Chapter Text
Present Day Shibuya
* * * * * * *
“Good for you.”
Blood slips slow down the man's arm, until it reaches the bend of his elbow and drips into a puddle at his feet.
Megumi watches, seemingly in slow motion, as the man tips forward. His smile is loose, his eyes losing light as the lids tug closer together. But his body is stiff and rigid, and as he begins to near ground, Megumi fears that instead of collapsing limply, the man might actually shatter into shards of glass.
But he doesn’t. He’s flesh. He’s meat.
He’s dead.
For a moment, all Megumi can do is stare. He holds his breath as if it might hold the moment; keep it still, keep it paused, keep any more bad things from happening.
But he can hear a pattering - blood taps against the concrete ground like an unwanted guest at the front door. It seeps from his abdomen like hot oil, staining his clothes and itching down the front of his body.
He swallows thickly, and then he approaches the corpse before him without much thought.
He isn’t sure why the man attacked him, specifically. He isn’t sure why the man went through all that just to end up killing himself in the end. He isn’t sure why, in death, the man's bodily appearance has morphed into a different person.
He isn’t sure why a strange, barbed, twisted sort of pang is tangling in his gut over the death of a stranger who just attempted to murder him.
And, as he begins walking, in search of Shoko, or Itadori, or any other comrade who might be able to help, he isn’t sure why he pictures the underside of his bed. Specifically, the box of his childhood belongings that resides underneath his bed. Specifically a framed photograph within said box.
The one of his family. The one of him, and Tsumiki, and his mother.
And his father.
He hasn’t thought about that picture in a long time. He’s not sure why that memory is coming to him now.
Oh, he thinks after a moment. Because he does know. He's slow to realize it. His brain is working at half speed, which only supports his hypothesis:
he’s dying.
He’s losing too much blood.
What’s that theory? Yuuji had mentioned it to him once before - he’d said that when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. He had said that when you die, your mind replays memories. The good ones.
Megumi had believed him, seeing as Yuuji had firsthand experience with dying.
Is that what this is? Are his memories coming back to him?
Is this it?
But why that, of all memories? Why now? Why here? Why him?
His father…
Megumi can’t even remember what he looks like. He’s a memory of a memory. He isn’t a person anymore, he’s a feeling: Resentment. Disappointment. Anger.
Loss.
Megumi grits his teeth. Tsumiki is a better thought. A better last image. Or his mother. But he can’t picture his mother. When he tries to imagine her features, he just sees Tsumiki’s face staring back. When he tries to picture his father he just sees darkness. And then Gojo.
He wonders if Gojo is also seeing darkness right now.
There’s an air of stillness. Of Thickness. Like something caught in Jello.
Caught.
That’s a good word, Megumi thinks. He’s always been caught. Gojo too. They’ve always been caught in this web. There’s never really been a way out, has there?
He’d like to ponder this. To really mull it over. To come up with a real answer as to why it’s like this. Why they’re like this. If there’s a way out. Why there isn’t a way out.
But Megumi never has the time to think of an answer.
He stumbles forward, then slumps down to one knee. He’s vaguely aware of a pain in his back, but the shock, both physical and mental, disorients him. Numbs him. Red flashes against the backs of his eyelids. Blood thrums through his skull like a siren.
He knows he’s been injured.
He’s not sure how or why.
When his eyes trail downwards and spot red, he knows he should be alarmed. But he isn’t. He can’t find it in himself. The blood, all velvet and warm, looks soft to the touch, and instead of reaching inside of himself, into the cold, instead of willing the shadow to build and grow, he stays out. He stays with the blood. He stays with the red. He separates from the black; from himself.
It’s easier that way.
When he bleeds, it isn’t like in the movies. He wishes he bled more like color. Like a soft purple shifting into pink. A mess of acrylic paint. A sunset melting into the horizon. Poetic.
Meaningful.
He wishes some of this, any of this, was meaningful. But in the end, despite Gojo’s faith in him, despite the promise that others have seen in him, despite all his efforts, he’s bleeding out here on the street. He’s no different than the hundreds of regular civilians that have also died here. He’s no different. He’s nothing special.
Despite the cursed energy that swells beneath his skin, he just bleeds like a normal human. And he’ll die like one, too. The red seeping. Oozing. Warm, like oil. It coats. It stains. It’s nothing pretty. It just makes his head go fuzzy.
