cursedfell

[cursedfell]

maki  doesn’t  say  anything  at  first.  she  just  stands  there,  eyes  locked  on  yuta,  the  way  he’s  holding  that  stupid  bag  of  frozen  peas  against  his  face.  he  looks  ridiculous,  but  worse  than  that,  he  looks...  broken.  beaten.  like  he  doesn’t  know  how  to  stop.  she  can’t  stand  it.  the  way  he  shrinks  back  every  time  she  tries  to  get  too  close,  like  he  doesn’t  want  her  to  see  him  like  this.  like  he  doesn’t  want  anyone  to  see  him  at  all.

she  takes  a  breath,  sharp,  like  she’s  holding  back  something  she  can’t  quite  put  into  words.  she  wants  to  shake  him,  to  yell  at  him,  but  she  doesn’t.  she  can’t.  her  chest  tightens,  the  words  she’s  trying  to  say  clogging  up  her  throat.  "stop  acting  like  you  don’t  need  anyone,"  she  spits,  her  voice  edged  with  frustration,  but  something  softer  beneath  it.  it’s  not  just  anger—no,  it’s  more  than  that.  it’s  fear.  it’s  her  heart  pounding  with  this  gnawing,  deep-down  feeling  that  she  won’t  let  herself  name.  she  doesn’t  know  how  to  fix  him  when  he  won’t  let  her  in.  it  doesn’t  feel  right,  the  way  he  keeps  pushing  people  away. 

her.

she  clenches  her  fists,  her  gaze  dropping  to  the  ground  for  a  second  before  she  forces  herself  to  look  at  him  again.  she’s  so  damn  tired  of  this.  tired  of  watching  him  get  hurt,  tired  of  him  acting  like  it’s  fine  when  it  clearly  isn’t.  “i’m  not  gonna  pretend  it’s  fine  when  it’s  not,"  she  mutters,  quieter  this  time,  like  she’s  afraid  he’ll  hear  too  much  in  her  voice  if  she  says  it  any  louder.  the  weight  of  everything  presses  on  her  chest,  but  she  doesn’t  know  how  to  show  it.  she  can’t  give  him  all  the  words  she  wants  to  say.  there’s  too  much  to  it,  too  much  tangled  up  in  everything.  so  she  grabs  his  arm,  pulls  him  up  before  he  can  protest,  and  forces  him  to  lean  against  her.

“let’s  go  get  food,”  she  says,  trying  to  keep  it  simple,  trying  to  keep  the  sharpness  out  of  her  tone.  she’s  not  sure  if  it’s  for  him  or  for  her  at  this  point.  she  just  knows  she  needs  to  do  something.  she  can’t  fix  this,  but  she  can  do  something.

“salted  cabbage  with  sesame  oil,”  she  adds,  almost  absently,  like  it’s  just  a  small  detail,  but  it’s  the  one  thing  she  knows  will  make  him  feel  better,  even  if  it’s  just  for  a  little  while.  “your  favorite.”  she  doesn’t  look  at  him  as  she  leads  him  toward  the  kitchen,  her  hand  still  lightly  gripping  his  arm,  her  heart  still  racing.  she’s  afraid.  so  afraid  that  he’s  going  to  keep  pushing  her  away,  that  he’s  going  to  keep  carrying  all  of  this  on  his  own  when  she  can’t  even  help  him  carry  it.  but  she’s  here. 

and  she  won’t  leave  him.

Two words in and he's already shrinking back while simultaneously offering both hands up as a sign of surrender. Ideally to placate the intense bite of each sentence and question afterwards. It doesn't work, though — it never does, but habits are difficult to eradicate completely.

"But the alternative's not any better," he protests, ever so gently despite the clamminess starting to break out on each palm. "Pretending to be okay... Pretending to not be okay... The result's the same, isn't it? The curse was taken care of, promise." And, well, it never sat right with him to sulk and give light to the more harsh emotions. He's no longer in a position to be so lacksidasical with appearances. There are underclassmen to help guide, set an example to best get them through such an unforgiving lifestyle without breaking their spirit first.

Besides, it's not like they have that ever bright midnight sun to fill in that abundant optimism anymore. He's gone now, and they're all still trying to recover from the crater left behind.

Yuta does as he's told. Doesn't he always when it comes to her? The bag's lowered. Does nothing more than to breathe through the nose, and hold still as she takes inventory of all the surface damage. He doesn't tell her how it had been worse. How it was necessary to utilize RCT twice during combat. An unnerving thought to have given his caliber, certainly. He doesn't tell her to make matters worse. To make her feel worse. It's just as he said — everything turned out fine.

"Sorry." Isn't he always for one reason or another? "Have you, um, eaten yet?"

[cursedfell]

megumi  watches  daichi’s  display  with  a  cool,  appraising  gaze,  his  arms  loosely  crossed  over  his  chest.  the  theatrics  are,  admittedly,  a  bit  much—the  pep  talk,  the  ridiculous  sword  that  looks  like  it  belongs  in  a  kid’s  tv  show,  the  dramatic  chant.  it’s  all  so  daichi,  so  in-your-face  and  unapologetic,  that  it  borders  on  absurd.  still,  megumi  finds  himself  unable  to  fully  dismiss  it.  daichi’s  energy  might  be  chaotic,  but  it’s  not  aimless.  there’s  an  undercurrent  of  intent  in  his  movements,  a  surprising  clarity  beneath  all  the  bluster.

the  flame  blossoms  that  erupt  from  the  sword  catch  megumi’s  eye,  their  brightness  contrasting  sharply  with  the  darkened  battlefield.  his  gaze  flickers  to  the  curse,  now  scorched  and  retreating,  and  he  notes  the  precision  of  daichi’s  strikes.  it’s  not  just  luck  or  blind  aggression—there’s  thought  behind  the  way  daichi  moves,  even  if  it’s  buried  under  layers  of  showmanship.

megumi  shifts  his  weight  slightly,  glancing  briefly  at  eito,  who  flutters  excitedly  above  daichi’s  head.  the  shikigami’s  enthusiasm  mirrors  its  master’s,  and  for  a  moment,  megumi  feels  a  faint,  begrudging  sense  of  amusement.  daichi’s  approach  is  nothing  like  his  own,  but  there’s  no  denying  its  effectiveness.

“not  bad,”  he  says  finally,  his  tone  even  but  carrying  a  subtle  edge  of  acknowledgment.  it’s  about  as  close  to  a  compliment  as  megumi  ever  gets.  his  eyes  flick  back  to  the  curse,  watching  as  it  recoils,  its  movements  more  cautious  now.  “but  don’t  lose  focus.  the  second  you  get  caught  up  in  the  moment  is  the  second  it  takes  advantage.”

he  doesn’t  say  it  outright,  but  there’s  a  hint  of  approval  in  the  way  he  steps  back,  giving  daichi  space  to  continue.  he’ll  intervene  if  necessary—he  always  does—but  for  now,  he  lets  the  other  sorcerer  take  the  lead,  curious  to  see  just  how  far  daichi’s  flames  can  carry  him.

Daichi isn't sure if he should insulted or what. Because Daichi knows how to adapt to certain situations! He does! And he's going to prove it right now!

