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Megumi is nine when he nearly dies for the first time.
His breath comes short and fast, each wheeze a desperation, a plea, and the sheets beneath his hair and back are soaked in sweat. He prays silently for his father to come back, to bring him food or water or at least open the window to let cool air in. The air is thick, muggy with humidity in the small room. Rolling over, Megumi presses his palms and shins against the wall, seeking any sort of relief from the heat.
In his delirium, he wishes for Tsumiki, but she’s gone. He wishes for her gentle hands on his forehead, soothing, a cold damp washcloth laid over his head. He wishes for her soft voice reading fairytales, lulling him into sleep. He wishes he weren’t alone.
“I can help you with that,” a voice says, and if not for the dull pain echoing from his forehead to his stomach Megumi would be screaming. He’s already learned—new voices, new people, rarely ever bode well in his family.
“Don’t do that, you’ll scare him,” another voice reprimands, floating into his ears. Megumi strains to clear the fog clouding his sight and blinks up, squinting. Two fuzzy faces come into focus, and behind them—
“Wings,” Megumi whispers. Even in his state, he can guess what it means. “I’m dying.”
“That’s right. You catch on pretty quick, don’t you? Most of them take at least an hour…crying, whining, rejecting their fate.” The flying creature—a demon, Megumi decides, since its wings are black and it has red eyes and there are strange dark markings all over its face—grins down at him, then scowls as the other one elbows him.
The other one must be an angel, then. White wings, smoother voice. “I’m sorry about him, Fushiguro. No, you’re not dying. Well, you are, but I’m going to make it so that you won’t, okay?”
Megumi frowns. “Guardian angel?”
“Right-o!” The angel makes finger guns, then quickly retracts them. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be doing this to a kid. Whatever! Okay, you ready to feel better?”
To be honest, Megumi doesn’t see why he deserves a guardian angel and why Tsumiki didn’t get one, but he’d like to live. He nods, wincing as the movement sends another wave of dizziness through his body.
The angel lays his hands over Megumi’s forehead. “You’re going to black out after this, and hopefully you’ll forget us too. If Sukuna here does the spell right. Oh, I forgot to introduce myself! I’m Yuji, and the demon over there’s Sukuna. Yeah, we have the same face. Weird, right? By the way, I can actually only save you once, so from now on, you’re on your own. But I’ll be cheering you on, Fushiguro! No worries, you’ll be fine.
“Your father will be back in two days. He’s a little held up right now, but I guess it’s useless telling you that since you’ll forget it anyway.” Yuji pushes down, and his palms are neither cool nor gentle, but the radiating pain fades away and Megumi feels his eyelids droop.
“Sukuna, your turn!” he hears, through a dark haze. “Get in your practice time.”
“Shut up, brat,” the rougher voice snarls back. “I’m getting to it. Fuck off.”
“Fushiguro can hear that!”
“Not for long, he won’t.” There’s a popping sound, and the back of his head and his cheeks are suddenly cool. Megumi’s limbs relax themselves unconsciously, and he’s buoyed away on the river of sleep.
✧
Later, he stumbles into the kitchen to find a tall glass of water and a plate of sushi already waiting for him. Megumi peeks around the corners to see if Toji has come home, but it’s all silent. He’s still alone.
There’s a note on the table. He crawls up on a chair, wondering at his strangely vivid hallucination brought on by fever. But the food and water—he doesn’t even think his refrigerator contains enough ingredients to make a plate of food. He picks up the note, nearly dropping it as the edges instantly begin to crumble away into nothingness.
They were real. Megumi assumes that it’s the angel, but the note only has six words:
You remember. I made it so.
✧
“Dad?”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Toji, I think an angel saved my life.”
Toji stares down at him. He seems to Megumi what he read in his geography textbook, about famous landmarks like Mount Everest; towering, imposing, unmovable. There are still flecks of blood remaining on his left forearm, and his shoes are caked in red. Megumi will probably have to scrub them later. “Good for you. If it ever comes around again, tell it to give you money.”
✧
What Sukuna is doing must be against the rules. Megumi walks to his junior high every day, watching his shadows stretch long in front of him. In his shadow, there are wings.
He tries talking one day. “Sukuna…right? Why are you following me?”
There’s a silence, lengthy enough for Megumi to start worrying that he’s just being stupid and he never really did recover from that fever three years ago. But then, there’s a rustling sound behind him, and a figure somersaults over his head to hover in front of him.
“Why, I thought you’d never notice,” Sukuna greets him, smug in the daylight. “I’m bored.”
“Can anyone see you?”
“You mean humans? No. And I’ve gotten good enough that I can shield my presence from other angels, other than Yuji.” With a single powerful flap, Sukuna moves closer. Megumi moves away.
