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“You can see them, can’t you?”
Megumi can. Behind the tall man with white hair are two boys. White and black, two fish swimming above and between, circling in a dance. One slings his arm over the other's shoulders. One laughs. One smiles.
“Hey, kid.” The man snaps his fingers in Megumi’s face and the fish swim away, in opposite directions. The man’s got an even weirder look on his face. It’s irritating.
“What do you want?”
Light reflects off black.
i. stars should stay stars
The apartment was never quiet when —— was there. —— wasn’t around very often, and wouldn’t stay very long when he was. —— wouldn’t speak outside of simple commands or requests, glances cast in Tsumiki’s direction (never Megumi’s). He didn’t need to.
—— move into a room, and the memories would play behind. A woman smiling, —— grinning, something in her arms, —— poking a finger at it gently. Or it’d ripple like water in a cup and it’d be an empty room with no one but ——, with nothing but the sounds of cicadas and distant sliding doors being shut.
“What are you looking at.”
Megumi dragged his gaze to ——, staring at the scar on his lip rather than his eyes. Megumi poked at his rice with his spoon.
“Nothing,” he answered.
But then he left. And now he’s gone. And for a bit, the apartment was quiet, just Megumi and Tsumiki and nothing else.
Then, Gojō Satoru. betta fish swim through the air.
Megumi likes watching them chase each other.
“Megumi!”
He jolts and glares at Gojō. “What?”
“I asked you a question, didn’t you hear me?”
“Yes. Or no. Or sorry that happened, or I don’t care.”
“Megumi!”
He ignores Gojō, or the Gojō he knows is real, and not the replay of a different time when he laughed like he was breathing and someone else laughed along with him. The not real Gojō— the one that’s younger but not terribly so and the differences between the him or now and then are harder to pick apart— that Gojō grabs the other boy’s hands and ripples in and out of focus, dancing around the living room and Megumi half forgets the math problem he’s supposed to be doing and the question he was being asked. Gojō flicks his forehead.
“What?”
It’s always a little weird, staring at two black circles instead of eyes. Megumi thinks his glasses look stupid, and Gojō never fails to take offense to that.
“Pay attention to me!”
“Why do you act like you’re 5?”
“Oh, that’s rich coming from the 4-year-old.”
“I’m 7.”
“And I don’t give a shit.” Gojō leans over the coffee table and sneers down at Mevumi’s homework, betta fish swimming around his head in lazy loops. “Number 3 is wrong.”
Megumi swats at the air to dispel the fish into ripples of nothingness and almost feels bad when Gojō’s mouth twitches down and he looks a little lost. “Get away from me!”
Gojō sticks his tongue out and all the sympathy vanishes. “Screw you brat, I hope you get them all wrong.” He stomps out of the room, taking the distant sounds of surreal laughter and crashing waves with him.
It’s silent now. Megumi looks back at his homework.
3 x 0 = __
He drums his pencil against the paper in a rhythm he’s never really heard, but knows by heart. In another room, Gojō taps his foot.
Megumi is 7 and there are a few things he knows about the world.
- Nothing good ever lasts.
He first learned this on a hot summer day, when the ice cream he’d been licking fell on his shorts in one giant glop. Megumi stared at it, the taste of vanilla still on his tongue.
“Oh no,” she said softly before she knelt in front of him and scooped it off, “you’re ice cream fell.”
Megumi scrunched his face, unsure of what to feel at the time but only mildly disappointed that he wouldn’t get to finish the rest. He looked up at her, but he couldn’t remember what she looked like. She looked a little like Megumi, he thinks, with black spiky hair and blue eyes. But she always said he looked just like—
He asked if he could get another one but she only said “maybe”. He wonders, if there’s another person who can see like Megumi, would they see her crouching behind him holding another ice cream cone?
2. No one ever stays.
The memories behind Gojō always loop. Someone always leaves, and Gojō is alone.
It doesn’t remind Megumi of anything, it doesn’t. He looks away and pretends that the worst thing he can see is curses.
3. Tsumiki is the only exception.
And he refuses to accept any other truth.
Another Megumi is standing behind Tsumiki.
A memory, playing like it was recorded on a phone camera, of a time they made dinner together, when it was just them two. Megumi of now watches the memory of himself cutting onions and refusing to cry while Tsumiki of then laughed too hard and cut her thumb. The image ripples, fades at the edges, and his sister is all that’s left, perched on the edge of her bed and reading a book, surrounded by the afterimage of flowers.
“Nee-chan.”
She hums without looking up and turns a page.
“Will you leave one day?”
Tsumiki flinches, and peers at Megumi. She frowns. “No, never.”
Megumi wonders about that. Tsumiki moves closer to him and grabs his hands, holding them tightly.
“I won’t leave you, I promise.” She links their pinkies together.
