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ruershrimo · 6 months

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take me back (take me with you) | f. megumi x fem! reader | chapter 5: mess

ao3 link for additional author’s notes | playlist | prev | next | m.list

chapter synopsis:

'Sometimes they’re all you can think about.

It’s Megumi’s birthday today, and you’re awake just thinking about it. You ponder over whether you should see him, whether that would change anything.'

---

There is not one thing in your life, at this point, that's muddled up. You meet that doctor Megumi mentioned, though.

And Megumi himself, too.

word count: ~6k; tws: none for now,, but I do suggest that you read the author's notes on ao3 just because I explain why some of the things in the chapter are the way they are..

22-12-2017

Sometimes they’re all you can think about.

You’d taken up your father’s offer about a month after he’d announced it, hugging your mother and promising her that you wouldn’t get hurt. She gave in, swallowed her words as if she was taking the baby girl she’d spent hours in labour with and sending her to war.

It’s Megumi’s birthday today, and you’re awake just thinking about it. You ponder over whether you should see him, whether that would change anything.

Tsumiki’s red hair tie sits on your desk like a treasure to watch over. You wear it every once in a while when you want to feel special— pretty, maybe, even if you may look a bit like a child. Either way, it’s your lucky charm, and you’re always wearing it or keeping it near where you are.

You promised you’d be mature— that you’d be vulnerable and lay yourself bare, shredding your feelings off of you and fleshing them out, distancing yourself from the jejune cowardice you’d had. Somebody had to do it first, and if he didn’t want to, you’d be the one to do so. This was the most rational thing to do— if he didn’t want to listen to you either way, if he’d remain someone who hadn’t apologised to you, you wouldn’t need that type of person in your life any longer.

And Tsumiki. You wonder if she’s okay, how she’s doing: is she sleeping well? Eating well? Enjoying her life? Smiling? Doing well in the student council?

That fight ruined everything, and it was so horribly immature.

If only you hadn’t said anything. If only you’d been softer, gentler like Tsumiki. But no, you shouldn’t have to recompense for Megumi’s lack of understanding. That was maturity. Right?

Still, he shouldn’t have had to do the same for you. Both of you were so stupid.

You clench your fists on your bed, your arm obscuring your vision as if blindfolding yourself and escaping from everything, whether it be from embarrassment or your adolescence-addled proclivity for overthinking interactions from a year ago or— whatever the hell it is, you don’t like it at all, and it’s complicated and jumbled and makes you want to cry, shout, curl into yourself and just go to sleep at the same time.

It’s 12 am and you feel really, really stupid. You feel like scolding yourself for everything.

Now you’ve made up your mind another time. Every time you think of him you’re back to square one, you think, and then you’ll resort back to the same conclusion: you won’t give him the satisfaction despite knowing how utterly stupid it is the way you’re going around things.

When you go to Tokyo you’re not going to see Fushiguro Megumi. Even if that includes his sister.

You just have to get over it.

23-12-2017

It’s strange being in Tokyo without it having to do with Tsumiki and Megumi.

“Do you think she’ll be okay?” you ask your father as you’re waiting for the train. The December air is cold, nipping at your nose and cheeks. You sniffle, your skin feeling a little numb. The last Christmas you had in Tokyo was half a lifetime ago and it still shocks you. That eight year old girl never really left your body, her remnants hidden in you like a ghost in a mansion. “...what if she gets sick or something? What if she needs help but she can’t make any emergency calls to anyone because her phone’s too far from her?”

“Your mother will be just fine,” he says, and you feel so small in comparison to your father again because you can’t really tell what he’s feeling, can’t really tell what the expression on his face is supposed to mean— worlds away from you, too grown for you to fathom the multitudes of his feelings and life experiences while he can looks down and see you, witness how green you are and understand everything as if he’d lived that life itself, because he did, once. “And it was my decision to ask you. So whatever happens, it’s my fault and not yours. Don’t be worried.”

He’s stressed now and it only makes you worry even more now. When he’s stressed he grows irritable, and no one is spared.

“Okay.”

24-12-2017

Dr Ieiri Shoko is an interesting person. You recognise her from before— the pretty woman with the mole near her eye, present at Tsumiki’s birthday party all those years ago, with a penchant for smoking cigarettes and brown hair that had been short at that time. Her dark eye circles vaguely remind you of crescent moons in the midnight sky or crevices in the ground.

