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Itadori Yuuji was a name Megumi knew how to write in kanji long before he learned to write his own. He knew it even before he could write in the more simplified syllabic kana. The name was an indelible tattoo on his memory, just as it was a permanent fixture on his forearm.
Megumi scratched absently at the slanted lines of ink arranged above the inside crook of his elbow.
虎杖悠仁
Soul marks always appeared in the writing system of the person’s soulmate. Some marks appeared in the Cyrillic, Arabic, or Devanagari script, others in the Latin or Greek alphabet. It was something of a comfort that Megumi’s soul mark was written in kanji--albeit sloping, messily scrawled kanji. Not that he would have been upset if his soulmate was of a different nationality, but finding them would have seemed outside the realm of possibility. As it was, he’d never met anyone by the name of Itadori Yuuji, but based on the name, there was a good chance his soulmate lived in Japan. Unless he’d emigrated to a different country. That would be just Megumi’s luck.
Then again, he was hardly desperate to find his soulmate. Jujutsu sorcerers didn’t have a wealth of free time to fraternize. Even if he miraculously found him, unless Itadori happened to be a sorcerer as well, their lives would probably be too different to allow for any sort of bond to coalesce between them.
There was also the unfortunate reality that just because a person was your soulmate, didn’t necessarily mean you were theirs. Megumi wouldn’t be entirely surprised if his soul mark wasn’t mutual. He couldn’t imagine anyone seeing him and thinking, Yep. Out of the seven billion people on this earth, this brooding, selfish jerk is definitely the one most suited for me.
Aside from the occasional itch, Megumi’s soulmark left him alone. He hid it from view with his repertoire of long-sleeved shirts, and banished it from mind. His first duty was exorcising curses. He had no time for frivolous pursuits.
Megumi had never been the kind of entitled ass who believed the universe owed him something. But he’d never thought the universe was actively working against him, either.
“Don’t come back until you find the cursed object,” Gojo had said. Easy for him to say. He was probably off getting daifuku or souvenirs or expanding his fanclub.
Megumi stuffed his hands in his pockets as he surveyed the grounds of Sugisawa High. He tried to appear casual as he strolled past a group of girls. He felt their eyes snag on him, followed by titters of laughter. Did they find him cute? Were they laughing at his hair? He didn’t especially care how he was perceived, as long as no one objected to his presence or identified him as an intruder.
Megumi’s attention flickered the sport’s field. There was some sort of commotion. He wove his way between students until his view was unimpeded.
It appeared to be a shot-putting contest. A pink-haired boy wearing a mustard yellow hoodie hefted the shot put and launched it a superhuman distance, all without breaking a sweat.
Incredible. He’d pulled that off without the use of cursed energy. It was a feat of Herculean proportions. Momentarily forgetting his task, Megumi drifted closer, lingering on the boy’s physique, and appraising the way his shoulders filled his hoodie, how the tendons in his legs flexed when he shifted.
The boy turned, and Megumi caught a glimpse of his blinding smile. He had every right to be congratulating himself over the distance he’d thrown the shot put, but there was nothing cocky or arrogant about his grin. It was earnest and even a little sheepish. Megumi’s heart twisted in his chest at the sight.
It was only when the boy’s gaze wandered in Megumi’s direction that he managed to mentally shake himself. He was here on a vital mission to locate the cursed object; not gawk and ogle the high school athletes.
Almost as soon as he began to turn away, the boy he’d been admiring blurred past him.
Megumi’s entire body seized. He felt like he’d been cleaved down the center by a bolt of lightning. A massive amount of insidious cursed energy emanated from the pink-haired boy. He was contaminated, likely by the very cursed object Megumi was hunting. But it was more than that. Megumi’s soul mark flared white hot as their paths intersected.
His vision whited out. All he could see was the stroboscopic afterimage of the pink-haired, brown-eyed, ridiculously strong high schooler.
So that was him. The person who, according to the universe, best suited Megumi. The person he was bound to.
