ribbon off. The moment part of the finger was revealed, Sukuna’s presence buffeted Megumi, a furious storm of malicious weight. He couldn’t help his flinch; it was Sukuna, but it was him as Megumi had known him in the future, not here in this time, sweet and covetous.
The finger’s nail was sharp, and the skin purpled by the stain of cursed blood. With one trembling finger, Megumi traced a line along it, from tip to knuckle. His heart ached, brimming with how potent the feeling was: the sheer immensity of his love for Sukuna and his desire to see him. Megumi bent and kissed the finger. I’m coming back to you, he thought.
And this was faith, too; the same hope that had drawn Megumi to Sukuna in this era—that he might be interested in Megumi enough to not kill him—again emboldened him now. This past year of life together was where that fascination in the modern day had stemmed from in the first place. Sukuna must have recognized Megumi at Itadori’s school when he incarnated, after all; he must have known him at the prison. He’d beaten Megumi badly, but Sukuna hadn’t followed through on his rabid threats, so perhaps the full scale of his anger hadn’t carried over. Perhaps Megumi had been forgiven.
Soon, almost too soon, the time crane would send Megumi to the modern day. The pact was simple, clear in its wording. Megumi had said yes, fully aware of what he was bringing upon himself, and the curse had disappeared after the agreement, gone to the future. It was that very day, years in the future, that Megumi was sent back in time.
He wondered now, if through Itadori’s eyes during the battle, Sukuna had been watching, if he’d known what was happening. Had he realized where Megumi disappeared to? Maybe Sukuna had informed Gojou, the way Megumi once requested. He hoped they knew he was okay, didn’t believe him to be dead.
Megumi sighed. Sukuna, Tsumiki, Gojou, everyone else—he could barely imagine returning, even after planning with the crane. The curse needed some days to recover its cursed energy, but time seemed to pass Megumi faster now than ever before, flipping one day after another.
With a low, mournful sigh that took none of his trepidation with it, Megumi rewrapped the finger. As the sense of Sukuna faded, Megumi’s soul chased it, reaching for the last scraps of that presence. Distantly, he was glad none of the sorcerers had come knocking, wondering about the aura. They were so young here, so inexperienced.
Megumi only trusted in the capabilities of a few, and he went to one of them the next day: a man with a blood-based technique, a Kamo, an old clan even in this age that was finally growing in prestige.
“These cursed objects,” Megumi said. “Sukuna’s fingers—we need to lock them away here, so no one can touch them.” He held the pack cradled in his arms, a light but solid weight.
The Kamo sorcerer looked startled. “You are speaking—” He cut himself off, then asked instead, “You are willing to part from them?”
Megumi nodded. “I’ll be gone soon. These—they must be kept hidden. Do not be careless. Free in the world, these fingers would do great harm. Keep them here.”
“Gone soon?” Kamo repeated, then seemed to think better of it. “Why not just destroy them?” he asked instead, and Megumi winced—there it was.
“Try, if you want,” said Megumi, resigned to it, “but you won’t be able to.”
With a long look, the man finally nodded. “I shall take you to the school’s warehouse.” He turned and began walking down the hall, and Megumi followed, letting it sink in that this was happening, truly. “There is someone who would like to meet you, as well.”
Megumi glanced at him. “Who?”
“The warehouse—with cursed objects, cursed tools—is protected by a strong barrier, and within that is the man responsible. His name is Master Tengen, and he has been curious about you since your arrival with the fingers.” It took a moment for Kamo to realize Megumi had stilled behind him. He turned, then asked, “What is it?”
“Tengen is here,” Megumi repeated, his eyes wide as he reeled. But— “I searched for him, a year ago. I was here briefly, at the school, but Tengen didn’t make himself known then.”
“After the battle in which Ryoumen Sukuna killed the sorcerers of this school?” Kamo asked, and Megumi nodded. “Then that is why. Master Tengen is very cautious.” The man beckoned, saying, “Come,” and explained as they began walking again. “Back in the Nara period, when Master Tengen was preaching about Buddhism and the foundation of sorcery values that eventually created our institution, he was much more open. But it became safer for him to stay within the bounds of the school.”
Megumi made a considering noise. “And why does he want to see me?”
The sorcerer laughed. “You defeated a centuries-old curse, the strongest we have ever known. Why would Master Tengen not want to see you?” They reached an unassuming door, but when Kamo slid it open, it revealed a wide, expansive space. A small building sat on the left. “That is the warehouse,” he said, then held his hands out. “I will take the fingers. Ahead is Master Tengen. I am sure he knows we arrived.”
Megumi stared at him, this sorcerer from his soon-to-be elite clan, who was patiently waiting for him to give up the fingers. Megumi’s hands tightened around the bundle. It would be so easy, just one motion, to place the pack on those outstretched hands, but his heart clamored against it.
Now, Megumi told himself. Here. He forced himself to move, saw more than felt his hands trembling as he abandoned the fingers to that man’s grasp. It was wrong, it was wrong, and Megumi couldn’t—but he did.
The man turned away easily, so nonchalant, and Megumi’s heart caught in his throat. “Wait—” he called, a bare whisper that didn’t even make it out of his mouth. Kamo disappeared into the warehouse, and then Sukuna was once again gone from him.
Megumi’s hands felt so empty, itching with it, the phantom blood he had long washed from his palms. Numbly, he made his feet move. He wouldn’t succumb to sorrow again, wouldn’t let that hollowness take him, not when he was so close—not when it was the very sealing of Sukuna that opened these doors in the jujutsu world for him, and not when he had a message and now a way to deliver it.
Tengen was a young man, thirty-something by the looks of it. Megumi approached quietly, his expression straight.
“So you are the sorcerer who sealed Ryoumen Sukuna,” Tengen greeted. “The others did not know your clan, child. Will you tell me?”
Megumi swallowed. “My name, yes. But nothing about Sukuna. I’ll give you a different story, if you would hear it.”
Tengen shifted, appraising, then agreed, “Tell me.”
“My name is Fushiguro Megumi,” he took a breath, “and I’m from a thousand years in the future.”
“A thousand years,” echoed Tengen with a frown. “There are techniques that influence the flow of time,” he conceded, “but that is a much longer period that I have heard of before.”
“I made a pact with a cursed spirit with a time technique, allowing it to send me back here,” Megumi explained. “In a few days, it will return me to my era, which is why I’m here before you today.”
After a long pause, Tengen said finally, “I will hear you out. But you must provide some evidence of your claims. I have never heard of this curse, and I cannot read your heart or intentions.”
“I have only this,” said Megumi, and he pulled out his uniform button from where he’d tucked it. “A button from my uniform, a symbol of the school in my time. There’s no other evidence but knowledge.” Acid laced his tongue as he bargained, “But is it not enough that I sealed Ryoumen Sukuna? The fingers are proof enough that I’m not here to do harm.”
Tengen took the button and thumbed over the swirl pattern. “Tell me something, then, of the future.”
Megumi paused, contemplative. He reminded himself: anything he said now, he had already said. Could he even possibly get it wrong, reveal too much or too little? “In my day,” he began slowly, “your barriers protect the jujutsu school. Sorcery and curses are hidden from humans, though cursed energy still exists, still affects them. This, the Heian period, is referred to as the golden age of jujutsu sorcery.”
There wasn’t much to tell Tengen in the end. Megumi didn’t know enough for specifics. He wished he’d been informed in more detail about the aftermath of the sister school event and whatever information they’d extracted from the curse user butcher. But well, there was no point; the events of the future were set already.
Instead, Megumi told Tengen about the modern world, civilization and industrialization, the ill-won progress of humans. History repeated itself, and Tengen was long-lived enough to recognize the truth behind the tale, that it was through war always that the world shifted. So when Megumi slowly circled his story to recount how he’d traveled through time back here, Tengen took him at his word.
“The curse that sent me here—soon, when its cursed energy is recovered, it’ll fulfill its end of the pact by sending me to the future. I’ll arrive in the same place, this same school, a thousand years in the future.” Megumi sighed, trying to keep his shoulders from sagging. “So my ask of you, Master Tengen, is simply…tell them. The people at the school in my time, a man named Gojou Satoru—tell them where I am. Tell him I’ll come back a year after I disappear, that I’m okay.” His voice threatened to break, and Megumi cleared his throat. “Tell him I’ll be at the Kyoto school when I return.”
After a moment of scrutiny, Tengen nodded. “The passing of time is never predictable,” he said. “I have no guarantees for what might happen in a thousand years, that I will know the right time or right person. But if your companions come to me and ask about you, then I will remember your message, time traveler.”
Megumi's heart sank some; unless they already knew that Megumi had gone this far back in time, they wouldn’t know to ask Tengen. But he stamped down on his disappointment. This was the best he could do. “Thank you.”
“Let us meet again,” said Tengen, “in your original era.”
He held Megumi’s uniform button out to him, but Megumi shook his head, saying, “Keep it.” He would be back in the future soon anyway.
Three nights later, the time crane landed in front of Megumi. “Are you ready?” it asked.
He sat under the tree here. Hopefully in the future at the Kyoto school, Utahime would find him when he appeared and call Gojou. At least Megumi knew that the world he was going to would be the same, simply one year passed. He hadn’t changed anything at all.
Megumi looked from the crane to his surroundings, this world here in the past: the night sky above with stars so bright the world was palely lit, the forest’s breath audible from the wind in its leaves, the rivers clear and cool. He would miss it, this unblemished nature.
But there was someone he missed more. “I’m ready.”
The curse towered over Megumi, spreading its wings wide until they covered his field of vision. The past disappeared behind its feathers. And then the crane beat its wings, and the air spun, a giant gust, and cursed energy surged. Megumi gasped, his eyes closing instinctively, and he was thrown back, back, back—forward.
When he woke up, Megumi could tell he’d been unconscious for a while. His head throbbed between his temples, and his vision was bleary. He distantly heard himself make a noise of discomfort. Something moved to his left.
Megumi tried to reach up to grasp his head, but his arms were weak, shaking with effort, and he sagged, peeking around with bleary eyes. The first thing he registered was light, streaming in through a sheer-curtained window—curtains. The sheets felt—he turned—there was a table, a lamp—
Megumi’s vision swam as he looked around quickly. He blinked, mind trying to catch up to his sight. Was this real? Did it—did it work? A figure came into view, tall and familiar. Gojou-sensei crouched next to Megumi’s bed—a bed, he was on a bed, and Gojou was wearing his school uniform and blindfold, and Utahime, appearing behind him, was wearing modern clothes, not her miko garb.
Gojou’s mouth parted, said something, but Megumi’s hearing rang dizzyingly. “Am I—” he swallowed, his mouth dry, and his ears popped.
Gojou spoke again, and so familiar it was and so long it had been that Megumi’s eyes filled with tears. “Megumi,” he said softly. “Welcome back.”
Notes:
The crane very ubiquitous in Japanese and other East Asian cultures is this red-crowned crane. It represents longevity and is said to live for 1000 years. Tsuru no Ongaeshi (鶴の恩返し, lit. "Crane's Return of a Favor”) is a Japanese folktale about a crane returning a favor for a man after he saves its life.
Genshin, the monk whose remains became the Prison Realm in JJK lore, lived from 942 to 1017 AD, which worked out perfectly for my purposes here.
Chapter 14: Sukuna
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
If it were death to love,
I should have died—
And died again
One thousand times over.—Manyōshū IV: 603
Sukuna roused as he was consumed. His cursed energy invaded the body’s bloodstream, latching on and gauging it. The veins didn’t rupture from the force, and the flesh didn’t corrode; this boy was strong, Sukuna could tell. Good. And the air prickled with something familiar, an echo he knew somehow, distantly. Yes, Sukuna decided. This vessel would do.
His ancient power spread, layering over the cells, the muscle, the pieces of this human. Its latent cursed energy jumped, fizzling and fighting, but eventually succumbed, as all beings did to him.
Sukuna opened his eyes, two, then four. His aura pulsed, destroying the pest in front of him, and its remains along with the old ash of his sealing fell from him like dust, and how thrilling it was to feel the world for the first time in not only a thousand years, but hundreds before then, too. Euphoria kicked through Sukuna, a blazing delight. Finally! He could feel: his face, his mouth, his…two arms—well, no matter.
Distantly, Sukuna could hear himself laughing, a bright and blissful thing. How long it had been! For centuries as a curse, this sensation had been lost to him. The closest he’d come was that night at the lake, with the moon high above—the moon.
It swathed his skin, that pale light, and he tore his clothes off to soak it in. Sukuna’s glee expanded through him as he sensed the wind, the night, the taste of recent destruction. The air was tinged with an artificial smell, and even from here, Sukuna could hear the distant thrum of people.
His sharp nails glinted in the moon’s light, and Sukuna’s blood raced with thoughts of sinking them into something—someone. He was ravenous for that rush, wanted to gorge himself on it, the candied taste of fear as the rabble realized they couldn’t escape. Yes, Sukuna’s mind crowed. Yes, this! “It’ll be a massacre!” he grinned, ready to feel warm blood seeping over his fingers. His fingers—
That second of disquiet displaced him. His body grabbed him, and Sukuna was stepped back, down from the railing, suddenly unable to feel his limbs, left with only a vague imprint of control and surprise. His vessel was suppressing him?
Then a voice sounded from his right, and Sukuna’s body turned. And it was—a trick of the light, of his vessel’s unfamiliar eyes, of his own blinding cursed energy. Sukuna’s heart picked up, pounding through him, surging between his ears: Megumi.
And Sukuna knew him, somehow. The same figure, the same eyes, the same hands, clasped tight with intent. His energy swirled. The edges of memory were blurred, most fragments missing entirely. But Megumi was intimately familiar to Sukuna, to his soul, even this one single slice. Could it truly be—
“I’ll be there,” Megumi’s voice spoke to him, a whisper from the past. Fireworks, the word came to Sukuna, with the vision of flame on incense and the smokey aroma in the cold night. The resounding clang of a temple bell echoed through him.
“Don’t move!” this Megumi yelled. “You’re no longer human.”
Sukuna blinked, mind catching on that voice, so wrong directed at him with such bite and fearful regret. His heart twisted viscerally, abruptly. It was him; it was Megumi, his his his Megumi, and he was upset, and Sukuna—
—didn’t have control. The brat’s consciousness regained the body, and Sukuna could only watch then. Blood trickled from Megumi’s temple, and oh, the desire struck him to wipe it clean, to heal the wound, to brush Megumi’s hair from his face and kiss it.
But an intense cursed energy presence appeared from nowhere: a sorcerer with white hair, wearing a blindfold, who leaned over Megumi casually. “Gojou-sensei?” Megumi gasped, and the name zipped through Sukuna, evoking a far-off sense of recollection.
Frustration gnawed his nerves at the haziness of his memories. The answers felt present, but the moment he tried recalling them, they vanished like a dream. Recognition sparked only in a buried place Sukuna couldn’t access.
Something flashed like lightning. Sukuna’s attention snapped back to the sorcerers. Gojou pointed an object at Megumi, and Sukuna’s mind supplied him with a brief clarity: a phone, like the cracked, metal thing Megumi had shown him.
But the boy was saying something now, using Sukuna’s mouth to speak, about eating his finger. Gojou leaned in close. “Damn, it really did combine with you,” he said, laughing. “How amusing.”
Sukuna’s hackles raised. Rage licked under his skin. The brat’s sense of self was infuriatingly impenetrable, but the idiot agreed to give Sukuna control, and yes, he was going to rip this man to shreds. Then he would have Megumi MegumiMegumiMegumi to himself.
The vessel’s walls came down, and Sukuna’s soul spread past them, into the body. He flexed his fingers and launched into the air, high with the wind under his feet. This feeling, this freedom—Sukuna was alive again, and he was going to murder fucking everyone. He grinned, a wildness coursing through him, and with his eyes hooked on Megumi, Sukuna landed hard.
That flinch, that wide-eyed surprise, the sound of his gasp. Amongst the dirt that billowed out from his impact, the shape and sense of him was the same: Megumi. Sukuna stared and stared and ached with it, because Megumi looked back with nothing but shock and fear. There was none of the adoration that somewhere within him, Sukuna realized he was expecting, craving, and now felt oddly bereft without.
An irrational disappointment wrenched through him, followed by frustration. Why were these emotions splintering in his chest? There was no clarity to them, but they were sharp, and he hated not understanding, having something outside his grasp, and—
That dimwit Gojou was sitting on Sukuna’s back, which Sukuna had ignored for a moment, but now he was opening his stupid mouth to start chattering, and Sukuna couldn’t disregard him any longer. He spun on him, bloodlust clamoring through his limbs.
