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In the most delicately gilded cage, in the most delicately embroidered silks, sits the glittering star of Yoshiwara.
Left alone to lure in hapless travellers and gluttonous noblemen alike, Fushiguro Megumi points his coveted gaze to all and none of them. Allows the gentle curl of his soot-black lashes and the expression in his finely painted brows to speak where he won't. Look here, the red of his mouth says with no sound, don't you want a taste? And the men in the crowds shake their answers with the gold in their pockets, God, yes, please.
Megumi is younger than he should be to have reached the prominence that he has, and in the sort of company that encircles him. But all the girls and boys of the district are too young to be doing what they do, and Megumi hasn't cried for himself since that first day so many moons ago, when he'd been plucked out from the cold dank of his childhood home by a man who claimed to have known his father (brief though it was, and only long enough for coins to change hands).
He counts himself lucky to be loved the way so few of his standing are. Lucky (lonely) to be given his very own viewing room, from which future patrons may glimpse his lovely form without distraction. Lucky (exhausting) to be chased by enraptured crowds each time he's slated to parade through Yoshiwara's streets, his brothel's greatest jewel, slow and hot in his koma-geta and silk-brocade layers.
He's lucky, he knows. So it must be his father's blood within him that makes him crave more, makes him greedy, despite having everything that someone like him could ask for.
Megumi sees that greed reflected back at him now, caught in the stare of a man beyond the gold-leafed lattice. Taken aback, his years of training allow the barest flutter of his lashes to show his surprise, but the man notices all the same, quirks a smile, strides closer and closer still. The glint of sun in his red eyes and fire-spun hair paints him aflame. Megumi can't look away, until—
"Hi there, pretty thing."
Unimpressed, Megumi settles back into his skin, "Hello, master."
Undeterred, the man only grins wider, "Mm, I like the sound of that. But I think I'd like my name on your lips even more."
Oh, mother in heaven, "And what would that be, master?"
A brief pause, a flash of teeth, and then, "Ryomen Sukuna."
Megumi blinks, Is this a joke? "Is that meant to scare me?" As if ghost stories and ghouls could have any power over him, anymore.
"No, little dove," a sharp finger traces along the bamboo separating them, and for once Megumi feels glad of their existence, "I'm merely giving you my name, as you asked."
"That is no name. That's a demon," he retorts, "A curse."
"Then I suppose I must be cursed," the so-called Ryomen Sukuna too easily acquiesces, "Although I find that hard to believe, with my eyes blessed by your beauty before them."
Megumi thinks this man must either be dangerous or dangerously fond of playing games, but he can't begrudge him his impious moniker. Not in Yoshiwara, where almost everyone hides behind false names and faces.
"I am Fushiguro Megumi," with a practised dip of his head, deferential in action save for the spikes of his hairpins fanning toward the other man like a threat, "Please ask after me tonight, if it would please you."
This Sukuna looks closer to tearing Megumi's flimsy prison apart and stealing him away in the damning daylight now than waiting obediently until dusk. Long fingers slip through the gaps as bright eyes peer inside with blatant hunger, allowing Megumi to do the same. This close, he notices the ink-scarred markings that adorn the man's handsome face, beguiling like the rings of a viper. Dangerous, then, Megumi decides from his earlier evaluation. Or both.
But eventually, Ryomen Sukuna retracts his claws and steps away. Bows low (to this silly boy in a cage), and says, "Until tonight, Fushiguro Megumi."
Megumi can't wait for him to discover he's been booked full for the next three weeks.
.
There was never any hope for that strange man to see him tonight, Megumi muses. Not even if he had all the gold in Edo, and all the silver and bronze, too.
Tonight, dare he to forget, belongs to Gojo Satoru (Satoru-danna's time of the month, Megumi teasingly calls it), and he's not a man who shares.
He seems particularly ravenous this evening. Megumi hardly has time to perform a short tea ceremony in welcome before Gojo sweeps their empty cups aside to pull and spread Megumi's pliant body over the tatami beneath, licks into the heart of him as a beast after blood. Kisses his hole and cups his pert bottom with a large hand, kneading the flesh.
"What has you so impatient, Satoru-danna?" Megumi gasps out, letting himself be manoeuvred every which way Gojo pleases.
"Can't I indulge, Megumi-chan? I've worked so hard these past weeks just to see you, after all." What a joke.