Poets would say they were a single soul dwelling in two bodies. Science neither refuted nor supported the concept of souls, but there was no denying that a part of Itadori was encoded in Megumi’s DNA, that his name was an intrinsic, ineradicable part of him.
Pink hair. Guileless brown eyes. A wide, dopey smile that made Megumi’s insides squirm and twist in a series of complex acrobatics. Itadori Yuuji. I’ve found you.
As far as soulmates go, Megumi really had no right to complain. Itadori was undeniably attractive. His body was toned and muscular, and he could probably lift Megumi’s entire body weight with ease. His laugh, as Megumi soon discovered, was bright and infectious. He smiled easily and often and his devotion to helping others was uncompromising.
Unfortunately, he was also an imbecile.
Megumi couldn’t erase the memory of that night at the high school from his brain--how Ryoumen Sukuna’s disgusting, desiccated finger fell through the air in perfect revolutions, and how Itadori’s mouth opened to swallow it like a baby bird anticipating regurgitated worms.
A crushing wave of disappointment had engulfed Megumi as Itadori swallowed the finger whole. It was tantamount to ingesting lethal poison. His insides were probably already starting to liquefy. Megumi had lost Itadori the same day that he’d found him.
But there was another possibility. A one in a million worst-case chance that Sukuna would incarnate, using Itadori’s body as his vessel. Which, of course, is what happened. But Itadori surprised him once more by retaining his bodily autonomy.
“He’s kind of annoying,” Itadori commented later. “Sukuna, I mean. I can hear his voice in my head and he won’t shut up!”
Itadori was possessed by the king of curses, and his chief complaint was that Sukuna was aggravating.
Megumi couldn’t believe this was his life.
“So that’s him, huh?”
Megumi slanted an annoyed glance Gojo’s way before refocusing on his book. “Is this the part where I pretend to read your mind?”
Gojo’s hair was down, and he’d traded his customary blindfold for a pair of designer shades. His posture was relaxed as he leaned in the doorway to Megumi’s bedroom. Gojo was objectively attractive, and that pissed Megumi off to no end. Nosy assholes like him didn’t deserve good looks. Or adoring fans.
“Oh, you know.” Gojo paused for effect. “Itadori Yuuji.”
Megumi’s hands clenched around the paperback he was skimming. “Shut up,” he hissed. Itadori’s bedroom was directly adjacent and the walls were paper thin. Megumi would know. He’d heard Itadori’s breathless moaning on more than one late night occasion.
Gojo sauntered fully into the room. “Is that any way to talk to your sensei?”
Megumi glowered. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“There’s a reason you asked me to save him, isn’t there?”
“I don’t want to let him die,” were the exact words Megumi had used.
“These are your personal feelings?”
”Yes.”
For him, that was practically an open confession of his love. And Gojo had been cognizant of this.
“It’s not like you to be so emotional about a stranger. It makes me wonder if there’s something special about Itadori-kun.”
“Of course there is,” Megumi snapped. “He’s Sukuna’s vessel.”
“Mm, I was thinking ‘special’ in a different context.”
“What’s up?” a voice from the hall called out. Shit. Itadori. Megumi’s glare reached new depths.
“Yuuji-kun,” Gojo greeted.
“Hey, Sensei!”
“We were just having a fun chat about soul marks.”
No. He wouldn’t. Megumi was going to annihilate him.
“Whoa, really? Have you met your soulmate?”
Gojo’s pause was just shy of too long. “No, I haven’t.”
A lie. He may have fooled Itadori, but Megumi knew him well enough to recognize the falsehood.
“Me neither!”
The declaration stung more than it should have. That confirmed it, then. Itadori was his soulmate, but Megumi wasn’t Itadori’s.
“Really? Where is your soul mark?” Gojou asked innocently.
“Hang on. I’ll show you.”
Itadori unbuttoned his pants.
“What are you doing?” Megumi’s voice came out strangled.
“It’s on my thigh,” Itadori replied calmly, as if it were perfectly normal to essentially perform a strip tease in Megumi’s bedroom. Itadori discarded the offending article of clothing on the floor, baring his perfectly shaped legs and thick, taut thighs. Megumi’s heart careened against his ribcage. All the moisture in his throat dried, and not because of how attractive Itadori was.