Damn, he thinks, I kind of thought I’d be something more than this. I thought I could maybe do something important - that I wouldn’t let Gojo down this time…
And there it is again, Gojo’s voice in his head. He shows up, like he always does, when Megumi doesn’t know what to do.
His old words repeating once more: “You are not ever allowed to take on a mission if you know it’s above your grade level. You never do anything like this again. Got it?”
The stranger rounds him, making himself visible. A blond curse user with a strange sword.
What grade level is this guy? Megumi doesn’t know, but what he does know is that he doesn’t have a choice. There’s no escaping. He’s here. He’s facing him. There’s no alternative.
He can’t run. He can barely stand.
“If you ever find yourself in a situation where you’re overpowered, the first thing you do is call me, got it?” Gojo had once said.
Megumi swallows. He’d like nothing more than to call Gojo right now. He’d give anything to be able to call Gojo right now.
“What happened when you were fighting that special grade - that’s your new normal. Even if you’re at a disadvantage, you go all out. Mahoraga is only ever a last resort. Not a go-to. You’re only allowed to use it if you are truly out of other options. You’re only allowed to use it if you’ve completely depleted your cursed energy and can no longer fight. Understood?”
Megumi inhales a breath, something inside of him settling.
Understood.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Past (Megumi is 6ish, Gojo is 19ish)
“You look awfully serious.”
Megumi doesn’t respond. He just continues erasing the mess he’s made on his homework sheet.
“They’re lucky to have such a dedicated student.”
Megumi brushes away pink flakes of rubber. He’d like to brush away the asshole antagonizing him from across the room, too; flick him onto the floor to be lost in the carpet fibers.
“Fushiguro Megumi: star pupil. It’s not like they call me every other day to discuss your troublesome behavior. You care about your grades, but not your reputation, huh?”
Megumi picks up his eraser and chucks it at Gojo’s face, which of course does nothing, the pink rectangle meeting resistance an inch from his cheek and rebounding away, where it bounces onto the floor.
“Shut. Up.”
Gojo puts his hands on his hips, lips curling upwards in amusement. “Calm. Down.”
Megumi goes back to his homework, reworking the same problem over and over. His classes have always been a breeze. Math, science, English - it didn’t matter. Megumi always knew the answers. At least, he used to always know them.
“Come on, take a break. Let’s go outside or something. You’ve been at it for hours.”
“No. I need to figure this out.”
“Can’t you do it later?”
“No. I can always figure it out. I don’t get why I don’t get it.”
Gojo peers over his shoulder. Maybe ten seconds pass, and then he states: “the answer is negative three.”
Megumi rolls his eyes, not giving his comment any merit. “Just let me focus-,”
“I’m not joking. The answer is negative three.”
Megumi blinks at his work, trying to sort through it.
Gojo lowers into the open chair next to him, grabbing the pencil out of Megumi’s hand so that he can write on a scratch piece of paper. He solves the problem swiftly, the calculations easy for him. “See? Negative three.”
Megumi scowls. “Since when are you smart?”
“Dunno. Since when are you dumb? You’ve never needed help with your homework before.”
Megumi’s glare darkens. “I would have figured it out.”
Gojo looks over the sheet of paper, checking the work of Megumi’s other problems. Megumi doesn’t look at the math. He just looks at Gojo.
From what he’s gathered in the months that they’ve lived together, Gojo is exceptional in almost every way.
And it pisses Megumi off.
Gojo’s smart. Intellectually and socially. Probably in any and every way a person is capable of being smart. Despite Megumi’s personal opinions on the matter, people seem to find him charismatic, too. Charming. He’s athletic. Tall. People seem to find him attractive. Not to mention he has one of the most powerful cursed techniques in recorded history.
There’s nothing he can’t do. There’s nothing he can’t have.
A stark contrast to Megumi’s reality - there’s so much out of reach for him. He’s weak. He’s never had much. He can’t do much, either.
Resentment writhes around in his intestines like a snake, cold and heavy.
How is it that Gojo’s good at everything? Isn’t there anything he struggles with?
