Archive of Our Own

The bed is cold and the hour is late, as it so often is.

Yuuji wakes to the kick of the heater turning on, the kind of sound that he only registers in the smallest, darkest hours of the night, when everything else has gone completely still. He blinks slowly, lets his gaze adjust to the dim light of the room.

Next to him is a painfully familiar picture: Megumi is lying on his back, dark eyes wide and unblinking as they stare up at the ceiling. The only tiny movement that betrays him is the slight rise and fall of his chest, a shallow rhythm that’s too controlled, unnaturally even – forced calm over chaos, even in the depths of his solitude. One arm is thrown across his stomach, fingers loosely curling into the thin fabric of his shirt; the other arm is folded behind his head, elbow rigidly crooked at an awkward angle, as if he’s been stuck like that for hours but can’t find it in himself to move.

Yuuji lets a few more seconds pass before he carefully shifts onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. The mattress dips just enough to pull Megumi’s gaze sideways – distant and unfocused at first, like he’s still half-lost somewhere far away, and then silently sharpening as recognition slips in.

“Hey,” Yuuji mumbles, his voice rough with sleep. He reaches out, one hand settling on Megumi’s forearm; the skin there is warm, almost feverish despite the chill, as if the remnants of his nightmares still burn brightly just beneath the surface. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Megumi murmurs, his eyes already drifting back to the ceiling. He exhales through his nose, short and measured, and then forces out the only needed explanation: “Just a dream.”

Yuuji nods just slightly.

The dreams come and go, some worse than others – always starting with Megumi being startled awake in the dead of night, visions dancing behind his eyelids: battlefields where the ground drank too much blood; faces that are fading into obscurity with each passing day, warping into something forgotten and mocking; hands that reach and close on empty air.

On the harshest of nights, the nightmares are less vague – more horrifying, more cruel, manifestations of the things he can’t overcome, the things he can’t get back. Sometimes it’s Tsumiki’s gentle voice calling to him from down a corridor that twists and stretches on forever; sometimes it’s Gojo’s blindfold dripping scarlet and then slipping to the floor, revealing eyes that no longer see; sometimes it’s Yuuji himself, lifeless and broken and gone before Megumi can get to him.

Yuuji doesn’t need to know which one it is.

Doesn’t need to, but he always asks, just in case – offering the opportunity to be open without demanding or pushing too hard. “You wanna talk about it?” he ventures, treading lightly; he slides his hand up to Megumi’s shoulder, squeezing it gently, trying to provide as much comfort as he can.

But Megumi just shakes his head, lets out a low sigh. “No,” he says – not unkind, just tired. Lost. He turns his head to the side, meeting Yuuji’s gaze again; the moonlight coming in through the blinds catches along his cheekbone, highlighting the shadows under his eyes that never quite fade.

Yuuji lets his hand linger anyway, fingers tracing mindless, absent patterns along Megumi’s shoulder through the fabric. “Was it bad?” he asks softly after another stretch of silence, aching desperately to bridge the gap between them.

Megumi’s eyes close for a moment. “Nothing new,” he eventually answers. He shifts then, reopening his eyes and rolling onto his side to face Yuuji fully. He reaches up, brushing a stray strand of pink hair back from Yuuji’s forehead in a gesture that’s achingly gentle. “It’s okay. Go back to sleep.”

Yuuji leans into the touch. His own hand drifts again, coming to rest palm-flat against Megumi’s chest, fingers splaying wide, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath; it’s faster than it should be.

“You’re here,” Yuuji murmurs, almost without thought, simple words built from the quiet certainty that lives between them. It’s a gentle reminder they’ve traded back and forth on nights like these for years – nights when the past tries violently to claw its way back in, nights when the future seems like little more than another vast chasm, beckoning them closer with false hope. “With me.”

For just a moment, everything else slips away.

“We’re here,” Megumi agrees on the ghost of a breath. His hand slides down to Yuuji’s waist, pulling him closer until their foreheads touch. Yuuji can feel the faint tremor in Megumi’s every exhale, the way it catches in the back of his throat – can feel how Megumi’s fingers flex weakly against his hip like he needs to anchor himself to something solid, something real, something alive.

Something that won’t leave.

The fears of the night start to bleed into the days.