There, in a neat line of kanji that Megumi recognized as his own penmanship, was Itadori’s soul mark.
禪院 恵 . Zenin Megumi. Damn soul mark couldn’t even get it right. Yes, he was descended from the Zenin line, but he’d renounced that part of him. The only family he’d cared for was his stepsister. Tsumiki was a Fushiguro, so Megumi was a Fushiguro too.
“I have no idea who she is, though,” Itadori said, tracing the logographic characters.
“Are you positive it’s a she?” Gojo asked.
Itadori scratched his chin. “I figured it would be since Megumi’s a girl’s name. But I wouldn’t be opposed either way.”
So Itadori was... bisexual? That was interesting. He’d previously announced his appreciation of tall women with ample posteriors (fat asses, in layman’s terms), but what kind of guy did he like? Was Megumi really his type? What if the soul mark had made a mistake? What if Itadori reacted negatively?
Ignoring the relief surging through him, Megumi tried to step back and assess the situation from a rational vantage. Itadori was his soulmate. He was Itadori’s soulmate. Itadori, in addition to being the vessel for the king of curses, was sentenced to be executed. His death was only a matter of time. Wouldn’t admitting they were soulmates make losing Itadori that much harder in the end?
“Interesting.” Gojo’s grin could only be described as shit eating. “Fushiguro, what’s your given name, again?”
Megumi injected as much venom into his glare as he could muster. What an asshole.
Itadori’s face turned thoughtful. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard your given name. Or if I have, I, uh, kinda forgot.”
Play it cool. Megumi blurted out the first response he could think of. “I don’t have one.”
“Wha--really?” Itadori cocked his head. “Your parents never named you?”
“No,” Megumi said flatly. He wished his cursed technique was teleportation so he could vanish and reappear somewhere far away. Canada seemed a nice place to immigrate to.
Gojo disguised his laugh as a series of wracking coughs. “My poor kouhai. How could we let you go around unnamed?”
Megumi ground his teeth together. “I’m fine with Fushiguro.”
“We could come up with a name for you!” Itadori said brightly. “How about Sasuke?”
“You’re joking.”
“Yuko?”
“That’s a girl’s name,” Megumi scowled. Of course, Megumi was a feminine name, too.
“Ooh! What about Lawrence?”
“Pardon?”
“I know it’s not a typical Japanese name, but it sounds cool!”
“You only think that because of Jennifer Lawrence!”
Yuuji frowned. “Huh. I guess you’re right.”
“I don’t need a given name. Stop trying to make one up.”
Gojo rolled his shoulders back in the perfect image of nonchalance. “Since Itadori’s been kind of enough to show us his soul mark, why don’t you show us yours, Fushiguro-kun?”
Gojo had no right to ask to see Megumi’s soul mark when he was so cagey about his own. “No thanks.”
Itadori’s bottom lip jutted in a moue of disappointment. “Come on, Lawrence. Let us see.”
“Don’t call me that!” he snapped. “And did you ever think maybe I don’t have a soulmate?”
“Really? You mean they died?”
Megumi kept his mouth shut and let Itadori arrive at his own misguided conclusions.
“Or do you mean you never had one at all?”
He gave a wordless shrug.
“Aw, Fushiguro!”
Before he could process what was happening, Itadori threw his arms around him, hugging him against his very broad, very muscular chest. Megumi could literally feel the contours of Itadori’s abs through the fabric of his shirt. He tried not to whimper.
”Anyone would be lucky to be your soulmate,” Itadori added.
Megumi’s cheeks heated. He was grateful Itadori couldn’t see his expression with how they were hugging. “I don’t think so,” he muttered.
“But you’re great! You’re brave and clever and resourceful and powerful and you can make dogs appear!”
Megumi would have loved to listen to Itadori extol his virtues all night, but Gojo’s presence was a serious dampener on his mood. He let himself enjoy the warmth of Itadori’s body for a few more seconds before pulling back.