The room where she works; her clinic, maybe, or where she’s confined to most of the time— is part of Jujutsu High. Their school compound itself had almost shocked you, the torii gates leading to it almost unending and all the buildings’ exteriors like an old city drowning with tin a teeming forest mixed with a subtle modernity.

This room, you think, is one of the most miserable you’ve been in— the air stale with the pungence of rotting flesh, the lights garish and hostile, devoid of all colour except for blue: the sterile blue of the nitrile gloves, the dark blue of the shirt she wears under her lab coat and the pale shade of blue of her box of masks on her desk.

“I never expected that Jujutsu High would be so big,” you remark as the three of you are getting ready for the battle and preparing other medical supplies, “It’s like a city.”

By now, the sun would have already started to set, the force of time having opened the gateway to night. This room would have been one away from time, then; an entity separate from time’s laws in its unchangingness.

“The school is our headquarters, after all,” she says, puffing out the smoke from her cigarette. It diffuses into the air and you try to hold in your breath before nearly choking, “You think they’ll start coming in anytime soon?”

“Ieiri! I told you not to smoke in front of my daughter,” your father barges in, dragging someone behind him. The boy has a black uniform much like your father’s, except his is littered with slashes, his face bruised and bloody.

You step forward. Dr Ieiri stops you. “It’s fine,” she whispers, “Let me.”

“Sorry, old man,” she says, “Just felt nostalgic all of a sudden.”

“Whether you smoke or not, I don’t care. But that’s my daughter!”

“No, it’s fine—” you start, “I really don’t mind—”

“Just help the student get on the examination table,” she states.

Your father hauls him up on the table. He’s whimpering, holding some of his bruises, and wincing each time he touches it again by accident.

The doctor eases her way to him. “Watch,” she orders, and you see the cursed energy in her hand manifest before holding it over him, and seeing how he heals instantly.

“Woah.”

“See?” she starts, “That’s reverse cursed technique.”

“I— is it painless?”—it’s seamless, his healing process, and there’s not an ounce of pain on Dr Ieiri’s face— “How—” you scramble to turn back and look up at her, “How do I learn it?”

She turns to your father. “You didn’t teach her about it?”

“It’s not like I can do it,” he argues, a little wound up and a little angry, probably because of the stress, “The most I could tell her was what it was. At the rate she’s going with her cursed technique progress, I thought that if she got into something she could struggle with, like reverse cursed technique, she’d have trouble with it and would end up spending even more time on all of this. The wife doesn’t want her learning too much about all of this anyway.”

“Ah, yeah, that sounds like her,” Shoko chuckles, “So— she’s learning everything quickly, huh?”

“No— he’s just exaggerating.”

“She likes to downplay her abilities.”

“No I don’t,” you say.

Your father raises his voice a little, “I thought we talked about this, [Name]—”

Dr Ieiri stops the two of you. “Hey, cut it out. I was about to teach her more about reverse cursed technique— you basically said she’s got potential, right?” Then she turns to the previously injured sorcerer. “Sorry about those two.”

“Ah— so sorry about my daughter.”

“...Sorry…” you bow.

“You know what? You two bring her outside, I’ll have to check something here for a while. In private,” Dr Ieiri orders.

When the sorcerer reassures you that she’ll be alright and promises to cause less trouble in the future, the two of you wave her off.

“Why’d you have to be so self-deprecating?” your father turns to you.

“I’m not being self-deprecating,” you argue, “It’s the truth. And it’s not like you are the same, so you don’t really have any right to judge.”

“Okay, now— since when did you get so rebellious?” your father asks, frowning, “You used to be so sweet and obedient. Now it’s like you hate your parents.”

“Wh— rebellious? No, I— god, it’s like the two of you say you hate me every time I disagree with something you say. Why can’t you just listen to me for a second—”

His voice gets that bit lower and that bit louder, and now you’re a mouse before a cat, that chill running down your spine, even though you’ll try your best to shout back, “We just say these things because we know better. We have more life experience than you do. You know, if other people unlike Ieiri were to see us fighting like that they could take advantage of it.”

“You’re starting to sound like her,” you retort.

“Don’t talk about your mother like that.”

“Why not? That’s how you talk about her. Makes no difference. And I can form my own opinions. I’m fifteen—”

“Your mother and I are husband and wife. And you’re a child. Fifteen’s barely close to fifty,” he chides, “But I guess if you think you know everything, then that’s fine. You think you’re so grown-up now, so I guess you can form your own opinions like that.”

