![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ππ±π¦π―.
s h a d o w;
1. a dark area or shape produced by a body coming between rays of light and a surface.
2. used in reference to proximity, ominous oppressiveness, or sadness and gloom.
OTA 25/8 - Action, Texts, Etc.
( art )
s h a d o w;
1. a dark area or shape produced by a body coming between rays of light and a surface.
2. used in reference to proximity, ominous oppressiveness, or sadness and gloom.
OTA 25/8 - Action, Texts, Etc.
( art )
no subject
Had fun last night, delinquent?
[ a palm to a door, a presence (or lack thereof) against megumi's back. the bulk of a body trained specifically to aggress, curled and corralling a much smaller one. there's an unspoken promise here, that the fingers splayed against scratched wood could push forward and tear through this flimsy partition like paper...
...but toji doesn't. yawning, he bends forward and puts his jaw on the crown of megumi's head. ]
What's up with this room?
[ without consideration. with a degree of carelessness that doesn't belong to a man who abandoned his single-digit-aged child at the height of his tenderness. picking up a nonexistent conversation from a nonexistent time, as if toji and megumi have started a cordial relationship somewhere along the line and toji is going through the motions.
toji wasn't worried, no. but he is, in fact, curious. ]
no subject
i don't care.
the weight of toji using him as a perch is somehow less oppressive than the hand against the door. ]
Get off of me.
[ not an answer to either question; he has no intention of doing so, after all. his hands are free. he could call his divine dogs. he could call nue. beings megumi has treated with kindness whether he meant to or not, both in the perceived battlefield of jujutsu shaman and the lesser acknowledged one of growing up and figuring each other out. he knows more about them than this man who he turns to shove away from him.
it's graceless and stupid, and megumi is not a stupid person.
he doesn't think toji is here for anything other than he said.
if he lies, if he tells him a random place where gojou certainly isn't. will he leave then?
for some reason, it feels important, keeping him out of itadori's room, keeping him from even splintering the door.
not that it would take much. the school is old. they both know that. ]
no subject
and, really: what has gojou been teaching him, all these years? he's given the brat a decade to hammer some useful skills into megumi, and he's still letting a stranger take his back. sigh. ]
Aah, I've really gone and made you hate me, huh.
[ AS IF... THAT WASN'T CLEAR FROM THE START... but, let's be real, toji is only saying this for the sake of saying it. his tone verges on dry, even when he reaches and tries to close his fingers around the collar of megumi's oversized shirt.
if he manages, he.
picks megumi up the way someone would pick a cat up by the scruff of its neck. ]
But you should be more careful. Bristling like that's just gonna make me more curious.
[ again: what's in the room? ]
no subject
as if that could have saved her.
he knows just enough to know better.
whatever he's better or worse in aside however, he'd thought he wasn't quite this bad.
or is toji just very good?
he knows nothing about him other than his observations: absent, absent, non-presence, and β
β strong.
knowing precisely how little good it will do, megumi at least tries to reach one hand to toji's wrist. even if he almost certainly fails, doing nothing isn't something he has in him, yet. probably never. and call it a sixth sense or what-have-you, but he doesn't want to call his shikigami out.
it feels...dangerous.
and maybe megumi never fears for himself but the same can't be said of how he feels for others, born of flesh and blood or shadows or light. ]
What is your problem? Go find Gojou-sensei. If he owes you, I don't care. There's nothing here for you.
[ he's not speaking about himself though it could easily be construed as such. if nothing else, he just wants to keep toji out of itadori's room. it's selfish and presumptuous to let himself mourn. they hadn't known each other long. they weren't family.
itadori's voice is an echo that doesn't stop. "please."
he'll have nightmares; he knows. maybe it's for the best that he can't find a place or moment to sleep. he wonders if he kicks out at toji, if he'll break his legs, if it would matter. if he would care even less than that.
"have a little faith."
no.
not like this, anyway. ]
no subject
here's what he knows about megumi, now: he's sentimental. there's something beyond that door that breaks his heart, and he's fighting to keep a stranger from walking barefoot into sacred territory. thin fingers to a thick wrist, flimsy digits that toji could break in a millisecond. what then?
stupid. sentiment is the sort of thing that'd get megumi killed in half a heartbeat. ]
You're not wrong.