“What about his appearance?” Gojo prodded, seizing the thread of conversation before it could fall away. “He’s quite the looker, isn’t he, eh Itadori?”
“He… y-yeah.” It wasn’t often that Itadori’s tongue tripped up. “He’s really, um. Yeah.”
“If you don’t think I’m attractive you can just say so, idiot,” Megumi snapped. He didn’t want Itadori’s pity. He knew he looked nothing like Jennifer Lawrence. Or even a male version of Jennifer Lawrence.
“But you are!” Itadori insisted. He sounded earnest. His eyes were wide. Nothing about his body language suggested he was lying. Still, Megumi didn’t want to get his hopes up.
“How so?” Gojo asked, nudging Itadori with his elbow.
Itadori tilted his head and scrunched up his face in the thoughtful expression he usually made when trying to suss out the logistics of wielding cursed energy. “You have pretty eyes. And long lashes. And you have nice lips.”
Megumi’s heart was going to give out any moment. Itadori thought he had nice lips. What did that mean? Was there a platonic connotation to such a compliment? Did he simply mean Megumi’s lips looked well moisturized? They were, but only because Gojo kept gifting him lip gloss. Or had Itadori admired the shape of his lips? Did he ever imagine kissing them?
“Is your arm all right, Fushiguro-chan?” Gojo asked.
Megumi froze mid motion. He’d been unconsciously scratching his soul mark through his shirt sleeve.
“Y-yeah.” He cleared his throat. “I’m just tired. So get the hell out of my bedroom.”
“As personable as always,” Gojo chuckled.
“Good night, Lawrence!”
Megumi opened his mouth to complain, but Itadori beat him to it.
“Oops. I meant Fushiguro!” Itadori retired to his room with a wave.
Rather than exiting, Gojo only stepped closer, encroaching on Megumi’s personal space. “Why didn’t you tell him? He clearly feels the same way.”
“He’s pending execution,” Megumi said coldly. “Or have you forgotten?”
“Ah, you have no faith in me.”
“All you managed to do was suspend his execution! You haven’t solved anything.”
“Give me time.” Gojo waved a dismissive hand.
“And what if you fail?” And I lose him? Even broaching the idea made his chest tighten.
“Fushiguro.” Any trace of levity in Gojo’s voice vanished. “Don’t start mourning people before they’re gone. There will be time for that after. Besides, don’t you think Itadori will feel betrayed when he finds out?”
“He’s not going to.”
Megumi made good on his word.
Itadori never learned they were soulmates.
Sukuna, on the other hand, did.
“Zenin Megumi, huh?”
A cold clot of horror pulsed through Megumi as Sukuna shredded Itadori’s shirt, revealing a bare chest rippling with muscle and sinew. His clawed hand made a decisive rip along the inseam of Itadori’s pants. The tear exposed Itadori’s soul mark.
“Or do you prefer Fushiguro Megumi?”
Megumi failed to staunch the panic he felt. This was wrong. Itadori should have been able to switch back. And the three first years never should have been sent unsupervised to contend with the cursed womb in the first place.
“Shame you never confessed to the Brat,” Sukuna continued in the same conversational tone. “Especially since you’ll never get the chance to now.”
Sukuna did the unthinkable. His clawed hand jammed through the cavity of Itadori’s chest and emerged with his still pulsing heart.
“No!”
Sukuna discarded the organ with a careless flick of his wrist, as if Itadori’s heart were worthless.
Megumi relied on muscle memory to summon his shikigami. His body moved mechanically, detached from his brain, as he struck at Sukuna and dodged reciprocating strikes. His soulmate’s disembodied heart was lying in the grass. The only way to restore it was to trick Sukuna, who had the advantage of being centuries older than him. Unlike Itadori, Sukuna could hardly be classified as naive or prone to idiocy. Megumi was outmatched both physically and intellectually. But there had to be a way to bring Itadori back.
If Sukuna felt his control over Itadori’s body dwindle, maybe he’d instinctively repair Itadori’s heart and reattach it to his aorta and vena cava.
The alternative didn’t bear thinking about.