But Gojou wasn’t simply fast, and Sukuna’s body was so weak like this. “He’s the strongest,” an echo appeared in his mind, somehow voiceless. Sukuna found himself airborne, thrown back.
Fucking jujutsu sorcerers, not just this one, but all of them. They’d schemed to kill him, interrupted his life, brought those seals and forced him into slumber—
Sukuna’s teeth ached to sink in and rend the flesh from those sorcerers’ bones. He would eviscerate every single one. “For fuck’s sake,” Sukuna said, his cursed energy gathering, a growing hum. The two sorcerers stood still, so vulnerable. “You sorcerers are always a pain in the ass, no matter the era.”
He leapt. Stone, glass, and metal crashed toward them at Sukuna’s punch. Satisfaction lit him up, preening at his victory, but wait, wasn’t Megumi—
Awareness, a spark of panic, and then somehow, Gojou appeared from the cloud of debris, grinning. Near him on the ground, Megumi sighed, unmoved and unharmed.
A pulse inside him leveraged Sukuna’s surprise. He felt himself forcibly pushed to the background. This vessel, this Itadori brat—he took over again. Fuck. Let me out, Sukuna roared inside his brain, furious. Let me out, let me out, letmeout. The undercurrent of Megumi tore at his ankles like blood.
And then Gojou knocked his vessel out, and Sukuna’s mind went blank.
Sukuna felt another fragment of his soul in Gojou’s hands when they woke. It was gnarled, twisted, weakly radiating his cursed energy, and incontrovertible proof of what had happened to Sukuna. He’d known, of course, because incarnating in this era made it clear he’d been sealed, but he didn’t remember how. The missing pieces felt so tangible, yet when Sukuna tried to grasp them, they slipped away. There was only an indistinct awareness of sorcerers, schemes, and…sorrow.
He stewed uncaringly as Gojou demonstrated how indestructible his flesh was and told the brat about a suspended execution and plan to consume all of Sukuna before dispatching them both. As if that would happen before the boy got himself killed; he was a moron and weak, without any sense of curses.
So later, in a room with a cremation pyre made of stone and metal, surrounded by the hum of electric energy, Sukuna wasn’t surprised when Itadori agreed to eat another finger. He was ready, when the power came, to force his way to the surface. Heady as energy poured into him, Sukuna expanded through his domain, shoving at the boundaries of the vessel. But the boy remained strong; Sukuna couldn’t take over.
When his frustration and fury abated, Sukuna realized with a start that his mind was less foggy. As though they’d always been in reach, memories lost to him appeared easily now, all stemming from his sealing: Uraume, their endless loyalty, preparations with Kenjaku in waist-high snow, and Megumi, revealing the secret to Sukuna in the red-orange forest.
The emotions accompanying Megumi clarified some, with this finger. He yearned, heart screeching in his chest, to touch, to hold, to…dig his claws in and make bleed. Anger crackled like lightning, so sudden Sukuna was nearly surprised by it. Such resentment felt wrong when regarding Megumi; he’d been the one to tell Sukuna about being sealed, helping commence the planning and pacts for Sukuna’s incarnation. But he’d failed to inform them that Sukuna’s vessel would be able to suppress him, and now Sukuna was helpless and trapped.
Too much was left to chance, and Sukuna lacked the ability to change anything like this. Had Uraume incarnated already, here in the future? Sukuna had received his vessel, yes, but Kenjaku could have died regardless, in these thousand years, or maybe the cursing hadn’t been successful at all.
In his innate domain, a bone under Sukuna’s fist shattered as he grit his teeth, restless. Being in a human’s flesh was only nice if he was actually in charge of the fucking thing. Megumi’s deception about Itadori’s abilities nearly voided Sukuna’s preparations. So when Megumi appeared not soon after, bandaged, Sukuna’s hands twitched with the desire not to heal him, but to claw those gashes open again. Fucking sorcerers.
The anger Sukuna felt now was…gnawing, a deep and cavernous thing. There had to be more than just anger over Megumi concealing this, but if there was another reason why Sukuna felt such rage, it wasn’t one he remembered yet, which was endlessly frustrating and exacerbated, too, by having to listen to fucking Gojou prattle.
Sukuna could only launch threats by manifesting on Itadori’s cheek, could only listen without murdering him when Gojou said calmly, “I’d win.” It was pathetic, even worse than being sealed unconscious for a thousand years. He preferred the bare awareness of being eaten by one curse after another over this confinement.
His absent memories were missing in his other fingers, and the urgency to know and regain his power was strong enough that Sukuna considered, just for a moment, Gojou’s vague offer of an agreement. But like hell would Sukuna allow himself to be used as a beacon for the prospect of a finger or two. He’d get them eventually.
For now, it was almost too easy to let his ire stew. He could be patient. They would slip up at some point. Sorcerers always did, undone by their compassion or desperation or love, and truly, no one could contain Ryoumen Sukuna forever.
It was almost too easy. The brat had the audacity to ask for Sukuna’s help; he could nearly laugh. They were facing, what, a curse that ingested a single one of his fingers? Already, the boy’s hand had been cut off. This was his vessel, that Kenjaku had crafted for him?
“Hey, Sukuna! If I die, you die, too, right?” Itadori asked. “If you don’t want that, then help me out.”
Sukuna refused, savoring the taste of terror. This was a win-win for him. Either the brat died, and Sukuna could escape this degrading captivity then incarnate into a different, less obnoxious vessel later, or he could gain control of the body, then bring his wrath down on Megumi for not informing him about Itadori’s suppression.
“I still don’t have control of this body,” Sukuna said, baiting. “If you want to switch, go ahead and switch. But once you do,” he added, nearly tasting the tang of Megumi’s blood, which his tongue knew, from some…when, “I’ll kill that brat before the cursed spirit can!”
The options tormented Itadori, compounding with his fear, with Megumi’s. He told Megumi to run, and Megumi agreed, to Sukuna’s surprise; he couldn’t quite remember Megumi’s technique or skill, but the weakness was disappointing regardless.
Well, no matter, because he now got the pleasure of watching Itadori weep, beaten within an inch of his life. There was nothing better than the cries of regret and panic. A wolf howled. Itadori perked, and within him, Sukuna did, as well. He knew that sound instinctively: not a wolf, but Megumi’s Divine Dog—Divine Dog?—but from where—
Then Sukuna felt himself forced to the forefront, and the body was his own again. It was fucking annoying, was what it was. Not only had Megumi and the girl escaped, but Itadori hadn’t even died. Itadori’s burned-off fingers—the sight repulsed Sukuna. He healed them, beckoning the curse to follow, but in the infinite stupidity of low-level curses everywhere, this one was unwilling to leave its shoddy domain. Instead, it attacked, and Sukuna accidentally healed the brat’s arm, an instinct of his body in this form, constantly dissonant as it sought its missing two arms. What a pain.
He loathed inconvenience and hated being used by anyone, especially an idiot like his vessel, and especially when he wasn’t getting anything out of it. Fine then—this fucker would die, and then Sukuna would spend his endless idle time figuring out how to wreak havoc next time.
“Neither you nor this brat really understands what curses truly are,” he told it, letting the sensation of his nature expand in the air. He had little cursed energy, but his power responded easily, and any fight, even one as bothersome as this one, was decent entertainment; it was fun to stretch these muscles again, to play with his food and open his domain for the first time in a thousand years.
But the most fun came after, when he figured out Itadori couldn’t take back over again. Sukuna swanned outdoors, the third finger held in his hand, and turned his face up to the pouring rain. Never mind the lack of sun; the water felt new but old, a long-lost nostalgia from centuries ago. Blood didn’t splatter on skin the same way raindrops did. He felt good.
Megumi stood by the gate alone, dressed in that stupid uniform, staring hopefully at the building. Sukuna’s head tilted as he watched him. Desire burned to be closer and feel the edges of Megumi’s aura face-to-face. He wanted to…know him again, to talk, to figure out how his memories of Megumi could be so certain yet nebulous at the same time.
Sukuna dropped behind Megumi, close enough to nearly feel him go rigid, tensing all over. “Sorry,” said Sukuna mildly, “but he’s not coming back.” Megumi didn’t turn, didn’t speak, barely even breathed, and it was both an assurance and a taunt when Sukuna told him, the same as all those years ago: “Don’t be so frightened. I’m in a great mood right now; let’s chat for a bit.”
He rounded Megumi to see his face. His hands were shaking, and the stark fear slaked Sukuna’s thirst. An idea occurred to him, and he smiled. He needed time with Megumi, as much as he could get. And talking was fine, it would be nice to upset Megumi, who’d played a role in Sukuna being in this fucking body in the first place.
He felt the sting of his nails as they gouged his flesh open. Grasping the beating heart, Sukuna pulled it free, and blood spurted as his veins and arteries snapped, but oh, it didn’t even hurt at all, because there: a gloriously terrified expression on Megumi’s features. Sukuna could watch it forever, the sheer disbelief and despair.
The heart glistened in Sukuna’s palm. But after a moment, the image disgusted him. The last time he’d held his heart out for Megumi, he’d deceived him about the sealing, and—a heavy memory evaded him, so close to the surface yet not quite there. Sukuna flung the organ to the side and shook it off.
Megumi would probably try to fight Sukuna now, to make him heal his heart before Itadori regained control, and in that case…Sukuna pulled out the finger. “And now, for good measure,” he said. Watching Megumi’s eyes widen, he swallowed it easily.
This time, Sukuna was anticipating the fresh wave of memories, slotting into place without any lapse. One second, there was fog, and the next, as if those parts of him had never been missing, there was—disbelief; fury; betrayal. Heartbreak.
Megumi had—his Megumi, who he’d lived with, and slept with, and eaten with, and shared his soul with—Megumi had taken that gift and sealed him?
The anger that’d been simmering in Sukuna made sense now, silhouetted by their life together; the treachery stood out in sharp contrast. Sukuna could nearly hear Megumi now, lying and letting Sukuna nearly die, then adding insult to injury by crying over it as though that wasn’t what he’d planned.
Sukuna itched to get his hands on that stricken face, to beat it to a pulp. It didn’t matter that Megumi didn’t know, didn’t remember what hadn’t even happened to him yet. He would make Megumi sorry he had ever met Sukuna, that he would.
“You can be frightened now. I’ll kill you,” said Sukuna, voice laced with deadly intent. Then, nearly laughing at this Megumi who had no fucking clue, he added, “For no particular reason.”
“You just don’t get it,” Megumi responded, and ah, there was the fire Sukuna knew. There was the boldness that’d won Megumi his life beyond their first encounter. “Itadori is coming back, even if that means he’ll die. That’s just who he is.”
Annoyance flickered through Sukuna. Megumi placed his faith in this—this sniveling, crying human? How naive. Well, he’d soon learn. “You give him too much credit.”
Sukuna saw Megumi’s determination coalesce. He knew it well, that look in his eyes. In vain, Sukuna tried to remember what Megumi’s technique was, but all he gained was a vague sense memory of fluid shadows and that—that dog’s howl in his ears. Even amid the fresh rage at Megumi’s betrayal, Sukuna couldn’t help his curiosity. He wanted to see what Megumi could do, to see how he’d done it.
Megumi summoned a bird shikigami—“Nue is not a bird,” Sukuna heard in his mind—and ran at him, and it began.
“I’m finally outside,” said Sukuna, as anticipation thrummed in him. “Let’s use the open space.” How good the rain and wind felt. The shikigami’s wings gusted over him, and Sukuna felt that, too. A smile spread across Sukuna’s face as he evaded Megumi’s ineffective punches and ducked below the bird’s swooping claws. How cute. In his memories with Megumi, though he was still missing some, Sukuna had never actually seen him fight. But this was— “Interesting. You use shikigami, but you’ll still come at me yourself.”
Sukuna dipped and dodged, spun away from Megumi. It was a sign of strength, his willingness to get in close, but his attacks were erratic; his resolve was desperate, focusing more on the idea of Itadori than Sukuna. And oh, that wouldn’t do.
Megumi had done this to him, and he wouldn’t let him forget it, not even when this Megumi didn’t have anything to know. For Sukuna remembered life, and he remembered death, but he hadn’t remembered dying, the actual state in-between, until consuming this third finger: deceived about that idiotic, weak sorcerer, subdued by shadows, severed into twenty pieces, all by Megumi, the one who’d made him alive enough that the sealing had felt so fatal.
Back in the beginning, Sukuna hadn’t wanted easy, boring submission from Megumi. He’d craved a fight, to see Megumi struggle but surrender to the delirious pleasure of his baser instincts. The sight of Megumi reaching for the corruption dangling in front of him—Sukuna wished to see that now, too.
“More.” Sukuna wanted to see the same acidic regard as the Megumi who’d hurt him a thousand years ago. “More.” He grabbed Megumi’s fist, enclosing it, and the touch of his skin, his hand in Sukuna’s, sank in. He spun Megumi, feeling his weight, then pulled him close, near enough that Sukuna heard Megumi’s breath hitch over the rain. Sukuna felt a grin split his face. “Put more curse behind it,” he demanded, wanting this Megumi to match the one from his memories, then he let Megumi go, feeling nearly feral at the flavor of his dread, and struck Megumi across the cheek, “when you strike me!”
Megumi caught himself before he fell, and then from the ground emerged a giant snake. Sukuna blinked as its mouth enveloped him; this one didn’t appear in his memories, didn’t even strike a familiar chord. It held him in the air, and the bird swooped down on Sukuna with lightning in its aura.
Abruptly, Sukuna was angry again. All this anticipation to see Megumi again, and this was all he got? This Megumi was nothing like Sukuna remembered. He had a snake shikigami and didn’t know how to fight, didn’t use a weapon, didn’t expand his domain.
Sukuna wanted Megumi to seethe, to have that directed at him. Where was the resentment, the curse? Megumi was the same in so many ways: the space he occupied, the determination in his eyes, the quality of his cursed energy. But he wasn’t right.
A single pulse of energy disintegrated the snake, and then Sukuna landed behind Megumi. “Hey, what did I just say?” he asked. Enough playing. His hand tightened around Megumi’s clothes, white-knuckled with his rage. “Let’s use the open space!”
Sukuna flung Megumi through the trees, relishing the strangled gasp that escaped him. This feeling, this gratification—Sukuna had been hungering for it over a thousand years. Finally, here was the person he’d been seeking, and now he’d tear him apart in revenge.
He leapt after Megumi and kicked him this time, feeling the impact reverberate through his leg. His whole body twisted into it, and Megumi blasted into a rooftop, spinning across it, crashing into stone and metal—
Then Sukuna was there with a punch, and the force vibrated through his hand, to his elbow, and fuck, yes, this was what he’d craved. Spiteful vindictiveness rushed through him, roiling. Megumi’s body flailed, and Sukuna ate it up as he smashed through the walls of the building, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, into the air again.
Ire and hurt, bundled in excess over his long years of slumber, sprang from Sukuna now. “Nice technique there,” he taunted. His fists nearly ached with it when they came down on Megumi’s back, spiking him and his fucking bird through a building into the ground. This was what he deserved for betraying Sukuna, for betraying—them.
He landed on the ground and gazed at Megumi in this sorry state. It was almost pitiable. Yes, he wanted to watch Megumi burn, to make him regret it. But this Megumi—Sukuna nearly sighed—this Megumi wasn’t his yet. What was the point?
Nue disappeared, and Sukuna hummed to himself. “I get it now. So your shikigami are created from shadows.”
“So what?” Megumi asked, on-edge.
The sheer anger was abating slowly already, with Megumi beat down amongst the debris. And now, re-learning this new facet of him, Sukuna found himself more thoughtful. This technique was a strong one, a rare one—the Ten Shadows. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Why did you run back then?” Surely Megumi had been trained; Gojou called him his precious student, after all. But for him to be so unsure of himself— “What a waste of talent.”
Megumi didn’t reply, but Sukuna could see his focus and slight surprise. Even injured and overcome, Megumi still hung onto his words, and Sukuna’s fragmented soul wrenched at the sight. It—it hurt. This was the worst. Both of them in this era, so far from the life they’d built, all due to what—pride, convictions, duty?
“Whatever,” Sukuna sighed. He pointed at the hole in his chest. “Either way, that won’t be enough to fix this.” Why did Megumi insist on endangering himself for nothing? What a frustrating habit in an infuriating person. “You are risking your life over stupid shit. This brat isn’t even worth that much.”
