Archive of Our Own

Ever since the night they reunited after Shibuya, one truth holds steady and certain in Itadori's chest: he would follow Fushiguro anywhere.

For now he follows him into a familiar basement buried beneath the shrine-like buildings of Jujutsu High. Cinder block walls and a wooden roof box them in like a doomsday bunker, private enough to talk without being overheard. Coming back here after so long gives Itadori a funny sense of déjà vu; that same couch in the corner, the old television on the console stand, and a stack of old movies which never got cleaned up. A large round light bulb flickers overhead, winking in and out with an audible buzz.

In the very centre of the room, a map of Tokyo is spread out over the coffee table Itadori used to stockpile snacks on, back when he was locked in this basement watching movies before the Goodwill Event. Life was a lot simpler back then.

The stagnant air hangs heavy with the memory of Gojo's company. He stopped by to visit constantly while Itadori was confined here, bringing piles of snacks and new movies to watch, always right in step with Itadori's sense of humour. Everything Gojo did projected an air of unbothered confidence, like he could handle anything the world could think to throw at him. He was—still is—indisputably the strongest. It seems impossible that someone could have bested him. Harder still to accept that, unless they find a way to free him from the prison realm, they're on their own.

What does Itadori have to show for everything Gojo-sensei taught him? He couldn't save anyone at the start of all this, and even after all the work and training he put in, he still couldn't save anyone in Shibuya. If anything, his presence condemned them. His failures left a perfect circle of razed earth and a fine mist of blood in the breeze, the only evidence of life left behind after Sukuna's cleave cut through the city.

A light touch to the side of his arm brings him out of his thoughts. It's accompanied by a sidelong glance from Fushiguro, the steady presence at his side, seeing him beginning to spiral before Itadori notices it himself.

The gentle inquiry is enough of a reminder to shake Itadori out of it. He doesn't have the luxury of wallowing in self-pity. He made a promise to pick himself up off the ground and look forward, to keep trying to save what's in front of him with every step he takes. He made a promise to Fushiguro.

Focus settles back on the closest thing he has to a purpose beyond killing curses. It centres and grounds him, brings him back to himself, keeps him present. He knocks his knuckles on the back of Fushiguro's hand in thanks.

Fushiguro flexes his fingers backwards, tangling their hands briefly before stepping out to smooth the crinkles of the map. The light bulb halos him like a spotlight as Itadori, Maki and Okkotsu gather to make plans around the table.

"To summarise," Fushiguro begins, glancing among the three of them. "Okkotsu is heading for the culling games colony in Sendai to gather intel. Maki is staying here, to gather and catalogue the cursed tools in the Zenin estate. As for myself and Itadori—" At this, Fushiguro's gaze flicks briefly up to Itadori's face— "We're going north to track down Kinji Hakari and convince him to join the cause."

Call me Yuuji, Itadori thinks, feeling the tug on his heartstrings for the hundredth time.

"Jujutsu High is here on Mt. Mushiro, in the Kanto mountain range west of Tokyo." Fushiguro circles Tokyo with his finger. "We know that the edges of Ome and Hachioji are still safe, where the city meets the foothills of the mountains. Beyond that, radio broadcasts claim that all 23 wards have been destroyed."

Maki points higher on the map. "Hakari's fight ring is in Utsunomiya, a city two prefectures north of us. Ichiji should be able to drive you to Ome Station, at the edge of the danger zone. Public transport isn't ideal with panicked civilians everywhere and curses running wild, but it's still the fastest way to Utsunomiya by far."

"That's the problem," Okkotsu murmurs. "Fushiguro and I saw it everywhere we went while we were scouting for Itadori; the trains aren't running. You'll have to make your way through the dead zone on foot until you find a working station somewhere in Saitama prefecture, north of the Kanto Plain."

"In Saitama?" Itadori echoes in surprise. "The blackout spreads that far?"

"If we measure the blast radius from Shibuya to the edge of Ome's habitable zone and project it north, the closest train station likely to have the lights on is in Hasuda." Fushiguro leans closer over the map, and the corners of his mouth tug down. "If the impact zone isn't symmetrical, we might have to go further north..."

"We can handle that if it happens," Itadori tells him. "No point worrying about it until then."

"Do you have a route to Sendai?" Fushiguro asks, glancing at Okkotsu.

Okkotsu nods. "Rika copied a technique recently which helps with long-distance travel. It'll be faster to use that, so I won't be travelling with you two."

"Care to share?" Itadori says, only half-joking. He surveys the distance between their current location and Fushiguro's destination, trepidation rising as he counts the miles.

"Sorry. I would if I could." Okkotsu shrugs regretfully. "I can only get it working on myself."

"Well, the cursed tools are all stored on the Zenin estate, so I don't need to travel." Maki returns her focus to the map, frowning at the same distance Itadori was judging earlier. "That just leaves you two."

"If we stick to the main roads through Iruma and Sayama we should have a pretty straight shot." Fushiguro's eyes dart across the street directory with purpose. He must have poured over the street directory a thousand times already, Itadori realises, making plans from the moment he heard the news that his sister woke up. "Since the trains aren't running, the railway bridge out of Kawagoe should be a safe spot to cross the Arakawa river."

"That's a good strategy." Itadori briefly scans the route himself; he can't fault it. "I can carry our supplies. Food, water, sleeping bags, first aid. Load me up like a pack horse. The weight won't bother me."

"We won't need sleeping bags." Fushiguro doesn't even look away from the map. "We can make it in a day if we leave first thing in the morning."

A beat of silence passes. Maki raises an eyebrow.

"Are you… sure that's realistic?" Okkotsu asks carefully.

"We can make it," Fushiguro insists. The edge of the map crinkles under his fingers as his grip on the table tightens, knuckles turning white. He stares down at the spiderweb of highways, and beneath the stoic, focused mask he wears to hold himself together, Itadori knows him better, sees the desperation bleeding through the cracks.

I'm begging you, Itadori. I need your strength.

"I'll meet you at dawn," Itadori says simply.

By mid-morning they find themselves on a bitumen road which extends all the way to the horizon.

The road is surrounded on both sides by farmland that stretches from scattered buildings in the east to the hills in the west. Few houses and even fewer trees dot the landscape around them; utility poles and transmission towers break the skyline instead. Itadori was surprised to find agriculture out here instead of urban sprawl, though he should've known, considering the name of the street on the map: chadokoro-dori, the tea road. Endless rows of green tea hedges spanning left to right in broad stripes across the flattened earth. The hedges have lost their neat and tidy shape, growing wayward in the eerie absence of the farmers.

Fushiguro always leads a few steps ahead, filled with a personal sense of urgency that builds with every passing hour. He cuts a heroic figure alone on the road and walking with purpose, the north star that Itadori's compass points towards. Itadori quietly admires him from several paces behind, the usual butterflies which he keeps to himself fluttering in his stomach.

There's a thought he hasn't been able to shake lately. A selfish desire, but one that seems to makes a little more sense these days than it used to. He's been thinking for a while now that he wants to be on first name basis with Fushiguro.

It would be a weird thing to ask of someone he only met a few months ago if they hadn't spent the time training together every day and fighting curses side by side, trusting each other with their lives. Taking blows so the other wouldn't have to, wiping blood and wrapping bandages in the aftermath. Maybe he wouldn't be so inclined to rush things if he wasn't keenly aware that he's running out of time to say something; there aren't many of Sukuna's fingers left to swallow, and once he finds them all his time is up. Part of Itadori doesn't want to leave anything unsaid. Part of him doesn't want to say anything that would only make it harder for both of them when they have to say goodbye.

Truth be told, he feels a little silly even contemplating the idea. It's not going to change the nature of their relationship either way. Whether or not they use each other's given names seems like such a teenage thing to worry about, something that's supposed to be contemplated between cramming for an English exam and holding down a part time job. There's little room for matters of the heart in the sorcerers' mission, now more so than ever. But imagining how he might work up the courage to ask is a nice distraction. It makes him feel a little more human, a little less like an unfeeling cog in a machine. He needs a break from always thinking about the next step in the plan, the odds stacked against them, and the next impossible mission they have no choice but to accomplish.