“How do you know that you’ll keep it?” Megumi asks. Memories always end the same, and no one ever stays.
Tsumiki smiles. “Because I love you.”
“And which escape attempt is this, Megumi-chan?”
Megumi turns to glare at the man over his shoulder, meeting creepy glowing blue eyes and a tilted smirk with as much fire as his face can muster.
Gojō shivers dramatically. “Oh so scary~”
“Leave me alone,” Megumi snaps.
“To climb out the window and into the night?” Gojō wanders forward, lifting Megumi from where he’s perched on the window sill by the handle on his backpack and slamming the window shut. “Like hell I will.”
Megumi doesn’t bother struggling, knowing it isn’t worth the humiliation, so he dangles in the air and crosses his arms over his chest. “It isn’t like you care anyway.”
Gojō shrugs and Megumi bites the inside of his cheek to keep his eyes from stinging. “Maybe, but what if Tsumiki-chan does?”
He’s set down on his bed with more care than he was expecting. It’s silent and Megumi tries not to squirm.
“She’ll be fine without me.”
There’s a stretch of infinite time where no one says anything. Megumi peers up at Gojō, who’s got a strange look on his face, like he’s bitten into a candy he was expecting to be sweet but found it sour. He smoothes out his expression quickly and runs a hand down his face, making him look a lot older than Megumi knows he is. He wonders why Gojō was awake so late anyway.
“You’re so–” Gojō pinches his cheek Megumi yelps and tries to punch him but his fist stops inches away from Gojō’s stomach. “Don’t say shit you don’t mean, brat.”
“I mean it! She’d be–”
Gojō pinches his cheek again, but his tone isn’t playful. “Stop.”
Megumi freezes. A memory plays. A new one. —— there (why why why), standing, a big hole carved out of his side, blood dripping like the ketchup Tsumiki puts on his eggs, a big knife in —— hand like the one Gojō uses to peel his apples, and —— ——says– ——saying–
Blessing.
Arms are warm, especially when they’re wrapped tightly around, holding, and Megumi doesn’t want to ever move. He misses this. He doesn’t remember a time someone besides Tsumiki held him like this to miss it. He misses this.
“Damn it Megumi,” Gojō whispers, sounding raw in a way that Megumi doesn’t think he was ever supposed to hear, “just. Stay.”
When he doesn’t respond, Gojō’s hold loosens. Megumi hugs him back and doesn’t let go.
It's New Year’s Eve and they get KFC for dinner. Or, Gojō sends Megumi and Tsumiki into the KFC with his credit card, telling them to get whatever they want in a voice that makes him sound like there’s something stuck in his throat. He vanishes from sight when they step through the doors.
Tsumiki orders for them and the cashier is nice and has a memory behind her that sounds like bells ringing and kid cousins gathered around a pile of presents, so she brings them their food. Tsumiki kicks his shins under the table and Megumi sips his soda and kicks her back. She giggles and throws rolled-up paper at his face. Megumi lets her.
When they’re finished, she holds his hand and leads him outside. Gojō isn’t anywhere nearby and Tsumiki wants to go look at the Christmas lights nearby so they go there. There are lots of memories floating around, warm and golden-colored. Lots of people’s memories are bright, watching the snow falling, eating cookies, pretty lights, and laughter. Megumi trails after Tsumiki, focused on a memory of an old lady sitting on the park bench, of a young girl and a teenager holding hands and catching snowflakes on their tongues. Megumi squeezes Tsumiki’s hand.
“Yea?” she asks, blinking in the soft lights.
“Nothing,” he says, remembering to imprint the feeling of her hand in his mind.
They’re drinking hot chocolate when Gojō appears with a few shopping bags in hand. He pulls out a scarf that he wraps around Tsumiki who happily accepts it and coos about how pretty it looks, then shoves a penguin hat over Megumi’s hair, pushing strands into his face. Gojō tilts his head, considering.
“What,” Megumi deadpans.
Gojō snorts. “You look like a smaller version of a man I hate.” He grabs the two dangling bits of the hat and squeezes them, making the arms of the penguin flap. Gojō cackles. “Oh I’m so glad I had kids.”
Megumi moves away. “We’re not your kids.”
Gojō has a habit of blinking slowly, and Megumi read somewhere that cats do the same when they’re comfortable. He stares for a beat, then smiles brightly before he scoops Megumi up and sits him on his shoulders.
“Keep telling yourself that, Gumi~chyan.”
They make it home when the sun starts setting. Tsumiki wants to stay up until 12, so after refusing a cup of coffee from Gojō, the three of them settle on the couch with Gojō in the middle and the TV playing some New Year’s program. Megumi watches with little interest and eventually, his eyelids get too heavy to keep open, so he blinks and doesn’t open them.
There’s a poke to his cheek. “Megumi-chan.”
He furrows his eyebrows and burrows closer to the pillar of warmth he’s leaning against.
