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Maybe peculiar wasn’t the correct word to choose — maybe it was something closer to unfamiliar or perhaps even forgotten.
Peaceful.
The word bounces around gently inside of Yuuji’s lightly throbbing skull as he tries to make sense of it — of how.
And there were many follow-ups to the question — how? — with only a handful having real answers: Sukuna’s demise, Yuuji’s second chance at life, Megumi’s soul returning safely. He supposes the hows aren’t entirely important, deciding on thankfulness instead — gratitude.
Grateful he is allowed slowly ticking time, dully passing moments, and the ability to watch over a soundly sleeping Megumi.
He inhales and disregards each dull ache that disperses throughout his body, each stubborn pain that rejects the fact that he is very much still alive. He exhales softly through his nose, almost contently, and thinks it again.
Peaceful.
His legs are crossed tightly to fit himself on the rickety wooden chair that creaks with overuse each time he shifts his body weight, elbows propped on either of his knees, cheeks held by each of his calloused palms. It is quiet, it is late — from just outside the windows on the opposite wall, a winter chill emits from the frosted glass, small flecks of white illuminating the would-be blackened sky, reminiscent of fireflies and easy summers.
Aside from the heart that still beats in his chest, the low and tired sounds of steady slumber join him in midnight symphony, a soft and continual breathing that radiates an ache through Yuuji’s chest. An ache unlike the wear in his bones or the bruises on his skin — an ache so deep and raw that he isn’t sure how he manages to house it within himself or contain it at all. It claws at his heart, maybe even tugs at its strings, attempts to force itself up his throat and out of his mouth but instead he seals his lips, pinching them tightly against his teeth and swallows it back down.
He has situated himself as close as he can allow; his knees bumping the soft plush of white sheets that cocoon what remains of Yuuji’s heart — a cottony blend of fabrics that wraps itself around a weary body where Yuuji cannot, only hopes his conglomerate of emotions can be felt through every fiber from where he sits. And it makes sense, he thinks, that the ache in his chest, his heart, calls out to Megumi by name — it makes sense that his tired palms do the same.
That is how Yuuji thinks he looks right now — peaceful. Unguarded, brows loosened in favor of their usual drawn-up scrunch of frustration; hands splayed haphazardly, hair a mess against the pillow where his tired head lay, lips slightly parted with deep sleep, the soft hum of his breaths coming in time with the rise and fall of his chest.
But maybe peaceful wasn’t the correct word to choose — maybe Yuuji thought he looked something more like beautiful.
His lip quivers as his cheeks flush at his own thoughts, face tightening in irritation with himself.
Now is not the time for that, he reminds himself for the millionth time, for the hundredth day in a row.
Because it also wasn't the time for that any other time the avalanche of truths — of secrets — he had compiled within himself threatened to fall from his loose and wanting, craving lips. A cascade of snowfall like flakes building themselves on a windowsill against the dark of night, with enough pressure the glass would finally give. And when that hole opens, when the gusts of winter storm blow through the room and the shards of glass twinkle down onto the wooden floors below, each of Yuuji’s precious, treasured feelings would come with it.
It was complex as much as it wasn’t — not so much his feelings but what to do with them. It had seemed, previously, time was not on his side, his life already a fraying thread on a noose that cursed fingers tied for him. A sacrifice he was willing to make — his own life in trade for the safety of those he had grown to care for, the betterment of humanity, and his feelings dying with him. He had come to expect the unexpected, but his death sentence being lifted — effectively being granted the ability to live — was not something he could have anticipated, nor was he sure he was even prepared for it.
Yuuji’s eyes flicker from his lap to Megumi quickly, and the semi-permanent sting behind them returns with a vengeance. Uncertainty seemed to weigh heavily on several aspects of Yuuji currently — his own life, what it means now and going forward, the state of the Jujutsu world following the loss of Satoru Gojo, and, most importantly, how Megumi will react to his presence upon waking.