He's not really sure how to broach the subject with Fushiguro. Not a lot of sorcerers actually call each other by their given names. The only example he can think of off the top of his head is Gojo and Geto—and their situation is such a mess that just thinking of it gives Itadori a headache. Family calls each other by their given names; Itadori doesn't have any family left. Old friends can call each other by their first names too, but in the grand scheme of things Itadori hasn't really known Fushiguro long enough to hide behind that excuse.

Romantic partners might use given names, if they're going steady. If they're serious about each other. But Gojo and Geto have a lifetime of history that justifies being on a first name basis. Nobody jumps straight to first names after their first date. Itadori and Fushiguro haven't even been on a first date. To be honest, he wasn't ever sure if it would be fair to ask him out, considering he's going to die and leave Fushiguro behind as soon as he swallows Sukuna's last finger. Now, after Shibuya—he doubts he'll ever get the chance to ask.

Surrounded by an endless blue sky overhead and endless rows of tea hedges on either side of him, Itadori imagines a normal world where two normal boys get to date each other. He pretends that once he walks to the horizon line he'll have a view of the lively city he remembers instead of empty streets and apocalyptic rubble. Where would he take Fushiguro out to, if he could? Dinner and a movie, maybe. Shoulders brushing in the cinema seats, leaning over once or twice to whisper with barely an inch between them. Watching his face while he watches the film. Caught admiring, sharing smiles in the dark.

Afterwards Itadori would take him to a really nice restaurant, a hidden gem tucked out of the way somewhere private with a perfect menu. Or maybe, if the dorm was empty that night, Itadori could take him home and cook for Fushiguro himself. Fushiguro could sit at the kitchen counter and taste test teaspoons of whatever Itadori was making—or he could help, if he wanted. They could spend the whole night talking, with the weight of child soldiers finally lifted off their shoulders, like it wasn't up to them to save the world from curses. They could make each other laugh like they both had their whole lives ahead of them. And nothing would be there to stop Itadori from pulling Fushiguro close whenever he wanted, not his purpose as a vessel or his duty to take Sukuna with him to his grave. In a normal world, he'd have a future with Fushiguro, and the only worry on his mind would be working up the courage to ask if they could use each other's first names.

Itadori lets out a long, heavy sigh. His footsteps crunch on loose bitumen gravel scattered by the side of the road. He misses the days when his problems were so small and mundane. He looks at Fushiguro again, who seems lost in his own thoughts, gaze sweeping out across the tea fields.

"Something on your mind?" Itadori asks him. He'd rather help with Fushiguro's problems than face his own.

"I was just thinking about how Tsumiki likes tea," Fushiguro replies quietly. Drawn to the gentleness of memory, he appears uncharacteristically soft. The permanent hint of a frown and the tightness in his jaw he's been carrying since Shibuya has loosened. "Whenever Gojo had to leave on missions while we were little kids, he used to bring back sweets and souvenirs for us. Tsumiki always asked for tea."

"Sounds like you three were pretty close." The story draws a smile out of Itadori. He peers at Fushiguro curiously. "What's she like?"

Instantly, Fushiguro clamps shut like a steel trap, which Itadori should have expected in hindsight. "We don't have time to tell stories."

"Are you kidding?" Itadori pulls a face at him in disbelief. "We're like, an hour and a half into a day-long road trip on foot. We've got all the time in the world to talk."

Fushiguro keeps his stern eyes on the bitumen a mile in front of them. "It's an unnecessary distraction."

"Come on, man! I didn't even know you had a sister until you had literally no choice but to tell us about her at Yasohachi Bridge. Hell, I didn't even know she was asleep until Kugisaki and I caught you trying to ditch us and deal with those curses alone."

"Save your questions for when you see her," Fushiguro mutters. "She can tell you herself."

"Well, I'll meet her eventually, I suppose." He winks cheekily at Fushiguro. "Then she can tell me all about what a cute baby brother you were and what a menace you must have been for your poor guardian Gojo-sensei."

"Not happening," Fushiguro says flatly.

"Boo. That's no fun." Itadori laces his hands behind his head and lets the issue go. Fushiguro doesn't talk much at the best of times, and he's never once spoken about Tsumiki unless her life was on the line. Some things are just private. No need to force it out of him.

Still, it's true he and Tsumiki will meet eventually, and the promised introduction lingers in his mind, with the kind of nervous energy a workout can't quite shake off. She's the most important person in Fushiguro's world. Itadori wants to make a good impression. He… really, really hopes she likes him.

"I guess I'll have to call you both Fushiguro when we talk." A nervous chuckle escapes him. "It might get confusing."

Dumb thing to say. Itadori resists the urge to slap a hand over his face. Why does he always have to blurt out the first thought that comes to mind? No person in the history of Japan has ever found it confusing to hold a conversation with two members of the same family.

Don't dance around the question, he tells himself. If you're going to ask for his first name, just ask him.

"I'm sure we'll manage," Fushiguro replies dryly.

"Yep. For sure." Itadori shoves his hands in his pockets and awkwardly looks away.

In the distance, a large flock circles a transmission tower in the tea field like insects drawn to a light. He tilts his head, straining to identify the black splotches against the early morning sun. "…Are those birds?"

Fushiguro squints. "Maybe Mei Mei's crows, or something?"

Itadori shrugs. It's possible. "Think they've got a message for us?"

Now that they've been noticed, the energy of the flock's movement spikes erratically. They all swirl away from the transmission tower, cutting across the tea fields and rapidly picking up speed. Very faintly, a low and heavy buzzing reaches Itadori's ears; a sound like a sluggish horse fly in summer, if hundreds of horse flies hunted in packs.

"They're… definitely coming this way," Fushiguro observes.

Itadori readies his fists. "They're definitely not birds."

He's never seen so many fly head curses in one place. Bug-like lumps of flesh with tiny human hands and legs blot out the sun now that they've drawn close enough. The buzz of their insect wings is deafening in proximity; when the swarm closes over them, the wide open world becomes a cage of curses ready to crush them.

Itadori splats one with his fist, then another—the fly heads come thick and fast, thudding into him on the way and shrieking garbled phrases in his ears. For every oversized insect he smacks out of the sky a dozen more take its place. His punches and kicks are really better suited for a one-on-one brawl. The bites sting, too. That's a first. He's never been bitten by a fly head before. Itadori didn't even know they could bite, because they're so easy to catch or swat before they get that close. The sheer volume of the swarm turns this war of attrition into a losing fight. The phrase death of a thousand cuts drifts through Itadori's mind in vague concern.

A fleeting glimpse of Fushiguro between the bodies and buzzing wings of the flies shows him clapping his hands together, absolute focus in his eyes.

"Rabbit escape."

An explosion of snow white bunnies burst from the shadow at his feet. The horde of shikigami surges up like a tsunami, a wave cresting and breaking over the fly head swarm until all Itadori can see around him is white fur and red eyes. The sound of buzzing wings is drowned out by hissing, screeching rabbits caught in the throes of fight-or-flight, leaping high into the air and chewing on any curse in their path as they scramble to escape.

Just like that, it's over as soon as it started. A handful of fly heads flee in every direction. Most of them are devoured. The unrelenting tide of rabbits crashes through the tea shrubs, collides with the earth, and instantly becomes uncontainable, splashing absolutely everywhere across the farmland like a splat of white paint and dispersing in the safety of the bushes. It's finally quiet enough for Itadori to hear his own breath.

He claps a hand on Fushiguro's shoulder, panting from exertion. "Nice save."

Fushiguro wipes the sweat form his brow. "I had no idea those things could bite."

Rabbits make themselves at home as far as they eye can see, polka-dots of soft white fur peaking through expansive rows of lush tea bushes. Their movements slow considerably now that the threat has passed; they lift their baby pink noses to sniff the air and snuffle at the roots, clucking and clicking their teeth in contentment. Blue skies, puffy clouds, green leaves, fluffy bunnies. The view looks almost… peaceful. If it wasn't for the stinging welts on his exposed skin he could forget they were attacked a minute ago. Out here a person wouldn't guess the world had ended in Tokyo.