Seeing the grade 3 curse, Daichi mutters to himself while flexing his fingers and rolling his shoulders, "Okay Daichi...you got this. You're a sorcerer who serves the Dark Phoenix. You're the wielder of its dark flames that wrecks havoc upon the cursed and the wicked to bring balance to the world. You can do this! You do this every day." He told himself. Eito chirps with a small flap of wings.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. No need to tell me twice, Eito." Daichi tells him. "I got this."

After giving himself a pep talk, the grade 3 curse is baring its fangs at him, swishing its whip-tail back and forth. The flame sorcerer goes to pull out his weapon. A sword. But it isn't really a sword even though it looks like one. This one is the kind of sword you can buy from Akiharabra. it is so fantastical, it's unbelievable. It's a sword that is from a tokusatsu show. A show that Daichi watches as a little child while holding a red action figure, cheering the heroes on when fighting monsters that harm humanity inside the TV on a Saturday morning.

"Extension Techinque...Flame Blossom." Daichi cast his chant, channeling his cursed energy into his sword. Then 'blade' begins to set ablaze with bright orange flames.

Crouching low, the cursed spirit then pounces towards the flame sorcerer. Daichi lets out a yell and swings the sword in a horizontal arc, unleashing flames from it. The curse howls as it gets inflicted with burns from the flames and jumps back. The teen charges in, going onto the offensive.

He's going to show that he knows what he's doing!

[cursedfell]

sam  stands  rooted  where  he  is,  his  hand  still  outstretched  from  where  frodo’s  retreat  has  left  it  hovering  in  the  empty  air.  for  a  moment,  he  says  nothing,  the  only  sound  the  soft  rustle  of  the  unseen  world  around  them.  but  the  quiet  does  not  linger  long  in  samwise  gamgee’s  heart,  for  love  will  not  be  stilled  by  despair,  no  matter  how  dark  the  hour.

“mr.  frodo,”  he  says  softly,  his  voice  a  low  tremor,  as  though  he  speaks  to  something  fragile  and  sacred,  “you’ll  forgive  me  for  saying  so,  but  that’s  not  for  you  to  decide.”

he  takes  a  step  forward,  slow  and  deliberate,  his  brow  furrowed,  his  gaze  steady  on  frodo’s  face.  there  is  no  anger  there,  no  frustration—only  a  fierce  and  steadfast  love,  as  constant  as  the  earth  beneath  their  feet.  the  shadow  that  clings  to  frodo’s  form,  the  ring’s  cruel  weight  upon  him,  might  daunt  any  lesser  heart.  but  sam  is  made  of  sterner  stuff,  though  his  stature  is  small  and  his  hands  are  rough.

“you  speak  of  sparing  me,  mr.  frodo,”  he  continues,  his  voice  thick  and  trembling  now  with  an  emotion  he  cannot  contain.  “but  you  don’t  see  it,  do  you?  there’s  no  sparing  in  leaving  you  to  face  this  alone.  there’s  no  kindness  in  pushing  me  away,  not  when  every  step  i  take  beside  you  is  the  only  thing  i  know  i  ought  to  do.”  his  hand  moves  again,  not  to  grasp  or  to  hold  but  simply  to  reach  out,  palm  open,  a  quiet  offering.  his  fingers  are  calloused  from  years  of  tending  gardens,  of  planting  seeds  and  coaxing  life  from  the  soil,  but  there  is  no  roughness  in  his  gesture.  there  is  only  gentleness,  the  unshakable  faith  of  a  hobbit  whose  heart  is  too  large  for  his  small  frame.

“it  may  burn,  frodo,”  he  says,  and  his  voice  softens  further,  taking  on  the  cadence  of  the  shire’s  rolling  hills,  of  sunlit  mornings  and  gentle  rains.  “it  may  hurt  something  fierce,  and  i  can’t  take  that  away  from  you.  but  i’ll  not  stand  by  and  let  it  steal  you  from  me.  if  you  must  carry  this  weight,  then  let  me  bear  what  i  can,  even  if  it’s  just  the  part  of  keeping  you  steady.”

he  dares  to  step  closer,  his  hand  hovering  near  frodo’s  arm  but  not  daring  to  touch  unless  invited.  his  brown  eyes,  so  full  of  worry  and  care,  search  frodo’s  face  as  though  trying  to  see  past  the  shadows,  to  find  the  friend  he  knows  still  lingers  there.  “and  as  for  hope,  well,”  sam  says,  a  faint,  wry  smile  tugging  at  his  lips  despite  the  ache  in  his  heart,  “that’s  not  something  you  can  tell  me  to  give  up,  mr.  frodo.  hope’s  stubborn,  like  me.  and  it’s  mine  to  keep  or  lose,  so  you’ll  just  have  to  make  your  peace  with  that.”

he  lets  the  words  hang  between  them,  like  the  pause  before  a  storm  breaks.  his  love  for  frodo  is  not  the  loud,  roaring  sort—it  is  quiet  and  enduring,  as  unyielding  as  the  stones  of  the  shire.  he  does  not  waver,  even  as  he  waits,  his  hand  still  outstretched,  for  frodo  to  decide  whether  to  grasp  it  or  let  it  fall  away.

　　What warm respite there is in this moment will be lost, an all too fleeting flicker in the darkening haze. Whether the ring bearer or his ring knows that, is all one and the same. A numbness is returning to the hobbit's slight extremities, soon to crawl along them towards the light within and snuff it out, lest it grow too bright and influential. Something in the Ring fears Sam and the hope he inspires -- and while Frodo knows the fear isn't his, he feels it just the same, and it saps the joy out of the moment he wishes he could relish.

Don't speak of it, Sam, he wishes to utter, but his throat is tight. Ghastly claws close around the Ring on his chest and pull, yanking it, trying to sink it beneath his ribs to deter encroachment. There's only a thief now, an enemy, donning Sam's visage, hungry for his Ring, plotting to claim it. No -- Frodo closes his eyes from the terrible sight. His friend's words may yet drive the darkness away, if he listens with his utmost.

The Ring grows so cold that it burns, and around his ankles licks a frigid mist. His body is like a cocoon that his spirit wishes to slip out of, the unhealing wound on his chest like a promise of freedom -- but how could he listen to Sam's golden voice then, or feel his lips upon his skin? Burning as they are, he'd rather cinder away in their warmth than succumb to the chill.

If only Sam knew how soon the darkness would claim him without his company, without his terrible determination to stay by Frodo's side. It is its own torture, like another stab of a Morgul-knife, to drag someone so far into despair while discovering how lovely they are along the way.

Sam is a blurry shape, surrounded by the land's strange and foreign colors, but soon enough his features sharpen. His touches linger upon Frodo's skin as a painfully scalding trail, yet the sensation is pleasant compared to the agony of the Ring. Not that it matters, not that a dull gray won't soon replace them both.

