Chapter Text
20:00. Tokyo. December 22.
The kiss caught him off guard.
And time just… stopped.
Everything else—the music rattling through the bar’s cracked speakers, the half-drunk cheer of strangers, the swirl of stale cigarette smoke tangled in his hair—fell away, crumbling like ash behind him.
All Megumi could feel was the press of that soft mouth against his, gentle but searing, burning straight through the haze of cheap whiskey heat curling warm in his chest, limbs so heavy he might as well have been underwater.
His head spun, his heart slammed against his ribs like it was trying to break free. Heat bloomed everywhere Yuji touched him: his jaw, his lips, the quiet brush of breath that made him shiver deeper than the alcohol ever could.
All he could feel was Yuji, every inch of him burning straight through.
Wait, Yuji?!
The room was too dark. The applause too far away. The whole moment balanced on a pin. Ridiculous. He was strapped into a fake straitjacket, the buckles biting into his skin, tied down like part of the show. A stupid birthday prank, they’d said. The rules of the bar, they’d insisted.
Someone had to kiss the birthday boy after the fifth shot of whiskey.
He’d chosen Nobara—damn it!—but he’d been too drunk to argue when she’d shoved Yuji at him instead. Itadori was his best friend…this couldn’t be!
Yuji’s lips pressed fully to his, and Megumi let out a low sound he didn’t recognize as his own. The kiss was slow, hungry, Yuji’s tongue teasing the seam of his mouth until Megumi parted for him, helpless and desperate to taste him deeper. Everything else dissolved.
All that remained was Yuji and the ache in his hands to grab him, hold him still, keep him close enough to never let go.
Itadori was his best friend… wasn’t he?
8:00. Tokyo. December 22.
Twenty-three.
That damned age had finally caught him.
He glanced at his phone, eyes half-lidded. Yuji had texted him at exactly 00:00, of course he had. He’d been asleep by then, or as close to sleep as the pills could drag him. Anything to not feel the clock tick over.
Anything to not be twenty-three.
He stared at the ceiling for a few seconds, then forced himself to move. His dogs lifted their heads from their bed as he did.
Lady lay curled up with Sunny, warm and tangled together in that quiet corner by the heater. They blinked awake, slow and unbothered. Lady, five now, patient like a mother, with eyes that always said more than Megumi ever could. Sunny, only three, still a puppy in spirit, big paws and clumsy tail included. It was a stupid name for a black wolf of a dog, but Saku had picked it, so it stayed.
Megumi stared at himself in the mirror, steam drifting off his skin in the harsh bathroom light. Same slim face, expression tired enough to remind him he was still too young for this kind of exhaustion. Same eyes, hollower than they should be at twenty-three. Same black hair, messy, stubborn, curling at the ends.
The shower was hot but it didn’t wash the dread out of his head. He’d forgotten to play music again, or maybe he just didn’t want to hear anything but the soft click of water and his own heartbeat.
Twenty-three wasn’t just an age. Not for him. Not for an omega with his name and his blood. Not with his face all over the news this year. Zenin heir officially recognized, the headlines had screamed. The cameras hadn’t stopped since. A name he’d spent half his life trying to outrun pinned him back down in ink and flashbulbs.
They called him their last hope. The Zenin prince, dragged out of hiding and paraded like a trophy to prove the clan still had teeth left to bare.
He thought of Tsumiki’s pale face in that the hospital bed. Twenty-three wasn’t just an age. It was a contract year. A reminder that there were rules about how long he could pretend his life was still his alone.
Megumi stepped out of the shower and found the dogs already up, waiting by the door with patient eyes and tails that thumped once when they saw him. They needed their morning walk, but he couldn’t just take them out anymore like before, not without hiding behind a mask and dark glasses Saku had given him, Gojo’s little one.
He missed that boy more than he’d admit. He made a mental note, he should visit soon, maybe bring chocolate, maybe stay longer than he usually let himself. He missed Geto, too.
Megumi went downstairs, the dogs padding after him, nails clicking soft on the polished floor. His collar sat in place around his neck, as always, looking almost ornamental, rather than the shield it was against the wrong kind of alpha attention.
Gojo was in the dining room already, suit half-wrinkled, hair half-perfect, tie looped in a way only he could make look intentional. He ate like the world was ending, hunched over a bowl while one of the maids watched him in scandalized silence.
Lady gave him a look, tail thumping once against his leg before she turned her head toward Sunny, a warning in her eyes clear as speech: don’t make a scene. But Sunny spotted a tennis ball half-tucked under a cabinet and forgot every rule he’d ever learned, claws skittering as he bounded after it like the world was nothing but this morning and this game.
The new apartment was sleek, all wood and pale stone counters, and cold lighting that made it feel more like a high-end hotel than a home. Supposed to be Utahime’s wedding gift from the Gojo clan, stamped with their approval whether you wanted it or not. Megumi hated how small it felt, for all its shiny corners and empty rooms, how all that silent money could squeeze anyone down inside it, remind him how many walls a name like his would always build.
