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Fushiguro does not budge.
There’s a beat of silence where the two of them are suspended in time, the world surrounding them heavy and quiet. All Fushiguro can hear is the sound of Itadori breathing.
Then: “If you die, I’ll kill you,” Fushiguro hisses. “Do you understand?”
Itadori lifts a hand up to gently pry open the fist Fushiguro has in the collar of his shirt, an easy smile on his face. Fushiguro wants to hate it, his never ending optimism and casual demeanor. He thinks he’s bulletproof, that he can walk through never ending storms and brutal attacks and come out in one piece.
Fushiguro lets him go, but he isn’t happy about it. “If you don’t come back…”
Itadori doesn’t loosen his grip on Fushiguro’s hand, even though he already let go of his shirt collar. His easy smile is still there, unwavering despite the tension lining Fushiguro’s shoulders.
“I will come back,” Itadori promises him. “And if I don’t, you have full permission to kill me. Just make it quick, yeah?”
He cocks his head to the side, still smiling. He pauses long enough to adjust the collar of his shirt, and then he’s gone, disappearing into the expanse of the forest.
Fushiguro tries to swallow down the waves of anxiety as he watches him go, rooted in place.
Come back, the selfish part of him demands. Fushiguro stifles it, and forces himself to move.
—
Fushiguro starts a fire to fill the void stretching out in front of him. It’s not easy. The branches are damp from yesterday’s storm, but he manages to coax flames out of them eventually. He crouches in front of the fire, holding his hands out to keep himself warm.
He isn’t sure how much time has passed since Itadori left the safety of their camp. Time has ceased to exist in their apocalyptic world, and it makes Fushiguro uneasy. Almost as uneasy as letting Itadori go out looking for supplies on his own. Fushiguro reaches for his knife, almost as if on instinct, his heartbeat evening out when his fingers slide around the handle, gripping it tightly. The metal is cold against his skin, and he feels like he can breathe again.
Fushiguro glances over at the mouth of the cave, noticing how much darker it’s gotten in the past…what? 10 minutes? Hour? Attacks occur much more frequently in the dark, meaning sleepless nights and constantly keeping watch. Fushiguro is tempted to abandon their campsite to go looking for him, but the idea of having to put out the fire and start it back up again later keeps him rooted in place.
He grits his teeth, anxious and hanging by a bare thread.
Eventually, he hears the rustling associated with footsteps. Instinctively, Fushiguro tenses, listening for other sounds. Unfortunately, all he hears is the familiar sound of whistling, and Fushiguro is tempted to chuck his knife just to make a point.
Itadori pokes his head into the mouth of the cave a few seconds later, grinning.
Fushiguro stabs his knife into the cave floor, right next to his leg, annoyed by Itadori’s usual nonchalance. “Are you trying to get us killed by making all that noise?”
“I wanted you to know that it was me coming,” Itadori answers evenly. There’s a bag slung over his shoulders, and despite the weariness lining his eyes, there’s a smile on his face. Any irritation Fushiguro had felt mere seconds ago vanishes, and he jerks his chin towards the bag.
Before he can say anything, Itadori takes it off and sits down next to him.
“Don’t look so disappointed over my safe return,” Itadori jokes, unzipping the bag open. He isn’t looking at Fushiguro, but something inside of him unfurls, like a cat lazily stretching on a rainy day. Like Itadori is smoothing out his rough edges.
He dumps the contents of the bag next to their fire, spilling canned food and tiny, precious bottles of medicine all over the place.
“I found an abandoned grocery store that miraculously hadn’t been looted yet,” Itadori explains, gesturing vaguely to the pile. He turns back to the bag, looking for something.
Fushiguro narrows his eyes at him. “We’re in the woods.”
“You have wonderful observational skills, Fushiguro,” Itadori notes. “It was an easy 3-mile run, I swear.”
Fushiguro pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. Leave it to Itadori to run a mini-marathon and act like it’s no big deal.
“I suppose it was worth it,” he says dully. There’s no point in arguing with Itadori, who latches onto ideas like they’re drops of candy.
Itadori nods excitedly, holding out something for Fushiguro. It takes him a few seconds to realize what it is, but once he does, his earlier irritation bleeds away.
“Candy,” Fushiguro murmurs. He hates the childlike excitement in his voice, the slight marvel that mixes in with it. He turns the candy bar over, as if to make sure it’s real.
“Eat it,” Itadori tells him, nudging his shoulder. He’s grinning again. “I only found one, so make it worthwhile.”
That snaps Fushiguro out of his revelry. Of course Itadori wants him to have it. Selfless, even in a world that demands selfishness from everyone—Fushiguro included.
“Hold out your hand,” he tells Itadori. “Please.”
When Itadori complies, he drops the candy bar into his outstretched hand.
“Keep it for yourself,” Fushiguro says begrudgingly. Then, softening a little, he adds, “You deserve it. If you had come back dying, however, I would’ve had no qualms about eating it.”
Fushiguro drops his gaze, but even then, he knows Itadori is smiling, illuminated by the last wisps of their fire. Fushiguro pulls his knees to his chest, as if cradling himself, and remains quiet.
Outside, it starts to rain.
—
Itadori is whistling again. The cave is long gone, nothing but a memory tucked away in a faraway nook in Fushiguro’s mind, but Itadori is still there, lingering.
Fushiguro walks with both of his knives in his hands, tension lining his shoulders. He keeps glancing behind them, like he’ll look back and find a horde of zombies about to eat them for dinner. He shudders at the thought, and turns around one more time for good measure.
Itadori is the opposite of him, walking with his hands in his pockets and a permanent half-smile on his face. Fushiguro both hates it and admires it. Not many people walk through adversity unscathed, but Itadori is one of them. No matter how bad it gets, no matter how many times Fushiguro wakes up breathless and with tear-stained cheeks, Itadori is there with his easygoing smile and never ending list of stories to distract him from the shadows of his mind.
Fushiguro scowls.
As if he can tell, Itadori stops whistling to glance at him, one eyebrow raised.
“Was it something I did?” Itadori asks, his usual mirth laced into his voice. He doesn’t falter in his step, even though he’s looking at Fushiguro, who is still walking stiffly and with his hands clenched.
Fushiguro shakes his head, clicking his tongue as he does so. “It’s nothing.”
Itadori shrugs, disbelieving, but he doesn’t pester Fushiguro about it.
“It’s getting colder everyday,” he observes. “You lost your jacket in one of the attacks a few weeks back, right? It was all torn and bloody.”
Fushiguro nods tersely, irritated by the reminder. If he had been more careful, less disorganized, maybe, he’d still have his jacket. He wouldn’t have to worry about the upcoming winter, or finding a new source of warmth. Instead, one of the zombies had clawed at it repeatedly as they grappled and when Fushiguro finally dispatched it, blood sprayed all over it. Fushiguro disposed it immediately, disgusted and annoyed at himself. Life was already hard enough without him losing something so essential to survival.
“Aw, cheer up, Fushiguro!” Itadori crows, “We can huddle together for warmth, you know. You didn’t think I would let you die, did you? C’mon.”
He jostles Fushiguro’s shoulder, grinning, and Fushiguro almost smiles. Almost.
—
Fushiguro wakes up to Itadori screaming his name. It’s an unfamiliar sound—Itadori is stoic and put together—so his reflexes are sluggish, like his neurons are coated in thick syrup and slow to respond. The room is blanketed with darkness since their fire went out ages ago, but the light creeping in through the window illuminates something…hovering over Itadori.