Battered and bruised, Megumi lowered his fists. His cursed energy dissipated. Even if Sukuna had suppressed Itadori and buried him deep, he was still in there somewhere. Megumi could reach him. “I didn’t have a logical reason for saving you. Ultimately, it was for selfish, emotional reasons." His throat knotted. "But I've never regretted saving you.”
Before he could work through the words, You’re my soulmate and I love you, Sukuna lurched to the side. His tattoos were fading, the additional eyes on his cheeks receding.
“I see.” That was Itadori’s voice. And those were, undoubtedly, Itadori’s words. Blood gushed from Itadori’s mouth, a result of hemorrhaging in the lungs, but he still managed a tremulous smile. “Sorry. I'm almost done for.”
No. No, I just got you back.
“Live a long life."
Now was his last chance to tell him. We’re soulmates, Itadori. He couldn’t bring himself to. Instead he watched Itadori fall, helpless to prevent it, to undo the damage Sukuna had already wrought.
Megumi wasn’t sure how long he stood there. Only that by the time Ijichi located him, the rain had fully seeped through his clothes, and his limbs were numb with cold.
He let himself be commandeered into a car, but he wasn’t sure whose hand was guiding his back. Hours elapsed before he thought to check his soul mark.
It was common knowledge that soul marks faded to pale scar tissue when one’s soulmate died. Megumi stripped out of his sopping clothes and examined his bare arm. His soul mark remained a dark, unchanged stain on his flesh.
When Itadori surprised them at the Goodwill Exchange Event, namely by revealing he was alive, Megumi felt more dazed than angry. Oh, he thought faintly. That explains it. He’d puzzled for weeks over his lingering soul mark, but he hadn’t dared ask Gojo what it could mean. Now he wished he had. He was going to kick Gojo’s ass as soon as the opportunity arose, never mind the fact that Gojo was quite literally the strongest person in existence.
After being publicly (and loudly) chastised by Kugisaki, Itadori’s bravado faded long enough for him to offer a teary apology.
Megumi kept his distance. His brain was still reeling with shock. He couldn’t reconcile what his eyes were seeing. For now, he was too stunned for proper anger to manifest, although he was certain it would come later in the form of grinding, head-pounding rage.
An hour or so later, their team gathered privately to finalize their strategy for the event, and determine how to integrate Itadori into their plan.
Megumi listened from afar as introductions were made. Itadori was fascinated by Panda-senpai, and baffled by Inumaki-senpai’s restricted, rice ball related vocabulary. It was when Maki-san introduced herself that panic reared in Megumi’s chest.
“Zenin?” Itadori echoed. “Your family name is Zenin?”
“Yes?” Maki pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “There’s no love lost between me and my family, though.”
“Is the Zenin clan large?”
Megumi knew where he was headed with this but he couldn’t think of a way to derail him.
“Relatively, I suppose.”
Itadori was practically vibrating with excitement. “Do you know anyone by the name of Zenin Megumi?”
Maki’s forehead creased. “Besides Fushiguro, you mean?”
Megumi closed his eyes. Shit.
“What do you mean? Fushiguro’s not a Zenin. He’s… well, he’s a Fushiguro. And his name isn’t Megumi.”
Maki glanced at him, confusion mounting. “Since when?”
“Since always?” Itadori turned to Fushiguro, expectant. “Fushiguro doesn’t have a name.”
He said nothing. He had no defense.
“Hold up,” Kugisaki cut in. “Fushiguro’s secretive as hell, but even I know his given name is Megumi!”
“Your name is Megumi,” Itadori repeated. “And you’re a Zenin.”
Still Fushiguro said nothing, willing the ground to open up beneath him, or a cursed spirit to appear and put him out of his misery.
“He’s related by blood, yes,” Maki explained. “But he’s not part of the clan.”
“Good to know.” The usual warmth in Itadori’s voice had leached away. He looked suddenly paler than usual. Pale like he’d been the day he died, after he’d bled out. “I, um, need to go.”
“Mustard leaf?” Inumaki asked, tilting his head.
