Chapter Text
Megumi was tired.
Though, these days, when was he not? These days, when Megumi woke, it was to the darkness of a far too-early morning, to a residual pain from wounds that had been hastily stitched and bandaged. He had been hurt before, just as he had been battered, scarred, tossed left and right both during draining and in the field, but it had never permeated his sleep. Now, even rest was exhausting.
Maybe he was just doing something wrong.
He thought he was getting used to it, though. How could he not, what with the rapid influx of curses? Kugisaki had seemed to notice, had commented once about how it had seemed strange. "I know I'm not from around here," she had begun. "But this just isn't normal . Right? Is this shit normal? I’m beat. " At the time, Megumi didn’t have the heart to tell her it was because of Itadori. Because of Sukuna.
And perhaps he should have. If he had, they would have stuck together. They would have stayed as a group and would have been safer with Sukuna’s precious vessel…
Right?
Or, maybe, Kugisaki already knew. Maybe she already understood the weight of what Itadori was. Maybe she had just been messing with him earlier, pushing buttons to see his reactions. Maybe…
Regardless, she had been the one to suggest they split up, much to Megumi’s quiet dissidence. With her hammer in one hand and heavy metal nails in the other, she had shrugged half-heartedly and said, "It'll be easier to find the curses if we cover double the ground in half the time. Itadori and I can take the first two floors, and Fushiguro can go to the basement. It’s tiny, anyways."
He had agreed. Going against their training, their protocols, Megumi had agreed like a fucking moron. While part of him wanted to argue against it, the other part had kept his mouth shut and ego tight in its hands, dangling it in front of the other two sorcerers, reminding him of what he was.
Expendable. Orphan. Weak.
Gojo would chew him out later in his own annoying, condescending way, and he would take it, would hang his head and bear his obedience.
Besides, they had needed to find the curses terrorizing the students at the hospital-turned-elementary school. And he had reasoned that, if Kugisaki had really wanted him to just piss off and go away, then he would. Nobody had to tell him he was a nuisance; he already knew that. So, armed with nothing but the shadows, Megumi had broke from the group and down the stairs, isolated, exposed.
Now, he was beginning to regret it.
His hand half-slid down the brick wall - undoubtedly smearing more blood - as he switched to press his left against the pain in his side. His fingernails caught in a crack and kept him from dropping to his knees. Megumi’s eye twitched involuntarily, the muscles of his abdomen spasming at the jostling.
Whatever that curse was had hit hard , giving him more than just a concussion and some aching ribs, he suspected. Perhaps they were broken. Maybe he had brain damage. The swelling around his left wrist was uncomfortable, throbbing in time with his heart, the pulse so strong it pounded in his ears, wracked through his chest, rocked his body. Or that could have been unconsciousness crawling up on him...
God, he was tired .
Paired with his weariness was a bone-deep lagging inside him, born from pain and blood loss. Wave after wave of thick nausea rolled from his stomach up into his throat, acrid and sharp, making him want to double over and puke. But that was just downright disgusting, never mind his pride or the simple fact that he had no idea where Itadori and Kugisaki were. Letting himself go like that wasn’t an option. He had to move forward.
One goddamn step at a time.
Earlier, Kugisaki had only been somewhat right: the basement wasn't very large at all. No, it was just long, a snake of hallways that branched and split like a tree, all leading to different exits. One narrow tunnel had led him outside, and another ended in a door that had been blocking in a room caved-in and packed-full with debris. Over half of the halls had, ultimately, dumped him into some old satellite building, or a long-retired surgical suite. And that had been fine, he could have rejoined the group quickly enough. But it had been pitch-dark and cold. He hadn't even seen the curse coming.
Now, finding his way back was like playing a game of roulette. Any of the hallways could be his way out, yet any could also lead to a dead end or another hidden curse. Megumi wasn’t stupid. He knew he didn't have long. His boots were scraping lines through the dirt on the floor. Blood was beading at his chin and dropping, leaving a trail. With shaky legs and even shakier breaths, he struggled to find the way he had entered.
Though, he had to admit that the prospect of just giving in, of just laying down was...frighteningly tempting. Who was to say that he would find the exit? If he didn’t, would Kugisaki and Itadori come for him?
...Would they leave him behind?
For all they knew, he had been killed and it would be too risky to retrieve his body. Megumi wouldn’t blame them for thinking so. It weren’t as if he were anything special; he wasn’t terrifyingly skilled like Gojo, or strong like Todo. He was just...Megumi…
But if he laid down, what would happen to his sister?
That hadn’t been his reasoning to become a jujutsu sorcerer, but it was reason enough to stay alive and get out of the damned basement.