He tenses immediately, yanking his knife from where he put it by his side before falling asleep, and scrambles to stand. He doesn’t waste any time, plunging it into the zombie’s back with a sickening lurch, before collapsing back down on the ground. He’s panting, heart racing a mile a minute and blood roaring so loudly in his ears that he can’t hear himself think.
Fushiguro winces when the zombie drops against Itadori, forcing himself to get up to help him. He can hear Itadori panting, his breathing erratic in the dead of the night. It’s a strange sound, and Fushiguro doesn’t understand why it unsettles him until he realizes that it’s because he’s never heard Itadori sound scared.
There’s a first time for everything, Fushiguro supposes, turning over the body with a groan. Itadori gasps at the same time, his hands flying to his throat. Fushiguro feels sick, the remnants of their dinner threatening to make an appearance. Was he being strangled?
Then: “You sleep like the dead.”
God, Fushiguro is going to kill him.
Itadori’s voice is hoarse, and he has to cough a few times. Fushiguro watches him massage his neck, taking deep breaths. Fushiguro thinks he might pass out. Not from fear, but from anger. Why didn’t I wake up sooner?
In the moonlight, he can see bruises starting to form around his neck, ugly and discolored as Itadori sits up.
Fushiguro presses a finger to the side of Itadori’s neck, a mere flutter of a touch against his skin, and says roughly, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. He climbed in through the window. Apparently it was broken, but I didn’t know since it was hidden by the curtain,” Itadori shrugs. His hand circles around Fushiguro’s wrist, but he doesn’t pull away Fushiguro’s fingers from his skin, leaving them there.
Good, Fushiguro thinks. I’m scared to let go. Or to turn away from you.
“You could’ve died,” Fushiguro’s whispers, his voice paper thin in the bleak room they’re sitting in.
“But I didn’t,” Itadori tells him, squeezing his wrist. As if to say, Look, I’m still here. Feel how warm my touch is—let it ground you. “Besides, if I had died, you would’ve killed me, right?”
The corner of Itadori’s mouth turns upwards at hearing Itadori repeat his own words back to him.
“Yeah,” Fushiguro says softly. “I would’ve.”
Itadori smiles back at him, teeth glinting even in the sparse moonlight. Fushiguro doesn’t know how he does it, how he walks the line between life and death countless times and never fails to come back smiling.
“I would haunt you,” Itadori says suddenly. “I’d be like a ghost on your shoulder, going wherever you go.”
Fushiguro drops his hand, knowing it would turn weird if he kept it there.
“Let’s hope you don’t have to start haunting me anytime soon,” Fushiguro says. He stands up, and adds, “Go back to sleep. I’ll keep watch until dawn.”
“Yeah, me and him are gonna have a great night’s sleep,” Itadori tells him, jutting his chin towards the dead zombie.
Fushiguro fights the urge to rolls his eyes. “I’ll get rid of him, but I still think you should sleep.”
Itadori hesitates for the briefest of seconds, his eyes meeting Fushiguro’s. There’s a silent question in them: Are you okay?
Fushiguro gives the barest of nods, already turning away from him in an attempt to disguise any emotions showing on his face.
In the end, it doesn’t matter. Itadori hauls out the body with him, and they sit in the dwindling darkness together, watching the moonlight fade and wrestling with the haunted feeling lingering inside of them. Fushiguro doesn’t sleep the rest of the night, holding his knives tightly. Neither does Itadori. They’re simply two sides of the same coin, hollowed out and weighed down by life.
—
Fushiguro is tense the next few days. He pulls a knife on Itadori by accident and finds himself so horrified by it that he avoids Itadori the rest of the day. He finds himself trying to sleep it off, pressing his hands to the roughly-made bed of the house they’re in to get them to stop shaking.
Itadori leaves Fushiguro alone for about an hour or so, but it’s only a matter of time before he’s crouching down in front of him, a relaxed smile on his face.
“How was your nap?” he asks.
Fushiguro grunts. “Uneventful.” The lie slips out too easily. He didn’t even sleep. Every time he closed his eyes all he saw was the way Itadori flinched back from him, before moving forward to get him to drop the knife. It’s me, Fushiguro. Nothing to worry about, I promise.
He knows Itadori doesn’t believe him. He can see it in the way concerned is lined into his face, pouring out towards Fushiguro.
“Did you eat?” Fushiguro mumbles, trying to change the subject.
Itadori stands back up, stretching his hands above his head.
“No, not yet,” Itadori answers easily. “I was waiting for you. Are we leaving in the morning?”
Fushiguro shrugs, but he’s itching to be on the move. He feels restless whenever they linger in one place for too long, like something more awful than what they’re already living through will happen. He sits up, rubbing at his eyes and stifling a yawn. He’s exhausted.
“I think we should,” Fushiguro finally says, standing up. “We need to find something more permanent.”
Itadori watches him move across the room, his gaze thoughtful. Fushiguro feels like a butterfly pinned to a board with the way Itadori is staring at him, but he pretends not to notice.
“What’s wrong with this house?” Itadori’s tone is cautious, and it’s so unlike him that Fushiguro turns around, startled by it.
He blinks, and remembers to compose himself.
“It’s too exposed,” Fushiguro answers smoothly. “We need something more discreet to prevent as many zombie attacks as possible. No windows means more chances unwanted guests sneak in, and seeing as we have no way of fixing that…”
Itadori nods, but it’s slow-coming, coated in syrup. He’s still staring at Fushiguro with thinly-veiled concern, which makes him want to squirm until he looks sway.
Finally, Itadori says, “I guess we better get going then.”
—
Faster, Fushiguro thinks, even as he’s pushing himself to the limit. His body is screaming for him to stop, muscles burning and chest heaving. Itadori is somewhere nearby—Fushiguro is like a needle spinning wildly in a compass, calming down only when he glances next to him and sees the faint outline of Itadori, his breath coming out in puffs and a grim expression on his face.
Behind them, he hears the faint sound of growling and the repeated thud thud thud of footsteps coming from the group of monsters chasing them down. This is bad, Fushiguro thinks. They outnumber us.
When Itadori notices him looking, he flashes a smile, glinting under the moonlight.
“Nothing like being chased by half-dead monsters to get into shape, huh, Fushiguro?” he says casually, as if they aren’t running for their lives. As if they might not make it out alive. Fushiguro doesn’t know how he does it.
Fushiguro only has two knives and he doesn’t want to risk losing any of them in the darkness, so he keeps them pressed to the skin of his palms, trying to focus on their familiar weight. Itadori has a sword strapped to his back, something he picked up a while back, but they both knew that the risks would outweigh the benefits if he tried to throw it. Close combat just wasn’t worth it for either one of them.
“You’re a menace,” Fushiguro responds, his voice strained with exertion. He can still hear them nearby—the grunts and growls, the snapping of branches on the ground and their footsteps, loud and echoing in the dead of the night.
Itadori grunts in response. Fushiguro is so focused on running that his blood runs cold when Itadori yanks on his elbow, already lifting his knife to attack. Itadori smacks his hand away a split second later.
“Damn it, Fushiguro,” Itadori bites out, the smile gone from his face. “Stop trying to kill me.”
Fushiguro doesn’t know what to say in response, stunned by how close he came to hurting Itadori. Instead, he lets Itadori guide him off the path they’ve been running on.
“Faster,” Itadori urges, tugging on his elbow once more. Fushiguro stumbles over a downed tree branch, catches himself, and puts on another burst of speed. Whatever Itadori saw in this direction, he isn’t sure. Part of him wants to turn back, but he knows what would happen if he did that: the frail sense of trust they’ve built over the months will crumble, breaking into pieces, and as much as Fushiguro gripes about Itadori, he knows he can’t afford to do that.
