Miskii's delulu

You all barely made it through high school in one piece. And even now, being full fledged sorcerers still brings so much danger. It’s always a gamble, a knife’s edge away from death or certain disaster.

It’s a miracle, Megumi realizes, to have this. To have Yuuji and Nobara and you laying in the grass with him now, breathing softly and enjoying the early summer afternoon.

You’re all in a circle, heads at the center.

It was upon your insistence that the four of you slipped away to this sea of wildflowers and tall grass. It’s usually you Megumi has to thank for moments like this. You are determined to still be young, to still be in love with the world despite everything.

Begrudgingly, he admires that in you. And he’d say he wants to protect it, keep that part of you safe and untouched, but he doesn’t need to. You have seen every horrible thing he has and still come out of it with a brightness that doesn’t dim.

It’s fitting, really, with your cursed technique.

You nudge him now, gently, and whisper, “I think Yuuji fell asleep.”

You turn your head to the side to look at Yuuji sleeping in the grass and Megumi takes a moment to admire the slope of your nose, the line of your jaw, the exposed skin of your throat in the warm sun.

Just as you said, Yuuji is snoring peacefully.

You look back to Megumi with an impish smile, a giggle like twinkling bells falling from you easily. You bring your hand to your lips to stifle the noise and Megumi has the urge to take them in his, to draw them away to hear more of the sound.

This gets Nobara’s attention, though, and she sits up, peering to look at Yuuji, too.

She snorts at his slack jaw, the way he’s almost snoring.

“We should leave him here so when he wakes up, he has no idea where we’ve gone.” Nobara suggests and Megumi can hear the mischievous tilt of her lips.

You sit up now, too, and Megumi’s eyes follow you. There is grass and flowers caught in your hair. The sunlight turns you brilliant and molten; you belong in it. It belongs to you.

You cast him in your shadow.

(He doesn’t know it— but you think he looks good in that velvet darkness, the slip of shadow that falls over him to soften up his features, to turn his eyes endlessly dark.)

“That isn’t very nice, Nobara,” you scold, but it’s with amusement. And then, “we should put flowers on him and see how long it takes for him to wake up.”

Megumi finally eases himself up now, too.

He can feel his cheeks growing pink with a sunburn. He should’ve worn that sunscreen you told him to. Or the fancy one Nobara so graciously offered him.

“Doesn’t he have allergies?” Megumi finally speaks up.

Nobara snorts, “Loser. C’mon, I bet we can cover him in them.”

And just like that she’s pulling at the flowers around her. You follow suit, giggling as you begin to set them along his collar bones, in the crux of his neck.

Megumi gives in and gently sets a few on his chest. One he slides into the messy tuft of his pink hair. The petals are white and blue against the rosy color.

His tanned skin in the summer light is beginning to grow freckled and sun kissed. And with all the flowers piling up on him—Yuuji is a deep sleeper, Megumi doubts he’ll wake any time soon—he looks a little otherworldly.

Well, he always has, hasn’t he?

You start putting the flowers on his cheeks, biting back your laughter when he doesn’t even twitch. Nobara tangles some more in his hair, along his ears. The sun warms Megumi’s shoulders as he watches Yuuji fill up with flowers, blanketing him in them. You and Nobara laugh and giggle the whole time.

Especially when Yuuji finally snorts a little, before waking himself and sitting up so fast he almost takes out Nobara.

“Watch it, idiot!”

Flowers and petals go flying. Pink and pale blue and lilac and red float around the four of you.

Yuuji is confused— the kind of disgruntlement that comes from a deep nap. His brows are pinched, a strange little pout on his lips that Megumi lingers on a moment too long.

And then he sneezes, more petals shaking free from him.

Your laugh is melodic, as sweet as the songbirds. Yuuji sneezes again, which makes Nobara start to laugh, too. And then he sniffles, “Uh—what happened?”

His nose is twitching a great deal, rubbing at his eyes both with sleep and Megumi assumes are his allergies.

Another sneeze has you cooing over Yuuji, throwing your arms around his neck and laughing more as you try to comfort him.

Megumi watches Yuuji’s face as it morphs from surprised to a sudden, excited flush of pink. Eagerly, he snakes an arm around you, too, pulling you closer.

It isn’t unnatural—you're very affectionate with all of them. Certainly the most affectionate of the four of them.

But this does something strange to Megumi’s chest, watching the way Yuuji’s broad and scarred palms fit around the curve of your waist, your torso.

Something is changing. He can feel it. He pretends he doesn’t catch the way you and Yuuji look at each other as you pull away. Shy in a new way. In the way of puppy love and sugar-soft crushes. He pretends he doesn’t catch the way Yuuji’s eyes are lingering on you, all star struck and moony.

And Megumi pretends his heart doesn’t twist painfully in the pit of his chest.

Nobara wants to race back, excluding Yuuji, since it isn’t fair.

Megumi declares he’s not running, so it’s just you and Nobara.

You both take off through the field on Yuuji’s countdown. Megumi watches your silhouettes spread out against the hazy blue horizon, and watches as you reach for Nobara with seeking hands. Your breathless laughter carries back to him.

Yuuji is watching the two of you with a fond expression, nearly melting the moment he hears your laughter fall back to them. Megumi almost looks away, as if he’d caught Yuuji in a compromising moment. As if he’d seen something he shouldn’t.

But then Yuuji says, “Fushiguro, can I tell you something?”

Yuuji looks at him far too earnestly. He always has.

Megumi would usually drawl out something like, you’re going to tell me regardless, aren’t you?

He would act unimpressed and irritated.

But for whatever reason, with the tone of Yuuji’s voice and the color of the sky, your laughter high on the wind, Megumi can only find it in himself to say, “sure.”

Yuuji says your name and there is something so hopeful in it, something so pure and blooming. “I think I—“

Yuuji looks back out at you and Nobara, distant figures now.

“I think I like her, you know?”

Megumi would laugh or roll his eyes if he didn’t feel his stomach twist up into knots. It’s such a childish thing to say. And you’re all adults now but— but still young.

You were kids together.

It’s childish but perhaps fitting. It’s strangely innocent, which perhaps makes it even more honest.

“Like more than a friend,” Yuuji explains, and Megumi has to force himself to nod a little in understanding. He has to force himself to keep a neutral face.

“Which is strange because she’s always been here. And we’ve always been friends but—I guess something’s changed.” Yuuji tries to explain, looking back out at you with that fond look on his face again.

Megumi looks away.

“Do you think it’s—I mean, I don’t want to ruin our friendship. Do you think it’d be bad, if I asked her out or something?” Yuuji asks, his tawny eyes getting caught in the sun. It turns them molten and bright, seeking Megumi's opinion. Maybe his approval. It’s almost painful, the way Yuuji is looking at him.

Yuuji trusts him so deeply, respects him so much.

Megumi wants to tell him, yeah, I don’t think it’d be a good idea. Not because he believes that, but rather, because he’s selfish. Because his heart is beginning to blossom into a bruise at the idea of you and Yuuji being together.

He knows Yuuji would listen to him, too.

He thinks of the way you’d both looked at each other, he thinks of Yuuji’s hands on you and–

“I don’t think it’d be bad.” Megumi says and perhaps his voice is softer than he intended, carried on the summer breeze.

A smile as bright as the sun lights up Yuuji’s face, “No? You don’t think so?” He asks excitedly, “Do you think she’ll say yes?”

Megumi feels his heart splinter, a lump threatening to form in his throat. He thinks of how you’d looked at Yuuji–

It was the same way Megumi looked at you. Too tender, full of a little too much longing.

“Yeah, Itadori, I think she’ll say yes.”

Itadori tells him he’s such a good friend. He throws his arm around Megumi, his biceps flexing, pulling Megumi in close to him.

Megumi pretends to be annoyed, and tries to squirm away half-heartedly.

But he’s never really wanted to push Yuuji away. He’s always liked his spot beside him, maybe a little too close, maybe beneath his arm.

He watches Yuuji chase after you as you all get closer to the dorms. Nobara trails beside him now. You shriek in joy and laughter when Yuuji catches you, lifts you clear off the ground to twirl you. The sky grows plum and blue, sweet looking, especially with you and Yuuji against it. There are still petals caught in your hair, on your clothes.

You and Yuuji are summer kissed, made for the sun.

Megumi likes the dusk, the shadow, the dark.

When you’re all back at the dorm—

(Which none of you can quite leave yet despite graduating, though Nobara is looking at apartments in Tokyo. She’s determined to get out, but also reluctant to part from you all. He thinks he’s scared to leave you, too. And you cling desperately to them, to being young.)

You rock up onto your toes and press a playful, farewell kiss goodnight to Yuuji’s cheek. Megumi watches a charming blush rush across his face. And then you turn brilliant eyes on Megumi, your smile impish and so lovely it hurts.

“C’mere, you get one, too,” you murmur, your small hand tangling in the front of his shirt, pulling him down as you push back onto your tippy toes.

Your lips are soft and gentle when they land on his cheek, near the corner of his lips.

It’s Megumi’s turn to blush now, he can feel it prickle his cheeks.

Nobara snickers, which only makes his blush worse.

“Goodnight, boys,” you sigh, before turning back to Nobara and throwing your arm around her, “let’s go, Nobara,” you yawn, letting your head fall onto her shoulder, “‘m tired.”

“Goodnight,” Yuuji calls after you faintly, a little wistful.

Nobara gives a dismissive wave as she leads you away. He knows you hate sleeping alone. You’ll sleep pressed to Nobara’s side, like you do most nights.

(And when Nobara’s gone, you come to Megumi or Yuuji’s door, beg for them to watch movies with you all night and fall asleep on the couch. He knows you—)

“‘Night, Fushiguro.” Yuuji then says, sweet and chipper. “See you tomorrow!”

Yuuji then knocks a shoulder into the door of his own dorm, falls into his room with a dreamy smile. Megumi watches as the door falls shut, locking him out.

“Goodnight, Itadori,” he mutters, let’s out a harsh breath that he’d been keeping in the whole night.

Without the group, he feels bereft. Suddenly lonely. Pain blossoms in the pit of his chest, a slow ache that spreads its lampshade wings inside of him.

He turns and disappears into his own room. He readies for bed.

There’s a tickle in his throat. He drinks water. He gets into bed with a needlessly heavy heart.

He coughs, tries to clear his throat, but something comes up, right into the palm of his hand.

A blue petal—slick and damp with spit, a little blood. Bruised with dark red, the light blue a sharp contrast.

For a moment, he has the absurd notion that he swallowed a flower today. Did he fall asleep, too? Did you cover him in flowers?

No, he frowns, feeling something horrible and tremendous take root inside of him, no, you’d done that to Yuuji.

Because you look at Yuuji with all that shy love, not him. Because Yuuji looks at you with all that tenderness, not him.

Megumi washes his hands of it. He drops into bed. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to think of anything, anything other than you and Yuuji and those pretty, pretty flowers.

***

Yuuji begs for Megumi’s help to ask you out.

“What should I do?” Yuuji paces the length of Megumi’s dorm again, pulling at his hair. Megumi wants to still his hand, he wants to draw it away. Instead, his dark eyes only follow the movement.

“Just ask if she wants to get dinner.” Megumi says plainly, feeling unfairly irritated, perhaps prickling with a sort of sadness that he wishes he could pry inside of himself and rip out.

He feels like hugging his pillow, tucking his face into his blankets and hiding. He feels like being cold and mean, lashing out because he’s hurting. He doesn’t want to tell Yuuji what he would do, if it was him asking you out. He doesn’t want to give Yuuji good ideas.

It’s so selfish of him.

He’s terrible.

It’s why he’s not the one asking you out, he thinks. Yuuji is golden-hearted and infinitely kind, made for your light and brightness. Megumi is not.

But Yuuji looks so helpless when he asks, “but what if she thinks I mean as a friend still?”

Megumi sighs lightly.

He clears his throat, now tight, “you could just tell her how you feel.”

“Is that what you would do? If you were the one who liked her?” Yuuji suddenly prompts.

Megumi feels his heart give a painful lurch. He almost winces.

He considers just saying yeah, sure, I guess. He considers being dismissive.

“I’d get her a gift,” Megumi replies, and his voice is almost hushed, a little too honest, “something small but nice. And I’d–” he pauses to make sure his voice is safe from wavering, “I’d tell her how I feel.”

When Megumi’s eyes cross to Yuuji’s, he realizes Yuuji’s looking at him a little surprised. There’s something raw in the widening of his eyes. Megumi feels suddenly like he’s admitted too much, like he’s done something horrible. Should he flee? Should he apologize? He shies away from Yuuji’s gaze.

“Fushiguro, that’s surprisingly romantic!” Yuuji then exclaims, his face lighting up, “who knew you were such a casanova?”

“Tch,” Megumi scoffs, “hardly.”

Yuuji takes a seat beside Megumi on his bed, eager and buzzing, “will you help me pick out a gift for her?”

His eyes are so hopeful, so sweet.

Megumi tries to swallow around the horrible thing budding in his throat, “yeah, sure, I can help.”

“You’re the best!” Yuuji shouts, throwing his arm around Megumi once more. Megumi tries to nudge him away, and tries to duck from beneath his arm, but Yuuji holds fast, squeezing him tight as he laughs happily.

It’s a sweet sound, almost pressed into the nape of Megumi’s neck.

He remembers it later, when he coughs, harder and harder, until a small, broken stem of blue-slippered flowers tears from his tender throat.

He stares at it, wide-eyed and undeniable.

Bluebells. Horrible, horrible bluebells.

***

Megumi keeps his predicament to himself. He is exceedingly careful not to let on that anything is wrong with him. He can’t have you or Yuuji finding out especially—he doesn’t want to ruin anything for either of you two.

He knows if Yuuji discovered Megumi’s feelings for you, he would immediately give up pursuing you. He would put his own feelings to the side so Megumi could be happy.

And Megumi wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he let that happen.

But he doesn’t know if this pain in his chest is worth it as he watches Yuuji approach you. Your silhouettes ease towards each other in the distance. He can tell Yuuji is nervous.

Nobara stands beside Megumi, watching from afar.

“What do you think about all this?” She asks, hand on her hip, scrutinizing gaze zeroed in on the two of you.

“It’s fine, I guess,” Megumi answers plainly, but then he makes the mistake of saying, “I don’t care.”

There’s a catch in his voice. A piercing jab in the space between his ribs.

That sharp gaze of Nobara’s cuts to him now, pins him in place.

She studies him for a long moment. Megumi squirms.

“I don’t believe you,” she decides.

“You don’t have to,” Megumi sighs, trying for disinterest, perpetually annoyed.

Your bubbling laugh springs out from you happily and Megumi’s gaze is instantly drawn to you. Yuuji has offered you the gift–a necklace Megumi helped him pick out.

It’s simple, nothing overwhelming or too extravagant. A thin, gold chain, with a gold sun pendant attached. Megumi imagines it’ll lay on your collar bones. He imagines slipping it onto you, fastening it at the nape of your neck, needing to brush stray hairs with careful fingers.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Nobara asks and genuinely, she seems perplexed.

“There’s nothing to say,” Megumi immediately responds.

And then he coughs, something caught in his throat, as if it disagrees.

Megumi watches as you turn away from Yuuji, as he does what Megumi was just daydreaming about–slipping the necklace onto you, fastening it in place. He watches the shadow of your silhouette fiddle with it.

It rests at your collar bones.

You turn around to face Yuuji and excitedly throw your arms around him, planting a kiss or two on his cheek.

He hears Yuuji’s joyful laugh now, too.

He watches Yuuji wrap broad arms around you, squeeze tight and lift you a little off the ground. It’s all playful, all a little too sweet.

“Whatever,” Nobara responds, “suffer in silence, then. You’ll choke on all that noble humility eventually. And who are you going to come running to when you do? Me. Then I’m going to say–”

He could laugh, if she even knew the half of it.

“Are you done?” Megumi asks, feeling his stomach turn.

She sniffs and tilts her chin up, “just know that I’m not mature enough to hold back my ‘I told you so.’ No matter how upset you are when you finally come to me!”

Megumi’s lips lift into a sad, wry smile.

His eyes fan back out to you and Yuuji, watching as he sets you down, listening to the sounds of your giggles drift down to meet him. Always heard at a distance, never close like Yuuji.

He feels something inevitable tangle around the curve of his ribcage.

“I know, Kugisaki.”

***

Megumi watches as you try on dress after pretty dress. He’s in your dorm room, averting his gaze dutifully every time you peel one off to put on another.

Usually this is Nobara’s job—to sit here and decide what you should wear for your date with Yuuji, how you look, what the dress is saying about you or whatever.

But Nobara is on a brief mission. She should be back tomorrow but your date with Yuuji is tonight.

You huff, suddenly shimmying out of another and Megumi is quick to let his eyes fling up to the ceiling.

He tries not to linger on the fact that he’d caught a little more than he should’ve, the reflection of you in the mirror so pretty.

Nudity hasn’t been an issue in years for the four of you. Not after so many missions where he’s had to peel shirts or pants off for injuries—or the one where he and Yuuji nearly froze to death in wet clothes, so they’d stripped fully naked and had to sleep beside each other.

It’d been a strange night, that was for sure.

But regardless, you’d all become too close (to death, to each other) to care about changing in front of one another.

Megumi is still the shyest—Yuuji and Nobara care very little and will strip whenever they please. You’re somewhere in the middle, laughing nervously when they do that, but not scared enough to make Megumi leave the room or even turn around with each change of clothes.

Megumi is trying to be very, very careful with you now, but his cheeks feel permanently rosy.

You ease into another sundress, this one peach and dainty looking. Ruffled on the skirt. You turn this way and that in the mirror, then you turn towards Megumi.

“What do you think?”

Megumi hates this question.

What he really thinks is that you look stunning in all of them, that this last hour has been near torture for him, every time you turn around with mused hair and a pretty dress clinging to you. He thinks he wants to be the one to zip them up, to take them off of you, too—

He clears his dry throat.

“It looks really nice.”

You’re looking for more of an answer, he can tell, “Do you think Yuuji would like it?”

“Yuuji would like you in a brown paper bag.” Megumi responds automatically and it’s true. He knows it’s true. Something inside his chest tightens.

“Megumi,” you whine and he feels the tips of his ears go red, “give me something here. Nobara would tell me what sort of message it’s sending. And you’re a boy and also Yuuji’s best friend. Don’t you guys talk about this stuff?”