Megumi took a gentle turn down another hall, one he assumed - and hoped - lead to the way he had entered. The staircase at the end looked familiar and, as he got closer, he could see the light spilling in from upstairs, the door having been propped open with a rock. The same rock he had left there earlier.
Right?
Hadn’t he?
He couldn’t remember.
Admittedly, he couldn’t much at all right now. The only thing he could conjure was the shock of the curse rounding the blind corner, the bursts of pain following as he was slammed against walls and through doors. In his memory, the pain was bright. Pain, pain, pain that was searing as if he had been burned or stabbed or both, as if paint was poured into his veins, clogging them, causing them to distend, to burst, to make him want to keel over in agony and scream.
Megumi kept his teeth locked tight together.
The headache, at least, wasn’t terrible. No worse than any of his other injuries in the past. If anything, it simply reminded him of the headache he had the day after Sukuna’s awakening back in June. He had been bloodied then, too, with it trailing all the way down his face and chin, the copper tang on his tongue as he stared up into Itadori’s possessed eyes--
Itadori.
Was he even alive?
Kugisaki, too.
If he had come across such a volatile spirit and barely made it out, were they facing similar? More? Megumi could picture their corpses sprawled, eyes glazed over, skin greyed.
He shuddered.
Megumi stopped and plastered himself against the wall, taking in careful breaths. One in, one out. Rinse, repeat.
Kugisaki and Itadori were fine. Wherever they were, and whatever they were facing, they’d be fine . Because Kugisaki was tough, far tougher than him both physically and mentally, able to handle anything. And Itadori was the damned vessel for Ryoumen Sukuna. He couldn't die. At least, Megumi didn’t think he could for long. Certainly not permanently.
It was only him in danger, then.
That was good.
But it shouldn’t have been, Megumi knew. Jujutsu sorcerers should have at least a little bit of self-preservation, and with the thoughts twisting around in his battered brain, they were nothing short of self- deprecating instead.
A frown pulled at the blood caked against his eyebrow, tugging at the small hairs and deepening his soured expression. Megumi eased himself off the wall and very slowly began walking again, hauling one foot after the other. Each step curdled the concrete filling his legs, making them heavier, thicker, harder to move.
While his earlier thought was merely meant to be a fact, he still couldn’t help it from festering in him. Disappointment followed close, warmed in his chest, but that was okay. It was okay because it felt real, felt strong , strong enough to keep him going. The disgust with himself had him ignoring his other urges to stop, to give up, to stand before the curse and just die. Because it wasn’t as if he had a purpose in life, or even a purpose being a sorcerer. He was the bastard son of some man, his mother died early, and his sister comatose. What was he doing with his life? Who did he have to live for? Gojo?
Megumi snorted to himself. What a fucking joke everything was becoming. And all in the musty, cold basement of some random building, too.
Though, some of those traitorous thoughts were true…
How many times had he come away bloody and barely conscious? How many battles had he nearly died in? How was he to be treated as a jujutsu sorcerer if he couldn’t even hold his own in a battle?
And how many times did his classmates share those pitiful sentiments?
He and his classmates weren't comparable. Megumi was simply too fragile next to them, made of glass, spun with weak threads. Of the three of them, he was the the skinniest, the weakest, the one with softest features and softest hands. While Kugisaki's were scarred and squared with muscle, and Itadori's were broad and strong with years of hard use, his own were slim, with knobby fingers and narrow palms. When held up to his classmates’, they looked sweet-looking. When group training, his were always shaking the hardest. When they fought with their fists, he fought with, what? Shadows? Shikigami? Things that did the work for him.
Don't be weak.
The voice in his head was Gojo's. Had the man even said that to him?
Likely. Probably. He should have, anyway.
Stop being weak.
Halfway to the staircase, his breath hitched and he choked, coughing deeply. A burn ripped up his lungs. He couldn't pull enough air. The sourness in his mouth made him nauseous. Was it blood? Blood from his split lip or his shattered chest cavity? When had he started bleeding, again?
Getting his hand back against the wall, he fought to inch closer towards his escape.
He was blaming Itadori and Kugisaki for his own weakness, and that was unsavory to say the least. If he were going to die, it would be by no fault other than his own. And if he just so happened to be not nearly as strong as they were, then he’d have to find a way around it...
With that, though, he felt even more weak.
It was best to come out and say it: they were better than him.
Poor Megumi…
So, he needed to train more. Train more, and fight more, and gain more field experience. Anything and everything he was capable of doing, he needed to do in order to catch up to his classmates.
His foggy thoughts stuttered.