A flash of resignation passed over Megumi’s expression. Sukuna knew it well, and he watched the empty cavity in his chest aching anew, as Megumi stood shakily and curled his hands into fists. Cursed energy surged blue. Sukuna’s eyes widened. This atmosphere—Sukuna had felt it before, that day, when everything had fallen apart. Last time, Megumi’s aura had faltered, but this time—
Sukuna felt his smile grow. Now Megumi looked more like himself, like Sukuna’s, with this power and a willingness to wield it. “Good,” he crooned. “That’s it. So this is where you start burning through your life.” A tidal wave of cursed energy washed over Sukuna. Something shadowed swelled as he approached, a promise of the same tragedy they’d already faced. “Now I see,” Sukuna said, almost laughing. He’d never known exactly what Megumi had started summoning back then, the incantation he’d tried with flickering, washed intent. But it was clear now he’d thought to end it all, both of them. “Well, in that case…”
Sukuna wanted to see it, finally. This Megumi didn’t care for him; he wouldn’t stop. Perhaps this truly was a win-win after all, and they could both end up dead.
“Show me, Fushiguro Megumi!” Sukuna called. Charm me. Make me fall for you. Show me the person who betrayed me, and let me recognize you once more.
“Sacred treasure,” Megumi chanted, and Sukuna’s vision was replaced by the bloody visage of him doing the same, all those years in the past. “Swing and ring—”
In Sukuna’s memory, he reached out and grasped Megumi’s hands, keeping him from whatever anguished, frightened battle he’d wanted to fight then. Here, in this time, Sukuna was—what was he doing? He paused, the realization like a wall—
And Itadori took back over. Sukuna was still wide-eyed, frozen, when he found himself in his innate domain once more. He looked down at his hands, clenched. He’d been about to—
“Just so you know,” Megumi said, to Itadori and within him, Sukuna. “I don’t have a logical reason for saving you back then.”
Oh, Megumi, Sukuna thought. How could they have come to this?
“I did have my reservations,” continued Megumi. “It was ultimately for selfish, emotional reasons. That’s fine, though. I’m not a hero; I’m a jujutsu sorcerer.” Megumi’s expression looked so wretched and sad, but his words were steady. He looked at Itadori and Sukuna looked back. “So I never once regretted saving you,” he said.
And Sukuna didn’t hear a thing after that.
Itadori proved himself once again as a boring idiot who didn’t think. He should have been trying to propose his own terms for a vow, but the brat had attacked Sukuna instead. The impulsiveness could be leveraged, though. Even if it rankled him to make a pact again, the way the last one had ended, this was—this was for Megumi.
Sukuna hadn’t been lying before, telling Itadori he didn’t care if two fragments of his soul died. But with the memories of the third finger returned to him, Sukuna didn’t want to lose this chance, this proximity to Megumi. “The situation has changed,” he told the brat. “In the near future, I’ll be able to see something interesting.”
Megumi wasn’t the Megumi he knew yet, but he wasn’t entirely differing, either. Perhaps it wouldn’t be long until Megumi controlled his domain, gained that larger Divine Dog and his elephant. How would the time travel happen, and when?
The curiosity plagued him. Sukuna wanted to see, to watch Megumi become the sorcerer who first appeared to Sukuna, who slew the dragon and exorcised curses for the villagers, who sealed him. And then perhaps Sukuna would kill him, so his vengeance would be even sweeter.
Sukuna sliced the brat’s head in half, gleeful at finally being able to butcher him, and healed his heart. He was expecting for the brat to rejoin his classmates, but of course that fucker Gojou just had to interrupt without even knowing it. Itadori was locked away from fights, from the school, from Megumi.
So Sukuna had to watch…movies. Despite himself, he was intrigued. He’d gleaned a lot about this era from the brat’s thoughts but hadn’t seen much of it. Most of the scenes were foreign, frankly ridiculous, but some things stood out from the stories Megumi had told him: parks and hiking, phones, skyscrapers and cities, sushi conveyor belts, the bright white of hospitals, space travel and astronauts. The very fact that the images appeared on a “television” was astounding. Itadori watched a movie where the characters fought with light-blades and shot beams from guns, and they made a sound like the ice settling over a frozen lake, just as Megumi had said. He’d been smiling then, that winter, until—Sukuna sighed.
There were other vexing interruptions. Gojou’s domain was of interest, but some useless cursed spirit fuck who encouraged Sukuna to force Itadori into a pact was only a pain. It was beneath him to concern himself over anyone else. Other than with Megumi, Sukuna truly didn’t care what happened.
When they finally rejoined the other students and Megumi, touching reunion between him and brat and all, Sukuna found them embroiled in some type of bullshit political struggle. It was fucking annoying. He didn’t understand why Gojou deferred to these idiots; sorcerers had gone soft in these thousand years.
His vessel was separated from Megumi early on in the training competition. Mostly, Sukuna tried to drown out the noise. His thoughts crawled back to Megumi constantly, like a beaten dog begging for scraps, along with a simmering frustration at the lack of clarity in his memories. There were still moments that Sukuna didn’t simply know were important, but could feel the significance of, and yet they were lost to him.
When an unexpected cursed presence appeared, Sukuna hoped briefly that it had to do with him, that he would get another finger from this. But as Itadori made his way there, he heard Megumi yell, his cursed energy surging then sputtering out, and all Sukuna’s musings turned to sudden alarm.
Then Itadori crashed into the fray, and Megumi was there, injured but safe. The relief settled slowly over him. Sukuna didn’t want Megumi to waste himself on people or curses who weren’t worth it—him, his life. A panda-shaped cursed corpse carried Megumi from the fray, and Sukuna sighed, letting his adrenaline fizzle out. He returned to his lazing, listening to the sounds of Itadori’s fight. At least the brat was getting stronger; he wouldn’t die so easily like this.
Unlike what Gojou believed, Sukuna couldn’t easily sense all the other fragments of his soul, especially not the quiet, slumbering ones. But when a finger was active and near, almost clamoring for attention, its sensory impressions flowed back to him, like his spirit was stretched to close the gap.
Megumi’s domain was the dark of cosmic night. It shivered through Sukuna, a pressure like the depths of the ocean. He was certain he had felt this before, but the root of the familiarity was lost to him still, perhaps locked in the soul fragment of the next finger.
Still, the pull was captivating. Megumi’s metamorphosis had begun; even despite the remaining hollows of his memory, Sukuna knew Megumi was close to becoming the same one who’d been traveled back in time.
“That’s good!” he grinned, letting the anticipation ripple through him. He couldn’t wait.
And then, how wonderfully convenient, that his vessel had the intelligence of a dog, that he held his hand out for the finger, so Sukuna could manifest his mouth there and have Megumi feed him—!
Once again, he was prepared for the memories that stirred: explanations of Megumi’s technique here and there, Sukuna exploring within his domain, Megumi’s slowly recounting his childhood in the school. There weren’t any major surprises this time, but the clarity almost hurt.
With now crisp edges, the betrayal—the memory of that moment, when he’d realized Megumi had known and still let him hunt that sorcerer—haunted Sukuna, and it was made starker by the sheer vividness of the months before that. Sukuna was left reeling. He couldn’t bring himself to examine memories more closely; what would he find but tragedy and treachery?
It would be soon that Megumi disappeared from this time. He remembered Megumi telling him, “I only just learned to control my domain a few months before I was transported here. It’s incomplete, still.”
Some unidentifiable emotion sat heavy in Sukuna’s stomach: an acidic hunger, a warmth, a deep pit of suspense.
Halfway through March, it happened, like Megumi had said it would. Megumi, Itadori, and Gojou were entwined in a chase with a cursed spirit shaped like a crane.
It was barely a fight; the curse was utilizing its time-based technique to simply flee or perhaps trying in vain to find an opening to attack. Still, the ability was a pain to the sorcerers. They kept freezing, stuck in time, only to blink a moment later and find the curse already two, three seconds away.
So Sukuna saw it in flashes, when the time crane turned its sights on Megumi: one moment the curse was right in front of Itadori, and the next it was further in the forest, near Megumi; a blink, and its wings were spread wide, and Megumi’s hands came together; frozen again, and when time began, Megumi was gone. So was the curse.
Sukuna watched silently as Gojou and Itadori searched the forest fruitlessly and with increasing trepidation. It was nice, Sukuna decided, within the comforts of knowing what had happened, to see the arrogant fool Gojou discomfited for once.
They hunted for two days before Gojou forcibly returned Itadori—and Sukuna—to the school and presumably continued his own solo rescue effort, and stuck within the boring, dull halls, now lacking Megumi, Sukuna retreated once more into himself.
Sometime now, a thousand years in the past, Megumi would be getting his bearings. After two weeks, when Gojou returned to the school, shaking his head bitterly with no news, Megumi would venture to the Heian-Kyo jujutsu school, soliciting help, only to find the sorcerers recently exterminated by Sukuna. Two weeks later, in mid-April, they officially pronounced Megumi dead, and Megumi sought out Sukuna.
Despite the millennium of slumber and fragmented recollection of his memories, Sukuna recalled it easily. When Megumi had audaciously approached him, it hadn’t been his bravery that fascinated Sukuna, but his despair.
Sukuna was the only being Megumi had known in that era, and consequently, his only hope, a position Sukuna had never been in before. The irony had been enticing. But how short-sighted he’d been, to not even once consider the other end of that irony returning to mock him: the King of Curses felled by the same sorcerer he’d kept instead of killed.
In all his centuries, he’d never met anyone who intrigued him as quickly or thoroughly as Megumi. There had been some notable encounters—sorcerers with rare and powerful techniques, humans particularly beautiful, and scholars who theorized about their world—but none like Megumi, who had been all three and more.
He remembered that look of defiance as Megumi turned his head, still panting and wrung of his pleasure, arms hardly even able to keep him from the floor, and offered proof of his story to Sukuna. He’d nearly dared Sukuna to disagree with a glint in his eyes Sukuna would later come to know as triumphant.
Megumi had been simple fun at first, but time travel—how rare a notion. Knowing Sukuna had once been human was thin evidence, though passable; the trinkets Megumi carried, the way he spoke, and the stories he told were sturdier. Sukuna hadn’t gained his power through complacency. Faced with a new potential technique, he’d sought it, sending Uraume to track down rumors and speak to scholars during the late spring.
He’d found himself glad that Megumi’s tale seemed to be proving true. It was unexpected, but not unwelcome, how Sukuna had been drawn to Megumi, delighting in the contradictions he uncovered: his stories were fantastical and yet narrated seriously, he was a sorcerer who didn’t want to save everyone, and his impudence was balanced fully by his docility the moment Sukuna put him on his knees. The only thing simple about Megumi had been his love of food and the meals provided by Uraume, something they had in common.
Two months passed after Megumi’s disappearance. Aoi Matsuri came and went without celebration, but in the past, the villagers left offerings at Sukuna’s shrine for the first time since Megumi’s arrival. Perhaps, thinking back on it now, that had been the day that first prompted Megumi’s questions and plots to make Sukuna worshipped as a deity.
By June, though still subdued, Itadori and Kugisaki trained with the other students, a year older than them. Gojou was mostly away, visiting with only his stupid smile, souvenirs, and some story of a mission. Sukuna figured he was still looking for Megumi or the time curse, if Megumi’s faith in this man was anything to go by—then again, Megumi’s faith had been misplaced before, hadn’t it?
In the past, Sukuna had found Megumi…endearing. Accompanying him on his walks around the forest, exploring the wilderness, discussing the differences between nature in their times—Sukuna came to enjoy observing Megumi lose himself in his thoughts, then found that he gained an even greater pleasure in drawing Megumi out of his musing and into good humor.
He still remembered the first time he heard Megumi laugh openly, not simply smile or weakly chuckle. “I don’t…often,” Megumi had said, and Sukuna had thought to himself: what a shame.
How it ached now, remembering those weeks they’d spent together in the early summer, visiting the river, exploring the forest, fucking and talking, and talking, and talking, until Megumi was hoarse, until Sukuna’s last questions had been wrung from him.
Here in the future, they limped into summer with none of the same zeal. Megumi’s absence gaped among the students and in Itadori’s mind, resilient but often saddened as they walked past Megumi’s old, empty room. Even Sukuna, despite his year’s worth of memories, found himself missing the sight of Megumi in the flesh. He thought often about the intoxicating way Megumi had come to crave Sukuna’s touch, as well as how quickly he’d rooted himself into Sukuna’s life.
Megumi had been a sorcerer undeniably, with how he bothered Sukuna about the dragon curse on Kuraiyama, and despite his intelligence and wit and curiosity, Sukuna had never truly even thought to consider him a danger—no one was. It had been almost easy for Sukuna to let his guard down and let Megumi in. So when Megumi’s scheme with the dragon—that he wished to make Sukuna a god—had come to light, the first thought to cross Sukuna’s mind was sheer disbelief: Megumi put himself in such danger for this—such foolishness, such folly?
Then had come the anger, the distrust. The betrayal was minor in comparison to the bone-deep pain Sukuna knew now, but at the time, significant. He’d miscalculated about Megumi, and it’d stung to find him in the same rotten pile as the rest of the sorcerers, conniving, more of a threat.
He’d been rough, those subsequent weeks in July, wanting to dig his nails in and make Megumi bleed for the audacity of attracting Sukuna at all. “Are you pleased with yourself?” Sukuna had asked meanly, gagging Megumi with his fingers, while Megumi only turned a dazed expression his way, blotchy red.
There’d been ways Sukuna could have guaranteed Megumi regretted it, but he hadn’t wanted to go so far. He’d been curious, too, though now Sukuna wished he’d never agreed to Megumi’s scheme. If he’d never been the region’s deity, the humans never would have poisoned Megumi. And he and Sukuna would have lived a quiet life in his forest, and winter would have come and gone with no issue, and they would have been—
But Sukuna knew it, horribly: nothing could be changed. He’d agreed to throw that dragon scale down to Megumi’s town, and when the curse horde filled the power void on Kuraiyama, he’d allowed him to shield the humans from that harm, too.
The first few days of Megumi’s battle had intrigued Sukuna, watching him depart before dawn and return at dusk. He'd wondered how far Megumi would go in his performance. If everything before had been an act, Sukuna had thought, then this was, too. But the endless fight had continued, and fatigue so potent and debilitating was difficult to fake, making him wonder if Megumi really was that desperate.
Everything in those weeks had been unacceptable—grating: Megumi spending time away from the shrine, dedicating himself to the villagers more than Sukuna; and even worse, the humans coming to Sukuna for favors directly, as if their measly coins were enough for his powers.
Sukuna had wanted to judge Megumi and find him lacking, to find him untrustworthy, so he could kill him and then the village and be done with it entirely. He’d been stewing on it, annoyed, when he heard it, a scream, Megumi, and Sukuna had been on his feet before any rational thought could form.
Finding Megumi crying in the forest had been a surprise. All Sukuna’s doubts were assuaged by that hysteria, by the way Megumi had sounded so lost—and Sukuna realizing that he was, a man astray in time—by the low tone of Megumi’s voice as he opened up to Sukuna, baring himself to scrutiny without care or staging. It had been genuine, the slow story that poured from him with growing momentum: that he missed his life in the future; “Everyday I’m losing more—” and Sukuna’s mind had filled the unsaid in; spoken plainly, “You don’t even trust me anymore.”
Watching Megumi sleep that night after healing his sore muscles and helping him wash, Sukuna had decided to destroy the rest of the curse swarm. He’d known it would earn him even more adoration from the humans. But Megumi had looked so peaceful, for once, as if his crying had swept with it whatever was eating him.
Still, Sukuna hadn’t let Megumi escape without a final reminder, especially when he woke the next day ready to return to Kuraiyama, seemingly not having absorbed anything Sukuna told him. “Then I’ll kill them,” Sukuna had said, both a threat and a taunt, some mean-spirited mischief as he took them past the village to the mountain. Perhaps part of him had wanted to see Megumi’s expression, too, transforming from panicked to relieved—awed.
It’d pleased him inordinately, that blooming adoration on Megumi’s features. Sukuna knew when someone desired him, and with Megumi, it was always. But a similar, separate pull simmered between them; it wasn’t only Megumi’s body Sukuna enjoyed, but his mind and presence.
By the time it’d grown obvious that Hida’s worship was affecting his cursed energy, Sukuna almost hadn’t even cared, especially since, even like that, there was no being powerful enough to challenge him. The interesting foods and objects offered to the shrine had been appealing, too, and slowly, as his days with Megumi had become less fraught than before, Sukuna’s desires turned from sowing chaos to the body next to him. It was simpler, but a quiet life but was not a bad one when their days had been filled with companionship, skipping rocks across the river, and eating together.
Learning about the sad circumstances of Megumi’s childhood had disquieted Sukuna. He wondered, briefly, why he hadn’t swept in and saved Megumi from being sold or contracted into sorcery without a choice, and hoped, if changing time was possible, to do so. It only stung now, thinking back.