“Megumi-chyan~”
He opens his eyes, eventually, and looks up. Gojō smiles at him, his eyes just blue, not glowing or anything. Flowers bloom on the other side of him, the memory of them floating over Tsumiki as she sleepily watches the screen.
“Happy New Year.”
Megumi glances at the TV, the time reading 12:00 am. Two betta fish swim above the TV, the white one with two small angelfish swimming after it. He huffs quietly as they ripple into nothing.
“Happy New Year, Gojō-san.”
ii. accept the things you can change.
[December 24, 2017: University of Tokyo Hospital, Room XXX — 11:48 pm]
Hospital rooms are cold for a reason. There is a boy in this one, learning this. Learning this as he does all things, through experience.
He learns this holding a hand that he worries will grow cold the second he lets go so he holds tighter. It’s futile. The room is cold and she will grow cold, eventually, as most do in hospital rooms. The boy readjusts her blanket. It warms her, just a bit.
The door opens and a man enters, face carefully blank and eyes hidden. He holds a bouquet and speaks to the boy, words of encouragement spoken in a gentle tone that does not sound natural, that does not sound steady. The boy does not acknowledge him, does not turn around and the man attempts to touch him, to graze his fingertips against the boy’s back, but something stops him from touching. A gap between them that cannot be breached.
He drops his hand.
The flowers are placed by the window, as they always are in hospital rooms, and the man seems to stand guard by the girl’s bed, staring down at her, acting as a silent sentinel. His eyes stay hidden.
The boy asks a question about the prognosis and the man responds without answering and they come to a standstill. The man asks another question, to fill the silence, to fill the time, and the boy answers with a question in turn that is cutting and mean and while the words he says are irrelevant, what he is asking about is leaving, is love.
The man cannot give him a proper answer, either because he does not know or he knows too well. His eyes stay hidden.
Hospital rooms are cold, and the memories of conversations much like this one remain frozen in the air as a suspended snowfall of emotions. It is Christmas Eve, stars dot the sky and the moon is beautiful, isn’t it?
The boy watches snow fall and land on the tip of the girl’s nose, dotting it white for a split second, memories dancing across her skin until they’re nothing.
He asks a question about love, but there is no answer.
iii. the moon is beautiful...
“So you’re like, a medium or something?”
Megumi sighs and sips his coffee. Yūji has too much energy for how early it is.
“No. It’s not ghosts, they’re peoples’ memories, they’re emotions, overlaps of the two.”
Yūji strokes his chin, such exaggerated thinking and Megumi smiles into his mug. “So… like the opposite of curses.”
Not exactly, because the memories aren’t always happy. But, it’s close enough. Megumi downs the rest of his coffee as he sees a memory of Yūji in some junior high club meeting, reading manga and laughing too hard. It’s blurry at the edges like Yūji’s brain isn’t quite able to render the details of the scene, but it’s rose-colored and sweet and makes the coffee taste that much more bitter.
“Oh, Kugisaki-chan! Good morning!”
Nobara stumbles into the kitchen, still in her pajamas and half-asleep which makes Megumi wonder why she even got out of bed. She waves tiredly in their general direction.
“It’s -san, we’re grown men, Itadori-chan,” she reprimands as she nudges the refrigerator door open and scans the shelves with determination. “Why are you bozos awake at this ungodly hour?”
Itadori hops atop a counter and swings his legs back and forth. “We have a mission in an hour, remember?”
“Pft, of course I do.” She opens a carton of milk, takes a sniff, then winces. “Hey, why didn’t anyone throw this out? It’s spoiled.”
“That’s your milk, Kugisaki-chan.”
“It’s -san!”
She grabs orange juice and slams the fridge shut. Nobara wanders over and hands Yūji the milk while pouring herself a glass of juice while Yūji, almost instinctively, throws the carton across the room. It lands perfectly in the trash with a thunk, and Yūji hardly even notices his superhuman feat. He scares Megumi often.
“Fushiguro can see ghosts!” Yūji announces.
Megumi puts his mug in the sink and starts washing it. “They aren’t ghosts. They’re–”
“No wonder you’re so emo,” Nobara cuts in, “wait… are you, like, psychic?”
Yūji hums consideringly. “An ESPER?”
Nobara knocks her fist in an open palm. “Bruce Willis!”
“Oh! The Sixth Sense–”
“Oi! No spoilers!”
“You brought up the movie!”
It’s way too early for their energy. Behind Nobara is a younger version of her, with her natural dark hair, and two other girls, one her age and the other older. They’re braiding hair, Nobara speaking elegantly, like she was raised with manners rather than by wolves. Megumi didn’t know she could french braid.
“I can see the replay of old memories,” Megumi tosses out for Nobara to hear if she’s still even paying attention. “Like when you learned how to French braid.”