A few seconds later, Fushiguro sees it: a rusty, sun-beaten car sitting in a tiny field. How Itadori managed to spot it in the growing darkness, Fushiguro has no idea.
“If you believe in God, now’s the time to pray,” Itadori tells him. He’s grinning again, the earlier knife incident seemingly forgotten.
Under different circumstances, Fushiguro would glare at him for his nonchalance.
Itadori slams into the driver’s door a few seconds later, unable to stop his momentum. Fushiguro skids to a stop next to him, catching himself on the hood of the car. He gives himself half a second to calm down before he’s running to the other side of the car, yanking on the door handle as hard as he can.
It doesn’t budge. Swearing, Fushiguro tries again. Nothing. He allows himself a quick glance at Itadori, who opens his door at that exact same second. Fushiguro pounds on the window, and Itadori scrambles to open it immediately, swinging the door outwards. Fushiguro slides into the seat, and asks, “Ever learned how to hot-wire a car?”
His chest heaves with the beat of silence, and Fushiguro wills himself to breathe.
“I was hoping you would know,” Itadori laughs, glancing out the window for any signs of the zombies. The forest is eerily quiet, but they both know better than that.
Fushiguro blinks.
“Get out.”
Itadori startles. “Um, I know this was pretty reckless, even for me, but do you really want to split up right now? I don’t think that’s smart.”
Fushiguro feels like someone’s driven a wedge into his heart, driving it as deep as possible to create a never-ending cavern in his chest.
“No,” he says sharply. “I can turn on the car. Hurry, Itadori.”
Relief washes over Itadori’s face, and his easy smile is back as he throws himself out of the car, rushing to the passenger’s side as Fushiguro slides into the drivers seat, fumbling with wires and trying to ignore the way his hands are shaking.
Five seconds pass. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Itadori is quiet next to his side, but Fushiguro is acutely aware of his eyes on him, no matter how hard he tries to ignore it.
The engine finally thrums to life, and the both of them let out a sigh of relief. Itadori laughs, bracing himself against the seat as Fushiguro floors the gas, the car shooting out of the field and into the forest.
“Headlights, Fushiguro!” Itadori yells, sounding faintly panicked. It’s dark outside already, leaving them with limited visibility.
Fushiguro tries, but they refuse to switch on.
“Looks like we’ll just have to pray we don’t crash into anything,” Fushiguro laughs. There’s a twisted sense of excitement rushing through his veins right now, something he hasn’t felt or experienced in ages. He can’t remember the last time he was in a life-threatening situation that had nothing to do with zombies. It’s strangely exhilarating.
Itadori seems to catch on, eyeing him from the passenger’s seat. The car shoots past tree after tree, Fushiguro trying his best to avoid running into any obstacles. If he remembers correctly, they should end up back on the road soon, but he isn’t sure.
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ev—Fushiguro watch out!” Itadori yelps, shrinking back into his seat as Fushiguro yanks on the wheel, swerving to avoid a knocked over tree. The tires squeal horrendously as he brakes, but he manages to avoid it. Barely.
Itadori is still pressed back against the seat, his eyes wide as he looks over at Fushiguro.
“Next time, let me drive,” Itadori mutters.
Fushiguro laughs, putting the car in park.
“It can’t be—the Fushiguro laughing?” Itadori says, finally relaxing as he grins at him. He peers through the front windshield, and it sobers Fushiguro immediately. He didn’t realize it when he came to a stop, but they’re in the middle of a road, right in the line of sight for potential enemies and monsters.
Fushiguro glances at the fuel gauge, letting out a tsk. It’s low. There’s no point in looking for a gas station nearby since most of them were looted back at the beginning, when the world as he knew it collapsed.
“Bad news,” Fushiguro mutters. “We’re low on gas.”
Itadori hums, a thoughtful look on his face. Fushiguro immediately lowers his expectations.
“Should we just gun it until we run out and then make camp wherever we stop?” Itadori asks.
Fushiguro blinks. Breathes in deeply. Ignores the urge to grab Itadori by the shoulders and shake him until he gains a self-preservation instinct. It’s not that he’s stupid—far from it, actually—but it’s that Itadori doesn’t seem to care. Or maybe he does. Maybe he really believes they could survive on a whim, that they could live on the brink of disaster and come out unscathed.
“Absolutely not,” Fushiguro says sharply. “We’ll check out the area by foot, and if there’s a decent house nearby, we can drive to it and then keep the car in case of an emergency.”
Itadori is quiet for half a beat, before saying, “And if there isn’t shelter nearby?”
“Then we walk, or use the car as shelter,” Fushiguro answers, but he can’t ignore the anxiety creeping into his voice as he talks. Frustrated, he says, “God, this is so shitty.”
There’s a tinge of bitterness in his voice, something he hasn’t allowed himself to feel for weeks. Months, even. There simply hasn’t been time for bitterness, for the nostalgic ache of what life could have been before…this.
Itadori opens his mouth, pauses, and then says, “I’m sorry.”
Fushiguro undoes his seatbelt, a sour taste in his mouth. He swallows it down, glancing out the window for any imminent signs of danger. Nothing except for darkness. Deep within his brain, a voice of reason tells him leaving the car is not a good idea right now.
He hesitates, turning back to Itadori.
“It’s not your fault,” he simply says. He doesn’t know how else to respond, how to comfort Itadori. How to scrape the guilt from his shoulders and say, This is not yours to carry. Fushiguro wants to press against Itadori’s side until their knees knock against each other and tell him everything bubbling up inside of him.
Fushiguro doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he locks the drivers door and reaches for his knives.
“It’s too dark to go looking for shelter. I’ll keep first watch.”
Itadori gives him a quiet, mournful look, but he locks the passenger door without a word.
—
It’s foggy when Itadori shakes him awake. Fushiguro blinks, trying to dispel the haze of sleep. He jerks slightly as it clears, revealing Itadori within inches of his face.
“Sorry,” Itadori apologizes. His breath comes out in small puffs from the cold air, and he leans back. “I didn’t want to wake you, but I had a feeling you would kick my ass if I let you have the luxury of sleeping in, so…”
Something inside of Fushiguro’s chest thaws ever-so slightly, like a candle was lit within him. He tries to keep his expression neutral as he shifts, rolling his neck to dissipate any remaining stiffness. Itadori watches him with owlish eyes, an unreadable expression on his face. He looks tired. Like the world has been beating down on his shoulders.
(It has. Fushiguro tries not to think about it, but it’s like a chain effect—memories spilling out of his brain and out into the open: Itadori’s bloody face, pale and terrified, the snarl of a zombie, Fushiguro’s shaking hands—they pour out at an ever increasing speed).
Fushiguro blinks, willing himself to focus on Itadori. He frowns. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing at all,” Itadori hums, already reaching to unlock the passenger’s door. “I was just surprised you didn’t pull a knife on me, that’s all.”
Fushiguro feels the remnants of his past self ripple up to the surface, and he almost smiles.
“You got lucky this time,” Fushiguro answers. The weight of his knives are familiar, soothing, even. He likes the way they feel against his palms, smooth and unscathed.
Itadori grins at him, and any lingering worry that Fushiguro’s habit of pulling knives on anyone around him was starting to grate at Itadori vanishes.
Outside, Fushiguro finds that the world is far more eerie when it is washed with fog, sinking over tree limbs and crawling around their feet. He swallows nervously, focusing on the press of his weapons. He traces the hilt of each knife twice, and then turns back to look at Itadori—his partner, his friend, and the only person in their miserable world he trusts to have by his side in a fight.