" Sam, "　Frodo says, aching and distant,　" there is only pain for me. Your words are fair, but their warmth doesn't reach me. Your touch-- "　 and the hobbit swallows, skin prickling. He hesitates, the words like fire in the back of his throat. They'll surely singe his tongue.　" I yearn for it, but it burns me. "

He takes an unwilling, dutiful step away.　" I haven't the strength to tell you to leave my side, even though I yearn to spare you. However this ends, it must end well for you, Sam. I'll never forgive myself for all that I've put you through, all the kindness that I cannot return -- but that would be something like it, Sam, to know you'll get to heal and feel such happiness that I can't give you. "

His features harden then. It's so easy, to reject the warmth.　" And do not hope for more, Sam, for my sake. Don't let me hurt you more than I already do. "

[cursedfell]

sam  shifts  under  the  weight  of  frodo’s  gaze,  the  quiet  night  seeming  to  hum  with  an  energy  he  cannot  name.  the  words  frodo  speaks—soft  as  the  breeze  that  stirs  the  trees  of  rivendell—leave  sam  standing  still,  his  feet  planted  as  firmly  as  roots  in  the  good  earth.  yet,  there’s  a  trembling  in  him,  like  a  sapling  in  a  strong  wind,  his  heart  full  of  something  deeper  than  mere  friendship,  deeper  than  duty.

he  does  not  flinch  when  frodo’s  hand  brushes  his  collar,  when  fingers  trace  lines  as  if  searching  for  something  hidden  beneath  the  fabric  of  his  shirt.  sam  stands  steady,  though  the  warmth  in  his  cheeks  could  rival  the  fires  of  the  shire  on  a  winter’s  night.  frodo’s  words—poetic  and  laden  with  a  meaning  sam  cannot  fully  grasp—echo  in  his  ears  like  the  songs  of  elven  halls.

sam’s  eyes,  steady  and  kind,  meet  frodo’s,  and  there  is  a  weight  in  his  gaze,  as  though  he  carries  all  the  unspoken  things  between  them.  he  feels  the  wine  on  frodo’s  breath,  the  closeness  of  his  hand  upon  his  jaw,  and  yet  it  is  not  the  touch  that  stirs  sam  most.  it  is  frodo’s  voice,  earnest  and  full  of  something  that  feels  like  both  longing  and  hesitation.

“mr.  frodo,”  sam  says,  his  voice  low,  a  steadiness  in  it  that  belies  the  storm  in  his  chest.  “you’ve  got  a  way  with  words,  as  you  always  have.  but  i  reckon  it’s  not  the  wine  nor  the  stars  that  makes  this  night  so  fine.”  he  pauses,  searching  frodo’s  face,  his  own  plain  and  honest.  “it’s  you,  sir.  wherever  you  are,  that’s  where  i’d  rather  be,  drink  or  no  drink.”

he  shifts  closer,  his  large  hands  rough  and  steady  as  they  move  to  clasp  frodo’s  smaller  one.  the  gesture  is  simple  but  filled  with  a  sincerity  that  only  sam  could  offer.  “if  it  pleases  you,  i’ll  come  along.  but  not  for  the  wine  nor  the  merriment.”  his  voice  grows  softer,  though  his  words  remain  as  firm  as  stone.  sam’s  fingers  tighten  gently  around  frodo’s,  their  clasp  warm  and  sure,  though  his  heart  beats  faster  than  he’d  care  to  admit.  the  weight  of  frodo’s  hand  in  his  own  feels  both  familiar  and  new,  like  the  first  bloom  of  spring  after  a  long,  cold  winter.  he  steps  forward,  pulling  frodo  along  with  him,  the  motion  as  natural  as  tending  a  garden.

his  stride  is  steady,  purposeful,  but  there’s  a  quiet  urgency  in  the  way  he  leads,  as  though  each  step  carries  them  further  from  all  the  shadows  and  closer  to  some  unspoken  promise.  sam  doesn’t  speak  at  first,  the  air  between  them  thick  with  something  unnamable,  something  that  presses  against  his  chest  like  the  swell  of  a  song  not  yet  sung. 

“perhaps  we  ought  to  get  some  water  in  you  first.”

Continued. Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee　一　 @cursedfell

　　how interesting that between sam's features laid some sliver of an answer, something of how the artist crafts their work in their likeness, some explanation as to why the garden of bag end remained ever so difficult to wear into words. decade-long familiar features could be discovered anew, just as the garden was a little different each day. how many hours had he spent on the terrace with bilbo, finding endless poems and lyrics between the well-tended greenery?

frodo's features lit up at what first seemed like simple agreement to his harmless request, but as sam specified his intentions, frodo's brows raised, beyond amused, the wine rendering him especially weak to hilarity. a stubborn shadow lingered behind sam's words, a wariness that frodo aimed to erase into a smile, lest he too recalled what was momentarily so easy not to worry over.　" oh sam, I'd hope I'm not so deep in the drinks yet as to require a ward! "

now that sam had decisively narrowed the distance between them, frodo found his own breath stiff. his palm rose to lay against sam's shoulder, as if to keep him at a distance, but it soon moved, inched inwards along the contour of his collarbones to the collar of his shirt. delicate fingers grazed over the highest button there, like marveling at the dainty leaves in bag end's garden. in a breathless moment, blue as the bywater on a clear day, frodo's gaze dipped down, to lay on the lips that always spoke with such kindness and honesty -- the valiant lips of a knight, courageous and selfless. so unlike himself, so undeserving of the despicably selfish things frodo was too weak to leave undone in the veil of night and wine.

" would you rather stay here? "　he asked, voice barely above a whisper.　" it's quiet and pleasant, a lovely night -- but you'd miss out on such fine wine. I wouldn't wish for something so wonderful to pass you by. "

his gaze glinted like moonlight on dark water, with reverence, but also its demand. his hand shifted from sam's collar, slowly and soundlessly, to brush along his jawline, feather light, fleeting as a breeze.　" for you, sam, only the finest elven wine is fit, "　he pronounced, like describing a masterful sculpture,　" only the clearest night, dark as can be, so that the stars glow all the brighter. "

the tang of wine was on his words, on another insufficient attempt to make sense of this feeling. he knew only that it had grown in the garden of bag end, slowly and steadily, among the verdant glow and untold colors, among countless poems that never quite captured the garden's essence. perhaps it wasn't meant for poems or songs, but for feeling -- for savoring, for praising without trying to understand how it reached his heart.

his hand clasped sam's and he leant in very close to speak, so that the message would fill the empty terrace, where the clamor of the gathering was only a hum in the periphery:　" just come with me and enjoy yourself. "

[cursedfell]

chigiri gets a proper kiss for his happy belated birthday. in private. from mei-chan.

the  moment  feels  suspended,  as  if  the  world  has  narrowed  to  just  the  two  of  them.  it’s  quiet,  save  for  the  soft  hum  of  his  pulse  in  his  ears,  each  beat  quick  and  frantic,  like  a  bird  fluttering  its  wings  against  a  cage.  her  words  had  lingered  earlier,  teasing  and  unashamed,  but  this—this  is  different.  there’s  no  one  else  around,  no  teasing  edge  to  her  voice,  just  a  softness  that  feels  almost  disarming.  when  mei  leans  in,  chigiri’s  breath  catches  in  his  throat.  his  heart,  already  racing,  stumbles  into  an  uneven  rhythm,  pounding  so  hard  he  feels  it  in  every  inch  of  him.  he  tries  to  think  of  something  to  say,  anything  at  all,  but  the  words  stick,  heavy  and  useless,  as  if  his  body  refuses  to  cooperate.