That gets her attention. Her gaze snaps to him, eyes widening and narrowing like she’s some cartoon character while she holds a confused Yūji by the collar. She frowns.
“That’s so weird, it’s like having X-ray vision and seeing everyone in their underwear.”
He feels a vein pop in his temple. “Don’t compare it to that!”
Yūji shudders. “That’s a horrible thought, Kugisaki-shan.”
“Now it’s -shan!?” She yells and they’re back at it.
Life is like this and Megumi can’t complain. Yūji inches closer to closer, so close and not close enough, and he and Nobara bicker like that’s what they were born to do. And maybe they were, with the way their memories overlap, recalling moments of tormenting Megumi behind them without knowing. It’s really sweet.
“You’re weirdly smiley today,” Nobara tilts her head and squints, “did Yūji finally confess?”
Yūji’s face turns as pink as his hair and he blabbers out something Megumi can barely hear over the rushing of blood to his head. He’s suddenly extremely aware of the lack of space between them, the way Yūji’s arm brushes against his when he moves, that if he moved his pinky just a tiny bit, they’d link together. The thought is tempting, especially when Yūji’s looking at him the way he is now like Megumi’s answered a question he’s been burning to ask.
Unfortunately, Gojō saunters into the room before Megumi can even begin to analyze that thought and decides to give his two cents with “Nobara, you’re supposed to let them pine endlessly for each other until they explode from the overwhelming feeling of pure, youthful love.”
Nobara makes a face. “You talk like you have experience with that exact situation.”
“Why do you sound so disbelieving?”
“I think we both know the answer to that.”
“So mean!” Gojō ruffles Yūji’s hair and decides to use Megumi’s head as his armrest. “Yūji-kun, your classmate is so mean to me!”
Yūji scratches his cheek sheepishly. “Sorry sensei, but I have to agree with Kugisaki-sama on this one.”
Gojō gasps, affronted, while Nobara nods, pleased with the new honorific. Megumi is just wondering why Gojō is even here when he’s supposed to be in Kyoto on a mission until a bag is hung in his face. Gojō winks at him, or tilts his head so exaggeratedly he must be trying to signal something with his eyes at Megumi. Megumi rolls his eyes and snatches the bag.
“Takoyaki?”
“Souvenirs,” Gojō explains, then pulls out two key chains of dogs, one black and the other white, and dangles them. “These made me think of you~”
“Sensei! Did you get us anything?” Yūji asks.
This is Gojō’s cue to spin around and present Yūji and Nobara with their gifts, which they coo over. Nobara makes plans to show it to Maki, and Gojō and Yūji talk excitedly about some weird, random movie that’s coming out soon. Betta, lionfish, mandarin fish, angel fish swim laps around the kitchen as the early morning light brightens the room. Megumi fiddles with the keychains, holding them to his chest.
“Did you know Megumi can see ghosts?” Nobara asks Gojō as she munches lazily on a slice of toast.
Gojō tilts his head in Megumi’s direction. “Hm? Is that why you’re always staring off at nothing? I always thought it was just ‘cause you were ignoring me.”
Megumi sighs and pockets the keychains. “It’s not ghosts, they’re memories. And I am ignoring you.”
Gojō slaps a hand to his chest and gasps. “Heartbreaking!” There’s a beat, and Megumi wonders if his eyes weren’t covered, what his stare would look like. If he’d even blink at all. “What kind of memories do you usually see, Megumi?”
There’s no way of telling him. Of saying the best and worst moments of your life, when you seemed happiest, happier than me or Tsumiki ever made you, when there was another boy, when you touched everything and everyone freely, when he left.
But Megumi doesn’t need to say anything at all, because Nobara says, “probably the countless times you’ve been rejected.”
There’s a split second between her words and Gojō’s reaction when it seems like his expression won’t match the levity of his words and maybe he’ll say something real. But that second ends, and Gojō taps his chin and the show goes on.
“I seem to suddenly remember one of my credit cards missing…”
Nobara jolts and chokes on her pastry. She abruptly stands and murmurs some gibberish excuse for leaving about needing to get ready before bolting out of the kitchen. Gojō’s smile is entirely self-satisfied.
He claps. “Well, you three have a mission in 30 minutes that you don’t want to be late for, and I have a mission right now that I’m already late for. You know the drill: don’t die, work together, and have fun!”
Yūji salutes. “You too, Gojō-sensei!”
“Thank you, Itadori-kun!” Gojō announces, saluting back. He turns to Megumi and waits.
Megumi could say a lot, should, but he can’t. Doesn’t. He says, “Don’t finish too fast, I like having the apartment to myself.”
He doesn’t. Megumi hates the silence. Gojō knows. His smile turns a little softer, a little more genuine.
“I’ll try not to.” And he’s gone.