Itadori is grinning.
“Ready?” Fushiguro’s voice is level, calm. Itadori does that to him—smooths out sharp edges and dulls the tension lining his body, quelling the waves of unease that threaten to drown him. It’s the closest he’s gotten to relaxing in…what? Months?
“Ready,” Itadori confirms, and it’s all Fushiguro needs to hear before he starts moving. He doesn’t have to look behind him to know that Itadori’s following. He just knows.
—
The more they walk, the more dense the fog seems to get, like it’s enveloping them with every step they take. Fushiguro hates it. He can’t see anything, and not even Itadori’s presence is enough to set him at ease.
“Hey, Fushiguro,” Itadori says suddenly. “You have a good sense of direction, right?”
Fushiguro juts out his thumb to the left of him, already knowing why Itadori is asking. “The car is about half a mile that way.”
“You’re the best, Fushiguro,” Itadori tells him happily. “Truly. I would be lost without you. Literally. I can’t even tell what direction we’re going.”
“North,” Fushiguro answers.
Itadori gawks at him, faltering in his step slightly before catching himself. “How do you know?”
Fushiguro glances over at him, the barest hints of a smile on his face. This is good. This is normal. Fushiguro hasn’t experienced something so mundane in weeks.
“You see where the sky is the lightest?” Fushiguro starts. “That’s because of the sun’s light, and since the sun rises in the east…” He lets his voice trail off, letting Itadori put the rest together.
Itadori grins. “You’re so smart, Fushiguro. I’m glad we found each other, really.”
Fushiguro looks away from him, ignoring the slight flicker of warmth coaxing his heart to life.
“It’s just a rough estimation,” Fushiguro says stupidly. “We don’t have an actual compass, so it’s probably not accurate. I could just be tricking myself into thinking the sun is over there when it isn’t.”
Itadori shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. I’m still lucky to have you.”
Fushiguro’s heart falters, and then, before he can stop himself, he mumbles, “I guess I feel the same way.”
He tightens the grip he has on his knives, relaxing when he feels their familiar outline. Cold to the touch, as always. Fushiguro’s breathing evens out.
Itadori, however, is grinning. There’s something in his expression that Fushiguro can’t exactly pinpoint, no matter how hard he tries.
“Aw, Fushiguro,” he teases, slinging an arm around his shoulder. Fushiguro tenses briefly, but he doesn’t shrug him off or step away. “I knew you secretly cared about me all along.”
Fushiguro opens his mouth to respond, letting himself relax for once in his god damn life, but freezes when he sees something move through the hazy blur of the fog. He stops in his tracks, letting Itadori’s arm fall away.
Instinctively, he tries reaching out for Itadori, but he’s out of his grasp already. He doesn’t seem to notice that everything is about to go terribly wrong. Fushiguro tries to speak, to move, to say anything to warn him, but Itadori is two steps in front of him when the zombie lunges out from the depths of the fog.
Fushiguro screams, and then he’s running. Running to Itadori, to the zombie, to the mess of blood that’s burned into his brain, his knives clutched tightly in his palms, fingers curled around them. Itadori is doing his best but it’s not enough and it feels like an eternity passes before Fushiguro barrels into the zombie, knocking it away from Itadori.
Itadori stares at Fushiguro, eyes wide and chest heaving. Then: “Watch out!”
Instinctively, Fushiguro ducks, narrowly avoiding a fist to the face and he twists to the side, trusting the weight of his knife in his hand as he thrusts it towards the zombie. There’s a sickening thump, followed by a choking sound. Fushiguro almost sobs, but he yanks his knife back, pushing the zombie away and then his mind is just a never ending reel of Itadori Itadori Itadori where is he is he okay where did he go and—
He’s slumped against the trunk of a tree, his sword on the ground by his feet and Fushiguro can’t figure out how or when it got there, just that Itadori is bleeding and the world has been tilted off its axis, spinning haphazardly.
“Itadori,” Fushiguro pants, his voice raw and bleeding. His hands are slick with blood from the zombie. “Itadori. Itadori.”
Itadori tries to smile, but Fushiguro sees the way pain traces his features, the way his shoulders are stiff with tension. Fushiguro isn’t fooled, not for a second. He’s injured; he just can’t tell where. Fushiguro stumbles awkwardly in his haste to close the distance between them, to bridge the gap and try his damnedest to help before it’s too late. If it isn’t already too late. It feels like the world is spinning around him, leaving him dizzy.
“I’m fine, really,” Itadori insists when Fushiguro reaches him, a weak smile on his face. “My shoulder got clipped, I think. But it’s nothing. C’mon, Fushiguro. Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” Fushiguro forces out, his breathing heavy. He’s trying to move Itadori’s hand out of the way.
Itadori is silent for a beat. The only sound between them is Itadori’s breathing, laced with pain as he looks at Fushiguro. Then: “Like you can’t bear to lose me.”
Another sob claws its way up Fushiguro’s throat, unforgiving and relentless. It pounds against his throat, demanding attention, but he ignores it. Like you can’t bear to lose me repeats over and over in his head, tumbling around frantically.
“I really can’t bear to lose you,” Fushiguro tells him. He hasn’t said anything so god damn honest in days. “Okay, Itadori? So let me help you.”
Itadori stares at him, his face expressionless, but slowly, he moves his hand out of the way. It comes back slick with blood, and he stares at it with a mild expression on his face. Fushiguro resists the urge to throw up at his nonchalance, forcing himself to move.
Fushiguro tears off the bag from his own shoulder, unzipping it in search of the sparse medical supplies he carries with him. Without looking at Itadori, he asks, “Can you take off your jacket? Or do you want me to do it?”
Frustrated, he dumps everything out of his bag, impatience bleeding through every pore of his body. He pauses long enough to look up at Itadori, who’s panting with exertion.
“I’ll do it,” Fushiguro decides, raising an arm to peel away Itadori’s jacket. He starts with the arm that isn’t injured, trying to be as gentle as possible. Itadori is silent all the meanwhile, watching his every move. His silence makes Fushiguro uneasy.
“I need you to talk to me,” Fushiguro urges, not even bothering to disguise the worry lacing his voice. “I need to know you’re still here.”
Itadori’s breathing has evened out a little bit, but he sits stiffly, betraying the level of pain he’s experiencing. Fushiguro tries not to think about it.
“I didn’t realize you cared about me,” Itadori says, his voice tight. “I thought you just kept me around to survive.”
Fushiguro winces. God, he’s so stupid. Stupid stupid stupid, the voice inside his head chants, sickly satisfied with tormenting him.
“I didn’t know,” Itadori repeats. His expression is pained. “You should’ve told me.”
Fushiguro’s eyelashes are damp with tears, and they spill down his cheeks, hot against his skin. He doesn’t bother wiping them away, trying to gently take off the remainder of Itadori’s jacket instead.
“I can’t do this without you, Itadori,” Fushiguro says. “I can’t. The only person who gets to kill you is me, remember?”
He peels off Itadori’s jacket, placing it on the ground next to him. When he looks up, Itadori is grinning again. Weakly, but he’s grinning. Fushiguro thinks Itadori’s smile alone could tilt the world back onto its proper axis. God, Fushiguro is so stupid.
“If I die, it’ll be by your hands and no one else’s,” Itadori swears.
Fushiguro is still crying, but he presses his hands to the cut at Itadori’s shoulder, careful not to touch the exposed skin. Bracing himself for the worst, he grips the fabric surrounding it and tears at it to expose the wound. It’s shallow, but bleeding persistently. Fushiguro’s mouth runs dry. He’s not a trained medic. He doesn’t have any medical experience, just some antiseptic and gauze he picked up a while back.