"Oh? You never said it was all for me, husband. Let me show you my thanks," and with a lewd parting of his long, shapely legs, Megumi beckons Gojo between them. He welcomes the man's sweet lies and wandering hands, his hard cock and condemning praise, So good for me, Megumi, always so good. Always mine, mine, mine.
Megumi mewls and cries and moans just as he should, just as he would for anyone. Ignores that his tears always feel more real with Gojo, ignores the thundering beat of his heart when Gojo sucks wet kisses over his chest as he thrusts and fucks his way into his core, prays to the gods that Gojo ignores it too, just as he has every other time. Closes enamelled lids over jade eyes and simply savours every caress as he's paid to, as he's known for.
Flighty though he is, Gojo has still been one of the few constants in Megumi's life. Nine years of the man's mercurial presence, since before Megumi even made oiran, a simple kamuro cleaning up after the older girls and boys and learning what he could from them. Back then, Gojo had been a patron of Tsumiki's, body younger but soul unchanged, until he glanced happenstance at Megumi and never looked away. He'd been the first to take him as soon as Megumi came of age, whatever that may mean under the godless red-light of the district.
There was a time when Megumi thought this man would be his saviour. When Gojo's fathomless blue gaze, prettier than any whore's, held possibilities rather than damnation.
And then years passed and Megumi's mind caught up with the blossoming of his body, a little older and wiser, no longer innocent. The distance between them only closes when Gojo is in this room with him, with Megumi's services paid for and his skin bathed and scented petal-soft. Outside this room, they don't know each other. Outside this room, Megumi barely exists.
So he takes what he can from Gojo when he is here, every thrust and every word unspoken.
.
Megumi is surprised, to say the least, upon hearing that his schedule is to be cleared that evening for a mystery client, only a day after Gojo's visit. His price is already steep and to outbid existing patrons of his, to cut in line with less than a moment's notice, this mystery client must have a lot of weight to throw around— should he be worried? But such shows of power aren't unheard of, given the nature of the rats and fat cats that prowl Yoshiwara's streets. Money moves mountains, here.
So Megumi soaks and grooms and prepares his heart and body to entertain, to enchant. Then he waits.
"You lied to me, pretty thing."
Illuminated in colours thrown by the stained-glass lamp centrepiece (a priceless gift from Gojo, a French treasure that Megumi dutifully polishes until it gleams, and always the last flame to be blown out before sleep), Ryomen Sukuna appears otherworldly. The crisp white of his haori seems to glow, and the red, so much red, of his hair and his eyes and the flickering light— Megumi glances away, collects himself in pieces. He doesn't know why he feels so affected by the man, from the second their eyes met through the lattice beams like any other's, but he doesn't have the time for it. He has a performance to give.
"I did not," Megumi denies in mock-affront, "I simply wondered if you'd care to ask for me, that night. I made no indication that I would be seeing you, too."
Megumi has learnt, with time and patience and punishments, how to read what men want and how best to please them. How to metamorphose satin to steel and back again.
Gojo, for instance, wants a sweet young boy-wife to come home to after weeks away on business.
And Ryomen Sukuna wants a challenge.
"Cheeky little fox."
Megumi cups an elegant hand to his powdered face, "What happened to beautiful little dove?"
"A cheeky little fox disguised as a beautiful little dove, then. What would your patrons do, if only they knew?"
"Thank me," Megumi leans forward, walks two fingers toward the centre of the low table, "Beg for more."
Sukuna matches the distance, and the dancing light of the lamp makes the markings on his face move with it, blink alive. Megumi shudders at the sensation of being watched by more than one set of eyes.
"I'd rather you be the one begging for more, birdie."
It's a shame such a bewitching face has such a big mouth, "Is that so, Sukuna-danna?"
"Oh, it is," the man hisses out, "Would you like that too, Fushiguro Megumi?"
Megumi slowly leans back, lets Sukuna watch the long line of his body, stretching and batting his lashes like a languid cat in the sun.
"I think," Megumi breathes out, keeps his voice soft and musical, keeps Ryomen Sukuna's gaze transfixed on his face, "I think, that I would like to play a song."
And then he reaches behind and grabs his tsuzumi, beginning to drum away.
The shock on the man's face is worth whatever wrath that comes after.
.