“We should start getting ready,” Yūji says as he stretches then walks over to sit beside Megumi again, practically glued to his side, their hands inches apart.
“Not leaving?”
“Nah, I’ll go when you go.”
Yūji curls his pinky around Megumi’s, then leans against his side and closes his eyes, still smiling. Idiot, should’ve gone back to his room if he was going to sleep. Megumi watches his chest rise and fall, breaths even out, the overlaps playing behind them fade. Like watching the sunset.
- Nothing good ever lasts.
The kitchen is empty. Yūji doesn’t stop at the threshold, just marches right in. Megumi stops, then follows.
Yūji is on a mission. He’s efficient in his search for a bowl, for a spoon, for a can of soup he opens and heats up, then pours and drinks with an intensity soup drinking doesn’t warrant. It must have burned his mouth, it looked like it was still boiling when he transferred it into the bowl. There are tears in Yūji’s eyes. Megumi turns away.
He opens the fridge and eyes the mostly empty shelves. They never went grocery shopping before Halloween. There’s a carton of milk in the door. Megumi squints at the fine print, then opens and smells it. Sour. He wrinkles his nose.
“Who’s milk is this?”
Yūji stops eating. “…——.”
Oh.
Megumi hands it to Yūji, who stares at the label before throwing it in the trash.
iv. ...isn't it?
Start by saving me.
Megumi buries his face in the pillow and groans.
“Megumi?”
It’s still strange hearing his given name out of Yūji’s mouth. It’s the smallest change, and he told Yūji he could use it, but now, in this hotel room with Hana and Angel, sharing a bed with Yūji whispering his name in the shell of his ear, he doesn’t like it. He regrets it and adds it to the ever-growing list.
“Megumi.”
“Yūji.”
“Oh.” The mattress shifts and Yūji’s voice is distant. “You’re awake.”
A given. He can’t remember the last time he slept through the night.
(Oh he remembers he remembers. 2 weeks ago, 14 days ago, on Halloween morning when Yūji jumped onto his bed and wiggled under his covers and begged Megumi to dress up with him and —— as Naruto characters.
—— wants to be Naruto, he’d giggled, you can be Sasuke, I’ll be Sakura, and Gojō-sensei is already Kakashi! Come on, Fushiguro!
He remembers he remembers, and he’s glad he can’t see his own memories, his own overlaps)
“Yea.” Megumi takes a deep breath. He moves the blanket and sees Yūji’s back, his body silently shaking. Megumi stares at his silhouette in the dark, at the unfolding of angel fish and jellyfish and muffled whispers of indecipherable words around him.
“Your birthday is next month, isn’t it?”
It’s terrifying how calm Yūji can keep his voice. How level his tone is, never rising or falling to give away his emotions. If he wasn’t staring at Yūji’s back, seeing how his body can hardly contain everything, Megumi wouldn’t think anything was wrong. He doesn’t want to see his face. He’s glad he sat up.
“It is,” Megumi says.
“16, huh?” Yūji tilts his head up, the crown of pink facing Megumi. He takes a deep, quiet breath, and never lets it out. “It’ll be better than 15, I think.”
I hope. Megumi raises his hand, slowly, expecting Yūji to sense his hand, to flinch away, to vanish into the overlap of a memory of the crater that was Shibuya and a subway where —— smiles at him and —— encourages him. Yūji leans forward, too far into the slowly sharpening images, fish swimming faster around him, water rising and rising above his ankles to his knees.
Megumi presses his palm to Yūji’s back. Yūji stills.
“Yūji. Ah.”
Megumi squeezes his eyes shut, leans forward, and rests his forehead on the plane of Yūji’s shoulder. He turns his hand, the pad of his thumb pressed to his spine, fingertips gracing the bottom of his ribs. The bones are there, together, real. He hears the memory of murderer, die, and Megumi presses harder and speaks into Yūji’s back.
“I want to celebrate it at school. I want… I want to see Tsumiki, since she’s awake and I just haven't had the chance to and I’ve been taking care of her flower garden and—” He bites his lip. “In a month. What do you think?”
Stay stay stay promise you’ll stay. And maybe Megumi is a hypocrite for asking that of Yūji, but he can’t lose him too.
Yūji turns around and then throws himself into Megumi’s arms. They fall back onto the pillows.
“I don’t think…” Yūji grips his stomach, “I don’t think anything good will come out of tomorrow.”
Megumi lightly scratches his scalp. “When has it lately?”
The grip on his shirt tightens. “Don’t leave me.”
An impossible request when Megumi was never planning on staying, not very long anyway. The memory of an angelfish swims faster, the tiger watches somberly. Megumi is a hypocrite and doesn’t make promises.
“I love you,” he says.
And that is a promise enough.
2. No one ever stays.
Megumi only thought he’d never be the one following that rule.
v. change the things you cannot accept.
