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Love—in every shape and form—was a stranger to Megumi. It was easy enough to ignore in middle school, even between the chatter in the hallways and muffled laughter at the football field, because love was not something Megumi thought to be important.
The memories of his mother were hazy at best, and having a father never meant much to him. He was mostly alone, and didn’t really mind it, because people come and go as they please, and that’s just what life was. It taught him not to need much, and that the nightmares were warnings, because the monsters he saw were very much real. Still, he was lucky enough to have someone who would tuck him back in, even when he fought tooth and nail to prove he was good on his own. Megumi learned the first etches of love from his sister—somewhere between sharing the last piece of bread and sticking butterfly bandages on scraped knees, Megumi decided that to love is someone to protect them at all costs.
He failed at that—he failed her.
Then there was the bizarre white-haired menace that barged into his life and put two choices in front of him. Megumi would be on a burning pyre before he admitted this out loud, but Gojo loves just like he does everything else—erratically, terrifyingly and boundlessly. He’s not good at it, and Megumi was grateful for that.
It was easy enough to shut out Gojo.
The life of a shaman had no place for love. He remembers Gojo’s muffled voice on the phone, more distressed and hopeless than he had ever heard the man, but Megumi was too young to understand. A flash of dark hair and the deep timbre of a shaky voice is all that’s left in his memory, but the late night conversations at the front door and Satoru’s red rimmed eyes in the morning were all good enough reasons for Megumi to learn that love was nothing more than a curse—worse than the kind he was being trained to exorcise.
Even before learning to stitch together compound sentences, Megumi learned that love always comes and goes—but it never leaves without a bitter aftertaste.
Megumi was gifted with greatness, and there was no need for him to make himself digestible enough to be loved. In this world where love had no place, he could redeem respect with his power alone. He learned the jagged edges of revenge and hatred from the way Maki-senpai wields her staff, and watched the remnants of loss chain itself to Okkotsu-senpai in the form of Rika. It’s all familiar—what love and the absence of it shapes a person—and Megumi came out the other end relatively unscathed.
And then, a flash of pink thrumming with the beats of danger bristled past him, and Megumi learned firsthand how love can burn you from the inside out.
They called greed a deadly sin, and Megumi succumbed to its call with the willpower of a starving animal lured in with meat. It was something of a twisted punishment—for all his gloating about never needing anything in his life, the sheer want that curled through his bones nearly knocked Megumi to the ground. He had a mission to carry through, and Megumi went through the motions of chasing down the dark energy condensed into the finger, all while feeling like he had to learn how to breathe all over again.
Itadori Yuuji uprooted his life in ways Megumi will never understand.
The sunlight had ghosted over the soft pink of Itadori’s hair, and nothing else mattered for a moment. There could’ve been a thousand curses swarming through the school grounds and Megumi wouldn’t have cared, and he hates himself for it even now.
Since then, Megumi watched helplessly as the tight knots that held his heart together unraveled one by one with every smile and every touch.
Satoru talks a lot, and most of it is just nonsense that Megumi has learned to tune out, but the things he retains comes back to torture him in the worst of times.
“I kept opening the door, but you’ll probably burn the whole house down.”
Megumi wishes he was strong enough for that.
He was twisting that knife inside himself every moment, because that was love, and a treacherous part of him wanted to drip blood. He doesn’t know how love comes so easily to others—without the suffocating weight of an indescribable dread sitting guard around their hearts.
Instead, he carried around the weight of his longing like a shameful boulder, pushing it into quiet corners of his heart where no one would come looking for. He watched with reverent eyes as the sun caressed Itadori’s skin and the wind ruffled his hair—all while the gap between Megumi’s ribs grew wider and wider to hold all the love he had for the boy. Like a rabid animal, he obsessed over the soft curl of Itadori’s smile and the veins on his neck that were left unkissed. Megumi felt feverish , fated to only want from afar, because the only kind of love he knew was the kind that left him behind.
He had resigned himself to the fate of locking his desires behind deadbolts, and then— everything changed.
It should’ve been an easy mission between the three of them, with not even the possibility of a casualty. As it always goes, luck was not on their side and everything went horribly wrong between one blink and the next. Megumi doesn’t want to forget it—punishing himself with the memory of it seems like the right thing to do. Megumi knows he’s selfish and angry and resentful —unwilling to let go of the chains keeping his heart in place. Itadori rivaled him in that sense, a devotion so boundless and his heart dangling carelessly off his sleeve.
He remembers the dull beats of that same selfless heart, resting on Sukuna’s palm—a chasm where once his life force lived, now open and threatening to swallow Megumi whole.
