Work Text:
Itadori has been alive again for two months and four days, but Megumi’s only known about it for four days.
The fourth day of knowing starts like his old-old routine, the one he had before Itadori-and-Kugisaki. It’s the same one he adapted to fit just-Kugisaki after Itadori died. He hadn’t had time to develop a routine with Itadori-and-Kugisaki, partially due to how short a time they’d had together as a trio and partially due to the way Itadori liked to shake up his mornings by doing something a little different each day.
Megumi hadn’t thought it would be something to miss, Itadori knocking on his door anywhere from six am to seven am, Itadori making different foods every morning because he had a craving, Itadori taking the carefully constructed framework that was Megumi’s life and upending it in a way not even Gojo Satoru had managed, but-
But it was. Megumi had missed it, so deeply and so thoroughly that he feels a little bit of it here and now, still tugging at his lungs.
Which is why he’s here, on the fourth day of knowing, sitting on the steps as the sun comes up while Kugisaki and Maki spar in the grass.
Kugisaki’s trying to impress Maki. Megumi wishes he wasn’t aware of this, but he is, mostly because she’s been trying to needle him for ideas on how to do such a thing for the past two months.
It’s not going so well for her this morning though. Megumi’s been on the steps since five am, when he finally gave up on sleeping, and Kugisaki shuffled past him with Maki at six. Kugisaki had been bleary-eyed but determined, hammer clutched in one hand, right up until Maki had plucked it from her grip and tossed it at Megumi instead.
“No hammer,” Maki had said. She hadn’t seemed ruffled at how early it was, but Megumi hadn’t been surprised - Maki wasn’t someone to let herself be ruffled by something as slight as the sun still working on rising.
Kugisaki had pouted. Megumi had almost wanted to snort, but she was still holding a few nails in her other hand, so he hadn’t risked it. “Hand to hand combat then,” Kugisaki had asked, somewhere between hope and dread.
Maki had laughed, a soft breathy little thing that Megumi had never heard before Kugisaki had come along. Her smile had been razor sharp and Megumi had unfortunately watched as Kugisaki melted into goo at the sight of it.
“No,” Maki had said, rolling her wrist and making her polearm spin lazily in one hand. “You’ll be fighting with this today.”
And then she’d tossed it at Kugisaki, who had barely kept from screaming as she scrambled to catch it.
The sun has long since crested the horizon and is now starting in on its mission to cook them all alive when the shuffling sound of someone coming up behind him reaches his ears. A second after the sound reaches him a smell creeps into his awareness, warm and fresh and inviting, and Megumi feels himself turning without meaning to, head tipping back as he does.
Itadori’s taking tiny shuffling steps out of the dorm, plates balanced on either arm, a glass of water in one hand and juice in the other. There’s a coffee mug wedged in the crook of one elbow, so precarious that it looks like it’ll spill any second. His hair is mused, still vaguely flat on one side, and he’s wearing one of his zippered hoodies half unzipped with anime pajama bottoms.
Megumi feels his cheeks heat, just a little. He tells himself it’s got nothing to do with the fact that Itadori’s not wearing a shirt under the hoodie, but he’s never been very good at lying to himself. The hint of muscle definition he sees is enough to make him want to tear his eyes away, but this is one of the few normal times where Megumi’s seen Itadori’s chest and part of him doesn’t want to waste it.
“Y’know,” Itadori mutters, nearly startling Megumi. His voice is low but steady, the way it was once when he spat out blood and said goodbye. A shiver crawls Megumi’s spine at the sound and it’s only partially because of that memory. “I never saw the appeal of the whole four-arm thing until now.”
It shouldn’t be enough to make Megumi laugh, but it is. He ducks his head to try to hide it, shaking hair out of his eyes as he looks back up. “Two trips would have worked,” he points out, even as he lifts his hands for a glass and a plate. He doesn’t have enough hands to save the coffee mug, so he’s left hoping Itadori doesn’t spill it on him. “And if you didn’t want to do that you could have just told me to come inside.”