“Morning, kid,” Gojo said through a mouthful, waving chopsticks like a weapon.
Megumi dropped his bag on a chair.
“Morning. Is Utahime up?”
“Don’t know, don’t care,” Gojo replied. Then brightened suddenly, eyes sharp behind that sleepy grin. “Oh — Saku wanted to call you today!”
A small twist behind Megumi’s ribs.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Said he had something important to—wait. Oh, shit. Brat! Happy birthday!”
He lurched out of his chair so fast the maid flinched. In two strides, Gojo had him trapped in a hug so tight Megumi’s spine cracked. Lady barked once, then flopped dramatically at Megumi’s feet as if to supervise the chaos properly.
“Let— let go,” Megumi grumbled, muffled by an expensive suit jacket. “I thought we were done with the ‘brat’ phase,” he bit out when he could breathe again.
“Never. You’ll always be my brat! My problematic first child!” Gojo grinned like a boy, tugging Megumi’s hair like he was five.
Utahime’s voice slid like a knife through the warmth.
“If you yank any harder, Satoru, he’ll lose his hair before the Zenin get to ruin him themselves.”
Megumi lifted his eyes. Utahime stood in the hallway, her kimono pulled tight around her shoulders, hair braided smooth and bound with a thread the same red as fresh ink. She looked tired. That wasn’t new. Neither was the way the maids hovered just behind her, hands folded, eyes darting between her and Gojo like they were always bracing for the next quiet war.
“Happy birthday, Megumi-kun.” Her voice softened around the words.
“Thanks.”
Gojo pouted at her.
“My kid’s special, Utahime. Saku is four years old, remembers Megumi’s birthday, remembers everyone’s birthday. Genius.”
“Any child can remember a date,” Utahime shot back. She poured herself tea, ignoring him with practiced elegance.
Gojo shrugged like a sulking dog.
“You’re just mad you don’t have one.”
“Shut it, Gojo. Don’t ruin my tea.”
She turned her back to him, but her eyes flicked back to Megumi’s for a moment. You okay? they asked.
He didn’t answer.
Twenty-three. He was twenty-three now. He needed to talk to Gojo—really talk—about what that meant, about how much longer he could keep pretending he still had choices left to make. But not now. Not with Utahime here, half-listening over the rim of her teacup, too polite to pry but too smart not to catch every slip.
Gojo finished slurping his soup, loud enough to make Utahime flinch.
“Okay, heading out. Should I take you to the station, or do you wanna drive?”
“I don’t have a—” Megumi started.
“Oh, but you do.” Gojo flashed a grin. “Let’s go see your new car, birthday brat.”
18:30. Tokyo. December 22.
He’d been in love with Megumi since fifteen.
Back then, he didn’t even know how to name what his chest was doing when green eyes met his across a cold classroom.
One look and he’d chosen: I’ll sit next to you until you shove me away. That simple.
It felt stupid now, but he’d meant it with everything he was. He’d meant it when they ate cold bread for lunch on the roof, when Megumi fell asleep on his shoulder after finals, when he’d fought half the basketball team for saying something they shouldn’t about an omega who would always bite back.
Megumi was his best friend.
Eight years later, Megumi still hadn’t shoved him away. So Yuji stayed. He stayed so close that sometimes it hurt to breathe around it. Close enough to think maybe, one day. Close enough to wonder if he was just stupid for hoping, or if it was the only smart thing he’d ever done in his troubled life.
“Yuji. Hey, Yuji!”
Nobara snapped her fingers in his face so close he nearly inhaled one. He jerked back, red hoodie crinkling around his shoulders. His damp hair still smelled faintly of the campus locker room. Basketball practice had run late again, and the hot water never lasted past the first five guys.
“Sorry,” Yuji said, sheepish grin automatic. The cafeteria’s warm hum didn’t help him focus. “Long practice. I’m awake, I swear.”
He’d have to squeeze in a shower later at the convenience store job, if the tiny break room bathroom wasn’t locked, or half-broken again. Shit. He forgot he didn’t even have a shift tonight. Well, maybe tomorrow morning at the café before the early shift, if he was lucky and the line for the staff bathroom wasn’t a mile long.
Between classes, the team, the stupid rehab appointments he still dragged himself to twice a month, he never had enough time. Or money. Or sleep.
He was only twenty-two, and he was alone in the world.
That had been his choice.
The scholarship covered his tuition. His stats spoke for him when his grades didn’t. No charity in that. The disability note on his file had just made the paperwork smoother, extra consideration in the recommendation forms, the kind of thing schools liked to flaunt to prove they were fair.
He hated thinking about how he’d lost his fingers. Some nights he’d stare at the small curve where bone should be, feel it ache when it rained, and wish he could trade that memory for anything else.