"I love these little guys," Itadori says fondly, watching them amble and halfway-hop across his path while he walks. One rabbit flops on its side and stretches languidly near his shoes; he can't resist bending down to scratch its cheeks on his way past.

Another rabbit hops onto his back while he's half bent-over; Itadori laughs and gathers it into his arms. It leans up curiously to sniff his face, and he feels each quick breath on his cheek as it gets close.

Itadori laughs lightly. "I think they love me too." He gently rubs the base of the rabbit's ears and strokes its forehead the way he knows they like. The rabbit settles in his arms, purring in contentment. A second rabbit deftly leaps onto his shoulder and clambers onto his head. Itadori glances at Fushiguro hopefully, obvious in his delight. "You don't have to put them away immediately, right?"

Fushiguro stares at Itadori with an utterly unreadable expression. He parts his lips to say something, but doesn't quite get around to voicing his thoughts.

"Is there something on my face?" Itadori stands still. "It's not rabbit poop, is it?"

Fushiguro blinks once, slow to process the question. His eyes widen a fraction as he realises he's been caught staring; a strong pink flush springs to his cheeks. "Never mind," he says abruptly, spinning on his heel to stride forward at twice the pace.

"M—" Itadori catches himself just in time. "Fushiguro, wait up."

Don't slip up and say it out loud like an idiot, he thinks, mortified.

The rabbit on Itadori's head jumps off once he starts moving, but the one in his arms doesn't mind hitching a ride. "You good?" he checks when he pulls alongside Fushiguro, on the off chance something else might have been bothering him. Privately, though, he suspects he already knows, and self-conscious warmth spreads throughout his chest. Itadori has never been book smart, but he likes to think he's pretty good at reading people, and he's not dense enough to miss the way moments like these have been happening more often since they reunited after Shibuya.

Itadori will leave it be. They both have their own good reasons for not pointing out the obvious.

"I'm fine." Fushiguro replies without looking, hunching down into his high collar to try and hide the way he blushes with his whole face and then some. "Keep the rabbits for a while if you want. Not too long. I can't afford to burn too much cursed energy."

"Oh. Yeah." Itadori's expression falls. "I guess you probably should dismiss them. Long road ahead and all that."

Fushiguro sighs heavily. All across the tea field, the rabbits melt back into the closest shadow. "Sorry. I like them too."

The soft, furry weight evaporates from Itadori's arms. He shrugs. "It's okay. I'm sure we'll see them again soon."

They fall into companionable silence as they walk, drifting off into their own thoughts again. The leaves rustle in a cool breeze that heralds the closing days of autumn. It's good hiking weather; too crisp and cold when they stand still, but perfect when they're on the move. Itadori has made a habit this year of taking notice of such things. The breeze in his hair, the sun on his skin, the calming influence of green plants growing around him. And Fushiguro by his side. Life is short. Itadori's life, in particular. He doesn't want to just let these moments slip by.

Someday soon, Tsumiki will be here with them too. He's relieved, honestly, that she woke up in time. He'll feel a lot better eating Sukuna's last finger if he knows he isn't leaving Fushiguro all alone.

"What were they doing out here?" Fushiguro suddenly says out loud.

"Sorry, who?"

"The fly heads," Fushiguro explains. "What's a swarm of curses doing in a place with no cursed energy?"

Itadori looks around, searching for residuals. Cursed energy typically tends to pool in dense population groups and fester in locations with negative associations. Out here there's no hospital or graveyard or urban legend nearby to gather the fear, remorse and bitterness of others. There are lingering trails of malaise left behind by disaffected tea pickers, but for the most part the countryside is wide open and clear; there were very few people out here, even before Shibuya, at least compared to the rest of Tokyo.

"…You're right," Itadori says eventually. "There's nothing to draw a swarm like that out here."

Fushiguro frowns lightly, thinking it through. "If they're not going towards something, they could be running away from it instead."

Itadori frowns deeper, the gears turning slower. "Like what? Sorcerers?"

Fushiguro grimaces. "Bigger curses." His eyes lift towards the horizon once more, where urban sprawl will eventually emerge before them. "I have a feeling we'll face worse in the city. Don't let your guard down."

"Aye aye, captain." Itadori salutes him. Fushiguro rolls his eyes, but there might be a hint of a smile on his face as he turns around to keep walking.

Itadori begins to follow close behind. But a thought occurs to him first, and instead he jogs to the side of the road to inspect the green shoots sprouting at the ends of the tea hedges.

"Itadori. What are you doing?" Fushiguro's unimpressed voice sounds much further away than it did a minute ago.

"Just a second!" Itadori calls back, plucking a haphazard selection of verdant, leafy stems to pile in one palm.

"…Are you stealing?"

"Not really. All the workers evacuated, it's not going to get harvested anyway. No one will miss a few measly stems." He brushes aside a few branches with too many holes in the leaves and reaches around the side of the hedge where the new growth is more protected.

"…We're kind of on a time limit, here."

"Alright, alright! I'm coming." Itadori snatches three more busy twigs and jogs back down the road, making up ground in no time.

"You can still make tea from fresh leaves, right?" He catches up to Fushiguro, panting lightly. He opens his palms and offers Fushiguro the impromptu bouquet of tea leaf shoots. "I thought Tsumiki might like some. I know you're hoping we'll have time to see her once we sort out the culling games, so I was thinking… the three of us can brew a pot together."

Fushiguro's expression softens as he pictures the scene. Suddenly he looks young and vulnerable, his expression betraying how deeply he cares about something he'd rather keep close to his chest. His hands close tighter around the precious stems.

"That sounds… really nice," he says quietly.

A swift kick sends yet another curse crashing into the wall of an apartment block. Itadori launches forward to follow up with a roundhouse punch, and the curse finally disintegrates, ending the fight. He steps back, panting hard with exertion, and scans the street left and right for further threats before finally dropping his fists.

"I thought the gauntlet wasn't supposed to start until we made it to Hakari's fight club." Itadori complains, massaging his bruised knuckles. His wellspring of cursed energy pulls taut every time he tries to draw on it, like a string instrument whose pegs are wound far too tight. It's too early in the journey to be so spent.

Fushiguro tries to catch his breath, sending shikigami back into his shadow. "With any luck… this will… be the worst of it. From here on out we're only putting more distance between ourselves and Shinjuku. But we might want to consider taking a… a stealthier approach."

The tea road led them to a small highway, which they walked alongside through Iruma. Once they entered Sayama they followed a road which runs parallel to the Seibu-Shinjuku train line, heading north towards Kawagoe. The buildings are taller and denser here, drawing closer towards Saitama city. Those long stretches of agricultural property have given way to ten story apartment blocks, franchise stores and conbinis.

The street level shops of the apartment blocks stand out with red bricks facades and terracotta shingle roofs. There's enough pot plants and garden strips on the sidewalks and roundabouts to make the suburb feel homely and liveable. But life has left this place. No humans. No common city wildlife. It's the silence and stillness which unsettles Itadori the most.

The citizens have clearly been evacuated. Nobody is around; bicycles have been left strewn across the road, and grocery bags dropped on the street outside a Lawson's on the corner. The spilled contents were crushed underfoot by a crowd, and now trails of ants amass over the food. Evidence points to the destruction left in the wake of Kenjaku's uzumaki wave of curses, even here, so far away from Shibuya. Cracked concrete sidewalks and smashed storefronts tell an apocalyptic, empty story.

Fushiguro bites his lip. "It took longer than I thought to get this far."

Frustration is etched into the lines of his face; his fingers twist the seams of his pant pockets, twitchy with restless energy to move faster and cover more ground. If all they were doing was hiking to where public transport was operating, they might have made the progress he planned for. But the only life left here is curses, and the curses are too plentiful to count, growing in number and strength the closer they get to urban areas. Constantly stopping to fend off attacks is sapping their strength and slowing their progress.

"It's probably a good time to eat and drink something. Keep our strength up." Itadori shrugs his shoulders back, jostling the weight of his backpack to grab Fushiguro's attention.