In truth, all Yuuji’s talked about lately is you. But Megumi doesn’t really want to hear about what kind of clothes Yuuji likes you in, desires of those sort make him feel sick, make the ache in him grow fierce and worse.

(They make heat flood him in the worst of ways, too, imagining Yuuji chasing after your pretty skirts. Fitting his big hands around your waist, skimming them up your thighs beneath that skirt—

Megumi feels suddenly feverish. A little woozy.

There’s something so fucking wrong with him.)

“Um,” Megumi swallows, letting his eyes glance over your body in the dress. It’s sweet, the neckline higher, but maybe a little simple. He thinks Nobara would call it boring. He swallows, “what sort of message do you want it to send?”

“A little flirty, maybe. I want him to—I don’t know, I want to tease him a little.” He can practically feel the way your cheeks light up with warmth, too. And for a moment, the two of you look a little too bright eyed and flustered at each other.

“I-I don’t know—“

“I mean, you’re still a guy, Megumi. What would you think fits that, then?”

Megumi can’t decide if this is better or worse. Worse maybe, with the way his heart is pounding and how he feels the pink flush of his cheeks darken. He doesn’t like the idea of revealing this to you, what he’d like you in, what he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about you in, what one wouldn’t keep his hands off you—

He tries to slam the door on all those thoughts.

But you asked him. And now you’re flustered, too.

A really quiet, horrible part of Megumi also realizes that you’d then wear the dress he picked out for you, on your date with Yuuji. Something in his gut twists, lurches, at the idea.

He lets out a shaky breath.

“Do you still have that blue one?” He asks softly, his voice a quiet rasp.

You perk up a little, tilting your head, “the light blue one?”

Megumi swallows, nodding his head a little too solemnly.

You turn back to your closet for a moment, digging through fabric, before pulling out the very one Megumi was talking about. You reach for the zipper at the back of the dress you have on, tug at it a little, but it doesn’t budge. It must be caught.

You peek over your shoulder at him and he admires the curve of your shoulder, the lovely profile of your face, “will you help me?”

Megumi stops breathing. His fingers tighten in the material of his pants.

But he forces himself to move from the edge of your bed. He walks over to you, still standing in front of your full length mirror. He can feel the nebulous squeeze of his heart, can feel the way his insides twist up, like a vine curling around his tender organs, the fragile cage of his ribs.

He is careful not to meet your gaze in the mirror–he doesn’t want to see what he looks like behind you, the curve of your back in the cradle of his chest. He doesn’t want to see what it might look like to undress you, to know you in this way.

His fingers are long and gentle, careful as they move to take the zipper in hand. He gently tugs, unsticking it, letting it glide down your spine. He watches as more skin gets revealed to him.

His knuckles brush against your lower back.

You let the dress fall from your shoulders, pool around your feet in a bundle of rosy peach.

Megumi looks off to the side, steps away to give you space.

After a moment, he hears the soft call of your voice, “Megumi?”

You say his name so sweetly, sugar soft, ready to gut him. To devastate him. He feels the unfurling in his stomach, the pain of something growing, blooming horribly.

“Will you tie this for me?” you ask and he finally forces himself to look at you.

The light blue dress is wrapped around you, hugged to the curve of your body. You’re holding the two ribbons of silk in place that will tie the dress to you. It’s short, skimming the tops of your thighs. The skirt lays pretty, flutters a little–he wants to feel it catch beneath his palms.

Megumi eases back towards you, takes the ribbons between his hands. He loops them together, ties it tight, and wonders if it’ll be Yuuji’s hands who untie it later.

And then he does something selfish, something he’s always wanted–he sets his broad hands along your waist, smooths the fabric down a little.

“There,” he murmurs and picks his eyes up to find yours in the mirror.

Oh, and it’s horrible.

You look so pretty in his hands, standing in front of him.

You’re looking at him a little surprised, lips parted, eyes wide. You’re looking at him like you’re seeing him for the first time again, seeing a whole new part of him and Megumi wonders briefly if you somehow know, if you caught the scent of bluebells. He wonders if they’ll creep up his throat to try and get to your light.

The necklace Yuuji gave you–the one Megumi picked out–rests on your collar bones. The gold sun stands proud against your skin. It looks nice with the blue dress, like the sky on a cloudless day.

And before he can lose his courage, he rasps, “you look beautiful.”

You’re still looking at him in the reflection of the mirror and he watches as your eyes glance down to where his hands are, how his fingers bend to the contour of your body.

“Thank you,” you say and he thinks it’s breathier than you intended. He doesn’t want to think about it, but he knows he will.

He lifts his hands from you reluctantly.

“I should go,” Megumi says and he tries to keep any dismay from his voice, “I’m sure Yuuji will want my help, too.”

You swallow, nodding, as if remembering, as if jolting yourself back to reality.

“Of course,” you laugh, but it’s nervous, unsure. Then you turn round eyes on him, almost pleading, “I’ll see you later, then?”

Megumi nods, trying to swallow around the sudden lump in his throat, “yeah, see you later. Have fun tonight.”

You open your mouth to say something more, but Megumi turns away. He can’t stay. He can’t stand to see you more, to watch you get ready for a date with someone that isn’t him. It’s horrible, it’s so selfish of him, but he just can’t stomach it.

He doesn’t go find Yuuji.

He rushes to his own room, throws open the bathroom door and dry heaves into the toilet. His whole body spasms, trying to force something out–

He starts to choke on it, the long stem, gagging and gasping for breath around it. His chest heaves desperately, fighting for air, for relief–

He wretches until enough of it comes out his mouth, the damp, blue petals clinging to his lips. He grabs for the stem, does the worst thing possible and pulls on it to try and get it out.

He feels it connected to something deep in him, rooted in a horrifying way, feels pain lance up his poor throat, feels the way the stem tears it up. He pulls again, desperate to get it out, pulls until he feels a snap and then it gives, forcing its way up his throat.

He gags again, eyes watery, heart pounding. He tries to swallow, tries to breathe.

The stem in his hand is just that; no roots, nothing substantial. Just bloody, bell flowers clinging to his open palm, to his chin, his swollen bottom lip.

He slumps over finally, trembling, feeling the burn of tears.

He spends his night sick, throwing up spare petals, retching up leaves and stems of plants. Blood and mucus and membrane comes up, too, slicks his mouth, his chin. He’s miserable, he’s aching, and all he can think about is the look on your face, your pretty dress. The color of bluebells. Yuuji’s hands.

Yuuji kisses you that night with no blood or petals on his lips, aching, his warm hands on the curve of your waist, right where Megumi’s had been, like he’d found the phantom indents on you. Like his hands sought Megumi’s, too.

Twin touches that make you gasp, that make you ache just as bad, too.

***

There is an afternoon that the four of you spend training. Gojo watches, seemingly disinterested or casual, but Megumi knows better.

It’s always been good for him to fight against you; your technique is his opposite. It allows you to create powerful bursts of light, like sunbeams that can cut through curses and his shadows in an instant. When Gojo had first introduced the two of you, he’d been thrilled, almost jittery with the need to see the two of you in action against each other, with each other.

(Gojo hadn’t been the only one interested in your interactions at the time, Sukuna had taken great interest, too.)

Over the years, you’d found ways to compliment each other well. Light creates more shadow. You move easily with each other, a naturality when you fall into each other’s orbit, like the moon and the sun.

Though, today, you’d kicked his ass every single time.

He had yielded easily to you, went down quick and hard.

He hadn’t felt well and then you’d skipped after Yuuji at the end of it all, tucked yourself up against his side, snug and happy as could be.

He’d thrown up, when he’d been alone.

Or thought he’d been alone.

Gojo had popped up over his shoulder, peering at the mess of it all.

“Uh oh,” he says now, a little too lightly, almost singing it, “Hanahaki disease. That’s not good.”

Not good like it’s a cold and not something that will kill Megumi.

“No shit,” Megumi spits, then wipes at his chin with the back of his hand.

“And bluebells, too, huh? Bit of a shy flower. But enduring and humble.” Gojo says, tilting his head before a smile splits across his face, “say, that’s very fitting for you, Megumi!”

He pats Megumi on the back, jostling him, making Megumi cough a little more. He grits his teeth, tries to stay silent. But after a moment, Gojo ruins it again.

“I had that once.” He says casually.

Megumi whips his head to the side so hard he nearly gives himself whiplash.

“What?” He snaps, desperate suddenly for relief, for an answer, for Gojo’s help, like he’s still a child, “What did you– how did you get rid of it?”

Gojo leans away, shoving his hands into his pockets.

If this is a sore subject for him, he doesn’t seem to convey it. Though Megumi doesn’t think he’d ever be able to tell what goes on inside of Gojo’s head, something so mysterious and distant about him. He always thinks of lone figures when he thinks of Gojo; a lighthouse, a bolt of lightning, the sun without a moon.

All he ends up saying before he leaves is;

“You should talk to Shoko, she knows how to handle it.”

But the answer feels hollow to Megumi and he wonders if Gojo feels hollow somewhere inside him, too, where all that love was taken out.

***

Megumi watches you and Yuuji fall in love. The summer is high and ripe, so hot and vivid, the crush of color blurring before his eyes. He watches you swing your hands with Yuuji happily, brushing up against his side. He watches Yuuji slip an arm around your waist. He watches from afar, always, never quite close enough to either of you two.

Nobara notices the way Megumi forces himself to glance away–whenever you and Yuuji grow too obvious in your affection, she snaps at the pair of you.

“Gross! I don’t want to see Itadori slobbering all over you!” she’ll complain but Megumi thinks she doesn’t actually mind, rather, she does it for his sake.

“I don’t slobber on her!” Yuuji always protests.

“Whatever. Keep that lovey-dovey shit away from me.”

“I’m gonna say the same thing about you and Maki next time!”

An argument usually ensues at this point between them. Which feels refreshingly normal. Especially when you look at Megumi, pretending to be exasperated with them. It’s always been this way, the two of you sharing glances over their arguing. Comradery in listening to them for so many years.

He rolls his eyes at them, if only to watch you hide a giggle behind your hand.

His heart swells at the sound.

There’s a night when you show up for movies in one of Megumi’s hoodies. Megumi does a double take on you only to realize–yes, that’s his. The sleeves are too long on you. It’s a midnight blue, soft and worn. He’s had it for years.

Before he can think, he blurts out, “that’s mine.”

You blink up at him owlishly, lifting your hands as if to inspect the sleeves that dwarf them. It’s threadbare, unraveling like his heart the longer he looks at you in his clothes.

“It was in Yuuji’s closet,” you respond, “I didn’t know–”

“Oh,” Megumi breathes, remembering now how he lent it to Yuuji some time ago. He remembers the night he gave it to him. They were traveling home from a mission together, weary and exhausted. Yuuji hadn’t been feeling well, chilled and achy, feverish with curse or flu, they hadn’t known. But Megumi had offered him the sweatshirt off his back, and watched as Yuuji wriggled into it. He’d watched as Yuuji flipped up the hood and sunken into its warmth, leftover from Megumi, given from him to the other.

He’d curled up into it, let his head tilt towards Megumi, side pressed to his, and fallen asleep.

And now here you are, wrapped up in it.

Does it smell like Yuuji? Like him? Does Yuuji still wear it? How often?

“Do you want it back?” You ask him earnestly, shifting like you might pull to lift it off.

“No,” Megumi decides, his heart being tugged at, twisted up with roots, spasming painfully, “it’s fine, really.”

Megumi sits in the center of the couch that night, with Yuuji laid out on his back on one end, legs propped up onto Megumi’s lap and tangled with Nobara’s, who claimed the other side of the couch for herself, curled in on her side. You sleep peacefully on Yuuji’s chest, fallen asleep early into the movie marathon.

And when it’s late and dark, Megumi glances at the two of you, at Yuuji’s fluttering lashes as he fights to stay awake. The soft rise and fall of your back, your face tucked into Yuuji’s neck. Megumi notices Yuuji’s hand, which is beneath your (his) hoodie, laid against warm skin. He wishes it was his.

(His hand at your back or his back at Yuuji’s hand, he can’t say.)

He feels sick with it all–the silent wanting, the desperate growth of his heart, the flower that bends shyly, never to speak up, the gnawing of his love on the insides of him.

When both you and Yuuji are asleep, Nobara nudges Megumi's thigh with her foot.

“Let’s go for a walk.” She says, sitting up.

Megumi is about to protest, but she is already up, grabbing at her shoes. She’s clumsy from sleep, too. He doesn’t know why she’s doing this–

But the moment they’re out, breathing in the balmy night air, under a sky full of wayward stars, she says, “you know, I never pegged you for such a masochist.”

“What are you talking about?” he asks, perhaps harsher than he should’ve.

She only sends him a half-hearted glare.

“You should’ve said something, when I told you to.”

“There’s nothing to say.” Megumi repeats.

But his voice catches, something fragile tucked away in the corners.

“Alright, fine. There’s nothing to say, then.” Nobara rolls her eyes, wrapping her arms around her middle as a summer breeze eases past them. The trees shake with it. So does Megumi.

He walks in silence with her. She only leads him back to the dorms when his shoulders have relaxed, when his scowl has lessened. You and Yuuji are still fast asleep on his couch. Nobara goes to sleep in her own bed.

Megumi drapes a blanket over you and Yuuji, gently tucks you both in. He’s careful not to disturb you. He turns off the movie still playing absently in the background. He shuts off the lights and falls into his own bed.

But when he dreams that night in colors of poppy and pale blue, it’s all of you, you, you. Massive, bowed bluebells provide you shade, pretty vines curling along the lines of your legs. The sun is a starburst flare of light against your skin.

Yuuji tells him to go to you, sitting in the sun, with all those dancing vines. His smile is lopsided, encouraging. Megumi stumbles to you on uncertain legs, fawn-soft and terrified.

You let him fall into your open arms.

“Megumi,” you sigh, easing into his lap. The weight of you on his thighs, in his arms, more than he can bear.

You kiss him, just a brushing of your lips to his. You’re sun warm, almost sleepy. “Megumi, will you tell me?” you ask, but when you pull away to look at him, your lips are stained poppy red, slick and shiny.

He reaches out, touching your lips with his thumb. He can’t speak.

You scatter bloody kisses to his jaw, to his throat, like red petals against his pale skin. “C’mon, say it, Megumi, please?” you whisper.

And then it’s Yuuji at his back, voice soft and coaxing, sweet against the nape of his neck, “it’s okay, you can say it.”

Megumi tries to ask, tries to speak, but his throat tightens up. Blood falls from his bruised lips. He’s being strangled from the inside. He’s choking on all of it, on the blood in his mouth, souring the words he wishes he could say.

You kiss him again, harder, more desperate, “just say it, Megumi, it’s okay– c’mon, please? Please?” you beg desperately.

Yuuji’s hand is on his naked back, over one of the silver scars that lances across the expanse of his skin. He thinks Yuuji was there when he got it, too.

You’re crying now, grasping at him as he chokes. “Megumi, please–”

He coughs wetly, spitting up crimson onto your chest, your neck. Now it’s you who's covered in petals, blossomed coral and crimson and lilac blue.

He slumps into you, face buried in the crook of your neck as you hold him. As Yuuji tries to soothe him.

There’s plenty to say, but no way for him to get it out, not with the vine in his throat, the bluebell hooked and pressed to the meat of his tongue.

He wakes late in the morning. He comes down with a fever.

Yuuji makes him soup. He tries to coax him into eating while you lay a pack of ice to his brow, carefully brushing his unruly hair from his dampened forehead.

His fever spikes.

And he can hardly speak, not with so much to be said.

***

Megumi can't sleep.

He hasn’t been sleeping well lately, fitfully trying to get comfortable, hugging pillows and nudging his face into their softness like that might soothe him. But nothing works. The night is filled with the chirp of crickets, the quiet hum of the city not far off. It should lull him to sleep.

But he tosses and turns, bleary eyed and frustrated.

He can hear footsteps in the hallway.

And then the familiar voices of you and Yuuji.

Megumi can hear you two stumble in late to Yuuji’s dorm next door. The walls are unfortunately thin. And the night is too quiet. And Megumi is too awake, wide-eyed and heart now turning ragged and quick, jumping like a spooked rabbit.

He can hear your excited giggling, your gasp of Yuuji’s name and the muted creak of his bed.

Megumi imagines Yuuji tossing you into it. Covering you. Yuuji’s broad and strong, he’d almost shroud you—

He squeezes his eyes shut sharply.

He knows Yuuji’s bed shares a wall with his own. He knows all that separates him from the two of you is a thin wall. He knows he won’t survive this. He prays you two will go to sleep, that it’ll be silent once more.

And it is quiet, almost uncomfortably so before Megumi hears a whimper, muffled by the wall.

It’s your whimper, bursts sweet and hot from you and nestles itself deep into Megumi.

Yuuji hushes you, “we’ve gotta be quiet–we don’t want Fushiguro to hear us.”

Something inside of him squirms, wrestles around to make him bite the inside of his cheek.

“‘Gumi’s probably asleep by now,” he can barely hear your voice, faded and soft around the edges.

“Yeah and we don’t wanna wake him–”

There’s more silence, then, another creak in the bed that makes Megumi’s stomach swoop. A little stuttered gasp that he’s sure came from you. He stays incredibly still. He barely breathes, as if one of you might hear him.

As if you might hear him existing, longing, aching, on the other side of the wall. Like his desire is a scream and not a sharpened, held breath he refuses to let go of. That he’ll suffocate on.

He can hear rustling. A little yip from you, followed by Yuuji’s breathy laugh–

“Sorry,” Yuuji murmurs, “I get a little too excited.”

He imagines the bashful look on his face, the one where he ducks his head down a little, the rush of pink to his cheeks.

He can’t quite hear your response. He’s ashamed because he strains to hear it but doesn’t, misses it, before there’s more creaking and shifting. He can tell the movements are a little more hurried.

Your moan makes shameful heat rip through Megumi.

He slams his eyes shut, throws his hands over them as if that might block out more.

His vision blurs, all red-hot and simmering, mind racing. What did Yuuji do to get you to moan like that? Was it something his hands did? Or his lips? Is he undressing you? Are you undressing him?

His mind flashes with the image of Yuuji’s bare back, muscles rippling, your legs hitched over his waist. Or Yuuji’s large hands all over you, sliding up the curves of your body while perched in his lap. He imagines the flash of tongue as you kiss–

“Yuuji–” your sigh punctures a wound through him.