One day Megumi was chasing the echoes of Itadori’s laughter, and the next, he was standing in soaking rain with nothing but silence to keep him company. His hands still remember the cold caress of Itadori’s skin beneath them, his lovely heart tossed aside like it was worth nothing.
Megumi thinks that was the closest form of death he had ever tasted.
When it was all said and done, Megumi stood there, the world around him hazy and the breath in his chest a lifeless rattle. The weight of defeat had never felt so crushing, mind reeling and scrambling to hear his voice again.
Live a long life, okay?
Megumi couldn’t bring himself to tell Itadori that living wasn’t worth much anymore.
The clouds kept pouring, as though weeping in a way that Megumi’s own calcified heart couldn’t. Steady hands tried to pry Itadori’s body away from him, and Megumi had to let go before he could leave his claw marks on the golden skin. The car ride back was a haze, and Kugisaki didn’t ask any questions, which Megumi was grateful for. He was a fool—thinking he could get away unscathed after letting Itadori into his life. The only way he knew how to live was to not want, and then he was in pieces, rubbed raw and dripping blood from wounds that tore through his heart.
It was all just shades of gray since then, the room on the other side of his wall empty and collecting dust, and Megumi knew he would never be the same.
Then, one early spring afternoon, Megumi was staring back into the same warm brown eyes that haunted his dreams.
He wanted the quiet embrace of relief to engulf him, seeing Itadori beaming at him, but Megumi couldn't have been more wrong. The icy fingers of fear that closed around his heart nearly toppled him over, because he knows how cruel life could be—this could all be some wicked trick and he’d have to watch Itadori fade away once again. Seconds ticked by and nothing changed, but Megumi didn’t dare breathe, watching and waiting like a cornered prey anticipating judgment. He wanted to move—to run towards, or maybe away , from the scene, but his feet were rooted to the spot, his memory flashing back to that rainy evening.
When the dust had settled, Megumi didn't know if he felt better or worse.
The rational part of his mind that was bent and shaped to be a shaman knew this could mean bad news—because miracles like these don't come without a price. He didn't, couldn't, let his guard down and accept this the way everyone else was. There was another part of him—a stubborn, lovesick child—wanting to kick and scream from the crushing weight of the past few months finally sinking in.
He’d never wished for Tsumiki to be around as he had in that moment.
It’s been a whole week now since Itadori’s grand return, and Megumi has been running and running and running.
The abundant resurgence of curses felt like something of a blessing for once, the missions keeping them busy and exhausted. Ieiri-san had told him to take it easy after the incident at the exchange festival, but he had nagged Satoru into finding missions for him—something, anything , to keep him from having to be alone with Itadori. He should've felt bad, but Megumi never claimed to be selfless.
But as it turns out, Megumi has finally run out of his quota of luck.
“Fushiguro?”
Megumi holds his breath, keeping himself still, hoping Itadori would assume he’s not in his room and leave. They didn’t have anything particular today, and Satoru had finally put his foot down and asked them to take a few days off. The hypocrisy was annoying— that idiot would work himself weary but will turn around and tell his students that self-care time is very important , or whatever else nonsense he can come up with. Megumi had woken up before Itadori—which was easy considering Itadori slept in until noon—and went for a run. He even made sure to take an unnecessarily long shower before slipping back into his room.
Satoru wanted him to have self-care time , and hiding from the primary source of his stress—and the biggest subject of his affections—was his only way out.
“Kugisaki wanted to watch a movie,” comes the familiar voice from the other side of the door. “I know you’re in there.”
Shiro whines softly at Itadori’s voice, and Kuro nudges against his foot—both of his dogs are traitors —but Megumi can’t really blame them. He’s not any better than his dogs when it comes to Itadori. He should’ve let the dogs go, but Megumi has been leeching off of the comfort and company they gave him, and it’s unfair to them, but they’re the only things keeping him at least a little bit sane.
“Awh, Fushiguro, come on,” a thump, as though Itadori is leaning his head against the door. “If you want your door still on its hinges, you better come out before Kugisaki finds her hammer.”
Megumi sighs, “I’m not feeling great,” he lies. “Leave me alone.”
There’s a short stretch of silence, and that is enough to send the warning bells ringing in Megumi’s mind.
“Will you just…” Itadori trails off, and Megumi is already tripping over himself, trying to get to the door. “Can you open the door?”
Megumi hates how his arms and legs have minds of their own when it comes to Itadori, and he’s too weak to keep up his composure when Itadori sounds all— worried . He grips the handle, fingers curling tightly around the metal, before pulling the door open.