That it was Megumi who sealed him, when Sukuna had wanted to keep him safe—well, perhaps Sukuna had just wanted to keep him. He’d been…content with Megumi, especially as Sukuna discovered the meaning of intimacy through him: cutely pouting, rubbing the back of his neck, dozing off when he was comfortable and warm, which Sukuna endeavored to always make so.
So when Megumi had finally asked Sukuna to help him return to the future, Sukuna had his response prepared. “Even some things are beyond me,” he’d told him, only half-dishonestly. Though he’d uncovered rumors and traced them, it had been beyond Sukuna to give Megumi false hope, to let him chase mad—dangerous—sorcerers speaking nonsense or be sealed in a cursed object born of Genshin, a monk aspiring to death and rebirth. He’d said then, impressing it as truth upon Megumi, “Perhaps there’s no way.”
Megumi was his, meant to stay at Sukuna’s shrine, where Sukuna wanted him. Why would he have helped Megumi leave? But he hadn’t been prepared for the measure of guilt that came with the lie. Even back then, it’d struck him, a small shard, at the disappointment on Megumi’s face.
That same bothersome doubt reached Sukuna now. “Will you tell them? When I disappear in the future, will you tell Gojou-sensei what happened to me, that I’m here?” Megumi had asked then. Sukuna could, easily, but he hadn’t yet in three months, and though the active search for Megumi had petered out, with nothing further Gojou or his students could do, Sukuna still didn’t plan to.
The old guilt poked its head up, but Sukuna was a creature of his own pleasures. Why would he inform Gojou now? These coming months had been his and Megumi’s happiest. Pulling Megumi into the future prematurely would be just as cruel as leaving him there.
Each day with Megumi, Sukuna had foregone his plans to seek weapons and cursed objects for his arsenal with less and less trouble. He liked being around Megumi, spending his time with him. Training and teasing him, seeing his domain, hearing his laugh as he tamed those useless rabbits—it was exquisite, the way Megumi blushed when he was flustered, and how easy it was to get him there…except for the moments when he surprised Sukuna with his temerity, his boldness.
The taste lingered still on Sukuna’s larger mouth, a phantom sensation in this smaller body. Megumi’s kiss to his stomach had surprised Sukuna—no one had ever—and it was the newness and the familiarity both that made some blossoming emotion spread beneath his skin as warm wonder.
It hadn’t come with a crash, with any violence at all, which in itself was unexpected; instead, like a leaf simply floating down from the branches above, soundless yet permanent, Sukuna’s heart had been unfolded by the soft flutter of Megumi’s eyes as he bent his head and pressed his lips to Sukuna’s body.
“Touch me,” Megumi had breathed, and Sukuna remembered gazing down at Megumi and feeling it tumble in him, chest squeezing. What a sight he had been: ruddy cheeks, parted lips shining and bitten, a fervent expression as he moved with Sukuna. The air had caught in Sukuna’s throat.
That was a moment Sukuna had thought back on countless times. Megumi, his thoughts revolved around, Megumi, his love.
How closely he’d held Megumi in those days that the touch of him clung to Sukuna’s skin even when they were apart. And apart they had been, in late October, after Megumi realized Sukuna’s diet consisted sometimes of human meat.
It’d been a surprise that Megumi hadn’t known; Uraume was never quiet about setting special meals aside for Sukuna, and he’d thought it obvious then. But no, clearly not, as disgust twisted Megumi’s expression, as he dry-heaved at the edge of the shrine grounds. For the first time in a long time, Sukuna had found himself at a loss. His attempts at assurance were met with glares, with watery eyes, with Megumi storming inside and sheltering in their room.
Sukuna had given him space and been prepared to give him more when he went to him that night, though it was a relief to find Megumi subdued rather than angry. Poetry had been the only thing Sukuna could think of to fill the silence. He’d thought perhaps Megumi would slowly get over it, adapt to this as Sukuna’s nature, but instead, Megumi had begun avoiding him.
The notion that Megumi would skip their meals, would choose the inn’s food, where they didn’t even serve meat—it’d been absolutely maddening. With October’s harvest, there had been so much to eat, so much Sukuna wanted to share with Megumi. He’d resolved to make it up to Megumi somehow, and that same day, Megumi returned to the shrine earlier than planned, clearly wanting the same. They’d talked, and so simple it’d been between them, even in moments when it shouldn’t have been, because they both knew each other and knew, too, that they wanted to continue this shared life.
“I know it’s your nature,” Megumi had said. “But it makes me sick to think about it.”
At first, Sukuna had sighed, resistant to the idea of changing this long-indulged habit.
But Megumi’s voice was soft, sad, and so serious when he continued, “I can’t stomach the idea of sitting next to you and knowing.”
It’d been easy in the end, thinking of their meals, how Uraume sometimes wondered what Megumi would think of their next dish, and the simple joy of sitting next to Megumi at the chabudai, watching him eat. The thought of losing that was a physical ache.
“No more, then,” Sukuna had replied, then watched Megumi’s eyes widen.
He’d clutched at Sukuna’s arm tightly and whispered, “Thank you.”
How could Sukuna even imagine saying no to him? He’d wanted all of Megumi’s wishes to be met. “The things you desire—ask them of me,” Sukuna found himself saying, promising. He’d longed to give Megumi the world so keenly it rocked his core, a burning flame within.
But Megumi, darling Megumi, had only ducked his head with his secret smile and hadn’t asked for the world at all, but only Sukuna, and requested, “Eat with me.”
In mid-November, the students switched to their winter uniforms, and as the weather turned colder, so did the settings of Sukuna’s thoughts. The cool night air had surrounded them as Megumi, flushed red high on his cheeks, giggled. His eyes crinkled, narrowing with intent when his gaze found Sukuna.
“Hi,” Megumi had whispered, and Sukuna could have welcomed him into his arms forever. There’d been nothing to do but obey Megumi’s every demand for another kiss, for Sukuna had wanted to give him everything. “Take me somewhere, Sukuna,” asked Megumi, and Sukuna’s excitement rose. “Anywhere. Somewhere you like.”
It’d been an easy choice—the one place Sukuna cherished unmarred by battle and people, which Megumi wouldn’t have enjoyed. The lake, tucked in a small valley in the mountains, had been his for centuries. Once, as a human, he’d crept here and rested after healing, and the lapping water on the thin shore, the fish, and the trees had sustained and sheltered him. Bringing Megumi was the joining of his two homes.
Megumi’s wide-eyed wonder had made Sukuna’s heart sing. He’d asked Sukuna if he’d brought anyone else here, and instead of the tease on his tongue, Sukuna had answered honestly. In the moonlight, Megumi was the dearest sight he’d seen.
Sensation was different for them, a cursed spirit and a sorcerer. Sukuna kept Megumi warm, and in return, Megumi had been determined to overcome Sukuna’s impervious skin, to invoke Sukuna’s time as a human. And he had; on the shore of that lake, whatever space left between them had disappeared, the moon’s gravity tugging them together until they were one. Like a fount, it’d flowed between them, that feeling. Where Megumi laid his hands, Sukuna felt it in the marrow of his bone. His cursed flesh sparked.
How long it’d been since someone had touched Sukuna like this; he hadn’t even realized he’d been starved for it until Megumi blanketed him with his body, with kisses, smiling against his lips. He could still feel it even now, how gentle and possessive Megumi’s touch had been. The imprints he left felt like raw wounds.
He’d known, of course, there were secrets Megumi withheld about the future, but hadn’t thought them important. It was obvious now, after the encounter at the prison, why Megumi hadn’t elaborated. “I would know you,” Sukuna had promised him, and he had. He knew him, yet in his anger, he’d done the very thing that’d placed that shadowed cast upon Megumi’s expression.
The leaves in Tokyo turned red in November, but the cold brought an uptick in curses, too. It was already December by the time the students made noise about momijigari. Halfway through the month was the first hard frost of the season, delayed by the environmental struggles of this era. Within Itadori, Sukuna ached and didn’t say a thing, and a thousand years in the past, he threw a blanket over Megumi’s shoulders and pulled him close.
He’d been waiting for weeks, and the excitement only grew as he lazed with Megumi in the morning and through lunch. On the walk there, there had been fetch with Kuro, baiting Megumi by withholding their destination, Megumi teasing him right back, a wildness to him, matching the bright forest path—the same path where Megumi later told Sukuna he’d be sealed—
Sukuna’s anger then was still vivid, easy to recall. It’d felt like betrayal that Megumi had kept this secret for months, and that night, leaving Megumi at the shrine, Sukuna had rampaged through a town outside Hida, needing to feel his power end something. “Sealed?” he’d snarled. “Me? Me?!” He’d fired arrow after arrow through their houses, burning through his anger until it was ash.
Uraume, accompanying him, had been just as affronted when he explained. But when Sukuna returned to his shrine the next day, Megumi had been waiting, clearly anxious, and well—it seemed as though Megumi had weakened him in more ways than one.
They’d talked through their apologies and put the matter mostly to rest between the two of them, but when Sukuna and Uraume traveled north to meet Kenjaku, it’d become clear that Uraume would have to involve themselves, as well. And though Sukuna asked it of Uraume, knowing they would obey, he’d still been vexed by having to make a pact with an untrustworthy man like Kenjaku. The whole situation, having to plan for such an unfeasible reality, nettled Sukuna terribly.
But even that anger had paled later. Megumi’s birthday, the winter solstice, was a short and somber day in this era. Gojou was gone, and the students moped around the halls of the school, quieter than normal, even over dinner.
“Imagine if we’d thrown him a surprise party,” Kugisaki said, with a dry scoff of a chuckle.
Itadori’s resulting attempt at laughter was weak. Sukuna’s, too—it was in these days in the past that his domain had fallen.
He’d been fighting a group of Ainu sorcerers when one laid out her domain. Responding with his own would have been easy, a guaranteed victory, but Megumi had been at the shrine, needing its warmth. For nearly a week, he had no trouble. But then he’d felt his cursed energy within him, something odd about it, as though it was here and not there—no sense of him in Hida at all—
The bolt of panic had been deep and cutting, something Sukuna hadn’t felt in so long it was nearly a new sensation. He’d left Uraume, telling them to make their way back, and returned hastily to the shrine, or rather, the abandoned clearing. For a moment, Sukuna had thought—
But no, he’d felt Megumi further away, on the mountain, at Minashi Shrine. He was okay—safe. Relief had been a new sensation, too, for when had Sukuna last possessed something so precious to him to protect?
It’d been raining when Sukuna arrived. Feeling wide-open and ruined, he approached down the long walkway of the shrine grounds, and Megumi had risen to meet him: real, not a shadow, not a hopeful conjuring of his mind.
Voice breaking, Megumi had said, “You’re back.”
And all Sukuna could manage was the same prayer he’d been chanting the entire trip back here: “Megumi.”
Later, when Megumi dozed after sex, Sukuna had watched him and let his thoughts swirl without restraint. How could he have nearly lost Megumi, to allow such danger to reach him? Never again, Sukuna had vowed, brushing Megumi’s hair from his face. Seeing the low rise and fall of his chest had felt like day and night, the earth moving once again. If only Sukuna could hold Megumi forever, to keep him from every danger—no, he could not hope; he would make it so.
In the modern era, the jujutsu school celebrated New Year’s Eve with osechi ryori, a larger selection than Sukuna had ever seen. The wonders of Megumi’s stories never failed to come to life; he hadn’t lied, not even once, until the end.
The memories had fossilized in Sukuna, who watched the festivities quietly. He was turning into a relic of his own regret and yearning. A thousand years before this, the eve of the new year had settled Sukuna, a comfort he hadn’t realized he needed.
They’d celebrated Megumi’s birthday, who insisted on counting it as Sukuna’s, too, and when Uraume arrived, eaten dinner together, the three of them. Megumi and Uraume tentatively danced around each other, making their peace.
“Your fires don’t go out,” Megumi had told him, probably the most terribly forgiving thing he could have possibly said at the time. They’d sat together in the frosty winter air, under the shadows of the new moon, illuminated only by Sukuna’s flames on the incense sticks and the hearth from within the shrine.
Clarity had struck Sukuna then, quietly watching. Megumi wrote Uraume’s name, and Uraume’s lips lifted subtly. Fire, Uraume scrawled. Berry. Sukuna had pulled Megumi in close when he shivered against the cold.
The new year approached, beheld by the brooding pines, the tattered clouds rolling across the dark sky, and them. It’d been bliss, that moment, a respite from the bleak prior weeks. But even within that solace, he had known: these two people, his companions, his keepers—he would lose them. Time knew no concept of mercy, and Sukuna could hear its footsteps nearing with every ring of the temple bells.
Spoken into the night, so it, too, could be swept into the transient beat of time’s onward crawl, Sukuna had said then, “When I’m sealed, I suspect this is what I will miss.”
And it was.
Now more than ever before, Sukuna understood Megumi’s desperate hope that the future, the timeline, could be changed. If Megumi could somehow be brought back before he was poisoned, before they—well, perhaps this whole disaster could be avoided.
Events were set in time; he’d known that then, in the face of Megumi yelling, “I’m not trying to change you. I’m trying to save you!”
But the memory of Megumi’s dog howling for Sukuna plagued him, an endless echo. The fear he’d felt finding Megumi paralyzed on the ground, lips stained red with blood, still turned his stomach.
The humans of this town had done that, schemed against Megumi, who protected them. They deserved to die for the sheer insolence of even thinking it, let alone hurting Megumi like this, nearly killing him, and if Sukuna had been just a minute later—
He’d known Megumi would be upset, but Sukuna wouldn’t let them live. Couldn’t. What good was Sukuna’s power, all the centuries of accumulated strength, if he failed protect Megumi? Harm had almost come to Megumi once by Sukuna’s weakened domain, and he’d refused to allow the same again.
When Megumi woke at Senko-ji, weak from his fever, Sukuna had tried to give him space, even as his nails bit into his palms with the effort to not reach out, until Megumi reached first. So Sukuna held him, feeling his pulse, and thought to himself that it would be okay, that they would be okay.
But Megumi had wanted to leave, and Sukuna—Sukuna had needed to stop him. The pact had been born of desperation, its loose wording apparent to him only after a few days, when he ordered Uraume to kill that monk. But did it matter, if the pact’s terms had been deliberate or not? Megumi had wandered into the punctured shrine, calling himself a prisoner, and sheltered in the unused room.
The same fear from before, from finding Megumi poisoned, had returned to Sukuna in those days, but there’d been nothing he could do, nothing to raze, no blood to draw. He’d simply watched Megumi slowly disintegrate, vanishing into the woodwork, as if he didn’t even exist at all.
A thousand years later, Sukuna could still hear Megumi’s voice clearly, his frustration, a broken, angry thing: “I’m so mad at you.”
Sukuna hadn’t known what to do. Megumi had wanted to leave, and Sukuna couldn’t let that happen, not when he could be hurt and killed and gone from Sukuna, from their life. It should have been impossible to even consider it, and yet Sukuna had, in that moment with Megumi weeping quietly.
How it tormented him, the quiet longing look on Megumi’s face as he gazed over the mountainside from within the confines of the shrine grounds. Sukuna missed their conversations, missed Megumi ambling from their room after a peaceful night of sleep, meals shared, and dueling chopsticks over the last of the meat. More than once he jolted from a nightmare, with sharp fear that Megumi was hurt, only to find Megumi missing from their bed, dead—was he—
No, not dead, but Sukuna had been losing Megumi a hundred ways other than physically. Megumi sought Sukuna out but always despaired it, so clearly hurting that it pained Sukuna to be with him. But he, too, was forlorn.
Anything Megumi wanted, Sukuna gave in those days. But he’d known it was too late. The rift between them had severed too wide to cross, even for Sukuna, who couldn’t resurrect the villagers and wouldn’t even otherwise.
By the time the sorcerers arrived at Minashi-jinja, that chasm had filled with an ocean of broken promises. If they’d been random worshiping humans, Sukuna would’ve let them go at Megumi’s behest; but faced with sorcerers, one of whom had planned this and wanted to see Megumi dead—Sukuna saw red, fury blazing through him like wildfire.
Any signs of Megumi’s deception, his lie, had slipped past him in that blinding rage. The last touch between them was Sukuna squeezing Megumi’s hand before giving chase to his prey and rending him to pieces, and then—
Pain had fractured him, his soul bending, splintered, then ripping again with the realization that Megumi had lied, had betrayed him. Even now, the memory was a cracked-open, sore wound: Sukuna lashing out, being forced down by Megumi, the slow awareness that he was losing himself until even that consciousness was taken from him.