[ there really isn't anything for him here. if there was, he's gotten it already: the guarantee of megumi's wellbeing, made real. megumi is alive and breathing and very much against the idea of breathing the same air as him; small comforts.
still. there's one thing that toji wants to confirm. or, well. not confirm, because he knows it alreadyβ he just wants to hear it from the kid's mouth.
(in another life, toji is long dead and will only utter these words from the safety of his inevitable return to the afterlife. it'll be the only thing that drives him to sink the sharp end of an invincible weapon into his skull.) ]
Hey. [ out of nowhere: ] What's your name?
no subject
engaging with someone who he swore at six didn't matter to him not knowing that couldn't possibly be true for someone like himself (probably both too much like his mother and his father all at once, if from a different time, a liminal space of change cut short), is out of his wheelhouse. when toji asks him his name, megumi can't help his confusion or is spike of frustration. he's learned at this point to control and conserve his cursed energy but that's not equivalent to his feelings.
his fingers are brittle things when they curl tight, branches in winter. but it's strange perhaps, hard to tell if he grips tighter as if to hold on or to tear away.
one has to wonder why these things are so close to the same. ]
You of all people should know.
[ without meaning to, without understanding what he denies him, fushiguro megumi of the coveted zen'in ten shadows technique, lashes back; the sore spot of the name he couldn't leave behind and wanted to hate because this man gave it to him. ]
no subject
a teenager's denial, given fangs. toji actually has the nerve to laugh. ]
You'd think.
[ funny story, megumiβ your father'd made it a point to forget, for a longass time. the irony isn't lost to him, and once he starts laughing, it doesn't stop. silent chuckles wrack his spine, constricting his lungs until they knock at the hollow space between his ribs.
it isn't funny. still, he grins. and eventually?
lets go. unceremoniously, like a puppet on a cut string. ]
Megumi.
[ toji gives up on barging into the silent room tucked next to megumi's. relinquishes that act of invasion, in favor of this one. that three-syllabled curse he'd bestowed on a kid who, even by his own admission, probably deserved better. ]
no subject
all of the things he doesn't know about him, about gojou satoru, about ten years ago, well, maybe he'll never know.
is it completely his fault for not asking?
he stares, eyes wider than he knows as toji laughs and laughs and laughs.
it's like looking at an animal.
subconsciously, it hurts.
then toji drops him and megumi is so distracted he fumbles in the fall, ends up on his knees. some of it is undoubtedly exhaustion. but he raises his head at the alien sound of his name on his father's tongue.
so that's what it sounds like. ]
I guess it really is you.
[ it's only as he says that, that megumi realizes fully how much he'd been waiting to find out he was wrong, that all the details pointing to the obvious were still fallible things and twisted wishful thinking with no promise of consolation. his mouth presses thin but it's almost a smile that's so void of amusement it can hardly be called that, but it does make him look even more like toji.
not that he knows that; not that he'd admit it if he did.
the door to itadori's room at his back remains closed. in the midst of all this, that's a comfort. and how like itadori yuuji to be that comfort, even after he's dead. ]
no subject
megumi.
(he's lying in bed next to a soft woman with the curve of her body aligned next to his, with the swell of her stomach under the flat of his palm. "have you been thinking of names?", she murmurs into her pillow, and toji is just relaxed enough and just foolish enough, in that moment between sleep and wakefulness, to nose against her hair and to whisper, offhandedly:
"megumi.")
he stares at that boy-shaped lump on that floor, gaze devoid of emotion, and breathes. in and out. ]
Guess it is.
[ it's all he can think of to say. "surprise", he mouths.
he takes a step back. combs his palm through his grown-out bangs. ] Anything you want to say?
no subject
the answer is never simple. 'yes' and 'no' are luxuries beyond megumi's gojou-provided stipend, beyond his dead mother's kindest wishes. ]
Anything you want to say?
[ it would be a lie to say it doesn't hurt. this is both the answer and also his own question. blood shouldn't decide how much one cares. so why? he tells himself he's just tired and doesn't believe it at all. he has a silly pointless thought as he tilts his head back to look up at toji β this weird concept that he should seem taller or scarier or sadder or something. but he isn't any of those things.
knowing what happened wouldn't help either of them. that's what megumi tells himself every split second in the space between them, centering on things he washed his hands free of in an alleyway quite some time ago. ]
no subject
No.
