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morning starts with megumi flinching under the sun.
he turns in his bed; tosses the bedsheets away because it’s too warm inside. the window must be open even if he remembers closing it before; probably a gojo-sensei’s untoward occurrence since he insists that his room needs more natural—
megumi touches the sun. a warm hand. itadori’s.
he opens his eyes.
itadori’s mouth writhes when he sleeps. nightmares. megumi mechanically averts the fist flying upwards on time and gently sets his arm down, crossing it over the other one on top of itadori’s chest.
“who are you fighting now?” he mumbles. itadori is mute except for a subsequent groan. not a name. megumi solemnly assigns it one in his place.
“you’ll win,” he adds, and stops himself from speaking further because it’s futile (itadori is asleep—soundly. too far away).
there’s a whimper. the hand megumi set before clutches the mattress now. megumi’s forearm follows.
it’s a cry for help.
megumi is too familiar with them. he knows how to do the work too.
it’s time to wake up.
you see, it used to be quite easy to wake itadori up. it took a simple pinch, a shove, and itadori would backtrack with groggy eyes from his spot on megumi’s shoulder, only warmness lingering. lately, it’s more like tsumiki and megumi waking up gojo from the few times they ever saw him sleep. nightmares, he knew it back then too, though it was only tsumiki who called them like that, after mortifiedly watching gojo turn and frown in his sleep. megumi digressed bluntly: gojo’s brain must be fried up after limitless and the six eyes. all the exhaustion probably also affects his way of reasoning, and then he eats all that trash to make up for it that only messes up his head more and his personality… don’t look at me like that. you’re right. gojo’s obnoxious personality has nothing to do with him being tired. that’s simply because he’s an... why are you still looking at me like that?
like what?
like you want to console me too.
megumi still helped tsumiki carry that heavy bowl filled with water to the trim and waited until she counted to pour it over gojo’s head. it was exciting; an absolute entertainment for megumi on the only occasion that actually worked, a dread on the ones in which it didn’t and gojo used it as a running joke for days to make fun of megumi. anyway better than admitting that even gojo satoru has nightmares and he never told megumi about them.
i’m not hurt.
megumi doesn’t use water to wake itadori up. it’s exciting and dreadful as well, though.
he touches him; a hand hesitantly caresses his cheek. itadori’s warm face reacts to the cold.
“fushiguro.”
megumi backs away. itadori is looking at him. the hand on his forearm shakes for a second before it lets go completely.
(even further now).
“sorry” itadori says. he’s sweating, his eyes bleary, but the smile he gives megumi is too bare and honest, “i barged in last night because i couldn’t sleep. i shouldn’t have.”
megumi can only nod, and he doesn’t particularly mean to say it, but it’s a hot morning and itadori is abed next to him, physically close. alive. and megumi himself might still be dreaming because there’s the sun and then there’s itadori’s hand under it, just as warm. so it comes out as a mumble, a quiet demand for it not to end yet (because megumi never prays. not to anyone. it’s futile when god doesn’t exist for you and you were born a jujutsu sorcerer meant to be the one who saves the world), “you do that a lot lately.”
(itadori inquiring with genuine interest: who saves you then?)
itadori’s smile flutters. his chuckle is once again a tad bright, “come here uninvited?”
he does that very often too, but what megumi means is simply: “have trouble sleeping.”
(who else but ourselves?)
surprisingly, itadori looks relieved. he stretches both of his arms upwards, though he shows no intention of standing, “oh, yeah, that. gojo-sensei says it’s a normal aftereffect.”
“i thought sukuna—“
“of dying” itadori interrupts him, laughing. megumi is appalled, and it must be too obvious since itadori’s tone abruptly sobers up, “uh, apparently that messes you up somehow. i’m not sure of the specifics.”
tough, megumi thinks of saying. maybe a simple hum. he remains quiet instead. first a second, then the enough for him to realize that the conversation has turned too awkward for it to be continued.
itadori does sit on the bed this time. the concealer that kugisaki lent him the other day is smeared on his cheeks, a shadow creeping under it. megumi pretends he doesn’t see it.
it’s the first time they openly talk about itadori and his nightmares.
megumi is not hurt.
“sorry” itadori repeats. megumi realizes he didn’t tell him it was fine before. it seems too late for that as well, so there’s no reassurement either now, “i didn’t want to wake you up and i was supposed to leave before the morning.”