He feels his desire rush south, feels the way his briefs tighten, curls his fist into his hair like he might pull it out.

His cock hardens fast, almost aches so bad it hurts.

He trails a hand down his chest, over his stomach like he might soothe his feral desire. His hips twitch as he hears another one of your soft cries.

He’s sick, there’s something so fucking wrong with him–

“Easy, pretty girl,” Yuuji’s voice is so fond, too intimate, a laugh curling at its edges, “‘m not going anywhere.”

“Want you–”

Megumi tastes blood in his mouth.

It’s Yuuji’s soft moan that makes Megumi sit bolt right up in bed like it’d struck him. He’s furious and aching and ashamed, feels it color his insides. He can feel the bow of a bluebell flower, it’s hunched back so, so scared and humiliated and shy.

He covers his cheeks with his hands, tries to hide his own horrible blush from himself.

More movement from the other wall, another creak that might as well be the creak of a rope, a noose around his neck.

His stomach turns sharply.

He’s gonna be sick again–

He wrenches himself from bed. He throws on clothes, fumbles in the dark with shaking fingers. He doesn’t bother trying to be quiet when he pulls open his door and storms out of his dorm. He let’s it slam on his way out. He isn’t careful.

He wonders if you both pause, if you froze, or if you’re continuing like nothing happened.

He rushes outside, into the arms of the cool night air. The wind kisses his feverish cheeks, bursts in to try and soothe all the festering that seems to bleed from the inside out.

He doubles over in the grass outside of the dorms, curls his fingers deep into the dirt, and throws up a gush of hot blood and petals and leaves.

He wishes he felt better afterwards, like it could purge his desire, so twisted and disgusting from his traitorous body. But he doesn’t, still aching, body throbbing with want and need. With all that white-hot love. He rolls onto his back in the grass. He thinks of that day in the flowers, wonders what changed in him, too.

Why did this grow inside him? Did he nurture the seeds? Did he tend to them lovingly?

He supposes, thinking of all those years at your side, at Yuuji’s, it’s possible for something to grow. Like he prepared a garden bed for them in the soft, unsuspecting grounds of his body, your cursed-light as nourishment, Yuuji’s blood to water them.

Now the fruits of your labors have paid off and Megumi is nothing but an ill man, lovesick and poisoned. He’ll die from the growth of these seeds.

He thinks of bouquets of bluebells, sopping and drooping with all his guts and blood and shameful desire.

And is this the price he pays for love?

He feels cursed.

He could laugh if he didn’t already feel the pressure of tears.

He feels—

Sick again.

He turns over on his side and begins sputtering and coughing, hacking up a few more leaves, a stem that drips in pink fluid.

And still, even as his body lurches, and his fever returns tenfold, he thinks of you both. Holding each other. Being held. Clinging and shaking and gasping and desperate for each other. Kissing hard. Or soft. Your sweet cries, Yuuji’s hums against petaled lips.

Still, even as he’s sick all over again, all he can think about is loving, of being loved. Of holding and being held.

***

The ocean rushes up to kiss the shoreline. The sea is plum dark, the sky dashed with the color of wine, of Megumi’s tender insides.

Yuuji is chasing you around in the shallow water, sand and ocean kicking up in a spray with each step. The sun is molten and blossoming over you two, turning you crimson and rose, valentine soft. You seem to glow with it, a lantern lit inside you that flares onto everyone else. Yuuji basks in it, chases after your rays. Your peels of laughter are heard over the roar of the ocean, like the sound is being carried off to sea.

Nobara is a constant at Megumi’s side, knocking into him every so often as they wander down the length of the beach. Her hair has grown out again and she fiddles with it. He knows she’ll get it cut soon, can’t stand to feel it on her shoulders too much.

“Maki and I found an apartment,” Nobara mentions and she says it with a sort of bluntness that makes him feel like she’s ripping off a bandaid. It’s like he’s a kid again and he can feel the pull of his skin, the little wince he used to give, before the pain fades and he sighs, deciding it wasn’t so bad afterall.

Megumi intakes a slow breath and the instant flush of pain blossoms sharply and then quickly fades. He’s happy for her. He’ll be happy to visit her and Maki. It’s fine. He’ll be fine. He has to stop clinging to her or Yuuji or you, but letting go feels like growing up too much, or trying to be someone he isn’t.

What’s he supposed to do when you’re all wound up inside him? Intricate parts of him? Pull all of that out with his bare hands?

He thinks of his bluebells, of trying to pull them out. He knows he has to, if he wants to live. But does he want to live without it? Without you?

Megumi can only muster a soft noise, a bit of a hum of acknowledgement. He casts his eyes out towards the sea, letting them skitter to you and Yuuji.

“Have you ever considered looking for a place? It’d do you well to get out of the dorms, too.” Nobara then says and though she can tell melancholy has taken hold of him, she doesn’t give him the satisfaction of coddling him in any way.

Nobara has always said that if Megumi is upset, he should just come out and say it, instead of pouting about it.

Yuuji wraps his arms around you and the two of you teeter together clumsily, laughing.

He thinks he should start listening to her.

“Yeah, I guess.” Megumi responds, almost grumbling. Nobara rolls her eyes.

She’s about to open her mouth and say more, but your shrieking pulls both of their attention. Yuuji’s got you tossed over his shoulder as he wades further into the water. You’re beating at his back a little, fitful little pulls and kicking to get him to stop.

“Yuuji– no, stop! Don’t! Yuuji–!”

He tosses you into the lilac waves, pretty dress and all, the glitter of the sun catching and sparking. Then he dives in after you, still clothed, resurfacing a moment later next to you, whose sputtering and laughing and wiping sea water from your face.

Yuuji waves them over when he notices them staring, “the water is so warm! You guys should come in!”

“I’m not ruining this shirt!” Nobara shouts back.

Megumi huffs and turns away.

You and Yuuji share a look, something said between you two, before twin smiles warm your faces. You both start wading out of the water, towards them.

“Oh no,” Nobara starts to back away slightly.

Your dress is clinging to you, your hair stuck to the curve of your smiling cheek. Yuuji peels off his shirt and dumps it on the sand in a wet heap.

He heads towards Nobara, whereas you turn your eyes on Megumi.

“Itadori, if you come near me, I’ll kill you–”

“Ah, Kugisaki, c’mon–”

“Megumi,” you sing his name like a bird, happy and excited, reaching for him with wiggling fingers.

He shakes his head, “I’m not going in the water.”

You reach for his arm, latch tight onto his forearm and give a tug. He doesn’t budge, but his eyes fall to the curve of your fingers around his skin.

“Itadori!” Nobara yells, furious and squirming in the hold he has on her. It’s too easy for him to heft her up and start walking back towards the water as she shrieks more.

Your hold gets tighter. You dig your feet into the sand and put your weight into the next pull of his arm. He stumbles towards you, off-kilter, your smile makes him feel off balance. His body knocks into yours, legs tangling. Your laugh is felt in his chest.

There’s a splash and Nobara goes quiet for a moment, Yuuji’s laugh winds with yours then.

And then you’re pulling him to the water and he’s pretending to put up a fight, if only to try and force you closer, if only to let you laugh his name out.

If only for the moment when you both trip and go toppling into some of the shallow waves together. It splashes up into his face, into yours, too, all salt water and warmth. Some of his hair flattens to his forehead, sticks to the nape of his neck. Yours clings to your temples.

You laugh, leaning forward, hands clutching at his now wet shirt.

And he can’t help his own laugh, small, but bursting from him, wet and raw, to join yours and Yuuji’s and the sea.

Nobara resurfaces, shouting and cursing out Yuuji.

And then Megumi is standing without thinking, hauling you up into his arms, lifting you bridal style. He cradles you tight to his chest, presses you to him, sees the way the wet skirt of your dress hitches high.

If he was Yuuji, he’d fix it.

If he was Yuuji, he’d kiss you.

“Megumi!” You squeal the way you’d said Yuuji’s name, too, surprised and delighted.

But Megumi’s not Yuuji and he tosses you into the water next to him.

You go under, Yuuji turns to see him, splashes over to him only to throw a strong bicep around his neck.

If Megumi was you, he’d cling to Yuuji.

If Megumi was you, he’d kiss him, too.

But instead he wrestles with him a little, before Yuuji dunks him into the water.

He shuts his eyes tight and holds his breath, the whole world going warbly and soft. Everything sounds far away until he can just hear the roar of water, of his stinging and livid heart, the one being choked out by bluebell roots.

He rushes to the surface, to the sound of your voices.

The sun is a ruby flare, bursting hot and beautiful, turning you all hot pink and tangerine. The water makes you glitter like jewels.

He lets himself laugh and love you. He lets himself enjoy the water, splash and scowl and shout like he’s a teenager again and the whole world is trying to devour him, like all that’s wrong with him is a cut he has to see Shoko about.

He wishes he could see Shoko about this one.

He could, he knows, but he also knows what she’ll tell him, what his options are.

He swallows hard and tips his head back into the water to float. He thinks of Gojo. Untouchable, mighty Gojo. What flowers did he choke on? Does he regret getting rid of them?

The waves carry him, turning him weightless. His thoughts slip from him, spool out and float away on the ocean.

You all stay out in the water until the sky sheds it’s light and returns to darkness. The moon is a sad smile above your heads, small and soft.

Eventually you drag yourselves out, dripping wet, and walk back to the dorms. You knock into each other’s sides, brush elbows, talk in hushed voices, like you’ll wake the whole world with your youth and excitement.

Megumi watches Yuuji shepherd you into his room, watches him wave goodnight. He hears your sweet voice before the door shuts, wishing him a good night, too. The sound of the door echoes inside of him, settling heavy over him.

Always shut out. A wall up. A breath away. Too little, too late.

He should’ve said something–

But what would he have said?

I’m in love with you– I love you, I don’t know when it started but now I can’t stop it. I love you and it’s tearing up my insides.

I think I love Yuuji, too, and there is a plant making a garden bed out of my body.

I love you both and it’s killing me.

His stomach suddenly lurches. He pales sharply, gripping at his own doorframe.

Nobara eyes him, “what’s wrong with you?”

He can’t answer, feels a sharp shooting pain lance around his ribs, squeeze tight to his throat. He lurches too sharply into his own dorm, rushing for the bathroom.

“Fushiguro!” Kugisaki calls after him, but he barely gets to the sink in his bathroom before he’s retching up thick blood, leaves bundled into it. A twig. A petal.

His insides tighten up, trying to purge the intruder in his body, trying to purge his love. For a moment, he almost tries to swallow it all down, like he couldn’t fathom getting rid of it. It’s his now, a part of him so thoroughly that removing it might kill him.

(He knows removing it would actually save him, but the idea of not loving either of you again makes him tremble like a child, clinging to anything he can–)

He feels more than he sees Nobara, too focused on the hot rush of blood and petals that comes up with another barking cough, splattering into the white of the sink.

“Fushiguro, are you–”

She gasps when she sees the sink, when she finally takes it in. There’s a long silence.

He spits into the sink, hangs his head.

“Oh God,” she says, horror filling her voice.

He swallows, turns shining eyes on her.

“I told you,” she says, shaking her head, eyes wide with fear. She looks at the sink, at all the blood and rot of it all, the proof of his love, “dammit, Fushiguro, I told you!”

And he can’t help but laugh, barking out a broken, ironic noise, something horrible and grating. It sends him into another coughing fit, makes him gag on a stem, makes him vomit it into the sink, too.

He lets his head fall between his shoulders again. He bows his head in defeat. The silence rings in his ears. Nobara is angry with him. But he knows she’s only angry because she’s scared.

After a moment, she touches his shoulder, his shaking back. He tries to breathe. He can feel tears prick at his eyes.

He shudders.

“You’ve really done it this time,” Nobara tries to joke, “which one are you even in love with anyways?”

Megumi catches her eyes and he must look stricken or panicked or too raw, because her face falls, her lips part in surprise.

“No–” she starts, “I was joking.”

Megumi swallows, tasting blood. He shakes his head and when he speaks, his voice is painfully rough, just a rasp, “I wish I was.”

Nobara curses again, softly, shaking her head like she can’t believe it.

“You’re an idiot, Fushiguro.”

“I know,” he mumbles.

She leans into him, though, touches her temple to his shoulder, “And we’re gonna get you through this. You’re not dying like this after all these years.”

Megumi is silent for a long moment. He almost wants to snap that he won’t get it removed, and almost wants to plead about not telling you or Yuuji.

Instead, she elbows him in the ribs, uncaring of the pain that lances through him, “you’re supposed to say I know, Kugisaki.”

He spits more blood out of his mouth, rubs at his side, like he can feel the bluebells blooming on the inside of him, searching for your light, for Yuuji’s brilliance. He thinks he’s going to be sick the rest of the night again.

But Nobara is solid beside him, like she’s always been. He lets out a slow, trembling breath. He tries to will his tears away.

“I know, Kugisaki.”

***

“Fushiguro, you really haven’t been looking too good lately.”

Yuuji is peering up into Megumi’s face. They’re on a mission together, walking along a set of train tracks as night falls over the city. The frogs and crickets are loud. The stars blink to life above their heads.

“I’m fine.” Megumi says plainly.

“Are you sure? You look paler than usual.” Yuuji tells him and he’s sure if you were here, you would be elbowing him because it sounds unintentionally rude.

“I’m fine.” Megumi bites out this time, if only to get him to stop prying.

Yuuji says your name, soft, rounded along the edges, “she’s worried about you, you know?”

“What?”

“Yeah, she just says she thinks somethings wrong. She worries about you a lot. I mean, not that I don’t! But she’s more observant than me, so I’ve been told.” Yuuji rambles a little, the brush of the long grass just a rustle among the sounds of night as they walk.

Megumi feels his insides twist up. You worry about him? You notice?

“She is more observant than you.” Megumi agrees dryly.

“So there is something wrong with you?” Yuuji asks, turning to walk backwards in front of Megumi, forcing them to look at each other.

“I’m fine, Itadori.” Megumi says again, glances away from the raw concern that has flooded Yuuji’s face.

“Jeeze, you’re stubborn.” He says, and then adds, “well, if you ever need to talk or anything–I’m here for you. We both are.”

“Hey, watch it–!”

Megumi doesn’t think he’s ever been so thankful for the appearance of a curse. Yuuji almost knocks straight into it. And then he’s calling for his divine dog and the battle has begun, the curse warbling and shrieking.

When they return home later, bruised and scraped up and tender, it’s you who greets them. You were in Yuuji’s room, in one of his shirts. Megumi tries to sneak into his own room, but you call after him.

“Do you have bandaids? That cut doesn’t look too good.” You tell him.

He doesn’t respond fast enough, and doesn't have it in him to try and lie to you, so he lets you pull him into Yuuji’s room, too. Yuuji is already peeling off clothes to shower. Megumi watches the muscles in his back for only a moment, feeling a creeping, antagonizing heat ease over his face, his ears.

But then you’re urging him to sit on the edge of Yuuji’s bed and fetching a first aid kit for him. Then you’re easing close to him, almost standing between his legs. Then your hands are careful and dabbing at the cut across his brow.

Then it’s just you and him.

You wipe away the blood with a love and gentleness he wishes he didn’t know. You brush his hair from his face. You tend to him the way a mother might a child, like he’s fragile, breakable under your hands.

Maybe he is.

“You seem distant lately,” you murmur and Megumi casts his eyes up to your face in surprise, “are you upset with me?”

“What? No.” Megumi says quickly, guilt twinging hard inside of him, knowing that he’s made you feel bad. “No, not at all.”

“I thought maybe–” you start, then catch your bottom lip between your teeth to stop yourself. You shake your head, let go of a breath, wiping at the blood under his eye. You glance behind you, at the closed bathroom door, and then lower your voice when you say, “you know you mean the world to me, don’t you? To both of us. I don’t like–” your voice breaks, “I don’t want to lose you–or something, because of–”

Megumi swallows hard around the tight lump in his throat. He can feel the cough that threatens to come up, the bluebells inside of him reaching, straining–

“You wouldn’t ever lose me,” Megumi whispers and before he can think, his hand comes up, touches at your side, like he wants to guide you closer, or comfort you.

What he really wants is to curl his fingers around your waist, tighten his hold, pull you into his lap.

But he’s always a little too far away, held at a distance, so he lets his hands fall away, like petals that fall from the flower.

“Are you–are we okay?” you ask softly and now your own touch on his face has just turned soft and reverent.

Megumi swallows hard around the sudden ache in his throat, like he could cry, “of course we’re okay.” He croaks out, quiet and fragile.

Neither of you had noticed the shower turning off, only jumping away from each other a little when the bathroom door swings open.

Yuuji is oblivious, wrapped in a towel, already asking, “you guys wanna watch a movie tonight? Fushiguro, you can use my shower if you want–”

He glances at the pair of you two, you standing so close, and doesn’t even bat an eye. “I really wanna watch an action movie, but I can be persuaded into a rom-com, too.”

You share a look with Megumi, fighting back a smile. He can’t help the hitch in his own lips, a nervous slip of a smile, but a smile nonetheless.

You reach for the antiseptic, and murmur, “you’ll stay, won’t you?”

Your eyes are nearly begging him.

How could he say no?

Megumi nods smally, trying to keep his stomach from revolting on him, “sure.”

The antiseptic stings, steals his attention momentarily, before you’re settling the bandaid to his skin.

“I have some of your clothes you could wear, Fushiguro.” Yuuji then adds, already rummaging messily in his dresser. Megumi almost protests, saying he can just run next door but Yuuji pulls out an old t-shirt of Megumi’s and a pair of boxers.

Yuuji has a bad habit of borrowing and coveting his friends' things, collecting them and surrounding himself with them. His room is a testament, proof of all the people he loves, with all their knick knacks and clothes and items strewn around his room.

It’d be endearing, if Megumi wasn’t glaring at his boxers in Yuuji’s hand, cheeks flushing darkly, “when did you even take those?”

Yuuji laughs nervously, “awhile ago? I promise they’re clean! They’re also too tight on me.”

You laugh then, too, and it brightens up the room, making Megumi soften up. He finally stands, towers over you a moment before he takes the clothes from Yuuji, maybe with too much of a glare, before heading to the bathroom.

It’s still steamy.

He uses Yuuji’s shampoo and conditioner, the body wash that reminds Megumi sharply of him. He coughs a little, lets crimson splatter against the tile, before being washed away like it never even happened. He shouldn’t stay with you two, shouldn’t watch this movie but–

But he can’t deny you.