No such wrath ever came. After the initial surprise, Sukuna had relaxed, draped his large form atop the table between them, and requested another song (The koto, this time?). Megumi had been all too delighted to comply, and played well into the night.
"Oh, oh, Megumi-sama. Tease your b-breasts, please."
How unprofessional, Megumi scolds himself, to be thinking of another when his current patron is right here.
"Of course, Kiyotaka-danna," and obediently squeezes at his chest, flicks a glistening nipple slicked with spit, moans and writhes as the action calls for.
His client of the night is Ijichi Kiyotaka, a mousy little man and a loyal customer. He holds his bespectacled face and rigid posture stoic as can be, until he steps into Megumi's domain and drops to his knees at once, crawls forward to kiss the boy's darling little feet, wraps eager hands around svelte calves, worships his young god from below. Nights with Ijichi are easy because he never fucks him. Instead, the man prefers to sit prostrated on the ground before Megumi, who in turn lies above a bed of silks, and stare enthralled as the boy pleasures himself. Easy, easy.
Still, Megumi owes every patron his utmost attention, and so he commits to keeping the strange, fiery man out of his thoughts until he finds himself in front of him, again.
.
"What would you like to see next?"
"Mm, how about... Property of Ryomen Sukuna—? No? You could pin it to your back during one of your little walks."
"My parading outfits are cumbersome enough as is, Sukuna-danna."
"Cumbersome, eh? Then write, If Found, Return to Fushiguro Megumi. I can wear that one."
Megumi fights a traitorous blush, "Please be serious, Sukuna-danna."
"Deadly. But if you're worried about the instructions being too vague, you could add a footnote or something. Maybe, He's the prettiest boy pouting in a cage somewhere in Yoshiwara. You can't miss him. The prettiest. Don't forget to emphasise the last part," Sukuna taps a sharp finger to his cheek, "Perhaps switch ink colours? Can you do that?"
"You know, this isn't what I had in mind when you said you wanted to observe my calligraphy skills," Megumi rests the brush down, "Although I can't say I had many ideas in the first place."
For the past few weeks, Ryomen Sukuna has made himself a persistent presence in Megumi's working life. Some of his regulars have shared their complaints with both Megumi and the brothelhead (and whichever poor kamuro happens to be in the way between them) about being shuffled around by this insolent newcomer, but Sukuna has already made it clear any objections to the pecking order should be directed to the man himself. Tell them to find me at the Fukuma Mizushi Inn, he says, I'll quell their worries.
And those that do either come back grateful or not at all.
Megumi finds himself unable to question the disappearances, and neither, yet, does the owner. Sukuna appears perfectly able spending more than enough ryo to make up for them, and as for Megumi's own hesitance— well, despite all the nights they've spent together thus far, he hasn't quite gotten the man figured out. He shines cocksure smiles Megumi's way one moment and threatens passers-by with those same teeth the next. Megumi had to plead with him to at least leave his afternoons alone in the viewing parlor, Please, Sukuna-danna, your prowling about is bad for business.
But his number one concern is most certainly the fact that they have yet to fuck.
Each night Ryomen Sukuna requests his services, Megumi scrubs soft and clean every inch of his body. Dons his most fetching fabrics and ties the obi tight to his form. Breathes deep through lacquered lips and calms his silly evergreen heart.
And each night, Ryomen Sukuna simply asks for another song, another game, another thick slice of the boy's patience. What does he want? What could he want?
Tonight seems no different, and as soon as Megumi places his brush down, Sukuna picks it back up again, wetting it on the inkstone as he goes. Megumi can't help but notice how small and brittle the wooden handle looks in Sukuna's hand compared to his own, like a blade of grass being batted about by a tiger. How would he look, being the one held in Sukuna's grasp, instead—
He gets a taste of it when Sukuna slides Megumi's sleeve up and grips his smooth elbow gently, begins to paint branches and blossoms along translucent veins with care that Megumi hadn't known the man capable of. He drinks in the sight, the cool, tickling sensation of the brush, and allows himself to be the one entertained.
Moments pass like this in rare tranquility, until it is Sukuna, as usual, being the first to open his great maw.
"What was your name?"
Surely he's not so old as to forget, "Fushiguro Megumi."
"No," Sukuna never pauses in inking the petals of a camellia, "Before all this. What was your name?"