Fushiguro shakes his head, brimming with single-minded determination. "I don't think we have time to keep stopping."

Itadori hesitates before phrasing his response. The near-manic glint in Fushiguro's eye worries him, full of steel in a way that overrides common sense. He sees himself in it, isolated in Shibuya only a few days prior, throwing himself at curses until he collapsed to silence the screaming guilt and judgement in his head.

"We don't have to stop," Itadori compromises. "Just sip your pocari sweat and eat a snack on the road. Burning out would be just as bad as waiting around too long, right?"

Fushiguro sighs, relenting. He drifts sideways to reluctantly access Itadori's pack, and Itadori holds still to let him rummage for their food supply. He tosses Itadori two protein bars and keeps two for himself, ripping into the packaging with his teeth and taking a ravenous bite.

"Better?" Itadori asks when he's finished, handing Fushiguro the sports drink.

"Yeah. Better. Thanks." Fushiguro shoves the wrappers in his pocket and takes a long swig of pocari, his throat working as he swallows. "Can you check the map? How far have we got to go?"

"Time to check we haven't drifted off track." Itadori pulls the map from his backpack and opens it. The paper edges flutter while he holds it in front of his face as he walks. He squints at the kanji. Searches the street names blankly for a few seconds. He can't orient himself at all.

"You're holding it upside down," Fushiguro informs him.

"Ah." Itadori rotates the map, nodding to himself like an expert navigator. "Mm-hm. Yes. Little bit of algebra, carry the one…"

He hears Fushiguro snigger somewhere on the other side of the paper blocking his view, and his shoulders relax in relief knowing Fushiguro is still himself enough to laugh with him.

Unfortunately, the story the map tells isn't as encouraging as Itadori would've hoped. "Well, the bad news is, we're not going to cross the river before sunset."

"We're that far behind?" Fushiguro grabs the map out of Itadori's hands and stares at it in dismay, searching the route.

Itadori peers over Fushiguro's shoulder to see the map again. "The good news," he continues, "is that if we keep walking through the night we've still got a chance of making the last train."

Fushiguro bites his lip in worry. The reassurance seems like cold comfort. "We're running out of time."

"We'll be fine. Shin-Sayama station is just a couple of blocks away, see?" Itadori points up ahead. "It took us six hours to make it this far. We're a little under halfway. So even if it takes us eight or nine hours to cover the rest of the distance, we should still reach Hasuda Station before midnight." He rolls up the map and wacks Fushiguro with it lightly on the head. "That is, as long as you don't run yourself into the ground refusing to eat."

"Alright, alright, I get it." Fushiguro rolls his eyes and waves him away. "Turn around again. I'll pull the food stash out—"

Metal clangs loudly down a side alley like a can being kicked across the road. Itadori and Fushiguro freeze, falling silent.

Wordlessly, they sneak towards the source of the sound, taking position on either corner of the entrance to the alley. Itadori delicately shrugs his backpack off and places it gently on the street corner. A high pile of trash bags from the closest apartment building has been split open and strewn across the concrete. Just in front of a property boundary fence at the dead end of the alley, a large canine-like curse with leathery skin and a lumpy, tumorous head too heavy for its body crouches low to the ground. It seems to be rummaging through wet and foul-smelling garbage as if scavenging for food. Dark scales cover the curse's legs, and its raptor feet end in vicious talons. It rips through another trash bag and someone's plastic recycling spills everywhere, milk cartons bouncing and rolling down to rest near Itadori's red shoes. He reaches for his own cursed energy, testing his capacity. It responds less like a font of free-flowing water, more like heartstrings pulled tight and strained.

They can't keep up with all these head on fights. It's time for a stealthier approach, as Fushiguro put it. Itadori raises a hand to signal to Fushiguro. He holds up one finger, points at himself, and points at the curse. Then he holds up two fingers, points at Fushiguro, and mimes his fist striking his palm. Fushiguro nods and halts where he is, letting Itadori take point.

Itadori creeps up behind the curse slowly, careful where he places his feet. He picks a path through the mess that lets him get as close as possible without disturbing the curse, taking long steps and teetering on tiptoes. Even on the patches of bare concrete that isn't covered by general waste, dribbles of garbage juice and curse saliva make it hard to find his footing without risk In the first stroke of luck Itadori feels like he's had in weeks, the curse doesn't notice that someone is sneaking up on it. Itadori closes the last few feet of distance and readies a divergent fist.

He steps forward with perfect form. One solid divergent fist punch smacks into the curse's skull; just like he planned, the curse couldn't sense him coming until the energy releases after the hit already landed. With a second's delay his cursed energy pulls taut like elastic, then snaps back, ricocheting through the canine's skull.

The curse yelps loudly in pain and staggers on its feet.

"Fetch," it whines in garbled human speech. "Play fetch with us?" It snarls and barks loudly and rakes its talons through the concrete. A chorus of several more barks echo down the alley in reply from somewhere far away.

It launches itself at Itadori, dizzy and lopsided from that first hit to the head. Itadori leaps backwards out of reach. He lands wrong, feels his ankle almost buckle under him—his shoe slips on a dribble or garbage juice, or maybe curse saliva, and all of a sudden his balance completely tips.

"Whoa, whoa!" Itadori windmills his arms to say upright, rights his balance, and whips his head up to see the curse charging straight for him. Unsteady on his feet, he can't get out of the way in time. In a snap second decision Itadori turtles up and protects his stomach right before the curse bludgeons into him head first.

The impact feels like being hit by a car. Itadori flies backwards and slams against the red brick wall hard enough to wind himself.

"Itadori!" Fushiguro shouts.

"It's fine," Itadori coughs and wheezes, squinting as a momentary bout of double vision converges into focus. He grabs the curse by the scruff of its neck and holds it at arm's length, where it snarls and snaps at his shirt sleeve and attempts to rake his chest with its talons. Itadori grits his teeth and loads his free hand with as much cursed energy as he can muster, holding the curse in place to pump successive uppercuts into its soft underbelly. It shrieks and writhes in his hand, twisting to get away, but Itadori won't let it escape.

A far deeper, more menacing growl rolls through the alleyway. For a split second Itadori thinks he's really in trouble. But the shadow that looms over him is a familiar sight, and when Kon's claws punch through the curse, it instantly falls limp in Itadori's hands.

Silence always rings loudly in his ears after a fight. Itadori sags where he sits against the wall, staring into space as he catches his breath.

"I'd say that went pretty well," he says to the opposite side of the alley.

"Itadori!"

Fushiguro runs over and drops to his knees in front of him, frantically scanning for injuries. "Where did it get you?"

"I'm fine, it—it didn't really get me at all. Just a handful of scratches, some bruises on my back." He gestures vaguely around his torso. "A mild concussion, maybe, but we're hardly sleeping tonight anyway, so it's probably not a problem."

"Shirt off," Fushiguro orders. "Let me see your injuries."

Itadori cracks a tired, lopsided smile. "Buy me dinner first."

"Don't joke about this," Fushiguro snaps. "Let me see."

"If you insist." Itadori shrugs and shucks his shirt off. Thin red lines criss-cross his chest, barely breaking through the skin. Tiny, bright red beads of blood sit holding tension on the surface, but nothing ever bled enough to spill over.

Fushiguro stares at the wounds for several seconds. He sits back on his heels, shoulders sinking with an exhale. Slowly, his state of alarm begins to unwind.

"Told you. They'll heal just fine." Itadori looks down at himself and sighs in disappointment. "Which is honestly kind of a shame. I won't even get another cool scar out of it."

Fushiguro purses his lips. "…That looked a lot worse from where I was standing."

"Well, the bastard tore my shirt to shreds, that's for sure." Itadori lifts up his hiking tee. Most of the front of the shirt has been shredded by those talons; the curse did its level best to gut him like a fish. He supposes, if their places were switched and he couldn't see what was going on underneath the fabric, he might have feared the worse for Fushiguro too.

"Stay right here," Fushiguro sighs, turning to rummage through the backpack. "I'll clean these up."