He shuts off the shower. Towels himself off. He dresses in clothes that smell faintly of Yuuji still.

When he leaves the shower, Yuuji is already reclining in bed, remote in hand and pointed at the TV. It’s not like Megumi’s room, where he has a small couch everyone can pile onto, the only thing in front of Yuuji’s TV is his bed. He almost wants to ask if you’re both sure, but then you’re turning off the overhead light and crawling into bed, settling yourself beneath the covers, between Yuuji’s legs. You curl up against his chest.

And then you fold the covers over and pat the spot next to both of you.

Megumi’s heart lurches.

But his feet move before he can stop himself.

He slips into bed beside you two. His shoulder touches Yuuji’s. His hips to his. His legs against his. Against yours. He feels as if he’s going to shake apart.

But the movie begins (a rom com, certainly), and the light is soft from the TV. It’s at a low volume, playing softly and lulling his stuttering heart. Megumi realizes how tired he is as the movie continues. His eyes grow heavy, his body fatigued from the mission. His body fatigued, weighted, with all his love.

Yuuji’s head falls onto Megumi’s shoulder. He’s asleep, out like a light.

You glance back, giggle softly, smile at Megumi sleepily, before settling back in.

Megumi wishes he was stronger, but all he does is adjust himself so Yuuji’s head is at a better angle, pressing himself tighter to his friend. He doesn’t know if this is all worse for him, maybe it’s better if he keeps his distance, grows a bluebell inside him until it kills him, maybe that’d be better than whatever creature opens its eyes inside of Megumi now. Something that wants more and more, wants to be closer, desires spilling from it’s maw like the blood that falls from Megumi’s lips.

He drifts off, warm, sated, taken care of.

(Loved, if he knew, if he’d speak up).

When he wakes in the middle of the night, the screen is blue and soft. Somehow, the three of you had slid down, head to pillows, curled up beneath the covers. He can feel you pressed to his back, and can feel Yuuji on the other side of you.

Megumi should slip out now, leave while you’re both asleep, none the wiser.

But how could he leave now? When he’s had a taste?

He thought he’d be able to live in your outskirts, in the peripheral, on the other side of the wall, but now that he’s had something more–even just a little more, a fraction of what he could’ve had–he has no idea how he’s supposed to live with anything less.

(He can’t actually, won’t–)

He does something horrible, something selfish.

He turns over carefully to face you, inches closer, presses along the soft lines of your body. He feels Yuuji’s leg thrown over yours, feels limb and skin, feels love and fondness stuck along his ribcage.

He eases his arm over you, let’s his hand lay on Yuuji’s side, cocooning you between them. Your breath is soft against the hollow of his throat.

He squeezes his eyes shut and imagines he gets to do this every night. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to keep his breath from trembling.

Tomorrow he’ll blame it on sleep, he’ll deny with a red face or choke out apologies.

But tonight he holds you, tangles his legs with Yuuji’s, with his heart slamming in the crux of his chest.

(Tomorrow will feel painfully normal. Neither you nor Yuuji will say anything about waking up intertwined. Yuuji will offer to make breakfast. The morning will be slow, birds singing, the sun honey sweet.)

But tonight he takes what he can, a shadow stealing over you both.

(Tomorrow you will wake him with careful fingers.)

But tonight, unknown to him, you’ll lie awake, too, knowing what Megumi’s done, lying beneath his arm, with your own heart slamming in the crux of your chest and your eyes wide open in the dark.

***

Megumi gets so sick that he can’t leave the bathroom. He stays by the tub of the shower, hacking and throwing up into its porcelain, letting long stems rip their way through his poor, fragile body. He’s feverish, body aching, chilled despite the high summer.

It’s Nobara who finds him and this ghastly sight, the tub covered in the gore of his love, bluebells strewn around like a bloody flower shop.

She swears low, yells at him a little for not calling her sooner. He must look miserable enough that she stops mid-rant to get him towels. To get him water and ice. She tries to take care of him.

She rinses off the tub when he settles down enough to drink water, to suck on ice.

But he inevitably starts again, woozy and delirious, clawing at his throat as bundles of flowers spew from his raw lips.

When his body isn’t trying to kill him, he let’s Nobara actually coddle him. She’s scared, he can tell. Scared enough to cradle him to her chest, to brush hair damp with sweat away from his face.

She keeps asking, “should I get Maki? Should I get Shoko?”

Who can help you? She seems to beg him and all he can do is shake his head.

Eventually, she says, “you have to tell them.”

“No,” he croaks, “I can’t.”

“You have to, or I’ll get Shoko and she’ll remove it–”

“Please, no– I don’t– I can’t.”

Nobara’s hold on him turns a little sharp, “you’ll die if you don’t do something.”

Her voice is vicious, but she’s squeezing him tight.

He feels nauseous, delirious, and weak. He feels the pressure of tears burn and ache in his head, “they’re so happy.” He gets out, choked and rough.

“Fushiguro–”

“I can’t ruin it for them– please, I can’t, I can’t–” he babbles, gasping out as a sob wracks through his body. Pain floods him. Tears start to drip down onto the slope of his nose, the curves of his cheeks, falling away into the fabric of Nobara’s shirt.

He turns away from her to sob again, knowing that something is going to come up.

Blood and petals and mucus rush hot up his throat. It splashes into the tub. Nobara winces, but she's still there beside him.

She pushes his hair away from his feverish forehead and when he calms again, sucking in ragged breaths, she says, “you need to tell them.”

His head falls to rest on the cool lip, shudders as he feels roots seem to spread and push through the tender parts of his organs, like they’re winding around inside him, searching for more purchase, more claim. He has no idea how large the plant inside him would be, wonders if it takes up all the space it can in the pits of his stomach.

He knows, he just can’t get the words to come out, tongue thick and heavy with the taste of earth and bluebells.

***

Megumi doesn’t know it, but after he’d left Yuuji’s bed, there’d been a long, long talk between you and Yuuji.

A conclusion found like a missing puzzle piece, a lost key to a lock, to the room beyond. No more walls and shut doors. No longer locked out.

It feels delicate, like the crush of petals, like the look on your face when you watch him.

***

Megumi becomes so weak that he can hardly get out of bed. He flutters in and out of tormented sleep, all he sees is you behind his eyes, a wash of Yuuji in his dreams. Periwinkle blue and zinging orange, the soft bloom of a beating heart. A meandering bee that hums a buzzing tune only he knows. The embrace of an ocean willing to welcome him home.

When you both come to him, he doesn’t know if he’s dreaming or not. You lean over his bed to press your palm to his face, check his fever.

“He’s burning up,” you turn to say to Yuuji, who says something Megumi doesn’t catch, before he eases away to fetch something.

You sit on the edge of his bed and rest your palm along his cheek.

Megumi says your name, child-soft, pushing his face into your palm.

“Hey,” you murmur, your smile is sad–he hates that he’s made you sad. “Yuuji’s getting you ice and then he’s going to get Shoko.”

Megumi shakes his head a little, “no, I’m fine–”

“Megumi, we know you’re not.” You hush and something about it pulls at a precarious part of him. He goes very, very still.

“We’re worried about you,” you continue, your thumb rubbing gently at the plain of his cheek.

He thinks his chest is heaving, rattling for air like an old car trying to start.

His heart is in no better shape.

Yuuji comes back to your side with a cup of ice chips. He sits beside you on the bed. His tawny eyes are softened when they fall on him.

“I have to tell you something,” Megumi blurts out and it feels like needles in his throat, in his chest, a ball of nails. A curse’s teeth in his jugular.

“Okay,” you encourage gently.

But the moment he’s presented with the opportunity, he wants to clam up and hide. He wants to waste away. He wants to throw up–

“It’s alright,” Yuuji urges, “you can tell us anything.”

Megumi doesn’t know when he started to cry, but suddenly you’re cooing, and brushing away his tears, “hey, don’t cry–please, don’t cry, Megumi. Why are you crying?”

And he finally lets go of that held breath, let’s it out of him in a terrified exhale, speaks what was unspoken;

“Because I love you– because I’m in love with you.”

He doesn’t know which one of you he says it to. The words leave his lips jumbled and broken, ripped from his throat like a bad curse.

He feels his insides tighten up, shudder and move, grow or shrink, nearly strangle him out in the silence that follows. They’ve finally been freed from his mouth, shuddered to life and given wings to circle around his head like crows, to fall like shooting stars.

And there it is.

He’s finally said it, ruined it all, ruined everything–

For a moment, there's quietness, stillness. Megumi can hear the thunder of his heart, can feel the tightening of fear that squeezes at his lungs.

But then you lurch forward and crush your lips to his in a kiss that is more of a desperate confessional.

You must taste blood. You must smell bluebells.

His eyes go wide and he twists his head to get away from you, to look at Yuuji.

Who doesn’t look surprised or hurt or angry.

“I–I don’t understand.”

“I love you, too.” You hush, eyes flying over his face.

But Megumi’s eyes are on Yuuji’s, prying, desperate for his response, “I can’t–”

“Relax, Fushiguro, it’s okay.”

“No it isn’t,” Megumi almost pleads, “you love her–you love her and you’re happy. I don’t want to–”

“Yeah, I do. I am.” Yuuji agrees and for a horrifying, terrible moment, Megumi thinks that Yuuji is giving you up for him. Megumi knew it would happen– he knew it, which is why he didn’t want to speak it aloud. He knew Yuuji would be that selfless, and would give up all that makes him happy to save him. Yuuji would give up love to let Megumi have it. And if there’s anyone in the world that deserves love, it’s Yuuji. Megumi’s stomach turns over, he’s about to protest, but Yuuji stops him, “but it’s okay. I can love you, too, can’t I?”

His voice is tentative, almost shy, but the tension in Megumi’s body finally gives way. It dissolves like honey in hot water, slow and easy. Something unfurls inside of him, but this time it doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t come with blood and pain and fear. There’s nothing there except the bloom of love—

To love and be loved back.

“Don’t cry, Megumi,” you hush, but he thinks you might be crying, too. He can’t see through the blur of his own tears, but can feel you messily trying to brush them away, smearing damp and soft onto his cheeks. “We love you, we love you—“

Megumi sniffles, rubs at his eyes a little, and feels the curl of his damp lashes sticking together. He wants to say it again, but all he can manage is to push into your palm, turn his face like a flower to the sun.

There’s the crinkle of a cup that breaks the seriousness, Yuuji’s sheepish laugh. Yours followed. Fondness tightens around Megumi’s heart.

“I should still go get Shoko,” he says, “and you should take these.”

He offers the cup of ice to Megumi and you pull away fractionally to allow him to take it.

But Megumi grabs Yuuji’s wrist before he can get up, “I don’t need Shoko anymore.”

“Megumi, you’ve been sick for too long—“ you respond.

“It was—it was hanahaki disease.”

You and Yuuji both go perfectly still.

“I’ll be okay now.”

You throw your arms around Megumi’s neck hard enough to knock back into his bed, crying, getting out something about, “why didn’t you tell us? What were you thinking? You could’ve died—“

Yuuji urges you away a little, “hey, easy with him.”

“‘M okay.” Megumi murmurs into your temple, glancing up at Yuuji. “I’m okay.”

And he is. He’s okay. He lets out a shaking breath, he curls an arm around you.

There’s plenty to discuss and smooth out, questions he desperately wants to ask, but it’s not the night for that. You and Yuuji take care of him, bustle around him, and lay beside him, curling around him in a way he thought he’d never know.

He falls asleep between both of you that night, tucked into his bed, warm bare skin to his to soothe his heart. Yuuji’s arm, heavy and comforting, is thrown over his middle. He can feel his breaths at the nape of neck, his quiet snores. You’re curled against his chest, tucked into the crooks of his body.

Tomorrow will feel painfully normal.

Megumi will feel the best he’s felt in a long time.

Yuuji will make him a big breakfast.

You will brew his coffee how he likes it.

But tonight, he can kiss the crown of your head, or tangle his fingers in Yuuji’s hair.

But tonight, his heart will quiet in the crux of his chest.

And you will dot kisses there, like you’re trying to soothe what’s left inside him.

Tomorrow will come with questions.

But tonight he will hold you and be held, twin touches that make him ache with the start of healing.

***

Megumi takes wobbling, baby steps with you and Yuuji. The three of you ease into a new form of a relationship. He’s overly tentative at first, terrified that he’ll cross a line, but you and Yuuji are adamant and overeager, showering him with attention and affection.

It takes some getting used to, being allowed to kiss you, to touch Yuuji. He’s almost apprehensive, especially when the kisses turn open mouthed and heated, when he feels like he can hardly catch his breath.

Usually he shies away from anything too heavy, careful with his touch, only skimming your waist. The back of Yuuji’s neck. Not because he doesn’t want either of you, but maybe because he’s terrified of how badly he wants.

His desire feels like a tremendous thing still, so bad it almost killed him.

He denies himself what he wants the way an acolyte might fast, out of respect or reverence or a display of control or dedication. Maybe it’s edged with masochism, a bowing to all that is greater, brow to the floor at the feet of love.

You’re eager tonight, though, playful in a way that’s making his head spin, rolling around in bed with him and Yuuji. Megumi tries to keep his cool, but it’s hard when you’re settling the weight of your thighs into his lap, when you’re twining your arms around his neck.

Yuuji fits himself close behind you, tucks his face into your neck and Megumi feels the tips of his ears go bright red as he watches Yuuji scatter wet, little kisses to the skin there.

You catch Megumi in a kiss, keening a little and pulling away fractionally to yelp when Yuuji bites a little too hard.

“Sorry,” Yuuji says with his smile curving around the bend of your shoulder, though he doesn’t seem very sorry at all.

He does lay another kiss over the stinging mark, as a real apology.

You dip into another kiss with Megumi and he lets his palms, wide and rough, travel along your ribcage. His fingers bump into Yuuji’s, sliding into them, brushing over them. You make another little noise, but this time, it’s more of a hum, and he thinks it has something to do with the touch of his tongue to yours.

Your hips squirm fractionally.

And he’s gotta be careful because if you press down any harder, settle heavier into his lap, you’ll feel–

He pulls away, feeling his cheeks light up, turn hot and rosy.

“A little kissing got you flustered, Fushiguro?” Yuuji asks, almost too pleasantly.

“Shut up,” Megumi mutters, feeling his face just get impossibly warmer.

“Leave ‘m alone, Yuuji.” You hush, kissing at his pinkened cheeks. You nudge your nose to his gently, “do you want to keep going?”

Megumi’s heart rabbits in his chest, fingers tightening fractionally around your waist, around one of Yuuji’s fingers. Of course he wants to keep going, he wants you so bad that he’d been sick with it.

“If you want–if it ‘s okay.” Megumi finally exhales, feeling the shaky breath that comes out against the curve of your jaw as he noses there.

“Yeah,” you sigh, the sound turning soft as his lips drift down to the line of your neck. Yuuji is on your other side. You squirm again when Megumi skims teeth to tender skin, leaving a sucking kiss there that he hopes creates a mark. He’s certain Yuuji’s already left a few, and feels the need to catch up. “Yeah, it’s okay.”

Your hands sink into Megumi’s hair, tugging lightly to get him to tip his head back, to offer his lips up to you for another kiss. Yuuji’s hands are moving again, one squirming beneath your shirt, easing it up. Megumi’s fingers skim the bare skin of your back. You let yourself sink heavier into this kiss, put weight into it, hips twitching into his–

He feels your gasp more than he hears it.

And he’s been embarrassingly hard since you started kissing him with a little more intention, feels a prickly heat arc through him, knowing his lust is obvious to you now.

You grind down harder and Megumi can’t help the groan that leaves him, feels his flush worsen, almost feels like he wants to hide. He could tuck his face to your shoulder, bury his face in your neck. But then Yuuji’s caught on, and his hands guide your waist into rocking against Megumi’s again.

He pulls away from the kiss breathless.

Megumi can feel Yuuji push closer to your back, eager, nose nudging at your cheek, “‘s he hard?”

Megumi’s ears go red, too.

Yuuji’s hands snake around your ribcage to the front, though, forcing you into an arch as they glide up to your breasts. He cups them with rough fingers. Your shirt is bunched up around his wrists.

“Yuuji!” You gasp in what was supposed to be admonishment for the blunt question, but then tapers off into a mewl as Megumi watches Yuuji’s thumbs brush over your nipples through the fabric of your bra.

Megumi swallows hard. He pulls away fractionally if only to watch, fixated, with the way Yuuji’s hands cup and squeeze at you.

“Hey, Fushiguro, get her shirt off,” Yuuji says and his voice is a little rougher, a little more wrecked.

Megumi blinks like he’s coming back to reality, then nods dumbly, reaching with careful fingers to pull at your shirt, slip it right off and toss it away. And then Yuuji’s hands are dipping within the cups of your bra and you’re keening. And Megumi’s still in awe, still tracing the curves of your body, wondering how soft you must feel in Yuuji’s hands.

“You can touch her,” Yuuji suddenly says and his eyes are on Megumi’s face, the raw desire written there. And then, “here,” he mumbles, hands disappearing for a moment to fiddle with your bra clasp, to unhook it, let it fall forward before discarding that, too. And then his hands are back, cupping and palming and squeezing at you.

“I know,” Megumi mutters, even if he’s a little too mesmerized.

“You should really stop denying yourself, Fushiguro.” Yuuji adds, tweaking the peak of your breast with calloused fingers.

Megumi glares at Yuuji, despite having pink, pink cheeks, and the little embarrassed huff he gives. Yuuji’s returning smile is dopey, a little love struck.

“C’mon,” Yuuji urges.

And Megumi finally dips forward, laying open mouthed kisses to your throat, to your chest. Down, lower, and then Yuuji’s moving one of his big hands out of the way, cupping beneath to let Megumi’s warm mouth encase your budded nipple.

Your moan strikes him like lightning.

Yuuji hisses through his teeth and Megumi can feel the brush of his thumb along his jaw, before his hand disappears into his hair at the nape of his neck, holding him there, letting him suck and lave his tongue over you.

From the corner of his eyes, Megumi sees Yuuji pinch and tweak your other breast, hears your squeak, the way you jerk in their holds on you.

When he pulls away to switch to the other, his lips brush Yuuji’s fingers. Warm against rough skin. Your head tips back onto Yuuji’s shoulder, eyes fluttering. Megumi already feels dizzy as he latches onto your other nipple.