“God, you sound immature—”

“And you sound like and ungrateful child! You think this stuff doesn’t exist, that the world’s kind and we’re just miserable idiots making these things up to turn our kid into a miserable adult? These things happen. Nobody told these things to your mother and I, so if we tell you this you should appreciate it, right? But I don’t know what the problem is with you. You’re like her but worse. You say you’ll do these things but you don’t do them. You say you’ll be mature but you don’t end up that way. If we say you shouldn’t do something because it gets you hurt, whether in the heart or in the brain, you do it anyway like a fool. It all gets screwed up somewhere, you know, like your neural pathways don’t connect or something. In the end you don’t appreciate us at all, you think we’re out to get you, you think that you know everything under the sun and when we tell you things you’ll need when we’re off dying in a home for the elderly somewhere, you don’t listen to a single word from us—”

“Well that’s because you don’t listen to me!” you sniffle. The tears will pour out soon and your lips are trembling because he’s actually right to a degree as much as you’d like to deny it.

You hate this. You hate this so much. You hate your father’s words, how much they sound like your mother’s yet how much he uses them against her, you hate the heat on your face about to be caked with blotchy tears, you hate how much everything is out of your control and how hectic everything’s been. You just want to lock yourself in your room, curl into yourself on the mattress, and blindfold yourself with your arm or stare blankly at the garish ceiling light.

“Stop crying, would you? Why’d you have to be so emotional? You really are like her, because you cry from everything. Makes no goddamn sense, honestly…”

Well, you’re just like him, too.

You just walk back.

“Woah. Something happen?” Dr Ieiri questions, discarding a cigarette right after she sees you.

Her eyes are puffy and a little swollen, you notice. But you’re not sure if they may be from tears like yours, or from a constant deprivation of sleep. Probably a combination of the two. Maybe.

“Nothing happened, Ieiri,” he says, ‘It’s just that my daughter thinks she’s the smartest person in the world despite not using her brain at all. It’s fucking shocking how she thinks she knows better than her own parents do.”

You should interrupt him, you want to, to just shut him up. You don’t and you’re seething with anger while each time you feel your nails digging into your palm you’re closer to crying than you have in the past eleven or twelve months.

“Leave the family drama out of this,” she sighs, “There’ll probably be more people coming here. Get ready. You go out and get them first, you old man.”

You don’t give your father a goodbye. You don’t want to give him the give in and lose the fight, even if any time he leaves you here may be the last time you see each other.

He leaves the room, not saying a word to you either.

Immature motherfucker. Literally.

“Great. Now that that’s over with, I can finally talk to you,” she continues, rather casually. You know she probably has a clue that other people would skirt around the situation, that she should have more decorum towards such an issue or incident or something. Yet at the same time you can also confirm she’s the type who doesn’t really care. “Should’ve said this before he came back with that first girl. Now we’ve got to be extra fast.”

“Huh?”

“I may need you as an apprentice, basically.”

“Huh.”

She reasons with you, “I’m not going to live forever, and I’m probably going to need another person who can heal people. You know who did what my job is now before I even came out of the womb?”

“No?”

“It was your dad— bet he never told you about that, huh? Bet you’ve never heard it from your mother, either. Said he was traumatised and all that. But it’s just a part of his past he doesn’t like talking about often.”

“Oh… things must’ve been really bad, then… must be an explanation for why he’s like that as a person, huh…”

She chuckles, “Yeah, I’m pretty sure they were. Still, I’ve heard that you like practising with your cursed technique although it hurts sometimes, but seeing as you’ve been learning things quickly from the way you only discovered your capabilities two years ago…” she continues, “Well, I mean, you seem like a good kid, too. A real hardworking, caring kid. Just a good, kind kid who I can leave this to. But not the type who’d be destroyed by the lack of those things in society. Our world needs people like that, I think. And right now more than ever. So, I thought you could give reversed cursed technique a shot, but I knew that if either your father or mother were here they’d shoot the idea down immediately. You’re their baby girl no matter what they say or no matter how they raised you could have screwed you up a little. They still love you even if they’re not perfect.”

And you end up crying. Full-on bawling for reasons you’d be too childishly embarrassed to disclose.