Itadori decides not to press his luck and does his best to be an obedient, cooperative patient. Fushiguro insists on disinfecting the wounds, and deems a bandage unnecessary. He remains a consummate professional throughout the whole process, focused solely on the work and entirely unaffected by Itadori's shirtless state, which is only faintly disappointing. Eventually he gets up from Itadori's lap, sighs through his nose and snaps the first aid kit shut. "Next time you let me come up with the strategy."

"It was a good strategy. It was stealthy," Itadori protests as he gets to his feet. "And for the record it would have worked perfectly anywhere else. I just didn't account for the, uh. Occupational health and safety hazard." He points to the concrete, covered in slime and loose garbage.

Fushiguro looks down, and then back up at Itadori. He doesn't look impressed.

"Watch out for the ground," Itadori says unhelpfully. "It's slippery."

Fushiguro makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. He stands up and glares at Itadori, looking substantially more pissed off now that the initial shock is wearing off. "Don't throw yourself in there like a human shield, got it? We go in together, or not at all."

"Okay," Itadori agrees slowly. He sets aside his first instinct to assume Fushiguro is overreacting to all this, and tries to remember how much pressure he's been under since before they even set out from Jujutsu High. "Fushiguro, is everything alright?"

The sun, low in the sky, stretches their shadows long behind them. Fushiguro places his hand on Itadori's chest, over the scratches, over the large patch of pale scar tissue that healed after Sukuna ripped out his heart.

Fushiguro exhales an unsteady breath, closing his eyes briefly. He still sounds mad. "You're not allowed to die on me. I'll kill you."

"I know," Itadori says softly. "I won't. Promise."

He tips his head forward a fraction so his forehead touches Fushiguro's, and feels Fushiguro press back. They're standing so close together. Call me Yuuji, he thinks selfishly. He wants to ask.

But that's not what this mission is about. Itadori's job is to kill curses and then get out of the way of other people's happiness. He was born to die and take Sukuna down with him, and when the moment comes he'll make the world a better, safer place for Fushiguro and everyone else he leaves behind. When all this is over, he'll be gone, and Fushiguro will finally be safe, free to live the rest of a long, happy life with whoever he chooses. It is selfish to pursue anything more. Selfish to make it harder for him to move on after Itadori is gone, selfish to ask him to give his love to a dead man walking.

One day Fushiguro will meet somebody new, and that person will make him so happy, he'll forget to be sad about what happened to Itadori. One day Fushiguro will wake up in the life he built for himself, and he'll be an adult, and Itadori will be—just a memory. Just some kid Fushiguro knew once, a long time ago. That's how it's supposed to be.

"I really am fine, though. Got the job done. Still in one piece." Itadori takes a few steps away, putting more distance between himself and Fushiguro. He shrugs his shirt back on, turns around, and holds his arms out. "Ready to go. See?"

It's at this moment, with rotten timing and a perfect target, that the rest of the curses round the corner to attack.

Another canine curse lunches itself over the fence and headbutts Itadori from the side. It knocks the wind out of Itadori, again; he flies through the air long enough to think: Huh. I guess the curse did say play fetch with 'us'.

He hits the asphalt an alarming distance away and rolls over his shoulder through the impact, jumping to his feet and whirling around to get eyes on the threat.

This time the canine curses brought pack tactics. He sees three dogs circling Fushiguro, and two of them facing down Kon. Jaws snap at Fushiguro's front, demanding his defence long enough for talons to rake across his back. So much is happening at once. One curse knocks its way through Kon's defences with that concussive impact. The other moves in to close its jaw around Kon's arm and shake. Itadori doesn't stand around to watch any longer than that, racing forward to reach the pack of canines harassing Fushiguro.

"You wanna fetch?" Itadori yanks one of the curses backwards by its tail. "Then go… fetch!"

He pitches the curse like a baseball and it sails eight stories high through the air. A bird's call pierces through the sky above them, and Nue soars in to catch the hound, driving its wings to climb higher before dropping the curse with more momentum from an even greater height. The curse crunches when it hits the ground, dead.

Nasty snarling tears up throats near the pile of garbage bags as Kon and the curse tangle in a dogfight. There's madness in Kon's eyes as he wrestles the curse onto its back, strips of loose fur dangling from deep claw marks in his shoulders, and closes his jaws around the curse's neck.

Itadori throws hooks and jabs at one of the two remaining curses circling Fushiguro. Steel whistles through the air next to him as Fushiguro arcs a lightweight sword over and down to slice through the skin of the other canine.

"Hold this." As fast as the weapon was drawn, Fushiguro tosses it hilt first in Itadori's direction. Itadori catches it and slashes through his own foe in one motion. Weaponless again, Fushiguro claps his hands together to bring another shadow puppet back into being. A rush of wind moves past them as Nue arcs down to snatch up another victim. Now Itadori and Fushiguro are the ones outnumbering the last canine in their corner.

"Want it back?" Itadori tosses the sword back to Fushiguro like they're playing piggy in the middle. Cursed energy billows around his hands and wrists. Fushiguro spins his grip on the weapon and moves in for the kill.

In his peripheral vision, Itadori sees Kon lose his clawed grip on the fifth curse right as it scrambles out of the alley corner. The curse drops its head down like it aims to charge, stalking a few steps closer towards Fushiguro's back.

"Behind you!" Itadori calls, feinting left and striking right, keeping their own curse engaged so Fushiguro isn't surrounded. Fushiguro glances once behind him and whirls around, ready to counter the attack—

—and slips.

His foot slips out under him, sliding on slippery trash. Fushiguro cries out sharply in pain and topples fully over, hitting the concrete. The curse, aiming for his upright body, sails overhead and collides with the apartment building wall. Red bricks dislodge and crack on the ground in a cloud of terracotta dust. Itadori doesn't waste a second in following up, landing punches until the curse stays down.

It looks like it's over. Kon and Nue took care of the others. Itadori scans the street for threats before dropping his guard completely, like he should have done and kept doing before the rest of pack showed up. The he turns his attention to Fushiguro; still on the ground, his face twisted in pain, his hands putting pressure on his lower leg.

"Oh, crap. Fushiguro? Are you okay?" Itadori drops down to get a closer look, worriedly searching Fushgiuro's expression for a sign of how serious it is.

"I'm fine," Fushiguro bites through gritted teeth. "It just… hurts like shit. I think I rolled my ankle."

"Yeah, I nearly did that too when you saw me go down," Itadori murmurs. "Let me take a look."

With a quiet hiss, Fushiguro takes his hands away and rolls up the legs of his pants. On the surface it doesn't look like anything is obviously wrong. But the skin around his ankle is already flushing ever so slightly red, at least compared to the other foot. Itadori hovers his hand over the skin. It's faintly warm.

"Can I touch?" He checks. Fushiguro nods.

He touches the pads of his fingers lightly around Fushiguro's good ankle, and repeats the motion on his bad one.

Fushiguro flinches. "Ouch," he says, with feeling.

"I can definitely feel some swelling." Itadori casts around for their backpack, lost somewhere in the trash. "Where did the first aid kit go? I'll compress the injury and immobilise the joint."

Panic flashes across Fushiguro's face. "No." He leans on the wall to heave himself to his feet. "No—it's not that bad, I don't need it. We should just keep moving."

He pushes off the wall, puts one foot forward, and almost collapses straight back to the ground. His bad ankle buckles underneath him.

Itadori's stomach sinks at the sight. "Fushiguro," he says quietly.

"No." Fushiguro staggers through a limp and hops forward, barely touching his toes to the ground. "We're not stopping. I can walk it off. You said it yourself, we've got plenty of time to make the last train."

"Fushiguro—"

"Tsumiki's deadline is in ten days!" Fushiguro shouts. He puts a hand on the wall to hobble around and face Itadori. Underneath the fury barely stitching him together, desperation bleeds through the cracks. "She doesn't have time for me to wait for this to get better. Do you get it? We can't stop here."

Itadori’s heart twists. His voice wobbles. He has to stand his ground. "You can't walk on that."