Megumi had saved him, in the end, a prophetic oracle of his own making. And now Sukuna was reaping what he’d sown, not only in killing the townspeople and that sorcerer, but also in lying to Megumi and holding him in the past, by keeping him at all, by loving him.
It’d been that shared emotion, the heart-rending collapse of their trust at the mutual betrayal, that manifested as cursed energy, bleeding regret into Sukuna and increasing his power as a curse. But it was a pointless consolation. Sukuna had already given up strength to be with Megumi, to live a life of joy and pleasure and laughter with him. What good did power do him now, when he was stuck in Itadori’s body, when Megumi was in the past still, so far out of reach?
The idea of Megumi in that era without Sukuna rankled him, and another immediate thought haunted him like a curse, a layer of air between him and the world: what if Megumi never made it back?
Perhaps Megumi sealed Sukuna and lived the rest of his human lifespan in the Heian era. A spiteful section of Sukuna, still hurt, felt Megumi deserved it. But worry tailed him doggedly more. What if Megumi was hurt with no one to heal him? Had he found a place to stay? Was he eating right?
Sukuna knew Uraume wouldn’t hurt Megumi or at least wouldn’t kill him. But he imagined Megumi bereft, with no offerings, no food, no proper shelter, and couldn’t help the anxious spark in his chest. Megumi couldn’t even read, for fuck’s sake.
What if he never saw Megumi again? Back then, at the ginkgo tree, Sukuna had wondered why he’d hurt Megumi upon meeting him here. Well, he knew now. But it was only late January, not yet too late for hope, that somehow, time could shift and give them a better fate.
“I know not what becomes of us or if you return to your era,” he’d said, even though he’d never thought he’d allow it, “but we should come here in your time.”
Megumi had turned in Sukuna’s hold, hugging him so closely, and in the falling of those golden leaves, time had stood still. When Megumi looked up at Sukuna then, his expression had been brimming with warmth. “When I get back,” Megumi had replied, “I’ll bring you here.”
That week, when Gojou returned to the school, during a training session, Sukuna opened his mouth on Itadori’s cheek and told him that he knew where Megumi was.
Gojou paused, and his serene smile turned hard. “Now what could you possibly mean, Sukuna?” Itadori’s mind was one long string of static, like a fucking fly buzzing around.
“Megumi was cursed by that crane, with the time technique. He went back in time and ended up,” Sukuna smirked, “with me.”
“With you?” Gojou asked, disbelieving.
“With me,” confirmed Sukuna, with relish.
Gojou pulled his blindfold down, and his gaze pierced directly through Sukuna’s eye and mouth. “You’re telling the truth,” he stated, not a question.
Sukuna laughed. “Why would I lie about this, you moron? Don’t waste my time.”
“Like hell we’d trust you,” Itadori jumped in, insufferable as always.
“Do you ever get tired of being stupid, you brat? Fushiguro Megumi—” the name rolled off Sukuna’s tongue. “I met him a thousand years ago. He came to me, claiming he’d traveled from the future. What was it?” Sukuna paused. “Ah, that’s right: ‘I can tell you about the future, if you help me get back.’ Megumi thought he had a bargaining chip.”
“So?” asked Gojou, steel in his tone. “What did you do?”
Sukuna’s glee split his face, and he let his teeth show in a broad, crass grin. “Why, I fucked him, of course!”
Gojou’s expression froze, and his mouth pressed into a thin, angry line. Dangerously calm, he asked, “Did you?”
“You look angry,” laughed Sukuna, delighted by the reaction. “Does it hurt, not being able to rescue him from my loving arms?”
Gojou’s aura spiked, so crushing Sukuna could feel it from within Itadori’s body, pure weight. Itadori’s outrage was palpable, too, but there was nothing either of them could do, not unless Gojou wanted to hurt the brat. It was wonderful. This was better than most forms of torture: an up-close and personal look at the helplessness of the world’s most powerful jujutsu sorcerer.
“Don’t worry about his delicate sensibilities, though,” Sukuna continued, getting to the point now. “He was still alive when I was sealed. We were in Hida—Gifu, he called it; he probably returned to the school at Heian-Kyo.”
“Why would you help us? What happened?” Itadori wondered. “Especially if you—I’ll kill you for doing that to Fushiguro.”
“I’m sure Megumi will tell you all about it,” said Sukuna, unruffled, an air of composure that he could feel irking Itadori, “if you bring him back to this time.”
“We’ll do that anyway, even without knowing what you want from him,” said Itadori sullenly.
Gojou leaned in close, his gaze glacial. The depths of his six eyes peered into Sukuna’s. “If this is part of some scheme…” he threatened.
“What will you do?” Sukuna cackled. “Kill me? Don’t get ahead of yourself. I’m not doing this for you.”
“Then why are you?” Gojou asked rhetorically. His eyes glinted. “Hm, I wonder.”
Sukuna didn’t bother responding. He closed his eyes and withdrew from Itadori’s body. And inhale, then a heavy exhale, and he settled himself. The raw, emotional gashes left by Megumi’s betrayal had festered over time. But Sukuna knew Megumi well, and he understood why Megumi had done it.
He needed to see him, to talk to him, Sukuna’s plans for him and his Ten Shadows notwithstanding. Sukuna didn’t know what he’d say. But Megumi lived within him. When the grief receded, he remained, an island on the ocean floor. They were separated by a wide sea, but the winter mists were clearing, and the moon’s reflection shone bright. Sukuna yearned to reach in and pull Megumi from those depths, to be joined with him again.
With a sigh, Sukuna sat back in his innate domain, unable to do anything but wait. He heard Gojou tell Itadori he’d go speak to the principal, to Tengen, who might have heard something. Well, that was as good a plan as any.
He didn’t learn much more in the weeks after. They kept Itadori—and Sukuna—isolated away from the investigation and conversations about Megumi. Sukuna was glad he didn’t have to field any obnoxious questions, but he hungered for information, too.
The only details they received were passed from Kugisaki; Tengen had heard from Megumi, and they learned he would be returning in mid-March, soon before the spring equinox, marking a little over one year of his absence. Hidden in his innate domain, Sukuna didn’t bother suppressing a relieved breath. He scrubbed a hand over his face, aching. Megumi would get back. He would return to this time.
Gojou stopped by Itadori’s room one evening, his expression pinched as it always was at the reminder of Sukuna. “It’ll be better if you and Megumi don’t see each other for a while when he returns, don’t you think?”
Itadori nodded, staring down at his feet. “If Sukuna is gonna hurt him—”
“You won’t let that happen, will you, Yuuji-kun?” Gojou asked, his words genial but tone anything but.
The brat nodded again, this time with determination. “Yeah, sensei. No way.”
They were a pain, but when were sorcerers not? Sukuna had never let that stop him before. He could utilize his pact with Itadori to take control. Even if for only one minute of time, one minute after a millennium, it was worth it to see him—Megumi, oh, his love.
Sukuna’s thoughts danced, restless, as they waited. It’d already been a thousand years, but somehow that span felt shorter than these few weeks, stretched onward by anticipation.
Then one morning, the message arrived from Kugisaki, found when Itadori rolled over, yawning, and checked his texts: Megumi’s back. He’s with Gojou and Utahime. Gojou’s gonna bring him to Tokyo tmrw so Shoko can see him.
Bright joy washed through Itadori. Within Sukuna, like the thundering gallop of a thousand beasts, his heart picked up, and his soul clamored and flared. Megumi, his soul sang. He was here, in this time. Their days apart had come together once more.
Notes:
art inspired by sukuna recognizing megumi by @pemulungroti
Genshin the monk founded something called “Pure Land” Buddhism, which is the belief that there is no world that isn’t corrupt, so rebirth on a different plane/dimension called the Pure Land is ideal.
Chapter 15: Time
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Gazing at the hand you squeezed
When we were heart to heart,
Pledging the love of a myriad years,
I am overwhelmed with longing.—Manyōshū XVII: 3940
Outside Megumi’s window floated the morning mist of spring, the same as when he’d met Sukuna a thousand years ago. Leaves danced slightly with the quiet breeze, and a small brown bird flitted from one branch of a bush to another. The sounds of nature were muted, though; the walls were better insulated here.
Here, in this place, in this time, the scattered pieces of Megumi’s old life tried to slot back into him and found instead that the hollow was already filled. Even as he rested in bed now, Megumi’s skin felt too tight. His heart sat in the pit of his stomach. The world didn’t make sense.
He rolled over, the mattress dipping easily beneath him, and checked the clock: 5:15AM, which was too early to rise if he didn’t want anyone hovering, asking if he was okay. But sleep evaded him. It had become a fraught thing for him by the end, in that unused bedroom at Minashi Shrine, then as a husk of a person at the Heian-Kyo school. And now in the modern day, too, he simply lay endlessly awake.
As Megumi gazed outdoors, he was startled again by how different the sounds of the two eras were; the odd whir of his room grated at him. Despite birdsong and animals, the Heian era had been nearly silent compared to this buzzing. The clock ticked obnoxiously, the water creaked through pipes, and the hum of air conditioning, a low drone, vibrated jarringly in his ears.
Already, a week had passed since Gojou had brought him here from Kyoto. The spring equinox had come and gone without a peep. Megumi had remembered Itadori’s birthday only belatedly, and even then only passed brief regards through Gojou, since he had no phone or desire to use one. Megumi’s heart stuck to the top of his mouth even thinking about Itadori right now, about—about Sukuna.
The only visitors to this static bedroom were Gojou and Ieiri-sensei. His surroundings were meant to be mundane and familiar, but while the jujutsu school’s olden architecture was soothing, yes, the memories built into the walls did nothing to help Megumi’s constant state of exhaustion.
The contrasts were too stark, all reminders of what was missing. The bed was too high, the fabric of his clothes too soft, and his lamp clicked on without a flicker, nothing at all like—Megumi’s heart stuttered—fire glinting in the hearth. And how could anything here be soothing when the air itself mourned the loss of Sukuna: his presence, his voice, his loud, brash laugh?
Even Gojou-sensei was odd, in a way that set Megumi’s teeth on edge. Rare concern dampened his levity, and their conversations were mostly one-sided as Gojou spun idly back and forth in Megumi’s desk chair and acquainted him with the events of the past year. Megumi barely contributed. It was always too much and not enough at once, because Gojou would tell him every menu item at the new sandwich shop nearby but never raised any of the more difficult topics, perhaps taking his cues from Megumi, trying not to overwhelm him.
Megumi didn’t know why Gojou had decided now of all times to attempt growing a sense of tact, but it meant he had to ask, talk about it, think about it. Today was almost the same—Megumi silent as Gojou arrived an hour or two later with breakfast for them both.
After chatting inanely about recent missions, Gojou asked Megumi, “Is there anything else you need?”
But this time, instead of simply shrugging, Megumi asked quietly, “How is Tsumiki?”
Gojou sat back, fiddling with his glasses. “The same.”
With a sigh, Megumi picked at the too-soft sleeves of his sweater. Relief and sorrow mixed in him; he hadn’t missed anything, but there hadn’t been anything to miss.
“The Gojou family temporarily took over her care from the jujutsu school,” Gojou-sensei added, and when Megumi’s head shot up in surprise, explained wryly, “Without you working as a sorcerer, the higher-ups retracted the stipend. But it’s back in place now, since your return.”
“Oh,” said Megumi dully, an icy realization trickling over him. “Of course they did.”
So it was back to this life for him—sorcery and death, beholden to the whims of corrupt politicians. He hadn’t minded before, not when it was for Tsumiki, not when he’d been saving people. But the taste of escape lingered on his tongue, and now the aftertaste was bitter.
Sukuna’s voice resonated through him, a distant specter made of sadness,“I wondered why I failed to step in and save you from that. I wished to.”
Megumi’s chest squeezed as he ached, his bruised heart sore and raw. He wished, too.
Questions of Sukuna roamed Megumi’s mind endlessly in those days. What was he doing now, and did he know that Megumi had returned to this time? Itadori hadn’t visited, and Megumi was almost glad. Nerves rang through him thinking about seeing Sukuna, a combination of trepidation and grief and longing. Would he even speak to Megumi? What would Megumi say to him, if he could?
None of his daydreams landed right, each one tainted equally by Megumi’s hopes and guilt. The speculation only wound Megumi’s mind into tighter knots, until the misery bled through the gaps. It hurt to even think of Sukuna, the one who was his.
The first day back at the Tokyo school, Gojou had brought Megumi breakfast, arranged on a tray. But sitting next to the steaming rice had been—had been miso soup, and Megumi had nearly cracked right then, ceramic against a mountain of memory. He’d been saved only by Ieiri-sensei taking one look at him and ushering Gojou out, food and all, and then Megumi had cried, full heaving sobs as reality crashed over him.
For more than a month prior, he’d been disintegrating, running on fumes in some corrosive survival mode. And what was left of him was this—this rusty bag of spare parts, clinking around without purpose, having almost forgotten what it felt like to be whole.
But the modern world and its stimuli made it difficult to keep wallowing in blues. At the Heian-Kyo school, the sorcerers had respected him enough to avoid bothering him, but Gojou shared none of the same reservation. Megumi…welcomed it, in a sense, at least telling himself that Gojou’s company was better for him than none, even if it didn’t always feel like it.
Megumi was just tired of everything, but that included the suffocating press of despair. He was tired of the shallow conversation he and Gojou shared each morning over toast and eggs, and he was tired of being cooped in this room. And there was, too, a furtive fantasy of seeing Sukuna, somehow, and wanting to be as much of himself as Megumi could withstand. Determination sprang from the same well he’d drawn upon when agreeing to the time crane’s proposal. He wanted to grasp whatever life was left for him and hold onto it, for he knew now what it was like to lose that.
So each day, Megumi forced himself to rise from bed. He washed his face and used the toilet, then tried to keep himself from jumping at the sound of the flush. A reflection with shaggy hair and slighter frame stared back at him as Megumi brushed his teeth. His gums bled each time.
Then in the shower, as the water turned from cold to warm to hot, Megumi sank into it and allowed himself to remember the past year, trying to come to terms with what had happened. As if his grief was dead skin, scoured off in the steam, he discovered that the memories were still bright underneath, though bruised. He remembered Sukuna taking him to the hot spring, helping him wash, hiding Megumi’s clothes once when he washed in the river, soaking with him at the shrine.
It was almost surprising, yet reaffirming itself, that Megumi still had the capacity to feel better. When Ieiri-sensei sat Megumi down to trim his hair one morning at the beginning of April, Megumi found himself relaxing into the gentle tugs on his scalp, the soft snip of the scissors. This, too, reminded him of Sukuna, the times Megumi had indulged and let him cut his hair—combing it free of knots, cropping the excess with his nails, then gently washing it—but it was a good memory, with a nostalgic ache instead of a mournful one.
The days continued passing without pause. Slowly, Megumi’s responses to Gojou and Ieiri became longer. He asked quietly about the other students, and Gojou bought him a phone already programmed with everyone’s contacts. Feeling unwieldy in Megumi’s hand, it mostly stayed facedown on his bedside table but served as another step closer to normalcy nonetheless.
Still, despite his determination, a thread of guilt thrummed within Megumi as he progressed. Each day, each hour, each minute, he was abandoning the past for the present. There was a part of him, some selfish, wretched thing inside, that didn’t want to heal if it meant losing the feelings embedded so deep. Who would he be, after Sukuna?
Megumi longed to go back to that time, that life. But no matter the longing of his heart, anguish echoed still across its crevices, like ripples along the edge of his consciousness. He couldn’t forget how their life together had ended: not only by the lie and sealing, but before, too, by Sukuna’s hand and the town’s burning.
He couldn’t return there—then. It was over, and it had been, for long enough now that Megumi’s heart stopped fighting him on it. The mornings passed, and the mealtimes, and the evenings, all without Sukuna. So Megumi picked up the fragments of his life here and, day by day, uncovered himself within the dusty existence he once knew.
It was raining the next time both Ieiri and Gojou-sensei visited at the same time. The soft patter against his window filled the silence, and Megumi watched a raindrop slip down the glass, merging with another.
“How are you feeling today?” Ieiri-sensei asked after they’d eaten.
Megumi’s answer came easily, unforced. “Okay,” he said. “Better today.”
“That’s good,” she nodded, playing with the ends of her hair. “If you’re feeling up for it…”
Suspicion dripped into Megumi. He eyed them and asked warily, “What?”
Then Gojou leaned forward, and Megumi knew instinctively, struck by the glint of his eyes over the edge of his glasses, that he was about to ask. He braced himself. “You wanna talk about it?”