Megumi hopes so. It’s a secret, ugly, resentful part of himself; he knows this. But he also knows he can’t ignore it - he hopes there’s something that Gojo is bad at. Something he’s had to fight for.
“All your answers are good,” he confirms, but his gaze still looks hesitant. “Is this really first grade level math?” Gojo asks.
Megumi shakes his head. “5th. My teacher gives me harder stuff so I don’t get bored in class. I think she thinks distracting me will keep me out of trouble.”
Gojo exhales in amusement. “A lot of good that’s done.”
Megumi rolls his eyes, snatching the paper away so that he can return it to its folder. “I don’t pick fights because I’m bored.”
Gojo looks at him; a curious thing. “So… why do you pick fights, then.”
“Same reason I want to kill curses,” Megumi shrugs. “So they don’t hurt other people. The world is unfair enough as it is. I like to give good things a fighting chance.”
“Hm,” Gojo ponders this, propping his head on his hand. “You’re the strangest kid I’ve ever met.”
Megumi says nothing.
“I think you’re going to make a great sorcerer one day,” Gojo decides after another moment.
Megumi hates that that comment makes him feel all warm and wiggly inside. He hates that it’s flattering. He hates that he feels the need to make Gojo proud, because it proves what he’s always trying to deny: he cares about him.
And not caring is a lot easier than caring. It hurts your heart a lot less.
It’s safer.
“Come on,” Gojo tries again. “Let’s do something fun.”
“The laundry needs folding. Go focus your attention on your clothes instead of me.”
“What if we went to the zoo?”
Megumi doesn’t counter right away this time. He pauses to consider.
“…Why?” He asks, trying to mask his excitement with suspicion, but Gojo must catch on, because he suddenly puts on a mask of his own: boredom.
“No, no. You’re probably right. We should stay here and do our chores.”
“Well,” Megumi begins, averting his gaze, maintaining a nonchalant tone. “Cleaning won’t take too long. We’d still have some time to kill…”
“It’s ok, you don’t have to humor me. We’ll just stay here.”
“Gojo.” Megumi snaps, fully aware of what he’s doing, but Gojo just innocently bats his eyes.
“What?”
A long stretch of silence passes.
“Just admit you wanna go and we’ll go.”
Megumi’s ears are burning. “Fine. I wanna go.”
“Ha!”
“Animals will be much better company than you.”
“Oh I’m gonna toss you in the bear enclosure.”
The zoo is busy, which is bothersome, but once they reach the animals, Megumi doesn’t mind so much. After living with Gojo, he’s had a lot of practice at tuning out chatter.
When they enter past the ticketing booths they’re spit right out into the Savannah section. They pass by a meerkat enclosure, a pane of glass allowing for passerby’s to view underground, revealing several of their burrows.
They sleep soundly, paying their audience no mind.
It makes Megumi smile. Good for them.
Buffalo, Hippos, Hyena, Cheetahs, Lions. They have everything. Except for an elephant, which Megumi was looking forward to. Apparently their African elephant just gave birth, so she and the calf aren’t on display in the usual enclosure. Good news, in the end, since elephants are becoming endangered.
They explore a bug exhibit next, studying all types of ants and spiders, centipedes, millipedes. Some of the beetles catch Megumi’s eye, their coloring luminous and glossy.
Gojo strolls with his hands in his pockets, allowing for Megumi to take the lead, guiding them this way and that. He tries to capture pictures when Megumi isn’t looking - it’s rare to see him like this: wide eyed and fighting a grin.
He almost looks like a normal little kid.
“Hey Gumi,” Gojo says, pointing towards a sign that reads: “Arctic Wolves This Way —>”
And so they go, only pausing once along the way, when they stumble across an aquarium. They follow a tunnel, which leads them underground. There are panes of glass burrowed into the walls of rock, and everything is lit up with a blue glow.
They meander from one window to the next, watching otters, and then jellyfish, and then an assortment of eel and trout.
That’s when they reach the biggest one - a huge pane of glass stretching at least 30 feet tall.
Megumi’s lips part, observing as a whale shark moves lazily towards them.
“Wow.” Is all he can say. And then nothing more comes. He just stands there, a hand to the glass, eyes glinting aqua.
There’s a hum of words being spoken, but Megumi doesn’t register a single one. He’s transfixed, watching as the whale shark lazily circles the tank.