What if his strength had a limit, though? What if he had reached an invisible, unsurpassable wall? What could he do? Would he be of any more use? Would Gojo find out how to fix him?
...Or would he just be kicked out instead?
Megumi closed his eyes.
He was dizzy, even in the darkness. With it, a swaying lightheadedness had him feeling like he was going to fall through the wall he was slumped against. Was there any forgiveness in him keeling over and giving up? He wanted to. He wanted to. Goddamnit , Megumi wanted to. Because where Itadori and Kugisaki went for the home runs, he went for the bunt ball. Where Gojo would cackle and share jokes with them, he would stray behind. Where they had found a family in these friendships--
What had he found…?
Nothing.
The tips of his shoes nudged against the base of the staircase. Megumi blinked slow, staring for a moment. Then, equally as slowly, his foot dragged up the first step as he groped around for the railing somewhere off to his right. His fingers found it and he squeezed tight, letting the cold metal bite into his skin to keep him awake. It was freezing, and he was freezing, shaking too hard, but he forced himself to cling anyways.
Exhaustion was making him loose like putty. He hadn’t even made up to the second stair and he was already struggling. Would he even make it? How many steps were left?
At that, Megumi cursed.
His damn eyes had slid closed. With all the dizziness, he couldn’t even tell when it had happened.
Megumi peeled them open.
That act, in itself, was a mistake.
The light from upstairs was too bright. His gut somersaulted and he folded over. Spit dribbled out of his mouth as he gagged. His ribs ached. His wrist throbbed. Something was wrong with his head because he was so dizzy , the world tilting no matter how hard he fought against it. He knew he needed to stay upright, to keep moving, but he wanted it to be over. A childish part of him wanted to go home.
But home wasn’t for him. No, the academy was, and his classmates were. Classmates that very well may have needed him. Kugisaki and Itaodri could be in danger, and if he was “too tired” to help, then he had no right to call himself a jujutsu sorcerer.
Halfway up the stairs, Megumi tripped. He landed hard on his knees, wincing. Some pathetic noise rose up his throat as he crawled back up the wall. Below him, his soles slipped in blood.
Blood?
It was leaking from the hem of his pants, dribbling down his ankle and staining his sock.
Was it his?
Megumi squinted up to the propped-open door.
Just five more steps.
With a low whine behind his teeth, he began his climb.
One, and he knew he was moving too fast, feeling himself begin to black out. His focus was swollen and wilting, nothing making sense.
On two, his knees nearly buckled.
The third step had him questioning whether or not he would make it yet again. Oh, how he wanted to bully his unresponsive body into some semblance of cooperation.
On the fourth, Megumi growled in frustration. With all the strength he could throw into his useless arms, he hauled himself forward, using his weight to fight gravity.
He stumbled on the top landing, on the fifth and final step.
Megumi wheezed and gracelessly busted through the doors.
Yuuji wasn't worried , necessarily, but, well, he was.
Just a bit.
Splitting up wasn't his plan and he wasn't dumb . He didn't need to be some fancy-ass sorcerer to know that the plan hadn’t been the greatest idea ever. Like, sure , the curses were actually within their grade range and would probably be an easy target to take down, and yeah , Fushiguro was tough as shit so he would probably be fine. But still…
He was worried.
A lot.
Why Kugisaki had insisted was beyond him, but perhaps it was her style? After all, she had been the one to split them up when Gojo had been assessing them on her first day, and she had also accidentally broken away from him and Fushiguro when they were dealing with that S grade. Maybe it was karma…
Regardless, Yuuji felt the doubt steadily building in his gut.
Everything was far too quiet in the building. There was no chaos, no commotion, no stereotypical obliteration that was commonly a package deal with curses rampaging in urban areas. Instead, all he heard was the clack of his and Kugisaki’s shoes. Their shoes, their breathing, the swishing of their clothes. That was it.
The longer the two of them wandered the halls, the more he saw that Kugisaki was beginning to look more and more distressed in some way. She looked like she had just eaten a dollop of kewpie mayo raw, because her eyebrows were drawn so tight that it seemed painful, and she wouldn't stop biting her lower lip as she glanced from classroom to empty classroom. The second floor had been clear, and the first floor was coming up just as curse-free, too.
Which naturally meant that either they had been scammed by some punks heading a prank call, or Fushiguro was dealing with the curse alone. And, knowing that guy, it was probably the latter. His quick temper, his constant state of annoyance, his tendency to just fight , it all just screamed that Fushiguro was being a hotshot and taking the thing down all by himself. But he wasn’t suicidal. If that were the case, he would have called for backup, right? Or waited? Come and got them? Screamed like the pansy he wasn’t? Something?