He doesn’t tell Sukuna to go away, since Sukuna is okay company. Some days he talks a lot, and Megumi is forced to look like an idiot replying to empty air, and some days he’s dead silent and the only sounds are birds chirping, the beating of wings, and Tokyo. He figures out after a few months when Megumi’s having an off day, and his remarks are less biting than usual. Always Megumi spots him first in his own shadow, black feathers unfolding behind narrow shoulders, and always he speaks first.
✧
“Sukuna, your wings are red today.”
“And? Your lip is busted.”
Megumi glares at him, stepping off of the curb. It’s still dark outside, the sky barely pale at the horizon. “No shit. That happens every other week, and somehow you insist on commenting on it every time.”
Sukuna follows him into the convenience store, drawing a shudder from the woman he flies past. “You’re such an uncute thirteen-year-old. Aren’t you supposed to be playing sports and bullying the girl you like?”
“I got into a fight with the baseball team captain,” says Megumi, loading a sack of flour into his cart. Milk, eggs, sugar, bananas; Toji’s grocery lists never contains the entirety of what they need, and he never gives Megumi quite enough money to buy it all. Scrounging around in his wallet, he counts out the extra cash and hopes he has enough.
“Did you win?”
Sukuna sounds like his father. Squatting down, Megumi checks for the cheapest canned peaches. The urge to throw the meager list away and walk away into a park, skip school for the rest of the day and watch planes move across the sky is strong. He picks up the four-hundred-yen jar and sticks it into his cart with a sigh.
“I could give you money,” offers Sukuna. He holds out a stack of too-crisp bills in Megumi’s direction, then laughs at the look on Megumi’s face. “What? Sure, these’ll disappear after midnight, but no big deal. They won’t even notice.”
Ignoring him, Megumi moves into the dairy aisle. Sukuna sticks right behind him. “Okay, okay. My wings are red today because I stuck too close to the lava pits last night. Happy?”
“There are lava pits?”
“It’s hell, darlin’, what’re you expecting?”
✧
Oh, this sucks. This fucks. Toji’s gone again for god knows how long, and Megumi is going to die at the tender age of fifteen. He doesn’t think of Tsumiki now, or his teacher Geto, or the student called Mahito that sometimes smokes on the roof with him; no, embarrassingly enough, he’s thinking about Sukuna. Of all people, the devil. No wonder Megumi can’t catch a break; between crunching every other night for studies he doesn’t care about and worrying about if he’s even going to get to university with the way money falls like water through his father’s fingers, a cursed creature is foremost on his mind.
Sukuna melts through the wall, lingering fingers causing ripples in the plaster. “Megumi.”
“Sukuna. It’s five in the afternoon, not five in the morning.”
Disregarding the obvious, Sukuna sits down and observes the blood dripping on the floor with great interest. “You got stabbed? Who did it?”
Megumi stares at him. If Sukuna is the last person—thing he talks to before he dies, maybe it won’t be that bad. It could be worse; he remembers Mahito’s most recent words to him, just earlier at lunch: Did you know Geto-sensei and Gojo-sensei are dating? I saw them doing it in the break room the other day.
Sukuna huffs, “Don’t look at me like that. It’s creepy. You’re always doing that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m not—” Sukuna pauses, shakes his head. “I’m calling Yuji.”
“He already saved me once, though. I don’t think he’s allowed to do it again.”
Already at the door—Megumi supposes he could go through the ceiling if he wished to—Sukuna tilts his head. “I’ll make him do it again.”
✧
Knees weak with relief, because he’s not going to fucking die anymore, thank Sukuna, Megumi can barely take in the argument Sukuna and Yuji are having. Small pieces are processed at a time:
“I can’t believe you—”
“You did it anyway, what’s the big deal?”
“You knew I wouldn’t be able to refuse.”
“Obviously. That’s why I called you instead of Kugisaki.”
“Sukuna, I could—”
“You’re not.”
Megumi’s getting that too-tired feeling, the one that drags down his bones into the core of the earth, and he’s struggling to stay afloat. The voices are fading, but he clings onto the one that is familiar.
“No one has to know about this, Yuji.”
“I know. Do I look like an idiot to you? I’m not going to make the same mistake you did.” An inhale. “But, Sukuna—”
“Don’t.”
“It’s the first time you’ve gotten me mixed up in your own trouble, and it’s for someone else.”
The fluttering of wings; a blanket drawn over him, and a popping sound. Megumi remembers it all anyway. Oh, this—this is warm.
✧
“You’ve been watching too many American coming-of-age TV shows,” Megumi tells Sukuna, who’s hovering behind him in the mirror. “There are no prom nights in Japan.”
“Shame. I would’ve wanted to see you suffering in a suit and dancing with a girl,” snickers Sukuna. He can change sizes, Megumi has discovered, and right now he’s a fairylike thing, tiny and whizzing around faster than a hummingbird. Alighting on Megumi’s shoulder, Sukuna takes the baby hairs curling at the nape of his neck in his tiny fists and yanks.