“This is gonna hurt,” Fushiguro warns, his voice low. “I have to stop the bleeding before I do anything else.”
Itadori nods, jutting his chin out in determination. Fushiguro bunches up one of his spare shirts from his pack, looking at Itadori with a grim expression before he presses it against his skin. Itadori hisses, but he doesn’t squirm or try to move away. Fushiguro knows he’s in pain from the clench of his jaw and the way his fingers are curled tightly into fists and something inside of Fushiguro aches at the sight.
“I’m sorry,” Fushiguro says.
Itadori forces a smile, but it’s still a few seconds before he responds.
“It’s not your fault,” he manages, looking Fushiguro dead in the eyes. “There was always gonna be a fight I couldn’t win. I guess it was this one.”
Fushiguro is on the brink of falling apart, but he tries to push past it, to hold on. For Itadori.
“That’s why I’m here,” Fushiguro murmurs. He can’t look at Itadori as he speaks, or else he’ll stop feeling brave. “To win the ones you can’t.”
“Ah, Fushiguro,” Itadori laughs, letting his head fall back against the trunk of the tree. “If it takes me getting injured just for you to realize you tolerate my presence, I wonder what I’d have to do to get you to realize that…”
His voice trails off.
“Realize what?” Fushiguro asks roughly, even though he’s scared to hear the rest of his sentence.
Itadori looks away from him, wincing. “Nothing. I think the bleeding is better.”
Fushiguro wants to press, to poke and prod and push until Itadori spills whatever he was going to say, but he knows now isn’t the time.
He slowly releases the pressure he had on Itadori’s wound, and breathes a sigh of relief when he no longer sees a steady stream of blood.
“It’s okay, right? I can’t see,” Itadori mumbles. “It can’t be that bad, right, Fushiguro? I feel okay.”
Fushiguro looks up at Itadori, at the dazed expression on his face, and panics. He lifts his hand to grab Itadori’s chin so that he’s looking him in the eyes, and says with as much urgency as he can muster, “Itadori. I need you to stay with me, okay? I know it’s hard, but please.”
“I’m trying,” Itadori says weakly, but there’s a note of clarity in his voice that wasn’t there earlier, a glimmer of hope. He stirs, shifting his weight, and relief floods Fushiguro’s body. He can move. At least Fushiguro knows that much.
Fushiguro reluctantly lets go of him, reaching for the small bottle of antiseptic strewn on the floor with the other things from his bag. He uncaps it, trying to ignore the tremor in his hands as he does so, and reaches for the small pile of gauze nearby.
“We can’t let it get infected,” Fushiguro murmurs. “We’ll have to clean the wound pretty frequently…” His voice trails off as he thinks about how little antiseptic he has, but he tries not to let it show on his face. It’s the last thing Itadori should be thinking about, so Fushiguro keeps his expression as neutral as possible as he works.
Fushiguro knows it should sting, the press of antiseptic on an open wound, but if it does, Itadori doesn’t let it show.
“If I was alone…” Itadori starts, but Fushiguro refuses to let him even finish his train of thought.
“You weren’t,” he says firmly, not wanting to think about Itadori alone and scared. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”
Itadori swallows uneasily, but there’s a grateful look on his face.
“It’s a good thing you were there,” Itadori admits. Again, there’s something unreadable in his expression. Fushiguro can’t figure out what it is. “I have more antiseptic if you run out.”
Fushiguro startles, almost dropping their precious store of gauze on the ground. He catches it at the last second, letting out a sigh of relief.
“Save it,” Fushiguro says firmly. “I’m gonna wrap the wound now. How are you? Does it hurt?”
Itadori’s eyes flicker to his, right before he nods reluctantly.
“It’s okay,” Fushiguro murmurs, carefully wrapping the wound so as to not hurt him. “You’re okay.”
“Okay,” Itadori says hoarsely. His uninjured hand shifts, reaching for Fushiguro’s hand before he can berate him for moving. “Just for a little, please?”
Fushiguro lets him. For once in his miserable and sad life, he lets himself be weak. It’s strange how easy it is to give in to Itadori. It’s familiar in a way Fushiguro doesn’t understand, the way Itadori curls his fingers into his, the way they sit on the ground together, Itadori leaning against him for support and Fushiguro holding the both of them upright.
“I’m tired,” Itadori admits, resting his head against Fushiguro’s shoulder. He resists the urge to reprimand him, instead letting Itadori relax.
Fushiguro keeps a sharp eye on their surroundings, noticing that the fog has started thinning a bit since they first set out. He exhales, relieved. At least they won’t get caught off guard again.
Next to him, Itadori’s breathing has started to even out. Fushiguro is scared to move, not wanting to wake him up after he just barely fell asleep. He didn’t realize how hard it was to sit still up until now. At some point, he realizes he’s missing one of his knives.
Panic floods his body. It takes a few seconds for him to spot a glint of metal nearby, and he realizes he must’ve dropped it with all the commotion that went down earlier. He can’t go to it because of Itadori, but he fixes his eyes on it regardless, trying to ground himself.
A quick glance at Itadori confirms that he’s fallen asleep, and Fushiguro very slowly shifts to reach for the jacket he took off of Itadori earlier. He shakes it off, brushing away loose dirt before carefully draping it around Itadori’s shoulders. He makes sure to avoid covering the wound so as not to hurt him, and then settles back in his position, tilting his head back against the trunk of the tree.
He’s exhausted, and the day’s barely started. They haven’t even eaten—not that it’s unusual— and so much has happened despite it still being early morning. Fushiguro almost laughs. Is there anything else the universe wants to throw his way?
Even so, at some point, Fushiguro finds himself relaxing into Itadori’s side, leaning against him as much as Itadori is on him. It’s quite rare for Fushiguro to let his guard down so much, but he can’t help resting his cheek against the top of Itadori’s head.
We can only handle so much, Fushiguro thinks as the sun breaks through the fog, scattering it into wisps. Itadori’s hand is cold against his skin, so he brings his other hand to cover their joined hands, and watches as the world moves on, slowly but surely.
Somewhere nearby, he can hear birds chirping as the forest comes to life, with or without them. Fushiguro leans his head back against the tree, and closes his eyes.
—
They find a tiny house nearby. Fushiguro is as close to happy as he’s been ever since the world went to shit, and even Itadori manages a small smile.
“At least one thing is going right for us,” Fushiguro murmurs. He hesitates, but reaches out to squeeze Itadori’s hand, trying to convey reassurance through the gesture.
Itadori hums. He spent most of the way here leaning against Fushiguro, but he looks stronger now, his cheeks flushed from the cold and the barest hint of a gleam in his eyes.
“And the car?” he questions.
Fushiguro doesn’t bat an eye. “I can go back for it later. No biggie.”
Left unspoken: I can’t bear to leave you alone right now. Not after everything.
Itadori doesn’t question it, shrugging a bit. He glances back at the house, which appears abandoned from the outside. Fushiguro knows from past experiences that doesn’t mean anything.
“Well?” Itadori is the first to break the silence. “Are we going to make sure it’s actually abandoned?”
Fushiguro hesitates.
“Aw, c’mon, Fushiguro,” Itadori says. “Who’s gonna come at me if I have a sword in my hand?”
Fushiguro bites the inside of his cheek, accidentally drawing blood as he does so. He doesn’t want to leave Itadori alone outside, but he also doesn’t want to drag him into another dangerous situation unknowingly.
“Lets hope there’s no one inside,” Fushiguro finally says, but his anxiety is running at an all-time high. He tightens his hold on the knives in his hands, relaxing at the feeling of metal pressing against his skin.