Itadori scoffs, loud and uncouth, but he’s smiling as he does it. Megumi plucks the water glass from his hand, twists to steady the plate on the same arm, and once that weight is off him Itadori looks up, grinning and bright. Megumi isn’t ready for it, nearly spills the plate and it’s two precariously balanced bowls into his own lap, but he recovers just in time.
Laughter rings, the sound bell-like but still low and bright and steady. Temple bells, Megumi thinks, desperately trying not to turn red at the thought. Itadori Yuji laughs and it’s as clear and all encompassing, like he’s standing right next to a set of temple bells.
Megumi spent two months missing that sound after knowing it for only two weeks. Hearing it now is like taking one of Kugisaki’s nails right to the heart, like Maki’s knocked him in the head with one of her weapons again. By the time he recovers Itadori's already dropping down next to him, coffee mug held out as Itadori almost jostles him before he leans away at the last second.
It hurts to fight the urge to lean into him, hurts to keep himself from knocking their shoulders together on purpose. Megumi breathes through the ache that springs up in his chest, in and out, and accepts the coffee mug he’s offered without thinking about it at all.
“It’s too nice a morning to eat inside,” Itadori declares brightly. It’s in response to what Megumi had said about eating inside, but it takes him a minute to piece that together. “And besides, this way we get breakfast and a show!”
Megumi makes a face without meaning to, solely because that sounds like something Gojo would say. Itadori laughs again, sputtering a little since he was mid-bite of some rice, and hunches his shoulders to duck his head over his own lap.
“Sorry, sorry,” Itadori says, still sputtering. There’s rice falling from his chopsticks as he gestures, but unfortunately Megumi’s finding that charming. He’s distraught by that thought right up until Itadori continues with, “but really, what’s going on? I thought Kugisaki said she wasn’t getting up before eight unless someone was dying.”
Megumi doesn’t remember the entirety of that introduction, but he knows it happened. He’d been too busy trying to make Why Are You Smiling At Me eye contact with Gojo, who’d been grinning like mad since he’d brought Kugisaki back to the dorms and announced she was at the far end of the building from Megumi and Itadori. He hadn’t been succeeding, partially but not entirely because of Gojo’s stupid blindfold, but that hadn’t stopped him from trying.
Gojo’s exact words had been well, at least down here’ll be quiet for you, Nobara-chan!
Megumi hadn’t wanted to know why Kugisaki got the far end of the building and Itadori had to be right next door. He had housed suspicions at the time that it’d been connected to his personal request to save Itadori, but he hadn’t been stupid enough to ask Gojo about it a second time. That would just open the door for more whatever-this-was that Gojo was doing and Megumi hadn’t wanted that at all.
Kugisaki had surveyed her new room, bag slung over her shoulder and suitcase at her feet, and then turned to glare at them with shrewd intent.
“If you wake me up before eight am,” she’d announced, “I’ll use you for target practice. Got it?”
Breakfasts after that had been made for two, anywhere from six am to seven am. Kugisaki had always stumbled in shortly after eight and poured herself some cereal, hair perfectly brushed but eyes sleepy and murderous. If Itadori or Gojo made too much noise before she had finished consuming her coffee she’d throw things at their heads.
“Oh,” Megumi says. He lifts the coffee mug to his lips, not surprised that Itadori remembers that he takes it black. Two weeks together versus two months apart, but that’s just who Itadori is - the kind of guy to remember your coffee order, no matter what. “It’s because of Zen’in-senpai.”
Itadori shovels an obscene amount of rice into his mouth and hums thoughtfully. When he speaks it’s mid-chew, which Megumi finds more disgusting than endearing. Thank god, he thinks to himself, even as it crosses his mind that there’s something vaguely adorable about Itadori’s food-packed hamster cheeks.