...Right?
Yuuji plucked at the hem of his uniform. There was a stray thread that begged to be yanked off. He wrapped his finger around it a few times and pulled. The string snapped away, but not before ripping more of itself free, leaving behind the teeth of a frayed edge. It was an inch-or-so wide, but it would just keep growing and growing and would just piss him off even more. How did Fushiguro keep his uniform so neat?
He knew how the girls did it: Kugisaki had multiples and, when torn up, she brought them to Maki. He assumed they sewed their clothes together, since they always left the room with immaculate uniforms. When he had asked, once, she had said, “We’re doing girl things, Itadori. Fuck off.” He had accepted it, moved on, but had still been curious. Because if they had been sewing their uniforms, it made sense why they had always kept them in such clean order. But Fushiguro? Fushiguro was so damn put-together all the time, and he had never went in and out of Maki’s room with clean clothes. At least, not that Yuuji had ever noticed. So how did he do it?
Damn, that guy was cool.
Yuuji sighed. He could only hope that Fushiguro was okay…
"Hey Kugisaki," he whispered. "Let's just turn back. Find Fushiguro. Maybe this place is a bust."
"It's not." She was flipping her hammer around in her hand. "I felt it. The energy. Before we came inside, it was so strong…”
Yuuji frowned. "'Felt' it?” he asked. “You mean you don't feel it anymore?" That didn't bode well. On one hand, it could have escaped, leaving them safe but endangering others. They would have to chase it down or get an earful from Gojo when they got home. But on the other hand, Fushiguro could have exorcised it alone, which was good.
Though, when a third alternative crawled up into his head, he was left sweaty in the palms, both queasy and hot with anxiety.
The third alternative was that Fushiguro hadn’t exorcised it, hadn’t been able to, and it killed him before running off...
Kugisaki shrugged tightly. "It just...not as strong anymore. I don't know. Basically gone. But we would have heard it if Fushiguro was taking care of it. I mean, maybe not, but this thing felt really big before." Her eyes snapped up to his. "So we would have heard it, right?”
"Oh yeah, definitely." Yuuji nodded hard. "Fighting is really destructive anyways. Can't take one of these guys down without completely destroying a building." He squeezed out a laugh.
It tasted like a lie.
Yuuji swallowed around a knob in his throat.
Only a few seconds later, they were both turning around and rushing back the way they had came.
He didn't comment if Kugisaki was walking faster because he was, too. They were desperate and they were fast , practically leaping over the railings of the stairs. By the time the basement’s double doors were in sight, Yuuji was breathless. He wanted to slam the damn things off their hinges and delve in to find Fushiguro. The bastard was tough but he was still human like Kugisaki, only blood and bone and, unfortunately, completely absent of a curse that acted like a goddamn steroid shot. Plus, the guy always managed to hit his head. That was the last thing they needed.
Kugisaki reached for the propped-open door.
It swung wide before she could grab the handle.
The three of them stood still, staring at one another.
Thank fuck , Fushiguro was alive. Though, the longer Yuuji stared at him, the more he realized that he probably shouldn’t be alive. He took in all the blood as Kugisaki sucked a hiss between her teeth.
Fushiguro, though, looked shocked. Beyond shocked. Yuuji was willing to bet that ‘mortified’ was the better descriptor for his wrenched-up expression. He shuffled forward slowly. "Hey, dude, you okay?"
At his movement, Fushiguro jerked back.
Yuuji’s hands fluttered up instinctually to catch him and, God, he looked bad. Bloodied. Completely beaten to shit. His hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat and blood, a cut running from his eyebrow to his hairline - likely needing stitches later - while even more blood was coming from a gash that had busted his lip open and did a number on his chin. And fuck if the wrist cradling his ribs wasn’t broken because he was pretty sure skin wasn't supposed to be mottled with so many colors of bruises. There was blood on his shoulder. Blood caked to his side. Blood on his fingers, under his nails, dribbling down his ankle, puddling at the base of his shoe.
The scent reeked.
Kugisaki scooted closer. Tentative. Slow. "Fushiguro, what happened? Where's the curse?"
Fushiguro's eyes were unfocused but they never strayed from Yuuji.
When he didn’t answer, he took over. “Fushiguro, man, what happened?”
The words seemed to bring some sort of clarity to Fushiguro’s dulled eyes. “The… The curse…”
“What about the curse?” Kugisaki asked. “Did you get it?”