“you never wake up on time,” megumi cuts him off almost mid-word. it’s not a chide, but it comes out slightly crossly, which it shouldn’t have because it’s too futile. itadori is alive, and megumi should stop the current of thoughts pulling him again, but it was less than a week ago that they were there and megumi still remembers them (still remembers itadori being the furthest from him—sacred, fated, dead): you were lying on the rain, both of us without a heart, and i thought—
“you’re still angry at us?” itadori commiserates, seeing right through him.
—you’ll come back somehow to me.
megumi replies easily with stealth, “he should’ve told us.” me.
i knew the procedure for getting rid of your belongings after kugisaki and i cleared your room. all those crumbled mangas and clothes would be disposed of. someone would come later to confirm you hadn’t hidden anything under the floorboards or the roof, which was a joke because gojo was the one who allotted himself to be the one who watched us while we cleaned so we wouldn’t manipulate anything.
and we did.
“gojo-sensei said that the less people knew, the less chances i had from being caught before i was ready.”
megumi nonchalantly scoffs, “we can keep a secret just fine.” me. he knows it. he knows me.
we took your pictures.
“i heard you still aren’t talking to him” a nod. itadori makes a pause, waiting. no response comes. he laughs again, no trace of mirth this time, “so, you’re still angry at us.”
megumi has no choice but to clarify: “just him” itadori glances at him; bare, guilty. alive. it’s not enough and megumi must have been really too somber about it, so he forces himself to continue in a more amicable tone: “the higher ups are after you and you did what you were told would be the best. but he was here the entire time after it happened. he knew i was the one who had to carry your body. that i picked up your heart because it could not possibly be left there, so i wrapped it on my jacket and…”
the bedsheets are almost twisted. megumi takes a hold of himself just in time. breathe.
you’re not hurt.
“and?”
itadori is looking at him in a way he’s never done before.
megumi swallows, “he knew i was the one who had to write the mission report about how you died.” he asked me twice about the time of your death because he knew that i had my doubts since i couldn’t remember how long i stood there before i could do something.
he knows me.
and he let me suffer.
i am not hurt.
“wow” itadori’s voice is muffled and stiff, as if he’s scared of hurting megumi even more saying anything. unfocused eyes, guilty. guilty, “fushiguro, i—i’m sorry. y… you didn’t mention any of this before. i didn’t think—“
“what?” megumi takes the burden of speaking, “that i wouldn’t mourn you?”
“that you would go through all of that on your own.”
“i didn’t” he’s quick to lie refute itadori, “ijichi-san drove us here and called shoko-san to check on you. kugisaki helped me clean your room. gojo-sensei came back the next morning. he was here.”
itadori’s expression doesn’t change. megumi needs to step up his game.
“i trained with the second grades for the goodwill event every day and worked on my missions” he lists as well, “i was busy.”
he knows like who he sounds exactly like. that’s how he’s sure it’ll work. specially on someone like itadori who respects people’s boundaries because he’s good like that (the second heart he grew is the same as the first—megumi could make a sick comment about how he’s so familiar with itadori’s heart because he’s slept next to the new one, hold the old one, but he’s not as cynical as gojo. not yet, at least. he might be when older. probably worse even).
”how busy?” itadori wonders after a beat of silence. hopeful. a smile slithering on his now relaxed face.
“very busy” megumi says, “i couldn’t read anything.”
”wow. what?” itadori is far too surprised, but megumi appreciates the effort to bring the mundanity back. he’s better than megumi at it; less artificial and kinder, “but you’re the most voracious reader i’ve met!”
”voracious?”
”i got that from a movie” itadori tilts his head, thinking. his face lights up after a brief instant, “you’re a connoisseur of books, fushiguro!” he declares, proud of himself, and somehow, of megumi too.
he doesn’t mean to, but he laughs. after a second, as if acknowledging he’s allowed, itadori laughs alongside him.
it’s still too warm inside megumi’s room. somewhere in his chest too, and the hand that’s close to the sun sprawled on the bedsheets; itadori’s fingers on a reachable distance. here.
megumi doesn’t bother closing the window.
“next time i’ll make sure to haunt you” itadori says, lying down once again, “like a ghost or something.”
megumi grimaces, thinking on okkotsu, “saying you want to become a curse and haunt me is—“
“messed up, i know.”
“too much trouble. just… don’t ever die again,” megumi struggles to not sound too desperate about it, for it not to sound like a prayer because he’s a jujutsu sorcerer and no one—
“alright” itadori smiles. bare, warm. so alive and close. megumi doesn’t flinch anymore, “i won’t die.”
(itadori, never dithering: that’s so sentimental of you, fushiguro! but i guess you’re right;
i’ll save you!)
megumi is hurt. he’s lying under the sun too.