her  lips  are  soft  against  his  lips,  barely  a  brush,  but  it’s  enough  to  set  his  world  alight.  warmth  spreads  from  the  spot  like  a  ripple  in  still  water,  radiating  out  and  leaving  his  skin  tingling.  it’s  delicate,  fleeting,  but  it  stays  with  him,  etched  into  his  memory  like  a  gentle  brand.  he  feels  caught  between  two  forces—one  that  tells  him  to  pull  away,  to  laugh  it  off  and  pretend  he  doesn’t  care,  and  another,  deeper,  quieter  one  that  wants  to  stay  in  this  moment  just  a  little  longer.  his  hands  hover  awkwardly  at  his  sides,  unsure  of  what  to  do,  and  he  ducks  his  head  slightly,  hiding  the  red  that  blossoms  across  his  cheeks  like  a  fire  he  can’t  contain.

it’s  overwhelming,  the  way  she  makes  him  feel—like  he’s  running  at  full  speed,  the  wind  rushing  past  him,  but  his  feet  never  touch  the  ground.  her  actions  stir  something  inside  him,  something  he  doesn’t  fully  understand  but  can’t  ignore.  it’s  not  just  the  kiss,  though  that  alone  would  be  enough  to  leave  him  reeling.  it’s  the  way  she  carries  herself,  the  way  her  presence  seems  to  pull  him  in  like  gravity.

he  doesn’t  know  what  to  call  this  feeling.  it’s  not  the  same  as  the  determination  he  feels  on  the  field  or  the  relief  of  victory.  it’s  something  softer,  more  vulnerable—a  quiet  ache  that  settles  in  his  chest,  both  exhilarating  and  terrifying  at  the  same  time.  when  he  finally  manages  to  look  at  her,  his  voice  is  barely  above  a  whisper,  and  it  trembles  just  enough  to  betray  him.  “thank  you."

the  words  leave  his  lips  in  a  whisper,  soft  and  barely  there,  but  before  he  can  second-guess  himself,  something  inside  him  stirs—a  boldness  that  catches  even  him  by  surprise.  his  hand  moves  without  thought,  fingers  curling  gently  around  her  wrist,  then  sliding  to  her  arm,  the  touch  firm  but  careful,  as  though  she  might  vanish  if  he  isn’t  gentle  enough.  his  lips  meet  hers,  hesitant  at  first,  testing,  like  the  first  brush  of  rain  after  a  long  drought.  but  as  the  moment  stretches,  something  shifts,  deepening,  grounding  him  in  a  way  he  hasn’t  felt  in  what  seems  like  forever.  it’s  soft,  unsteady,  and  perfect  in  its  imperfection—a  spark  igniting  a  flame  he  didn’t  realize  was  there.

her  scent  surrounds  him,  light  and  intoxicating,  and  he  feels  her  body  tense  under  his  touch  before  relaxing,  melting  into  him  like  she  belongs  there.  it’s  overwhelming—the  heat,  the  closeness,  the  way  his  heart  feels  like  it  might  burst—but  he  doesn’t  pull  away,  not  yet.  not  until  he  feels  the  faintest,  hesitant  pressure  of  her  lips  responding  to  his,  sending  a  jolt  of  something  electric  through  him.

when  he  finally  pulls  back,  his  cheeks  are  flushed,  and  his  breaths  come  shallow  and  quick,  but  he  doesn’t  let  go  of  her  arms.  instead,  he  looks  at  her,  really  looks  at  her,  his  gaze  searching  and  filled  with  something  raw  and  unguarded.  “sorry,”  he  murmurs,  though  the  way  his  thumb  brushes  against  her  arm  says  otherwise.  “i  just…  i  couldn’t  let  that  be  it.”

his  voice  is  quieter  now,  almost  shy,  but  there’s  a  steadiness  beneath  the  embarrassment,  a  quiet  resolve  that  feels  new  and  exhilarating.  he  doesn’t  know  what  comes  next,  doesn’t  know  if  she’ll  laugh  or  push  him  away,  but  for  once,  he  doesn’t  care.  for  this  moment,  she’s  here,  and  that’s  enough.

[cursedfell]

holidays are tough, thanks for your patience and i apologize for being so quiet. i hope everyone enjoys their time with family or friends. ❤️

[cursedfell]

He opts for a quieter approach this year, far away from the loud, burst-into-the-room-without-warning sort of thing that's more typically his style. It might only be because he's heard whispers of Megumi's fellow classmates making plans of their own but hey, Gojo's lips are sealed, in that regard, just in case it's a surprise.

"Birthday boy," he starts in a light singsong as he knocks on his student's door, "I have something for you."

He'd worry about Megumi not even being in his room, if not for being able to see his cursed energy clear as day. Smiling when the other appears, he holds out a small to medium-sized box, plain except for the thin bow wrapped around it.

"Made by yours truly!" Holding it out to him, he wears a big grin full of pride, the softer warmth he has for the boy hidden in his eyes behind the blindfold.

Inside the box is a birthday cake in Megumi's favorite flavor, large enough to share with a couple friends but still small enough to have it all for himself if he so wanted. And Gojo did indeed bake it himself, made evident by the small cartoonish faces of Megumi, his Divine Dogs, and of course Gojo himself, drawn on it in icing.

megumi  stares  at  the  cake  longer  than  he  means  to,  his  fingers  lingering  on  the  edge  of  the  box.  the  cartoonish  icing  figures  are  almost  unbearably  goofy,  a  blatant  reminder  of  gojo’s  inability  to  take  anything  seriously—or  so  it  seems.  but  beneath  the  layers  of  absurdity,  there’s  a  deliberate  care  to  it,  an  awareness  of  megumi’s  preferences  that  feels...  pointed.  unwelcome,  almost,  in  its  accuracy.  his  favorite  flavor,  the  divine  dogs,  even  the  ridiculous  caricature  of  himself—it  all  points  to  someone  who’s  been  paying  attention.

a  quiet,  unfamiliar  warmth  stirs  in  his  chest,  as  though  the  knot  of  resentment  and  begrudging  respect  he’s  held  for  gojo  has  loosened,  just  slightly.  it’s  frustrating,  how  something  so  small  can  spark  emotions  he  doesn’t  have  the  tools  to  deal  with.  gojo  has  always  been  a  strange  mix  of  chaos  and  stability  in  his  life—a  mentor  who  simultaneously  infuriates  and  grounds  him,  an  older  brother  figure  whose  presence  is  as  aggravating  as  it  is  oddly  reassuring.  and,  unfortunately,  the  closest  thing  to  a  father  he’s  had  since  his  real  one  disappeared.

he  cuts  the  cake  slowly,  each  slice  deliberate,  as  if  the  action  can  steady  the  swirl  of  feelings  threatening  to  overwhelm  him.  the  gratitude  bubbles  up,  unsteady  and  difficult  to  contain,  like  a  foreign  language  he  doesn’t  know  how  to  speak.  what  does  one  say  to  someone  like  gojo?  someone  who  barges  into  your  life  uninvited,  makes  himself  impossible  to  ignore,  and  somehow  worms  his  way  into  the  spaces  you  swore  no  one  could  touch?

“you  really  have  too  much  time  on  your  hands,”  he  mutters  when  he  finally  manages  words,  but  even  he  can  hear  the  faint  crack  in  his  usual  stoic  tone.  the  insult  lacks  its  usual  venom,  and  he  hates  that  gojo  will  notice.  of  course  he’ll  notice.  he  always  does.

megumi  hands  satoru  his  piece  of  cake  without  meeting  his  eyes,  his  movements  stiff  and  deliberate,  like  a  soldier  following  orders.  he  sits  on  the  edge  of  his  bed  with  his  own  plate,  the  faint  warmth  in  his  chest  refusing  to  fade.  the  first  bite  is  sweeter  than  he  expected,  and  it  lingers  on  his  tongue,  soft  and  surprisingly  good.