“You’re staring off into your tragic pining void again.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.” Nobara’s voice dropped, all teeth behind the smirk. “By the way, why do you never just buy a cake like a normal person?”
“Because.” Yuji pressed his knuckles to his lips. The hand with only three fingers curled out of reflex, the faint phantom itch between where the other two used to be. “He likes this one. And he deserves something actually home made from once.”
Nobara sighed. Between them sat the tiny chocolate cake, dark chocolate sponge, glossy strawberries lined up like a crown. One candle, slightly crooked. Megumi’s favorite. Bitter-sweet, like everything about him.
“You know he’s gonna figure it out, right? That every damn year you pretend you ‘found’ this cake when we all know you nearly burn the kitchen down making it for him.”
Yuji shrugged, cheeks red.
“He doesn’t have to know.”
“Or you could just tell him. Like, Hey Megumi, I love you, here’s the cake I bake every year and my heart on the same plate, if you want!”
“I can’t,” Yuji mumbled. He plucked at the edge of the candle. “I’m cursed, remember? I’m Sukuna’s mess. This—” He flexed the missing fingers, an unconscious tic. “—doesn’t exactly scream pick me.”
“Oh my god. You’re doing it again.” Nobara stabbed a finger at Yuji’s chest, low enough that no one else in the cafeteria would hear. “You know he’s terrible at feelings. He dated these people he doesn’t even like. Angel, or was it Hannah? That clingy mess. Toge, who he ghosted for a week because he panicked the second you didn’t text him back. He doesn’t want them, he wants you, dumbass. He just doesn’t know it yet!”
Yuji flinched, laughter stuck in his throat.
“Megumi doesn’t feel that way, Nobara.”
Yuji’s smile cracked around the edges.
“You done?”
Nobara’s eyes narrowed.
“Not even close. After cake, you tell him. Or I tell him. Or I tell Gojo. Choose your poison, Itadori.”
“I don’t think—“
But Yuji stopped talking.
Megumi appeared then, sliding through the cafeteria door like a shadow with legs. Black sweater, black jeans, battered Converse. Two tiny pins on his bag: a little dog, and the social battery pin Yuji gave him last year. He wore it every day.
Nobara elbowed Yuji so hard he nearly knocked over the cake.
Megumi stopped when he saw them. Saw the candle. The crooked birthday hat on Yuji’s head, and the confetti popper.
“Don’t,” he mouthed.
They did.
“Happy birthday!” they yelled in unison.
Confetti exploded around them and Megumi jerked like he’d been shot. Yuji stepped forward before he could regret it and wrapped him up, arms snug around Megumi’s cold shoulders. He felt the tension ease, just a fraction, before Megumi shoved him off with a low grumble.
“You people are insane.”
“Fushiguro!” Yuji beamed at him.
“It’s just that Itadori loves you so much!” Nobara teased, sing-song sweet.
“Hey! This was your idea too!” Yuji shot back.
“Yeah, well, I love him too, dummy.”
They sat in the fading afternoon, cafeteria chairs and sticky tables. They stabbed forks into the cake like criminals. Megumi took the biggest bites. Yuji could’ve done a little happy dance right there.
“Where’d you buy it?” he asked, mouth full of chocolate and strawberry.
Yuji stammered, Nobara stared holes through him.
“Uh… same place. The bakery next to my apartment. You know, after my shift yesterday.”
Megumi narrowed his eyes.
“I thought you said you were gonna quit that job. Between basketball practice and work, you’re flunking that physics class again.”
Yuji’s smile faltered.
“I know. But I need the rent money. And they’re charging me extra after the flood.”
“That wasn’t your fault,” Nobara cut in, stabbing a strawberry like it owed her money.
Yuji shrugged.
“I know. I’m not rich like you two.”
“I’m not rich,” Megumi deadpanned. “Gojo is rich. I just live there.”
Nobara huffed.
“My mom’s rich. Doesn’t count. She hates me.”
Yuji laughed. The cake was half gone. The candle lay on its side like a fallen soldier. When the last bite vanished, Megumi leaned back, phone in hand. He stared at the screen. Closed a dozen open tabs. Sighed.
“Okay. So. What’s the plan? Because I do have a test next week.”
Nobara leaned forward, grin feral.
“We’re going out.”
Yuji perked up, chiming in.
“Yeah. There’s a new place. Neon Mercy. It’s that bar Nobara wants to see. It’s themed like a hospital, apparently.”
Megumi’s mouth twitched.
“A hospital?”
Nobara clapped her hands together.
“Yup. A psychiatric one! Nurses, pills that are just shots in test tubes, fake IV drips…you’ll love it! And it’s tucked away enough that no paparazzi can sniff around.”
Yuji avoided saying that he was just as scared of the paparazzi as Megumi was. Probably even more. He wasn’t exactly living hidden, no, but being in the public eye was something else entirely. Sure, he was studying at a private university in Tokyo, but he wasn’t stupid enough to show his face for Sukuna to notice, or for his uncle’s “colleagues” to catch him on the news.