Megumi sighed, glaring. “What’s there to talk about? You must have spoken to Tengen, to know I was in the past.” Gojou receiving Megumi at the Kyoto school was evidence enough. “I was—I went to the school in Heian-Kyo, when I realized where I was. And, um—” Megumi cut off, careening into a rambling semi-truth, “That’s it. That’s why I was in Kyoto when I returned. Because I was there, in the past.”
A strange silence filled the space. Megumi trained his eyes on his lap, unwilling to check if he’d convinced either of them. In his periphery, he caught Gojou exchanging a glance with Ieiri. “Megumi,” Gojou started, and Megumi’s heart sank; only once before, with Tsumiki, had he ever been so tentative. “Megumi, there was—we also heard about Sukuna.”
Megumi’s head popped up in surprise, then ducked back down, but the damage was done. He’d given himself away, betrayed the truth of whatever Tengen had informed them. After a pause, a breath, Megumi asked, “Tengen told you about Sukuna?”
Gojou shifted. “Tengen is…different now,” he said. “His perspective of the world has changed over the last ten years. He didn’t remember to inform about you until, well,” Megumi’s insides froze, “Sukuna told me where you were.”
Ieiri leaned forward, no more tactful than Gojou. “That you were with him.”
“Sukuna—” Megumi croaked, the familiar name stuck on his dry tongue. He leaned back against the wall and stared up at the ceiling, trying not to let the bubbling anxiety build. What had Sukuna said? Megumi wasn’t bold enough to ask. With a subtle exhale, he tipped his head to the side and looked at them, then admitted, “Yeah.”
Gojou-sensei pressed his lips together. “The whole year?” he asked softly.
“I went to him a month after I traveled back,” said Megumi. He tried to keep his voice from wavering and probably failed, from the way Gojou’s frown deepened. “And—and I was with him until the end of February.”
There was a long pause, the air loud with disquiet. The memory of betraying Sukuna sat like lead at the bottom of Megumi’s lungs. Gojou’s silence was pregnant with something else, though—with worry. Megumi scrutinized him as Gojou took his glasses off and fidgeted with them, folding and unfolding the ends. It occurred to Megumi a split second before Gojou spoke—oh god, they knew. “Sukuna said that you were—that in exchange for help returning to this time, that you were with him.” Megumi stared, panic buzzing, wondering what circle of hell the time crane had landed him in, that he was having this conversation. But Gojou continued, “He—he violated you, raped you, Megumi, and—”
Megumi straightened reflexively, struck by a bolt of alarm. “He didn’t—” he argued, then clammed up. They stared at each other, he and Gojou, and Megumi felt himself flush. Cheeks burning, he turned away. “It wasn’t like that,” he muttered.
“Megumi,” began Gojou, and Megumi winced from just his tone, “when you live with someone long enough, when you’re with them for that long, it’s hard to see the truth sometimes.”
Megumi shook his head, clenching his hands. His insides twisted around Gojou’s accusation, a solid block he couldn’t swallow away. He had overlooked so many of Sukuna’s harmful tendencies, had accepted them as his nature, as him, who Megumi loved. But at the same time, their life had been so much more. That malevolence hadn’t been all of Sukuna. “I did see it,” said Megumi. A nervous wedge sat thick in his throat. “I knew the truth, about him. But I overlooked it or condoned it, because—” He took a shuddering breath with the past year heavy on his shoulders. “Because maybe at the beginning, it was…rough between us. But to me, he was—he was so—”
“He was a curse,” Gojou interjected. “Even if he could care for you, even if he did, he would still be a curse.”
Old shame roiled in Megumi’s gut, but frustration bit at its heels. “Why does that matter?” he spat. “Everyone keeps saying it—he was a curse—as if I don’t know. As if—” I didn’t seal him myself, Megumi didn’t say. “But he cared about me. I survived because of him, for a whole year. It wasn’t like what you’re thinking.”
“He’s a killer,” Gojou countered. “Death and destruction are what he knows, Megumi.”
Blistering anger rose in Megumi, built atop his guilt. That wasn’t Sukuna, not all of him, but Gojou was so stubbornly insisting, especially when— “Well, you of all people should know what it’s like,” Megumi snapped.
Gojou froze, and next to him Ieiri stilled, too. The specter of their own past hung over the room like a mangled, chewed curse. With a resigned sigh, Ieiri-sensei moved to sit on the edge of Megumi’s bed. “We’re not…shaming you for being with him,” she said. “We’re worried he hurt you, Fushiguro. That the…feelings you have now are a result of what he did to you.”
Feelings? The only feelings left in Megumi were grief and yearning, and both were born of his own hand. “Whatever he did to me, to anyone else,” Megumi told them, thinking of the townspeople, the blood on Sukuna’s hands. “I’ve already paid it back. I—”
Ieiri tilted her head curiously. “What is it?”
Megumi met her gaze, then Gojou’s. “I sealed him,” he said plainly.
Their shock was palpable. There was a tinge to Gojou’s voice, something that spoke of his own memories, when he asked after a beat, “Seriously?”
“Yeah,” confirmed Megumi bitterly, then forged ahead. “I was the one who did it. I sealed him, then I—I took his fingers to the Heian-Kyo school, where I met Tengen.”
In the silence that fell over them, Gojou leaned back in his seat, staring up at the ceiling in disbelief. The press of his mouth was thin, perhaps angry. But then he barked an incredulous laugh, the first Megumi had heard from him since returning, even if it was a rough, manic thing. “What on earth happened while you were back there?” he murmured, almost to the air.
Megumi was glad he hadn’t asked directly. The wounds were too raw, just a few weeks past for him. It was surreal to hear Gojou speak as though it was so long gone, so distant. Shifting lower into his blanket, Megumi groused, “Don’t you have something better to do than just sit around here all day asking questions?”
The uptick of Gojou’s lips faded, and he wound back into a solemn, pensive mood. “Better than making sure you’re okay?” he frowned. “Well, probably, but I’m not gonna do it.” He looked Megumi over, as if reconciling this new information with what he’d thought, and softly, weighed by past sorrows, Gojou offered, “I thought I lost you.”
And how could Megumi be dismissive of that? The past year had been so different for the two of them. While Megumi was with Sukuna, in a life he cherished, Gojou had mourned him. “I didn’t want you to worry. I hoped you would hear earlier, from Tengen, so you would know where I was, that I was okay.”
“Sukuna only told us in January,” Gojou said. “And the way he said it, he made it seem like—well.”
Megumi sighed. “Of course he did,” he muttered, before catching himself. When he glanced up, Gojou was peering at Megumi curiously. Maybe it was that tone of familiarity that solidified it for him finally, because some of the remaining tension seemed to ease then.
Perhaps Gojou was thinking about Getou, about the capacity for both cruelty and warmth. Perhaps he was thinking about having to kill him. But his usual annoying cadence was back in place when Gojou said, “Ah, now I get it.” And Megumi knew he actually did.
“Shut up.”
Gojou pouted. “You sure you don’t wanna tell your favorite teacher Gojou all about it?”
“Like I would,” Megumi rolled his eyes, and for a moment, he didn’t feel so much like a man out of time.
In the days that followed, activity picked up around Megumi. The excuses used to shield him from the higher-ups’ scrutiny wore thin a month after his return, and the official demand for a report into Megumi’s disappearance arrived. Gojou visited, waving the paper in Megumi’s face, to decide on their story.
“They caught wind of what Sukuna said about you, but let’s let them believe he imprisoned you,” Gojou told him. “They wouldn’t believe anything else about him, and if they did, they’d brand you either crazy or a curse user.”
Megumi agreed uneasily. He didn’t care what the higher-ups, corrupt fools that they were, thought of him and Sukuna, but stories of their time together were precious, and Megumi wanted to hoard them close, bundled tight to his chest away from nosy interrogation.
When the bright light of a screen no longer hurt his eyes, Megumi searched up the places in Hida that he’d known. The only city in the area was Takayama, home of the Hida Kokubun-ji. Minashi Shrine—it still stood.
But as its website loaded, a cold sense of wrongness seeped into Megumi. It felt almost…sacrilegious seeing these places over a phone. He didn’t want to read the history this way, not again. Megumi had lived these accounts, in a past vibrant and prosperous. Perhaps he could—he could go there and see, eventually, when he was able to think of Sukuna without such hurt.
As Megumi healed came more visitors, too. The upperclassmen visited with mentions of their courses and missions, but Kugisaki was his most frequent guest, bringing news of the school, the steals she’d found while shopping, and literally anything else on her mind that day.
The only one who didn’t visit was Itadori, though he was chatty over text: some like hope you’re doing well, and others like I broke your inu mug getting it out of storage, haha sorry.
Megumi knew why; there was notably never any news of Sukuna. Despite the distractions, Megumi missed him more, not less. As he hiked the trails within the school’s barrier, he kept glancing to the side in a reflex that still searched for Sukuna, expecting him to be there. It was second nature now to turn to him and relay whatever roaming thought had occurred to Megumi, to seek Sukuna’s opinion in return or his laugh. As Megumi reacquainted himself with the world, the urge struck him to show Sukuna: see, this is what I meant, and let me show you more.
But an impassable void separated them. The last memory Megumi had of Sukuna was covered in blood, and now Sukuna had no body of his own. Did Sukuna—did he think of Megumi, as Megumi did him? Was he lonely, stuck suppressed in a vessel?
Megumi missed him, a gap in the air at his back. He was waiting for Sukuna to appear and hover over him, to place his chin on his shoulder and coo at whatever Megumi was working on, to nip at his neck and nuzzle him and kiss his cheek—
How would Sukuna react, seeing him? Perhaps he would seek his revenge, finally, on this version of Megumi who understood now why Sukuna had been so angry at the prison. He didn’t even need to be in control of Itadori’s body to do it; there were a million words Sukuna could say, fueled by a thousand years of rage, to make Megumi crumble.
In the end, though, it didn’t matter whether Sukuna was angry still. Megumi had accepted what he’d done, and if he was to die for it, the way Sukuna would when they collected all twenty fingers, then he would die. The thing was—even now, Megumi wanted to trust in the tether between them. Maybe he had severed it along with Sukuna’s soul, but who was Megumi if not the one who’d gambled his life by approaching Sukuna’s shrine in the first place on a slight measure of hope?
So the next day, over dinner, Megumi set his chopsticks down and set his steady gaze on Gojou. “I have to see him,” he announced.
Gojou looked up, already knowing who Megumi meant, and didn’t make him fight for it.
Itadori visited Megumi the next day. Seeing him was surreal, after a year. Upon meeting Sukuna in the past, Megumi had only noticed the differences: four arms, two vertical eyes, his size and power. But now, Megumi only sought the similarities, looking for Sukuna within Itadori. He stared at the eye slits on Itadori’s cheeks, which were closed and unmoving. Was Sukuna there, listening?
If he was, he didn’t make an appearance that first visit. Megumi thought about asking, and the question played in his mind enough that Itadori’s stories of the past year were all but tuned out. But apprehension stilled his tongue. The thought of asking when Sukuna himself could hear made Megumi nervous. What if Sukuna refused to see him? He was connected by chains to the past, and Sukuna was at the other end. But how could Megumi free himself if he couldn’t even talk to him?
The next day, Megumi still wasn’t prepared to confront his uneasiness, his mind whirling the moment Itadori stepped into the room. But in the end, after lunch, Itadori brought it up himself. “Gojou-sensei told me you wanted to see him,” he gestured at his own face. “Sukuna.”
Megumi’s heart drummed wildly, loud in his ears. He steeled himself with a breath. “Has he said anything?”
“Not really,” Itadori shook his head. “He’s really quiet when you’re around. Well, the whole year, honestly, since you disappeared, and uh—he hasn’t really asked to see you or anything.” Neither of them spoke for a moment, and an exhausted helplessness rose in Megumi. Itadori added lowly, “I promised Gojou-sensei I wouldn’t let him hurt you.”
Megumi paused. “He wouldn’t,” he said, even though he didn’t know for sure.
With a frown, Itadori shifted. “I dunno, Fushiguro. Wasn’t it like—he already hurt you, with what he did. I don’t get why you wanna talk to him.”
Trying to breathe past the tangle of anxious static buzzing in his chest, Megumi said, “It wasn’t like that, even if Sukuna…made it sound that way. The past year for me was—important.” He swallowed, unable to continue. Megumi’s skin prickled; he felt blindingly exposed, imagining Sukuna hearing him admit this to Itadori. “You’ve been hurt by Sukuna before, and I have been, too, so of course it’s hard to believe, but—that’s how it was.”
“You mean like…you were…together?” Itadori’s eyes were wide.
Megumi exhaled, then jerkily nodded. “I didn’t expect it, going to him back then. But being with him—” He couldn’t look at Itadori—at Sukuna, and instead stared down at his hands, the very same ones that had both learned to love Sukuna, riotous and honeyed, and sealed him. The power for both those things, for all of it, had stemmed from them, their connection. “He made me stronger,” Megumi confessed. “I don’t know how to explain it. I don’t—don’t know if I can.”
“It’s okay, Fushiguro,” said Itadori. “I mean, it’s Sukuna, so I can’t say I get it.” He scratched his cheek where Sukuna’s mouth would appear, a nervous tic. “But I won’t judge you, if you wanna tell me…” he trailed off with a shrug.
Megumi didn’t, though, not really. Everyone kept asking him to tell them what happened, back then, and it filled him with such incredible sorrow to think about the past year in such terms, so far out of reach, even though it was. Because it wasn’t—it wasn’t over for him. How could it be, when each night he thought of Sukuna, and each morning, woke expecting to see him? Megumi ate each meal wondering if Sukuna missed it as he did: food, companionship, them.
Something wet dripped on Megumi’s cheek, and he reached up. His finger came away wet; with a belated jolt, he realized he was crying. “I—” he managed, trembling. Another tear fell, and Megumi felt despair surge in him, a terrible heartache mixed with embarrassment and fatigue. He wiped at his damp cheeks ineffectively, and muttered, “Sorry,” even as a small sob wracked his body.
Itadori moved closer to the bed, making some moves to comfort him, but Megumi clenched his eyes shut as his breath hitched. Being happy with Sukuna had meant everything to him, and it was gone now, lost forever. Megumi’s breath hitched. A whimper escaped him as he tried to swallow down his cries. It couldn’t be over; it couldn’t. “I don’t know why I’m crying. I just—” He just wanted Sukuna—
A hand touched Megumi’s cheek, gentle and careful as it brushed a tear from under his eye. Megumi’s breath caught.
“Don’t cry,” said Sukuna softly.
Megumi tipped his head up, blinking his eyes open, and Sukuna’s warm palm cupped his face. Unmoving, he stared blankly as Sukuna knelt next to the bed and wiped Megumi’s tears.
The room was quiet. “Megumi,” Sukuna murmured, and the soft sound hung between them like a ghost.
The curse marks were vivid. His eyes were different, unobscured in this form, and he had only two arms and was smaller. But his tender gaze and hands, his cursed energy, his voice—it was Sukuna, his undeniably to Megumi’s tremulous heart.
“You’re here,” Megumi breathed. He’d had so much to say, so many accusations and apologies boiling in him, but seeing Sukuna now, there was only him. Them.
His hands shook, but Megumi reached up, laying them over Sukuna’s on his cheeks. The last time he’d touched these fingers, the last time he’d seen them, they’d been blank, imprisoned things. But they were warm now, and full of life, even if through a vessel.
Megumi entwined their fingers and drew them away from his face, so Sukuna’s hands were clasped tight in his between them. He remembered Sukuna squeezing his, one last time, before leaving the shrine, and Megumi ached. He bent his forehead to their joined hands, and it spilled from him, a blue thing, an ocean begging for its waters to return.
He’d been so empty, burned hollow by fire. But hearing his name from Sukuna’s lips, feeling him—the relief was deafening. Air quivered, wispy in his throat and lungs, but Megumi’s body filled with breath, and it felt like his first one. Sukuna had found and pulled him from the depths.
Megumi inhaled shakily and slowly picked his head back up. He gazed at their hands, Sukuna’s nails black and blunt, and the curse marks on his wrist, which were double-banded. It wasn’t the same; it could never be again, and yet he was here.
“Itadori?” Megumi asked.
“The brat’s fine,” answered Sukuna, gruff. “Knows better than to try to take over right now.”
Megumi nodded, barely finding his worry within the thunderous storm of emotions. Sukuna was here, and his touch was so careful. It was all Megumi could focus on. Slowly, he let go of Sukuna’s hands and scooted to the side, making room at the head of the bed next to him.
Sukuna moved to sit, and Megumi watched the fluid grace of his movement, the same in a different body. He looked so odd this size, in the sweatshirt Itadori was wearing, and instead of lounging casually, he seemed tense. His expression was both wary and intrigued, as if trying to figure Megumi out.