He prays to the clock that reads just after two in the morning, begging the god of time to be on his side just once more, to allow him his solitude in mourning who he and Megumi once were. Because when blue eyes open, there is no telling what will be behind them — anger? Fear? Loathing? Heartbreak? Grief?
Yuuji couldn’t blame Megumi if he were to direct it all towards him — almost wants him to.
It might be easier that way.
While the weight of reality was crushing, it was not quick in its process — there was no instantaneous impact, no sudden tumbling of brick and building that one could not prepare themselves for. No, it was something more akin to a fever — taking its time to boil a victim from the inside out, knowing the aches and pains and what will eventually come next with no real way to stop it from happening. Temperatures would continue to rise, to eat away at resistance and what unscorched flesh remains, all the while refusing a slip in consciousness — awareness, and the inability to shake it, is when the pain really sets in.
And who was Yuuji to dictate Megumi on his pain? Who was he to try and comfort him? A friend, maybe more, whose sole existence caused the virus that started the fever in the first place.
Yuuji digs his nails into his knees where his suddenly clammy palms rest, he wasn’t sure when his heart rate picked up — his only certainty in that moment being blame and where to place it: right atop his dizzy pink head.
He thinks maybe he should vomit, and then tells himself to suck it up, that it is not his job to hurt right now, it is his duty to comfort those whom he has hurt.
And the god of time laughs in his face, boisterous and cruel, as the croak of his name laced with confusion shatters the silence of his inner turmoil.
An awkward shuffling comes next, and Yuuji feels a fear so primal and innate that he nearly jumps out of his skin with the urge to flee, despite knowing this isn’t something he can run from. Feeling equally as confused and a dash more dread, Yuuji lifts his bowed head to meet the sleepy squint of a weary Megumi, who is sitting himself upright against the headboard.
“What time is it?” Megumi asks, hushed and quiet, as if it is of any importance — perhaps gravity hasn’t pulled him back to earth yet.
“Two-thirtyish.” Yuuji responds, equally as soft, trying not to flinch in fear of what may come next.
Megumi nods stiffly, looks down at his palms in his lap, yawns, flexes his fingers as if he has never seen them before, and whispers: “You think so loud, you know?”
“Huh?” Yuuji asks, almost in disbelief — his fight or flight being thrown for a loop as his defensive instincts fail him.
“You woke me up.” Megumi mumbles. “By thinking so loud.”
Yuuji pauses, weighs his responses and decides on the most logical one: “I should go get Shoko.” He says, tries to hide the mild disappointment in his tone. “Since you’re up, she should probably —“
“Don’t.” Megumi cuts him off, not so much harshly but… tired, as if he isn’t ready to have additional company.
Yuuji frowns. “Fushiguro, I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.” He tiptoes lightly, gently. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine, Itadori.” He meets Yuuji’s gaze, looking anything but what he claims to be, and the hurt that is hidden within his stare nearly cracks Yuuji’s sternum in half on the spot.
“Okay.” Yuuji whispers reluctantly. There is an almost uncomfortable moment of silence that Yuuji isn’t sure how to fill, and he suddenly becomes aware that he himself may be considered an intrusion upon Megumi’s space. “Do you want me to leave?” He asks, rubbing the sweat from his palms on his pants absentmindedly.
Megumi breaks eye contact, turns his head slowly to look out the window to his left, his worn features illuminated softly with the pale glow of snowfall. “You can stay.” He whispers, like it’s a secret, as if those three words were some sort of confession, his immediate slight fluster noticeable in the follow up of: “If you want.”
Yuuji fights the urge to crack a smile. “Don’t say it like that.” He relaxes back into his chair, the steady flow of conversational habits returning to him smoothly. “It makes it sound like you don’t really want me here.” His words become more mumbled with each syllable and he feels selfish for saying it, so he quickly adds: “Which is fine, by the way. If you don’t really want me here.”