After all, you didn’t just walk away from the Itadori family. His grandfather —the old boss, the one who built the empire from blood and old promises— had stepped back years ago. Now Sukuna sat on that throne like a king, crown made of other people’s fear. And Yuji? By blood, he was still the Itadori prince too. Sukuna’s nephew, the only one left to inherit if his uncle ever fell. The next man meant to wear the crown whether he wanted it or not.
And he didn’t. That was the problem. He hadn’t wanted to kill for them, that was all he asked. He’d done the errands, carried the threats, kept his mouth shut, but when they handed him a gun and told him to pull the trigger, he said no.
So Sukuna made sure he understood what no cost. He’d pinned him down himself, blade slow and painful, and sliced off two fingers, a warning to the rest of the family about what happens when a prince forgets where he comes from. After that came the tattoos, black and deep across his back and ribs, the Itadori crest crawling under his skin so no one would ever forget whose blood he carried.
So no, he wasn’t stupid enough to let the cameras catch him. Not when every lens might as well be Sukuna’s eyes. Not if he wanted Megumi safe. Not if he wanted any chance to stay his own man, for as long as Sukuna let him pretend he could be.
“I need to study,” Megumi insisted.
“No way!”
“No studying,” Yuji shot back. “Just one night. Please?”
Megumi sighed and let the phone slip into his pocket. His shoulder brushed Yuji’s arm as he shifted.
“Fine. One night.”
Yuji’s heart stuttered behind his ribs as he grinned back.
Yes!
They arrived at Megumi’s new car. It was sleek, dark grey, elegant in a way that drew eyes in the campus lot. He hadn’t wanted it, hadn’t asked. Gojo gave it anyway. A gesture too big for a birthday that wasn’t meant to be celebrated. They both knew it, but maybe Gojo just wanted him to forget for a while.
He missed Geto. Missed Saku. Missed how easy it had once felt to live around them. Utahime in the house instead was proof the clans had rules, and not even Gojo Satoru could slip free of them.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
Happy birthday. N.Z.
Two words that carried a threat so casual it made his teeth ache. He stared at it until the numbers on the screen blurred, then locked it away.
“Whoa!” Yuji’s voice hit him like a splash of cold water. He looked up to see Yuji circling the car, eyes wide, grin split open and bright. Nobara stood beside him, arms crossed but lips twitching.
“This thing is insane! Look at the rims! Wait, is this the model that’s not even out in Japan yet?” Yuji laughed, bending to check the tires like he’d understand anything about them.
“It’s a car,” Megumi said. “Wanna drive it?”
Yuji straightened, mouth open, hopeful, then deflated with a sheepish laugh.
“I wish, but you know… I never really learned.” He rubbed at his neck with his right hand, then laid his left over it.
“You drive, no, I drive,” mocked Nobara. “Who cares! Copilot’s mine!”
She shoved Yuji aside to claim the passenger seat, her boots crunching over the icy pavement. Yuji scowled at her back, kicked at the ground, then folded himself into the back with a defeated huff.
Inside, the warmth bloomed too fast. Nobara turned in her seat before Megumi could even put on his belt. Her fingers slipped under his chin, tugged at the clasp of his collar: a tiny click, too loud. He froze.
Yuji’s gasp snapped through the cabin. His best friend’s hands flew up, left covering his mouth, right covering the left, always that left hand, marked by missing pieces Megumi still didn’t know how to ask about.
“Hey— don’t—!” he started, but Nobara ignored him, rummaging in her purse until she found the tiny glass bottle.
She sprayed his neck twice, cool mist catching the fine hair at his nape, and then his whole body.
“Nobara—!”
He twisted away, but it was too late. She sat back with a wicked grin, his collar curled like a dead snake in her lap.
“Tonight, you’re a free beta. Congratulations.” She winked at Yuji in the mirror.
He pressed a palm over the warm spot she’d revealed. His skin felt raw in the cold air of the car. He could feel Yuji watching him, wide-eyed. He told himself it didn’t matter.
Yuji was harmless. Yuji was Yuji.
Nobara turned to Yuji, raising an eyebrow like she was commanding a test run. Yuji leaned forward between the seats, hesitant at first, then closer. Megumi felt every inch close between them like a fuse burning down.
When Yuji’s nose brushed his neck, just beneath his ear, Megumi’s heart spiked so violently it left him dizzy.
But then, Yuji pulled back with a bright laugh.
“Nothing! Seriously! I don’t smell a thing. Good stuff, Nobara.”
Megumi exhaled. He turned the key, engine rumbling awake, pushing him forward whether he was ready or not.
The drive was loud with Nobara’s playlist blasting, the two of them yelling along to choruses that Megumi only half-knew but sang anyway. He let them drag him under their noise, under the warmth of it.
Maybe he could have fun tonight. He could forget the clans, Gojo’s thin smile, that stupid text from Naoya.