Megumi picked at the blanket atop his legs, then steadied himself. This was Sukuna, and Megumi’s soul had been seeking a path back to him since they’d been separated.
“I thought you’d want to kill me,” Megumi said, too nervous to look up as he did.
“I thought so, too,” Sukuna admitted. Megumi glanced up, just in time to see Sukuna’s expression shift a little sadly. He reached out and traced the dried track of tears on Megumi’s cheek. “But I see now. It hurt you to do that to me.”
It wasn’t a question, but Megumi still nodded shakily. Hurt him? Sukuna’s unseeing stare and confusion, his protective instinct, even at the end, his blood slippery on Megumi’s hands—it had killed him. Even the long minutes after Megumi’s lie had eaten at him, a caustic fear about what would become of Sukuna.
“I only—” Megumi started, but his voice broke wetly. He couldn’t tell Sukuna he hadn’t meant it then, because he had. Regret was an empty sentiment now, with the beat of time having swallowed them.
Sukuna reached out, covering Megumi’s hand with his, stilling its shake. “Tell me,” he said.
All four of Sukuna’s eyes watched him intently, and under that gaze, Megumi felt gently but awfully exposed. In the space between them, the rhythm of his heart was laid bare. “I loved you,” Megumi whispered.
Pain flashed over Sukuna’s expression. He looked resigned—mournful. “And now?”
There were a thousand ways Megumi could tell him. His soul was carved with it, the yearning creased into his being. “It’s only been two months for me,” he said. “I still—still dream of it, the ways you held me, the ways we were. In the mornings, I turn over in my bed and wonder where you are, just for a split second. I keep looking for you. The other day, I saw a deer in the forest, and all I wanted was to turn to you and tell you to look.” Megumi reached his other hand out. “And now you’re here. And I’m here. And you—” he couldn’t continue. His hand dropped back down.
Sukuna understood though. He pulled Megumi into him, and Megumi buried his face in Sukuna’s shoulder. The differences struck him once more; they didn’t slot together anymore like they used to. Megumi was uncomfortably aware that this was Itadori’s body and couldn’t relax. He fought the urge to reach for the two missing arms he could nearly feel, a phantom touch that itched in its absence.
But the low rumble of Sukuna’s voice, so familiar, settled around Megumi. “You made me happy,” said Sukuna, “in that your joy was mine. That was love I had never imagined before you.”
The words shivered into the cracked rifts of Megumi’s heart like liquid gold. He brimmed with longing. When Sukuna’s hold eventually loosened, Megumi pulled back but stayed close.
Sukuna cupped his face in both hands and simply looked at him. “Oh, Megumi,” he whispered. Tears abruptly rose to Megumi’s eyes again, at the utter ardency of Sukuna’s gaze and the way Megumi’s name poured from his lips as if a prayer. It was devotion, a faithful love within the layers of their souls. Sukuna’s voice shook as he beheld Megumi and rasped, “It’s been so long.”
One thousand years. Where it was only months for Megumi, Sukuna had lost him for a magnitude of time incomprehensible. Mountains and oceans and forests grew and died in that time, and yet Sukuna had only slumbered, waiting to see him once more.
Anguish swelled through Megumi, spilling over in tears that Sukuna brushed aside. “I’m sorry for what I did to you.”
For a moment, Sukuna was quiet, contemplative, then his hands fell from Megumi’s cheeks. He shook his head. “You are not the only one at fault. I brought it on myself, too, by keeping you at the shrine with the pact, and before, with—” Sukuna sighed. “I lied to you long before you did to me. You asked me for help returning to this era, but I wanted you to stay, so I told you I’d found nothing of time travel.”
It sank in like a chill, the confirmation of Megumi’s suspicions. “I knew,” he said quietly.
With a surprised look, Sukuna asked, “Back when you first asked me?”
“I did wonder then,” said Megumi. “But I only realized after you’d been—sealed, when I was looking for ways to come back. In the autumn, I just accepted it, didn’t give it much thought, because I—” An ache bloomed deep in Megumi’s chest, at this last confession, the choice he’d made too late. “I would have stayed in the past for you.”
In the end, nothing of history had changed. Only Megumi had, now branded with the image of what Sukuna looked like when he loved. But Sukuna wore that expression right now: adoring, greedy, and fiercely protective. Megumi knew him intimately and could see through the new body to the shape of his heart. Sukuna had been changed, too.
With a solemn but steady gaze, not wavering with regret, Sukuna said, “Stay with me now.” There was only the slightest twist to his features, the awareness that things were different now, without his body.
With a sympathetic pang, Megumi shifted, leaning against Sukuna and pillowing his head on his shoulder. After a moment, Sukuna tipped his head to rest on Megumi’s, and a soft but heavy silence settled over them. Megumi felt washed out and tired but also cleansed, like the tears had purged an infection from his open wounds.
Sukuna’s hand drifted to Megumi’s thigh, resting there simply to increase the number of places they were touching. Megumi’s eyes caught on the curse marks on Sukuna’s wrist once more. It was discomfiting to think that this was Itadori’s body. He missed the all-consuming size of Sukuna in his curse form, the way he would block out the world by simply standing next to Megumi.
“Your body—how you used to be,” Megumi began, then sighed. “I miss it.”
“Oh?” drawled Sukuna, with a lilting tone that drew Megumi’s gaze. A teasing glint shined in his eyes. “You miss my body?”
Megumi rolled his eyes. “Don’t go there.” A thought occurred to him then, and his lips quirked. “You know…I’m actually taller than you right now.”
There was a pause, then Sukuna’s shoulders trembled. He laughed, tossing his head back, a bright and joyful thing. Megumi’s ears rang with it, and his heart sang. “It seems no matter the era, you never fail to delight me, Megumi,” Sukuna grinned.
Seeing him like this unwound a knot in the back of Megumi’s mind, in his chest, and he found his lips curving up, too. The high was a giddy but brief thing, though, cut short as he realized how foreign it felt—when was the last time he’d smiled? This moment was theirs, but they could never go back. Even in the past, by the end, they’d been crumbling, and the memory of that broken life at the shrine still stung.
Sukuna quieted, noticing Megumi’s demeanor. “What is it?”
Megumi covered Sukuna’s hand with his own. “I want to go visit Hida. Some of the places from then still stand today.” Then he asked, “Come with me?”
Sukuna turned his hand over and linked their fingers, a loose hold. “Anything you want.”
They fell silent after that, resting against each other. The calm lasted for so long, just the hum of the world around them, that when Megumi eventually glanced up, he wasn’t surprised to find Sukuna’s eyes closed, his breathing steady. After a millennium of fitful slumber, fraught weeks before that and a year isolated in his vessel after, Megumi wasn’t surprised. Perhaps he wasn’t actually asleep, but Sukuna looked restful for the first time since before Megumi had been poisoned.
As he watched, the curse marks faded from Sukuna’s skin, and—and Megumi flashed back to when the same had happened on that forest floor, before Sukuna’s body disintegrated into dust. He wrenched away reflexively, heart in his throat, then caught himself, taking a steadying breath as Itadori blinked his eyes open and regained control.
Itadori took stock of himself, then Megumi. “Was everything okay?” he asked. “Sukuna felt really…intense about you.”
Megumi nodded. He hugged his knees up to his chest, already bereft of Sukuna’s hand. They weren’t in the past anymore, a repeating realization that struck Megumi hard each time. He and Sukuna had been transformed by that shared life, but they couldn’t change that Sukuna existed within Itadori’s body, nor what they had come to, at the end.
“I want—” He cleared his throat. “I want to go to Gifu, to Hida-Takayama…with Sukuna. I looked it up, and some of the places I went to in the past are still standing. I need—I need to go see, for myself.”
“With Sukuna?” Itadori asked, tone dubious.
Megumi’s heart trembled at the idea, even after requesting it himself. Visiting Hida was one thing, but with Sukuna, he was scared of how it would feel, if he would be able to withstand the memories. But he needed Sukuna there, the other half of Megumi’s life in that region and the only one who understood. “It has to be with him. I know you don’t trust him, but he agreed to come. It’d be okay.”
Itadori frowned. “He’s always planning something,” he said with a shake of his head. “I know you said you two were—different. But for a second when he just pushed me out, I was so worried he’d hurt you, or kill you. I don’t like the way he—thinks about you.”
“If he wanted me dead, I would be,” said Megumi, shifting. Itadori clearly doubted Megumi’s assurance that Sukuna hadn’t mistreated him.
“Other people then?” Itadori pointed out. “Maybe you trust him, Fushiguro, but I don’t think I’m wrong either. It’s my job to keep Sukuna suppressed. What if he does something before I can take back over? It’s hard to know what’s going on when I’m not in control.”
Megumi didn’t want to plead, but desperation was thick in his chest. “Just once. Just this one day, and I won’t ask you to do this again.”
They would never understand each other about Sukuna: Megumi who felt a visceral longing no matter Sukuna’s atrocities, and Itadori whose role was to keep Sukuna solely in his head and away from anyone else’s. But Megumi needed this, to be with Sukuna in Hida, so they could exorcise the old ghosts of the past and put them to rest.
“Okay,” said Itadori finally, seeing something on Megumi’s face, or perhaps hearing it from within. “Just once, and with a pact that he won’t hurt anyone.”
Megumi swallowed, his stomach turning at the reminder, then said, “We’ll make the wording airtight.”
Itadori nodded, and for the first time in months, a block in Megumi’s chest melted. The coming trip loomed, but his spine trembled not with that weight but with how light Megumi felt, how relieved.
It would be different from back then; he’d searched up the map on his phone while contemplating this, and they would be traveling by train and through the paved roads of a city rather than a small farming town.
But it’d been okay, seeing Sukuna again, and hopefully this would be, too. Megumi didn’t know exactly what he sought by going to Hida, what he hoped to discover there. But he knew the need would rattle around him forever if he didn’t go, and if he was to ever move on, it would be by revisiting the past here in the future.
They went at the end of April, leaving in the early morning. Itadori stayed in control of his body on the train from Tokyo to Takayama in Gifu, and he and Megumi spent more time on their phones than talking.
Megumi turned the volume up high on his headphones, drowning out both the world and the anxious drum of his heart. He was nervous; there was no way he wouldn’t be. The prospect of seeing Sukuna again, of spending the day with him, was once, just months ago, a given for Megumi. But now, his chest buzzed, a sickening twist.
Listening to new music releases and scrolling through the news helped distract Megumi somewhat; there was so much he didn’t understand, and it felt like he’d be catching up forever. But after a few hours, they arrived at the station in Takayama, and Megumi had to pull his headphones off and face the day to come.
Once they disembarked and left the platform, Itadori faced Megumi. He looked uncertain still, but also determined, and the small part of Megumi not rushing with nerves was grateful to him. With his heart in his throat, Megumi watched as Itadori closed his eyes and the curse marks appeared on his skin.
Sukuna blinked awake, his gaze red and blazing and already fixed on Megumi. He smiled, a lazy curve. “Hello, Megumi.”
Megumi exhaled, the apprehension settling into a low simmer. His lips quirked the barest amount. “Hi,” he said.
Turning his curious gaze around them, Sukuna made a considering noise. “Where to first?”
Megumi pulled his phone out, then told him, “I found some of the locations on my map. But the clearing where your shrine was and the, um, town, they’re gone now. Just forest. So I thought we’d just go to Kuraiyama? It’s really close by from here…” he trailed off, a bit unsure.
Sukuna eyed Megumi, appraising him. There was a soft sense of melancholy about his demeanor, something that took Megumi back to New Year’s Eve. “I can take us there,” he offered. “Where my shrine stood and your town, I mean, if you would like. I lived in these lands for centuries, and the places we went together—I’ve traced those paths a thousand times.”
“Oh,” whispered Megumi, a bare breath. So this day wouldn’t be only for him, but for Sukuna, as well, who had dreamt of returning, too. His heart was full of something indescribable. “Okay,” said Megumi. “Lead the way.”
They traveled through the city then moved into forest, along a well-trodden path. The trees were tall and sturdy, their spring branches budded and green. He’d missed the cherry blossom bloom last month, but the forest felt alive still, with birds and animals rustling around as they moved deeper into the thicket.
“This is hiking,” said Megumi as they walked. “You remember? These trails, a set path through the forests that people can use to walk through nature.”
Sukuna held a low branch out of Megumi’s way and replied, “I remember. I’m not surprised after seeing how dull the city you live in is.”
He mentioned it so casually, that he recalled, as if it was a certainty and not a feat after so long. Megumi breathed gustily. It was difficult being near Sukuna sometimes, a constant press against the raw bruise of Megumi’s whole body. Hearing him speak about their time together and reminisce on such trivialities, though—it was like taking a hammer to it.
After an hour of traversing the hilly forest, then a steeper climb, they broke through the tree line. It took Megumi a moment; Sukuna hadn’t brought them to his shrine or the town yet, but to the valley that housed his lake.
Stepping forward, his gaze roaming the shore and waters and mountains beyond, Megumi found that it was…different. Once at night and once in the pale winter, Sukuna had brought him here, but it wasn’t just the flourish of spring that made this place nearly unrecognizable. There was a stone sign a ways off—Lake Araragi, Megumi thought it said. The lake was smaller, having dried out some, and there was even a metal bench glinting in the sun.
Sukuna observed the expanse as Megumi did. Perhaps he was more used to seeing it change over time, but when Megumi glanced at him, he seemed disappointed. What answer had Sukuna been seeking here? What memory?
Megumi didn’t have the courage to ask what he was thinking. He himself was reminded of that night, the moon bright above them. But in this state, barely looking like it had, the lake evoked only sadness.
After a moment, Sukuna said, “Let’s go. I would rather remember it as it was.”
With a single backward glance, Megumi followed Sukuna away from the valley. Sukuna didn’t look back.
Quiet and subdued, they picked their way through the woods, off the trail now. Megumi didn’t have a sense of where they were, but a few hours passed, he thought, before Sukuna paused and said, “This is it: the center of your town.”
Megumi gazed around. He was standing in a small gap within the underbrush with no discernible marker of civilization. A thousand years—it walloped Megumi once more how incomprehensible it truly was, the enormity of that span. Nothing remained untouched after such a long, long time.
The town was gone. Megumi crouched down and scraped up some soil in his hand, sifting it with his fingers before letting it fall. It was dirt; what else did he expect? These trees and bushes were too young by generations to be born from the ashes of the village.
He’d thought being here with Sukuna would take Megumi back to the massacre, to the fear and helplessness and wretched desperation of that moment. But the memory hung heavy only in Megumi, not in the air itself. Around him were only trees. He remembered those deer wandering Minashi-jinja’s grounds when he and Sukuna had returned after the town’s slaughter. Nature wasn’t sentimental.
Disappointment crept in from Megumi’s edges, mixing into his dread. He wasn’t even sure what he’d been expecting from this trip, what he wanted. His memories were fossilized, and he was trying to dig them up and find…evidence, maybe, that he had existed here.
But discovering the sheer absence of the town and its people left him off-kilter. Pushing himself up, Megumi shook his head. “There’s no point in being here,” he said. He yearned for his heart to understand it was over, and yet he kept reaching, searching for something.
“And the area I’d placed my shrine?” Sukuna asked.
“No,” Megumi said hollowly. He had come to terms with losing the shrine so long ago, in winter, worrying then only about Sukuna. If they went, all they would find was the same: more trees, more dirt, more evidence of time reclaiming the place they’d once lived.
Kuraiyama stood just as proudly, its peak one of many splitting the blue sky. It was cooler at this elevation, but the sun warmed Megumi’s skin. The path was more of a road, likely a different one than those they’d used in the past, but Megumi couldn’t help but get caught up in the memories: here, Megumi had sled in the snow; here, he’d anticipated Sukuna’s smile when he arrived at the shrine; here, Sukuna had laid him once, tumbling Megumi in the fallen leaves of autumn, then afterward plucked the twigs from his hair.
The past was a mirage Megumi could almost see, as though if he squinted against the sun, Sukuna’s silhouette would take on his larger form. But Megumi took a step forward, then another, and only the fragments remained. Here, Sukuna had found Megumi poisoned, then swallowed the village in a torrent of rage. Here, Megumi had sealed him.
Finding Minashi Shrine intact when searching up Hida had given Megumi pause. The last time he’d seen it, a puncture gaped in its side and roof, and the offering stand had been more of a gravestone. Blood had been soaking into its torii.
And yet, rather than being left for dead, the shrine had grown in the past thousand years. The first clue had been the large, paved grounds from the photos online, and the second from the railway guide; the closest to the shrine was the Hida-Ichinomiya station; they passed by it again on their way. The third and final one was arriving at Minashi-jinja itself, climbing up its concrete stairs with metal railings to a wide expanse housing many more buildings than before.