Megumi isn't sure which spirit possesses him to say it, but he manages to answer, with as much control as he can muster, "Zenin. Zenin Megumi."
"You kept your given name?"
"It was the only gift my father ever gave me," and the only thing that's ever stayed.
"And Fushiguro? Who gave you that."
Sweet honey eyes and dark hair pool in his vision, "Tsumiki," he gasps out, "Fushiguro Tsumiki. She was... my elder sister, here," more than that, more like a lifeline, "She gave me her name, after she retired."
"Where is she now?"
Megumi doesn't want to answer anymore but it's been so long since he's been given the chance to talk about her— his fellow oiran don't speak to him and the younger hikkomi and kamuro don't remember— but then Sukuna's hand, the one cradling his elbow, gives a gentle squeeze.
"She was ill. Always fatigued, the days she spent awake grew less and less... There was a patron of hers, that loved her," or as close to love as he'd seen in this place, "He bought her from the owner. Said he would take her to the finest doctors he could find. She was only a couple years from retirement, anyway. They let her go.
"She gave me her name right before she left, and I haven't heard from her since. But!" Megumi wipes the long sleeve of his free arm against his wet cheek, still such a child, "She's doing just fine. I have to believe that."
Sukuna had stayed silent with his gaze trained on his paintings the entire time, but asks his final question, now, "And which do you prefer? Zenin or Fushiguro?"
Megumi barks out a laugh unbefitting for his rank, "Zenin never brought me anything but loneliness and shame. Fushiguro, well... at least that was given to me by someone who cared."
Ryomen Sukuna drops the brush with a clatter onto the unused parchment, residual ink splattering and seeping into the grain. Surrounds Megumi's powder-white face with his worn hands, and says, "Let me have you, Fushiguro Megumi," like a betrothal.
And Megumi laughs again, like bells this time, and retorts, "You could've had me this whole time, Ryomen Sukuna," and tips his head up for a kiss.
Megumi has played variations of the blushing virgin madonna to the tempting forbidden fruit more times than he can count, but tonight he takes the stage as simply Megumi. He hasn't felt like this since his first time, all those years ago, his small form cradled, vision engulfed in icy blue.
Sukuna's muscled shoulders pin Megumi's legs to his own chest as the man kisses every bit of soft skin slowly revealed with each upwards push of his kimono. Prepares his needy, winking hole with slick fingers and tongue until the pink of his insides can be seen from the gaping rim, yet when Sukuna finally pushes in, Megumi gasps with how it stretches him still. Wails in blind pleasure, chokes on the force of each thrust, so full is his stomach he feels he may burst.
And all the while, Sukuna's burning eyes never leave his flushed face, just as his hot mouth never leaves his skin, biting bruising claims all over his throat and chest.
As their breaths entangle and their hands seek each other's, Sukuna's thumb swipes along the drying ink on Megumi's arm, the branches and the blossoms and the petals and the leaves, and above it all, a still wet Blessing.
.
"He's already nineteen, isn't he? Practically a used, barren sow to you old toads. Only a few more years and he'll be retired—"
"And those are years we can't afford to miss, Ryomen-dono."
"I'm very sure you could."
"Apologies, can but won't, we should say. He is ours for the foreseeable future. We have raised and cared for him all these years to reap every harvest his body has to give."
"Has he not given enough?"
"Enough? Dearest customer, if it were ever enough with our Megumi, would you be here asking after him like this?"
Sukuna supposes they have him cornered, there.
He'd sneaked out of the boy's rooms that night in search of the brothelhead. To bargain for Megumi's life. To keep him.
Since that first day, when he'd seen a full forest and sky of life and colour and beauty within that cage, when all there was was a boy— since then, he knew he had to have him.
The denial through official means puts a damper on his plans, but it is ultimately of no true importance.
Ryomen Sukuna never launches a war from only one front, and he's always been a man of action more so than words, anyway.
.
"I've heard," Gojo starts, "There's been a fox sniffing at your door."
It's been about nine weeks since he'd last come to see him, longer than usual. I've been so busy, Megumi-chan, Gojo had complained as soon as he'd ducked his tall frame through to Megumi's rooms, So much travelling! You're lucky you get to stay in one place for work. Then he'd soothed Megumi's cold glare with the gift of a lovely little hairpin from Nara, For my own lovely little deer, you see?