Itadori straightens, as if bracing himself for the worst. His sword is already in his uninjured arm, glinting from the sun’s light. Fushiguro relaxes at the sight, knowing that if anything, Itadori can at least defend himself.
Fushiguro forces himself to move a few seconds later, and Itadori follows. He doesn’t head straight for the front door, instead veering around the perimeter of the house.
He gestures for Itadori to duck as they circle the house, peering through windows to get an idea of the layout and to see if they can glimpse anyone inside. They make it all the way around without spotting anyone or anything suspicious.
“Front door?” Itadori suggests, breaking the tentative silence between them. Fushiguro nods, motioning for him to stay quiet as he reaches for the doorknob.
Slowly, he tries turning it. Relief floods through his body when he realizes it’s unlocked. Concern follows a split second later, because that means anyone could be inside.
Fushiguro glances back at Itadori, and mouths, Be careful. Itadori nods, a determined expression on his face. Fushiguro turns back to the door, opening it as slowly as he can.
He’s met with silence. The living room is dark from the shuttered windows, but Fushiguro doesn’t see anything else out of the ordinary. At first glance, it looks abandoned. Behind him, he can hear Itadori shift.
Fushiguro steps inside, and Itadori follows. They move carefully, two sides of the same coin, checking every hiding place they possibly can. The more time that passes, the more relaxed Fushiguro grows.
They eventually move from the living room to the kitchen, and then to the tiny hallway leading to a room and a bathroom. Nothing. Fushiguro thinks it’s almost too good to be true.
Neither one of them dare to open the window shutters or try turning on the lights in case someone’s passing through the area. Fushiguro does get the idea to set a mini trap by the front door to alert them if someone’s entering, and they realize someone else had already boarded the windows shut for them.
Then, when Itadori reminds him of the back entrance, he does the same for that one. He asks Itadori to test them out, pleased with himself when both traps work.
“You’re a genius, you know that, right?” Itadori whispers.
Fushiguro shakes his head almost imperceptibly.
“You should lay down,” Fushiguro says instead. “Get some rest. I can keep watch.”
Itadori folds his arms across his chest. “I slept earlier. If anyone needs to sleep, it’s you.”
Fushiguro stares at him, unblinking, for a few seconds. Finally, he gives in.
“Okay,” he agrees. “I’ll sleep while you keep watch. but if you start getting tired, just wake me up. You know me. I won’t mind.”
There’s something almost sad in the way Itadori looks at him then, like he knows something Fushiguro doesn’t.
“I know you wouldn’t,” Itadori says softly. “But I think I’m gonna be okay for now.”
Fushiguro still hesitates. He isn’t sure why—maybe it’s because of what happened earlier, that it made him realize just how easily he could lose Itadori.
“If you need anything…” he trails off.
Itadori nods, and his easy smile from all those days before is back. Fushiguro relaxes immediately, like he knows everything will be okay as long as Itadori is smiling by his side.
Ridiculous, he thinks. But he’s smiling himself when he lays down to sleep.
—
Fushiguro wakes up disoriented. Somehow, it feels even darker in the room than it did when he first went to sleep. It takes him too long to realize that it must be dark outside if he can’t see anything, which means that Itadori did not wake him. As expected.
He squints, rubbing at his eyes in hopes of clearing his vision. Eventually, he realizes he has no choice but to walk around in the dark.
“Itadori?” he murmurs as he walks down the hallway. Panic flares in his chest, so he reaches for his knives, relishing in their familiar weight. He’s trying not to lose his mind when he finally enters the living room and finds Itadori curled up on the couch, a candle burning low on the table in front of him.
At the sound of Fushiguro approaching, Itadori stiffens. As soon as he realizes it’s just him, he relaxes.
“Oh,” Itadori sounds relieved. “You’re awake.”
Fushiguro nods roughly. “Why didn’t you wake me? You must be tired.”
He sits down near Itadori, who doesn’t move away from him. Instead, he shifts a tad closer, shrugging.
“You never relax,” Itadori says plainly. “I wasn’t going to be the one to take that away from you.”
Fushiguro lets himself sink into the couch cushions, pocketing his knives.
“I relax,” Fushiguro grouches, but even as he says it he knows it isn’t true. He is always on edge, always bracing himself to run, no matter how hard he tries to relax.
Itadori eyes him meaningfully. “Sure you do.”
They fall into a comfortable silence then, Itadori settling back into his earlier position and Fushiguro eyeing the candle on the table, unsure of what to do. It feels like they’ve been running for so long that he’s forgotten how to sit still, how to stop looking over his shoulder every few seconds.
With a jolt, he remembers Itadori.
“You should sleep,” he murmurs, breaking the silence.
No response. When Fushiguro glances over, he realizes Itadori is fast asleep, his chest rising and falling rhythmically. He pauses, unsure of himself, but ignores the tiny voice in his head to lean forward and brush a strand of hair away from his forehead. Itadori is warm to the touch, but not enough for him to worry about a fever—one of the signs of infection.
He doesn’t stop there, slowly getting off the couch in search of a blanket. It doesn’t take long for him to find the one tucked away in his pack, and he finds himself draping it across Itadori’s body.
Eventually, he settles back down, knives in hand, and keeps watch for the rest of the night.
—
Itadori wakes up with a groan, stirring the quiet of the house and catching his attention. Fushiguro doesn’t flinch, but he meets Itadori’s eyes.
“Damn it, Fushiguro!” Itadori says mournfully. “You let me sleep all night.”
Fushiguro keeps his expression neutral, but he responds, “You let me sleep all day.”
“Yeah, but you needed it,” Itadori counters. He sits up too fast, wincing as he belatedly remembers his injured shoulder.
“Still hurts?” Fushiguro asks, trying to keep him voice even.
Itadori glances over at him warily, but nods. “It’s better than earlier, though. Probably thanks to you, Fushiguro! I’m sure it’ll heal pretty quickly.”
“Make sure you change the bandages regularly,” Fushiguro mutters. “I can help you if you need it.”
Itadori hums. “Yeah, I don’t think I can reach with just one arm, so I’ll let you know.”
Fushiguro takes this as his cue to get up, rolling his neck to ease lingering stiffness. He slips his knives away, and turns towards Itadori.
“Did you check if there’s running water?” he asks, already heading towards the kitchen. Itadori shakes his head in response, so Fushigurp tries the faucet. It takes a few seconds, but water comes out eventually. Fushiguro shuts off the faucet almost immediately, not wanting to waste a single drop in case there’s a limited supply.
Itadori sucks in a breath.
“No way,” he says quietly. “When’s the last time we stayed in a place with running water?”
“Never,” Fushiguro tries to keep his voice lighthearted, but it sounds more miserable and sad than anything. He can’t believe their luck. “We probably shouldn’t drink it, though. And I doubt there’s any hot water, but…”
“But…” There’s a grin on Itadori’s face from the living room couch. “We have water.”
“We have water,” Fushiguro agrees, letting himself feel the faintest traces of excitement. It feels good to have a bit of good luck come their way for once. Fushiguro does his best to let himself enjoy it.
Itadori is still grinning, even when Fushiguro disappears to take inventory on what they need or have enough of to relax.
—
Fushiguro changes Itadori’s gauze under dim candlelight. It would’ve been easier if they had done it during the day, but Fushiguro fell asleep after they ate and woke when the sun was setting.
“How does it feel?” Fushiguro asks, peeling away the last of the gauze. He makes sure to keep his movements constrained and slow due to the lack of light, not wanting to hurt Itadori.