And he realizes he wants more, wants to go lower, wants you further spread out for him, he wants to take and taste and learn you in this way. Wants to learn Yuuji, too–

He pulls away from your tit to look up at you, at Yuuji’s face over your shoulder, desperately trying to watch. “Can I–” Megumi licks his lips, his voice raspy and soft, trying to gather his courage, “can I go down on you?”

Your answering moan is soft, a broken little cry. Yuuji’s curse is under his breath, pupils blown wide.

But then he says, “it’s about time,” and sits back, dragging you off of Megumi’s lap and into the cradle of his chest, between his legs, too. It’s almost comical, how quickly Yuuji’s got you laying back onto him, the wildly desperate look in his eyes.

If Megumi didn’t feel as desperate as Yuuji looks, he’d say something. Maybe he’d try to be smart.

But then Yuuji’s saying, “lift your hips for him.”

And just like the way they always work together, at each other’s sides, Megumi knows what he wants. He hooks his lean fingers in your shorts, takes your panties with them in one go, sliding them away slowly.

Both he and Yuuji watch with parted lips as your panties cling to the sweet shape of you before coming away, obviously damp.

“No fair,” Yuuji actually whines, hands squeezing at your waist, one coming down to pry your plush thigh open. He hitches it over his own leg, keeping you spread, even when you try to reflexively close your legs again, shying away from Megumi’s gaze.

“You’ve gotten this for months while I nearly died,” Megumi deadpans, but there’s breathlessness to his voice that doesn’t make it sound as biting, “that’s no fair.”

“You could’ve had it, too! You’re just stubborn!” Yuuji protests, reaching to flick at Megumi’s ear, who swats him away.

Their bickering dies as Megumi settles onto his stomach in front of you, though, pushing at your other thigh gently to open you up further.

“‘Gumi–” you whimper, twisting your face to bury it in Yuuji’s neck.

Megumi kisses lightly at your inner thigh, just fluttering lips to warm skin. He peers up at you through his long lashes, blue eyes alight, “this okay?”

“Yeah, ‘ts okay,” you get out, peeking down at him, your chest already heaving, eyes warm with need, brows tugging in at the corners like you might already cry. Megumi has to bite back a moan, has to fasten his lips to the curve of your thigh, and try to suck a mark into your skin there, too.

“She’s fine but you’re taking too long,” Yuuji huffs, hand traveling down the length of your body. He eases his fingers over your stomach, coming to rest in front of Megumi’s face–

Gently, Yuuji slides his fingers through your folds, parting you, letting Megumi look. You give an embarrassed whine of Yuuji’s name, but then Yuuji’s finger slips down, shallowly pressing into you, only to drag it back out. His finger glistens and you arch into his touch, tilting your hips up for Megumi.

“C’mon, Fushiguro,” Yuuji murmurs, making more of a mess, slicking his fingers through you, making it obvious just how wet you are.

“M-move your fingers,” Megumi tells him, but there’s no bite to it, once more mesmerized with the way Yuuji is touching you, playing with you. There’s something about the way he touches you–he somehow makes it dirtier than it needs to be, messy and overeager.

Instead of doing as he’s told, Yuuji just eases your folds apart with two fingers again and Megumi doesn’t need to be told twice–

His head dips forward, nose nudging at you, tongue sliding out to kitten lick at you, tentative and slow. But once he’s got his first taste, he groans, shimmying closer, pulling you down a little towards the warm clutch of his mouth.

He’s aching, hips pushing into the mattress desperately, cheeks flushed high, eyes glassy as he looks back up at you and Yuuji through his dark lashes.

His tongue brushes up against Yuuji’s fingers, getting bolder with every pass, making it slicker and wetter. Yuuji groans when they lock eyes, fingers twitching, moving over you, against Megumi’s tongue.

It’s a mess of fingers and spit and soft tongue and dewy folds. Megumi’s groaning softly, more than he realizes, right up against you. Yuuji presses his fingers into Megumi’s mouth, against his tongue. He pulls them away only to let Megumi suck on them for a moment.

You moan softly at the sight, your hand tangling in Megumi’s hair, watching as Yuuji’s fingers come away from his lips spit slick, a string of it shining as it passes between them, before falling away.

“Spit for me,” Yuuji gets out, voice gone, rough and hushed. His fingers are back over your clit, swollen and tender and Megumi feels his stomach swoop. He pushes his hips into the bed again, desperate for relief, trying to keep back his own whine.

But he let’s a slow glob of spit fall from his kiss-stung lips to your clit, to Yuuji’s fingers, who groans behind clenched teeth, before rubbing it in slow and easy.

Your moan is loud, almost teetering into a sob. Megumi sets lips and tongue back to you, lapping at you while Yuuji’s fingers work on you.

“Getting close, pretty girl?” Yuuji asks, nose nudging against your cheek, “gonna cum for him? All over his face?”

“Yeah–” you whine, hips desperately pushing towards his mouth, towards Yuuji’s fingers.

“Yeah,” Yuuji encourages, “yeah, c’mon–” and then his other hand tangles in the hair at the nape of Megumi’s neck, tightening, making him moan, making his cheeks flush, but forcing him to look up at the two of you. His voice is raspy, almost winded, “Hey, watch–watch her.”

And he’s so fucking glad he listens to Yuuji for once.

You fall apart so prettily, all bare against Yuuji, head thrown back, hair in your face, shivering and whining. Megumi hears himself groan, feels it rip up through his chest, doesn’t slow, lapping and sucking at you. At Yuuji’s fingers.

“Can you feel her?” Yuuji asks and Megumi’s response is groaned out against you, nodding dumbly as you throb beneath his tongue, as Yuuji curses softly.

You try to get away, squirming, pushing at Megumi’s head, but he doesn’t slow.

“Hold her for me,” Megumi grunts and Yuuji’s hand slips away, hooking in your other leg, tightening up and pulling you apart. You cry out, just as Megumi glances up at you, up the line of your body, your heaving chest. His eyes land on yours, like dark blue moons as he drops another faint kiss to you, and then murmurs, “I want one more.”

“I-I don’t–”

“You can give him one more, can’t you, baby?” Yuuji asks, squeezing at your thighs.

Whatever you’re about to say is cut off as Megumi flattens his tongue against you again, as Yuuji swallows your sharp cry with a kiss. Megumi watches from beneath his lashes, watches the sliver of Yuuji’s tongue, the way you can hardly kiss back.

He doubles his efforts, feels you shake, thighs trembling in Yuuji’s hold. He feels like a man starved, feels like whatever desires he’d had so carefully controlled inside of him have come roaring forwards, ripping through him.

He shuts his eyes and gives in to it, rocks his hips onto the bed as he works on bringing you to another peak, as he feels Yuuji’s hand in his hair, guiding his head in messy passes of his lips over your center. He musses his hair, tangles his fingers in it, moans shamelessly when Megumi glances up at him with shining lips and chin.

Your second peak is strong enough that Yuuji has to actively tighten his hold on you to keep you in place, and has to force you to squirm and buck against his chest. It has you keening, tears pricking at your eyes, one escaping to swim down the slope of your cheek.

Megumi finally picks his head up from between your legs, lips shining and slick with you still.

“C’mere,” Yuuji mutters, reaching for him, “kiss me.”

Megumi moves without thinking.

Their kiss is a rough clash over your shoulder, jostling you. Yuuji kisses open mouthed and sloppy, forcing a low noise out of Megumi. Yuuji’s rougher with him than he is with you, can feel the clank of their teeth together, clumsy, and desperate. He can feel the crush of heat, feel his head thick and cloudy with everything.

When they pull away, Yuuji is settling back against you, letting his hand fall away from Megumi’s neck.

You’re already boneless and dazed, blinking away tears, when Yuuji says, “I hope you’re not tired already.” he nudges at your jaw to press sloppy kisses there, “because we’re just getting started.”

You reach out for Megumi and he leans towards you, letting you slip your arms around his neck, twining your fingers through his silky hair. He lifts you from Yuuji’s chest and into his lap, his arms curling around your waist. “Are you okay?” he murmurs, his nose brushing against yours as he glances over you.

You nod, but you’ve got a dreamy look in your eyes now, half-lidded and warm as you gaze at him. It’s all love, soft as you reply, “‘m okay. You want to keep going?”

Now Megumi nods, swallowing hard, letting out a shaking breath, “yeah, I really want to keep going.”

“Then you should get your clothes off,” Yuuji pipes up, with his shirt already off, lost somewhere on the floor. He’s all muscle and tanned skin, pale scars lightning across his chest and arms.

Your smile is sweet, eyes glittering with mirth, before your fingers tighten in the fabric of Megumi’s shirt. You begin to pull it up, over his head, where his hair gets staticy and fluffy.

“Lay back,” you tell him, pressing sweet little kisses to his cheeks, his jawline.

He goes down easily, always, for you.

And then you’re sitting atop his lap, bare and pretty, nearly glowing. Your smile is devastating.

You lean over him, scattering kisses over his collar bones, over the lines of his chest. The silvery scars on his own skin get covered in the press of your lips, in all your love.

You ease down the length of his torso, lips dragging, making his muscles jump beneath your touch, before you get to the button of his pants.

Megumi feels as if his poor heart might give out, watching your careful fingers unwork the button, peel away the zipper. You give a noise of surprise, just as Yuuji kneels behind you, fingers slipping through the mess between your legs, now that you’re on your knees in front of Yuuji.

“Can’t help it,” Yuuji mutters, a little too focused on the way his fingers are disappearing in and out of you. Megumi tries to crane his neck, but he can only see the movement of Yuuji’s arm, the slight sway in your hips, the pleasure drunk look on your face.

He helps lift his hips when you finally manage to work his pants down enough, taking the rest of his clothing all in one go. And then he’s bare, in front of you, cock hard and flushed an angry pink.

You inhale sharply, hand coming up to wrap around him and Megumi tries to keep back the eager twitching of his hips. He’s so turned on, so sensitive that he has to fist his hand in the sheets. His chest is already heaving, eyes jumping between you and Yuuji who–

“Yuuji–” you gasp, lurching forward a little, trying to escape his touch, “let Megumi first.”

Megumi’s eyes fly to where Yuuji had been touching you, but now sees that he’d replaced his fingers with the tip of his cock. He can’t quite see still, but he can see the motion of Yuuji’s hips, the way he must nudging against you, slipping through your folds–

Megumi’s teeth click together. He eases up onto his elbows, as if to see.

Yuuji huffs, eyes flicking down to Megumi, lips still parted, almost drooling from the way he’s watching his cock rub against you.

“C’mon, I was patient,” Yuuji gets out, rutting forward a little, dipping into you. Megumi watches you fight the urge to sink into the feeling, watches with held breath as your hand tightens on his cock, as you almost let him ease into you.

But then you jolt away a little, coming to your senses, a soft cry of, “no–’Gumi first.” And then you’re shifting so you’re out of his hold, scrambling to settle yourself back into Megumi’s lap.

His groan is bitten off, feeling you like this, hot and slick against him.

Yuuji’s groan, on the other hand, is in frustration. He still comes up to press up against your back, fit tight to you, be as close as possible “fine, fine–”

He grabs at your jaw, fingers squeezing at your cheeks as he forces your head to tip back, far enough that he can give you an open-mouthed kiss, shiny with spit, before he pulls away, “but you both owe me.”

Megumi’s too focused on the way you settle your weight onto him, the way the heat of your cunt seems to melt onto him, to even bother responding to Yuuji. Your stuttered gasp is so sweet, hips twitching.

Yuuji’s hand fastens around the curve of your waist, guiding you into rolling your hips forward, against him. Megumi watches, fixated, as his cock glides against you, pressed firmly to his stomach, your hands flying out to brace yourself on his shoulders. Your hips roll, rock slowly.

For a moment it’s just heavy breathing, little gasps, the slick sound of your bodies.

Yuuji ups your pace a little, forcing you to bear down more, move faster.

Megumi’s hips buck up, the head of his cock catching on your center–

You moan and the noise Megumi makes almost sounds like a broken growl, his control thinly leashed.

“Condom?” he gets out, just barely keeping himself sane, barely keeping himself from pushing into you.

Yuuji’s snicker is done into the curve of your neck, cheeks flushed, nipping at the skin there.

“Don’t n-need one,” you shudder, lifting your hips a little, reaching down finally to take hold of Megumi’s cock, to line him up to where you’re aching. Megumi is careful to hold perfectly still, to let you do it, to set your own pace–

Yuuji’s hands flex on your waist, though, before he suddenly pulls you down all in one go onto Megumi’s aching cock.

Both of your mouths fall open, hands clutching for each other, as pleasure floods hot and warm inside of Megumi. You’re velvety warm and tight– so tight and–

Your cry is higher pitched, almost a wail. Megumi’s is something from deep within his chest, fingers digging into your thighs, creeping up against Yuuji’s, too.

“There,” Yuuji murmurs, lifting your hips only to drop them again, playing around with setting the tempo, watching Megumi’s face twist up into pleasure, watching the way you throw your head back and gasp. “How’s that feel? You like being full, don’t you?” Yuuji urges you a little faster, eyes alight and hungry.

“Yeah—so deep” you gasp, shifting one of your hands to cover Yuuji’s, fitting it along your own body, the other laying flat against Megumi’s stomach for support. “You feel so good,” you mewl, arching as Yuuji forces your hips down, keeping you down on his cock.

Megumi has to bite back a moan that feels terribly pathetic.

Your hips squirm helplessly against Yuuji’s hold, but he’s just so strong–

“Fuck,” Megumi hisses, his own hips flexing upwards–

(You make the cutest, “ah!” sound when he does that.)

“Itadori, let go of her.” Megumi grounds out, his grip on your thighs turning painful.

“I don’t know,” Yuuji says, watching the two of you with a spark in his eyes, all boyishly handsome mischief, all trouble, like he’s just discovered a secret, “I kinda like watching you both squirm.”

“Itadori–” Megumi growls.

“I like when you say my name like that,” he says pleasantly, just before Megumi lurches into sitting up straight. He grabs Yuuji’s jaw tight, squeezes so his lips part and pucker a little. Yuuji’s pupils blow wide and dark. He shifts against your back, squirming in Megumi’s hold. Yuuji’s eyes gloss over with desire, raw and unfiltered before he gives in, uncharacteristically softened, “alright, alright–”

Yuuji lets you go, holding his hands up in defeat, in submission.

Both you and Megumi move at once, desperately, clinging to each other. Yuuji’s hands creep back up your body, fondling your breasts, squeezing at your thighs. He leans away fractionally if only to watch the way Megumi disappears inside you, velvety walls clinging to him with every thrust.

Megumi fastens his lips to your neck, sucks hard, feels your walls clench and flutter around him in a way that makes him groan into your skin.

“She feels so good, doesn't she?” Yuuji asks, eyes still glued to where your bodies are connected, “so wet and tight and hot—“ it’s like he’s imagining you himself now, “I lose my mind whenever I’m inside her.”

Yuuji starts helping lift your hips again when he notices your thighs trembling, “and she’s wanted you so bad—should’ve heard her the other night, made her say your name when she touched herself.”

Megumi’s brain goes perfectly blank for a minute, fingers spasming around your soft skin, eyes suddenly dazed at the thought.

“You said his name, too,” you whimper back, tucking your face into Megumi’s shoulder, crying a little when he bucks up into you sharply. “Ah– fuck, Megumi–”

A breathless laugh bursts from Yuuji, “yeah, just like that– do you want him to come inside you?”

Megumi groans, feeling half out of his mind, stomach flipping, cock throbbing desperately inside of you, “Itadori–shut up. Shut up or I’m going to–”

“Ah, please, please–’m close again.” You gasp, clawing at Megumi’s shoulders.

“Just–hold on–”

Yuuji’s hand squirms between your bodies, finds your slippery, soft clit and works quickly, face flushed as he kisses and mouths at your shoulder. Megumi has to squeeze his eyes shut, can’t watch or he’ll–

“There, that’s it,” Yuuji murmurs the moment your body tightens up, and Megumi can feel you, feel the way you tighten and flutter around him, squeezing so tight. He can feel the way you soak his thighs, can distantly hear the sharp, high pitched little cry you give out.

You’re trembling so bad, but Megumi can’t help himself.

“Fuck,” he spits out, then begins babbling as he thrusts up into you, “you feel so good, f-feel so fucking good–wanted this for so long–”

He only manages a few more hard thrusts up into you before his eyes just about roll into the back of his head, pleasure racing through him like a rushing wave. He forces you down onto his cock and keeps you there as he floods you, hot and sticky and sweet. His hips twitch in aborted thrusts, rocking into you, making more of a mess. He damn near whimpers, clinging tight, feeling desperate and tender.

You slump between him and Yuuji, so limp that Yuuji has to keep you up.

Fondness bursts inside of him the way a ripe fruit might, sweet and slippery, as he watches Yuuji pepper kisses on the top of your head, cooing to you softly. Your hands slip from around Megumi’s shoulders, falling slack. But Megumi buries his face in the crux of your neck, “Okay?” he asks softly, nudging gently at you, hands beginning to move soothingly over you.

“Yeah,” you sigh, a little dreamy, a little in awe, “really okay.”

He catches Yuuji’s eye over your shoulder and for some reason, as if compelled, he tips his head up, offers himself to him, let’s Yuuji kiss him again. Not as rough, his nose nudging into Megumi’s cheek, but still with a needy edge to it, the soft pink of his tongue licking into Megumi’s mouth eagerly.

“I know you’re both exhausted,” Yuuji mumbles against his lips, “but ‘m still really hard.”

Megumi’s cock gives a twitch inside of you and your sleepy eyes flutter open.

“Lay her down,” Megumi murmurs, letting Yuuji shift out of the way so that Megumi can lay you down gently, head cocooned by the pillow. When he sits up, he finally pulls out of you with a hiss of breath, with your little whimper.

Yuuji’s beside him now, watching with bright eyes as cum spills slow and thick from where you’re still fluttering and sensitive.

Megumi gulps.

He swears his blush reaches down to his chest.

Yuuji makes a noise like a wounded animal, somewhere between a whine and a groan.

He settles between your legs again, watching for a moment, before his tongue darts out–

You try to squirm away from him, voice pitched and squeaky when you try and protest, “Yuuji, that’s–” But it tapers off into a moan that almost sounds painful.

Megumi feels heat flood him again, watching Yuuji, hearing him groan into you.

You have tears slipping down your cheeks, tossing your head back onto the pillow and trying to twist away. Megumi’s interest is piqued seeing you so wrecked, but a greater part of him is still tentative and protective, new to all of this.