[ this is, to him, the correct answer. there's nothing to say. their relationship, or lack thereof, is built on nothing. megumi owes him nothing. there's nothing toji can say or do that would make sense in the context of this situation. toji wasn't expecting anything by being here, and he wasn't expecting anything even after serendipity brought him to megumi's window. heβ
(β"take care of megumi, okay?")
βpauses. watches the way megumi sinks his hand into his shadow, observes the shape of his face, the silence of his body language.
he knows grief when he sees it. his mantra, i don't care i don't care i don't care, quiets for an impossible few beats. ]
You do the talking. [ yell, scream, kick, bite, anything.
if megumi has none of these options at his disposal, then. well.
toji will leave. easy as that. ]
no subject
his head bows not in respect or submission but sheer tiredness. even so, his voice is strange with clarity and something sharp in the center. ]
I can't get a hold of Gojou-sensei. So you probably won't either.
[ to someone who doesn't know him, that might sound like an attempt at leverage or at least a snide remark. but megumi is megumi. he doesn't mean it as either of those things, though he kind of wishes that he did. it would be easier wouldn't it? instead, though his tone is as impassive as ever, the same can't be said of his dizzied head and heart that always seems ajar. he can feel toji leaving and he told him to do as much, didn't he?
but, no matter history, no matter logic, no matter; because part of megumi rejects that.
the shadows slip a little further up his forearm.
under his breath, perhaps not even audible entirely: he's been paying him all this time...
the previously faint memory of gojou beginning to say "your dad, I..." returns and megumi almost laughs. what was he going to tell him back then? about this?
answer: sort of. likelihood of megumi finding out for certain: 50/50. ]
no subject
stupid fucking kid. stupid, dumbass fucking kid. for once, toji didn't ask about gojou and his six eyes and the billions in his pocket, and here's megumi with his eyes to the ground and his forearms painted up to his elbows in mud-black.
stupid fucking kid.
it's been a long time since toji's ever given enough fucks about anything to let himself get angry; maybe ten years and counting, fresh off of a defeat he should've seen coming. despite toji's expressiveness, his mood is mercurial: never too far from center, because having a strong opinion means putting in that extra inch of commitment. too risky.
too troublesome.
still, he knows what this is. the bile he feels in the back of his throat, the completely unwarranted anxiety that coils up his windpipe and makes him taste acid.
stupid fucking kid.
without warning, he closes the gap of space between them. takes that one step that brings him by megumi's side, and reaches with one too-warm hand to haul that thin, tired frame up and off of the floor. his grip, he knows, is hard enough to bruise; a silent threat that he's not going to let megumi struggle, not against this.
he walks away from that forbidden door, his son in tow. drags the kid, definitely not kicking nor screaming, back to his empty room with its sterile walls. nearly throws him onto his bed, where the mattress jumps and the few personal belongings that toji'd pilfered scatter back onto the floor like dominoes.
toji says nothing. after all, he did tell megumi to do the talking. ]
no subject
it prods at something primitive and very genetic perhaps.
green eyes stay unfocused on the ceiling. right, this is his room.
he almost forgot. ]
You know,
[ he braces one hand shakily at his side to push, bringing him upright again, though his gaze only sluices from ceiling to floor, toji's feet barely within frame. ]
I don't understand.
[ his tone has no expectations. talk? about what? to who? the items on the ground register almost like someone else's belongings, and megumi stays silent not because he has nothing to say but because he has mostly questions. toji won't answer them. so what's the point?
but, maybe more than all of the ones he had before now, he has one that thieved its way to the top. what made him angry?
and why? ]
no subject
megumi is the adult in this situation. he has the wherewithal to question what he doesn't understand; toji doesn't. with everything he has, he tries to look away from it. his anger. his disappointment, mostly in himself.
(again, that echo: "take care of megumi, okay?")
his flashbang emotions scatter like shrapnel. megumi, limp and tired on the bed, fades in and out of focus. this time, toji doesn't push him back onto the mattress.
he's collecting his ire and trying to set fire to them, until he has nothing left to burn. ]
If the Gojou kid doesn't come back [ he says, his voice low to the ground ], I'm going to kill him.
