JANE

The boy had invited you earlier this morning to a friendly brawl. He came knocking on your dorm, already in his gym clothes, and all he had to do was cock a head over his shoulder. You understood, waved a hand dismissively before closing the door on him to get changed. Megumi particularly enjoys having you as his opponent because of your sharp, tactical, and strategic fighting style (currently debating whether he still does right now because you’re acting like his white-haired guardian) and the fact that your cursed techniques are so similar. 

Well, complementary. 

He has his Ten Shadows Technique; you have your Light Spectral Manipulation. 

Megumi loves abusing Gama—his toad—when you piss him off, even when you’ve already laid the ground rules that he is not to use Mahoraga, Orochi, fucking Bansho, and Gama. The other three were self-explanatory; even he would not agree to summon them out for a casual brawl. They were too powerful for friendly fire. 

But Gama? His precious little toad, he will admit, he was puzzled; but not for the reason he expected. 

Gama was not allowed solely for the fact that you hated frogs.

"That seriously isn't fucking fair." You make an ostentatious display of annoyance as you brush dirt from your sleeves. He just shrugs, unbothered. “You started it.”

Clicking your tongue, Megumi snickers and furrows his brows at you, inquiring. "We have somewhat similar techniques; why are you so grossed out by my toad?"

"Because, genius, while I have light manipulation, my shikigamis are mist spirits." You jab a finger at his chest for emphasis. "Yours are the real thing, which means your frog–”

“Toad,” he interjects. You flash him a sidelong look. “–toad is slimy and mucus-y."

"Mucus-y?" He scrunches his nose in an attempt to register your words before settling on his favorite retort. "You sure have a very extensive vocabulary."

Sarcasm.

"Oh, you understand what I mean, know-it-all." You walk away, leaving the boy behind. "No, I actually don't." He jogs up to your side. "Kindly explain?"

"No." 

You feel his presence disappear halfway through making it across the field. Something uneasy settles in your gut. He does this so often, going in for another round by ambushing you from behind, that you’ve practically anticipated it every time you head back to the dorms. Sighing, you were right as you turned around to look at him.

Although… 

This time was particularly different.

Fleeing Hares? Fine, easy even—they’re bunnies! Bunnies that kick, yes, but still bunnies.

Piercing Ox? Tolerable. Even if it’s horns butted into your backside more than twice.

Hell, even Nue grabbing you with its claws and lifting you off the ground was counterable by blinding the bird with your own spectrals.

But this?

Megumi has clenched both his fists, the side wherein his fingers dug into his palm, were facing each other. He had a stance that carried the entirety of Jujutsu's Golden Era—as if he himself had been there.

"ASSHOLE–"

With a swift motion of your arm, white mist enveloping the path of your swing, the sorcerer, almost instantly, drops his hands and lets out a laugh, one of amusement. You grit your teeth, throwing a punch he smoothly evades and parries.

"That always gets you," he jokes the obvious as he falls into step with you again. You roll your eyes and mockingly say the phrase in the deepest pitch you can muster: "'With this treasure, I summon Mahoraga~' that's how you sound. Stupid."

"So antsy." Megumi turns to face you, hands in his pockets and walks backwards. "And for what?"

"For all the right reasons," you deadpan. He tilts his head and nods solemnly. "Fair."

As you grumble, muttering incoherences, the boy hides the small smile that makes its way onto his face—he really enjoys your company.

And besides, after all this? 

Fushiguro Megumi knows that it’ll still be the same time tomorrow anyway despite your grunting and complaints.

“aww,” you cooed, matching his disinterest with sarcasm. “how sweet. would you dig me out?”

he raised a brow and pushed the vegetables around on his tray. victor thought he would like a sharpie and a thick, bound self-help book from his folks right now. perhaps by blacking out the words, it'd get through your head if you saw it instead. you were a visual learner. but alas, he settled for another daily verbal spar over your incessant questions at lockland's international dining suite.

“why would i dig you out”—he paused, stabbing a broccoli for emphasis—“if i put you there in the first place?”

you shrugged. “for kicks.”

for kicks.

for fucking kicks.

was this honestly the level of intellectual debate he found himself in at lockland university?

“would you still like me if i were a rock?”

indeed it was.

“no,” he deadpanned as he turned to stand from the dining hall table. “that’s a stupid question.”