For a long time, he stands with his nose barely an inch from the glass. Watching the way the light fragments across its skin. Tracing over its spots, its vastness, the way its tail shifts this way and that, controlling its direction.
But slowly, the awe leaves him, replaced by a heavy ache. How many times has it circled its tank now? Nine? Ten? It belongs in an endless ocean. Instead, it’s trapped within a cylindrical prison.
When Megumi finally comes back to himself, glancing to his right in order to mention his concern, Gojo is gone.
Gojo is gone?
Megumi does a circle. There are two other families in this room with him, off looking at the jellyfish, but other than that, it’s empty.
Megumi touches his hand to the glass, looking at the whale one last time. “Sorry,” he tells it, and then he leaves.
He squints when he emerges back into the sunlight, the day bright, the sun high.
Megumi scans. Gojo’s easy to spot - tall and white haired and usually yapping.
So when Megumi can’t spot him within a few moments, he knows he’s not around.
Megumi starts to panic, then. Not because he can’t get by on his own - he’s had plenty of practice. And, not because he’s in any real danger - he’s smart, and his shikigami are strong enough to fend off any normal humans who might mess with him.
But…
Megumi swallows thickly.
Maybe this was the plan all along. Maybe Gojo brought him here on purpose. Maybe Gojo brought him here to distract him, with the soul intention of abandoning him.
Is Gojo sick of him?
Has Megumi been too rude? Too ungrateful? Too cold?
Is he so unlovable?
Is he back to his old life? All alone?
Megumi lowers onto a bench. He could summon a dog. Have it howl. He knows Gojo would hear it, would recognize it. But would he come?
Megumi’s not sure. He’s not sure he wants to try it. He’s not sure what he’d do if Gojo didn’t come.
It’s one thing to be alone together: he used to have Tsumiki. They didn’t have anyone, but at least they had each other. Step siblings feel like something whole really quickly when they’re the only person in the entire world that is willing to stick beside you. As far as Megumi is concerned, they’re blood.
But now Tsumiki is gone, too.
Loneliness by choice is one thing, but loneliness by circumstance is a lot more hollow. And he’s not sure he has the stomach for it.
He’s not sure-
“I’ve never seen a more depressed looking child. You’re at the zoo, Megumi. Look alive!”
Megumi doesn’t just look up, but he actually jumps to his feet, his eyes snapping to Gojo’s towering figure.
He’s grinning, an ice cream cone in each hand. “I got you vanilla. I figured your favorite would be something boring.”
“But if you’d rather have mint chocolate chip we can swap.”
Megumi wordlessly accepts the vanilla.
“Should we go find those wolves?”
Megumi is half tempted to shake his head. “I hate when people stare at me,” he admits quietly, prompting Gojo to bend down in order to better hear him. “Do you think they like it here?”
Instead of immediately countering, Gojo actually ponders this. It brings Megumi both solace and consternation. He’s not being lied to, at least, but sometimes the truth is even uglier.
“Probably not,” Gojo eventually admits. “But I read a sign: all the animals here are either unable to survive in the wild, or they’re only here temporarily while they recover. So it’s probably best for them.”
Megumi blinks up at him. “Why wouldn’t they like what’s best for them?”
Gojo’s mouth flattens. “Well… In my experience, most things don’t enjoy having no choices. They’ve been put here. And they can’t leave unless humans decide they can.”
Gojo takes a few steps forward, but pauses again when he realizes that Megumi isn’t moving. He stands still. He stares.
“And what about you?”
“Me?” Gojo repeats.
“How many choices have you actually had?”
Gojo’s quiet. Only for a moment. And then his mouth splits into a grin. “I chose mint over vanilla.”
And he chose to come back instead of leaving Megumi…
But still, there’s something so constricting about Gojo’s situation. When Megumi thinks about it too hard, he starts to feel claustrophobic. It’s the same feeling he starts to get if he thinks about his own situation for too long.
Like he’s stuck inside a casket. Like he’s stuck underneath someone’s shoe.
Like half of him is already dead; the half of him that’s being used.
“So. Wolves?” Gojo asks, and they head onward; that’s a choice, too.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Present Day Shibuya
Megumi smiles at himself. Blood is warming the front of him, cascading in streams down his abdomen and thighs. But his insides feel cold. His extremities are starting to go numb.