“I’ll be back later.” Itadori turned on his heel. He very pointedly did not look in Megumi’s direction.
“Itadori, wait!” He held out a hand to stop him, but Itadori’s speed was on a superhuman level. He was gone before Megumi could advance a full step towards him.
“Panda is confused.”
“Tuna.”
After fielding several extremely judgemental looks, Megumi began his search for Itadori. Had Itadori fled because he felt betrayed? Or was he disappointed that Megumi was his soulmate? He hadn’t looked enthused at the prospect.
Megumi performed three fruitless laps of the perimeter before he felt a distinct tug in his chest. It was if there was a fish hook lodged in his heart, and someone was giving it a tug. He followed the pull to a small creek shrouded by trees.
Itadori noticed him before he could announce his presence. Itadori vaulted to his feet, body tensed to bolt.
“Wait! Please!” He held up his hands in a pacific gesture.
Itadori’s shoulders relaxed, but the accusation on his face didn’t lessen. “You knew.”
“Yeah.”
“How long?”
“Since the moment I laid eyes on you at the high school.”
“I see.” Itadori’s voice was flat and devoid of any discernible emotion.
“You don’t really have a right to be mad at me,” Megumi ventured. “You’ve been alive this whole time and never told me!”
“I know.”
“That’s… shitty. Really fucking shitty, Itadori. How could you do that to me? To Kugisaki?”
“The fewer people who knew, the better. At least according to Gojo.” Itadori plucked at his uniform. “It doesn’t mean I wanted to keep it secret.” His gaze raised to meet Megumi’s. “What about you, Fushiguro? Did you have a reason to keep this secret from me?”
Megumi said nothing. He wanted to avert his gaze, but looking away would mean conceding defeat.
“If you didn’t want me, you could have just said. I wouldn’t have--” Itadori bit his lower lip. Megumi could see it faintly trembling. “I would have understood.”
“But I do want you.” How could he make Itadori understand? “I’ve always wanted you.”
Itadori did not look convinced.
“Itadori, I hadn’t even known you a full day before you consumed a cursed relic. I thought I was going to have to exorcise you. And then when it seemed like it would be okay, I found out you were sentenced to be executed.”
Itadori inhaled sharply. “That’s why you didn’t tell me?”
It was as if a heavily fortified dam had inexplicably burst inside him. Now that he’d started voicing the worries that had plagued him, he couldn’t stop. “It’s more than that. I’m terrified. That I won’t measure up. That you won’t want me. Or that--that you’d be executed or killed by Sukuna and I’d lose you.” Which, in all fairness, had proved a pretty reasonable fear.
“Fushiguro Lawrence Megumi,” Itadori sounded the name out with care, elongating each syllable. “You are an idiot.”
Megumi blinked. Had Itadori seriously just called him an idiot? Itadori, who had thought it advisable to swallow a decrepit finger, thought Megumi was the stupid one between the two of them.
Itadori bridged the distance between them. He didn’t look murderous, but Megumi was still understandably wary. “How could you ever think I don’t want you?”
“You. What.”
Itadori grinned. It was a sight that Megumi had worried he’d never see again, at least not directed at him. “You’re really fricken cute.”
“Cute?” he echoed. “I’m not a girl.”
“I’m aware. You’re just named like one. Megumi.”
His shoulders slumped. Itadori was going to be insufferable about this.
“I can’t believe you told me you don’t have a name.” Itadori snickered. “Was that really the best on-your-feet-thinking you’re capable of?”
“Hey, you believed me!”
“I like to believe the best in people. Although I’ll be sure not to fall for your lies in the future.”
Itadori’s tone was teasing, but Megumi sobered. “There won’t be any more. Lies,” he clarified. “As long as you promise not to fake your death or hide it from me if you return from the dead, I promise not to keep anything from you ever again.”
Itadori held out his hand. “It’s a deal.”
Megumi went to shake on it, but as soon as their hands touched, Itadori twined their fingers together. His hand was warm and marked with calluses. It felt right in Megumi's grip. He gave it a small squeeze. Itadori returned it.
Megumi planned on never letting Itadori go again.