Shiro and Kuro weasel their way between his legs, promptly trying to attach their paws to Itadori’s shirt. Megumi watches, throat dry and heart desperate to rip itself out of his chest cavity, as Itadori’s hands—too red and scabbed at the knuckles to be this gentle—scratch behind Kuro’s ear and pat over Shiro’s snowy fur. He takes in as much as he can while Itadori is otherwise occupied, eyes roving over the sharp slopes and dark lashes bathed in the fluorescent lights of the hallway.
It’s hard not to be greedy when you love someone so breathtaking.
“I know, I missed you guys too,” Itadori coos, and Megumi wants to punch something.
Itadori glances at him, brows furrowed, and Megumi has the sudden urge to get on his knees and grovel for forgiveness, and maybe summon all of his Shigikami at once—anything to have Itadori smiling again. It’s a line of thought so insanely pathetic, Megumi feels a little sick with how tight of a hold the other boy has on him. Instead, out of sheer spite, he releases the dogs, watching the shadows slip through the gap between Itadori’s fingers.
And now, it’s just them.
“Hey,” Itadori smiles, small and strained. “Are you okay?”
There’s a side of Itadori that Megumi knows like the back of his hand—the carefree, obnoxiously loud-mouthed idiot that he’s always been. He’s been different since he came back—his cursed energy more solid and undeniably stronger, but Megumi can see through that wall of power. There’s an air of grief in his features, and it flickers in and out within the blink of an eye, and Megumi wouldn't have noticed if his pathetic desires didn’t have him devoting his life to taking in every little thing about the other boy. Megumi wants to know what happened when he was away—and maybe hunt down the reason that puts a frown between those brows, because Itadori of all people does not deserve to be weighed down by guilt.
Megumi tries to swallow the lump in his throat, but the words still come out barbed and cracking at the edges, “Yeah, I’m alright.”
Itadori is watching him with an inquisitive glint in his eyes, and Megumi knows he doesn't sound convincing by any means. He wills himself to pull away and shut the door—to pull his heart away from Itadori's call—but a sudden shift and a flurry of steps and Itadori is stepping closer to him.
Megumi’s breath stutters, rattling softly against his ribs.
“You look pale, Fushiguro,” Itadori mumbles, a hand coming up to Megumi’s forehead, palm a feather-light touch against his skin. “I don't think you have a fever, though.”
Megumi has stared down the face of death enough times to last him a lifetime, but this is somehow so much worse. He wants to slap Itadori’s hand away and scowl in protest, but they’re standing so close—just another step and they would be falling into each other. Megumi has always run cold, and Itadori burns like the sun—it’s been warm all around since they first met, in every sense of the word. Megumi can beat himself up over this on another day, because right then, Itadori’s hand is warm against his forehead and he smells like fresh cut grass after a rainy morning, and Megumi feels like his head is reeling .
“I’m…” he trails off, forever caught between saying too much or too little until it's too late.
Itadori’s hand falls away, “I know you're mad at me, and it’s okay,” he smiles softly, a hint of resignation in his voice. “I missed you, but I really wasn't allowed to call.”
He knows it was all Gojo’s idea, and it’s unfair to take it out on Itadori—he knows it was for the better. But, not even having Itadori alive and breathing right in front of his eyes is enough to forget the weeks he had spent holding his heart together with his bare hands, watching it bleed and mend and break over and over. Megumi knows he’s not a child—he never was—but, for once, he wanted to kick up a storm because it's unfair . He didn't want this—he never wanted to worship a crumbling belief, just to be crushed under the inevitable earthquake.
He feels stripped naked— deranged and unsalvageable— under the hold of his desires.
“It's fine,” he lies. “ You're back, that's what matters the most.”
Itadori grins softly, “Will you stop ignoring me now?”
“I didn't—” Megumi fumbles, jaw snapping shut with a click. “I wasn't ignoring you.”
“You so were,” Itadori punches him on the shoulder. “You’d run out of the room anytime we were alone.”
Megumi knows better than to think Itadori is not smart. He is ridiculously observant and understanding, and Megumi feels a little bad for being an asshole. It's a lost cause to try and make Satoru pay, because that idiot doesn't not know the first thing about guilt or remorse—consequences of having the world revolve around you. It isn't fair to make Itadori bear that burden, but no one else saw the red soaking the sand beneath his feet and no one was there to listen to the sickening thud with which Itadori dropped dead. Megumi wants someone to understand what it felt like to—
“I’m really sorry,” Itadori cuts into his thoughts. “Believe me, I am.”