But the question went unheard as Fushiguro fumbled sideways over his own feet. Both he and Kugisaki snapped up close, reaching out. Before either could grab him, he mumbled, “‘m s...sorry...I…”
Yuuji grabbed Fushiguro's upper arm. The guy was shaking and hot , the bruising heat bleeding through the layers of his shredded uniform. "Fushiguro? Just hang on, okay?” Yuuji knew he probably wouldn’t get an answer. “Nothing to be sorry for, we’ll get you help. We just gotta know if--"
Fushiguro slumped. He mumbled out something but Yuuji was more focused on how he was tilting dangerously, his eyes becoming more and more lost by the moment.
Yuuji started, "Fushi--"
Fushiguro’s trembling hands grabbed fistfuls of Yuuji's jacket front, leaning heavily on him, barely keeping himself upright. He gasped, winced, blinked hard. “F... Fuck… ”
His eyes rolled up.
“Shit shit shit shit shit!” Yuuji moved to catch him.
Kugisaki grabbed for Fushiguro, easing his descent.
Yuuji grunted at catching Fushiguro’s slack weight.
With his arms wrapped around his friend’s back, Fushiguro’s face smushed to his chest, Yuuji suddenly felt choked. The fear was near-smothering, as if he were closed into a plastic bag, restrained, contained , unable to breathe or think or move or do anything to help. It was a panic born from uncertainty. From knowing that they were way out of their league when it came to tending to these kinds of wounds. Yuuji didn’t need to be a doctor to know Fushiguro was in danger.
Glancing over at Kugisaki, she seemed to be thinking the same thing. "Okay, we gotta get out of here." She spun on her heel to look at the front doors all the way on the opposite side of the building. Flipping back around, she asked, "Can you carry him? I'll keep watch.” Then, frowning, she added, “There's still something else in here."
A spark ran up Yuuji's spine.
They were vulnerable. Very vulnerable, it sounded like.
Noted .
With one of them down and another curse unaccounted for, they were playing a risky game. "Shit. Shit, shit, shit ." Yuuji shifted. He was basically hugging Fushiguro to keep him upright, and he could feel the fever he was burning off, could feel the strange grinding of his broken ribs. This wasn’t good, and moving him wasn’t ideal. But either he had to carry him or they were going to have to pop a squat and wait for Kugisaki to get help, sitting around like two dumbasses for a curse to snack on. And that just wasn’t an option he was willing to consider at all.
As gently as he could, Yuuji situated himself a bit better, bending his knees, bracing his back for the heft of a full-grown teenager.
"Help me hold him." He told Kugisaki. "I'm gonna pick him up."
She maneuvered herself into his place, dragging Fushiguro against her front as Yuuji crouched and got his arms under Fushiguro's knees and shoulders. He huffed, then lifted.
Hauling him up as smoothly as possible, he tested the added weight, the balance of someone in his arms. The guy was surprisingly light but still corded with lean muscle. Luckily, he wasn’t breaking a sweat. And while it didn't look comfortable for Fushiguro, the specific carry was going to be easier on his broken ribs than a fireman's carry. Hopefully Fushiguro’s pride came away unscathed by the time he woke up and were able to prod at him for this.
Yuuji smirked at the thought. He and Kugisaki would joke about it for a long time, reminding him, probably carrying him sometimes, too, just for a quick little throwback. Something to knock him for, something to scream that they were so fucking glad he was alive and made it.
He looked down.
Fushiguro hadn’t even twitched.
His smile slipped hard. Nudging his chin towards the entrance, he said, "Let’s get outta here.”
They hurried for the front doors, breaths quick, legs pumping.
In Yuuji’s periphery, he saw Kugisaki glance over her shoulder.
“Itadori! Duck! ”
He barely had time to drop and curl over Fushiguro.
Something slammed above his head.
Yuuji glanced up.
A chunk of the wall kicked up dust as it settled against the front doors, blocking the exit. He blinked through the haze and whipped around.
Something was in the darkness. A big, shuffling, pulsating mess of something. It’s silhouette ate half of the hallway in width, head scraping against the tiled ceiling. One bloated, arm-like appendage dragged along the floor, smearing a wet-sounding, rot-smelling liquid behind it, while the other hand punched through the lockers lining the wall.
It should have made a sound.
They should have heard the screech of metal, the crumbling of wall.
Instead, the thing bumbled into the light and hurled another mound of debris at them. They ducked, dodging. Yuuji gawked up at it.
Dozens of eyes rolled around in gummy brown sockets poked throughout its body, each hole oozing a bubbling, viscous substance that stank of rancid meat. Yuuji gagged and turned away. Every step it took shook the building, thrumming into his skull slowly, loudly , as if earplugs were just ripped free. How had they not heard it? How was this even happening? The thing had to be at least a grade one, if not special grade.