They made it to Shinjuku faster than he expected. The city was a pulse of cold air and warm neon. Christmas lights blurred in the windows like rain on glass, gold and white. He found a spot on a side street, cut the engine, and exhaled little clouds of white breath with the others as they climbed out.
“Alright, birthday boy!” Nobara clapped him on the back, steering him forward. “Yuji swapped his shift for this, so no backing out. You’re coming whether you want to or not.”
“I said okay,” Megumi muttered, but he caught Yuji’s grin, caught the blush that bloomed across his cheeks in the cold. “Thanks, Itadori.”
He couldn’t help a small smile. Yuji was always taking care of him. They were best friends, after all. But after all these years, unlike Nobara, who’d jumped straight to first names the moment they met, they still couldn’t do it. They were Itadori and Fushiguro to each other, and that was how it stayed.
They slipped into the crowd. A river of strangers, laughter and cigarette smoke and the distant hum of traffic like static under their feet. Megumi stayed close behind, eyes flicking over every suited figure, every polished shoe. He became painfully aware of every shifting shadow, every brush of a stranger’s coat.
The Zenin could appear at any moment, couldn’t they? Not that they’d drag him off the street like common thugs...no, they were too elegant for that, but the thought still curled around his ribs.
He wasn’t even an heir by right. His father had only inherited the title because everyone else in line was dead. But then he vanished. That's how Megumi ended up Gojo’s problem to feed and shelter and keep hidden from the wrong hands.
As for his mother, she was long gone too, just a half-formed shadow at the frayed edges of his baby memories.
For all he knew, they were both already dead.
But then he’d presented as an omega, and that changed everything. If he hadn’t, or if the Zenin could have managed more than a pair of useless beta twins, maybe he would’ve stayed invisible. But an omega was a stand-in for an heir they didn’t have. A prince to carry their legacy, and a soft-bodied guarantee they could breed when it pleased them, lock away when it didn’t.
And Megumi hated it.
They’d come for him right after his first heat. He’d been only sixteen, trapped behind a locked door, swallowing pills that barely dulled the edges while his body betrayed him, aching in ways that made him want to tear his own skin off.
He’d crouched under the showerhead until his knees bruised on the tile, cold water beating down his back while the heat inside him pulsed hotter, slick on his thighs, need crawling up his spine like a sickness. He’d bitten his own wrist just to keep quiet. The water turned warm no matter how far he twisted the knob.
And Tsumiki, she—
“We’re here!” Nobara’s voice sliced through the memory, bright and careless.
In front of them stood a narrow black door. The press of the crowd was far behind now, the city’s roar sealed off by brick and shadows. A single metal latch glinted under a bulb that hummed like an insect trapped in glass.
Yuji slowed at Megumi’s side, breath fogging the cold air.
“Nobara… this is it?”
“I think so.”
She rapped her knuckles, three quick knocks, sharp as her grin. Megumi and Yuji watched her in silence, shadows painted by the streetlight.
A voice drifted through the crack under the door.
“Password?”
Nobara leaned in, eyes bright with mischief.
“I’m hearing voices, doctor.”
A bolt slid back. Hinges groaned open.
The door yawned wide, and swallowed them whole.
19:30. Tokyo. December 22.
The place was unlike anything Yuji had ever seen. And he’d seen plenty. More than most people would believe, really.
Neon lights pulsed faintly along the walls, thin and rhythmic like veins beneath translucent skin. The bar was dressed in the quiet precision of a nightmare, made to resemble a hospital, but wrong in the way a dream is wrong.
It felt too much like a real hospital, and that was the worst part.
The tables were scattered with medical props, syringes, scalpels, clamps, carefully arranged, dulled to uselessness but unsettling all the same. Security drifted through the haze in nurse uniforms. Big betas, most likely, cloaked in synthetic alpha scent, Yuji could always tell the difference.
But all he could think about tonight was Megumi.
Megumi without his collar, Megumi with his neck bare for the first time, Megumi trying to look unbothered while his eyes kept flicking to shadows only he seemed to see. He looked freer than Yuji had seen him in years, but under that freedom there was fear, too. Yuji could smell it.
It was natural. Alphas like him were bred from rot. Nothing but instinct and hunger wrapped up in polite clothes.
He hated it. He hated how his body had flared alive the moment Nobara unclasped Megumi’s collar, the pale skin of his nape catching cold air like an invitation he had no right to answer. He’d clapped his good hand over his mouth to hide the breath that caught in his throat, but his ruined left hand, missing two fingers, never covered enough.
Just another reminder of the underworld where he came from.
A big man in scrubs, black circles under his eyes and fake veins traced down necks and temples in eerie detail, guided them to a corner table under an IV bag dripping nothing at all.
The place was a horror set, but the real danger sat across from him, humming under Megumi’s skin. Yuji knew himself well enough to know he shouldn’t drink tonight. Not with Megumi like this.