“Maki-senpai dragged her outta bed? I’m surprised she lived, man, but then again she seems tough as hell, so that makes sense.”
Megumi grimaces, even as he lifts his miso bowl up to try and hide it. He’s pretty sure Maki and Kugisaki are too busy to pay attention to them, but just in case he’d rather not incur their wrath. Itadori notices though, arcing his eyebrows a little bit as he swallows.
“Kugisaki got up voluntarily,” Megumi informs him as quietly as possible. Even to his own ears he sounds pained, which makes Itadori look momentarily confused. Trying to clarify without saying it outright, Megumi mutters, “actually Kugisaki asked Zen’in-senpai to train with her this morning.”
Realization sneaks up on Itadori like the shadow of a cloud across the sky. It settles on his features almost gracefully, twists his expression somewhere between delighted and alarmed. Itadori gasps a little in the back of his throat, whips his head around to stare at the two girls still sparing like maniacs in the grass, and then surges towards Megumi to hiss, “it’s like that?!”
Not even the miso bowl can hide his grimace this time. “It’s like that,” Megumi confirms gravely. The miso is hot and perfectly made, no tofu at the bottom just like he likes, and he drinks it all quickly, like the burn in his throat can hide the embarrassment he feels.
Itadori makes a thrilled but scandalized noise and leans closer. His shoulder brushes Megumi’s, the soft warmth of his hoodie against the thin t-shirt he’s wearing. The heat in his throat grows, spreading searing and thick throughout his chest. It has little to do with the soup.
“How long has this been going on,” Itadori breathes. His eyes are bright and inquisitive and he keeps stealing looks at Maki and Kugisaki, who are absolutely going to notice something soon if they’re not careful. Megumi can’t bring himself to make Itadori stop, though he thinks about trying.
“Pretty much the whole time,” Megumi answers. He scoops up some rice and pops it in his mouth, polite enough not to talk and chew at the same time. Itadori starts nudging his shoulder after a few seconds though, obviously impatient for more information. Megumi leans into the touch in an attempt to stop it, all but slumping his full body weight sideways into Itadori’s strong, broad shoulder.
There’s no other reason he does that. Not a single one.
Megumi actively hates how bad he is at lying to himself, even as he swallows, even as Itadori slumps into his side as well, warm and alive and near vibrating with curiosity.
“The second years started training us the day after we lost you,” Megumi says, once the rice is gone. His voice doesn’t break, for which he’s grateful, but Itadori does stiffen slightly at his side, which is less than desirable. Megumi leans against the other boy a little harder, like some stupid non-verbal apology, and slowly Itadori loosens up. Megumi turns his head a little, bringing up his coffee mug to hide his mouth just in case, and adds, “it was an unfortunate crush-at-first-spar kind of thing. I haven’t had a moment’s peace since.”
Itadori laughs, though this time he has the forethought to try and stifle it. It probably makes it more suspicious, the way he turns his head into where their shoulders are pressed together and slaps a hand over his mouth, but Megumi doesn’t care. Even as Maki turns her head toward the sound a little, eyebrows furrowing and ponytail swinging, Megumi doesn’t care. He just ducks his head against his coffee mug to hide his smile and basks in the way Itadori’s shoulder trembles against his.
How could he possibly care for anything else right now, with Itadori pressed so close?
Stupid, Megumi tries to tell himself. You know what Gojo’s always said about love. You know how this will end. It’s not worth it and you know it.
Megumi’s never been very good at lying to himself though. And right now, pressed shoulder to shoulder with a snickering Itadori Yuji, he thinks it’d be worth all the heartbreak he’d go through when Yuji eventually dies again if he got to keep him like this for just a little bit longer.
-
The city is abuzz with activity in a way Yuji thinks he’ll never tire of experiencing.
The heat, however, Yuji could do without.