"Move!" Kugisaki grabbed Yuuji's arm and yanked. Yuuji held Fushiguro tighter. The three of them busted through the door of the classroom next to them. She slammed the door shut behind them and Yuuji couldn’t help but snort.
As if that would hold that thing back...
Against his chest, Fushiguro made a low noise. Looking down, he found his face pinched in pain and flushed with fever. In the scurry, his arm had slipped and now hung bonelessly at his side. His head was tilted back, lolling against Yuuji’s arm as he pulled in one staggering breath after another. God , it was bad. Like, bad bad. Bad as in Yuuji didn’t know if he would wake up, or even survive. Why was he burning up? What happened? Were there other wounds? Why was he struggling to breathe?
On the other side of the classroom, a crash of glass had him jolting, squeezing Fushiguro close.
Kugisaki had thrown a desk, he guessed, shattering a window. Her back was to them, shoulders hitched high and fists clenched tight. “Let’s get outta here.” she snapped.
Yuuji didn’t need to be told twice.
As soon as they were out the window, he knelt and carefully maneuvered Fushiguro’s head back against his chest, balancing him on his thighs. It was only when he was cradling Fushiguro’s head that he felt the hot, gooey blood at the base of his skull.
“Fuck! Are you serious?” He pulled his hand back and stared at the red smeared over his palm. Where was Fushiguro not bleeding?
Moreover, how much more blood could he afford to lose…?
“Come on!” Kugisaki yanked at his sleeve. Yuuji bundled up Fushiguro and jogged after her across the school’s clearing.
Anxiety was one son of a bitch .
As he followed Kugisaki, trying his best not to jostle Fushiguro any more than the unavoidable, he couldn’t quell the sickening cold in his gut. It made him nauseated, and tired, yet hyper aware of everything around them. He could see the black night grass under their feet as clearly as he could the lights of the buildings miles away down the hill. He could hear the crunch of dirt beneath his shoes as crisply as he could the hum of Ichiji’s car around the corner down the black. He could feel the swirl of October wind brushing through his clothes as painfully as he could the body against him, a contradiction to the chill, a nightmare that he couldn’t wake from. Yuuji could scream, and cry, and kick, and fucking throw Fushiguro and still it wouldn’t change what was happening. He could only make it worse.
He could only make everything worse.
Would Fushiguro have been wounded if they hadn’t left him alone? Were they just burdening him? Hurting him? Were they practically shoving the curses in his face, telling them to feast while they walked away?
Of course they were.
They fucking left him alone.
Yuuji swallowed tears. His chest felt swollen with guilt. At this point, he wanted to congratulate Fushiguro for even breathing, for each of his measly inhales and exhales that were like hot needles against Yuuji’s throat.
They needed to save him. They had to, he had to. Because Fushiguro had always saved him. He had saved him countless times, whether from Gojo, or Sukuna, or someone else. It had always been Fushiguro. If he couldn’t repay him for everything he had done, then he would have already failed his grandpa. Yuuji had promised to save lives, had eaten each and every one of those cursed fingers to make sure he could be stronger, could save his friends.
Fushiguro was his friend. Was the brother he never had.
He had to save him.
“Just hang on.” Yuuji gasped out. They skidded around the corner of the field, coming up on sidewalk. Ichiji leapt out of the car at the sight of them. “Just hang on, Fushiguro. Just hang on.”
Hollering their way, Ichiji waved his arms, beckoning them closer. Yuuji fought to roll his eyes because where else would they go? Instead of speaking, he dropped to his knees, cradling Fushiguro as Kugisaki popped the trunk and pulled out their field kit. He pressed his hand to Fushiguro’s head again, at the base of his skull where the shorter hairs there were moist with blood that just kept coming.
"He's still bleeding a lot." he huffed out, looking up between Kugisaki and Ichiji. "We… Is there a hospital nearby?"
"They'll ask questions." Ichiji mumbled weakly. He was slack-jawed and gawking down at the two of them. “Just...Just what the hell happened?”
Kugisaki knelt beside them and began digging through the quaint little first aid kit. "Well we gotta do something 'cause Fushiguro got messed up bad. " She stared up at Ichiji. “How far’s the school? We gotta call Gojo or Ms. Ieiri.”
"Fifteen minutes. Ish." Ichiji squinted into the darkness behind them. "The curse--"
"Nearly killed us." Kugisaki interrupted. "We gotta get Fushiguro to a doctor. Get the car started.”
Ichiji hesitated. “Look--”
“ Go! ” Kugisaki snapped.