“I-Itadori, leave her alone,” he rasps, pulling at Yuuji’s muscled shoulder, gripping a little tighter when he doesn’t listen at first.

But after a moment, he pulls himself away, sits back up with his eyes feverish and hair a mess, short tufts of pink sticking up in every direction. His lips are shining and slick with you, with him–

He kisses him again, chest heaving, hands greedy and seeking, reaching down to grasp at Yuuji’s cock. It’s thick and heavy in his hand, making his stomach dip in excitement.

He feels Yuuji’s whine almost more than he hears it, and feels the way his hips buck up eagerly into his fist.

Yuuji pulls himself away, glancing down to watch–

(He likes to watch, Megumi realizes with a start, likes to watch everything happen.)

Megumi looks down, too, nudging Yuuji’s head with his own, before he let’s spit gather behind his lips. He opens his mouth a little, let’s it fall and drip down onto the mauve tip of Yuuji’s cock. He gathers it in his palm, then uses it on the next pump, slicking him up.

Yuuji groans loud and shamelessly.

“‘M not gonna last–I swear I usually last longer than this,” Yuuji pushes his face into the crook of Megumi’s neck, hands gripping him tightly, desperately.

Megumi would say something smart, maybe, if he wasn’t so busy watching his hand move over Yuuji, watching Yuuji fuck into his fist almost feverishly.

He glances at you, notices the way you’ve perked up, propped yourself up onto your elbows to watch them with a dazed look on your face. It’s so raw, so filled with lust and affection and love.

“Fuck, fuck–” Yuuji gasps and Megumi feels his cock spasm, feels it jerk in his hold before his hands grow sticky and warm, his stomach, Yuuji’s stomach, too.

Yuuji slumps against him then and Megumi can’t help but do the same. With his clean hand, he runs it up Yuuji’s flank, just because he can, just to feel Yuuji try and squirm closer.

But after a moment, when their breath is caught, Yuuji perks back up, blinking away the haze a little. He looks at you, at his own body sticky with fluids, and then declares he’s going to get a rag.

It’s damp and warm when Yuuji returns and Megumi expects him to just hand it to him, but Yuuji is adamant about doing it himself. He wipes carefully at Megumi’s hands, forcing Megumi to lay back to wipe at his stomach in delicate swipes, too. And then you, even gentler somehow with where you’re no doubt sore and tender.

The moment you’re clean enough, you curl into Yuuji’s chest and he gathers you into his arms. It looks so natural, the way you hold each other. Endearment races through Megumi.

“Sorry we neglected you,” you murmur into Yuuji’s throat.

Megumi tentatively curls himself around your back, turning onto his side, and when you sigh, he nuzzles closer. His hands are careful around the curves of your ribs.

“I like watching,” Yuuji says happily, kissing at your forehead, hooking his leg over yours, over Megumi’s, too. “Besides, we’ve got all night. And all morning. All of tomorrow, too, really–”

You share a glance over your shoulder with Megumi.

“Do you plan on keeping us in your bed that long?” You ask, burrowing back down into their arms.

“Kinda,” Yuuji smiles all crooked and boyish, “there’s just so much I want to try.”

“Guess it’s gonna be a long night, ‘gumi.” You say and though Megumi can’t quite see it, he can hear the smile in your voice.

“All nighter?” Yuuji asks with a wiggle of his brows.

“All nighter?” Megumi finally speaks up, shocked.

“No, Megumi gets grouchy if he doesn’t get a lot of sleep.” You say cheekily.

Megumi pinches at your side. You yelp, before it blossoms into the sweetest laugh. Megumi can’t help but melt with it, softening the way Yuuji does at the sound.

“I don’t get grouchy,” Megumu mumbles into the sweet curve of your shoulder, his lips are just a petal soft brush against your skin.

You and Yuuji both laugh now, and can feel it reverberate from you to him, all along his chest, feel it settle deep into the healed parts of his tender insides. Sink into his bones, twine with the finally calm drum of his heart.

The evening gives way to sweet night, warm and balmy, the moon a gentle curve in the sky outside the window.

He gets messy again, makes a mess, too. He’s going to be sore, knows you probably won’t be able to walk well tomorrow. Yuuji’s got a bite mark so deep he wonders if he should put a bandaid over it.

But it’s all love, pressed into each other, sewed along the scars and the crooks of bodies.

It’s all love, showered over him the way rain falls on flowers.

And he blossoms, blooms into it with the reverence and humility of a man finally fed after being starved.

He blossoms the way bluebells do, sweet and slow and enduring.

***

It’s too hot to be lugging boxes heavier than him up an impossible flight of stairs.

“Itadori, hurry up!” Nobara snaps, clinging desperately to a box that is rapidly slipping from her grip.

“Do you want me to drop this box?” Yuuji snaps back, taking another painstakingly slow step up the stairs with a box that is certainly heavier and broader than Yuuji by far. It’s a miracle he hasn’t slipped back down the stairs or dropped it.

“Well, I’m gonna drop this one if you don’t move!”

Megumi comes around to help Nobara with the box in her hands, setting the smaller one he’d been carrying down on the landing below them. He’ll come back for it. Right before the box can slip from Nobara’s hands, he’s got the other side of it, helping her lift it.

“Fushiguro, tell your boyfriend to hurry up.”

“Itadori, hurry up.”

“Oh, c’mon, you’re supposed to be on my side!”

There’s more complaints and more struggling as Yuuji finally gets one of the heaviest boxes to the next landing. Megumi walks backwards up the stairs so Nobara won’t complain. They set the box down on top of the bigger one and Megumi eyes the next flight of stairs.

“Did you and Maki have to be on the fifth floor?” Yuuji whines.

You and Maki follow up the rear of the group, smaller boxes in both of your arms. You both ease past the three of them.

“C’mon, guys, one more flight.” You tell them cheerily, heading right on up. Maki follows right after.

The three of them eye you both, eyes twitching as they look at their own, much larger boxes.

It’s a long day of getting everything into their new apartment. But eventually, you all lay sprawled out on the floor, spread out among boxes and furniture that’s been pushed into the apartment but not placed correctly.

It’s a mess and there’s still plenty more to do.

But Megumi thinks they can leave the rest up to Maki and Nobara. It’s their place, anyways. And you and Yuuji look tired, with you leaning against his side and Yuuji spread out like a star-fish on the floor.

“This place is nice,” Yuuji comments, “better than the dorms.” Yuuji throws his hand out towards you and Megumi, “we should get the apartment right next door!”

“No,” Nobara and Maki say in unison.

“Now you guys are just being mean!”

Your snicker is cute, felt against Megumi’s shoulder. You reach out towards Yuuji’s extended hand, creep your fingers into his palm. He tries to snap shut his hand and catch you but you jerk yours away with a laugh. You put your fingers back in his hand tentatively, yelping a little when he catches you and pulls you towards him.

“Can we order takeout?” Yuuji asks the group, pulling at your hand a little more.

“After you move our couch to where we want it,” Maki tells him.

“Why do I have to?” Yuuji whines.

“Because you’ve got that freak strength.” Nobara replies.

Yuuji huffs, “‘m tired.”

You finally heave yourself up, “c’mon, Yuu, we’ll help you.” You’re still holding onto his hand and now give it a little tug to urge him up.

“We’ll?” Megumi asks, quirking a brow at you.

You help pull Yuuji up and then you offer your hand to Megumi, wiggling your fingers at him invitingly.

“Yeah, get up, then we can order food.” You say and Megumi, without even thinking, takes your hand in his. You pull him up, too.

Yuuji doesn’t need your help, but Megumi thinks he likes the principle of it, anyway. He does throw himself down onto the newly moved couch, though, and Nobara yells at him for that, too.

Food is ordered. Boxes are shifted around. Megumi offers the red peppers he won’t eat to Yuuji and you, who take them without a word. It’s painfully natural. Small rituals that he’s already become used to.

And at the end of the night, he heads home with you and Yuuji. You’re tucked up against his side, yawning sleepily. Yuuji wanders a bit ahead. But he turns around frequently to talk, walking backwards as he looks at you two.

He’s got stars in his eyes as he does. And your laughter, your voice, is melodic, carrying up to the night sky. Moonlight has never looked better than on you.

Megumi falls into bed with both of you, exhaling slowly as you roll onto his chest, as Yuuji curls up on his other side. He drags his hand over the curve of your spine, his other disappears into Yuuji’s soft hair.

“Love you,” you mumble, first to Megumi, to the heartbeat at his throat, and then, “love you, Yuuji.”

“Love you, too,” Yuuji slurs, eyes already heavy, lashes fluttering to fall shut peacefully, “you too, Fushiguro.”

Your breathing evens out, breaths soft against his skin.

Megumi feels his own heart soothe and gentle, tempo slowing for easy sleep. He let’s his eyes flutter shut.

Tonight, he is content.

Tomorrow he will be, too, when the birds sing and Yuuji wakes him and the sunshine clings to you all morning.

Tonight, Megumi says into the blue darkness, caressed in shadows, holding and being held;

“I love you, too.”

After a while, you see the end of the waterway, which seems to end in a sewer. So you don't wait and push your body against the shore. You crawl out of the water, groaning in pain. Luckily, your muscles are trained and your bones accustomed to pain; otherwise, you wouldn't be able to accomplish anything.

Noticing no change in the vicinity, you then ask yourself where you could be: still in the Bane Zone or at the far end of the High Zone? You don't see any surveillance posts or cameras nearby, yet you definitely crossed the barrier. But what if... this place was a crossing for the rebels? An unmonitored network, forgotten and unguarded?

At the thought, you slowly get up and start walking, disregarding the throbbing pain throughout your body and also your growling stomach.

You're not sure where you're going, or even what you're trying to do. Rescue your friends, retrieve your necklace, get revenge? All this with your body in this pitiful state, and your power pills also in Jay's possession? It's absolutely laughable. Yet you can't think of anything else, because what else is there? So you keep moving forward into the unknown, with no particular destination in mind.

After what seems like thirty minutes, small gray houses appear in your field of vision. Far from luxurious and even quite shoddy, but nothing damaged, unlike everything in the Bane Zone. Something that confirms you're definitely in the High Zone. And somehow, you're a bit perplexed; you were expecting things to be more... fancy?

However, you notice cameras and immediately hide behind a wall section. But after a few seconds of watching them, you also realize they're… turned off? No red light, no movement, too strange.

The neighborhood is also unusually quiet; at this time of day, humans should be bustling about, coming and going, yet… these houses seem uninhabited. Even stranger.

Where the hell are you?

You don't know if it's a dream opportunity or a bloody trap, but anyway. You stop thinking further and head discreetly for the nearest house. Standing in front of the window, you check to see if you have anything left that you could use to open it. And that's when you feel it, hidden in your boot: a long, sharp silver hairpin.

You quickly grab it and try to force the window open. After struggling for a while, you finally hear a click: Open.

Hearing no alarm, you sneak inside as best you can, stifling your grimaces of pain; under normal circumstances, it would be easy, as you are used to breaking into places in the Bane Zone.

You're a little taken aback by the interior. The decor is very cold, nothing cozy; it looks more like the inside of a prison cell than a house. But it's been so long since you've been in a house in a normal state that it feels almost strange; you're even a little disconcerted.

Without waiting, driven by your hunger, you go straight to the kitchen and open the fridge, cupboards, or anywhere to find something to eat. You're quick to notice that there isn't much, just bottles of water and what looks like... prune juice? Some canned foods too, but they'll do. Like, really. You stopped being a picky eater when your life became hell to survive.

Now that you think about it, you have no idea how long you were unconscious in the water: it could have been one night, two, or even three. But judging by your state, you think it should be at least two. After that, the bane vampires would surely have tracked you down. You open two cans, peas and white beans, which you devour quickly with a fork found in a drawer. You almost moan at the sensation of your warm stomach, full for once. After emptying them, you plan to throw the wrecks outside so as not to leave any evidence of your presence in this house.

Even if you don't think anyone will come back here, judging by the state of the food stock or simply the obvious lack of life within these gray walls—you can never be too prudent; You've learned your lesson well now, and the thought makes you snort bitterly. So you decide to hurry upstairs, stumbling on almost every step, to find the bathroom.

Once inside, you lock yourself in and quickly look around: the bathroom is small, but it has everything you need, including a working shower. You clumsily undress, your broken arm causing another wave of pain throughout your limbs, and rush naked between the glass walls of the shower.

And as soon as you turn on the tap, you're stunned: water at high pressure, which, a few seconds later, heats up? How long has it been since you've experienced such comfort? As soon as the warm water runs over your hair and then your skin, you catch other drops on your face—your tears. It feels so good that you actually cry with sheer delight.

You close your eyes and breathe calmly, immersing yourself in this rare and distant state of well-being. In this simple moment, you feel human again.

After showering, you observe your waxy complexion in the mirror, marring your features: pretty in a terrible way, giving your beauty a rugged quality.

Under the sink, to your relief, you find a medical kit to treat yourself. You had forgotten the smell of disinfectant. You do your best to treat your wounds and your injured arm, concluding with a good number of band-aids and a bandage.

But when it's time to treat the bruise around your neck, you get tense; every time the balm meets your skin at your fingertips, Jay's face pops into your mind, and you almost swear.

You set off to explore the equally modest bedroom. You took the liberty of stealing clothes to replace your own… which no longer look like anything, and to your great surprise, the wardrobe turned out to be women's? Not to be prejudiced, but it didn't look like a woman's house at all. Everything was so austere, with no personal touches.

Once again, the premises resembled more a place for a jailbird than a real place to live. But whatever, the clothes were new and of decent quality, so you picked up a T-shirt, sweatshirt, pants—all black, the color to blend into the darkness.

After you're done, you feel like crap once again. No matter how much you managed to loosen up in the hot water, concern always comes back in a flash. This place, this neighborhood—everything is shady; it's difficult to feel at ease.

You glance at the bed behind you; a night's sleep in a proper bed, free of dust and dirt, would do you a world of good, but nope, you know you can't stay here, much to your regret. It's too dangerous. Nevertheless, you won't lie: after not tasting comfort for so long, it's already hard to leave behind the little you've touched again.

You then close the door with a longing and exhausted expression and go back downstairs. On the way, you gather up the traces of yourself in your hands and flee the house through the window, just as you did on the way in.

Abandoning your humanity once again to become a ghost of the streets, the vampire huntress is out of the game for the time being.

You've been venturing for a long time—too long. You can feel the sores beneath your feet forming. And to your dismay, the sun just reached the end of its descent.

Your heart begins to race all over again—a cycle of pain and fear that you can never get used to. You know that Banes can't enter the High Zone, but nothing helps; you're on your guard like every other time: if you managed to infiltrate so effortlessly, a bane vampire must succeed from time to time.

At that moment, you notice in the distance, and even slightly hear, city lights, quite reddish in this area, and the easily recognizable noise of traffic.

Instinctively, you retrieve the silver hairpin from your boot to form a bun with it so that it will be easier to retrieve if necessary; it’s unfortunately your only remaining weapon of protection.

As you cautiously approach the red neon lights, you quickly notice the grime in the alleys and the smell of urine in the air. No fucking way this is the High Zone? You also realize that there are no CCTV cameras in this place.

You find it hard to believe that such a poor area could belong here. Then you pause in your tracks to hide behind a heavy iron door, from which raucous music blares out.

As you discreetly scan the scene, you see a woman exit the premises, stumbling in her heels, as the heavy door slams shut behind her. Her make-up is smudged, her hair is a tangled mess, and her slinky dress has slipped off her shoulders, revealing the shape of her chest. At first glance, you think she's drunk or maybe drugged, but then, looking more closely, you notice the blood tears dripping from several... bites? all over her body.

You gasp silently, finding it harder to cope with the situation than to understand it. Because your brain is too fast, already processing everything.

Then, you see her collapse to the ground, and your face creases with distress. You know you should stay hidden in your corner, but you can't help yourself. After several minutes with no one coming out of the place, you decide to go to her, your humanity still tugging at you in spite of everything.

The ghost isn’t really ghosting anything, you point out to yourself, as you kneel beside the unconscious young woman. Her entire skin is covered with bite marks, from the most recent ones gushing to the older ones pink or white.

You feel so terrible and decide to check her pulse, your eyebrows furrowed with worry: weak but alive. You wish you could do something for her, like actually help and rescue her, but you can't even do anything for yourself right now.

You hear the door creaking open and hurry to hide back. A second woman comes out of the place, dressed in the same manner, and crouches down where you were.

You don't know why, but her face is somehow familiar to you. You wander through the maze of your mind, and then when you realize, surprise strikes you, and her name comes out of your mouth, louder than you wanted, unable to hold it back.

“[Friend Name].” The name of your former best friend is uttered in an audible whisper, with as much shock as sorrow. Immediately, the young woman flinches and turns her attention towards the sound of the voice. When she notices and recognizes your features in the shadows of your hideout, her face twists in the same emotions as yours.

“Y/N, is it really you?” She calls your name too in a shaky voice, and tears well up in both your eyes as you rush out of your hiding place, falling to your knees uncontrollably to take her in your arms. She returns the hug, and you feel her sobbing into your shoulder.

“I can’t believe you’re alive.” You say in total disbelief in her ear, stroking the back of her head. Your closest friend is alive. Alive but... Without meaning to, your eyes cascade over her exposed skin, and you notice them as well: bite marks.

You stop moving, and she senses it, feeling her flinch. She hesitantly pulls away from your arms and doesn't dare look you in the eye anymore, assumably ashamed. You want to tell her, "Don't be," but the words get stuck in your mouth; you don't know the whole story, but you can already tell that she's a victim.

She then mutters, “Let's not stay here; it's not safe,” and turns to her unconscious colleague. A little embarrassed, she asks, “Do you think you could help?” Despite your aching body, you obviously agree, helping to carry the unconscious girl on your shoulder and following your friend to another door, in an adjacent alleyway.

The place is dark, lit only by a faint light from green neon lights. Stifling smoke fills the air, and judging by the smell, it's cigarettes mixed with other, much stronger substances... You hold your breath for a moment, not wanting any poison to permeate your airways, until you reach what appears to be a bedroom. The few beds are unmade, with clothes and makeup scattered everywhere. It reeks of cheap perfume, but it's already better than toxic substances.