“Hot,” he whines. The sun has baked the pavement below their feet until it feels scorching, even through his sneakers. He’s holding onto the back of Fushiguro’s t-shirt as they squeeze their way through the foot traffic around them while also trying to fan himself with the other hand. There’s so many people around that he’s almost smacked three people, but he can’t bring himself to stop. “Why is it so hot, it’s almost September!”
Ahead of him Fushiguro laughs. Yuji can only tell because he can feel the other boy’s shoulders move under his hand. The heat of Fushiguro’s back against his knuckles is searing, but everything around them is searing. Somehow, though, this heat feels different.
They stop at the crosswalk just ahead, piling in with the rest of the crowd. Yuji shuffles so close to Fushiguro’s back that he could hook his chin over the other boy’s shoulder. He almost does, curious to what it would feel like, but he holds back at the last second. Fushiguro doesn’t seem as affected by the heat as Yuji is, but he still probably wouldn’t be happy to have Yuji’s sweaty, heavy weight pressed against him.
“You’re the one who wanted to come into the city,” Fushiguro points out. His voice is so low and soft Yuji has to lean forward to hear him clearly. Against the back of Fushiguro’s shirt Yuji’s fingers curl a little bit tighter.
Yuji makes a face and revels in the slip of a smile Fushiguro lets loose in response. “Yeah, yeah,” Yuji mutters, biting the inside of his lip to keep from smiling too. He’s supposed to be complaining, but with Fushiguro smiling, even so slightly, he suddenly feels like doesn’t have anything to complain about at all. “The dorms have air conditioning, we could have just chilled on the couch, blah blah blah. If you knew this was a bad idea why did you agree to come?”
Fushiguro tips his head back to look at Yuji, hair falling over his forehead. Yuji feels like he’s been struck with lightning, just for a second, because the look in Fushiguro’s eyes is so intense, so dark and unfathomable. Yuji has never been able to read Fushiguro very well, not even when he tried his hardest during their two weeks together at the start, but now-
Now Fushiguro’s looking at him, sunlight streaming down on him like a scene in a movie. His hair is ruffled and messy, he’s got the faintest bit of sweat at his temples, and this close, at their negligible height different, they’re almost nose to nose. And there’s something there, something in Fushiguro’s gaze, that feels like it’s begging to be seen.
The heat is making his head spin. It’s making his heart beat, double time, harder than it ever does when he runs. It-
It’s not the heat, you idiot, a voice in his head rings, disgust and scorn evident in the tone. Are you really this dumb? Or are you willfully ignoring what’s in front of you?
Yuji does everything he can to pretend he doesn’t hear that voice. Now, more than ever, he puts everything he has into it, concentrating so hard on it that he almost misses the small breath Fushiguro blows out.
They’re close enough that it ghosts across Yuji’s cheek. The head-spinning feeling from the heat of the sun redoubles.
“Like you would’ve made it this far if you’d gone alone,” Fushiguro mutters. The walk sign in front of them changes and the crowd rushes forward. Yuji wants to stay in this moment forever, in this sweaty, too-close bubble of time, but when Fushiguro turns his head and starts walking, Yuji follows. He doesn’t even let him get far enough ahead that Fushiguro’s shirt stretches between them, but he tells himself that’s to be kind to Fushiguro’s wardrobe.
If this had happened before Yuji’s death, he might have had the courage to tease Fushiguro. To lean forward and sing-song, sounds like you’re making excuses~ in a voice that would unintentionally be too much like Gojo to ignore.
But it isn’t happening then. It’s happening now, post-death, post-Patchface, post-two months of absence where everyone thought he was dead. Yuji may be stupid enough to get caught up in Gojo’s surprise-I’m-not-dead reveal idea, but he’s not so dumb to think that things with Fushiguro or Kugisaki are exactly as he left them.
It’s evident in the way Fushiguro held himself so still this morning when Yuji dropped down beside him. Evident in the way Kugisaki stopped moving for a split second when they called goodbye, a lapse of attention that got her clocked across the face by Maki.