Perhaps this was why the name had seemed familiar to Megumi in the past. Some time after—after, Minashi Shrine had become the ichinomiya of Hida, the highest-ranked shrine of the region. The people had rebuilt this place and named it their most eminent consecrated ground. But why?
It confused Megumi, as he looked around. Sukuna had—had killed everyone, the people who worshipped him. Yet the surviving story had warped around his image as a guardian in Hida, preserving folktales that Megumi had read in his research before being sent back. Had the other towns not known the truth?
The signs and pamphlets around the shrine were vague and speculative—that Sukuna was the enshrined deity was a fact lost to time; there’d been no statue, no symbol of him within, and memories only lasted a generation or two—but combined with what he knew, Megumi slowly gleaned the legend: Ryoumen Sukuna had died protecting Hida. He’d been absent from the shrine, which was found wrecked, with blood and bodies at the entrance. A great and tragic battle, it must have been, for the protector to succumb to the monster that later destroyed an entire village. Anyone who’d known differently at the time—Megumi, Minamoto, or the monk of the Kokubun-ji—had died as the story was born.
It was unfair, Megumi thought at first. The knowledge sat uneasily in his gut, clashing with his moral bend toward justice. To be remembered as having tried to save the townspeople was wrong when Sukuna had slaughtered them mercilessly. But as Megumi wandered the shrine grounds, he realized with a pang that the town had won its last laugh. To be worshipped for an act of carnage was the ultimate retribution for Sukuna, whose power stemmed from terror. No matter how the rest of the world feared him, the folklore of Hida would always regard Sukuna as its hero.
But in the end…what did the legend offer but vague consolation? People had still been lost, taken unrighteously before their time. “You killed them for nothing,” Megumi said, knowing Sukuna would understand.
Beside him, Sukuna was silent for a second, then replied, “If it was truly for nothing, then you would have left me to die from the pact.”
Megumi glanced at him, then turned away. His hands clenched. “You know I couldn’t have done that.”
“Then it’s the same reason, for why I destroyed that town.”
How vile, to think of butchery stemming from the same root as Megumi saving Sukuna from death, and even viler that Megumi knew Sukuna didn’t regret it. But that was the difference between them, irreconcilable even now. Even here, at their old home, Megumi wouldn’t find the closure he sought. All he could think about was the village.
He left Sukuna behind and approached the haiden and offertory box. The sanctuary hall, where they’d once lived, was barred to the public, and this was the furthest Megumi could go. In a way, it was a relief. The ghosts of their joy still lived here, and Megumi could envision them like residuals, hearing laughter on the wind whistling through the wooden planks.
But the shrine meant something different to Megumi now; months later, he could still taste the bitter, iron tang of blood in his mouth, rising from a place of agony. This wasn’t simply where he’d lived with Sukuna, but also where they had fallen apart, limping to their untimely end.
Megumi didn’t pray; he wasn’t here for worship. Putting his hands together, he thought of the town and its people, who had shown Megumi how the past was full of color and wonder. They’d had families, their own dreams and hobbies, loves that made their eyes light up in pride—a community rich with history and culture and love: Sato and his wife, who wholeheartedly cared; Tsuda, who brought the dragon scale to Sukuna’s shrine, tribute for the one who’d destroyed his son’s killer; the herbalist, who worked tirelessly to heal the ill; the father who mustered the courage to ask a favor of Sukuna for his ailing child; Shimoda, who worked the rice paddies; Nakada, who had tried to help Megumi, at the end.
This place, this shrine—it wasn’t Sukuna’s, for all that he was the deity in its foundation. Minashi Shrine was the town’s, the people’s, for they had brought life to it long before Megumi and Sukuna lived there, and long after, too.
They left the mountain soon after, with Megumi using the walk to settle himself. He kept expecting things to be the same or wildly different, but instead, there was only a bittersweetness that they were traversing streets they once might have known but now couldn’t recognize.
Nowhere they’d been so far had helped quiet the rattling of Megumi’s soul. The drying lake and the reminders of the town scratched at his old scars, peeling up more hurt than healing. Megumi figured that Senko-ji, their next destination, would be the same.
The temple had been kept by Uraume and wasn’t even one Megumi had visited with any frequency; the last time he’d been there was right after the massacre. It was only on the list of destinations because Megumi remembered it from his original research on Sukuna, even before traveling back in time.
But he wanted to see it, at least briefly before it closed for the night, in hopes that they would find—something. So after a late lunch, they went that direction, taking a car much of the way rather than walking. The quiet streets on the outskirts of the city were lined with the usual industrial sites: storage facilities, auto shops, and recyclers, and eventually that, too, morphed into a rural landscape.
From there, they went by foot. The road wound through farms and rice shops, and Megumi and Sukuna walked along its side, out of the way of infrequent cars. The paddies contained machines and pipes, and more than once, Megumi waited while Sukuna stopped and stared his fill, trying to parse the mechanisms before bemusedly shaking his head and catching up.
But other than murmurs about the sights around them, Megumi kept mostly quiet. He felt antsy, fear sitting thick under his skin, that there were only two more places and he still hadn’t found any real comfort. He could feel his Hida slipping away from him, a thousand years too late for him to call it home anymore. A part of Megumi wished that Sukuna would say something, as he’d often done, that would cheer up Megumi. But Sukuna, too, seemed to be seeking something on this trip.
Nestled far outside the city, a curved and steep road’s climb away, Senko-ji was a small place that matched any other quaint but cared-for temple, looking similar to how it had in the past. A sign overhead the building’s entrance invited visitors to peruse their special exhibit, Enku’s Buddhas.
When they dipped inside, Megumi and Sukuna found the hall full of relief statues, carvings of mostly Buddhas into wood slabs. Around their bases, unpainted and unsmoothed, Megumi could see the knots of the wood, but the faces and bodies of the figures were chiseled with clear devotion.
The sculptures stood around them like a forest. Some were in groups and others, displayed individually. Like any museum, they all had placards with dates and explanations, and Megumi slowly wandered through the aisles, skimming as he went. One in particular, on the far side of the room, caught Megumi’s eyes: a seated deity with two faces. Megumi’s legs felt weak as they carried him closer. Seated Ryoumen Sukuna, read the description.
The world seemed to narrow on those words, the explanation below, and the figure itself: its two grinning faces, the armor upon its shoulders, the axe in its hand. Enku, the artist, was a monk of the Edo period, much after Sukuna’s time, and his work bore a resemblance only to the Sukuna of legend.
But as Megumi braced himself and slowly read each word of the placard, letting them all sink in, low, low, low into the pit of his chest, he realized the legend was all that mattered. This was how Sukuna had been remembered, the same as at Minashi Shrine. He was a god here, and Megumi was—
While Megumi stood frozen in front of the statue, Sukuna himself approached. Megumi thought he might say something and was filled with dread and anticipation both, a sick tension in his stomach. But a moment passed as Sukuna read the description, then another when he sighed, a shuddering exhale.
Megumi’s breath began again. “Do you miss it?” he found himself asking, to fill the silence before Sukuna could. “Being worshipped?”
“Whether in tales of godhood or notoriety, my legacy still lived on,” Sukuna said. He traced over the words of the placard, lingering on the end. Megumi’s heart stuck. “Being worshipped was something I accepted not because I cared for it specifically, but because of you.” He looked up, at Megumi. “Because of our life, together.”
Megumi offered Sukuna a small, sad smile. “I miss it,” he confessed. “The routine that we had at the shrines. The villagers. And Uraume, too.”
Sukuna shifted. “What happened to them, after? Do you know?”
“They chased me down after realizing what had happened. And they were so—so upset at what I’d done. But—they didn’t hurt me, because of what you’d said once, that I shouldn’t be harmed.” Megumi could still feel that cold when he thought about it, the icy chill of Uraume’s piercing fury. “We talked, a little. When Uraume left, they took some of your fingers, and I took the rest with me, to the school. After that,” Megumi shrugged, “I don’t know. Whatever you two decided on, I guess.”
“Going north, probably,” filled in Sukuna, “to be sealed.”
The tangle in Megumi tightened. “Do you think they made it here, to this era?”
“Only time will tell,” Sukuna said, “but Uraume is not easily swayed from their goals.”
Part of Megumi, the sorcerer in him, wanted to ask about Sukuna’s plans, about Uraume and Kenjaku and Megumi’s own apparent involvement. But he was nervous of what opening that box would uncover. He’d saved Sukuna knowing it would kill more people. That, no matter how sour it tasted, no matter that his convictions never quite fit around Sukuna’s sheer presence, was something Megumi couldn’t deny. So he left it, for what could he do? What would he, even if it was something terrible? Megumi was so tired of being upset with Sukuna; the bruise in his chest was a permanent one.
The sky was dimming when they eventually left Senko-ji. Megumi had given the placard and statue one last look, trying to imprint the images into himself. This time, even Sukuna had lingered, brushing the door frame with a hand on his way out.
The myth of Sukuna was embedded into Hida’s history, and it was evidence of Megumi’s time in the past and lasting impact. Was this what he’d been seeking—proof of a shared life? But the horrors of it still filled Megumi with pain.
He hungered for something kinder: not just acknowledgment of the past, but of the warmth made real. And who else could give that to him but Sukuna, who had crafted those memories with Megumi by hand?
It was after dusk by the time they reached Takayama and darker when they arrived at the Hida Kokubun-ji. Night closed around them, but the city’s light drowned out the stars. A pagoda rose above the buildings, standing tall as they approached, and no visitors lingered, allowing them the space to themselves.
“I didn’t think you would want to come here, after that monk…” Sukuna trailed off.
“He doesn’t matter to me,” said Megumi. “My being poisoned—I think it affected you more than me. For me, what hurt was…you, what you did and what came after.”
The kokubun-ji didn’t belong to the ghost of the monk. In the end, amongst the old pains—the poisoning, Sukuna sending Uraume to kill this man, the bell from this temple counting down the new year—there was an old promise, as well.
They entered through the gate, and the ginkgo tree waited for them. It was immense, its trunk gnarled and crooked and etched by time’s sharp claws, yet thriving as it climbed beyond the roofs of the temple toward the sky relentlessly. As Megumi closed the distance, stepping over the low fence, he could almost feel, waiting at the roots, the sense of finality he’d been seeking.
Under the branches of the ginkgo tree, Megumi laid his hand on the trunk, feeling the bark rough against his palm. Did it remember him, from a thousand years ago? Did it know what he had let himself feel under its boughs, within its bright swirl of autumn?
In the dark then, Megumi saw a shadow of a curse: Sukuna’s hand covered his where it rested on the tree, and he spoke solemnly, “We should come here, in your time.”
“It still stands,” said Megumi, gazing up at the tangle of its branches, expanding wide overhead.
Sukuna joined Megumi, placing a warm hand on his shoulder, and the night settled peacefully around them. The ginkgo tree’s heavy branches hung over their heads. The lights of the kokubun-ji and city twinkled through the gaps in the leaves, leaving them in a universe of their own, the same way their time together had been a thousand years in one.
Even though they were quiet, occupied in their own thoughts and reminiscence, Megumi could feel the caress of Sukuna’s cursed energy and was buoyed by their harmony. He knew without words what Sukuna was thinking and how he felt.
They had been so happy, so purely blissful to simply be with each other. The memory was radiant, of golden leaves and wind and the full measure of Megumi’s heart glittering raw and unfiltered in the sun. Being here now was luminous in a different way, less explosive and carnal than a star, but nevertheless warm—a candle, perhaps, or a lantern, or a fire in the hearth.
Megumi couldn’t resist its alluring calm. Moths flit to flame, drawn helplessly to its brilliant core, then burned for it. Perhaps they knew, as Megumi did, that it was better to stay away. But their hearts sang the closer they were to the light, and they were tethered to it always, that love: a small, warm shelter tucked within the curse of their world.
The blood left in Sukuna’s wake, the red in the lines of his palms—Megumi had betrayed him once for it and nearly lost himself in the process. The strength he’d used to do so was gone now, eroded. He’d been whittled down like one of those statues at Senko-ji, dried to his depths like the lake.
Born from the very core of his being, all he had left, it was instinct for Megumi to turn and embrace Sukuna. His soul clamored, cursed energy flaring to pull Sukuna into him, and he felt Sukuna’s aura wrap around him, too.
This wasn’t Sukuna’s body, and a simple hug was all the touch Megumi could allow himself to have, but even this was enough to convey all the unsaid, aching things floating above them. Sukuna’s arms were so tight around Megumi it felt like four, and Megumi clutched him just as tightly, heart expanding against his ribs.
This close, the change in height—in body entirely—was even more strange. Megumi extricated himself when it became too much to bear, a despondence creeping back into him. “Is Itadori watching at all?” he asked.
Sukuna smiled, a huff of a laugh. “Haven’t I told you?” he asked. “I keep beautiful things to myself.”
Megumi turned away, the memory like a shiver. The fissure of his heart was wide-open, overflowed with reminiscence. “Don’t,” he whispered, nearly pleading. “Don’t act like it’s the same, Sukuna. Like it’s all okay. We can’t—we can’t go back to how we used to be.”
A hand on his shoulder slowly drew Megumi to face Sukuna once more. “We don’t need to go back,” said Sukuna. His four red eyes shined. “I will make a future for you.”
Megumi’s heart squeezed with yearning. He didn’t know Sukuna’s plans and couldn’t bear to respond now. But as a whisper in the night, his own plea echoed: “Somehow.”
This entire day, Megumi had been hoping that visiting these places would heal him. Seeing the ginkgo tree had given him some comfort, a salve over his open wounds. But Megumi recognized now that he wouldn’t find a remedy in history, in the past. His only option was to move forward, charting a new path alongside time’s relentless march.
He lived the life of a sorcerer, and Sukuna was still a curse—those natures would always be parts of them. Megumi knew they would never again share time as they had. But just over a year ago, he’d sought Sukuna out of desperation, placing them on a path most unexpected, and now most cherished, and he’d been made stronger for it. Megumi would continue to grow, the memories of Sukuna rooted in deep.
As they departed the Kokubun-ji, the air tasted bittersweet, and Megumi was caught up in his own despondence. Their day would be over in a few more hours, and their time would end once more.
But Sukuna nudged him. “You have not had dinner yet,” he pointed out. “Let’s go find something to eat.”
A small, adoring smile brightened Megumi’s face. How like Sukuna, to know exactly what to say. “I’ll show you what sushi is like in this era.” And when Sukuna’s eyes lit up, Megumi’s gloom fled, chased by the sight of that joy.
Yes, Megumi thought, it had hurt him, a thorn piercing his heart at every beat. Both delight and tragedy had been born from their bond. But it was a precious thing, still, no matter the pain, because it had happened, and he had loved Sukuna and been loved in return.
Ginkgo trees flourished for months, then lost their leaves abruptly, all at once. But after winter, life sprouted once more upon their branches, and they were long-lived things, sturdy through both wither and bloom.
His and Sukuna’s year together had been a lifetime tucked into the seasons, and now in the swell of spring, those roots buried in Megumi’s core were growing once more.
They couldn’t return there, but the memories were entrenched in their souls, and Megumi’s mark was made in history, in folklore and shrine museums. It had always been there, even when he hadn’t known it yet.
And no matter the future, Megumi would have that: the stories he’d told, their love that was born from them, and the tales that remembered even now.
Seated Ryoumen Sukuna | Enku | 17th century
Ryoumen Sukuna was a deity of the Gifu prefecture before and during the Heian Period (794 to 1185 AD). Although described in the Nihon Shoki as a demon, the people of Hida worshipped Sukuna as a double-faced protector. From one account, he defeated a dragon on Mount Kurai, and it has been proposed that he was the main deity of Minashi Shrine. Many stories on Ryoumen Sukuna have been lost to time, but in some folktales, he was portrayed alongside his bride, Megumi.
Notes:
art by @quwropikt
Kintsugi is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with (most famously) gold dust mixed with lacquer.
Ichinomiya or “first shrine” is the historical term for Shinto shrines ranked by the Court as the highest of a province or prefecture. Minashi Shrine was the ichinomiya of the former Hida province and is a grand place even today.
Senko-ji is an ancient temple northeast of Takayama, Gifu. Ryoumen Sukuna is the enshrined deity, and it also houses many of the Buddha statues carved by Enku, who was a monk in the early Edo period. He made some 120,000 statues, exchanging them for lodging on his pilgrimages at various temples. Seated Ryoumen Sukuna is his only work to depict Sukuna.
The ginkgo tree at the Hida Kokubun-ji in Takayama stands today and is said to be over 1200 years old.
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