[December 24, 2018: Shinjuku — 5:20 pm]
The bottom of a well is cold. Hot air rises, cold air sinks. Deep in a pit, there is no warmth.
The boy looks up at the light.
The walls of the well are only black, smooth, no handhold or foothold to climb out so he stays at the bottom, watching the light flicker and flicker and stars blink out of existence. He swipes a hand at a patch of sky he can see. An entire constellation vanishes. Flowers wilt in an empty, snowy hospital room.
He curls in on himself, at the bottom of the well, and weeps.
Once, he asked a question about the moon being beautiful.
It’s snowing. It coats him in a gentle, freezing blanket, tucking him under layers and layers of white. He shivers. A hand reaches out, the boy notices and reaches back, but they never touch. It vanishes, leaving only snow in its wake. The boy looks up, clawing at the sky to grab a handful of stars but another constellation is gone.
There’s so few left. There were never very many to begin with.
There’s so few left.
Once, he asked a question about love. The well is empty and still and cold, the snow falling turns black and melts into a puddle of shadows that slowly rise and rise and the boy is tired. He cannot swim so he doesn’t. He hopes he drowns. But the shadows never rise high enough. It’s a garden with nothing but dirt, and what’s a garden without flowers?
He asks a question about loneliness, but only the echo of his own voice answers.
vi. what's a garden without flowers?
3. —— is the only exception.
—— is cremated and Megumi scatters her ashes in the flower garden outside her window. —— started growing it halfway through middle school, when they moved in with ——. Megumi watches the ashes vanish into the soil and can’t even say her name.
“You done?” Ieiri asks around an unlit cigarette when he walks back into the house. She never took off her shoes.
“Yes,” he says and follows her to the car to leave.
He’s living with Ieiri, while the school is shut down. Megumi can’t live alone yet, apparently.
‘—— asked me to look after you,’ Ieiri had told him the day after he woke up, and it feels like he’s constantly being passed off to be taken care of by someone else, never by who he wants. Megumi thinks he must be cursed.
The blurring scenery outside the window isn’t distraction enough, but he prefers the silence over the mindless white noise of the radio. The view is different enough, with empty streets and some ruined buildings, most cities, Tokyo especially, have become ghost towns after the almost end of the world. Megumi only really sees the odd curse or two, nothing above a 2nd grade, and the occasional person is followed by the playing of a somber memory. Megumi is watching one of a father finding his daughter’s name on the Shibuya casualty list when Ieiri breaks the silence.
“Your stuff from the dorms and —— house is already at my place. I’ve got an office area that I’ve already changed into a bedroom. You can unpack when you’re ready.”
The smudges under her eyes look darker than usual. Her fingers twitch restlessly on the steering wheel but her tone never changes from its usual, unshakeable apathy. They stop at a red light and Ieiri loosens her grip with a shallow sigh.
“Fushiguro-kun, about your dad—“
“What’d they do with his body?”
Ieiri clamps her mouth shut and observes him for a beat. “The same thing they do with all sorcerers when they die. Cremated, buried, sealed.”
“Where?”
“The location is a secret. The body of a Six Eyes and Limitless sorcerer is too valuable.” She speaks clinically, curtly. Her eyes never stay focused. A memory of sitting on the back of a bike with two boys and wishing spring would never end plays across the dashboard.
Sealed. Again. Put into some tiny fucking box. Again.
The light turns green, but there’s no one behind them. Ieiri doesn’t start driving immediately. Megumi wonders what the sky would look like if it weren’t gray and cloudy.
They get home and Megumi waits for Shoko to walk into the room that he thinks she wishes was a tomb before he death marches to his own grave, where the bed seems too comfortable and too warm and he doesn’t want those reminders right now. It’s winter and the cold is a good way of forgetting. There’s still the fruit sticker Yūji pressed onto the window, holding on by a thread. Megumi tapes it there and presses his forehead to the frigid windowpane until his skin hurts.
He doesn’t sleep, he’s had enough of that. He waits at the window for sunlight, and then he bites the inside of his cheek because the warmth hurts.
“You don’t look good,” Ieiri says in the morning when Megumi stumbles out of his room.
“I always look like this,” Megumi mumbles.
“No, you look like me.”
Ieiri chews on her gum a little longer before sighing and getting up. She’s shorter than Megumi so she has to reach up, but she presses the palm of her hand flat against his forehead. He can feel her positive cursed energy, then a rinse of cold relief, almost like mouthwash.
“You need sleep, Fushiguro-kun,” she drawls, propping her hand up like she’s supposed to be holding a cigarette.
“Not if I knew reversed cursed technique.”
She closes one eye. “Wow, you sound like ——, at least I know for sure that he raised you.”
There is a gap in the sentence where a name should be but isn’t. The words register in Megumi’s mind but he clutches at his shirt to physically block them from getting any deeper. He can’t. It’s barely been 2 months. He can’t.