He looks up at Itadori, trying to appear relaxed and not at all like the rush of concerned thoughts floating inside of his head.
“Okay,” Itadori answers. He looks worried. “A bit stiff, I think. I can’t move my arm a lot.”
Fushiguro nods. It’s really hard to see, even under candlelight. He wipes the wound with more of their precious antiseptic, reaching for fresh gauze.
“I think that’s normal,” Fushiguro admits. “There’s no signs of infection so you should be okay for now. Hopefully it’ll heal quickly so we don’t have to worry about you getting an infection.”
Itadori is silent for half a beat. Then, he says: “I’m sorry. For getting myself injured, I mean.”
“Itadori,” Fushiguro says stupidly. He can’t believe what he’s hearing right now. “You are a fool.”
Itadori pauses. “But I’m your fool.”
“Of course,” Fushiguro says without thinking, “It’s not your fault. We can’t exactly avoid zombies, but I should’ve seen it coming, if anything.”
Itadori laughs, the sound light and clear in the heavy darkness of the room. Fushiguro decides that he likes it, that he wants to hear it more often.
“You’re so predictable, Fushiguro,” Itadori says, shaking his head.
Fushiguro steps away, having finished dressing his wound.
“How so?” he asks, trying to keep the burning curiousity out of his voice as he settles into his usual position: knives in hand, facing the doorway from his spot on the couch. His body is like a spring, coiled up and ready to move at any moment.
Itadori shrugs, leaning back onto the couch. He pulls his jacket tighter around his body, as if cold. “You just are. Everything you do and say is so like you.”
“As opposed to…?” Fushiguro can’t keep the tinge of sarcasm out of his voice, but it doesn’t deter Itadori.
“You know what I mean,” Itadori tells him. “Are you really going to sit there and keep watch all night?”
Yes, Fushiguro wants to say. He needs to do this, to calm the waves of anxiety crashing against his ribcage before he drowns in them.
“So honorable, Fushiguro,” Itadori says, sighing a bit. He doesn’t wait for Fushiguro to respond to him. “Protecting your fallen friend like this.”
Without missing a beat, Fushiguro says softly, “It’s the right thing to do. You would do it for me.”
Itadori shivers instead of responding, wrapping his arms across his chest. Fushiguro is cold, too. There’s no heat in the house, and lighting a fire is out of the question since there’s no fireplace. Even if there was one, Fushiguro wouldn’t dare to light a fire. No point in revealing their location.
“‘M cold,” Itadori murmurs. “Can you move over here?”
Fushiguro blinks, unsure of how to respond. It’s not a matter of whether or not he can, really, but if he’s willing.
“Please?” Itadori adds, as if sensing his hesitation. “Don’t make me pull the near-death injury card on you.”
Fushiguro moves without saying a word. He knows it’s not a good idea, that allowing himself to grow comfortable around Itadori is dangerous, that the horrors of the world will not disappear if he lets Itadori see past the indifference he usually maintains.
Even so, Fushiguro would lay his armor down for Itadori. His knives, his weariness, his misery. All of it—for him. He’s long since deserted his grace and everything inside of him that made him good, but he would crawl to the edges of the Earth to find them if it meant getting to stay by Itadori’s side.
Fushiguro presses close to Itadori, closer than he would have dared mere days ago. If Itadori notices him hesitate, he doesn’t let it show.
“Use this,” Fushiguro says, his voice low. He hefts the blanket he’d been carrying into Itadori’s lap, spreading it out to make sure he stays warm. Itadori protests immediately, trying to adjust it so that it covers the both of them.
Fushiguro shakes his head, pushing it back towards him. He shifts towards the table in front of them to extinguish the candle, leaving them in darkness. The only source of light comes in the form of moonlight through the window slits, just enough for Fushiguro to make out the shape of Itadori’s silhouette.
He sits back down on the couch and Itadori moves almost immediately, shifting so that they are pressed together once again.
“I know I say this a lot,” Itadori begins, resting his cheek against Fushiguro’s shoulder, “But you should sleep.”
Fushiguro laughs quietly.
“Your concern is admirable,” he says. He feels strangely comfortable with Itadori’s weight pressed against him, like he’s never been without his touch. Fushiguro tries not to think about it.
Itadori mumbles something in response, but Fushiguro doesn’t quite catch it. He doesn’t ask Itadori to repeat it, seeing as he is already half-asleep.
“Here,” Fushiguro murmurs, shifting so that Itadori can get more comfortable. “You can lay down, if you want.”
Itadori stifles a yawn, but he moves so that his head is in Fushiguro’s lap, curled up with the blanket around him. Fushiguro tells himself to relax, that it’s just Itadori and there’s nothing to worry about.
He doesn’t know how much time passes before the living room is filled with Itadori’s quiet snores, but it doesn’t matter. Fushiguro will stay here, unmoving, for the rest of the night. He flexes his fingers for a split second, letting them settle back around his knife, a familiar feeling.
Outside, the moon rises, higher and higher. Itadori doesn’t move, but neither does Fushiguro.
—
Fushiguro treks back to the car by himself. It took too long to convince Itadori to stay—Fushiguro thought it would end with the both of them angry at each other—but he conceded eventually. With one condition: if Fushiguro takes too long to come back, Itadori will go looking for him, come hell or high water.
So Fushiguro runs, ducking under tree branches and side-stepping fallen tree trunks. He can see the path they walked on their wat here from the trampled grass and broken tree branches strewn on the ground. It’s easy, finding his way back to the car.
All the meanwhile, anxiety gnaws at his bones. He can’t stop thinking about Itadori, who still doesn’t have full mobility of his arm, who is sitting alone in a house with nothing but a sword and one of Fushiguro’s precious knives.
(“You know I can’t take this,” Itadori tells him, pushing the knife away. “You without your knives disrupts the balance of the world. It isn’t right.”
Fushiguro pushes the knife back. “Take it.”)
He tries to control his breathing so as not to alert his presence to anyone, but it’s harder than expected. He should be used to this, to the physical exertion, but it falls heavy on him, even after years.
It takes him too long to reach the car. Part of him is relieved to find it there, having expected someone else to come across it since they didn’t bother to hide it. Even so, he slows to a walk upon seeing it, clutching his knife in his hand. He can’t hear much of anything over the sound of blood roaring in his eyes, which frustates him.
Fushiguro grits his teeth. He creeps forward, keeping his knife close and scanning his surroundings. He’s almost to the car when he hears snarling coming from behind him.
Fushiguro freezes, then, very carefully, he starts to turn backwards. There are three of them heading in his direction, and Fushiguro knows he only has about thirty seconds to decide on his next move before it’s too late.
He stays where he is, rooted to the ground with fear, for too long. It’s impossible to hear himself think over the sound of fear pounding against his head, but eventually he breaks out into a run. There’s no way he can take on all three of them with just one weapon on him.
It’s oddly reminiscent of Itadori pulling him along when they first found the car, but Fushiguro can’t think about that right now. He skids to a stop in front of the car, yanking on the door handle to the driver’s door. He’s about to throw himself into the car when a hand clamps on his shoulder, digging into his skin like claws. For a split second, his body forgets how to move, and pain tears through his arm.
Fushiguro stifles a scream, twisting his body to jerk his knife at the zombie crowding around him. He misses on the first try, unusual for him, but he has no time to think about it before he’s trying again, frantic and desperate to live. Snarling fills the shell of his ear, and bile rises in his throat. He dodges as the zombie attempts to claw his face off, gripping his knife tightly once more.
The knife doesn’t miss its mark this time, landing with a solid thunk. Fushiguro would wince if his life wasn’t in imminent danger.