With Yuuji propping Fushiguro upright, she pressed a few gauze pads to the back of his head. The other hand was dabbing at the blood smeared across his forehead and down his cheek, caught in his lashes, clotting around his line of his jaw. Some of it had long-since congealed in the divots of his ear, more had turned his eyebrow a stark black against his ice-white pale skin.
Though, despite his pallor, he was still just as warm as ever.
Something was wrong.
“Kugisaki, he’s really hot.” There was no way his wounds had already gotten infected. “I think he’s got a fever.”
Her frown sank his heart. “He got bit.” She tugged the collar of his uniform down, revealing two crude puncture wounds in the meat of his shoulder. “It may be poison. Or venom. Whatever.” Kugisaki sighed. “A hospital’s gonna be useless.”
"Okay, okay, get him up." Ichiji was back, the car started and front seats pushed forward for maximum space. His hands waved frantically as he rushed around the front of the car towards them. “I called Gojo. He and Ieiri are meeting us outside. Let’s go!”
Yuuji resituated himself and readied to lift when Fushiguro jerked, kicking out, his head snapping up as he jolted to consciousness.
Or, rather, a version of it, because his pupils were blown wide and his breaths were curt and wheezy. He looked like he was going to pass out again at any moment.
But at least he was awake.
Yuuji set a gentle hand on Fushiguro's uninjured shoulder. "Hey, hey, Fushiguro. You with us?"
"You okay, Fushiguro?" Kugisaki asked at the same time. “Can you look at me?”
Fushiguro’s expression remained relatively passive. It scared the shit out of Yuuji. He slurred out, “Wh...Which...Which one?”
“What?” Kugisaki leaned in. “What, no, it’s me. Nobara. Kugisaki? We’re classmates, remember?” Her hand caught his and squeezed gently rhythmically, as if she were trying to ground him. Yuuji doubted it would work.
Sluggishly, Fushiguro’s head flopped sideways, baring his throat, his zoned-out eyes staring in the direction of Ichiji’s shoes. But Yuuji’s attention snagged on the faint blue of his veins, his jugular looking a translucent black in the darkness. “What the heck?” He didn’t touch, didn’t even move, but shifted so Kugisaki could get closer and look. “What is it?”
“Definitely poison, I think…” she said.
Fushiguro mumbled, “Wha’s...tha’? Is tha’ ‘t?”
“ Huh? ” Yuuji blurted.
Ichiji sneered above them. “Get him up! He’s delirious! Let’s go! ”
Right.
He lifted Fushiguro up. Fushiguro lashed out faintly, his foot kicking. “Wh… I d’dn’t--! Stop! ” he snarled. “Ge’ offa me! Get--! ”
As if a switch flipped, Fushiguro went limp.
They could worry about it later, could ask all the questions they wanted. But right now, he was still breathing, still twitching in his semi-conscious state as he stared up, past Yuuji, somewhere above them. Guiltily, Yuuji was actually thankful: it was easier to maneuver him into the car, Kugisaki getting in behind him and sliding him back until his head rested on her thighs.
As soon as the pair were situated, Yuuji scooped up the kit, rushed for the passenger's seat, and jumped in.
Ichiji peeled away from the curb.
The first aid in his hands rattled over every bump and crack in the road. He half-heartedly slammed it shut, but it was loosely locked, he guessed, causing a ruckus that surely was pissing off everyone else, too. The damn thing was making more of a complaint than Gojo ever had ever , and Yuuji was so fucking close to chucking it out the window. He squeezed it tighter in retaliation, keeping only in case Fushiguro needed it.
Glaring up in the rearview, he found Kugisaki looking out the window, her hand pressed to Fushiguro's cheek, keeping his head stable and pressed against her stomach. He was still out cold, still covered in too much blood to be safe, still looking feverish and in pain. His eyes were closed to slits.
Next to him, Ichiji had his focus on the road.
The noise from the kit was becoming unbearable, going clack, clack, clack and he just couldn’t get it to shut up. He snarled down at it--
Yuuji blanched.
His hands were overflowing with Fushiguro's blood.
It was under his fingernails, in the cracks and creases of his skin, making his uniform stick to him in places where it seeped through. How long would it take to scrub it all off? An hour? Five seconds? A day? Would it come out of his clothes? Would the smell? It was the same scent that had come from the basement when they had approached those double doors. The same scent that rolled off of Fushiguro because he was bleeding out. It were as if the blood was reminding him of what happened, of where it was coming from, of why it was there.
It was there because Yuuji hadn't been able to protect Fushiguro.
He acknowledged that, but it still stung something fierce . The raw shame made him choke on even more tears.