Evident even more in this moment by the fact that Fushiguro hadn’t even tried to say no when Yuji asked him if they could go into the city and see some of the sights. Fushiguro, who’s looked unimpressed and unmoved by every plea to sightsee that Yuji and Kugisaki have thrown at him, who always rolls his eyes and asks how could they possible be so stupid to believe Gojo whenever he promises them they’re going somewhere fun.
Fushiguro, who only tipped his head Yuji’s way when he proposed the idea, blinking at him quietly before muttering, “fine. But I’m not being seen with you in public if you’re wearing those pants. And we’re not telling Kugisaki where we’re going.”
So Yuji had gone inside to change while Fushiguro had washed their dishes. So they’d slipped past Maki and Kugisaki with a lie on the tip of their tongues about going down to the convenience store for snacks. So they’re here, now, in some district in Tokyo that Yuji would have killed to be able to see firsthand two months ago, but all he can think about is Fushiguro and how he’s changed or Fushiguro and how close they are or-
Or Fushiguro and how he wants to get closer.
Stupid, Yuji thinks, and it’s thankfully not the voice in his head, the one that’s so scornful and deep. He knows Sukuna probably agrees with him, but he’s grateful nonetheless that the bastard doesn’t echo his current thoughts in a nasty taunt. For now he’s alone with his thoughts and those thoughts spin in circles, again and again going, stupid, stupid, stupid.
What happened to facing everything head on? What happened to not running away?
But at the same time, the thought runs around his head, do you really want to reach for something that can’t last?
It’s a sweltering, sunshiny day two months and four days after Sukuna rips his heart out and throws it into the grass while Fushiguro looks on in horror. They’re on a random, busy street somewhere in Tokyo, two months, two weeks, and six days after Fushiguro Megumi tries to save Yuji’s life by telling him to stay put.
Yuji may be stupid, but he’s not that stupid.
The heat isn’t making his head spin and it’s not making his heart race. No matter how much he wants that to be the truth, it’s not.
It’s Fushiguro Megumi.
It’s all Fushiguro Megumi and his dark intense eyes and wild black hair. The way he frowns and narrows his eyes to hide the fact that he’s amused. The way he takes his coffee black, but always drinks the leftovers of Yuji’s too sweet drinks whenever Yuji pushes them his way. The way he smiles, just a little bit, when Yuji adds twice the amount of ginger for the meatballs they make for dinner. The way his eyes glitter, bright and amused, even as he complains on the train about how Kugisaki’s been driving him up the wall with her little crush.
The way Fushiguro ruffles the fur at the back of his shikigami's necks like they're real dogs. The way he fights like he's got nothing to lose even when he's scared. The way he curls up on one end of the couch as he naps.
So many things. So many things that Yuji has been trying to pretend he doesn’t notice or that they don’t affect him the way they do. Two months he’d spent, mostly holed up in a windowless basement somewhere within the same three kilometer area as Fushiguro, and all he’d been able to think every night as he fell asleep was I have X amount of days before I’m back, I have X amount of days before I get to see them again.
He’d tried to tell himself that he’d missed Fushiguro and Kugisaki equally. But that had been a lie.
Yuji doesn’t realize that they’ve stopped walking until he runs bodily into Fushiguro’s back. They collide like a couple of cars at the same stop sign, except for the fact that Fushiguro seems to be expecting it, so he’s braced for impact.
Fushiguro’s less broad than Yuji is, but a little taller. Yuji’s the stronger of the two hands down, but he feels the strength in Fushiguro’s body as the other boy leans back against him to keep them both upright. It’s steady, Fushiguro’s strength, wiry but sure.
Yuji feels safe, pressed against Fushiguro’s back. Everything inside his head that had been spinning so rapidly stills and settles, even as his heart lurches and starts to race.