Megumi doesn’t respond, but the signature scrutinizing scrunch of his face dissipates into something softer, something Yuuji recognizes from late nights shared between dorm room neighbors way past the time they should have fallen asleep.
Beautiful. The word comes to him again, this time paired with a flush on his cheeks and sudden nervousness, but he allows the silence to fall between them — gentle, like the flakes outside the glass, building themselves into a comforting caress on the windowsill.
He allows time for the weight of reality to creep into Megumi’s chest, for the fever to rise, for the elephant in the room to finally be addressed — for bitterness to spew from Megumi’s tongue, for lack of forgiveness and permanent dislike to root itself into the garden they have grown together. Yuuji expects it, almost wants it, feels he deserves it — to watch as everything he and Megumi have built upon is slowly rotted and decayed by what has happened, what cannot be undone.
Yuuji finds himself waiting for something he should have known would never come.
Absentmindedly, Megumi’s fingers trace the scarred flesh of his face as he contemplates, thinks, and wonders silently to himself, a curled lip of disgust finding its way onto his mouth as he touches the rough texture. And it breaks Yuuji’s heart as much as it loosens his tongue, because he finds himself asking before he can reconsider: “What’s wrong?”
Megumi looks momentarily startled, Yuuji’s voice drawing him from whatever thoughts he was weighing on. He drops his hand quickly. “Nothing.”
Yuuji doesn’t want to press him, doesn’t want to make it obvious that he is watching each of Megumi’s movements like an overbearing mother with a feverish child, but he cannot help the ache in his bones that tells him Megumi is beautiful, that he deserves to know and feel that, too.
Thankfully, Yuuji finds himself reserved enough to keep from spouting sappy nonsense, and instead murmurs: “We kinda match now.”
Megumi turns to him curiously, a glint in his eye that makes it evident he is being humored — so Yuuji points to his own scars across his face and watches as full realization settles into Megumi’s bones. His eyes widen just a fraction while his shoulders simultaneously loosen, and he huffs what might be a laugh with the beginning of what might be a smile. He shakes his head as he looks into his lap with a soft sigh, studying his own fingers once again. “Yeah,” he eventually agrees. “We do kinda match.”
Yuuji allows himself to giggle softly, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around his legs, a shield to keep his heart from falling out of his ribs. “It’s not so bad.” He says honestly with a shrug. “If it counts for anything, I think you look really, uh, cool.” He clears his throat with a scowl, repeatedly calling himself stupid internally. “Not that, like, you didn’t look cool before or anything. Because you totally did.”
Yuuji refuses to look up from where his eyes are trained on the white ripples of the sheets, cheeks and ears burning as he feels Megumi’s gaze fall back onto him.
“…Cool?” Megumi asks, the single word sounding like there is an eruption of laughter waiting just behind it.
“Haha, yeah…” Yuuji swallows nervously, turning mechanically to face an amused Megumi. “Sorry if that’s weird.”
“It isn’t.” Megumi reassures him, turning back to the window with a smirk. “You are, though.”
“So not fair.” Yuuji sighs with a soft smile. “I tell you you’re cool and you call me weird, consider me heartbroken.”
Megumi rolls his eyes playfully, and the normalcy of it all makes everything feel easier to carry — even if only for a moment.
“I guess it’s fitting.” Megumi says, quieter and more reserved. “That we match now, after everything.”
He fiddles with his fingers in his lap as a distraction, Yuuji knows, and he tries to hold the weight of Megumi’s words, to carry them in his two sore arms in accommodation to lessen the load. It hurts in more ways than one, to break the seal on the jar containing the happenings of recent; Yuuji had never known a single word to feel so heavy until Megumi encapsulated traumas and tragedy into one afterthought: everything.
Yuuji swallows thickly and it tastes bitter, his voice comes out cracked but he speaks anyway: “I guess so. You and I are the only ones who understand it, anyway.” He watches Megumi closely but his expression remains unreadable, even when Yuuji says: “Sukuna, I mean.”