Megumi swats at him without hesitation. “I’m getting the electric flyswatter out if you do that again.”
Sukuna lands on his head, secure in his position as Megumi dips his head down to splash cold water on his face. The past two years have been kinder to him; he’s not sure how, but Toji has sobered somewhat and curbed his gambling habit, and there’s an account set aside for savings. The person who stabbed him decided he was a demon god after he returned to school unharmed; since then, the fights have decreased in frequency.
Pulling the towel from the rack, Megumi dries the water from his face and walks back into his bedroom, Sukuna hanging on the entire time. He clicks the button on his little plastic speaker, sending soft 80’s pop into the air. Spreading his arms out as wide as he can on the narrow width of his bed, Megumi breathes in the cooling air. A prom would be nice, he thinks, for a distraction. Mahito would probably slip something into the juice dispenser, and Choso would set something on fire.
He flicks his gaze up, where Sukuna has perched on his forehead. He’s very cute and nonthreatening in this form, decides Megumi, even when the voice doesn’t match up with the size, and he reaches a finger up to stroke at Sukuna’s head.
“What are you doing.”
“Can you give yourself cat ears?” asks Megumi, uncharacteristically lighthearted. After Choso, pyromaniac, definitely did not burn down the entire section of science labs in the middle of the night, the school has foregone homework in favour of speedy repairs. It’s a holiday of its own; better than prom, really. So much more relaxing.
Sukuna blinks down at him for a few seconds, then flies off, transforming as he goes. He grows into a childlike shape, thin arms and short legs, with two anatomically incorrect cat ears twitching through his pink hair.
“Oh, god.”
“Don’t say that.”
“God,” Megumi says again, internally laughing at the scowl on Sukuna’s now-young face. “If I scratch your chin, will you meow?”
“I’ve had enough of this,” snaps Sukuna, and he switches into his normal form, knees landing at either side of Megumi’s waist. His shoulders are back to being strong and full, and the weight of him on Megumi’s stomach challenges the bed’s sturdiness. Megumi has a hard time breathing normally all of a sudden.
Leaning down, Sukuna whispers into his ear at an unnecessarily close distance, “You should change the music. It’s terrible.”
Laughing, Megumi shoves him off and only turns the music up louder. It’s a prom sort of music, light and easy to dance to, and he’s in a mood tonight. There might not be any disco balls or spiked drinks or flame-lit stages, but there’s this, him and Sukuna in the same space, and he’s content with it.
“Are we dancing?” Sukuna guesses as Megumi pulls him to his feet. His usual robes flutter and begin smoking at the edges, fabric turning dark and stiff, creases defined. Megumi traces a finger over it and finds that it really has turned into formal wear. “You should put on a suit.”
“I don’t have a suit,” replies Megumi, kicking away stray articles of clothing and papers lying on the carpet.
Turning around, he finds his arms full of fabric. Sukuna crosses his own arms over his chest and looks at him expectantly.
“These…aren’t going to disappear at midnight, are they?”
“Of course not,” Sukuna says, expression placid. Megumi suspects otherwise, but he changes into the suit anyway. It fits perfectly; he doesn’t know if it’s one of Sukuna’s Demonic Powers or Sukuna stole some of his clothing to measure. He does feel a little ridiculous, putting on a suit and going nowhere but his bedroom, but the slight giddiness running through his veins overpowers that.
He takes Sukuna’s hand in his and places the other on his waist, and they step on each other’s toes for five minutes until Sukuna gets bored of being hypocritical and mocking Megumi’s lack of coordination and pulls him into the air, and suddenly Megumi knows that levitating feels like stepping on what the fluffiest clouds look like.
As far as Megumi’s concerned, this is his magic carpet. He buries his face into Sukuna’s shoulder and tries to sync their breathing; but Sukuna’s always comes a little too slow to be human. The music twines around them, leading them into a comfortable rhythm. Swaying is a failsafe, they find.
“Sukuna,” murmurs Megumi.
“What is it?”
Closing his eyes, Megumi imagines the splendor of the cruel city outside of these walls. People, lights everywhere, everything material anyone could ever want. In these few square meters, there’s a demon and a boy. “Sukuna.”
“Yeah, Megumi?”
✧
Here’s a story in three parts, evenly cut: there’s an angel and a demon, you see, and the demon really doesn’t have anything to do with the angel’s mission, but the demon’s bored. That’s something that happens a lot to immortals. They blink and the earth is frozen over; they blink again and the world has tilted on its axis. So the demon tags along with a flimsy excuse, and he’s not even all that interested in the boy his angel-brother has to save, weak thing that it is. Maybe he messes with a spell, because he doesn’t like being bored. And then something falls out of his body, and there’s panic like lightning because he can’t regrow it. Think of that! An immortal who can’t regrow his body.