“it’s  not  bad,”  he  says,  quieter  this  time,  and  even  he  can  hear  the  layers  of  meaning  beneath  those  three  simple  words.  it’s  not  bad—because  you  made  it.  it’s  not  bad—because  you  care,  even  if  you’re  insufferable  about  it.  it’s  not  bad—because,  somehow,  against  my  better  judgment,  i’m  glad  you’re  here.  what's  left  unsaid.

[cursedfell]

Smooshes his cheeks together before placing a small forehead kiss to his temple, "Little one, would you like to share cake? No birthday is complete without indulgence" // mamaguro u3u

megumi  stands  still,  rooted  in  the  warmth  of  her  touch,  her  hands  gentle  against  his  face  as  if  he’s  something  fragile,  something  worth  holding  carefully.  her  kiss  on  his  temple  lingers,  like  the  aftertaste  of  honey,  sweet  and  unexpected.  his  breath  catches  in  his  chest,  his  mind  caught  between  the  instinct  to  pull  away  and  the  quiet,  aching  want  to  stay  here  forever.

there’s  a  softness  to  her  presence,  a  lightness  that  feels  like  a  memory,  one  he’s  been  chasing  without  realizing.  he’s  spent  so  much  time  convincing  himself  he  doesn’t  need  things  like  this—tenderness,  open  affection—but  now  that  it’s  here,  he  doesn’t  know  how  to  hold  it.  it  fills  the  hollow  spaces  inside  him,  the  ones  he’s  buried  under  layers  of  stoicism  and  distance.  it  feels  too  much,  too  full,  yet  somehow  not  enough,  as  though  he  could  drown  in  it  and  still  crave  more.

she  calls  him  “little  one,”  and  the  words  unravel  him.  it’s  not  the  name  itself,  but  the  way  it  carries  so  much  weight—love,  protection,  the  kind  of  care  he’s  always  convinced  himself  he  could  live  without.  his  throat  tightens,  his  eyes  sting  faintly,  and  he  wonders  if  he’ll  ever  be  able  to  answer  her  without  betraying  the  vulnerability  pressing  at  the  edges  of  his  composure.  they  seem  to  carve  a  hollow  in  his  chest,  filling  it  with  something  so  painfully  tender  it’s  almost  too  much.  he  wants  to  pull  away,  to  retreat  to  the  safety  of  stoicism,  but  he  doesn’t.  instead,  he  stays  rooted,  letting  her  affection  settle  over  him  like  a  blanket  he  didn’t  realize  he  needed.

when  she  speaks  of  cake,  it’s  such  a  simple  offer,  yet  it  feels  monumental.  it’s  not  just  the  dessert—it’s  the  way  she  invites  him  into  this  fleeting  moment,  free  of  expectation,  just  them  and  the  quiet  celebration  of  his  existence.  the  faintest  smile  pulls  at  his  lips,  and  he  dips  his  head,  hiding  the  fragile  curve  of  his  expression  behind  his  dark  bangs.  he  leans  in,  barely  a  movement,  just  enough  for  his  forehead  to  brush  against  her  shoulder,  his  temple  resting  against  her  like  a  quiet  surrender.  he  lets  her  warmth  steady  him,  lets  himself  feel  something  other  than  the  constant  weight  of  responsibility  and  the  cold  ache  of  loss.

in  her  presence,  there’s  no  room  for  the  sharp  edges  of  his  usual  self.  all  that  exists  is  her,  and  him,  and  the  quiet  happiness  blooming  in  his  chest,  fragile  and  new,  like  sunlight  breaking  through  the  canopy  of  an  old,  shadowed  forest.  she’s  here,  and  that’s  enough.  the  offer  of  cake  feels  like  more  than  just  dessert.  it  feels  like  an  invitation  to  exist  in  this  moment  with  her,  without  walls  or  the  weight  of  everything  else  he  carries.  the  faintest  smile  tugs  at  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  even  as  his  head  dips  slightly  to  avoid  her  gaze.  he  doesn’t  trust  himself  to  look  at  her  fully,  not  with  his  heart  this  bare.

finally,  he  lifts  his  gaze  to  meet  hers,  his  lips  twitching  into  the  faintest  semblance  of  a  smile.  “yeah...  okay.  but  just  a  small  piece.”

[cursedfell]

"Fushiguro-sama! Hey!" Daichi/Kisho is running towards Megumi as he has a gift in his hand but ends up slipping and falling on top of it. Daichi gasps as he can't believe it. "Shit!" Crap, crap, crap! The present is ruined but inside, it's alright, right!? He turns around with his back facing the shadow sorcerer, fixing the present quickly and hoping it wasn't ruined. He got two in one. A small wolf keychain and a utility knife He wasn't sure what to get Megumi as he was really trying too hard to find a gift. So he finds a gift that can be helpful for his missions and everyday usage with the addition of a sliver wolf head keychain as a nice gesture of their friendship.

"Alright, it's fixed. A little bent but fixed!" Daichi whispers to himself in the box. He managed to compose himself quickly in those few minutes before getting back up and handing the gift over to Megumi with a bow of his head. "Here you go! Happy Birthday, Fushiguro!"

megumi  watches  the  scene  unfold  with  a  stoic  expression,  though  his  eyes  follow  every  clumsy  movement  daichi  makes.  there’s  a  flicker  of  something—amusement,  maybe,  or  exasperation—that  doesn’t  quite  reach  his  face  but  lingers  somewhere  in  the  set  of  his  shoulders.  he  steps  forward  and  reaches  out  a  steady  hand  as  daichi  stumbles  and  falls  to  the  ground.  his  fingers  catch  daichi’s  elbow,  firm  but  not  rough,  keeping  him  from  fully  sprawling  out.  there’s  a  slight  crease  in  megumi’s  brow,  the  faintest  sign  of  concern  peeking  through  his  otherwise  calm  expression.

“you’re  going  to  break  your  neck  one  of  these  days,”  he  mutters,  his  voice  low  and  dry,  but  there’s  no  real  bite  to  his  words.  they’re  closer  to  an  exasperated  kind  of  care—an  almost  imperceptible  softness  in  the  way  he  helps  daichi  upright  again.

once  daichi  starts  fumbling  with  the  gift,  megumi  doesn’t  let  go  immediately,  keeping  his  grip  steady  until  he’s  sure  daichi  has  his  balance.  then  he  pulls  back,  shoving  his  hands  into  his  jacket  pockets  like  he  hadn’t  just  stepped  in.  he  watches  as  daichi  frantically  fixes  the  present,  tilting  his  head  slightly  but  saying  nothing,  waiting  for  him  to  finish.  when  the  gift  is  finally  handed  over,  megumi  takes  it  without  a  word,  his  gaze  flicking  over  daichi  briefly  before  focusing  on  the  package.  he  opens  it  carefully,  as  if  the  small  effort  of  daichi’s  clumsy  repair  work  deserves  not  to  be  undone  too  quickly.

the  wolf  keychain  catches  his  attention  first,  and  his  hand  freezes  mid-air.  it’s  small,  but  the  detail  strikes  him  in  a  way  that  feels  oddly  personal—like  daichi  had  noticed  more  about  him  than  he  thought  anyone  did.  he  turns  the  keychain  over  in  his  fingers,  the  faintest  hint  of  something  soft  flickering  across  his  face.