“Woah— there, there. You’ll be just fine, okay? But hey, give it a shot. I really think you could do well. But then you’d probably need the medical licence and all if you followed my path— I mean, back then, I guess in your dad’s time they were fine with him doing these things technically illegally, because there were less patients back then and less sorcerers got killed on the daily since the cures were weaker…”

“No, no—” you sniffle, rubbing your eyes, “I mean, yes? I want— I want to be a doctor, actually. I’ve wanted to do something like that in the jujutsu world for a while. I just hadn’t gotten the chance to meet you.”

“Great,” she twirls a strand of her hair, “Let’s start.”

You can’t do it.

You keep to your promises— you refrain from using cell manipulation, you don’t go anywhere near the fight— you just stand by and wait for when either of them will ask for something before you run and get it like some gopher. There’s a slight acridity to this: though it hadn’t been your full intent, you suppose that it would have been good to prove your mother wrong in some way, that you could do everything without hurting yourself (even though you definitely would, but if you could handle it and take it all, what would be going wrong, right?). But you refrain from doing it even if there’s nothing stopping you from disobeying her, because beyond still being frustrated with your father who keeps track of everything related to your progress with it— or just trying to prove something for him, something that says you’re not that much of a child anymore, that you’re a person stuck in a body yet to finish growing (to a certain degree, there’s veritable reason behind his words, but you’re just too childish and prideful to admit it and “forgive” him that easily)— there’s a part of you that still wants to listen to your mother every once in a while. Because maybe if you do, then everything will be alright. It’s easier to reduce yourself to a child again sometimes, you suppose. And sometimes you want things easier.

Still, there’s a part of you that can’t help but feel useless right now. Cell manipulation is useful and versatile; it can kill just as much as it can heal, and it can heal just as much as the most injury-prone people can get injured. To help other people, you want to be able to help even at your own expense: to be used properly and utilised efficiently. So, if people can get injured, you’ll be doing as much as you can by using it to its full potential.

As much as you want to help, though, a part of you thinks that even if they were to allow you to use cell manipulation, you would deny their offer anyway.

You aren’t able to help with anything, and you’re not learning anything that you didn’t know before about cell manipulation. Even if this was supposed to be your chance to prove something and make some breakthrough. Something like that.

“Want me to help with anything else?”

“Nothing. Just watch.”

You’d been watching by the sidelines for five hours.

“If you’re bored, you could always leave,” your father states, cold and acerbic.

“No— oh my god, stop. Stop assuming everything. Why do you have to be so emotional?”

Dr Ieiri tilts her head up from the examining table and the arm of a student writhing in pain. “If the two of you fight again, I’m kicking both of you out. But [Name], I think you should watch. I mean, if you ever get tired or bored, though, you can walk through the campus yourself for a while. I think it should be fine. And you can meet some of the first-years right now, too. You’d probably like them a lot.”

“Are you sure, doctor?”

“Yeah, yeah— I don’t mind.”

“Oh, so you’ll listen to a stranger instead of your father—”

“One more time,” Dr Ieiri repeats.

“—And it’s over for today.”

You leave the room, your blood boiling. It takes what modicum of anger control you have left to not slam the door in your father’s face.

The hallways in the school seem normal, and the classrooms do, too, aside from the heady smell of wood and old books (scrolls?) rich and heady in the air due to everything from the floors to the walls having been made traditional style. It’s pleasant. The classrooms seem normal as well despite only having about three desks and chairs neatly stacked up together, with blackboards and alabaster chalk right beside them per room. There probably wouldn’t be much light: there aren’t any attached to the ceiling, so the only ways that sunlight could enter may be through the windows, which now have the orange sunset spilling through them like river water. It reminds you of something quietly forlorn, something that would be lonely and dark in the night, something that’s been abandoned. Still, there is life here— you can tell that from the occasional drawings on some of the boards, with the only dust on them being that of chalk and nothing else, and you suppose that’s the effect of having such little students in a high school so vastly large and indispensable to Jujutsu society.

It seems as if Jujutsu High is a place of ghosts. But rather happy, comfortable ones, maybe. Content ones who went out satisfied and stayed because they decided the world during their lifetimes that the world was something they rather liked.

As you’re exploring and about to head to one of the other classrooms, you meet someone— a bespectacled girl, with dark green hair tied up in a ponytail and bangs swept to the side of her forehead, right next to her honey-hued eyes and precisely sharp, piercing eyelashes. You think that she’s awfully pretty.

“Huh? Who’re you?” she goes, her voice loud and deep and bold, “You a new transfer student or something?”