Megumi’s fists clench and relax after a few moments, he inhales sharply and exhales quickly. “I didn’t give you enough credit before.” His words are fast and hushed, brows pinched tight like he is angry, maybe serious. “I thought I understood what you were withstanding, when really I had no idea. None of us did, not even…” he trails off with a slightly choked sound, and Yuuji can’t help the burn behind his eyes that waters his lash line.
“Fushiguro,” Yuuji says, so soft and tender that he thinks maybe his tongue melted halfway through speaking. “It’s okay.” He says genuinely, honestly, and then decides it isn’t enough. “There are so many things I wish I had done differently. I would give anything if it meant you never had to experience this — any of it.” His words are wobbly on the way out, progressively becoming higher in pitch as he fights against the solidification of regret that has lodged its way into his throat.
“It doesn’t really matter now.” Megumi decides on defeatedly, tipping his head back against the headboard and staring instead at the ceiling.
In a way, he is right — Yuuji knows this. However, he also knows there is a part of Megumi, buried somewhere beneath the indifference and hardened exterior, that is hurting, and his urge, his need to remedy and console will not allow for this to be the end of the conversation.
“I know.” Yuuji says slowly, picking his words as carefully as he can. “But you matter now. You matter to me all the time, actually. So if there’s anything I can do, Fushiguro — literally anything — please, just —“
“Itadori,” Megumi cuts him off. “You’ve done enough. More than enough, actually.”
And, in bare vulnerability, Yuuji grasps at reassurance: “Have I?” He asks, genuine and watery, timid and uncertain.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Megumi furrows his brow, angry at the ceiling above him. “You being here right now is proof of that in and of itself.”
Yuuji lets it sink in, allows himself to comprehend that his presence alone is soothing Megumi in some capacity. And maybe Megumi’s presence is soothing him too — maybe their scars match, and maybe they are the only two people who understand playing host to evil incarnate, and maybe now’s not the time for that, but Yuuji wishes it was.
He wishes a lot of things, actually, most of which revolve around regret and guilt and self-pity — wishes that will forever be just that: a fragmented daydream of what could have been, so many ifs and buts that find home in his subconscious, nestling themselves there and emerging when he evades slumber. Decidedly, Yuuji declares within himself that he is not content with the idea of Megumi being lumped into ifs and wishes, he cannot thrive on not trying, so he asks a question — a simple one, one he has asked many times before on countless nights much like this.
“Fushiguro,” he whispers, trying to keep the tears at bay. “Can I sleep in your room tonight?”
And it is entirely possible that Megumi already knew Yuuji needed comfort as much as he needed to give it, because without missing a beat, he utters his signature response of: “Whatever.”
He follows it up with a sigh and the beginning of a smile, scooting over in the bed to make room for Yuuji to join him. Yuuji’s chair creaks and groans as he stretches his tired limbs, both the wooden and skeletal structures opposing any movement at all. He places his feet on the floor quietly, like he is sneaking five steps down a hall back at campus to slip into the room next door, and all but throws himself into the pillows with a groan, his face hitting the plush and body rattling the bed frame. Megumi scoffs in mild irritation.
“So comfy.” Yuuji mutters, muffled by the pillow he talks into, the mattress sinking beneath his added weight.
Megumi lowers himself closer to Yuuji’s level, facing him with an elbow propped on his pillow, cheek in palm. Yuuji rolls onto his side from where he had lay on his stomach, a sigh of content leaving him as he cozies his head and pulls the covers to his chin. When he reopens his eyes after final minor adjustments, he is hit head-on with the realization that he has not been this close to Megumi in months.
The lump in his throat returns.