So he sat straight, hands folded tight in his lap. He was Megumi’s guard tonight. His best friend, always. And stupidly, painfully, entirely in love with every stubborn, breakable piece of him. He’d play his part. He always did.
“The doctor will see you now,” announced the guard, if you could call him that. He stepped aside, letting the lights wash over their table in ghostly pulses.
“Wow, just—wow!” Nobara half-whispered, half-laughed, leaning back against the cracked vinyl booth.
The walls around them were a sterile black, but something about them felt wrong. The paint peeled in thin, curling strips, revealing layers beneath, faint medical charts and warning signs half-erased, as if no one had bothered to clean them properly.
“Yeah, it looks… realistic.” Megumi’s voice was tight. He pressed a hand to his bare neck, thumb brushing the place where the collar had been moments ago.
“So, what do you wanna order?” Yuji asked, trying to steady his hands enough to scan the warped QR code stickered to their metal table with his half-busted phone.
“Oh no! I forgot!” Nobara gasped, all dramatics.
Then she shot off, weaving through the dark toward the bar: a fake hospital station rimmed in yellow hazard tape. The nurses behind it moved with quiet precision, their crisp uniforms spotless, too neat. They mixed cocktails like medicine: neon liquids hissing vapor as they filled syringes and glass beakers.
Yuji watched her go, then leaned forward, elbows knocking the battered metal.
“So… what do you think?” His voice stayed low, just for Megumi. He looked around. “They’re not following us. Don’t worry.”
Megumi’s eyes drifted around the place for a second before settling back on Yuji.
“I know,” he said, voice drifting. “But… you know how they can be sometimes. They can’t get into our campus and anything like that. But lately—” He cut himself off with a shallow breath, eyes skittering to the ‘psychiatric evaluation’ sign blinking in red near the bathrooms.
“You’re suddenly famous,” Yuji teased, voice softer than the words deserved.
Megumi let out a sharp breath that could’ve been a laugh.
“Yes. Something like that. But you know I hate this.”
Yuji nodded. He’d carry every bit of it for him if he could. Spotlight, headlines, clan chains. All of it.
“Yeah. I know.”
Megumi’s phone buzzed against the metal. He checked it, thumb hovering like he might throw it at the wall.
“I have to go to the Zenins soon,” he said, putting back the phone inside his pocket. “I know I never really talk about that stuff, but—”
“I never talk about my family either.” Yuji’s voice came out lower than he meant. “Or… any of it, really. So, you know. Fair’s fair, right?”
Megumi’s gaze lifted to him, clear, direct, so damn intense that Yuji’s chest stuttered like a skipped beat.
“Yeah, but this is different.” Megumi’s tone softened, and the truth of it sank deep into Yuji’s chest. “Yuji, I…”
His mouth went still. His eyes. That serious look. For half a heartbeat, Yuji’s stupid heart clawed up his throat.
Maybe, could this be…?
No. He shut it down. It couldn’t be a confession. He knew Megumi didn’t love him back. Not the way he did, completely, ruinously, like it was stitched into his bones.
No, Megumi didn’t feel it like that.
“I made a promise. A long time ago. I kinda had to.” Megumi’s words were almost lost under the low bass leaking from the cracked speakers. The overhead lights cast him in a pale wash, shadows deep under his eyes. “I’m the last omega heir from the Zenin family. I told you that, right?”
Yuji nodded, trying not to breathe too loud, trying not to grip the edge of the metal table so hard the rusted bolts groaned.
“And Tsumiki, my sister—there’s stuff I should’ve told you guys. But I didn’t want to dump it on you. I just kept thinking maybe I’d find someone before…”
“Someone?” Yuji’s own voice surprised him, rougher than he meant. The word had slipped out and stabbed something open inside his chest.
Megumi rolled his eyes at him, a tired half-smile ghosting across his lips.
“Yes, idiot. Don’t make that face. You know how Angel didn’t work out. Or Toge. Or—”
“I know.” Yuji’s fingers drummed against his knee. He forced a grin that tasted like metal. “You mean someone to be with. Right?”
Megumi’s shoulders lifted and fell.
“Well, it’s more complicated than that, but—”
And then something reckless and stupid and too honest rose up in Yuji’s chest before he could choke it down.
“What if there was someone?” he blurted, leaning in just a little too far.
Megumi blinked, brows pulling tight.
“What do you mean, someone?”
Nobara had called Megumi clueless more than once. Sitting here, in this fake hospital room, Yuji believed it. Megumi, so smart about everything but this. He’d never seen it, not once, all these years.
He’d drag Megumi down with the rot of his past. The filth under his skin that no shower could wash off, the Itadori name that still crowned him prince of a kingdom he’d bled to leave behind. Megumi had just given him a piece of his secret —maybe the only piece he’d never shown anyone— and Yuji wasn’t brave enough to offer up his own in return.