Both of you out of breath, you finally release the unconscious woman onto one of the beds, and your friend closes the door behind you, locking it. Noticing how you don't move and your worried face, your old friend indicates, “Don't worry; after resting and drinking prune juice, she'll be fine.”

When she mentions prune juice, you immediately remember the bricks you found in the fridge earlier. And in a way, you hate how your brain is so fast at calculating bits of info: that house earlier was indeed like a jail, a jail for a woman who is (or was) in the clutches of a vampire.

Assessing where your friend lives compared to the house you previously infiltrated, you assume that they don't belong to the same categories, though: your friend's social status is likely very low in this vile, vampiric society.

All this disgusts you, but you nod to her words, as if what she just said is normal. However, your concern doesn't entirely go away and ends up shifting onto your friend. You're concerned about her current life, but you also don't want to pressure her into talking about it.

At a glance, and from the dark circles under her eyes, you know she is exhausted as she sits on the edge of the bed with a heavy sigh. Then, she gently invites you to join her with a pat. After an awkward moment of silence, she breaks it and starts talking softly, avoiding your stare once more. “I can't believe you're alive and safe too. Where have you been all this time?”

Under her curious look, you explain clearly that after being separated from your loved ones, including her, you hid for a long time in what is now the Bane Zone. You tell her with a nervous laugh that you still don't know how you managed to stay alive, but that on your journey to survival you ended up meeting... other people like you, not mentioning the word rebels or worse, hunters, although she must already suspect it. You loathe yourself for doubting your old friend, but it's just too difficult to trust anyone these days.

After you're done talking, she clears her throat, knowing that it's her turn. You wish to tell her that she doesn't have to say anything if she isn't comfortable, but a selfish part of you also wants to confirm your suspicions, so you keep quiet and let her speak. “When everything had fallen apart, I was so stupid. So very stupid. I was also scared and a coward.” She lets out a sour chuckle as she continues, “I should have followed the bravest ones into the Bane Zone, but instead I decided to find someone. Or, to reach him, at least.”

She hesitates for a moment, as if what she is about to say weighs heavily on her chest. “Do you remember that young vampire on TV that I used to like and mention to you often back then?” You know right away who she's talking about; his handsome face and your friend's crazy words had both made an impression on you. “After I too lost my family, I was desperate and clung to his skewed image. In my eyes, at that moment, he was so radiant, I wanted to believe him, and it was the only thing that helped me carry on.”

You notice them, tears running down her cheeks covered in blush, without her even realizing. “I indeed found Jake here, in this shady place, because that's where I was told he was rumored to be hanging out. I was naive; I thought it was just a normal nightclub. And before I even had time to realize anything, I was manipulated into staying; I was coerced into joining this ring.” Her face contorts with pain and regret. “I'm sure you can already guess that the women and boys here are… hookers. Hookers for vampires, specifically. They love to call us blood-whores. We don't just give our bodies but also our blood. Many of us die every night, drained, but that's just a detail for them.”

Then, you see a weird, faint smile on her lips, twisted with an array of emotions you wouldn't be able to describe properly... Like hope and love being ripped away. “And I'm his, Jake's blood-whore. Among many other women, of course. And believe me, I have a dog leash around my neck. No one is allowed to touch me except him, and everyone knows it. According to the vampires who have us under their control, I should be honored that he even deigns to look in my direction since he's a Velite. Can you believe this fucking nonsense?” She then begins to sneer deliriously, and you understand her reaction. If you were in her place, you wouldn't be here anymore. LOL. Like, no fucking way you become some vampire's bitch; you might as well stab yourself with your silver hairpin.

“Anyway, let's stop talking about Jake and also our pathetic lives.” She calms down and asks you, a little confused, “If you managed to escape and survive in the Bane Zone, why did you come here?” After hearing how she feels about the Velites, you loosen up a little and decide to be more honest with her.

“Two nights ago, a Velite unexpectedly came to our hideout. My comrades were taken away by him and his henchmen. So now I'm alone, and I won't be able to survive very long in the Bane Zone without anyone.” You swallow hard since what comes next is still painful to recount. “I can still hear their screams in my head. I simply can't leave them in the hands of this monster. I also need to get back the necklace my mother gave me. It's the last thing that connects me to her and my family. And I'm sure that bastard is keeping it safe,” your jaw clenching at the last sentence.

You see your friend deep in thought. “The Velite you mentioned, do you know his name?” You snicker at her question; you wish you didn't know his name, but he made sure you knew it, and it'd be engraved in your memory, wouldn't it?

“Jay, it's Jay.” Uttering his name is pure torture.

“Oh,” she blurts out, taken aback. “I’ve heard Jake say his name several times,” she recalls. “They’re probably friends.”

You're not sure you understand where her thoughts are leading until she almost exclaims with joy before remembering where she is and leaning closer to you to whisper. “Your goal is to infiltrate the Velites, right?” Until now, you hadn't really thought about it, but you nod in agreement because, indeed, it's the only place where you can do what you want. “In three days, there will be a blood moon. And the vampires of the High Zone love to celebrate the milestone with a special... party.” You listen to her attentively: “To spice up their evening, they select a few people from our ring to go there, since Jake is... a VIP client,” something that makes you both shudder with disgust. But right after that, you pause, realizing what she's implying.

“Wait, wait, you want me to pretend to be a... blood-whore?” Words are hard to get out of your mouth and leave a bitter taste. Your old friend nods affirmatively, and her face wrinkles into a sorry expression. “Right now, I don't see any other way for you to get into their district. Security is really tight, and you'd get caught immediately.”

Then she adds, “I heard that this time the party is a masquerade ball, like in the old days for those devils,” and you realize that the opportunity is indeed perfect; Jay won't be able to recognize your face or track your scent among so many people.

The idea of being surrounded by so many bloodsuckers is already driving you crazy, though. Can you really do it? What's more, in this... role. No offense to your friend.

But just as you're in the middle of the intense discussion, you're interrupted by the sound of a loud knock on the door. “Hey [Name]-bitch, I know you're there. Get your ass over here; Jake just arrived.”

The brutality of the language startles you both, and you can see from your friend's face and the way her fingers grip the sheets that she's already panicking.

She gets up from the bed, and this time she looks at you in the eyes, crying out for help, and God, you want to get her out of there so bad. You want to promise your old friend that once you've completed your mission, you'll come back for her. But you know that the odds of it being an empty promise are high, and she doesn't deserve to live with false hope.

As she nervously adjusts her dress as low as possible on her thighs, she quietly says to you, “I-I’ll be back later. My... absence will give you time to think about my suggestion.” She leans in close to your ear, whispering as softly as possible. “If you decide to do it, know that you can hide here. I'll help you infiltrate the ring just before the selection process.”

You watch her reluctantly back away. She delicately takes your hand and squeezes it, more to give herself courage than to you. Then, after one last squeeze, she flees the room without looking back, as if if she were to look at you one last time, she wouldn't be able to go to Jake.

And without noticing, three days have passed. Too quickly for your liking. You didn't have to say your answer out loud to your former best friend; the fact that you're still here said it all.

It's with a throbbing heart of unease and anxiety that you watch your friend primp you. In a few hours, the selection process will take place, followed by the masquerade ball itself.

It's been so long since you've worn makeup or had your hair styled other than in a loose ponytail with a worn hair tie. The smell of perfume makes you sick, but you put up with it. When she finishes your makeup, you can hardly recognize yourself in the dirty mirror; your hair has been neatly styled and arranged into an elegant bun, leaving two strands to fall delicately in front. Your eyes are like those of a fox, enhanced with smoky black eyeshadow and long eyeliner. Your skin is smooth, with a much healthier appearance. A few glitter particles linger on your thin features, and finally, your lips are accentuated by a light shiny gloss; this look is too much for you, but you know it's quite nothing for girls... around here.

“Perfect,” says your friend, admiring her work. Then she turns to the hot dresses and Venetian masks lying on the bed. “It's time.” She knows you're deliberately avoiding looking at your dress; all these years, you've been covering every morsel of skin with clothes for fear that a vampire might be tempted. So the idea of being so... exposed, under their hungry eyes, actually terrifies you. Unconsciously, your black clothes have always hidden everything about you, like armor.

But you know that for the plan to work, you have no choice. You take a deep, deep, deep breath and get up from the stool to head toward the bed. You take one last look at the nightmarish outfit and frown with displeasure as you begin to undress to put it on.

Your left arm isn't healed yet; it will definitely take more than a week, especially without the pills, so your friend helps you with the zipper. And it's demeaning that she has to assist you with something so simple. You cross your fingers that you won't have to fight before you're fully recovered. But at least, for tonight, the rest of your body hurts less, which is enough to run, you tell yourself bitterly.

To your relief, she picked a black dress, probably knowing that you wouldn't have been able to handle anything else. But in any case, as soon as she totally zips it, you can't breathe. It's so low-cut and tight-fitting. You don't dare look at yourself in the full-length mirror; although clearly lacking nourishment, years of hunting have shaped your body, refined your waist, and perfectly toned your legs… and your butt. Your body is likely attractive, and you want to pull the trigger straight to your head.

As you absentmindedly gaze at your silver Venetian mask, you hear your friend almost shriek behind you. You turn around in confusion and watch her compare the two of you. More precisely, she compares the condition of your skin: yours is tougher, covered with scratches and various cuts, while hers is softer but riddled with bite marks. Without waiting, she grabs your arm and drags you back to the stool. “That won't do, that won't do,” she murmurs to herself as she starts to draw bite marks on your skin with makeup, seemingly accustomed to doing this.

Your silver Venetian mask half-covers your face, and before leaving, you slipped your long, deadly hairpin into your bun, adding a little je ne sais quoi to your overall look even though it's meant to defend yourself... or kill some ageless beasts. Holding the arm of your former best friend, you leave the bedroom apprehensively and head together for the club. Your feet hurt; it's been too long since you last wore high heels, accustomed as you are to your old boots, which you already miss.

It was arranged this evening that you would take the spot of the unconscious colleague, who fortunately woke up but isn’t in a condition to participate. By the by, you're wearing her very own perfume, hoping that it will be sufficient and that the vampires won't notice the difference in the scent of your blood. But the fact that there were many, many people in this hellish place should help. Even so, you pray to the heavens.

After a few minutes, you finally arrive at the club, and a line of well-dressed people are already waiting. The fact that people are willing to go there is crazy to you; you know that many humans in the High Zone are traitors who have chosen an easy life here, but you didn't know that some enjoy being blood-whores for vampires.

Your best friend confided in you that if it weren't to make your charade more convincing, she would never have participated in such events. And your heart sank when she said that, to say she's ready to be chosen and possibly devoured by Jake again tonight just to help you. You really don't want to leave her now that you've finally found her.

Your sentimental train of thought comes to an end when a group of sickly-looking men enter the room. You can tell from the way they stand and observe each human being as if they were pieces of meat that they are the talked-about vampires who run the ring and will therefore select those who will go to the masked ball.

You swallow hard. You're not used to facing vampires like this... You've always fought against Banes, who are just monsters with no conscience. And in a way, they're much simpler to deal with.

It doesn't take long before they start picking out the chosen ones; you don't know what the criteria are, and suddenly, you're afraid you won't be selected. What if your plan goes down the drain?

They stop in front of each person, one after the other. They stare at their bodies like damn perverts, then sniff their perfumes. What the fuck? How horrible. You feel your best friend discreetly touch your fingertips as if to give you strength. It’ll be okay.

You mentally force yourself to calm down and pretend you're used to this shit, slackening your heartbeat before they arrive in front of you; years of experience hiding from monsters at night seems to pay off.

When the pale freaks come up to you, your eyes are indifferent and hussyish, and you almost want to look at them with contempt, but you hold back. You know you should stare at them with a slutty look instead, but it's the most you can do.

And to your surprise, one of them seems delighted. “Eve,” he begins, and you know that's your friend's roommate's name. “You seem a little different tonight, but I don't mind,” he says as he moves closer to breathe in your scent—fucking too close. “New perfume?” You need all the strength possible not to back away. But you don't move an inch, even though you're itching to take your hairpin and stab him in the stomach. At his question, you nod obediently, adding a little cheeky smile, not wanting to betray yourself with the sound of your voice.

He snickers at your reaction, making you want to puke, but he steps back and points at you with his finger. As he moves on to the next person—your best friend—you feel another vampire grab your arm roughly and drag you away.

You take one last look at the person who used to be the closest to you, and when you see the relief on her face, you know she hasn't been chosen. She gives you a small, encouraging smile, mixed with sadness, both of you realizing that this may be the last time you see each other. For good.

And you understand that it means you're alone. Again. You're going to have to face a hall full of vampires who are just waiting to drink as much expensive liqueur as fresh blood.

Fuck.

You've been riding for around forty minutes, and the further you drive from your former best friend, the more anxious you become. You realize that going back to her will be as difficult as escaping from the Velites district.

You’re travelling in a humble bus; fifteen people have been selected. Few look edgy like you, while most look eager—mad people. The curtains are drawn across the windows, and you understand that you’re not allowed to open them: the Velites’ address must stay a secret apparently, which makes you chuckle so wryly. These vampires are so pompous, and for what?

But your chucking stops as soon as the bus pulls up: you've arrived at the damn place, and your breath catches in your throat. Fuck, let’s stay calm and not faint now.

You try to regain your composure as you get off the bus, following the other humans. But as soon as you step outside, you slow down, gasping, unable to believe your eyes: modernity, modernity as you knew it before, which you haven't seen for five long years. And not just any: under the pitch-black sky, full of stars—and wow, it's been a long time—you’re surrounded by magnificent glass skyscrapers, and the cars driving on the perfect tarmac are all luxury sports models. As your group begins to move forward, you see, not far from the green, well-maintained parks, a splendid fountain spouting water.

The difference between the district where your friend lives and here is already striking, but when you think about where you live, the Bane Zone, it's simply crazy. You're no longer used to such a vision.

Then, when you arrive at the entrance to one of the buildings, a breathtaking white house with several floors, including an italic V made entirely of gold hanging above it, Velite. You immediately stop daydreaming: you’re in their place, it’s real.

Your fists clench nervously, and you notice that your hands are sweating. You swear that one day you'll die of a heart attack with all this non-stop stress that's eating you away every minute of every day.

Your group is queuing up, and one by one you see that someone is putting a crimson red wristband around your wrist, and you don't like it. You have a bad feeling that turns out to be true a bit too quickly.

After a few moments, you arrive in front of beautiful, large white doors that open for your group: the masquerade ball has begun.

You walk in, and lots of eyes are on you. Too many. Predatory eyes. You want so badly to race back out and never come back, but you can't.

In the ball hall, you rapidly notice white wristbands, then a blue wristband among the white ones. The distinction quickly becomes clear in your mind: humans have red wristbands, normal vampires have white wristbands, and those who are part of the elite have blue wristbands; at least you know who to avoid at all costs.

The other detail you notice is that your outfit is inappropriate for the event, because vampire women all wear loose-fitting, traditional dresses, which makes you feel more flustered than ever; the humans here really are a freak show.

And last but not least; the glass cups of blood that all vampires drink, as if it were a refined alcoholic beverage. Ew.

Your first instinct is to withdraw from the group and blend into the crowd, hiding your wrist behind your back as much as possible. You refuse to be mixed up with this group of humans any longer, like, sorry. Unlike them, you have no desire to get bitten and f*cked tonight, for God's sake.

You grab a glass of champagne from the tray of a waiter walking carefully past, and you notice from the redness on his cheeks that he is human and not wearing a bracelet. This instantly gives you ideas, but you still need to find a moment during the evening to slip away. For now, it's still too early; the party has only just started and you can feel that you’re being watched by the vampires who brought you here. You might be able to excuse yourself later to go to the bathroom or something like that.

With your sparkling glass cup in hand, you go to a corner of the room where there is no one and hope it stays that way. Like leave me fucking alone.

But there's no point. You have to move repeatedly every time you see yet another vampire heading towards you. You can tell that it's going to be trickier than you thought.

You end up heading to the buffet and knocking back glass after glass of champagne. You're doing the one thing you really shouldn't be doing: getting wasted, but damn it, you need it so badly.

Just when you manage to forget the horror movie all around you for a few minutes, you feel a chill on your skin. And before you even sense a presence behind you, a soft, masculine, almost honeyed voice whispers seductively in your ear: "Dulcinea, do you need real bites? Because they’re starting to fade away."

You almost do a somersault and roll back to the side, confronting the stranger. Fucking hell. You didn't manage to sense his presence, like, at all. This is the first time this has happened to you, especially after becoming an active huntress. A quick glance at his wrist reveals a bracelet... blue.

And you know you're in deep shit. A Velite noticed you have fake marks, likely because you're so stressed and your skin is now covered in a thin layer of sweat. Shit. You're completely panicked, not knowing what to do, but he smiles at you. Amused, but not twisted, and strangely, unlike Jay, he doesn't have a threatening aura at all. It’s actually quite the opposite... almost calming to the point of being enticing. Those damn vampires.

When his footsteps bring him closer to your silhouette, you can't move, almost mesmerized. He’s tall but as light as a ghost, seeming harmless even though he is not. Your bodies are only a few inches apart; his expensive woody perfume pervades your senses. The vampire wears a half-mask like yours, except for being golden, revealing a rounder lower face and a thin heart-shaped mouth. What strikes you most are his eyes, round like a doe's. But you can already guess that those doe eyes can easily morph into a different look, more… feral. You swallow discreetly, feeling the lure like a sweet melody.

Close to your face, he sings softly, “May I have a name?” And you're completely dazed, your lips parted. The effect he has on you is overwhelming, and you try to pull yourself together, but he notices too easily, letting a smirk appear. However, instead of being terrifying, this expression is enchanting. “Where are my manners?” unleashing a crystalline laugh. “I'll introduce myself first. My name is Heeseung.”

You’re about to respond or step back from him (you don’t even know), but the both of you are taken aback when the ambient music in the room disappears, giving way to the sound of instruments. The strings rise, accompanied by an organ piano, and as if it was told before, the guests move away from the center of the room, creating a dance floor, allowing you now to notice the sparkling diamond chandelier above, dominating everything.

While your head is in the air, focused on the ceiling, you feel the vampire in front of you take a step back. His movement draws your attention, and you refocus on him. At that very moment, he holds out his hand in front of you and asks politely, “May I?”

As your eyes once again plunge deeply into his, you tell yourself that this Heeseung is unsettling. His gentleness and politeness, which are obviously just bait, still manage to get to you. It's as if he can sense your tension (and he definitely can), coming to you at the chosen moment to soothe your soul—something questionable, but it's as if your warning signs are failing you. And you wonder for one second if that's what happened between your former best friend and Jake.

