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“ Fushigurrooooo… Fushi… Fuuu-shhhiiii-gu–rooooo…” Itadori's voice drawls from behind the door, snaking underneath the wood, followed by short, light knocks.
Awoken from his drowsiness, Megumi rubs the weariness from his eyes and swings his legs over the edge of his bed. He pauses, waiting to see if Itadori calls his name again, squinting at the faint shadow of him as he sways behind the door. He can see the weight shift from right to left, to right, then back to left. With another sharp knock and another call of his name, the bed creaks from lack of weight as Megumi goes to open the door.
Light pours in from the hall, cutting through the gloom as the door cracks open, hinges squealing. Megumi rubs his head as he peeks his head out.
“Hey, Fushiguro. Are you busy?”
“Itadori. What do you want?” The smell of hot broth and spices filled his nose. Megumi glanced at the two bowls full of noodles, tucked between his arm and torso, heat rising into the air as it cooled to room temperature. “What's that for?”
Itadori chuckles, “I wanna watch a movie with you. Also, it's late, and I didn't see you eat anything soo…”
His friends’ cheeks grow a little pink as he explains. Maybe it was the steam brushing past? “Kugsaki helped me. I mean, they're really easy, but two heads are better than one! or… um… I guess it's four hands better than two.”
“You want to watch a movie?” Megumi points at himself, eyes drooping with fatigue. “With me?”
Itadori nods, “Please?” with a sigh, Megumi welcomes him in.
Carefully, Megumi takes ahold of one of the bowls, blowing on it as he shuts the door behind him with his foot. The broth ripples and threatens to spill, but Megumi keeps it together. The warmth spreads through his hand, pulsing in his palm to his frigid fingers. It stings.
Itadori holds his gingerly. His thumbs curl over the top while the rest support the bottom. It's nearly scathing, and he winces when the liquid brushes against his thumb, shooting pain through his nerves. Relief washes over his face when he sets it down on Megumi's bedside table, sucking his thumb as stinging subdues.
Megumi places his next to Itadori's and huffs. “Why didn't you bring some towels or something?”
Itadori raises a brow, wiping his spit-covered thumb on the hem of his shirt. “What for?”
“So you could hold them properly. It'd suck if you got burned.”
“Oh!” Itadori laughs as if Megumi said something truly comical. “Noo, they're not that hot. My thumb is just really warm now, but it's okay.”
Megumi's eye twitch in annoyance and gently grasps Itadori's hand, wrapping his cold hands around his (not really) burned thumb. He was right—it was really warm. Megumi also noticed that Itadori was very warm in general, the heat radiating off him like the sun during summer, beaming. It was a strange feeling; the warmth spreading through his skin. It regains the previous heat from the bowl, seemingly wrapping itself around his fingers, and he wonders if this is the perfect temperature.
“Ah…” Itadori stares down at the connection, chewing on his lip. “You're really cold, Fushiguro.”
“I thought it'd help since… uh…” Megumi suddenly realizes this is a little weird. He lets go, numbly missing the lack of contact. “Sorry. Anyway, what movie did you want to watch?”
Itadori eyes light up, and he forgets all about the awkwardness. “Oh yeah! I almost forgot! It's a horror movie, can you handle that?”
The comment almost felt offensive. “...Obviously?” he replies with a scoff.
“Jeez, my bad.”
“It's fine. What’s it called?”
“Miss… P-whatever's home for children or something like that. It came out last year. I saw someone talking about it the other day, and it looked interesting.” Itadori explains, dropping to the floor. Megumi sits beside him, crossing his legs.
“Do you know what it's about?” he asks.
“Something with, like, powers, I think. They're also stuck in the past?” Itadori taps his finger against the wood subconsciously. “One of them is invisible.”
“Right.” Megumi hopes this isn't the most boring couple of hours of his life. “Sounds interesting, I guess.”
Itadori's bowl was entirely cleaned out, while Megumi's had just a little bit of leftover broth, now cold. He was a lot hungrier than he thought. Originally, he just planned to fall asleep and eat later.
Megumi's eyelids felt heavy, and it was an effort to keep himself awake; almost afraid to blink because he felt like if he kept his eyes shut for longer than a second, he would've passed out.
The two of them were huddled under a blanket and back against the wall. They were only halfway through the movie. Megumi thought, despite mostly focusing on keeping his eyes open, that the romantic side-plot was not necessary to the story. It feels a little forced, he thinks lazily, and out of place.
Besides him, Itadori watched the TV intensely, lips pursed. He pulls his legs up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, his chin resting on his knees. The blanket only covered his feet.