“No— uh, my father’s a sorcerer and he took me here, so now I’m walking around. He’s assisting the doctor in her room right now and they told me to go outside and see everything.”

“Oh. Then are you gonna be a student here?”

“Probably not? I don’t think I’m going anywhere. But I may visit? I don’t really know. I’m actually still in junior high, anyway.” You utter your name in a brief second, telling her she can just use your first name.

“I’m Maki.”

“Nice to meet you, Maki,” you smile. She smiles back like an older sister.

“So, why’d he even bring you along if you’re not gonna go here?”

“Oh. Well, uh, I’ve got a cursed technique that my father has too and he brought me here to kind of, um— learn about more stuff since I like using my cursed technique. But I don’t think I’ll become a sorcerer. Maybe a doctor, or something…”

“So that’s why you were with that sleep-deprived woman,” she says, heading to lean against the walls’ windows before you do the same.

You don’t know what to do next, but she seems pretty nice and there’s comfort in the fact that she’s a total stranger you probably won’t ever see again all that much. “Maki, can I ask you for some advice?”

She quirks a brow. “Hm? Sure.”

“…I’ve had a lot of things on my mind recently. And I’m at the point of my life where, I guess— my emotions are going wild and I’m arguing with my parents and all. But the most important thing right now, I think, is that I can’t get over somebody I knew. He was my old friend, but… not anymore.

“I used to be really close to him and his sister when we were kids before I moved away from Tokyo, but now we don’t ever talk since they never pick up the phone and I’ve given up on trying. Ah— saying it loud really makes me miss them. But we used to be close, and about a year ago when I went back to where they lived, he and I got into a… heated argument. Now we don’t talk anymore, and I’m not sure if he’s like that because of what I did, but his sister doesn’t either. And now, I don’t know what to do, because— I didn’t really have any friends before I met them, and even now I only have one other friend in my life besides them. So I’m a little lost,” you sniffle, though it feels like a weight has been lifted off of you and you can rest your stiff shoulders, “They were really important to me and I don’t know how to talk to them again, just to like, apologise and set things right, maybe—”

“—What’s stopping you from just talking to them? You said that they weren’t replying, but you could always just send, like, a voicemail or a letter or an email. It honestly just seems like you’re too scared of just apologising. Just say it straight, out loud. There’s no need to go around it. At least you’ll be saying it, and you can put all that stuff to rest in your head. Then if they don’t ever say anything back, fuck them!” she grins crookedly, her teeth like the serrated zigzags on a special knife, wide and bright like the summer sun. Pure, well-meant advice.

A part of what she says is what you’ve been thinking, really, but she’s right when she says it. Perhaps you just needed to hear it from a complete stranger.

“I think you’re right, Maki,” you smile, “I’ll do it when I’m ready.”

“Come on, there’s no time for when you’ll be ready for these sorts of things. You just have to… sort of push yourself. If you don’t, how long are you planning to wait? You’ll never be ‘ready’ enough.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Thanks, Maki.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, the slightly cocky tone of her voice a perfect match with her smile. “Anyway, I’ve got to look for someone. I’ll see you around.”

“Oh— well, thank you, Maki. I’ll see you around too.”

She eases past you, an air of confidence in her, her back straight and chest protruding. “And [Name]? One more thing.

“Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

25-12-2017

“Before you leave, here’s my phone number,” Dr Ieiri says. She snatches a cigarette out of her mouth and a pen from her pocket, and soon she palms the used cigarette, placing it on your hand. It’s burned on one end and has the stain of her lipstick on the other.

When you leave it’s the first time you’ve stepped on that train without turning back and glancing at the platform. There’s nothing left to see, anyway. You hold your wrist as if holding the hair tie close to your heart, clinging to something with nothing left.

26-12-2017

The day the two of you come back, there’s an emptiness in the way your mother speaks, her eyes swollen and her skin dull.

“How was the trip?” she asks as she’s cooking dinner. She doesn’t turn to face you.

“It was good.”

“I’m glad to know.”

You walk over to her. “Are you upset?”

No reply.

“Mummy, I didn’t do anything. I just watched them work. Nothing bad happened to me, nothing bad will ever happen to me, I promise, I— Mummy?”

Her knife slices through the vegetables like a machine in a factory. She transfers them into a bowl and mixes them in with beaten eggs.

“I won’t become a Jujutsu sorcerer, I promise.”