Here’s a story in three parts, unevenly cut: there’s a boy and a demon, you see, and the boy remembers. The boy remembers, and then the demon is just a tiny bit kind to this lonely boy, and this boy takes out his delicate little heart and offers it on a fiery-hot platter of gold, and what are demons without heat and treasure? So the demon eats the heart, savours the warm blood trickling into his throat, and—
—looks down to find his own missing. He looks up, red in the night, and the boy’s holding it, heaven
in his hands.
✧
“Sukuna,” he says, twice alive.
✧
The clothes do disappear at midnight, but by then they’re already collapsed in a messy heap on the toe-turned carpet, forgotten. Megumi listens to the slow heart at tempo grave, thinks about black curse marks that taste a little of grape. A demon’s wings are sturdy but soft; sensitive feather stems and fluffier than a bird’s. A demon’s breath is surprisingly sweet. A demon’s gravity is nothing and everything to be feared.
He is seventeen years old and has seen over six thousand sunsets and moonrises; he is seventeen years old and in love with something that will never die. He was nine and fifteen and saved; now he is seventeen and fallen.
Maybe if someone were to press a golden apple against his lips, he’d part them and take a lick, live a little longer. But the shining juice of immortality is not meant for Fushiguro Megumi. The worthy hero’s story is not his, because when has a hero ever loved a villain, a demon?
✧
Megumi’s not even surprised, really, when the money disappears, but he is so angry he could cry. He does cry, actually, turning on his heel at Toji’s barely-apologetic expression and locking himself away. There’s no music or money at eighteen, and no university either.
He looks outside and the sky is blue; he looks outside and the sky is grey.
What did he expect? That he could pack all his worldly possessions into a suitcase and leave his drunk of a father, escape the claws of the Zenins? That he, bruised and beat-down, could blend in with the unscathed, hopeful new youth of his generation? Take classes in grand lecture halls and eat at quaint little cafes and make friends without a smear of blood on their hands?
There was a path, and although it wasn’t the brightest in the world, there was a path. Of books and sleepless nights and meetings with professors and stress and life, something Megumi has wanted for years and years, since the day his seventh-grade teacher told him there was a way to climb up.
You like animals, right? she asked, bending down slightly. Her glasses had a chain, and it was gold and glinting. You could become a veterinarian. Study biology, you know, a field of science, and you could major in that if you choose to go to university. Just food for thought. Something you can consider.
Megumi considered it. Considered it for all of two hours, then decided that it was exactly what he wanted, what he needed to do. Through the fights, the sneering teachers, the eye-watering haze of smoke, he’d chased that dream.
And yet, Megumi can’t hate him. He blows his nose and steps back out, heading to the kitchen to prepare dinner. Toji leans against the counter, still wearing that same expression.
He’s trying, Megumi knows. Just not hard enough.
“That thing that follows you around,” Toji begins, lighting a cigarette. Megumi hates it when he smokes in the house; he moves over to the window to open it, then finds that it’s already been opened. The little pot he placed there has yielded a tiny green bloom. “You know what I’m talking about? You’ve gotta. I’ve heard you talking to it.”
“Sukuna? You can see him?” Somehow, Megumi’s not too surprised at this either.
“Yeah, the batty thing with wings. He the angel that saved you?”
Megumi stops chopping the celery, knife hanging over the cutting board. “You remember that? I mean, you believed me?”
Toji shrugs. The bags underneath his eyes are deadly. “Not at the time, but then I started seeing shadows. A few months ago I saw it flying away, and I remembered that you told me about it some time ago. It give you any money?”
“It’s leprechaun’s gold,” says Megumi, small amusement bubbling up in spite of himself. “It disappears after a few hours.”
“I see,” Toji sighs, and heads for the door. Along the way, he pauses and wraps an arm around Megumi. “I’m sorry.”
There’s no it’s okay, because it’s not, but Megumi doesn’t hate him. Never did, never will. He lines his fingernails up against the back of the knife and presses down. Chops away a future.
Sukuna comes for him after, and makes an offer Megumi must decline, but there’s a safety in his body that Megumi has never found anywhere else. He tells him I could get you in—I could give you anything. It sounds like one of the best things Megumi’s ever heard, probably is; however, nothing comes without a price. He tells him no, Sukuna, just you is enough. Just you.
✧
A gap year. That’s the decision Megumi makes; in the meantime, he’ll work as many part-time jobs as possible, and he’ll reapply in six months. By then, he’ll hopefully have enough to scrape through a year, and crawl back onto the lit path.
He works as a librarian and a waiter; he loves the first job and hates the second. The library gives him time to study and to read, and Sukuna occasionally helps him rearrange books with a snap of his fingers. Megumi forbids Sukuna from coming to the restaurant; he can’t be seen talking to nothing. Sukuna comes anyway.