Megumi's legs were sprawled out, and he numbly wondered when Itadori was going to change positions again. Irritation squirmed in his stomach as he recalled Itadori's annoying habit: Constantly moving. Even while sitting in the backseat of a car, Itadori would move, crossing his legs and then uncrossing them, resting his chin in his palm on his elbow, then laying back against the seat. Megumi will comment on it, while Nobara will berate him for not keeping still. The feeling was mutual.
Speaking of, Megumi ponders why Nobara hadn't joined them.
He snaps out of his thoughts as Itadori shifts around again, this time stretching his legs under the blanket, scooting right next to Megumi.
Their shoulders touch, and so do their legs, nearly overlapping each other. For some reason, his heart begins to beat a little faster, and his cheeks feel warm. Itadori shifts once more, this time dropping his cheek against Megumi's shoulder. His arm moves under Megumi, their hands almost on top of each other. Once again, Megumi takes notice of the warmth. It felt like it coursed through his veins, starting with his shoulder and then inching its way down his arm, seeping through the fabric. He supposed it was fitting for Itadori's geniality.
Unsure of what to do with this newfound continuity, he keeps still, stifling his breath. Megumi was afraid Itadori would move if he made any sudden movements or even inhaled too harshly.
Afraid —Megumi's sudden realization frightens him— he is afraid.
While he battles with himself internally, externally, he peers at Itadori over his shoulder, who still stares at the screen. His intensity is now gone. His eyelids droop, and his face relaxed, silently shutting his eyes and drifting off to sleep.
Megumi pretends he doesn't notice.
The king of curses' voice haunted his conscience, bouncing off every nook and cranny within the vessel's mind. His taunts and jeers wither his joy and breathe life into his temper. And though Yuji argued and tried with his might, Sukuna never cared, never listened. He was never, ever, ever , going to leave his vessel alone.
He constantly repeated the bad omen; Though the words were meant to be comforting, it petrified Yuji to his core—and Sukuna knew. Of course, he knew.
He reminds him of the people who got hurt, the people who died, just because Yuji wanted to live briefly longer. He reminds him of when he wept, when he begged, when he offered to give up everything just to learn that absolutely nothing could be done. People died merely because he was alive—it was purely revolting.
“I mean, really, isn't it just selfish?” Sukuna jibes, snickering, voice echoing.
And, really, Yuji knew it was selfish.
Though he bellows about his morals, offering a ‘proper death’, it was all a faulty mask that not even he himself could keep up with. Maybe what he was aiming for was to be a hero. To save the day and help everyone he can; But he is a jujutsu sorcerer. He could protect, maybe, but there is a reason cursed users exist and a reason why curses even exist, too.
It was sickening. Despite his stubbornness, refusing Sukuna's words, a part of himself crumbles, clawing at his throat as the rope tightens by Sukuna's hands, his cries cut short.
Jujutsu sorcerers do not die without regrets.
As drool dribbles down his chin and his spotted vision fades to black, Yuji's only regret is that he was ever alive at all.
Yuji's eyes snap open to darkness. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust and realizes the dim lightning was the moonlight, flooding through the small gap in the curtains. His heart hammers against his ribcage, and it takes a lot to hold himself back from doubling over. It feels akin to a heart attack.
He waits until his body calms, the blood rushing in his ears dwindling to Fushiguro's soft snores.
Fushiguro.
Finally, he takes notice of the weight pressed against him. His friend— friend, he remembers bitterly— leaned against him, neck bent awkwardly with his cheek squished on his head. Their fingers are lazily laced together. Yuji really, really hopes Fushiguro doesn't drool in his sleep.
Pity washes over him when he realizes how uncomfortable Fushiguro must be. Straining your neck like that for such a long time has to hurt.
Gently, Yuji tries to push him up without waking him.
He pauses when his face twitches, mumbling something before relaxing. Yuji exhales a sigh of relief and props his head back. Now, the only thing standing in his way was the only connection between the two: the hand-holding.
With a moment of hesitation, Yuji pulls away, missing the feeling of Fushiguro's fingers between his, the rough skin of his palm against Yuji's even rougher skin. It's strange how fast it changed. Just a few months ago, his face was baby smooth and unmarked, hands soft and easy to touch. Yuji can't say that he necessarily missed it, but he certainly felt some sort of absence in his chest.
Crawling out from under the cover, he steps over Fushiguro, cringing as the boards creaked under his weight. He only prays that the noise somehow doesn't wake him.
While figuring out how to keep his feet light, something wraps around his wrist, tugging at his arm. Muttering a curse, Yuji glances back with a remorseful grin, peering at Fushiguro while he rubs his eyes.
“Itadori,” He speaks carefully, voice soaked in lassitude. “Where are you going?”
“Back to my room.” He replies, feebly.
It's quiet again. Fushiguro still doesn't let go.
“...Why?” he questions.