An awful expression wavers over Fushiguro's face, like a dam breaking, like facing the worst kind of failure and turning the blame inwards. He looks so angry at everything. He looks like he's going to cry.

"Listen. I did a lot of sports growing up and I know my way around ankle injuries. There's a chance this is only a partial sprain." Itadori does his best to keep his words even and calm. He puts both hands on Fushiguro's shoulders. "If you keep pushing forward and fighting curses at the pace you're trying for, you will actually tear the ligament, and then you'll be no use to your sister at all. Trust me. We will be faster in the long run if you stop and rest now. You have to stop and rest."

"But I can't." Fushiguro shakes his head, glassy eyed. He tries to limp with Itadori's support, each step painfully slow. "I have to… have to…"

He covers his face with his hands and slides down the wall in defeat. A long, wordless yell of frustration drags from his throat. Exhaustion, frustration, bitter disappointment, and the impossibility of it all from the start crashes over him at long last. Itadori does the only thing he can—he pulls him in for a hug, and Fushiguro lets himself crash and burn in Itadori's arms.

Itadori carries him as far as he can down the road before night descends.

They make it all the way to Kawagoe, a preserved castle town nestled right on the other side of the river from Saitama city. The streets, still lined with historical kurazukuri houses, would normally be bustling with tourists. Itadori read that it was something of a sightseeing destination when he was researching their route before they left—streets of Meiji-era sweet shops, Buddhist temples, castle remains, and local artisan's merchant stores still standing in the style of Edo-period architecture. Hence the town's affectionate nickname, Little Edo. Being here alone does feel a little bit like stepping back in time. With all the residents evacuated, Itadori gets to appreciate the view without craning his neck to see past Western tourists packed wall to wall.

Fushiguro rests silently in his arms, no longer distraught and miserable, but clearly still feeling low. He protested indignantly when Itadori first picked him up off the ground bridal style, independence baked hard into him like clay turned to stoneware in a kiln. Over time he's been relaxing into Itadori's arms, the stiffness slowly leaving his limbs as he accepts his fate instead of trying to carry his own weight. Now he curls comfortably towards Itadori's chest, arms slung around his neck, the weight of his head warm on Itadori's shoulder. Holding him like this heals a hole in Itadori's heart.

The combined weight of Fushiguro and the backpack of supplies doesn't bother Itadori at all, and he's grateful for his unnaturally athletic constitution. But Fushiguro needs real, deep sleep to have the best chance of healing, and he's not going to get that being carried around.

"I can't see the map anymore," Itadori sighs eventually. The distant cry of a curse drifts from somewhere far away on the wind. It's too far away to be a threat; despite the evacuation order, the curses don't seem to have spread quite this far from Shibuya yet. Most of their journey tonight has been quiet, solitary, and uninterrupted. But the reminder of what's lurking out there is enough to convince Itadori they've pushed their luck far enough this evening. "I think it's time we find a place to bunk down for the night."

"…We should've brought sleeping bags," Fushiguro admits, through his stinging pride.

"Even if we did, we wouldn't be able to camp outside injured with all these curses around." Itadori's breath fogs in the cold air. He looks far down the long street for shelter. "Do you reckon any of these houses are unlocked?"

"Someone probably evacuated in a rush," Fushiguro mumbles into Itadori's shoulder, not caring to lift his head.

He pokes around the old street, rattling doors to check for a way in. Ornate kurazukuri buildings crowd together, a particular style of fire-resistant architecture with thick clay walls and gabled roofs featuring heavy decorative tiles. He sees his reflection in glass shopfront windows on the ground floor of each building. Scanning out and further away across the street in his search, Itadori finally takes his eyes off the path in front of him and remembers to look up. Night has brought with it a dazzling curtain of stars, so numerous and dense and bright in their splendour that the sky appears unrecognisable. Itadori's steady gate falters in surprise, jostling Fushiguro slightly. He can actually see the milky way, a grand and glowing marbled river across the sky.

"There's so many stars," Itadori murmurs in awe. "The power outage all over Tokyo—I've never seen so many stars in my life."

Fushiguro blinks his eyes open and turns his head up. The self-deprecating crease of his brow softens in wonder. Light pollution must have hidden a thousand constellations that neither of them recognise. He wordlessly watches the sky for a long while during their search for shelter.

"It's been so weird walking through all the towns today with no people around," Itadori says absentmindedly, slipping into the comfortable, familiar habit of filling the air with his own rambling thoughts when Fushiguro doesn't feel like talking. Fushiguro is an attentive listener. People call him prickly and moody, and he's a quiet person by nature, but he's never once made Itadori feel like he talks too much. "Feels like one of those movies where you and I are the last two people left on Earth."

"Unlucky for you," Fushiguro says, slipping back into a doze. "Stuck with me and my useless, broken ankle. We'd starve."

"Your ankle isn't broken, drama queen," Itadori tells him fondly. "And you're wrong. I'd be the luckiest guy in the world."

He rattles another lightweight wooden sliding door. Locked again. Should he start testing windows?

"…But there's only two guys," Fushiguro says. He cracks his eyes open to slits, tilting his head to stare up sceptically at Itadori. "In the movie scenario you're talking about. It's not saying much to say you're the luckiest guy in the world when there's only us two left."

Itadori sighs. "Just take the compliment."

They have no luck with the sturdy kurazukuri houses. He tries the door on a simple machiya with a facade of wooden latticework, red cedar rippled with shosugiban char so that it can't catch a spark as easily as fresh wood. This time, the front door slides open.

"Ojamashimasu," Itadori calls out politely, to pardon their intrusion. He waits, just in case someone is home after all. Nobody replies.

He steps over the threshold and closes the door behind him, careful not to knock Fushiguro on the way through. The front room appears to be a small shopfront that can open onto the street, displaying a beautiful collection of traditional handmade red and black lacquer kitchenware. Fusuma doors behind the shop counter lead to the private residential rooms. Itadori follows an earthen-floor hallway to the back of the machiya, sidling past a narrow kitchen built into one side, and opens another fusuma to find the main living room tucked away behind the shop. Round sitting mats surround a traditional irori fireplace set into the centre of the wooden floor, unevenly polished from years of being walked on.

"I'll be back in a second." Itadori kneels to gently lay Fushiguro beside the hearth, and shrugs off the backpack beside him. "Let me look around for bedding we can borrow."

"Find the shower first," Fushiguro tells him frankly, settling on the floor. "We stink like sweaty garbage."

The sliding fusuma reveal a tatami room, and beyond that, a deck surrounding a sliver of a green courtyard out the back. Here Itadori finds an outdoor washroom in a wooden shed which somehow manages to squeeze in a stool, a low shower head, and a cramped cedar bathtub. He helps Fushiguro hobble there, arms around each other's shoulders, and leaves him to his own devices.

Alone, Itadori takes stock of his surroundings, poking around for what they could make use of without imposing on the owner of the house. The external walls are made of packed earth supported by dark, lightly charred wooden beams. But the machiya shows its age in the way the cracked clay lets the cold night air seep inside. Now that he's no longer hiking, sweat begins to cool across his skin, and the late-autumn chill leaves goosebumps rising. Itadori hunts around for matches, wanting to warm the hearth before Fushiguro gets too cold.

Futons in the cupboards of the tatami room, firewood sheltered in the courtyard out the back. He sources a low stool to elevate Fushiguro's ankle and pours water into the kettle suspended over the irori for the miso packets they brought along from Tokyo. In the kitchen he finds more of those red lacquerware bowls, and stares longingly at the sack of rice he feels would be rude to take from without permission. The ice cubes in the freezer look a little more slushy than he'd hoped, but nobody had opened the fridge doors since the blackout started, so the insulation held its temperature well enough that they didn't melt completely. He scrapes what he can into a freezer bag, ties a knot, and wraps it in a tea towel as a makeshift cold pack for Fushiguro once he gets out. The small tatami room is meant for sleeping in, but he plans to roll out the futons in the living room once he's clean instead, making a cosy den in the warmest zone of the house.