Blood spurts against his face a few seconds later, warm to the touch. Fushiguro scowls, pushing the now-bleeding zombie away as he yanks his knife back, only for another one to quickly take its place. Fushiguro is panting again, but he knows he can’t turn the car on before the other two beat down on him, so he stands his ground.
His knife is slick with blood, but Fushiguro pays it no attention. He stands for a split second, debating on what to do, and ultimately chucks his knife at the zombie. He lets out a sigh of relief when the knife sticks its landing, watching the zombie fall right after. He starts moving immediately, bending low to retrieve the knife. Bile rises in his throat, but he ignores it.
It’s all a blur, adrenaline pounding through his veins and his mind running faster than his legs can keep it. He slips past the knife, and has to double back to retrieve it, swearing all the meanwhile. He doesn’t have the time for silly mistakes.
The third zombie is nowhere to be seen, much to Fushiguro’s dismay. He’s almost positive he’s bleeding from an injury he didn’t realize he had, which can’t be good. Still, Fushiguro keeps moving, trying to keep an eye out for the last zombie. He wipes drops of blood from his face, shaking his head with disgust. He can’t tell whose blood it is as he sits down in the car.
He’s fiddling with the wires when the last zombie slams against the windshield of the car, snarling at him. A tremor rips through Fushiguro, and he’s so startled all he does is stare at the zombie for a long, painful second while his brain is screaming, move move move move move move.
The car roars to life, and Fushiguro floors it immediately. It’s enough to jolt the zombie, who struggles to keep a grip on the car. Fushiguro slams on the brakes next, and watches with a sick sort of satisfaction as the zombie is flung from the windshield.
He doesn’t hesitate after that, tearing down the street and into the woods. Back to Itadori, like always.
—
Itadori jumps from the couch when Fushiguro stumbles through the door. He sways on his feet a bit, dazed from the fight. Itadori is by his side within seconds, clutching his arm, holding him by the waist, fingers brushing his cheek. So many points of contact; Fushiguro has to remind himself that it’s okay, that it’s just Itadori circling within his orbit.
Fushiguro tries to smile, but finds it too difficult. He grimaces instead.
“You have blood on your face,” Itadori notes, a slight edge of panic in his voice. His touch is gentle. “What happened?”
“Oh, you know,” Fushiguro shrugs, trying to seem calmer than he actually is. “Three of them came at me before I could get into the car. The usual. I came back to you, though.”
“You came back,” Itadori agrees, sounding worried. He looks down at Fushiguro’s clothes, probably trying to check whether or not he’s injured. “Are you bleeding?”
“Not sure,” Fushiguro admits. He glances down at his body, but it’s hard to tell. “I think so.”
Itadori looks over at him, reaching up to wipe away some of the blood staining his cheeks. His fingers are cool against his skin. Fushiguro doesn’t try to stop him, relaxing into his touch instead.
“I should’ve come with you,” Itadori says softly, his face strangely serious. A small, selfish part of Fushiguro wishes he would smile, just this once. For him.
“You’re hurt,” Fushiguro tells him, as stubborn as ever. The pain seems to be getting worse with every passing second, but he tries not to let it show. “You couldn’t.”
Itadori clicks his tongue. “And now you’re hurt.”
“The universe has a funny way of doing things,” Fushiguro tries to joke. He winces as a fresh wave of pain runs through his body, and the next thing he knows, Itadori’s ushering him down the hallway and into the bedroom. His arm is throbbing, probably from his run-in earlier, but Fushiguro is finding it hard to think over the pain.
Halfway there, Fushiguro’s vision starts dimming. He tries to speak, to say anything to warn Itadori, but it’s too late.
—
Fushiguro wakes with a dry mouth. He keeps his eyes closed, trying to remember where he is and what happened. Once the memories start to flood back, he slowly opens his eyes, trying to ignore the haze of sleep veiling his vision.
“You’re awake!” Itadori sounds relieved as he leans forward, elbows on his knees. He’s smiling, but even Fushiguro can see the lingering traces of worry on his face.
Fushiguro mumbles, “I am.”
Itadori reaches over from his place on the chair to squeeze Fushiguro’s hand.
“You scared me, passing out like that,” Itadori tells him. His voice is lighthearted, but Fushiguro can tell from looking at him that he’s visibly stressed. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Fushiguro croaks. He starts to move, lifting the blanket off of him, but Itadori pushes his hand away, clicking his tongue as he does so. Fushiguro pauses.
“So predictable, Fushiguro,” Itadori tuts, giving him a disapproving glance. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Fushiguro tries to protest, but Itadori refuses to listen. He presses his hand against Fushiguro’s chest, keeping him rooted in place. His touch is persistent, but gentle enough. Fushiguro claws at his hand in an attempt to move it, weakened by pain and exhaustion, but Itadori doesn’t budge. Not one bit.
“Doctor’s orders,” Itadori says firmly. He keeps pressing, until Fushiguro gives up and settles into the pillow behind him.
Fushiguro tries to smile. “Oh? Congrats on getting your M.D. in the middle of an apocalyptic wasteland. Am I your first patient?”
Itadori rolls his eyes, sitting back down. “Now you get a sense of humor. You think you’re so funny, don’t you, Fushiguro?”
This time Fushiguro manages a grin.
“A little bit,” he admits.
Itadori shoves a can of lukewarm food into his hands and very gracefully tells him to shut up.
—
There’s a newfound sense of understanding strung between them in the aftermath. Itadori cleans and dresses his wound, a mirror image of Fushiguro doing the same to him just days ago, and Fushiguro learns to smooth out his sharpened edges.
He keeps his knives as sharp as ever, slotted perfectly into the curve of his palms, and Itadori’s sword is almost always in his hand, glinting under the sunlight.
“Just you and me,” Itadori murmurs at one point. The sky is flush with streaks of pink and orange as the sun sets across the wasteland they inhabit, tricking them with a false sense of beauty. His mouth is dry.
Fushiguro nods briefly. “Just us.”
“Against the world,” Itadori says, his voice hollow and low. He straps his sword against his back, and Fushiguro notices he is soaked in sunlight, standing at what feels like the edge of the world. “What do you think?”
Fushiguro thinks that he would put down his knives for Itadori, let the sunlight cradle him instead of fear, and leave behind the life he knows now: the blood, the fighting, looking over his shoulder constantly.
He slips his knives into their sheaths. All for him, he thinks.
“I think,” Fushiguro begins, stepping closer to Itadori, “the world doesn’t stand a chance.”
His knuckles brush against Itadori’s fingers, barely noticeable. Half a second passes. Then one. Then two. Fushiguro starts sweating.
Then: Itadori’s fingers curl against him, and Fushiguro truly does feel as if they can take on the world. As long as he has Itadori, everything seems a bit lighter, easier. Like they’re unstoppable.
Itadori’s touch is warm, much like the sunlight pressing against their skin. Fushiguro tries to ignore the shivers running up his spine, focusing instead on Itadori, on the curve of his nose and the glimpses of warmth in his eyes. It is so easy to forget about everything when he looks at Itadori.
“Ready?” Itadori asks. He’s looking at Fushiguro now.
There is no one else Fushiguro would rather have by his side. His partner, his friend, his twin flame. Fushiguro doesn’t think he could ever bear it if they got separated.
“Ready,” Fushiguro confirms, watching as the last of the sunlight is swallowed whole.
Itadori squeezes his hand, and they’re off, shoulders brushing and nothing but slivers of hope connecting them. Fushiguro doesn’t care. All he needs is Itadori. Nothing else.