“you're no fun.” following his lead, you got up as well. victor watched you from his peripheral, where he hid a twisted smile that often appeared before he lied. “i wasn’t trying to be.”

thunder cracked across the sky as rain battered his back. victor didn’t like inconveniences such as this—being soaked through his black coat. it had been two weeks since the incident. two weeks since he had gained the ability to manipulate pain within himself and others. and a week since he had escaped from prison. he had desperately wanted what eli had—being an extraordinary—not knowing then what the cost would be.

now he stood in the middle of a field, headstones littering every empty space, his heels dug into the muck that enveloped his shoes. victor usually moved with reason. standing here, rereading the name on the stone, was not one of them.

victor knew there had been a funeral. eli fucking attended the damn thing, as if he weren’t responsible for the events of the last week and the week before that. if it weren’t for the topic of his senior thesis, then maybe—perhaps—there would have been a chance you wouldn't have become a part of this.

the graveyard was too open. too vulnerable for another potential arrest. but he couldn’t bring himself to drag himself away from your engraved tombstone.

your name, date of birth, and date of death.

victor hadn't attended. couldn't. not when the entirety of lockland and the merit city police had been searching for him thanks to his friend.

he kneeled in the mud, delicately placing a single white rose atop your tomb. he supposed the only silver lining to his power was that he could suppress everything he felt within himself.

even heartache.

but right now, it didn’t sit right with him. victor needed to feel this.

he reread the stone over and over—a tick that would eventually become a habit, even as he walked away from this place, whenever he’d close his eyes. victor stood once more and quietly finished the conversation he'd had with you a month ago.

back before he killed you.

“damn you...” the corner of his lip twitched upward into a sordid smile, the same moment he felt the twisted twinge in his heart. “you have some way of pestering people even in your fucking grave.”

the air thrummed beneath his fingertips as he walked away. this had always been between eli and victor. you had just been collateral—someone who happened to be at the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the wrong person.

but now...

now, victor could finally keep it between them.

he turned the dial down, numbing every feeling, and swore the only time he would ever let himself feel his heart again would be when he killed eliot cardale.

he didn't believe in love...

but victor vale was not heartless.

“aww,” you cooed, matching his disinterest with sarcasm. “how sweet. would you dig me out?”

he raised a brow and pushed the vegetables around on his tray. victor thought he would like a sharpie and a thick, bound self-help book from his folks right now. perhaps by blacking out the words, it'd get through your head if you saw it instead. you were a visual learner. but alas, he settled for another daily verbal spar over your incessant questions at lockland's international dining suite.

“why would i dig you out”—he paused, stabbing a broccoli for emphasis—“if i put you there in the first place?”

you shrugged. “for kicks.”

for kicks.

for fucking kicks.

was this honestly the level of intellectual debate he found himself in at lockland university?

“would you still like me if i were a rock?”

indeed it was.

“no,” he deadpanned as he turned to stand from the dining hall table. “that’s a stupid question.”

“you're no fun.” following his lead, you got up as well. victor watched you from his peripheral, where he hid a twisted smile that often appeared before he lied. “i wasn’t trying to be.”

thunder cracked across the sky as rain battered his back. victor didn’t like inconveniences such as this—being soaked through his black coat. it had been two weeks since the incident. two weeks since he had gained the ability to manipulate pain within himself and others. and a week since he had escaped from prison. he had desperately wanted what eli had—being an extraordinary—not knowing then what the cost would be.

now he stood in the middle of a field, headstones littering every empty space, his heels dug into the muck that enveloped his shoes. victor usually moved with reason. standing here, rereading the name on the stone, was not one of them.

victor knew there had been a funeral. eli fucking attended the damn thing, as if he weren’t responsible for the events of the last week and the week before that. if it weren’t for the topic of his senior thesis, then maybe—perhaps—there would have been a chance you wouldn't have become a part of this.

the graveyard was too open. too vulnerable for another potential arrest. but he couldn’t bring himself to drag himself away from your engraved tombstone.

your name, date of birth, and date of death.

victor hadn't attended. couldn't. not when the entirety of lockland and the merit city police had been searching for him thanks to his friend.

he kneeled in the mud, delicately placing a single white rose atop your tomb. he supposed the only silver lining to his power was that he could suppress everything he felt within himself.

even heartache.

but right now, it didn’t sit right with him. victor needed to feel this.

he reread the stone over and over—a tick that would eventually become a habit, even as he walked away from this place, whenever he’d close his eyes. victor stood once more and quietly finished the conversation he'd had with you a month ago.

back before he killed you.

“damn you...” the corner of his lip twitched upward into a sordid smile, the same moment he felt the twisted twinge in his heart. “you have some way of pestering people even in your fucking grave.”

the air thrummed beneath his fingertips as he walked away. this had always been between eli and victor. you had just been collateral—someone who happened to be at the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the wrong person.

but now...

now, victor could finally keep it between them.

he turned the dial down, numbing every feeling, and swore the only time he would ever let himself feel his heart again would be when he killed eliot cardale.

he didn't believe in love...

but victor vale was not heartless.