Megumi blinks, taking in the sad droop of Itadori’s mouth and the guilt dulling the sparkle in his eyes—it crawls under his skin like an itch and fills him with the sickening need to beat someone up.
Preferably himself.
Instead, carefully, he suffles closer, trying to catch his gaze. “What?”
“I’m sorry for leaving you like that. I couldn't—” Itadori huffs out a long breath. “I don't know what I would have done if it was—if I lost you. ”
Megumi knows something happened during Itadori’s time away—something that has left a charred mark on the other boy’s usually bright smile. Megumi is the last person to make someone talk about their feelings, especially when it involves the kind of losses that comes with being a sorcerer. To him, those are just warnings and lessons that will in turn make him stronger in the future, but when it comes to Itadori—and call him a hypocrite—he’d rather the other boy not go through even the smallest shadow of pain.
Of course, that’s just a pipe dream.
Even in the middle of all this, Megumi is as selfish and greedy as they come, and he can’t help but preen at how Itadori seems shaken up at the thought of losing him. It’s a little fucked up, but Megumi never claimed to have a morale as sturdy as the other boy does.
“Don’t… It’s not your fault,” Megumi sighs. “This isn't about me. Gojo can be a nightmare but he cares about you and he did what’s best for you.”
Itadori takes every word in, his smile growing with each passing second, and Megumi is willing to get on his knees and grovel for forgiveness for everything he has done and will do wrong in the future.
It’s pathetic, downright humiliating , but Itadori is smiling at him and that’s all that registers in his mind.
Megumi has the sudden urge to reach out and feel the slow beats of Itadori’s heart—just for the sake of his own peace of mind. He shouldn't, but apparently Megumi’s hands have stopped taking signals from his brain because they’re already raised mid-air, hovering in the space between their bodies. Itadori stares at him, and then down at his hand, with wide eyes—and Megumi doesn't even dare to breathe, hoping he’ll get out alive if he stays still enough like a cornered prey.
“It’s okay,” Itadori says, and to make matters worse—grabs Megumi’s hand and plants it over the center of his chest. “See? My heart’s still in working condition.”
And yes, Megumi can feel the scurried beats of Itadori’s heart under his palm—growing louder and faster with every passing second. He can’t attest for the condition of his own poor heart, which probably, definitely, has stopped beating out of sheer shock. It’s not really worth worrying now—not when Itadori is alive and breathing beneath his palm, the heat radiating between their bodies rushing and curling up Megumi’s arm.
He curls his fingers, clutching the fabric of Itadori’s shirt like a lifeline.
“Fushiguro?”
Megumi swallows down the lump in his throat, fighting back the burn behind his eyelids like it’s muscle memory. He doesn't know if he wants to push him away or pull him in—or maybe find the nearest lake and drown himself. Megumi wishes he was strong enough for this, but nothing has ever made sense when it comes to Itadori.
No one has ever had Megumi’s heart in a grip so unforgiving .
Another moment of silence, and then gentle hands are coming up to hold his face between them, leaving Megumi feeling wrecked down to the atom. He wants to be scared—wants to run away like a terrified child—but nothing could rip him away from Itadori’s hands. It’s so easy , and yet the most terrifying moment of his life, but Megumi feels so whole in a way nothing or no one has ever made him feel. His resolve crumbles like a deck of cards, and Megumi wants him more than wants to breathe.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” Itadori sighs softly. “I understand if you can’t forgive me, Fushiguro.”
There is only so much Megumi can take, and the pain and resignation in Itadori's voice is the final straw.
“Megumi,” he corrects, mind a hazy mess as he blinks down at Itadori.
Itadori’s fingers flex against the juncture of his jaw, “What?”
“You can call me Megumi,” he reiterates, because forgiveness isn’t something he dishes out to just about anyone, but for Itadori, Megumi would lay down his life.
“Megumi,” Yuuji murmurs, his smile growing soft, and oh, Megumi likes everything about this. “Now, It’s only fair that you call me Yuuji.”
“Alright, Yuuji,” Megumi huffs, so disgustingly fond of the boy holding his heart hostage.
The given name feels so foreign on his tongue, and somehow still so right . Megumi does not feel brave, and he has everything to lose, but Itadori— Yuuji is looking up at him with those warm brown eyes and the quiet tilt of a smile that feels like a shared secret.
“Can I ask for one more thing?”
Megumi nods, static clouding his mind, “Anything.”
Yuuji’s eyes flicker down to his lips, and Megumi knows he is undeserving of it. That doesn't stop him from wanting more— wanting it all. They are almost nose-to-nose now, having shuffled closer at some point unknown to the both of them.