“Fushiguro—“
“I’ve gotta go,” he says quickly, standing and nearly knocking over the chair in his haste to leave. He’s out the door in seconds.
Nobara is alive.
Megumi finds the out the afternoon she wakes up from a coma he didn’t even know she was in. It was Maki’s decision not to tell him. He doesn’t know whether he should hate her or thank her.
“Come on, Kugisaki-sama, just a little further,” Yūji mumbles as he guides her from one end of the rails to the other. When she makes it, sweating and shaking, she looks to Yūji and is rewarded with a cheer that doesn’t fail to make her grin.
Like the memory he’s seen countless times, overlapping with the one of ——. She smiles at Yuji in those memories, tells him it wasn’t so bad just as —— says he’s leaving it to him. Nobara jerks back like she’s been shot (like the memory he’s seen countless times behind ——, of a girl with a headband and a bullet hole in the side of her head (like the memory he’s seen countless times behind—))—
Manicured nails snap in front of his face. Megumi blinks up at ——… at Nobara (he reminds himself, he can say her name, she’s still here she’s still here.). She frowns, not exactly able to speak yet but expressive enough.
“I’m just thinking,” Megumi answers to her unasked question.
She cocks her hip.
“Someone’s gotta do it between the three of us.”
Nobara lunges to attack him and Yūji catches her midair, holding her like a rabid dog.
“K-Kugisaki!” Yūji exclaims, flustered and with a stutter in his words.
(Here’s what Megumi realizes: Yūji hates the sound of his own voice.)
She slumps in his arms like someone’s sucked all the energy out of her. A memory paints itself on the air above them, and this one Megumi remembers. The kitchen, a couple of months ago, early in the morning and Yūji is tacking on so many honorifics he probably uses a couple of ancient ones. Nobara is laughing so hard she chokes on her juice. —— saunters in, Megumi gets two new keychains.
“Nobara.”
“Hm?” Yūji hums.
She struggles with the words for a minute, the sounds fumbling on the tip of her tongue. Then she says, “Call me Nobara.”
Yūji smiles. Megumi missed her.
Later, Maki corners him outside the hospital by shoving him against the wall in the alleyway beside the building.
“Yes, Maki-senpai?” Megumi sighs, knowing he pissed her off in some way he doesn’t realize.
“Nobara said you're acting weird.” Maki glares. “The hell’s your problem?”
“I’m not acting weird,” Megumi says, weirdly. Ok, maybe she’s right. He averts his gaze when she raises an eyebrow. “I’m… glad she’s back.”
“You’re not acting like it and she can tell. Everyone can tell.”
He grits his teeth. “I was possessed by Sukuna for over a month. I—“ killed everyone that was ever important to me and can’t even say their names, “How the hell am I supposed to act?”
“Like it happened,” Maki tells him. The wind blows her bangs into her eyes, sweeping across her scars. He wonders if she can feel the cold, if the memory of her and Mai playing in a shallow pond in the dead of a winter night means anything, if it even matters. “Instead of pretending it didn’t.”
But it did. Megumi knows it happened because his hands are still hot and sticky and red with their blood. With ——’s blood, ——’s blood. He scattered ——’s ashes and can’t even do the same for —— even though he gave everything for Megumi.
But he can’t say their names.
“My sister is dead.”
Maki gazes at him, expression stoney but the hand she places on his shoulder is gentle. “So is mine.” She squeezes. “Join the fucking club.”
Megumi keeps the curtains of his room open that night, and the moonlight that shines through is so, so bright. He can see the flower garden, roses pale in the shallow light. Yūji is asleep, finally. He doesn’t tend to close his eyes for more than a few hours after he woke Megumi up by sobbing in the middle of the night. Megumi asked him what he does instead of sleep and Yūji shrugged while the memory of his grandfather’s last words rang out in Megumi’s ears.
He doesn’t bother putting on slippers, walks out of the house into the grass, and kneels at the edge of the dirt. The grass is cool and damp under his pajama pants. They’re dirty, he’ll have to change when he goes back inside but he can’t bring himself to care. Not when —— is here, will always be only here. Not when he can’t bring himself to say her name, his name, her name. ——, ——, ——. ——.
“——,” he tries, choking on the syllables. He grabs his throat. “I’m sorry, ——.”
The moonlight is so, so bright, he can still see it behind his eyelids, behind tears.
( ‘Because…’ flowers bloom.)
“I love you too, Tsumiki.”
And he cries and cries and cries.
“I want to scatter Gojō-sensei’s ashes in the sea.”
Yūji hides behind Megumi as he confronts Ieiri, glancing over his shoulder like a scared puppy. Ieiri blows a puff of smoke.
“Ok.”
She managed to keep Gojō’s ashes. The ones that were sealed and buried were fake, the ashes of a different sorcerer she managed to pass off as his. The urn is black and white, with delicate betta fish painted on.