You look at his long, delicate fingers and want to slap yourself for wanting to put your hand right there. Especially when you see him waiting patiently, perfect in front of you.

Without realizing it, you slip your hand into his, alcohol disinhibiting you. And just like that, the wolf in sheep's clothing succeeded in getting its prey.

Although his skin feels cold against yours, the contact isn’t unpleasant, and you’re unable to apprehend what you’re thinking right now. Yet you let him lead you to the center of the room, where other couples are already standing, his eyes never leaving yours even as he turns you towards him again.

You panic immediately because the last time you danced must have been at the school prom. You haven't done it since then (and for obvious reasons). Although you know how to use your arms and legs to run away and kill a vampire, you don't know if that's enough to dance a damn masquerade with one. And why are you even doing this?

He clearly senses your emotions as he slides gently, but enough for you to hear, “Relax and let me guide you” punctuating his words by gently caressing the back of your hand with his thumb.

And the craziest thing about all of this is that your body betrays you and actually listens to him.

The music starts playing, adding to your nervousness, which makes him smile lovingly, layered with a mocking grin. You're almost certain you're going to waltz. No way.

With expertise, as if he had done this a thousand times before (and he certainly had), he steps back, letting go of your fingers, and bows politely first. Seeing everyone else doing the same, you imitate him awkwardly. He then extends his hand toward you once again, and this time you don't shy away, entrusting yourself to him, not wanting to stand out more from the crowd.

You're relieved that he's doing all this with your right arm; otherwise, he would've noticed your injury straight away, and he doesn't need to know about that too, right?

Your fingers bound together, the other hand on your back, you begin to dance; one step forward, one step back to the rhythm of the instruments. You repeat the movement three times, feeling your breath catch every time your bodies come closer, his thin smile unnerving you.

Then you feel a slight pull from his arm to draw you closer, and you can already anticipate the movement that is coming. He helps you spin, and as you see the women's dresses around you flying up in the air, you feel instead the champagne you drank going to your head, making you dizzy.

And that's when everything becomes confusing; after the spin, the vampire brings your bodies closer together, and you feel his hand naturally resting on your back; you refrain from displaying an unpleasant response, but from the pleased look in his eyes, you can tell that he knows exactly how you feel. Sweet, but a bastard vampire in all cases.

He motions for you to place your hand on his shoulder, and you hesitate for a second; your damn injured arm. But you know you have no choice, so you lift it up, the pain crucifying you on the spot, making you quiver. You thank the alcohol for slightly numbing it, though; you wouldn't be able to do any of that right now. Heeseung notices your trembling. You attempt to read his eyes, and you can guess he might think it's related to the new physical proximity and not an injury. So never mind, let him misunderstand.

As for your hands clasped together, they begin to reach out to the side. From there, the real waltz begins, and you feel yourself turning pale; “one, two, three,” you hear him whisper calmly, as you try to keep the pace without stepping on his feet or tripping over your own. So focused on his attentive words, his warm eyes, and the feeling of your heels already hurting, you only notice afterwards that you're constantly spinning together, moving among the other couples.

After minutes of repeating the routine, just when you were getting more comfortable, the vampire spins you around again, but this time you feel him let go of you.

Your face breaks with terror as you see Heeseung and his enticing smile slipping away from your grasp. In the momentum of the spin, you can't stop drifting away, then you feel a pair of arms catch you, and you gasp.

That's when you realize that Heeseung, despite his vampire-like coldness, is a little warmer than normal. The commanding hand that you feel sliding into the curve of your back, then intertwining with your fingers, is, however... glacial. Cold like ice. Vampire.

You've changed partners; everyone has, but you have the feeling that the new partner you got is far from being randomly chosen.

You feel your skin shiver, the touch as electrifying as terrifying. The man's aura is overpowering. Similar to Jay in some ways, but less rugged. More... calculated, disturbingly calm and still immensely crushing. And you know that the sudden reference to another Velite is no coincidence; your body's reactions already tell you that.

A fleeting glance at the hand in yours makes you see the bracelet around his wrist.

Blue.

Of course.

This damn Bambi vampire.

You've been collecting them, Velites, these past few days.

Fucking hell.

So close to you, too close. From the pain in your lungs, you've probably been holding your breath since the moment he touched you.

You don't even dare to look at his face, and it's certainly the first time you've ever felt so... small. The feeling is so terribly demeaning that you want to grab your silver hairpin to restore your pride. You focus on his Adam's apple, unable to let your gaze wander anywhere else, basking yourself in his frosty floral cologne.

You let him lead you in the waltz, hoping you either change partners again or that the music comes to an end altogether. And, something tells you that even if you didn't feel like dancing anymore, he wouldn't care, unlike Heeseung.

But in a dubious manner, you love playing with fire; like the huntress inside you can never be reined in after all.

You notice that your hand had instinctively clung to his shoulder. Beneath your fingers lie, in addition, firm muscles, making you clock his much more square build. You have a really foolish thought at that moment, wondering if his muscular frame makes him stronger than the other Velites.

So, you carefully lift your hand from his shoulder, trying to imperceptibly withdraw your body from his grip.

And you get immediate answers to your deadly queries.

His fingers, then, dig deeper into your skin. So deep that you feel his fingernails through your clothes, making you frown in surprise and eliciting a groan of pain that you keep carefully between your mouth; a bit deeper and you’d bleed.

Immediately, your hand goes back on his shoulder in obedience, and you continue to waltz with him, the place where he's holding you aching so badly.

You feel a brief, smooth movement: the Velite's face is now next to your ear. A very faint, chilly breath escapes from his lips and spreads to the back of your neck. Then a low, deep, husky voice rises threateningly, sending shivers down your spine.

“The dance isn't over until I say so.”

Taking your courage in both hands, you finally lift your eyes to him, meeting his icy, ominous gaze through his silver mask; same color.

Run silently, across your lips, the following line:

Dancing with the devil. And the most exquisite of all.

NOTES (2) SUNGHOON IS HERE I REPEAT SUNGHOON IS HERE FHBFHFB i don't think i could be more obvious with the whole icy thing, and yeah you get a glimpse of his nasty personality already :p also my other favorite is here... HEESEUNG, i might have worked on heeseeung personality more than any other, like i really love the contrast between him and sunghoon in this story, y/n is weak af for him FHBFHF she's like "im just tipsy" yeah sure girl!!!! also beloved JAKE was only mentioned but yeah i highly teased the sidestory with him and y/n's bestie (i didn't give her a name on purpose). i have a lot stored for the next part so fasten your belt !!! (for the jay lovers, yes he should be in the next part hehe), anyway i stop yapping, thank you a lot for reading my crap ♡ every feedback will be appreciated so don't hesitate to send all your thoughts!

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𐚁 TAGS: @kyunlov, @luvr4gyu, @chuuyaobsessed 𑣲

chapters: 1. welcome to the academy 2. navigating the mess hall 3. this is a school after all - partially written 4. the girl from nowhere 5. by your side more to come...

hoonieyun notes: introduciiiiing my next smau !!! with the completion of the girl is mine as per usual i'm going to introduce my next smau c: this is a greek mythology demigods smau with none other than loml jakeyyy i hope you all look forward to it c:

૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ❤︎ @pagemiah @jiiyen @jnysaln @xh01bri @rairaiblog @laurradoesloveu @firstclassjaylee @kristynaaah @17ericas @heeseung64 @leipforggy @s1rawb3rry @ddeonuswife @orxngebloods @xylatox @saccharinezennie @yooonjnng @lookingforsnacks @smollbean42905 @intromortal @taesnumber1 @noirxraa @ikeu05 @delma-x @ardlolic

LO'AK SULLY

you sit two rows ahead of him in history.

lo’ak slouches in his chair, boots hooked around the metal legs, tapping a pen against the desk like he’s daring it to break. he hasn’t slept. you can tell— dark circles, jaw tight, knuckles raw like he’s been punching walls or worse.

the teacher drones on about revolutions.

ironic.

you feel it before you see it— his gaze.

not predatory. not mocking. just… heavy. like he’s trying not to look and failing.

you turn slightly, just enough to glance back.

he freezes.

caught.

his eyebrows lift in a lazy challenge, mouth quirking like what? but then you look away again, cheeks warm, and something in his expression softens. his pen stops tapping.

after class, chaos spills into the hallway. lockers slam. voices overlap.

you’re struggling with your books when suddenly they’re lighter.

you blink.

lo’ak is holding half of them.

“you walk like you’re carrying bricks,” he mutters.

you stare at him. “i didn’t ask—”

“yeah, yeah,” he interrupts, already walking. “i know.”

you hurry to keep up, heart pounding because this is dangerous territory. being seen with him. being talked about.

“you’re gonna get me in trouble,” you whisper.

he scoffs. “relax. people already think i’m a problem. you’re just collateral.”

“that’s not comforting.”

he glances at you, something amused flickering in his eyes. “wasn’t meant to be.”

when he hands your books back, your fingers brush.

electric.

he pulls away first.

lo’ak notices everything about you but pretends he doesn’t. the way you chew your pen when you’re thinking. how you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re nervous. the way you avoid eye contact when you’re lying to your parents. he never swears around you at first. catches himself mid-word and grumbles under his breath. your parents hate him without even meeting him. they’ve heard the rumors. lo’ak skips class constantly — except the ones you’re in. he’s fiercely protective, even when he has no right to be.

it’s raining.

your parents are late.

you’re standing under the awning by the front entrance, arms crossed, trying not to panic. you text your mom. no reply.

a motorcycle engine growls nearby.

you know that sound.

“you’re gonna catch a cold,” lo’ak says, helmet under his arm.

you frown. “you shouldn’t be here.”

“why?” he challenges. “scared someone’s gonna see us?”

“yes,” you say immediately.

he snorts, but there’s something bitter in it. “figured.”

the rain gets heavier.

after a moment, he sighs, running a hand through his curls. “get on.”

your eyes widen. “absolutely not.”

“your parents aren’t answering. it’s pouring. and i’m not leaving you here.”

“they’ll kill me.”

“they don’t have to know.”

you hesitate. every rule you’ve ever lived by screaming in your head.

lo’ak softens his tone. “i swear i’ll get you home safe.”

you search his face. for lies. for recklessness.

you find sincerity instead.

“…okay,” you whisper.

he helps you with the helmet, hands careful, respectful. when you climb on, you keep a polite distance.

the bike roars to life.

“hold on,” he says.

you hesitate again— then wrap your arms around his waist.

he stills.

just for a second.

then he rides.

slow. controlled. nothing like his usual reckless speed. every turn calculated. every stop smooth.

when you get home, you climb off shakily.

“thanks,” you murmur.

he shrugs, suddenly awkward. “anytime.”

as he rides away, your phone buzzes.

where are you? — mom.

your heart drops.

your parents ground you for a week.

no phone after nine. no going out. no excuses.

at school, you ignore lo’ak.

not out of cruelty— out of fear.

he notices.

of course he does.

he corners you by the lockers, jaw tight. “did i do something?”

you swallow. “we can’t… i can’t.”

“can’t what?” his voice sharpens. “talk?”

“be seen together.”

that hurts him. you see it.

he laughs, hollow. “right. forgot you’re perfect.”

“that’s not fair,” you whisper. “you don’t know what it’s like—”

“yeah,” he snaps. “i don’t. i don’t have anyone checking if i get home alive.”

silence.

then, quieter, “i’d do anything to keep you safe.”

you look at him, eyes shining. “then stay away.”

that breaks him.

he steps back. nods once. “got it.”

and he does.

for days.

lo’ak takes the fall for fights he didn’t start if it means you won’t be questioned. he watches you from afar, making sure no one messes with you. you keep his old hoodie hidden in your closet. you don’t remember how you got it. it smells like rain and gasoline. he changes. slowly. not for school. not for teachers. for you. everyone sees him as a problem. you see him as a boy trying to survive. and someday— not yet, but someday, you’ll choose each other openly.

AO'NUNG

practice is loud. sneakers squeak, balls thud, coach shouts.

you’re scribbling numbers when a shadow looms over you.

“you missed one.”

you flinch.

ao’nung crouches in front of you, sweat-damp curls pushed back with a headband, hands on his knees. close. too close.

“missed what?” you ask softly.

“my assist. second quarter drill.”

you check your sheet. “…you’re right.”

a grin spreads across his face, proud, smug. “told you.”

you swallow. “sorry.”

“don’t be,” he says easily.

he jogs back onto the court, calling plays like he owns the space— because he does. but every time he scores, he glances at you.

making sure you’re watching.

ao’nung loves that you’re quiet. it grounds him. he starts bringing you water without asking. everyone assumes you’re invisible. ao’nung never does. he teases you gently, never cruel. saves his sharp edges for everyone else. you know his stats better than anyone. that secretly matters to him.

after a game, they win.

of course they do.

the gym is chaos— cheers, chants, phones out. ao’nung is swarmed by teammates and friends, clapped on the back, lifted into laughter.

you’re packing up quietly when he finds you.

“hey,” he says, breathless. “you’re leaving?”

“i didn’t want to get in the way.”

he frowns. “you’re literally part of the team.”

then, without thinking, he grabs your wrist and pulls you toward the locker hallway.

you panic. “ao’nung—!”

he stops, realizing. releases you instantly. “…sorry.”

you stare at the floor. “it’s okay.”

he exhales, running a hand down his face. the bravado slips.

“i just—” he hesitates. “you disappear too fast.”

your heart stutters. “why would that matter?”

he looks at you. really looks.

“…because i like it when you're around.”

you start studying together.

at first, it’s just homework. you tutor him in math. he helps you with confidence— correcting you when you apologize too much, making you repeat answers louder.

“again,” he says gently. “you know it.”

you nod. “i know it.”

“then say it like you do.”

slowly, you do.

one night, he shows up late. quieter than usual.

“rough practice?” you ask.

he shakes his head. “scout said i’m good. not great.”

you blink. “that’s… bad?”

“it is when everyone expects perfection.”

he sinks into the chair beside you, shoulders heavy.

“people think i don’t care,” he mutters. “that i’m just arrogant.”

you look at him. the real him. “you care more than anyone.”

his jaw tightens.

“…thanks.”

that’s the night he stops performing around you.

pep rally.

the cheerleaders surround him. cameras flash. someone kisses his cheek. the crowd screams.

you watch from the back, heart sinking. of course this is his world. loud. bright. nothing like you.

you leave early.

later, your phone buzzes.

ao’nung— where did you go you— home. didn’t want to bother you

there’s a knock at your door an hour later.

you open it to find him standing there, hoodie pulled tight, eyes serious.

“don’t decide what i want for me,” he says quietly.

you whisper, “i don’t belong in your life.”

he steps closer. “you’re the part that feels real.”

silence stretches.

he doesn’t kiss you. doesn’t rush.

just rests his forehead against yours.

“when you’re ready,” he murmurs. “i’m here.”

ao’nung stops showing off when you’re around. doesn’t need to. he listens to you. really listens. you attend every game. he plays better when he knows you’re there. he defends you fiercely when people underestimate you. you teach him humility. he teaches you confidence. he falls hard. slowly. completely.

NETEYAM SULLY

you meet because of student council.

you flop into the seat beside him like you own the place, ponytail swinging, lip gloss freshly applied.

“hi,” you beam. “you’re neteyam, right?”

he looks up from his neatly organized notes, blinks once.

“…yeah.”

“cool, i'm... cheer captain. i talk a lot.”

a corner of his mouth twitches. “i noticed.”

you laugh, unbothered. “good. keeps things interesting.”

he glances at you again — really looks this time. the confidence. the ease. the way you fill space so naturally.

interesting is one word for it.

neteyam admires your confidence even if he doesn’t understand it at first. you tease him for color-coding his notes. he pretends to be annoyed. he always holds doors open for you. always. everyone assumes you’d never go for someone like him. everyone is wrong. neteyam is quietly protective. always watching. always aware.

cheer practice runs late.

football practice runs later.

you’re stretching on the sidelines when neteyam jogs over, towel around his neck, hair damp with sweat.

“you okay?” he asks.

you grin. “me? always.”

you attempt a stunt again. land wrong. wobble.

he’s there instantly, hands on your waist, steadying you.

“careful,” he murmurs.

your breath catches. “you stalking me, sully?”

he exhales a soft laugh. “someone has to make sure you don’t break your neck.”

“wow. romantic.”

he meets your eyes. steady. serious. “i mean it.”

for the first time, your smile softens.

you sit together during lunch now.

people stare. whisper. speculate.

“they think we’re dating,” you say lightly, popping a fry into your mouth.

neteyam stiffens. “does that bother you?”

you tilt your head. “does it bother you?”

he considers. honest as always. “…no.”

later, you catch him rubbing his temple, staring at a test score like it personally offended him.

“hey,” you say. “you got a 94.”

“i know.”

“neteyam, that’s basically illegal.”

he sighs. “i just don’t like slipping.”

you lean closer. “you don’t slip. you breathe.”

he looks at you — really looks — and for once, he lets himself smile without restraint.

“you make things feel lighter,” he admits.

you grin. “told you i was useful.”

pep rally night.

you’re electric. chants, jumps, smiles so bright they hurt. neteyam watches from the bleachers, arms crossed, eyes never leaving you.

after, he finds you behind the gym, sitting on the steps, energy finally winding down.

“you okay?” he asks, mirroring your earlier question.

you shrug. “being ‘on’ all the time gets tiring.”

he sits beside you. close, but respectful.

“…you don’t have to perform for me,” he says quietly.

your throat tightens.

“you don’t have to be perfect for me either.”

he turns to you, surprised.

and in that moment, something shifts.

it’s late. quiet. just the hum of the lights.

you lean back on your hands. “you ever do something just for yourself?”

neteyam thinks. “…not enough.”

you smile softly. “you should.”

he watches you. your openness. your warmth.

“…i am,” he says.

you lean in first.

he meets you halfway.

gentle. careful. like he treats everything precious.

when you pull back, his forehead rests against yours.

“i’d protect you with my life,” he says simply.

you laugh softly, eyes shining. “yeah. i know.”

neteyam walks you to your car every night. you drag him to dances. he pretends to hate them. he cheers the loudest for you. always. you remind him life isn’t a checklist. he reminds you you’re more than applause. together, you’re unstoppable — heart and honor in perfect balance.