“Yeah,” Megumi tugs him in with his grip on his shirt. “Yuuji—”
And that’s all he manages to rush out before Yuuji’s lips silence him.
It’s not a perfect kiss by any means. It’s clumsy and hurried, and one of them—or maybe both of them—are shaking a little. Megumi doesn't know what it must feel like for Yuuji, but he stomps down the nagging little voice in his head, instead pulling Yuuji closer like he can carve a space in himself for the other boy. He feels the curve of Yuuji’s smile against his lips, leaving him delirious with how addicting it is. Megumi is standing on the ledge, holding onto Yuuji with everything he has—hoping he would never have to let go.
It’s a demand so greedy, but Megumi wants him all the same.
Megumi learns quickly enough that there is no limit to his love—it rises and crests, breaking the scale until all he can think about is the strong hands that hold him together. It wasn't ever in Megumi’s wildest dreams to feel love like this, with his cruel hands born to fight and destiny shaped the moment he sprouted into existence. He doesn't want any of it—not the power or glory—but he will gladly carry that burden if it gives him the strength to shield Yuuji from anything that dares to touch him.
“Yuuji,” he breathes against the space between their mouths, wanting to drown in the taste of sugar and strawberries, and never come back up.
He’s grateful that Yuuji doesn't seem to want to let him go.
“Mhm,” Yuuji hums, cheeks tinted a deep shade of pink. “Hi, Megs.”
Megumi can’t help it—he laughs, dropping his head down to Yuuji’s shoulder and clinging onto him. He can feel embarrassed about it another time, because Yuuji is so close and nothing else really matters.
“Okay, I’m revoking your rights,” he huffs, breathless with this unfamiliar feeling of satisfaction.
“Awh, come on,” Yuuji complains, nudging him until Megumi lifts his head to meet his gaze. “Don’t be like that, ‘Gumi.”
Megumi shoves him softly, his fingers never letting go of Yuuji’s shirt. It’s clear that his time with Satoru has rubbed off on him, and it isn't his worst nightmare. But, as it seems, it doesn't irritate him when Yuuji is the one picking on him—not when the boy is looking back at him with wide brown eyes and kiss-bruised lips. He opens his mouth to chide him, unable to bite down the smile tugging at his lips—and that’s when he registers the shift in cursed energy behind Yuuji, and—
Oh, no.
“Holy shit,” Kugisaki whispers, arms hanging uselessly by her side and mouth hanging open.
Megumi wants to tell her to close her mouth or she’ll catch flies, but he’s too busy freaking out over—well, everything. They don't jump apart as much as just slowly lose their iron grip on eachother, knowing there’s no way out of it. If it was any other day, Megumi would have taken time to admire the red tinting the tips of Yuuji’s ears.
“ Holy shit, ” Kugisaki repeats, but this time her lips stretch into a creepy grin and she backs away with slow steps before turning around and sprinting down the hallway.
“Gojo-sensei!”
Megumi closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing.
“Hey,” Yuuji nudges him. “We don't have to tell him.”
“I think Kugisaki has that part covered.”
“We can just deny it. Do you think Gojo-sensei will believe us?”
“No, I don’t,” Megumi trails off, watching the soft tinge of insecurity in Yuuji’s eyes. “Yuuji, I don’t care who knows. I mean, if you don’t want to then—”
He hates that Yuuji even thinks Megumi would ever be ashamed to have and hold someone so precious. If anything, he feels unworthy of this, because Yuuji is the personification of everything good in this world—everything Megumi is willing to fight for.
“No, I— yeah. I don't care, either,” Yuuji smiles, soft and so pretty. “I mean, I care about you, obviously— but I’m not ashamed or anything, I could never be—”
“Yuuji,” he cuts his rambling off. He’s always found Yuuji’s ramblings to be adorable , but Megumi’s own face is starting to turn a worrying shade of red and he’s not sure how much more he can take before he collapses. “It’s okay— I know .”
“Alright,” Yuuji grins, hands winding around Megumi’s shoulders. “How long do you think we have before Gojo-sensei teleports here?”
It’s only his nature to fret and mull over everything that could go wrong—everything that could rip Yuuji away from him. The sick voices in his head would come rumbling sooner or later. But, with Yuuji’s warm eyes and happy smile clouding his vision, even with the windows boarded up, spring would still bloom in his bedroom. It’s as easy as breathing to push aside the thoughts—so he reaches out to shut the door behind them with his foot and guides Yuuji to press against the wood.
“Let’s find out.”