"Are you talking about yourself, Satoru-danna?" replies Megumi, still a little miffed.
"Oh, Megumi-chan," Gojo taunts as he stalks closer with his arms outstretched, "You should know by now that I'm a wolf."
Megumi gathers his colourful sleeves up to his face like the handkerchief of an ailing maiden, "Oh, no! Is this wolf going to eat me?" he cries, staggers a convincing show back to fall across his silk throws and pillows. The things I do.
"But of course, my darling prey," Gojo snarls as he pounces upon him, and Megumi flails in mock-protest and misses the whispered Before the fox gets you first under Gojo's breath.
They tangle their limbs with familiarity, sharp kisses and swift caresses, Gojo sliding where he would call home.
In the dewy darkness before the rising sun breaks the horizon, Gojo sits with Megumi's beloved face cradled in his lap, fast asleep.
"You need to be careful, little deer. I hear a lot of whispers about that fox," Gojo tangles a long, pale finger in Megumi's dark hair, twists a lock around it, tugs and tugs until a pained frown appears on Megumi's brow, "Don't go where I'm not watching."
And then Gojo moves his boy to lay comfortably on his bed, stands to leave, and blows out the stained-glass light.
.
The next evening brings a rowdy bunch of balding men, drunk off shochu and a job well done. They swap business for pleasure as soon as they step through the brothel's threshold, led by the lone man in the group who'd tasted Megumi's sweet skin once before and dreamt of him ever since. He'd been the one to make the booking weeks prior, seizing the second chance using his colleagues' combined funds.
They find Megumi in the centre of a grandiosely empty room, swathed in only a simple white robe, pale and silken like the skin it attempts to hide. The men had already made it clear there would be no need for dinner and a show, tonight.
As soon as the sliding doors close, they descend upon the boy as a pack of wild dogs, tearing soft fabric and bruising softer skin. Lick and bite his slender neck and drag his body by his slim ankles, slimmer wrists. A sacrificial lamb pinned bleeding on the floor.
Megumi clutches tight to whoever's arms hold him down, rides out each wave, cries on command, swallows when told. Splits his body apart and offers it without protest to these unworthy animals.
They fuck him until exhaustion, one by one (and then two by two, and then Hey, let's see how well this whore's lower mouth can drink from the neck of a bottle), tears and spit and come and more leaking from every hole.
Megumi wakes to the gentle fingers of his favourite little kamuro, carefully untangling his hair as water laps at his shoulders. When she notices, she smacks one small hand against his temple.
"Welcome back, my liege," says Mai.
She's a spritely little thing. Only eleven years of age and already sick of it all, forced to grow up too fast but not fast enough to do anything about it. Megumi once asked her if she would like to take on the Fushiguro name, after he retires, and the tiny spitfire had said, "Fat fucking chance, Fushiguro-san. As soon as my stupid father's debts are done I'm out of here."
He's loved her ever since.
"What's the point of being the crown princess of this shithole if you're just going to let whatever mangy mutt take a bite, hm?"
Megumi flicks water at her impish face in reprimand, "Don't be crude, Mai."
"Don't be a pushover, Fushiguro-san," she continues, unfazed, "Someday you'll be stolen by one of your creepy pisshead sycophants and you won't even realise. Probably thank them, even."
Where does she learn these words? "Where do you learn these words?"
"Oh, you hear things in a brothel, y'know. Like your older brother figure getting mounted by some weird old man," her voice rises towards the end of her sentence as she scrambles to dodge Megumi's tickling fingers, "Speaking of, where has that Ryomen Sukuna been?"
"Ryomen-sama has been busy with work," Or something, "And he's not a weird old man. He's a weird young man," Comparatively.
"They're all old to me, Fushiguro-san," Mai points out, "Anyway, I'm surprised he can keep away. Not with how he clearly has feelings for you," and with this, she finally looks her age, tongue poking out in an expression of childish disgust.
Thankful for the steam, Megumi hopes Mai thinks his rising blush is a result of the hot bath he's being treated to, "And what feelings are those?"
"Obsession. I see it in Gojo-sama's eyes, too," her voice slows, simmers, "But I suppose you would become blind to it after a while, eh? With shades of it licking at your feet constantly."
It's not what Megumi expected to hear, though he feels foolish, now, for believing otherwise. Mai has had little in the way of romantic example.