“Megumi!” Gojo waves him over to their table. He and Geto aren’t even bothering to hide their relationship; Megumi still gags a little when thinking about what Mahito might’ve seen. “How’re you doing?”
“Hello, Gojo-san,” he replies stiffly. “I’m doing well, thank you. What can I get for you?”
“Oh? No more Gojo-sensei? You wound me, my dear student. And he’s not here today,” observes Gojo, eyes bright. Geto smiles at him and pours a sugar packet straight into his mouth; both of them are the true demons.
Megumi tries to smooth his expression into a waiterly type of politeness. “Who is this ‘he’?”
“That demon, of course,” giggles Gojo. Megumi can’t stand him. His classes might’ve been brilliant, but there was many a student that walked out of the classroom bug-eyed. “He’s always floating over your shoulder.”
“He’s probably busy doing demonly duties,” Megumi says dryly.
“Demonly duties, hm…” Gojo pretends to look thoughtful for a moment, then leans over to lick the sugar off of Geto’s lips. Geto crams the empty sugar packet into his mouth. Are they really adults? “Suguru, d’you think that’s where Yuji goes? Angel duties?”
Nope, Megumi isn’t doing this today. Or tomorrow, or a week from now, or ever. He turns to leave, then remembers that they’re customers, and puffs out his cheeks. Calm. He can do this. Money. “So, Gojo-san, Geto-san. What can I get for you?”
“Megumi, do you know Yuji?”
“Yes,” he grits out, then realizes his mistake too late. He points down at the menu and says, “Okay, I’ll get you number four, the special, and eight. How’s that? Sound good?”
Geto takes pity on him and speaks over Gojo. “Yes, that sounds good. Thank you, Megumi-kun. And good luck with your studies.”
✧
It’s just barely enough. Megumi clutches the form in his sweaty fingers and refuses to pray; he’s here. He’s going to go. He catches Sukuna’s eye and there’s unmistakable, unshakeable pride.
The door swings open and Sukuna shields himself a beat too late. Toji raises an eyebrow and drawls, “You’re not as careful as you think you are, angel. I know you’re there.”
“Shut up, human,” Sukuna returns coldly. “I’m no angel.”
“Impressive, Megumi. You’ve got yourself a little monster under control,” laughs Toji. He parks himself on Megumi’s bed and extends a thick envelope.
It’s—money. Megumi unseals the envelope and takes out a sheaf of bills, barely able to trust his eyes. It’s real. Tangible. He puts them back in the envelope, methodical, and clutches it tight. “Thank you. Thank you, Toji.”
“Nothing to thank me for. It’s not all of it,” mutters Toji, but he looks a little pleased.
“You’re going,” Sukuna tells him, Megumi’s face in his hands. The sky is blue, his suitcase will soon be battered, and he’s going a year late. Megumi covers Sukuna’s fingers with his own and nods, too choked up to speak.
✧
The cherry blossoms bloom five times. Megumi puts on a non-disappearing suit and learns how to make nice with his coworkers, and understands a little bit of what makes his father disappear for days on end. He hardly sees Toji anymore; it’s a strange sort of relief to find that Toji’s still alive each time and not dead in a ditch.
Lying facedown on his bed, Megumi contemplates not setting an alarm and sleeping in. He could easily sleep twelve hours; the night before, he only slept three. He groans and stretches an arm out to poke for his phone.
“Hey, ‘gumi,” says Sukuna, catching his hand.
“Haven’t seen you for a while,” Megumi mumbles back. He turns his face to the side to get a better look; Sukuna looks the same as always. Handsome, slicked-back hair, glowing skin.
“C’mon, get up.” Sliding an arm around him, Sukuna hauls Megumi’s heavy body up. “Don’t you know what day it is?”
Megumi squints at the window; it’s fogged up, but it’s cold enough to snow. “Christmas? But the manager said we have Christmas off, so that can’t be it.”
Sukuna leads him into the living room and pushes him into a chair. On the wooden table he got from his neighbor at half price, there’s a cream-colored box—no, pyramid. Triangular pyramid? For a second, Megumi thinks that Sukuna’s brought him a mini Christmas tree.
Sitting down across from him, Sukuna puts his chin in his hand. “Open it.”
The cardboard covering disintegrates the moment he touches it, much like the note from fifteen years ago; tugging the plate out carefully, Megumi finds himself at what seems to be an oddly cut slice of cake.
“Happy twenty-fourth,” Sukuna grins. It’s all too genuine, not wicked at all, and Megumi has to lean over the table to press his lips against his. They’re soft, welcoming—and taste odd.