Gojo’s not coming back this time, is he?
Megumi’s on his own. Truly. For the first time since he met Gojo. He liked to pretend that he was self-sufficient. That he was strong. That he was capable. But Gojo was sealed not even an hour ago, and he’s already on the brink of death.
A failure through and through. No matter how hard he tries. He’s always been a failure.
Fuck.
He’s dying. He must be dying, because he can’t get their goddamn images out of his head. Gojo. Tsumiki. Itadori and Kugisaki. Nanami and Shoko. He sees all of them.
He blinks away their mirages, surveying. A dark street. Dirty cement. Litter. The smell of impending rain. The smell of blood. Of sweat. Broken windows. Crumbling buildings.
Loneliness.
He’s alone.
So is this the place. He really went through all of that, only for it to end here, like this.
Was this really all that everything was for?
He hisses a sharp breath through his teeth, his fading lucidity unable to dull the ache in his core.
He promised Gojo that he wouldn’t.
He promised Gojo that he wouldn’t.
He promised him.
Fuck.
Shakily, Megumi lifts his hands in front of him.
I’m sorry, he thinks. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry. This may be the best I can do. This may be all I have left in me.
And he knows he should have seen it coming. He knows he shouldn’t have allowed himself to hope. He shouldn’t have allowed people's praises to create this delusion that he was capable of achieving something great.
Because he isn’t great. He isn’t. He knows this - he knows he never has been. Never will be.
And so he should have seen all of this coming - the inevitable collapse of life as they knew it.
Nothing lasts forever.
Certainly not him.
And not Gojo, either.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Past
When the two of them return home, Gojo brings out a basket full of laundry to the living room, and they begin sifting through the clothes, sorting and folding.
Cleaning has always been a calming endeavor for Megumi. He likes to organize. It’s something he has control over. It’s something to help distract him - dull the noises in his mind. But, even so, today he is lost. There’s a voice in his head that drones on and on, the wheels turning over and over.
He keeps thinking of the animals.
He keeps thinking of the word ‘caught’.
“Gojo.”
“Hm?”
“Am I going to be here forever?”
Gojo looks down at him. He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even smile, really. He looks contemplative. It’s a strange look on him.
“Only if that’s what you want,” he eventually answers.
Megumi is the one who pauses now, watching as Gojo looks away, going back to pairing unmatched socks.
So Megumi’s not one of those animals afterall? He still has choices left to make?
Megumi exhales, his gaze trailing downwards, back to his laundry.
Even here, in this world, there are moments of quiet. Of calmness. Of comfort.
It was never like that before.
Megumi used to be scared. All the time. He’d try to hide it beneath a veil of stoicism, and if not stoicism, then anger. But it was just that: a veil. In his core, he was a child, alone and frightened.
He can’t say that he isn’t still terrified. He is. But it isn’t constant anymore. And he feels like the longer he stays here, near Gojo, near other sorcerers, as he stays here, learning more about his technique, growing stronger; he feels like maybe the fear won’t always be such a dominant part of him. He feels like he could be rid of it one day.
Slowly, Megumi decides that he wouldn’t mind - staying here. In fact, he’d like to. He’d like to remain by Gojo’s side.
He’d be content. If he could stay with Gojo. If he could stay at this school. And as time progressed, this hasn’t changed. In fact, that feeling has only grown stronger.
With the addition of classmates. Of friends. Growing with Gojo. Knowing him better. He only kept thinking the same thing: he’d like to stay.
He’d be content if all of it lasted forever.
He’d be content with a forever with them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Present Day Shibuya
Megumi blinks, his hands still outstretched in front of him. Something swells in his stomach, a heat, but different from before. It’s not an itch. It’s not a flame. It’s a gentle warmth.
He knows what he’s going to do, he knows what must be done, and he’s comforted by the definiteness of it all.
His fingers curl inwards into his palms, and he states the summoning words. And he watches as the shadows around him begin to stretch and curl.
And, much like a letter sent by a sailor that only arrives to its destination after the sailor has already drowned, Megumi whispers to himself:
“Sorry Itadori. Sorry Kugisaki. I’m sorry Gojo.”
Megumi would have liked to stay with them forever.
But forever isn’t actually very long.