Of all the things he had wondered if he would see in Megumi’s gaze when it fell upon him, he never once considered the possibility that the same fondness and familiarity he was used to would look back at him. And now, with a minimal half-pillow gap between them, Yuuji sees it again for the first time in what feels like forever; swimming in the blues like a summer’s day at the beach, as warm and inviting as it always has been, the softness Megumi harbors for Yuuji remains untarnished. He thinks he could cry, but sucks it up, favoring the natural smile that dons his countenance when existing in Megumi’s orbit.
Yuuji looks to him, to his unwavering gaze and the lack of a pinch in his brow, to his cheeks dusted in a shade of pink that could only rival Yuuji’s head, to the droop in his shoulders and the dissipation of tension in his composure, to the rough patches of skin that have found home on his face and thinks it once more: beautiful.
It is dark, it is late — the buildup of snow on the windowsill has steadily made progress, a tiny mountain range against a pane of glass, bright enough against the night sky that it allows for a dash of illumination. And within this limited source of light, Yuuji finds the shapes and shadows of Megumi Fushiguro to be entirely enamoring and maybe even a bit softer — but perhaps that was Yuuji’s own doing, his presence melting Megumi’s resistance like ice cream on a warm, sunny day. He blinks slowly, yawns, finally asks with a cocked brow: “Do I have something on my face?”
Yuuji snaps from his dreamlike trance with widened eyes that immediately soften when he giggles. “No,” he says. “Just thinking about how cool you look or whatever.”
It is the closest he thinks he can get to telling the truth.
Megumi cracks, huffs a laugh with a slight shake of his head, looks down at the empty space between them and contemplates by chewing his lip. “You look cool too.” He whispers, heat rising to his cheeks and morphing rosy pink into a flushed red.
“I mean it, though.” Yuuji whispers back, chancing a smaller fragment of the truth. “I think you’re pretty, too.” His words come out nearly slurred and lazy, a blend of sleepiness and enamoration that he supposes Megumi is accustomed to being subjected to. Because, while he doesn’t necessarily seem surprised by Yuuji’s words, his flush turns to crimson and he nearly sputters in fluster.
“Go to sleep, Itadori.” Megumi counters in a way to avoid addressing the sentiment.
“I was thinking it earlier too.” Yuuji admits. “Before you woke up. Not that I’m a total creep who watches you sleep or something like that.” He shrugs. “It’s just something I’ve always thought.”
Megumi pauses, eyes him curiously. “You’ve always thought that?”
“Mhm.” Yuuji confirms sleepily. “Always. So don’t think a couple of scars are going to change my mind.” He shuffles himself slightly closer to Megumi, and doesn’t mean to speak aloud when he says: “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.”
Swallowing thickly, nearly breathless, Megumi asks: “And how exactly do you see me, Itadori?”
Yuuji feels his cheeks begin to radiate a steady warmth, and he finds it difficult to maintain eye contact, so he stares downward as he plays with his hoodie strings as a distraction. “That’s a tough question to answer.” He drops the limp string from between his fingers and trails downward, aiming for Megumi’s free hand, interlacing their fingers casually like he has done countless times in the past. He squeezes gently: “You might not like what I have to say.” He says, hushed and concentrated, attempting to find grounding and tether himself back to reality.
Megumi nods in silent understanding, while Yuuji trails his fingertips away from his palm in favor of brushing them gently against Megumi’s arm.
“I mean, obviously you’re strong. And brave.” Yuuji swallows down nervousness in between words, ignores the part of his brain that agrees with Megumi — go to sleep. “Super smart. You’re kind. And you can pretend all you want, but deep down, we both know you’re a total softie.” He laughs as he says it, watching intently where his fingertips meet Megumi’s skin — the smallest testament to his truths.
Megumi scoffs with an eye roll and grumbles: “Not true.”
“Sure, sure.” Yuuji nods with a smile and a wink. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”
“You’re the only one who would know that anyway.” Megumi says quietly, a hidden layer of intimacy in his admittance that suggests his softness is reserved for Yuuji.
Yuuji wonders if Megumi knows that there is a certain softness he reserves for him as well.