“...  thanks,”  he  says  quietly,  his  tone  a  little  awkward  but  genuine.  megumi  doesn’t  look  up  as  he  speaks,  his  focus  lingering  on  the  silver  wolf  for  just  a  moment  longer  before  he  pockets  it  alongside  the  utility  knife.

his  hand  brushes  over  the  pocket  briefly,  as  if  reassuring  himself  the  keychain  is  there,  before  glancing  back  at  daichi.  “try  not  to  kill  yourself  next  time  you  try  giving  someone  a  present,”  he  adds,  his  tone  flat  but  lighter  than  usual.  still,  there’s  an  almost  imperceptible  lift  at  the  corner  of  his  mouth—a  subtle,  fleeting  echo  of  gratitude  and  fondness.

[cursedfell]

𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 & 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬

independent, highly selective, private . oc driven & canon enthusiastic ( fandoms include 𝙅𝙐𝙅𝙐𝙏𝙎𝙐 𝙆𝘼𝙄𝙎𝙀𝙉, 𝙊𝙉𝙀 𝙋𝙄𝙀𝘾𝙀, 𝘽𝙐𝙇𝙇𝙀𝙏 𝙏𝙍𝘼𝙄𝙉, 𝘿𝙄𝙎𝙃𝙊𝙉𝙊𝙍𝙀𝘿, 𝘿𝙐𝙉𝙂𝙀𝙊𝙉 𝙈𝙀𝙎𝙃𝙄, 𝙃𝘼𝘿𝙀𝙎 & 𝙅𝙊𝙃𝙉 𝙒𝙄𝘾𝙆 ) —   dragged by goose

[cursedfell]

happy birthday, blessing.

megumi  stands  frozen,  the  words  hanging  in  the  air  like  smoke  he  can’t  escape  from.  blessing.  it’s  his  name,  the  one  his  father  gave  him—a  name  he  never  asked  for.  never  wanted.  it’s  like  a  mark,  something  he  can’t  wash  off,  something  that  follows  him  like  a  shadow  he  can’t  outrun.  he  feels  something  twist  in  his  chest—an  ache,  a  flicker  of  warmth,  and  a  distant  yearning  that  he’s  never  let  himself  acknowledge.  blessing.  he  doesn’t  know  if  it’s  a  cruel  joke  or  a  genuine  sentiment.  the  truth  of  it  is  somewhere  in  between,  and  megumi  doesn’t  know  if  he’s  ready  to  face  it.

he  doesn’t  want  to  feel  it.  doesn't  want  to  feel  anything  in  response  to  toji.  after  all,  what’s  there  to  feel?  his  father  was  never  there,  never  stayed  long  enough  to  teach  him  what  it  meant  to  be  loved,  what  it  meant  to  be  his  son.  megumi  can  still  hear  the  silence  after  toji’s  footsteps,  still  remember  the  way  he  left,  disappearing  into  the  world  like  it  didn’t  matter  that  he’d  torn  a  hole  in  megumi’s  chest  when  he  did.  blessing...  it’s  a  cruel  thing,  isn’t  it?  to  say  something  that  sounds  like  it  should  mean  something  good,  something  whole,  but  really,  it’s  just  a  reminder  of  everything  megumi’s  father  didn’t  do,  everything  he  couldn’t  be.  it’s  a  hollow  thing  that  doesn’t  belong  to  him,  not  really.

but  there’s  something  else  too.  something  fragile,  buried  deep,  like  a  sliver  of  hope  trying  to  press  through  the  cracks.  megumi  hates  it.  hates  the  way  his  chest  aches  with  it.  a  part  of  him—just  a  small  part,  a  part  he  doesn’t  even  want  to  acknowledge—wants  to  be  seen  by  toji.  wants  to  be  loved,  wants  to  believe  that  maybe,  just  maybe,  there’s  something  there  beneath  all  the  years  of  abandonment  and  distance.  but  he  can’t  admit  it,  not  even  to  himself.  the  words  happy  birthday,  blessing  linger,  and  megumi  swallows  hard.  they  make  him  want  to  run,  to  bury  himself  in  the  silence  of  his  thoughts.  his  hands  are  shaking,  his  fists  clenched  so  tight  he  feels  his  nails  digging  into  his  palms.  the  feeling  swells  inside  him,  a  storm  of  confusion  and  bitterness  and  something  too  soft—something  too  painful  to  let  himself  feel.

toji  stands  before  him,  a  figure  from  his  past  who’s  never  quite  been  father,  never  quite  been  anything.  the  years  between  them  are  filled  with  ghosts—memories  too  painful  to  examine,  too  raw  to  touch.  megumi  has  spent  his  life  hiding  behind  walls,  behind  armor,  convinced  that  distance  was  the  answer.  but  now,  here,  in  the  quiet  weight  of  this  moment,  he  feels  exposed.  the  silence  stretches,  thick  and  suffocating.  megumi's  fingers  curl  into  his  palms,  and  he’s  suddenly  aware  of  the  beating  of  his  heart,  rapid  and  chaotic,  in  a  way  he’s  never  felt  before.  there’s  something  inside  him  that  screams  to  say  more,  to  demand  an  answer,  to  ask  why,  why  he’s  here  now,  offering  something  as  fragile  as  a  birthday  wish.

but  he  doesn’t  ask.  he  can’t.  his  words  are  stuck,  caught  in  his  throat,  tangled  in  the  mess  of  his  feelings.  he  wants  to  reach  for  something,  some  thread  of  connection,  but  it’s  too  elusive.  his  chest  feels  tight,  like  he  can’t  breathe  properly,  like  the  weight  of  his  father’s  presence  is  too  much  for  him  to  bear.

blessing.  he’s  never  been  able  to  decide  if  he  feels  cursed  by  his  father  or  if  it’s  something  he’s  always  secretly  craved—this  small,  fleeting  acknowledgment.

“thanks,”  when  he  speaks,  it's  soft  and  hollow,  barely  a  whisper  between  them.  it  feels  almost  like  a  lie,  like  a  thin  veneer  to  cover  the  trembling  of  his  heart.  his  voice  cracks  slightly,  and  he  hates  it.  hates  the  vulnerability  that  spills  out,  the  way  his  emotions  betray  him.  the  sting  of  it.  the  longing.  he  doesn’t  know  what  to  do  with  it.  doesn’t  know  what  to  do  with  blessing.  it’s  there,  hanging  between  them  like  a  thread,  fragile  and  delicate,  and  megumi  can’t  look  away.  his  body  betrays  him  before  his  mind  can  catch  up.  before  he  can  stop  it,  his  feet  move,  the  distance  between  him  and  toji  shrinking  in  a  way  that  feels  almost  impossible.  it’s  instinct,  a  brief,  rare  moment  of  allowing  himself  this.  this  thing  he’s  never  let  himself  want.