He couldn’t tell him about Sukuna, about the underworld that raised him sharper than any blade, about the blood debts still scribbled in other people’s corpses.
He couldn’t tell him how Sukuna had pinned him down like an animal and cut off his fingers for refusing to kill. Couldn’t say how the tattoos on his back felt heavier than any collar, how every streetlight still flickered like an eye turned his way.
He couldn’t give Megumi that. Couldn’t stain him with a crown he’d never asked for. Megumi deserved more than a fallen yakuza heir playing at normal, pretending he was someone clean enough to be loved back.
“Itadori?”
“I mean…” Yuji’s throat tightened. His tongue felt heavy and stupid. “What if there was someone out there? Someone that maybe… someone who’s been right here—”
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!”
The roar of voices washed over him like a cold shower.
Nobara popped out from between the tables, grinning wide. She held a cake big enough to drown in, and a plastic stethoscope bounced against her chest, the sleeves of her white doctor’s coat shifting as she raised the cake higher for everyone to see.
One of the staff members in pale scrubs slipped in behind Megumi and, with all the calm of a seasoned nurse, started draping a fake straitjacket over his shoulders.
“No, hey, wait—Kugisaki!!”
Megumi’s eyes went wide and he shot Nobara a desperate look like she might save him, then Yuji, then back to Nobara, who just wiggled her fingers at him sweetly.
“Come on, guys, Itadori! Help me!”
Megumi hissed, twisting a little as the straps tightened across his chest. The buckles clicked shut, neat and final, ignoring every half-hearted protest that tumbled out of him. He glared at them both as the last strap snapped into place.
Yuji forced a laugh, forced his mouth to twist into a grin, forced his hands to clap along with the crowd pressing in around their booth. Then, he took the cake from Nobara’s hands like he was in on it too.
And maybe it was. Maybe he should thank her for saving him the embarrassment.
He’d been so close…too close.
It was a mistake, right?
“Help, c’mon!”
Megumi’s voice cracked out, his eyes wide as the makeshift restraints of the fake straitjacket pressed his shoulders back against the padded booth. He looked helpless, too helpless, and Yuji had to grit his teeth to keep from cracking a grin at how dangerous that softness was for him.
He needed to focus!
“Shots to my twenty-three-year-old patient!”
Then, a nurse pushed through the crowd—long black hair tied back tight, crisp white uniform hugging her waist like she’d stepped straight out of an old psych ward training video. She lifted a big bottle of cheap whiskey high for everyone to see, the lights bouncing off the glass in harsh flashes.
“No, no, no—I’m not wearing my collar!” Megumi’s voice cracked a little, a flicker of real unease threading through as the nurse hooked a finger under his chin.
“Relax, Fushiguro,” Nobara drawled, smacking her clipboard lightly against her palm like she was about to write him up. “This place is safe. We’ll get you home after. Right, Doctor Itadori?”
Yuji forced his shoulders straight, eyes locking on Megumi’s. Those stupid and beautiful green eyes. He almost wished they’d look away. He nodded once, trying to pour every bit of it’s okay, I’m right here into his face.
Megumi’s mouth twitched like he might argue, but instead he just huffed out a breath, shifting his eyes back to the nurse. He didn’t look convinced, but he looked at Yuji like he’d decided to believe him.
The nurse leaned in, pulled a plastic syringe from her pocket, flicked the plunger twice for show. The crowd hooted, leaning closer. Megumi tensed, but then he tipped his chin up, stubborn, breath coming shallow as he parted his lips just enough—obedient, defiant, resigned—and let the nurse push the syringe between his teeth.
“One!”
Yuji watched the plunger drop, whiskey sliding in fast. Megumi’s throat worked around it too quick. He shivered, shoulders twitching like he hadn’t braced for the burn.
“Two!”
The nurse pushed another shot in. Megumi flinched this time. Yuji caught the tiny squeeze of his eyes shut, the tight, careful swallow like he was forcing it down before it could come right back up.
“Three!”
The third hit harder. Megumi’s cheeks flushed right away. He looked so young in that second, brows pinched like he was embarrassed he couldn’t handle it better. The nurse caught his chin again, holding him steady, too rough for Yuji’s liking.
By the fifth, Megumi’s shoulders had slumped, his head tipping forward and then snapping up like he didn’t want to look as dizzy as he was. His face was warm and blotchy pink, hair damp where sweat clung at his temples.
“Okay, stop, stop!” Nobara called, laughter snapping sharp over the murmur of the bar.
She turned theatrically to the man behind her, a tall guy in a spotless doctor’s coat, old-school round glasses perched low on his nose, tie clipped so tight it looked like it might choke him more than any straitjacket could. He lifted a prescription pad and scribbled something with a flourish, tearing off the slip and brandishing it like a death sentence.
“There’s one more prescription for our patient tonight,” he announced, voice oily and smooth. “As per the sacred rules of our ward, every patient who ages must receive a therapeutic kiss from a trusted friend!”