“Is this spicy?” he asks, slightly suspicious. There’s a red powder covering the entire outside, and Megumi’s nose is tingling. He sticks a finger and extracts a dollop of frosting; it lights his tongue on fire. Coughing, Megumi sniffs and tries to keep his eyes from watering.
Sukuna laughs, eyes scrunching up—really, it should be a crime how in love Megumi is with the sight—and waves a hand over it. “Hell delicacy. I thought you’d like it.”
“Did you really?”
The room is cold, a steady pit-pat of sleet hitting the window. From the neighboring apartments, faint holiday music and drunk celebratory noises can be heard. Megumi has worked his ass off for the past two months to prove he isn’t just some fresh-out-of-uni slacker that got in because of a recommendation from Gojo Satoru. Sleepless nights, dismissive superiors, making barely enough to cover his rent. He’s so exhausted he could fall asleep in the bath. He eats the now-sweet cake, heavy chocolate on his tongue, and smiles at the demon.
“I love you, Sukuna.” From the pit of his chest. From the point where sky meets earth. From Megumi’s lips.
“I know,” Sukuna tells him, serious. His wings are large enough to cover Megumi up, folding over his side. They say: I know. Me too.
✧
“Hey, Fushiguro! It’s been a few years, how’re you doing?”
Mahito has cut his hair, learned how to button up a shirt completely, and apparently discovered basic decency. He slopes past Megumi and slides into the booth, crossing his ankles. The scars on his face have faded into thin white lines; they’d be unnoticeable, if he put on makeup. Everything about him screams expensive, even the faint scent of cologne he leaves behind. A changed man, to be sure; barely anything of the scraggly compatriot of Megumi’s youth remaining.
“I’m doing fine,” replies Megumi, settling down on the plush seat. “And you?”
“Aw, you’re just as boring as ever. I’d hoped you became a big shot at some company. You always seemed like you’d do something like that.” Mahito’s crude smile is still the same.
Megumi sips the tea; it’s good, but Sukuna’s is better. “Looks like you’ve gone and done that instead.”
“Yeah! Crazy, right?” Mahito inclines his head, eyes sparkling with interest. “You know what’s crazier? Choso’s engaged. Him! The guy who went around throwing lit matches into trash cans. Can you believe it?”
“Hardly,” deadpans Megumi, but he is surprised. He hasn’t kept in touch with anyone since he left, and he doesn’t regret it.
Mahito takes a large gulp of his—whatever-alcoholic-drink-he-ordered and sighs. “God, I shouldn’t have done that. Make conversation, won’t you? You going to the reunion next week? You missed the other one last time ‘cause you had an exam, right?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I figured. Here, Fushiguro, gimme your number. I need to text you my address.” Mahito seizes his phone without permission, unlocks it with some sort of witchcraft, and begins typing in earnest.
Megumi snatches it back, but Mahito’s already added his contact information in. “I’m not—going to go to your house. Why—oh.”
Mahito’s head has already hit the table. Cursing under his breath, he foots the bill and lugs Mahito out, staggering outside. He hopes the cold air will awaken Mahito, but no luck; his shoulder is sore from Mahito’s weight by the time the taxi arrives. Because Megumi has been doing this good person stuff lately—turns out people are more likely to be good when they’ve got some form of stability—he gets in the taxi after shoving Mahito in to get him to his front doorstep.
Breath clouding against the glass, Megumi wishes selfishly that Sukuna could appear this winter. He has people to spend time with now, believe it or not, but there’s no one quite like Sukuna.
“You good, sir?” the taxi driver asks, glancing at him through the rearview mirror. “I have a bag ready in case you feel sick.”
Megumi shakes his head. It’s been a long time since he’s gotten sick. “It’s okay. I’m just communing with the devil.”
He tips the taxi driver extra afterwards, since he didn’t deserve that.
✧
Megumi’s back makes a series of disturbing popping sounds as he straightens up, sounding like someone running their nails over the teeth of a wooden comb. Letting out a wheeze in complaint, he pushes his elbows back, trying to alleviate the stiffness. His shoulders pop in retaliation.
“Getting old?” cackles Sukuna, landing on his desk and knocking over a cup of pens.
“You’re over ten thousand years old,” Megumi points out, rolling out the kinks in his shoulders and upper arms. Deltoid, bicep, tricep. He tilts his head and receives a cracking sound. “Oh, man. Maybe thirty-one is old.”
“You haven’t even hit halfway yet.” Sukuna’s hands are skilled, working out all the knots in his back. Megumi lets himself fall backwards, into Sukuna’s chest. “Tired?”
“Always, it seems like.”
“Humans and their bodies,” remarks Sukuna. He lifts Megumi up and deposits him on the bed, then lies right on top of him. Megumi doesn’t complain; Sukuna’s like a moving hot pack, and he can feel his muscles relaxing.