without  thinking,  he  leans  in—just  slightly,  his  forehead  pressing  gently  against  toji’s  chest.  it’s  not  a  hug.  it’s  not  anything  grand.  but  it’s  enough.  enough  to  feel  the  steady  rhythm  of  his  father’s  heartbeat,  enough  to  feel  the  warmth  of  him,  even  if  it  doesn’t  last  long.  the  sound  of  it,  the  solidness  of  his  presence,  fills  the  space  between  them.  he  allows  himself  this  one  thing,  this  moment.  it’s  a  quiet  surrender,  a  moment  of  tenderness  he’s  never  known  how  to  ask  for.  he  doesn’t  look  up,  doesn’t  meet  toji’s  gaze.  he  doesn’t  need  to.  he’s  not  asking  for  anything  more  than  this.  just  the  weight  of  his  father’s  chest,  the  small  brush  of  affection  that  he’s  never  been  able  to  give,  never  been  able  to  receive.

it’s  brief,  fleeting.  a  touch  that  feels  like  it  could  vanish  just  as  quickly  as  it  came.  but  for  the  first  time  in  a  long  time,  megumi  allows  himself  to  feel  it.  just  this  once.  then,  as  quickly  as  it  came,  he  pulls  away.  the  moment  breaks,  and  the  walls  go  back  up,  locking  away  everything  he  doesn’t  know  how  to  hold.  his  hand  brushes  the  back  of  his  neck,  and  he  steps  back,  swallowing  the  strange  lump  in  his  throat.

“gojo  is  going  to  be  bringing  cake  by.”  a  pause.  “…you're  welcome  to  have  some,  if  you  stay.”

[cursedfell]

"happy birthday, megumi!" tsumiki smiles cheerfully, extends her arms to offer a gift bag for her younger brother. she's picked out a couple books for him; but neatly wrapped beside them is a small plush dog keychain. she knows nothing of the shikigami that megumi is capable of summoning, but some kind of intuition guided her to choose one with a white coat of fur.

his new lucky charm, she'll call it.

"gojo-san said he'd be coming by to take us to dinner," she adds, and it almost sounds like a gentle warning, or maybe almost apologetic - but she knows that he wouldn't really see it as an inconvenience, deep down. "anyway, you can open this whenever you'd like. i hope you like it!"

megumi  doesn’t  move  at  first,  his  hands  resting  lightly  against  the  edges  of  the  gift  bag.  there’s  a  weight  to  it  that  feels  heavier  than  it  should,  though  not  in  a  way  that  burdens  him.  it’s  the  weight  of  care,  of  thoughtfulness,  of  tsumiki’s  steady,  unshakable  presence  in  his  life.

she’s  always  been  like  this.  quietly  attuned  to  him  in  a  way  no  one  else  ever  seems  to  be.  she  notices  the  things  he  doesn’t  say,  the  things  he  doesn’t  know  how  to  say.  and  somehow,  she  always  knows  what  to  do  with  them.  his  fingers  curl  around  the  bag,  deliberate  and  cautious,  like  it  might  shatter  if  he  isn’t  careful.  he  takes  the  books  out  first,  their  spines  crisp  and  clean,  the  kind  she  knows  he’ll  enjoy.  he  doesn’t  have  to  flip  through  the  pages  to  know  they’ll  hold  a  comfort  for  him,  something  steady  in  the  chaos  of  his  days.

and  then  he  sees  it—the  small,  unassuming  plush  keychain  nestled  between  them.  it  catches  him  off  guard,  its  simplicity  tugging  at  something  deep  in  his  chest.  a  white  dog.  his  fingers  brush  over  its  soft  fur,  and  for  a  moment,  he’s  struck  still. 

the  keychain  feels  like  more  than  it  is. 

she  doesn’t  know  about  the  shikigami,  the  twin  wolves  he  summons  to  fight  beside  him.  she  doesn’t  know  how  much  of  himself  he’s  poured  into  their  existence,  how  they  feel  like  an  extension  of  who  he  is.  and  yet,  she  chose  this.  his  throat  tightens.  he  can’t  explain  why  this  small,  silly  trinket  feels  like  a  lifeline,  but  it  does.  there’s  something  inexplicable  about  how  right  it  feels,  how  perfect  it  is.  his  heart  swells,  warmth  spilling  over  and  making  his  chest  ache.  it’s  too  much  and  not  enough  all  at  once,  and  he  has  no  way  to  put  it  into  words.

so  he  zips  up  his  jacket,  the  fabric  shielding  his  mouth  and  nose.  it’s  instinctive,  a  practiced  defense  against  emotions  he  doesn’t  want  the  world  to  see.  but  the  smile  he’s  hiding  stretches  wider  than  it  has  in  a  long  time,  soft  and  unguarded.  he  holds  the  plush  in  his  palm,  gripping  it  lightly  as  if  to  anchor  himself.  the  idea  of  carrying  it  with  him,  of  having  something  so  small  to  remind  him  of  her  care—it  feels  like  a  quiet  kind  of  protection,  something  solid  in  the  ever-shifting  landscape  of  his  life.  when  he  finally  stands,  the  books  carefully  placed  back  in  the  bag,  the  keychain  still  clasped  in  his  hand,  he  feels  the  weight  of  what  he  wants  to  say  pressing  against  his  chest.  words  don’t  come  easily  to  him,  especially  not  when  they  carry  so  much.

but  as  he  finds  her,  standing  with  that  ever-present  gentle  smile,  he  doesn’t  hesitate.  “thank  you,”  he  says,  his  voice  soft,  almost  reverent.  it’s  not  enough.  it’ll  never  be  enough  to  capture  the  depth  of  what  he  feels.  but  the  words  carry  every  ounce  of  the  quiet  gratitude,  the  fierce  love,  the  unshakable  bond  he  feels  for  her.

she’s  his  anchor.  his  constant.  his  lucky  charm.

[cursedfell]

yuji stands a few steps away, the package in his hands crinkling slightly as his grip tightens. the wrapping is... well, it’s a mess. the paper is uneven, the tape is haphazardly placed, and there’s a corner sticking up no matter how many times he tried to flatten it. he thought about starting over more times than he can count, but then he figured it’d just look worse. his cheeks are flushed, warmth crawling up to his ears, and he feels a little ridiculous just standing there. megumi’s busy—reading, probably, or maybe just pretending to ignore him. yuji clears his throat, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

he doesn’t even know why he’s nervous. it’s just a gift, nothing over the top. but his heart beats faster anyway, thudding against his ribs like it’s some kind of big confession or something. it’s not, right? he’s just... being thoughtful. he swallows hard and steps closer, holding the package out in front of him like a shield. “uh, hey, fushiguro,” he says, his voice a little too loud at first, so he reels it back. “happy birthday. i, uh, got you something.”

his hands are sweating against the paper, and he wants to wipe them on his pants, but he doesn’t dare let go of the gift. megumi’s sharp eyes flick up to meet his, and for a second, yuji feels like bolting. but he doesn’t. he pushes the package forward a little more, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. “don’t laugh at the wrapping, okay? it’s what’s inside that counts.” and inside are three oversized sweaters, the kind yuji’s noticed megumi wearing lately. some of them suspiciously similar to his own, actually—like that one green one he was sure disappeared weeks ago. megumi probably thinks he doesn’t notice, but yuji does.

he just hopes megumi likes them.

even with his head buried in a book, it's hard not to notice @cursedfell's presence, his energy not unlike the warmth of the sun poking through a cloudy day. it's comforting, settles a small tension in megumi's shoulders that never quite leaves him otherwise. he detects nerves, however ; the energy feels off, and he's tempted to open his mouth and push yuji to tell him what the problem is before the other boy clears his throat, finally addresses him instead.

megumi replaces his bookmark and closes his book, sets it down beside him, looks up to see that yuji's holding something, and that something is for him. a birthday present, he realizes -- wrapped ... in a way that's almost funny, and held out in front of yuji himself in a way that megumi recognizes instantly. he has been in this very position, passing a gift along like it was his own still - beating heart inside a transport container, removed from the thick bramble patch inside his rib cage and laying bare just how sensitive to rejection he really is.

he's quiet, for a moment, unblinking as he makes eye contact with yuji, delicately takes the gift from him and balances it upon his lap. it's what's inside that counts. if that wasn't the story of megumi's life ⸻

oh, he should probably say something.