Of course they hadn’t been prepared for an S grade curse, and Yuuji was willing to bet that’s what Fushiguro had fought. Alone. Completely and utterly alone…
One had hidden its presence, and the other had nearly killed his friend. Why weren’t they informed? Why hadn’t they known?
Just who the fuck was trying to kill them?
There was no way Gojo would have let that happen, right? Would he really put Fushiguro at risk? From the sounds of it, they were close, or at least, they had known each other for some time. So why hadn’t he told them before the mission? He couldn’t have known…
On top of that, Yuuji was curious: was Fushiguro the target?
And if yes, then why?
He checked the rearview again and came eye-to-eye with Fushiguro's feverish haze.
Yuuji snapped around in his seat. “Hey! You with us?”
Kugisaki asked, "How do you feel?"
Fushiguro shuddered. His ground his jaw and swallowed thickly, his entire throat moving. "...Gonna...be sick."
Ichiji veered off to the side fast, pulling down some quiet street. Before he could even get the vehicle into park, Fushiguro was crawling over Kugisaki and tumbling out the door. Yuuji leapt out after him. “Fushiguro! Hey! Wait!”
He rushed next to where Fushiguro was curled over himself, very nearly on his hands and knees with how far he was bent forward. Kugisaki got to him first, holding him upright as he drooled and gagged into the grass. He groaned, making a pitiful noise, and Yuuji cringed in sympathy. The last thing he would want when he was sick was for people to stare at him. It was humiliating enough…
So Yuuji took one of his too-warm hands, bracketing his other arm across his chest to keep him upright, and relaxed as much as possible. “We’ve got you, Fushiguro” Kugisaki nodded and took his other hand, pulling it towards her. Fushiguro was tense, locked up from toes to teeth, shaking far too hard. He fought against them, tugging clumsily. But the jostling must have disturbed his stomach because the next second he was coughing. Nothing came up, though, and Fushiguro clicked his mouth shut.
Kugisaki settled another hand on the nape of his neck. Yuuji felt him go even more rigid.
“Just chill out, Fushiguro.” Kugisaki sighed.
Fushiguro squeezed his eyes shut. “Go... away. ”
At his retaliation, Kugisaki shook her head. “And let you fall into your own puke? Come on, dude, no way.”
In the dim light, Yuuji could see the blackish veins against his neck, disappearing under his shirt. They had crawled even higher despite them only driving a few minutes, the tendrils brushing just under his jaw.
Fushiguro tipped against another heave, almost falling over if not for Yuuji holding him. He shifted his foot away from the sick Fushiguro choked up. A whimper rattled his chest and Fushiguro hung his head, spitting more saliva out of his mouth.
When he threw up again, he didn’t fight it.
Yuuji began to knead his thumb into Fushiguro’s sweaty palm, massaging the tension, dragging up to the tip of his middle finger, then back down, shifting to the ring finger next to it. Fushiguro was gritting his teeth and blinking against tears, it looked like, but Yuuji pretended not to see. He focused on holding Fushiguro’s weight steady against him and slowly smoothing the stiffness from his hand.
“You done?” Yuuji heard Ichiji ask. He hadn’t heard the man approaching them, but it didn’t matter. They all glanced to Fushiguro.
His eyes were shut, but he nodded.
Together, Yuuji and Kugisaki guided Fushiguro back to the car, catching him when his knees gave out. Yuuji got behind him and sat down in the back seat, dragging himself and Fushiguro in. As soon as they were settled, Kugisaki was hopping after them, moving Fushiguro’s gangly legs and sitting down. Yuuji, meanwhile, settled against the car door, the grip digging into his spine but that was okay. He had Fushiguro leaning against his chest, breathing steadily, smelling of blood and puke but breathing.
Carefully, Yuuji settled his chin on the crown of Fushiguro’s head.
Within seconds, they were back on the main road.
In the back seat, he couldn’t hear the rattling of the kit, and he couldn’t see the blood on his hands. Not when they were wrapped around Fushiguro, holding him close. His breaths matched with the boy’s above him, a steady one for Fushiguro’s hitching two. A wheeze escaped his chapped lips, and when the vehicle bobbed over a speed bump, his head tipped left to Yuuji’s collar bone.
Ichiji slowed the car.
Yuuji melted into his seat, relief easing his frayed nerves. Up ahead, through the windshield, the front of the school came into view. Standing outside, Gojo, Ieiri, and a handful of others were crowded around and ready for them.
As daylight broke through the trees, a brightness worked through Yuuji’s heart, thawing his fear, and he smiled into Fushiguro’s soft, spiky hair. “You made it, Fushiguro.” he said. “We’re back. We’re home.”
He could have sworn he heard Fushiguro hum in agreement against his chest.