“Huh?” Yuji straightens his posture, smile sliding off his face. “Well, because I thought… I didn't mean to fall asleep… do you– are you asking me to stay?”
Faintly, he can make out Fushiguro's eyes dropping to the ground. He pinches the bridge of his nose, sighs, then lets go.
“You're really warm,” he starts, ghosting the tip of his fingers on Yuji's knuckles. “And I'm always really cold.”
He pauses between the space of his fingers, where they connect with the rest of his body. The pads of his fingers feel like sandpaper. “I never really notice how cold I am,”
He withdraws slightly, only to get even closer, interlacing their fingers again. While soft, Fushiguro is firm, enveloping Yuji's hand with his. Yuji dully wonders if he could feel his pulse through his skin, the anxious thrumming of his heart drumming in his veins. “But when I'm with you, that's all I think about. I do not want to sleep cold tonight. I want to be warm and cozy like most people are; like you are.”
He does not hold Fushiguro back, but his fingers twitch, itching to feel the back of his hand. “So yes, I am asking you. Could you please stay?”
Yuji was ever so grateful the room was dark. His face was so warm and red, he'd be considered ripe for a cherry. His heartbeat was loud, filling his ears, but it wasn't the same as when he woke up from that horrid nightmare.
A few beats of silence, then: “Of course. Sure.”
He allows himself to get pulled down, finally grasping Fushiguro's hand back.
Falling to his knees, he crawls back to his previous spot, temporarily letting go of Fushiguro's hand as he covers himself with the blanket. It was a lot colder from when he left it.
“Here,” Fushiguro holds Yuji's head, and he goes limp, letting Fushiguro guide his head to his chest. He can hear the subtle thumps of his heart. They lay down together, Yuji practically on top of Megumi as his arms wrapped around him.
“Is this okay?” Yuji asks, propping his chin on Fushiguro's chest. “I mean, is sleeping on the floor comfortable?”
“It's fine, Itadori.”
“Are you sure? Like, even without a pillow or–”
“Itadori,” Fushiguro cups his cheeks, lifting him slightly. “It's fine. I have you. That's plenty comfortable.”
With a short-lived pout, Yuji gives in, laying his cheek on his chest. The rhythmic beats of his heart made his eyelids droop, and soon, his own heart matched the pattern.
Yet, he could not sleep. So silently, Yuji counted the seconds between each beat, then how many beats in 10 seconds, then 30, then a minute. Yuji had no idea if what he was counting was considered normal or not. Is 75 beats per minute normal? It seemed a little too low. Maybe his heart was slowing down… was he listening to Fushiguro slowly die beneath him? The more he thought, the more he started to sweat, clutching the fabric of Fushiguro's t-shirt.
“Are you okay?” The words cut through his thoughts, and Yuji looks up at Fushiguro.
Two black eyes looked back. “Is 75 beats per minute considered normal?”
“Uh…” Fushiguro looks at him in disbelief. “...Yeah. Pretty sure.”
“Oh. Nevermind then.”
“What?”
“‘s nothing much.” Yuji goes back to squishing his cheek into Fushiguro's chest, staring at the small sliver of moonlight on the wood boards. “Was just worried about you.”
“Oh. Okay.”
He closes his eyes and attempts to sleep. All that appears behind his eyelids are flashes of the past. Spit. Blood. A body bag. It was painful and annoying so Yuji kept his eyes open, trying not to think too much about the figments of his imagination springing to life in the dark; It barely strays far from the light.
“Fushi… are you still awake?”
Fushiguro grunts in response.
Yuji chews on his lip. “Can I ask you something personal?” He pushes up, hovering over Fushiguro's dimly lit face.
“I guess?”
Yuji takes a deep breath. “Do you regret saving me?”
It falls silent. The blunt, sharp question deafens the whole room, waiting heavily in the air. It feels like a water balloon; Something full of water that keeps getting filled till it pops. Only this time it feels heavier, bigger, and weighting on Yuji's back, making his arms tremble. It's going to hurt, he knows, when it eventually pops, drowning Yuji in its sorrows and anguish. He's so afraid. He's so wholly and utterly afraid and he can't make sense of it; he can't understand why he feels so helpless.
So , please, he begs Fushiguro silently in his mind. Please say the right thing.
“Should I?”
The weight feels heavier. “I don't know.”
“No. Itadori. I don't regret it.”
Then, suddenly, it's like it never existed at all.
“Are you sure?” Yuji questions.
“Yes, I'm sure,” Fushiguro confirms. “Can we go to sleep now?”
Yuji grins and nods, collapsing on his chest. He searches for Fushiguro's hand, interlocks their fingers together, and listens to Fushiguro's heartbeat again. His other hand runs through Yuji's hair, guiding him to sleep. Together, the two teenagers fall asleep in each other's arms.