❝ you didn't have to do this, ❞ is what he decides on, but he still works on opening the gift regardless, lithe fingers slipping beneath a seam to pull the tape apart, careful in his unraveling, as though he really is handling itadori's heart. he spots a familiar green fabric poking out as the wrapping is pushed aside to unveil his present in its entirety, three oversized sweaters just in time for the winter season. it is immediately not lost on megumi the way they look like the ones he's seen yuji wear ( the ones he's stolen from him ⸻ the ones that, he'll admit, he thought had indeed escaped itadori's notice ) ; and he quietly clears his throat, almost embarrassed, and almost more amused.

❝ ... is this your way of saying you want yours back ? ❞ he asks, eyebrow imperceptibly lifted, biting the inside of his cheek to prevent his lips from pulling into something fond. idly, he feels the soft fabric of the sweaters between his fingertips, falls silent again as his mind works on something more to say, eyes finding yuji's once again, trying to convey some sort of meaning without words.

but, that's not enough ; he's come to know that more than anything, is too familiar with that feeling of regret that comes with not saying enough and losing that moment, sometimes forever.

he swallows an uncomfortable feeling in his throat, manages out: ❝ ... thank you, itadori. ❞ ( keep going, fushiguro. ) ❝ i ... it's ... nice. to celebrate. with you. ❞

[cursedfell]

ICARUS IS FLYING TOWARDS AN EARLY GRAVE! carrd // ©.

[cursedfell]

As obnoxious as he is, Satoru opts for not tormenting his son on the boy's birthday. It's a special day, isn't it?

→ Gumi 🐶🖤 : Hi bday boy ;)

→ Gumi 🐶🖤 : What are we doing today 👀

By texting him Gojō gives Megumi freedom of choice of how he wants to spend his birthday (most importantly however, if he wants to spend it with Satoru at all).

he  doesn’t  know  when  it  started  exactly—maybe  when  gojo  insisted  on  walking  him  home  from  school  that  first  year  after  the  zen’in  clan  debacle,  or  maybe  when  he  began  leaving  handwritten  notes  about  appointments  and  meals  on  the  fridge  like  some  kind  of  chaotic  guardian.  it’s  not  like  megumi  chose  this  relationship.  it  was  something  he  tolerated  at  first,  like  an  unavoidable  force  of  nature.  but  over  time,  there  was  a  shift.  gojo  became  less  of  an  overwhelming  presence  and  more...  dependable,  in  his  own  weird  way.

he  doesn’t  like  thinking  about  it  too  much—it’s  uncomfortable,  thinking  of  someone  like  gojo  as  a  father  figure.  gojo  is  obnoxious,  loud,  and  the  furthest  thing  from  “responsible”  that  megumi  can  imagine.  yet,  when  he  showed  up  to  parent-teacher  conferences,  or  when  he  stuck  up  for  megumi  during  the  occasional  jujutsu  high  politics  nonsense,  there  was  no  denying  it.

still,  megumi  doesn’t  have  to  admit  it  out  loud,  right?

with  another  sigh,  he  adjusts  the  message  before  sending.

→  [Sensei.]  don’t  call  me  that. →  [Sensei.]  i’m  not  doing  anything  today.  you  can  come  over  if  you  want.

he  doesn’t  even  know  why  he  adds  the  last  part.  it’s  not  like  gojo  needs  an  invitation—he  never  has—but...  maybe  it’s  because  a  small,  selfish  part  of  him  wants  to  spend  the  day  with  gojo.  the  man  may  be  insufferable,  but  he’s  also  always  been  there,  in  his  own  frustrating,  unwavering  way.

megumi  sets  the  phone  down,  already  regretting  the  text  but  knowing,  deep  down,  that  it  was  the  right  thing  to  do.  gojo  may  drive  him  insane,  but  if  anyone  deserves  to  celebrate  his  birthday  with  him,  it’s  the  person  who’s  been  trying  to  look  out  for  him—no  matter  how  poorly—since  day  one.

[cursedfell]

slaps this bad boy in front of everyone's faces

[cursedfell]

boxes have appeared in front of the ten shadows heir's door, unceremonial and plainly labelled, straight from the mailman. inside, a wolf fursuit awaits, wearing a t-shirt reading IT'S MY BIRTHDAY. paid with megumi's own money of course, with his account hacked by none other than kyoto's resident, bored cyberbully. 一 kokichi to megumi

megumi  stares  at  the  monstrosity  in  front  of  him,  his  fingers  gripping  the  edge  of  the  box  like  it  might  bite  him  if  he  lets  go.  a  fursuit.  of  all  things,  someone  decided  that  this  was  what  he  needed  in  his  life.

the  absurdity  of  it  doesn’t  soften  the  blow—it  only  makes  it  worse.  the  wolf's  unnervingly  cheerful  eyes  glint  back  at  him  in  the  low  light,  the  ridiculous  t-shirt  declaring  IT’S  MY  BIRTHDAY  as  though  it  has  something  to  celebrate.  he  can  feel  his  irritation  rise,  sharp  and  relentless,  like  an  itch  he  can’t  scratch.  his  first  thought  is  who  the  hell  did  this?  followed  closely  by  why  does  this  look  kind  of  cute?  and  that,  that,  sends  a  fresh  wave  of  annoyance  coursing  through  him.  he  scowls,  shoving  the  thought  as  far  down  as  it  can  go.

this  isn’t  cute.  it’s  infuriating.

kyoto.  of  course  it’s  kyoto.  they  have  one  tech-savvy  nuisance  who’s  probably  cackling  to  himself  in  some  dark  corner  right  now.

he  pulls  out  his  phone,  the  smooth  motion  of  his  thumb  across  the  screen  doing  nothing  to  soothe  his  mood.  mechamaru  gets  his  message  soon  enough,  plain  and  sharp  as  a  blade:  “delete  my  information.  now.”  megumi  barely  breathes  before  adding  more,  his  fingers  moving  quicker  now  as  his  irritation  bubbles  over.

“i'm  telling  utahime-sensei.”  he  pauses,  staring  at  the  screen  for  a  moment  before  pocketing  his  phone  with  a  short,  clipped  sigh.  the  suit  still  sits  there,  its  stupid  glassy  eyes  looking�� far  too  pleased  with  themselves.  and  he  hates  himself  just  a  little  more  when  he  catches  his  brain  trying  to  tell  him  that  the  floppy  ears  are  actually  kind  of  well-made.  shaking  his  head  like  it’ll  rid  him  of  the  thought,  he  leans  down,  grabs  the  box,  and  hauls  it  inside.

if  yuji  sees  this,  he’ll  never  hear  the  end  of  it.