“I don’t want you doing anything related to that at all,” she mutters.

“...you know I can’t do that. I’ve told you that I can’t.”

“Then I’ll only stop this when you promise me to not to use it or get into that world and get yourself hurt again.”

You reel back. “Mummy, if you’re going to be like that, then I’m not going to listen to you. I’m still going to do it and you can’t stop me.”

“So that means you’ll be the one keeping me like this forever.”

“...I guess it does.”

“Is this how you’re repaying me for everything? For years I clothed you and fed you and— I had friends before I had you but I barely see them now, because my life and time has become something I only control based on the lives of you and your father. You think I wanted that?” she turns to you, “You think I wanted a life where I was either cooking or cleaning or caring for a daughter who brought sickness and harm onto herself and caused trouble for everyone?”

It’s not like you even care what happens to you. It’s not like they have to care about whatever happens to you. If you get sick or get injured or die, then so what? You don’t matter nearly enough compared to the people you could help if you didn’t. “You can’t say that right now. I’ve been trying to repay you for what you’ve done, but— it doesn’t mean that I have to go back on my own commitments. I’m my own person—”

“I’m not saying you aren’t. But you’re also my daughter. You should be listening to me, still, since you’re only— what— fifteen?”

“Daddy said the same thing— why can’t the two of you just listen to me? It wasn’t like this in the past. Even when I was little you listened to me.”

“We’re not the ones who’ve changed, [Name]. It was all you.”

“You’re infuriating. I can’t stand you. The both of you.”

“Of course, you’d be the one saying that.”

28-2-2018

Your mother gets admitted to the hospital at the end of February.

“It’s cancer,” your father says.

Now you can no longer recall a time when you laughed and smiled alongside your parents. It must have just been that long of a time since then, you suppose.

You’re crying as you see her sleeping figure— you see what you used to be terrified of, your mother, your dearest mother, slipping away from you with weak limbs and eyes in that hospital bed. The last time she was in one it had been the day you were born and that only makes you sob even more, until your eyes feel as if they’re bleeding, and all you can feel tugging at your chest is regret, but not quite that either. Regret that you never made the effort to spend time with her, to get her to understand you— you were the child, but since your parents had not been able to quell whatever they’d faced in the past, you were supposed to be the one reaching out to them and helping them heal from that since the start of it all. It was supposed to be your responsibility— one that you kept denying, one that you failed to do, one that you hadn’t been useful for even though that had been all you wanted to be in life.

Your father and you barely exchange words after that.

17-6-2018

You ended up choosing to go to the same school as Yuuji even though there’d been ‘better’ schools willing to take you in. He told you the two of you could stick together like before despite being in different schools, yet you insisted on staying by his side.

Partly for a different reason, though. The first time you’d stepped foot in the school there was an aura of cursed energy thick in the air, a nauseating sensation that almost suffocated you like fabric over your mouth and nose. You decided you’d stay there and prevent anything wrong from happening. This year would be a year of clear-cut decisions and surety, you’d told yourself. You would have to be decisive this time instead of overthinking things in your bed late at night anymore.

“Staying with the literature club today?” he asks, “You know, you’re always welcome to the occult club next time.”

“Yeah, but I like the literature club, anyway. Enjoy yourself there, okay?” you swat him playfully on the back, “Bye.”

“Bye!”

The literature club provides a respite, you suppose, from the stress in your life— not like you’re dealing with that stressful of a life, but everything else seems muddled up when you’re at home or with Yuuji, as much as you enjoy your time with him. There, it’s quiet and civil and professional. You barely know the names of anyone there, and even though literature includes discussing different viewpoints and— in theory— getting to know each other, you’re grateful for the group leader’s incompetency in leadership, and that it just becomes one long reading session for everyone after he’s given up on starting conversations and productive discussions with his fellow club members.

“...it seems like you’re reading another classic today. Do you like classics?” he asks you.

“Uh… yes?” you whisper back, “And books on biology and dogs, I guess.” Sometimes it hurts to say the latter when you’re reminded of what it means.

“So… what other classics do you like to read, [Name]?”

Why’s he using your first name? You barely know him.

“Uhm…” You turn back to what’s behind you. Despite how far it is, you can notice it— that pink hair, that yellow hoodie. It seems as if one of the PE teachers is there, and a crowd has formed around them. “Oh… wait! Look! There’s something going down there! I’m so sorry, I’ve got to go down and see it, it seems like they’re doing, um—” You turn back again, your feet ready to speed away and run off— “—They’re doing the shot put! I’m sorry, I’ve to see! I think my friend’s there.”