He did end up going to that reunion three years ago; horribly enough, Gojo and Geto were there, handing out autographs. They didn’t even work at that school anymore. Mahito claimed they started up a reality TV show, and though Megumi knows that seventy percent of what comes out of Mahito’s mouth is bullshit, he’s rather inclined to believe him on that one. He’d met Kamo Noritoshi, his once fight-to-the-death-academically enemy, and talked about Kamo’s kid; he’d caught the stabber person giving him furtive looks, but Megumi couldn’t remember his name. Funny how time smooths everything over and gives it a bit of a glow.
Megumi says into the pillow, “I should work out more from now on. Need to make sure I don’t collapse while talking to a patient.”
“I could make it so that you don’t need to.”
They’re here already; Sukuna might’ve brought it up casually, but both of them know what he’s offering. The golden apple. Megumi hasn’t even tried to reach the garden of Hesperides; it isn’t a labor of love, at any rate.
“There’s no need,” he replies, sure. Megumi—doesn’t want to live forever. Hasn’t ever wanted to live forever. He knows he’s refusing what many people would kill to have, but it’s his own choice. And that’s the most important part, isn’t it? That Sukuna has given him the freedom to choose. Turning over, he reaches up to hold Sukuna’s hips.
“Megumi,” whispers Sukuna, pleading. Megumi suddenly notices the small lines in the corners of his eyes, mirroring his own; Sukuna has been changing his appearance to match him, little by little. Year by year. Devotion, in every fiber of his being.
Sukuna inside is still the same, though. Pressing his nose into Sukuna’s neck, he lets out a shuddering breath. “Sorry, Sukuna. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
“I know,” he says, lips on Megumi’s collarbone. He’s sad. He’s so sad. Megumi doesn’t think that emotion suits him. “’Cause it’s you, Fushiguro Megumi. Because it’s you.”
✧
Yuji visits him for the third time a day later. Perched on the windowsill, white wings spread out, he asks: “Is Sukuna mean to you?”
“Is Gojo mean to you?” counters Megumi.
Yuji laughs instead of being shocked, and says, “Satoru might act like that, but he’s not terrible. If I’m really being honest, I think Suguru has more of a mean streak. He’s just quieter than Satoru.”
Megumi can’t imagine the host of a dating show being quiet, but he prefers not to think too hard about them. “Sukuna is good to me.”
“I can’t imagine that,” Yuji comments, mirth overflowing. He looks—fifteen or sixteen, exactly the same as when Megumi remembers from his fever-haze; beaming and earnest. Sukuna would look like his older brother. “Be good to him too, won’t you, Fushiguro? Not much can hurt Sukuna, but what can does a lot. You’re—something special to him.”
Megumi nods, and emblazons this on the front of his mind in gold.
✧
Here’s a story, then, and it’s a story that’s like a string of beads, all colorful and disorganized and difficult to sort. It’s easier to push it together into a big pile and call it a whole, so that’s what we’ll do. This pile holds two souls: a father and a son. This father loves his son very much; this father loves gambling very much. He loses a woman with choppy black hair and takes her name, then spends his time in the stands, eyes glued to the tracks, or in back alleyways with oily fingers. Each day he disappears is another bead to the pile; the son tries to string them on carefully, but the string is cut metal and hurts his fingers. The string gets all tangled up, and so the son has no choice but to sit in the pile with his hands over his head, flinching each time another bead drops down. This father loves his son very much, but it is not enough to show him the blue of the sky, and eventually the son learns to stop hoping. Stop expecting.
The father fills the house with smoke, and it’s not until the son dislodges the last bead pinning down his leg and leaves that he realizes that the smoke is grief.
It doesn’t matter anyway. In the end, two souls are always separate entities, and the son has already seen the sky for himself.
✧
Toji’s grave is kept clean, and Megumi visits it once every six months. Sometimes, he brings flowers. Other times, he smokes. Today the clouds have vanished; it is only an endless blue so light it’d flit between the atoms of a palm. He closes his opened palms and places them on his knees, watching the red incense sticks burn. There is no cigarette hanging from his mouth, but he pulls the thin, drifting smoke from the incense into his lungs.
Where has Toji gone? Megumi supposes that he could ask Sukuna and get a real answer, but he doesn’t. He likes to pretend that Toji hangs around here, still slouching and wasting time.
“I can call you dad now, right?” Megumi asks the marble inscription. It’s been cleared of dirt, and the surrounding weeds have been pulled out. “You’re not around to tell me otherwise anymore.”
Don’t get smart with me, kid.
“I’m not a kid anymore. I’m forty-eight.”
And I’m a corpse in the ground. I can call you whatever I want.
“Do you like the food? Sukuna made it with me. I told him not to bring anything from hell, since I figured it wouldn’t be very auspicious for your soul to consume that. Turns out his thousand years of boredom taught him a lot.” Megumi imagines Toji scowling at the just-warm vegetables, unable to pick up the chopsticks with transparent fingers, and has to push down a laugh.