"You make men so hungry. I can— I can see it. The way their eyes follow you. Like they're all waiting for the opportunity to swoop in and be your prince," she combs his hair more forcefully now, and ignores the flinch, "And you enable them. You want so badly for one of them to stick around and take you home."
Megumi doesn't think Mai's being very fair, but he won't admonish her, either. This life has been unkind to both of them, and he understands her frustrations with how someone she cares for (though she would never admit as much) has been treated. And how she sees him treat himself.
"But I won't be like you, Fushiguro-san. I won't wait for someone else to save me," voice lowered to a whisper, "And if I want a prince, I'll find my own."
With her gaze somewhere far away, Mai's hands slide through Megumi's hair to his slippery shoulders, nails digging in and leaving little crescent moons. He reaches up and rests his own atop hers, a silent comfort.
"And they'll be just mine. I won't share, not with anyone."
.
Ryomen Sukuna returns from his short absence with the passion of a man lost months at sea, back at last in the arms of his lover.
Megumi doesn't say how much he missed him with his words— it's only been a few days, how mortifying— but he shows him with his kisses, with the ink he's painted on his own skin, a little surprise that damns him with how much it reveals of his feelings.
Sukuna's wide, reverent eyes when he unwraps Megumi's kimono like a gift reveals his, too, splaying a hand that spans the width of Megumi's waist against the words it finds there. I belong to Ryomen Sukuna.
He's been made speechless, and will do the same unto Megumi.
"I've talked to the head, here. Megumi," Sukuna whispers, eyes so red and bright Megumi's own green ones feel blinded, "They've allowed me to buy you out of your contract. Megumi, this is your last night here."
The boy doesn't know what to say. All his training for conversation, for elegance— they've left him. Megumi can do nothing but gape in silence.
"Fushiguro Megumi, will you come home with me?"
A long moment passes. And then.
Megumi can do nothing but nod and cry, hold tight to his saviour, press messy kisses to the corners of smiling lips, shake his answer with all the love in his heart. God, yes, please.
"Fuck me full," Megumi pleads, "So that I may never be without you."
"My love, I would never allow you to be, regardless."
.
That night, in his lover's warm embrace (one of many; the only one), Fushiguro Megumi is fed a drink of ambrosia by Ryomen Sukuna. Something I got on my trip, little dove. Goes down like sugar water, hm?
It does, and he sleeps his sweetest sleep yet.
When he awakens, Megumi finds himself blinking cloudy eyes at an unfamiliar ceiling.
"Good morning, birdie," Sukuna's fire-bright form enters his sight from above, "I brought you some breakfast from the market. You like plum, right?"
"Yes..." Megumi answers slowly, takes the proffered food, "Where are we, Sukuna-danna?"
"Just Sukuna now, if you'd like," he corrects with a smirk, which widens at Megumi's sleepy blush, "We're in Fukaya, on the way to Kyoto. Journey's just begun, of course."
That can't be right. That's still a full day from Edo, "How long was I asleep?" Maybe more if one of the travellers is unconscious.
"Ah, yes. Quite a while. But you looked so sweet sleeping that I couldn't bear to wake you," Sukuna reaches a hand to brush Megumi's tousled hair, and Megumi doesn't quite jerk away, but it's a close thing. A tightness knots deep in his belly, up his throat. Something's really not right.
"I didn't get to say goodbye... I didn't, I haven't packed my things," Megumi begins to stammer, "Why didn't you let me leave properly, Sukuna?"
"Oh, they all already knew you were leaving, love. Probably thought best not to kick up a fuss about it, make you flustered," he sits on the bed with him now and maneuverers Megumi's weak, sleep-addled limbs around so that he's leaning against Sukuna's strong chest, "Save some waterworks for everybody, hm?"
Is that why Mai had said all those strange things, the past few days? Perhaps she was trying to hint at it, in her own way. Oh, Mai, Megumi laments, I hope I can come back to see you again, one day.
"And," Megumi tries one last time, dodging the bite-size lump of rice that Sukuna's questing fingers try to feed him with, "And my things?"
A careless, and despite everything, charming grin stretches across his lover's face, "All packed! Everything important, anyway," reassures Sukuna, and he kisses the crease from Megumi's brow, "And anything you miss, I'll replace."