Throughout the darkest parts of it, Yuuji holds Megumi closer, tighter.

But sometimes it still feels like he’s just out of reach.

The park’s recreational path is half-frozen in some places, a horrible mixture of gravel and muddied ice crunching under their boots with every step.

Crisp air bites at the exposed skin of their faces, carrying with it the charred sweetness of street vendors grilling fish a couple blocks away, as well as the sharp, mineral scent of the pond beginning its long-awaited thaw. Ducks paddle the shallower water in lazy circles; the bare branches of cherry trees claw at the overcast sky above, promising blooms that feel hopelessly distant, even with the wind whispering that their potential is right around the corner.

Yuuji’s walking half a step in front of Megumi, hands jammed deep into his coat pockets, breath fogging out in front of him in tight white plumes that dissipate before they can even mingle together. He’s singing under his breath, a tuneless little thing, and paying far less attention to where he’s walking than he should, just enjoying the feeling of stretching his legs properly after being lazy and tired the last couple of days.

Just ahead of him, the path narrows, bending closer to the water’s edge to swerve around a swath of trees; the track is rougher, covered in frost-glazed stones that protrude from the ground unevenly, some of them still slick from the morning melt. Yuuji’s heel catches on one, and he starts to skid just slightly, gravel shifting treacherously under his weight.

Megumi’s hand shoots out before Yuuji even fully registers he’s falling – long fingers closing firmly around the elbow of his jacket, pulling him back and righting him in one seamless motion.

“Careful,” Megumi murmurs, softer than usual, voice laced with unnecessary concern; his gaze flicks down once to the offending stone, then up to Yuuji’s face, the corners of his lips dipping into a tiny, calculating frown. His hand lingers a moment more, steadying, before he withdraws it just as smoothly as it came.

“Thanks,” Yuuji says with a small, almost shy grin. Warmth pools in his chest at the protective gesture, a brief glimpse into the tenderness that Megumi usually reserves for the confines of their apartment walls; he shifts his weight and rubs at his elbow absently, tracing the phantom touch.

They walk much slower after that, at Megumi’s quiet insistence.

Yuuji spots a duck waddling wildly along the bank ahead, webbed feet slapping the ice in its clumsy haste, feathers puffed up against the wind. He nudges Megumi’s shoulder with his own, tips his head in the direction of it. “That one’s late for a meeting,” he jokes lightly.

Megumi hums low in acknowledgment.

Yuuji glances over at him. Megumi’s coat collar is turned up, dark hair dancing in the light breeze, but his eyes are fixed ahead, not on the pond. Yuuji follows the line of his gaze, simply curious at first, until understanding quickly settles over him.

A family is drifting their way down the path, coming from the opposite direction: young parents ambling slow, a boy no older than four swinging from their hands between them, his tiny boots scattering grit and ice in gleeful little arcs. Laughter bubbles from him, high and unfiltered. The mother leans down right as they pass, murmurs something soft and playful near his ear; the father chuckles, deep and easy, and reaches over to tousle the child’s dark hair with his free hand.

Megumi halts mid-step.

Yuuji’s a couple paces ahead before he realizes, his attention having drifted as he veered off the path to make room for the family to pass – but the sudden lack of warmth, the sudden void of footsteps syncing with his own, quickly catches up to him. He pivots where he stands, finds Megumi still planted firmly at the path’s edge, head canted just enough to subtly track the family’s receding forms.

Even from a few feet away, Yuuji sees it, hidden in the dark green depths of Megumi’s eyes: not envy, exactly. It’s something much older, a raw and unguarded kind of longing – like Megumi is seeing a life he never had pass him by in slow motion, a life he was never allowed to imagine for himself, never allowed to reach for without consequence.

It’s the same quiet fracture Yuuji catches sometimes in their kitchen, when Megumi’s gaze drifts to the empty chairs at the dining table and lingers for too long; or in the living room late at night, when his fingers pause on the remote and his eyes fix on nothing at all; or on the quiet, restless mornings where he stands at the window and watches the city life passing below in abstract, untouchable flashes of color.

Loss has carved deep channels through Megumi’s very essence over time, all the way down to his bones, his soul, to the darkest of places that even Yuuji himself can’t touch; and into those channels has seeped a yearning so careful, so restrained, so scared, that Yuuji wonders sometimes if Megumi ever even allows himself to feel its full weight.