He trades places with Fushiguro, takes extra effort to scrub himself soapy clean on the shower stool, and—having done every task he can think of to make the house ready for someone injured to rest in—finally folds himself into the hot bath with a long sigh.

When he emerges some time later, he finds that Fushiguro has already set up the futons and gotten the fire started. He's lying on his back with his foot propped up on the stool, freshly re-wrapped and splinted and supported by the sagging makeshift ice pack. Their supplies have been arranged on the floor, and everything has been organised within easy arm's reach. Fushiguro must have taken the liberty of pouring the miso for him too; one of the red bowls sits neatly in front of Itadori's futon next to a bento he packed from Tokyo, steam spiralling lazily upward as the boiled water turns the contents of the broth. Itadori sits down gratefully to eat. The heat of the bath worked magic to soothe his aching muscles after a long day of fighting and hiking. As the discomforts lessen one by one, his hunger becomes harder to ignore.

"I didn't mean to lash out at you earlier," Fushiguro says at last. "I was angry at the situation I couldn't change. Angry at myself for getting myself injured and… fucking it all up, I guess. Not angry at you." He looks away from the flames, shame casting shadows across half his face. "Sorry you had to see it."

"It wasn't your fault you slipped. As long as we look after your ankle you'll be walking again before you know it." Itadori sips his miso. "We'll still make it to Hakari with time to spare for Tsumiki's situation. You haven't ruined anything. And you've got nothing to apologise for."

Fushiguro's mouth twists like he doesn't quite believe him. The conversation lapses back into silence and the gentle crackle of the fire. Lying on his back in bed, he lifts his hands up to make shadow puppets. He doesn't feed any cursed energy into the motions, simply turning his head to watch the silhouettes shift on the wall. Dogs and rabbits, snakes and birds. Some of them Itadori recognises from battle, but most don't seem to be connected to Fushiguro's cursed technique at all.

"How long ago did you learn those?" Itadori asks him.

"Dad taught me, back when he was still around. I guess it was one Zenin tradition he decided not to give up." Fushiguro curls his two middle fingers back and forth, swaying the trunk of Bansho the elephant. "Ten shadows doesn't always show up every generation. The family teaches the hand signs to the kids, in the guise of a game, and waits a few years to see if any of them spontaneously summon the divine dogs one day."

"Can I try?"

Fushiguro raises one eyebrow a fraction. "You won't summon anything."

"Not for that." Itadori waves the notion away, a smile on his face. "Just for fun. Like you used to."

"Well… I guess the dogs are pretty easy." Fushiguro swings his leg off the stool and shuffles over to demonstrate, taking Itadori's hands. "Spread your fingers in two groups down the middle, and wrap one hand over the other, like this."

Itadori makes his hands malleable under Fushiguro's guidance and mimics the placement as best he can. He holds his clasped hands up to the light and twists behind him to see the silhouette it leaves on the wall.

"Keep your thumbs pointing out for the ears." Slender, pale fingers gently nudge the position of Itadori's blocky thumbs, a little more flexed, a little closer to the palm. "Yeah. That's it. You've got it."

Fushiguro forms his own hand puppet next to Itadori's like two wolves howling at the moon on the wall. He lies down again, on Itadori's futon this time, and they admire the projected image of the dogs in shared satisfaction.

"You know, I used to be kind of afraid of the dark before I became a sorcerer." Itadori lets his hands drop, his gaze drifting down to the coals of the fire. "It started after my grandpa finally had to move into hospice care. Something about coming back at the end of the day to a dark house like this one with all the lights off and nobody home. I put on a brave face about it, I—I didn't want to let my friends at school know. It just seemed kind of childish. But I dreaded going home once the bell rang. Made me feel so suffocated and alone."

Fushiguro watches him quietly, steady in his presence and attention. The low amber glow of the fireplace dances on the walls.

"Then I met you. And your shadows." Itadori swallows, nerves fluttering in his stomach. "And after that being in the dark wasn't lonely, and I wasn't afraid anymore."

Even with such little light to see by, he notices the imperceptible signs of Fushiguro caught off guard by his own emotion. The flutter of his long lashes as his eyes widen slightly; the rise and fall of his chest holding still for a moment. He gazes at Itadori for a long moment, and there's so much unsaid in the look shared between them, just under the surface of it. Barely held at bay. Itadori feels that self-conscious warmth fill his chest again, crawling up his throat like words he won't be able to take back.

"You asked me… about Tsumiki, earlier this morning," Fushiguro says uncertainly.

"Yeah. But you don't have to share." Itadori finally blinks, looking back at the fire. In truth he doesn't really mind if Fushiguro keeps personal things to himself, so long as he remembers to tell Itadori when he needs help. The quiet stretches on long enough that Itadori starts to suspect the conversation really won't go further. And then:

"I started working as a sorcerer for Tsumiki's sake, so that she wouldn't have to live in a place where she'd be hurt or unhappy." Fushiguro rolls over and curls up on his side, not quite meeting Itadori's eyes. "It was either sign up for the job or or end up at the Zenin clan, so. Not much of a choice to make, really."

There's a long history there that Itadori doesn't ask about. He thinks about reaching out, to offer touch in support and reassurance. He holds his breath instead, not wanting to do anything that might put Fushiguro off from saying his piece.

"…She's kind," Fushiguro mumbles, fiddling anxiously with the corner of the futon. "She's a better student than I am. She likes reading and snacking on Gojo's daifuku. Her favourite flavour is strawberry. She's always looking out for others, even people who don't deserve it. It drives me mad how she'd rather forgive than hold onto a grudge."

Old, lonely sorrow seems to fill him up from the inside out, shouldering the ache of needing someone who hasn't been there. But even then, he still isn't giving up hope, holding onto the dream that he'll see her and speak to her and write a happy ending. Worry weighs him down and wears him thin, but his eyes still shine with the miracle that she's awake.

"Tsumiki isn't a sorcerer. She can't see curses." Fushiguro blinks rapidly, his head thumping back down on the pillow. "It's supposed to be my job to protect her from all this."

"You will." Itadori leans forward, bursting with determination. "You definitely will. We've got a plan to handle the culling games. You and I are going to change the rules and get her out. In two weeks' time we'll be sitting in the sun drinking fresh green tea with Tsumiki, catching her up on everything she missed while she was asleep. All the trouble we will have gone through to reach that moment will just be a wild, crazy story we can look back on and laugh about together."

A smile breaks across Fushiguro's face at the thought of it. He wipes his eyes with his sleeve."You think so?"

Itadori nods. "I haven't met her yet, but I know how much she means to you." He sits back, lacing his fingers together in his lap. "That's why I won't let you down. I promised I'd…"

He trails off, swallowing. Promised my strength to you. Promised to save you. The words feel too important, too exposing to say out loud.

"…I said I'd be here to help you," Itadori finally settles on. "Whatever you need."

"I just need you," Fushiguro rasps. He reaches out, fingertips snagging on Itadori's clothes. "Got nothing else to hold onto."

Itadori takes his hand. "Me too," he admits.

Fushiguro's dark eyes shine in the dim amber light of the fire. Itadori's chest swells with a sense of intimacy he can't begin to pick apart. They've saved each other's lives more times than he can count, and there's no-one else he trusts more to watch his back, and sometimes when he looks at Fushiguro he feels like he's looking at all he has left of home. Last names insist on a distance which doesn't exist between them any more.

"Call me Megumi," Fushiguro says, quiet and steady.

It isn't a surprise to Itadori, but his pulse quickens all the same. Every wall he built up to try and hold himself back from asking the same thing crumbles to dust when he feels Fushiguro's hand in his own.

"Okay," he breathes, giving in so easily. "You can call me Yuuji."

Fushiguro pushes himself upright to sit beside him, resting his head on Itadori's shoulder. "Yuuji."

He sighs the name like coming up for air, like he's been dying to say it forever. Yuuji holds his hand tight and holds him close, wrapping an arm around his waist. He closes his eyes, nose buried in Megumi's hair. This feels like all he's ever wanted. They lean comfortably against each other side by side, fingers intertwined as the embers and coals burn low. Megumi keeps his head on Yuuji's shoulder, watching the ashes glow.