"Oh," Megumi's still tired, still confused, but in the end, isn't this what he had wanted? To be free? To be loved?
"You have no idea," Sukuna wraps both arms around him now, as the boy begins to eat, "How happy you've made me, Fushiguro Megumi. My magnificent," a kiss on his crown, "Little dove," another, on the tip of his cold nose, "My beautiful bride."
Megumi can't help but smile. Yes, he thinks, this is what I've always dreamt of.
.
Back in Yoshiwara, the bustling town is still in shock over the events that took place in the early hours of the previous morning.
A great blazing fire had erupted in one of the brothels with no known cause, its rapturous flames licking up wood and flesh alike. It was said that the screams that echoed in the pre-dawn daze could be heard even beyond the district's borders.
Curiously, the fire seemed contained to the one building, and so the tragedy hasn't caused a national panic. It goes unsaid to most that the loss of one whorehouse is hardly a loss at all, with so many others eager to take its place in the market.
Those who think that, however, are doubtless not regular visitors of Edo's foremost red-light district. For those that are, know the immeasurable price of what was taken that morning.
Fushiguro Megumi. The little prince of the floating world.
.
When Gojo returns one day, to a blackened, empty husk, to the lingering scent of smoke slithering deep within his pores, he thinks that he's finally gone mad.
This is my heart, is his first thought. This is me turned inside out.
What else could it be, but a dream of a metaphor, a warning. Take him now, it must be saying, take him before it's too late.
But as he reaches out to a crumbling pillar and feels the soot stain his skin, he knows it to be the truth.
Don't you see? Don't you see? Gojo stumbles toward the centre of what is left, to where his heart has always led him, The fox was through the fence already! Foolish, foolish, you're paying for it now—
He spots a shock of colour amongst the greys. Bends down to pick it up—
.
Megumi strolls serene through the markets of the quaint little fishing town Sukuna had settled them down in, three years ago today. His two darling dogs are left at home and his husband is away working again, due back later tonight. Don't miss me too much, my love, kissed to his cheek that morning with a grin, I'll already be missing you too much for the both of us.
The vendors who know him— practically all, and the ones that don't, desperately want to— all wave their eager greetings. Hello, how are you? Take this, sweetheart, it's on me. It's a small and necessary token of their appreciation, for blessing their old, weathered eyes with such a pleasing sight.
Then, too suddenly, Megumi's own eyes are treated to the sight of a man he hasn't seen since his past life, those three long (and short, passing in bliss) years prior.
"Satoru-san?"
Gojo Satoru lowers his dark spectacles to take in the vision Fushiguro Megumi makes on this warm spring day, "Hello, Megumi-chan."
Megumi can barely believe it, can barely bring his tongue to form the words, can barely keep his sandalled feet (so much lighter now, than in his koma-geta) from running towards him, but he calls up all his strength to ask, "How did you find me?"
"I heard talk," Gojo begins, "Of the prettiest flower in Kyoto," and suddenly, Megumi is back in that golden room again, performing.
"Oh, that couldn't be me. Ever tried a taste of Shimabara?"
"I couldn't," Gojo replies, a guileless shrug to his shoulders, "Everything tastes of ash after you, Megumi." What an odd thing to say.
Megumi hasn't seen him in so long he may be imagining it, but the Gojo he sees today seems markedly different to the one he'd known. The shell he wears, that looks the same, but the eyes— always ice cold— are now a blazing, blue flame. A man burnt and built anew.
So he feels he can finally ask him now, what he couldn't in the nine years they spent together.
"Why didn't you make me yours?"
Gojo reaches slowly into a pocket sewn within his yukata, over his heart, and out comes an all too familiar shard of dazzling stained-glass. Spins it in his fingers before answering, more quiet than Megumi has ever heard him, "Because I thought you already were."
Then Gojo tucks the glass into Megumi's small hand, runs his own up behind the shell of Megumi's ear, sliding his fingers along that delicate jaw, that slender neck, and then, finally, pulls away. Recedes into himself in a way Megumi had become all too familiar with over the years, more familiar than he ever became with the man beneath. He watches him leave without another word from either of them. What could have been said lost its chance a long time ago.
And so Megumi turns back, too. Back to the house Sukuna built for them, the loyal companions Sukuna bought for him, the peaceful life Sukuna made for them.
And he doesn't notice blue eyes turn and watch him all the way home.
.