I’d prefer a cigarette instead.
“I’m not supposed to leave nicotine on a grave, you know. What would other people say about my filial piety?”
When have you ever cared about what other people think?
“I cared about what you thought.”
Megumi can’t quite formulate Toji’s response; it’d probably be something along the lines of well, don’t, but Megumi wants it to be something else. He raises himself up, picks up the plate of food and the incense sticks, and walks away.
✧
“The music is better this time,” Sukuna pronounces quietly, hands warm and firm. The lines on his face are as deep as Megumi’s; they could go away in a flash if he wished it so, but they don’t.
Megumi steps to the side, tugs Sukuna’s immortal body over with his sixty-seven-year-old one, and leads him into a turn. “This is what teenagers are listening to these days. There’s never really a bad era of music, I guess.”
They’re a reflection of fifty years ago; bleed out all the light, take away the Blade Runner city just outside the windows, and watch their silhouettes swim together in the rising moon. The music suffuses through the room, and it’s something slow and syrupy, the woman’s crooning voice, settling over their shoulders like a thin sheet of snow. There’s a hush. There’s a peace.
“’gumi,” Sukuna breathes, syllables tumbling down, “we could live forever.”
“We are,” replies Megumi.
“But you—”
Megumi shushes him and laces their wrinkled fingers together, fits them into each other like puzzle pieces. “We will, Sukuna. Can’t you feel it? Right here, right now, there’s a forever.”
“Megumi,” Sukuna says, voice hitching.
He’s pulled in close, and the thump—thump of Sukuna’s too-slow heartbeat is still the same, tempo grave. The body Megumi holds now feels fragile, but the wings that sprout from the back have feathers as full and glossy as ever.
“Megumi.”
Is fifty years only a breath for a demon? Megumi’s sure Sukuna’s slept longer than that—and he’s a gloomy sort of glad for that, because it means Megumi won’t stay a ghostlike fixture, nailing Sukuna down. He doesn’t know what makes Sukuna continuously return to him. He never will.
Orange lamplight sweeps over the ground and pierces through his glasses, to his eye. “Sukuna.”
✧
Here’s a story in one part, just a whole. Here’s the story: Fushiguro Megumi. Here’s the boy drizzled in golden honey, hand in a black-nailed demon’s, traipsing through something called life with all the obligation of a bird to her eggs, or a schoolteacher to their rowdy student, or a father to his son.
Demons do a lot, more than angels. Demons do too much. Demons find beating hearts they want to eat and trip over their forked tail in the process, gouging out their own instead.
Did you know? Demons only have one heart. Angels have two.
Sweet bumblebee’s sting, and an ageless mind in an aging body, and an aging mind in an ageless body. The boy has tasted bitter eternity at nine and fifteen; for him, the knowledge that all things pass is a comfort. The boy squeezes the demon’s big hand tighter, holds on and on and on, as the earth revolves around the sun.
✧
No matter how many years pass, hospitals stay white and clean. Megumi rubs the sheets between his thumb and forefinger, and tries not to think too hard about the meaning of life. Or the purpose of existing. Same thing, actually. Regrets—or the lack of—no longer matter.
Yuji visited earlier. You’re hurting him, Fushiguro. But I guess you can’t help it.
Mahito visited after. He didn’t say anything, just sat beside Megumi for some time and picked at the daffodils he bought. After a while, yellow petals littered the ground, floating in salty droplets of water. His scars were still visible.
By request, Sukuna has shifted into a youthful form, hair no longer silver but pink once again. He takes Mahito’s seat and pulls closer, wings shifting. His voice is soft. “Hey, ‘gumi.”
“Hey, Sukuna.” Megumi makes an effort and reaches out to cup Sukuna’s cheek. “I’ve got one last request.”
He doesn’t miss the flash of hope that crosses Sukuna’s face, and he sends a silent apology to Yuji. Sukuna catches his wrist as it starts to drop, holding on for just a second longer.
“Could you open the window?”
Desolation, and leaves crunching underfoot. The window slides open without Sukuna taking his eyes off of Megumi, cool air swirling in and kissing his skin. Sukuna’s fingers around Megumi’s wrist are trembling.
“Megumi, I—this can’t, it’s only been—”
“It’s only been eighty years, huh?” Megumi tries to smile at him then, but his cheeks hurt. His entire body hurts. He’s never been this tired in his life.
Sukuna, touching his lips to his swollen knuckles. “I love you.”
I know, Megumi tells him with a twitch of his fingers. He summons the last of what he has, takes a breath. Looks at the blue-grey sky outside.
“See you in hell.”
✧
And when we have burnt all the bridges of light—tell me, love, can you see by the glow of the stars?