“Oi,” Fushiguro says, tipping his head to one side and turning a little, so that he can side-eye Yuji. He’s trying to sound annoyed, but Yuji can read the concern in his eyes. It’s not the wild terrified concern that had been there when Fushiguro had yelled if you die, I’ll kill you!
It’s the quiet kind. The patient kind. The kind that had been present when Fushiguro had asked did something happen? after they were reunited, just before the exchange event had started.
“If you don’t feel well, say so,” Fushiguro says. His eyebrows are furrowing, his eyes narrowing. He’s gorgeous, sunlight dancing across his face as he twists a little more to scowl at Yuji in a more head-on manner. Yuji tightens his grip on Fushiguro’s shirt without meaning to, afraid that the other boy will step forward and separate them so that they can stand face to face.
But Fushiguro doesn’t do that. As if he knows what the tightening grip means, he leans back a little more. His nose almost brushes Yuji’s cheek. His neck has to hurt, but he shows no sign of the pain.
I think I could love you, Yuji almost says. I think I might already love you, even if it’s too soon.
But before he can do something that stupid, Fushiguro sighs and leans forward just enough to reach back and worm his hand in between their bodies. Fushiguro’s fingers find Yuji’s, curled so tight around the thin cotton of the t-shirt that it’s definitely going to leave wrinkles, and though it takes some coaxing they eventually tug enough that Yuji lets go.
He thinks that will be it. Fushiguro will step forward, will turn around and separate them. Then, maybe, they'll just go home.
But that doesn’t happen.
Fushiguro’s fingers wiggle between his own. He tugs at Yuji’s hand, fingers still loosely laced, and slowly, carefully pulls Yuji’s arm out and to the side.
Without the barrier of Yuji’s arm between them they feel both very close and yet so far away. Yuji almost leans back, almost pulls away, but he doesn’t want to. He wants to lean closer, wants to curl up and-
And then he is. Leaning closer, curling forward, because Fushiguro’s pulling him closer.
His forehead knocks against Fushiguro’s shoulder, his chest bumps uninterrupted against Fushiguro’s back. He sucks in a breath, hitching and small, but before he can start to hyperventilate Fushiguro sucks in a slow, deep breath and then holds it for a few seconds before he breathes out again.
Yuji matches him. He crowds closer, until they’re pressed together so thoroughly that with them breathing in sync, they feel like two halves of one whole. It’s soothing. It’s the closest Yuji’s been to someone else in- years. Since before Sukuna, before Grandpa’s death. Maybe since early middle school, when things were easier, simpler, freer.
Fushiguro’s fingers are still loosely linked through his own. They give him a little squeeze as the other boy leans his head back to rest on Yuji’s. Fushiguro’s jaw presses against the top of his head, the weight of which is warm and reassuring.
“Unlike you, I don’t have a habit of wandering off,” Fushiguro says, in that flat, but warm way he speaks sometimes when he knows what he’s saying is hard or important. “So take as long as you need.”
Yuji breathes in. Fushiguro smells like soap, like sunlight, like sweat, like the detergent in the laundry room in the dorms. Gojo hadn’t remembered what detergent it was and Nanami hadn’t known to begin with, so when stocking up the laundry room Yuji had been using for his clothes, they’d bought a different kind. Yuji shouldn’t have been able to miss the smell of the dorm laundry detergent, considering he’d only been using it two weeks, but he had.
Breathing out is easier, steadier. He could probably lift his head now, probably straighten up and pull away, but he doesn’t want to.
“And then what,” Yuji asks. His voice comes out quiet, but it doesn’t break. Even to his own ears he sounds small though. He would feel embarrassed except Fushiguro squeezes his fingers, quick but tight, and the feeling goes away before it can take root. “What do we do after I’m done?”
Fushiguro hums, the vibration of which sinks in through his jaw to the top of Yuji’s head. It makes a shiver crawl up his spine and there’s an echo in his head that might be his own thoughts or might be Sukuna. It says it’s not the heat, you idiot.