“A what?!” Yuji’s voice cracked.
“Yes!” Nobara chimed in, snapping the prescription pad shut with a bright grin that said trap. “My esteemed colleague is absolutely correct!”
“No, no way—” Megumi mumbled.
“So!” The fake doctor turned, sweeping a hand out like he was presenting a prize patient to the ward. “The patient chooses!”
Megumi’s gaze drifted up, lashes low, heavy-lidded but still clear enough to pin Yuji in place like a nail. For one breathless second Yuji let himself believe.
Maybe… maybe Megumi wanted to kiss him?
But as their eyes met, Megumi’s blush flared deeper, his lips twitching just a little before he looked away.
“I pick… Nobara!” Megumi slurred.
Yuji’s gut dropped out like a bad hit of adrenaline.
“No way!” Nobara barked. Her eyes were bright with something too close to mischief. She jabbed her thumb at Yuji like she was passing down a verdict. “Not tonight. You’re up. Go!”
And just like that, Yuji felt big hands at his back, shoving him forward.
The fake ward’s walls seemed to close in tight, stale air mixing with the sour edge of spilled whiskey and too many bodies pressing close. He stumbled, knees knocking the edge of the booth where Megumi sat half-trapped in that ridiculous straitjacket.
The crowd pressed closer, strangers wrapped in loose paper gowns, mixed with fake nurses and doctors grinning, all chanting in time with the cheap speakers rattling overhead.
Kiss, kiss, kiss!
Could he really do this? Not like this. Not in front of them, when it wasn’t supposed to be for show, when for him, it meant more than he could ever—
Kiss the birthday boy! He wants it!
His hands shook. He reached for Megumi’s jaw, warm under his palm, too soft and real. He’d imagined this so many times, in quiet, ugly hours when he let himself believe the world could bend just enough to give him this.
Kiss!
“Are you sure?” Yuji’s voice cracked out, small, helpless.
Megumi’s head tipped back just enough, lashes lifting slow, pupils wide but steady. Sure in a way that made Yuji’s chest ache.
“Yeah. I’m fine,” Megumi murmured, lips ghosting the words. “Let’s make them shut up.”
Yuji pressed in closer, fingertips trembling where they cupped Megumi’s jaw, trying to hold the moment still, trying to keep him right here, just for now.
“You don’t care that it’s me?”
Say yes. Please. Say kissing me isn’t nothing—
“Do it.”
Was he breaking his own heart? Maybe. But Yuji couldn’t tell anymore. Maybe he didn’t want to. Maybe this was it, his one impossible chance to feel what it might be like to be wanted by Megumi, even if it was just a game under flickering lights and hospital costumes.
And Megumi didn’t look drunk enough for this to be only the whiskey’s doing. His eyes were half-lidded but steady, fixed on Yuji like he suddenly wanted this too.
So Yuji leaned in.
Their eyes didn’t break. Not once. Megumi didn't move. It was just them now, locked in that narrow space between hesitation and inevitability.
The kiss caught him off guard.
And time just… stopped.
Everything else vanished. His head spun, and his heart slammed against his ribs like it was trying to break free. He touched Megumi’s jaw, and the brush of those lips made him shiver. All he could feel was him.
The lights were too bright. The applause too far away. The whole moment balanced on a pin.
Megumi made a soft, broken sound into his mouth and Yuji felt it all the way down to the bones. The kiss went slow, deep—Megumi opened for him, helpless and pliant and Yuji kissed him like he’d been starving for this, because he had been. He wanted to grab him, hold him down, stay here, never pull back.
Yuji was Megumi’s best friend… wasn’t he?
20:04. Tokyo. December 22.
Everyone around them clapped and roared approval like they had any right to witness this. He was too drunk to push Yuji away. Too drunk to pretend he didn’t want it. Too drunk to hide from the way Yuji’s eyes pinned him in place, darker than usual, sparking with something unnamed.
Or maybe not unnamed at all—just something Megumi had buried so deep he could pretend it didn’t exist.
Megumi let his eyes drift shut. Maybe if he couldn’t see, he could pretend he wasn’t trembling.
Yuji’s right hand rose to cradle his jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. His pulse pounded so loud it swallowed the music whole. He wanted this, only this—Yuji’s warmth, Yuji’s mouth—and—
A sharp gasp sliced through the dark.
A burst of white, sudden and brutal, cracked open behind his eyelids. The glare seared him as he forced his eyes open. Yuji’s face was too close, his eyes wide, hands still cupping Megumi’s jaw like he could shield him from it.
Cameras glinted in the dark like teeth. Megumi couldn’t understand what was happening. And then he understood. Those were paparazzi. Fuck.
This would be public and… fuck! The Zenin clan!
“Guys, guys!” Nobara’s voice broke through the roar. “We’re leaving—NOW!”
The kiss was over.
And freedom—if he’d ever truly held it—shattered under the lens of the wolves he’d tried so hard to outrun.