"I know it's pointless to talk about us right now," Megumi says quietly. Yuuji's heart swoops down to his toes and back up again at the word us. "Between Shibuya and the culling games and everything Kenjaku or Sukuna might be planning, there's just no time to pursue anything."

Megumi gestures vaguely, struggling with the words. "If things were different, I would've wanted… I would've tried to…"

"It's alright," Yuuji murmurs. He strokes his thumb over the back of Megumi's hand. "You don't have to say it."

"Yes I do." Megumi lifts his head, determined. "No jujutsu sorcerer dies without regrets. I don't want to regret not telling you how I feel."

Yuuji shakes his head. "Don't say it."

This is the part of giving in to himself that hurts. Because Megumi is chasing a vision of the future Yuuji can't bring himself to believe in—one that pictures them together, not just in the aftermath of war, but for many years to come. Yuuji's future hurtles towards gallows and graveyards, and he wills himself to hold the line he's been trying so hard not to cross. He's supposed to be stepping out of people's lives, not embedding himself deeper in their hearts.

"I can't make you happy." Yuuji smiles sadly, squeezing Megumi's hand a final time. "I won't be around long enough."

Megumi's mouth tightens, understanding exactly what Yuuji means. He draws back an inch, all the light in him gone flat and cold. "We'll find another way to beat Sukuna."

"There is no other way," Yuuji reminds him. "This was the deal I made with Gojo-sensei right from the start. To die after eating Sukuna's first finger or die after eating the last one."

"I hate that stupid plan. I've been against it since day one." Megumi pushes out of the half-embrace they found themselves in. "And Gojo hates it too, for the record. Do you honestly think he was ever going to roll over and let the higher ups murder one of his own students without putting up a fight? Postponing your original execution was his way of buying time to save your life, not giving you permission to throw it away."

Yuuji grits his teeth, the grim reality of what's waiting for him wearing down his patience to make Megumi see sense. "There won't be another vessel who can serve as a tomb for Sukuna. I'm the only one who can do this."

Megumi glares at him, refusing to back down. "That's not enough of a reason for it to be done."

Yuuji tiredly rubs his face. "I don't want to have this argument with you again." He gathers up their bowls and stands to take them to the kitchen.

"Then don't," Megumi says stubbornly. "Tell me you've decided to live after all, and then get over here and tell me how you feel about me."

"Can't you just let it be?" Yuuji yells, turning around again to face him. "I'm trying not to give you more to grieve."

"Stop thinking about making things easier for other people once you're dead!" Megumi shouts back. "There's nothing you could do to make it easier!"

He struggles to his feet and limps one sore step forward. Yuuji sets the bowls down and darts forward to support him. Megumi clings to him for more than balance, afraid Yuuji might slip out of reach if he doesn't hold on tight enough.

"You won't leave less of a hole in my life by holding back." Megumi tugs him gently one step closer, weary as the fight drains out of him. "My heart's already yours."

The honesty steals the breath from Yuuji's lungs. He'll think about this moment on the day he dies, he realises. How could he live with himself if he turned Megumi down and walked away because he thought he knew better? When the hour of his execution finally arrives, will he realise how desperately he'd regret the choice to hide from what could have been?

"I feel the same way about you." Yuuji can only be honest in return, his voice rough with emotion. "You're it, Megumi. You're all I've got."

"Then pretend we've got time." Gravity shifts as Megumi leans ever so slightly in, vulnerable and waiting, right on the edge of that line he's been begging Yuuji to cross. "Pretend we're the last two people left on Earth. Pretend we don't owe anything to anyone except ourselves."

Yuuji's heart pounds. He's scared of where this road leads them, and where it might leave them in the end when all is said and done. But the answer to the unspoken question Megumi is posing has been right there from the start, ever since he put the light back in Yuuji's eyes and saved him from himself on a night when all hope seemed lost. He would follow Megumi anywhere. No matter what comes, he trusts him to lead them through the dark.

He closes the distance and meets Megumi halfway in a kiss.

A bolt of anxious energy shoots through him as soon as he initates, a little nervous and clumsy, knuckles bumping as his hand comes to rest on the back of Megumi's neck. But Megumi melts into him, winding his arms around Itadori's waist. Their lips slot together, tender and soft. Megumi sighs into the kiss, breath that Yuuji feels on his face and breathes in as their bodies draw closer. The longer it all lasts, the more it makes Yuuji feel warm and and so, so nice.

Sunlight causes Yuuji to stir, streaming through the crack in the doorway to the kitchen. He wakes with one arm strewn over Megumi's stomach, and Megumi's good foot hooked around his calf under the covers. Messy black bedhead spreads over the pillow next to his own.

They have a long journey ahead of them; they can't afford to sleep in. But right now he has the privilege of watching Megumi dream for a few more minutes before the sun wakes him too. The steady rise and fall of his chest, lips parted lightly for breath, features relaxed in a way they never seem to be while he's awake. Itadori reaches out and lightly brushes some of Fushiguro's hair out of his face, and the butterflies that spring to life in his stomach aren't something he has to keep to himself once Megumi wakes up.

For the time being they won't have a chance to do more than snatch a few too-brief moments like this between missions and combat assignments. And after that… well. Yuuji still isn't convinced he'll outlive Sukuna. But the thought of trying to keep his distance for Megumi's own good seems completely insane in retrospect. He could've died without ever experiencing this. What was he thinking?

Megumi's nose scrunches lightly and his lashes flutter. He rolls over and makes himself comfortable again on the pillow, looking for all intents and purposes like he's planning to go straight back to sleep. But after a minute he stretches and yawns, squinting open his lovely eyes.

"Morning," Megumi mumbles, muffled consonants more so than a word, his face squished into the pillow.

"Good morning, Megumi," Yuuji says, filled up bright with happiness.

He presses a chaste kiss to the top of Megumi's head before he gets up. Megumi blinks twice, touching the spot in a daze.

On account of the injury, and despite Megumi's protests, Yuuji does most of the cleaning and restores the machiya to order. He scribbles a note of explanation and apology to the homeowner, folding it with cash for the firewood and setting it down on the kitchen bench. Megumi busies himself organising their belongings efficiently in the backpack, stuffing and re-stuffing its contents to vent his anxious energy.

Eventually there's nothing left to do except bite the bullet, and test his ankle.

Itadori hovers in the corner of the room, resisting the urge to step in and help somehow. Gingerly, Megumi gets to his feet with all his weight on one leg. Bit by bit, he presses his other heel more firmly into the floor.

"It's still sore," Megumi says cautiously, taking one step, then another. "But it bears weight."

Relief washes over Yuuji, running gold like a stream of sunlight. "We're going to make it to the station today," he says. "We're already well over halfway."

"There's still no time to waste." Megumi takes a final swig of his water bottle and tucks it into the side pocket of the backpack on the floor. "Come on. The sooner we make it to Hakari's club, the more time we'll have to scout ahead and plan our pitch."

Yuuji swings the backpack onto his shoulders, wearing a cheeky grin. "If your ankle starts playing up again, just let me know. I'd be happy to carry you too for a stretch."

Megumi rolls his eyes. "Let's hit the road, Yuuji."

Yuuji follows close behind him out the front door. Sunlight brings a sense of drive and hope to last night's gloomy historical streets. Somewhere at the end of this bitumen road, across a wide blue river, Saitama City glitters with electric lights. Not far beyond it the train lines are running, and there's two tickets waiting for Yuuji and Megumi to claim. Get Hakari back on side. Infiltrate the culling games. Make their own rules, write their own ending. Save Tsumiki's life. It all feels right there ahead of them, just within reach.

"Hey," Yuuji calls.

Megumi slows down and looks over his shoulder, eyebrows raised in question, looking as handsome as ever in the early morning sunlight.

Yuuji jogs forward a few paces so they can walk side by side. "Say my name again?" he asks hopefully.

Megumi huffs a small laugh. He knocks their shoulders together lightly while they wander down the street.

"Yuuji," he obliges, with a voice like honey, and the days ahead of them have never felt so sure and bright.