It’s not. It’s just Fushiguro. Grumpy Fushiguro, with his eternal bedhead and the little v between his eyebrows when he scowls. Fushiguro who’s holding his hand and leaning back against his chest in the middle of this stupid busy sidewalk on some street of Tokyo Yuji might not ever learn the name of, despite how many people are having to walk around them.
“Well,” Fushiguro says. It’s almost a drawl, completely tonally different from the way Gojo drags out sentences and yet still, somehow, reminiscent of that. Yuji would never tell Fushiguro that, but sometimes it’s easy to see the ways in which Gojo had a hand in raising him. “I’ve got an idea if you’re up for it.”
Something about that sentence makes Yuji want to pick up his head. He doesn’t, not really, but he does shift his head enough that his cheek is pillowed on Fushiguro’s shoulder instead. Fushiguro picks up his head and cranes his neck to look at him without pulling away. It makes Yuji’s chest feel warm, makes the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile.
Fushiguro smiles back.
“What’s the idea,” Yuji asks. It’s a whisper, but it comes out strong. Warm. Almost teasing, actually, which makes him want to flush and grin at the same time.
Fushiguro’s smile grows, until it’s crooked and teasing. In the same soft, warm whisper, he murmurs, “wanna get ice cream for lunch?”
Yuji laughs. It’s too loud, sudden enough that it hurts his chest, his throat, but he can’t stop it. Not even when Fushiguro gives an exaggerated wince and leans his head as far away as he can, because Fushiguro tightens his grip on Yuji’s fingers at the same time, which makes the laughter stronger, brighter, even more impossible to stop.
Curling forward, hunkering down, Yuji can’t help but bury his face into the juncture of Fushiguro’s neck and shoulder, where the collar of his thin t-shirt meets his skin. Fushiguro squirms a little as he does it, presses back against his chest and clings onto his hand, and then he’s laughing too.
It’s soft, but sweet, Fushiguro’s laughter. The sound of wooden wind chimes, knocking together in the breeze. Fushiguro’s laughter makes Yuji think of his grandpa’s house, the back porch where Yuji always sprawled in the sunlight while Grandpa hung back in the shade. How the slow summer breeze had dragged through the neighborhood when he was a kid, knocking those carefully carved pieces together, and the way it always sounded like a song.
Yuji had loved that wind chime. When he was young he’d demanded he be lifted so he could brush his fingers against it until Grandpa got too old and Yuji got too big. Listening to it had always made him smile.
Fushiguro’s laughter is just like that wind chime, soft and low, but like a song. Yuji smiles at the sound and that only makes Fushiguro squirm and laugh even more.
They should probably stop standing in the middle of the sidewalk and they should probably find something real to eat and not just ice cream, but Yuji can’t bring himself to care. Even as someone knocks into his shoulder and even as the knowledge that one day he’ll be executed once again slides around in the back corner of his brain, Yuji just doesn’t care. He just presses his face against Fushiguro’s neck to hide his smile and basks in the way Fushiguro’s laughter sinks into him and fills his own chest.
How could he possibly care about anything else, when Fushiguro’s fingers are tucked around his?
Maybe I’m stupid, Yuji thinks. Maybe I’ve been a coward and maybe this is doomed to hurt us both in the end. But who cares?
Yuji told himself when he made this choice that he wouldn’t look away. Whatever this jujutsu-curse-whole-new-world thing could throw at him, he’d face it head on and with everything he had. And right now, curling up against Fushiguro’s back as the boy’s laughter gets louder and bolder, until it eclipses all the other noises on this busy somewhere-street, Yuji thinks it’d be worth it.
For all the pain that will definitely come their way, whether it’s tomorrow or next week, next month or next year, Yuji thinks it’ll be worth every single moment of struggle and doubt if he can just keep Fushiguro with him like this for a little while longer.