In the distance, the family keeps walking. The boy’s laughter fades. Megumi still doesn’t move.

Yuuji closes the gap in a few steps, shoulders aligning close enough to share body heat. His hand finds Megumi’s at his side, chilled fingers limp until Yuuji curls his own around them, lacing them together. Yuuji’s thumb sweeps over the back of Megumi’s knuckles in a slow arc, coaxing warmth back in, grounding the tremor that’s barely there.

At the contact, Megumi finally blinks and turns his head, slow. His gaze shifts from the now-empty path to Yuuji’s face; the raw edge in it dulls, but his fingers flex tightly, holding on.

They stand like that as the wind picks up again, tugging more insistently at their coats. Yuuji watches a braver pair of ducks glide out to the center of the pond, their waves rippling silver against the half-thawed surface. High above them, the cherry tree branches sway.

When the sun is finally starting to set, Yuuji squeezes Megumi’s hand once, firm. “Let’s go home,” he murmurs.

Megumi nods just slightly. “Home,” he agrees softly, the corner of his mouth curling into what might have been a real smile in another lifetime.

Yuuji perches on the edge of the counter, his bare feet swinging idly against the wooden cabinet below, heels tapping out a restless rhythm that echoes faintly throughout the room.

Megumi stands at the open fridge; cool white light spills across his profile, sharpening the line of his cheekbone, the contemplative crease between his brows. “Sukiyaki?” he asks, then quickly clicks his tongue in disapproval, already reaching for something else. “Ah, wait, we can do mapo tofu. We’ve got the good doubanjiang.”

Doubanjiang.

The word alone has Yuuji’s stomach lurching unusually hard – a sour, rolling wave surging up his throat so fast that his nose wrinkles before he can properly school his expression. He grimaces, reaches down to press a hand to his lower abdomen for a second, and then forces a small smile in an attempt to cover it.

“Nah,” he mutters, almost embarrassed; his runs his thumb over the flat plane of his stomach through his shirt – trying his best to swallow the feeling down, to soothe it with touch. It doesn’t help much. “I’m.. I’m good with sukiyaki.”

Megumi’s fingers still around the jar. His other hand tightens on the open fridge door, just slightly, knuckles whitening for a brief moment before he loosens them with visible, conscious effort. He doesn’t turn around, but Yuuji feels the immediate shift in the air anyway – the way Megumi’s entire attention sharpens, honing in on him. When he speaks, his voice is quiet, careful in a way that feels like he’s measuring every single syllable against something far heavier than just dinner:

“You love mapo tofu.”

“Yeah, I do,” Yuuji quickly agrees, tone laced with apology and a guilt he can’t quite place. “Just.. not tonight. Maybe tomorrow.”

Megumi closes the fridge door with a soft thud and turns, dark eyes narrowing as they trace the hand still pressed low to Yuuji’s stomach, then slowly moving up to the slight hunch of his shoulders, to the smile that sits crooked and unsteady.

For a long, drawn-out moment, he simply stands there: looking, searching, analyzing. It’s the same quiet intensity he’s turned on Yuuji more and more lately – filing away the smallest of differences in routine, faint changes in posture or mannerisms, things that most people would miss. What started as pondering glances has slowly evolved into something else entirely – observations that carry real weight now, concern that hits heavier every time it surfaces.

“You’re sure?” he finally asks.

“Yeah, totally,” Yuuji replies with a slight nod. He tries his best to sound reassuring, but his voice cracks at the end, his hand pressing more insistently against his abdomen as it gives another weak roll. “Sukiyaki’s – that’s perfect. Let’s do that.”

Megumi exhales through his nose, something about the minute, mundane conversation seemingly striking a chord with him. Without another word, and with little more than a glance, he crosses through the kitchen and makes it to the entryway in four long strides; he lifts his keys from the ceramic bowl with careful fingers, and slips into his sneakers.

“Megs?” Yuuji asks, the nausea momentarily subsiding under a fresh wave of confusion. He slides off the counter and follows, feet padding softly after Megumi, one hand reaching out to brush his fingertips against the sleeve of his jacket – but then Megumi’s already stepping through the front door and closing it behind himself, the latch catching with a final, quiet click.