“Suguru’s ashes are in here too,” she tells him quietly, “they weren’t together very long, and they were apart for too long. I figured, this is what he’d want.”
“I know,” Megumi whispers, and he does.
Ieiri tells them to go to Okinawa, so they take a flight there that leaves at 5 in the morning. Yūji greets Megumi in the kitchen with a wan smile and no complaints and sleeps in short spurts most of the plane ride there. Megumi makes do with reading and rereading the flight guidebook.
They land in the afternoon and Yūji insists on driving them there. They somehow manage to rent a moped and Megumi sits on the back, his arms wrapped gingerly around Yuji’s middle, watching the sea and sand of the coast blur and melt into planes of colors. Blue.
They arrive at the beach and Megumi treks through the sand to reach the water, urn in hand. There’s a slight breeze, the sun beams down overhead. It’s a beautiful day and the painted fish almost sparkle in the sunlight.
“The weather’s nice,” Yūji says, shielding his eyes from the sunlight and tightening his coat around himself. “I bet you could see Taiwan from here.”
Megumi hums. The urn is heavy, he’s been carrying it long enough. He crouches in the water and stares at the sand swirling around his feet before placing it on the sand and tipping it over. Megumi backs up, watches the waves wash the insides of the urn away into the sea.
Is it selfish to regret this? He wants to grab the urn and run, give it back to Ieiri, go back to sleep, and pretend like it’s New Year’s Day, like he’s warm and content watching the time change from 11:59 to 12:00 am and the worst thing Gojō or Tsumiki could do was leave without telling him where they were going and when they’d be home.
Now, Megumi wishes he could see the overlaps of his own memories trailing behind him, just to catch a glimpse of a Tsumiki’s smile and hear Gojō’s laugh and remember when his world was four people, instead of just two. He regrets this, but it hurts more to make himself believe that he does. He grabs Yūji’s hand and holds it tight. Yūji squeezes back.
“That was anticlimactic.”
Megumi raises an eyebrow. “What, were you expecting their ashes to turn the sea red or something?”
“What? No no, but honestly I wouldn’t be surprised if they did.” Megumi wouldn’t be surprised either. Yūji scratches the back of his head and says, “Gojō-sensei was so… big , and this,” he gestures to the gently crashing waves, “it’s so small.”
“Hm.” Megumi can’t help but agree. “It is.”
“…Nobara’s gonna kill us when she finds out we came to Okinawa without her.”
Megumi can’t help the laugh that escapes him, bursting out like it’d been held in for too long, like a gasp of fresh air after swimming for hours. Yūji jumps a bit, but the smile that spreads over his face is so bright.
“She will,” Megumi says, then plants a quick kiss on Yūji’s cheek and is satisfied when he blushes, “guess she’ll just have to come next time.”
“With Maki-senpai, obviously.”
“That was already implied.”
Now it’s Yūji’s turn to laugh. “Some things are a universal constant.”
“Is that the only thing you remember from Gojō-sensei’s lessons?”
Yūji bites his lip, then kisses Megumi, long and sweet, and grins somberly against his lips. “I’m glad I’m still here. Thank you, Megumi.”
Thank you, Yūji. Megumi doesn’t say it aloud, but by pressing his lips to Yūji’s. Thank you.
vii. the wisdom to know the difference.
[December 25, XXXX: The beach — 12:02 am]
Sand is warm.
This is a well-known story, so it will be brief:
On a beach are two boys. They hold each other’s hands and make promises at the edge of breaths they share, between questions about the moon and gardens. They’re silly questions, because who doesn’t know about those things? One of the boys laughs.
The water is warm.
They wade near the shore. They collect secrets and share shells and tan and burn in the sun. The other boy tries not to smile.
Eventually, it’s night and they light sparklers that they trace shapes in the air with and chase each other around a tiny fire they barely managed to build. It’s the last day of their youth. They don’t know it.
Two people on one bike and the other boy pedals hard while one boy encourages. They make it back home too late to say goodbye, so they trade promises one more time between joined lips and interlocked fingers.
Then, one leaves. And the story ends.
“Wanna come in?”
Yūji startles, the scar on his face tugging up with his eyebrows as his eyes widen. So silly, did he expect Megumi to send him home alone this late when it’s closer to sunrise than midnight?
“I- I don’t know…” Yūji stutters, twisting the handlebars of his bike.
“Ieiri-san won’t wake up.” Not that it matters, she’s dead to the world when she’s asleep. When Yūji doesn’t ease, Megumi sighs, leaving his keys with the two dog keychains dangling in the keyhole, and steps forward, resting his hand atop one of Yūji’s and pressing their foreheads together. “Stay.”
Yūji finally exhales and grins. “Ok.”
The sun rises behind him.