By the time you’re down, you’re panting and looking onwards, wedging yourself into the jostling crowd of people.

The ball probably beat the world record. You’re not sure, though.

You cheer along with everyone else. Yuuji is wonderful. So wonderful, and pure, and kind and strong and good—

It’s like that ache is pricking at your chest again.

You’ll live, though. Eventually. Eventually all of this will have been over with.

He walks over to Sasaki and Iguchi, relaxed and confident in his posture as always. “Hey, [Name]!” he shouts, waving at you.

You head over to the three.

“Left early today?”

“Yeah.”

There it is, that aura again— but it feels a bit stronger now.

You’ll check later.

“You’d do well on a sports team, Itadori,” Sasaki comments, her hand on her waist, “Don’t force yourself to stay in our occult club.”

“Huh? Really? But even though you love scary stuff, without me you could never go to haunted places!”

“But we like being scared,” she pouts.

“School rules say that I have to be in some club,” he says, slightly cocking his head to the side, “And I could never keep this up.” With his thumb he points at the awed students behind him taking pictures of his shot with stars in their eyes.

For a moment, you turn behind, and there he is.

Fushiguro Megumi.

The person who you supposed was the first you ever loved. The person who became one of your closest friends. The person who argued with and abandoned you.

He stops in his tracks.

“Sorry, guys, I’ve got to excuse myself for a bit,” you tell them, speeding over your words a little.

“Oh, no— don’t worry about it!” Sasaki says.

You dash as fast as you can— which would probably have got you a measly 10th place in a race with twelve year old kids, but still— grabbing his wrist like a pickpocket swiping someone’s credit card or wallet, before pulling him over to the side of the crowd where there are less people.

You’re seething, almost, or at least you’d like to be.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you ask.

“You’re asking me that? What are you doing here? Can’t you feel the cursed energy here?”

“Yeah— no shit, Sherlock! That’s why I enrolled myself into this school! But you— called you so many times, you never picked up, and now you’re showing up at my school like this, frowning like some kind of anime-bad-boy-with-daddy-issues cosplayer in casual clothing— do you know how frustrating it is to try to keep whatever ‘relationship’ we all have left?”

He sighs.

“Oh, you’re sighing? God, you’re insufferable— you know, there are so many things I have to say to you right now and I will make you fucking listen, Megumi—”

“Okay, I’m sorry. Just listen. Too many things happened and since you’re here I think I may need your help.”

You let out a large, nearly over exaggerated exhale. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

Itadori runs past you. “Bye, [Name]! I’m gonna go see grandpa!”

“Bye! Stay safe!” you tell him.

And now you feel it— the surge of cursed energy from just Yuuji.

“His backpack! It’s in his backpack!” you whisper, “He’s in the occult club, the cursed object is probably in his backpack!”

He turns back.

“...you’re still holding my wrist, by the way.”

“Tt– oh, shut up, it’s not like you can’t handle it,” you say, pausing, then taking it back and retracting your hand. “Sorry. I’ll take it off if it makes you uncomfortable, ah… I’m just… very frustrated and confused. Everything’s been muddled up recently, just because a lot has happened in the past year, uhm… sorry. I should probably stop exploding on everyone like this.”

“It’s fine. …everything’s fine,” he says, pulling your hand back hesitantly. His eyes stay away from you evasively. Acting innocent, as if he isn’t doing anything at all.

“[Name], do you want him to stay alive?”

“I— yeah, of course? And he’s my best friend, so… of course.”

“Then at least we know what we have to do now.”

“I guess we do.”

“Whatever it is, we’ll talk about it later,” he promises, “I… have a lot to say to you too.”

“Okay.”

You lead him, pulling him forward by the wrist to the hospital as the sun begins to set.

The year of 2010. Two children still in smaller worlds, watching shows and reading books and eating cake. Sticky summer days with cold water splashed at each other, a spring spent with his sister and braiding each others’ hair, an autumn with dog books and stepping on rustling, crunching leaves, a winter with fried chicken and bunched up coats and warming each others’ fingers.

Nostalgia.

You want him to take you back to those days.

Years ago, in a city you no longer live in, he’d done the same. He’d held you by the wrist, pulled you gently as the two of you walked to his home.

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