Yuuji blinks.

Thirty-seven minutes drag by alone. The kitchen clock ticks distantly; afternoon light creeps across the floor through the windows. After a while, Yuuji takes his seat back on the kitchen counter, feet dangling lazily once more, half-heartedly scrolling through his phone to pass the time.

Just as his stomach is starting to ease in its revolt, the front door finally opens again.

Megumi steps inside carrying a single paper bag, held loosely in his left hand. His expression is calm, deliberately so, but Yuuji sees the truth behind it, just as he always does: the faint tightness at the corners of his eyes, the way his shoulders sit half a fraction higher than usual – it’s all there, painfully familiar and quietly alarming.

Whatever Megumi went to go do, whatever conclusion he’s reached in the last half hour – he’s carrying it alone yet again. Or trying his best to, at least.

“Took you long enough,” Yuuji says, trying to make his voice come out light and teasing despite the way his pulse is starting to trip unevenly. He sets his phone down on the counter beside him, leaning back on his palms casually, a weak attempt to lessen the sudden tension coiling between them. “Where’d you go?”

Instead of answering, Megumi crosses the room once more, closing the distance until he stands directly between Yuuji’s open knees. He carefully sets the bag down next to Yuuji’s thigh, then reaches inside and pulls out a small rectangular box, plain white and clinical, and holds it out in offering.

Yuuji freezes, his mind not quite processing the words as he clumsily reads over the packaging. Finally, his eyes widen. “You’re joking,” he says, half laugh and half disbelief, gaze rapidly darting back and forth between the box and Megumi’s stoic face. “A pregnancy test?”

Still, Megumi says nothing. But the weight of his gaze reveals everything: every sleepless night he’s spent watching Yuuji more closely than usual, every quiet moment of hope and dread he’s turned over alone, every time his hand has hovered near Yuuji’s stomach without quite touching – as though afraid to disturb the very thing he isn’t even certain is there.

“I just didn’t want mapo tonight, that’s all,” Yuuji whispers.

He can hear the way his own voice wavers with the beginnings of doubt, of fear, as the pieces slowly begin to slot into place: small, innocuous things he’d brushed aside, now reflected back at him through Megumi’s unwavering gaze – the persistent fatigue he’s blamed on spring, the way certain smells twist his gut without warning, the missed cycle he had chalked up to stress and let slide.

“Take the test.”

Yuuji’s gaze flicks over, catching the way Megumi’s mouth twitches as he speaks. He can feel his heart falter in his own chest. “Megs,” he says gently, carefully, one hand reaching up to cup the trembling line of Megumi’s jaw. “I don’t think–”

“Yuuji,” Megumi cuts in, low and rough, and it’s the closest Yuuji’s ever heard him to fully breaking. Parts of the shield crack, giving way just enough for raw, aching desire to bleed through – like he’s allowing himself for the first time in a long time to ask, to beg, for the chance that this time something might be different. “Please.”

That’s all it takes.

Yuuji exhales a slow, shuddering breath, and then gives a light nod in acceptance. “Okay,” he says softly; and he’s not quite sure if it feels like a weight has been placed onto his shoulders, or lifted.

Ten minutes later, in the narrow strip of the bathroom, they wait.

Yuuji turns, steps into Megumi’s space wordlessly; he wraps his arms around his waist, pressing his face into the warm hollow of Megumi’s throat. Megumi’s arms encircle him immediately in return; one hand settles at the small of Yuuji’s back, and the other comes up to cradle the nape of Yuuji’s neck, fingers threading through the hair tenderly.

They stand just like that, bodies slotted together in the crammed space between the sink and the wall. In the quiet, it feels like the most honest thing they’ve done in months: two people who have lost too much standing close in a too-small room, holding on like the next breath might finally be the one that changes everything.

Yuuji tips his head just enough to press his lips to the pulse at the base of Megumi’s neck. As his eyes slip closed, he thinks of all the things Megumi never got to keep: the sister who hummed while she cooked, the father who vanished before he could teach anything loving or kind, the teacher whose laughter left a hole nothing else could ever possibly fill.

And now exists this tiny possibility – of something fragile, something wishful, something that could stay.

Yuuji’s throat closes tight, and he just barely manages to whisper out:

”What if it’s positive?”