In a moment of daring bravery, filled with the urge for closeness, Yuuji’s hand travels farther upwards, his palm coming home to rest against Megumi’s cheek; his fingertips dip gently into the beginnings of unruly black locks, the cup of his hand a perfect fit against Megumi’s jawline. Instinctively, he soothes — his thumb brushing carefully across Megumi’s lower lashes, padding from smooth to rough as he crosses over his scars.
And it skips his heartbeat as much as it tugs at his heartstrings — to be trusted enough by a soul so guarded and defensive that its makeshift walls crumble beneath soft words and a simple caress. Megumi’s eyes flutter closed, drowsy and pliant, as he leans into Yuuji’s touch with a sigh of relaxation.
Yuuji thinks he could kiss him or cry — possibly both simultaneously — so he fills the space with weighted words lest he act on either impulse. “I have so much I want to say.” He whispers. “I feel like we have so much to talk about.”
Megumi hums in agreement, the vibrations of his vocal cords buzzing the flesh of Yuuji’s palm. “But not right now.” He reasons, maybe even pleads.
“That’s fine.” Yuuji says. “I’ll be here whenever the time comes.” He adjusts the angle of his hand, brushing his thumb lower to quickly catch the corner of Megumi’s mouth, a simple and fleeting touch of his lip that makes Yuuji feel electrified and numb simultaneously.
As secretive as he tried to be, Megumi is keen to his actions — reopening his eyes partially to give Yuuji a curious glance. And Yuuji hasn’t a clue what his own face reads presently, what longing and yearning could be concluded from the softened embers of his honey-like eyes, but Megumi does.
And, as always, he sees right through him.
“Go ahead.” Megumi speaks, low and timid, a breathlessness to his words that wasn’t present previously. “If that’s what you’re thinking about doing.”
Yuuji swallows nervously, mildly embarrassed. “I’ve just missed you so much.” He admits, both tears and heat rising to the surface, opposing sensations that do little to prepare him for this moment. He mimics Megumi’s stance, shuffling to prop himself on his elbow with wobbly limbs, his opposite hand still holding to Megumi like a lifeline. “So much.” He repeats, whispered against awaiting lips as he moves closer, closer — until there is no space left to fill.
It is shaky and gentle, more so a chaste brush of lips than anything actually resembling a kiss — a test to find reluctance, if there was any to be found.
They hold themselves there, faces angled and breaths unsteady, a silent tug of war, push and pull, as they both weigh the options of continuing down this path. A path, Yuuji supposes, that was forged the moment theirs crossed — destined, fated, intertwined, matching.
Between lingering glances and interlaced fingers, soft touches and hushed conversations in a shared dorm room bed, teasing from peers and almost-confessions, Yuuji feels somewhat surprised that it took them this long to get here.
Here being on the brink of a kiss, on the tiptoes of feelings, on the edge of realization that this may be something mutual — for they both are acutely aware that once they start, stopping will not be an option.
They teeter on this cliff for a moment longer, like leaning over a balcony railing and squinting to make out the shapes below, they peer into each other’s hearts to confirm their own residency. Yet, it is Megumi who grips Yuuji’s hand and dives them overboard headfirst with a cracked muttering of: “I missed you too.”
White flecks trickle gently downward from a blackened sky, occasionally swept up in the chill of a winter’s gust. They pile steadily against a frosted window, an amassed conjoining of uniquely intricate individuality that fits best when paired together. And it is a slow build to amount to what they have become in hours passed, mere inches against a pane of glass, but it all started with one single flake.
It all started with one single cursed finger, swallowed by the very lips that press against the life both skewed and saved by it.
He is warm where he touches Yuuji, his heart thrums steadily offbeat with nervousness and uncertainty — yet his lips reciprocate with equal amounts of fondness and surety.
And like the illuminated glow of snowfall against the night sky, they follow the path the winter wind takes them, finding warmth and comfort in settling against the glass together.