[ hypocrisy at its finest. of all the things toji is angry about, this isn't even at the top of his list (the real point of contention is how little effort megumi expends to defend himself, his hurt and his own feelings)β but it's the easiest thing to focus on amidst the myriad of nebulous bullshit he's trying to compartmentalize.
gojou promised. money in return for megumi's life. now the money's stopped, and megumi is here, grief-laden next to an empty room.
toji could tear gojou in half right now, if the brat were in front of him. ]
no subject
[ that word settles between them like another thing on the floor inhabited by cursed and subtly constant motion. does he think he could force toji to listen? of course not. does he have delusions of protecting the man who is alone in heaven and earth the honored one? also negative. yet 'no' comes out of his chapped mouth, emanates from the white knuckled grip his hands have on his mussed bedcovers, silently echoes in the room.
he's tired.
megumi's expression, hard and sharp if only from strain, softens now not because he's suddenly forgiving or gentler but because he's at the edge of his limits. so tired.
but what does he mean when he says 'no' anyway?
no, he can't? no, he shouldn't? no, then where will he get his money? no, that's the man who saved me and tsumiki?
too complicated. too much. and he doesn't think for a second that toji's anger has anything to do with himself, with what's gone wrong or what's missing.
because, well, why would it?
'no' is how he leaves it, and dares to raise his head finally, to peer up calmer than he's felt this whole time from last night until now. exhausted. sad. self-loathing. they come to roost not a murder of crows but the edge tendrils of a storm.
megumi can't possibly know this, has no way of understanding how in this moment the unintentional heart on his sleeve is closer to the image of his mother than his father. ]
no subject
and it's in the way megumi looks up at him that toji sees all of his fuckups in one place, sees all the ways in which megumi's mother has persisted in this small frame, no thanks to toji and his broken promises.
he wants to laugh again, but he finds that he's also tired. strange.
so he sits on the floor of megumi's cold room. legs folded, shoulders hunched, expression neutral. ]
I'm gonna kill him. [ petulantly. on this point, toji doesn't budge.
and, after a beat: ] ...Get some sleep. [ he sighs between his teeth, and it sounds like a hiss. ] You look like hell.
no subject
β oh.
if toji wasn't here, megumi still wouldn't cry.
but the tension in his temples, the heat crawling up his neck, the unmistakable sting...these things are real just the same.
he closes his eyes and, stupidly, thinks he should get up again, at least throw the covers at the man on his floor who would be convenient to hate like a simple math problem if that were possible. but megumi slips into overdue slumber just like that. maybe it's that he's been feeling too much in succession, but the cold doesn't register even though he remains on top of everything, like some stray cat on a pile of what's there.
his last thoughts as he drifts off are: 1. tsumiki would be disappointed in him; 2. gojou better check his texts or his voicemail; and 3. toji reminds him of an animal, yes, but also β
β a child.
strange. ]
no subject
(he knows why he broke his own equilibrium today, but it still unsettles him.)
toji doesn't turn to watch megumi fall asleep. back to the bed and his ankles crossed, he waits and listens for the sound of breathing to settle from neutral to restful: an involuntary defense mechanism for a tired body.
it's only after he's sure that the rhythm is persisting that he gets up, pivots, and settles his focus on that sleeping face.
surreal.
megumi, a monochromatic heap on mussed blankets, is simultaneously bigger and smaller than toji thought he'd be. with his eyes open, he radiates quiet maturity; with them closed, he's still just a kid.
toji doesn't bother trying to shift his son to cover him with blankets. instead, he moves to the closet and piles a loose jacket over his son's rumpled form. with that done, he maneuvers back towards the window that he'd come in from.
considers leaving. for good, this time.
(what good is it to stay?)
for the first time in a long time, toji lets himself think. about gojou, about his bank account, about megumi.
mostly megumi. it wears him out.
but his conclusion is this: until the gojou kid comes back. a time limit. a countdown until he can be barely an afterthought again, corralled into irrelevancy like the memories of him in the zen'in house.
until the gojou kid comes back.
so toji hauls himself up and out of megumi's widow, scales the walls of the boy's dormitory, and lays flat on the roof like some morbid shikigami, himself.
oh well. it is what it is. ]
no subject
he checks his window and then, as much as he doesn't want to, he does in fact open the door to itadori's room: also nothing.
the sense that toji is still here, however, he can't shake, foolish as it is.
closing the door to itadori's room, he pauses. he should go find kugisaki, see how she's doing. anything is better than nothing. there's training to be done with the second years too, though before that he has to return a dead son's nametag to the only person in the world who will mourn him.
at the end of the day he's noticed what he failed to the night before β the push of his hand through the shadows. it bothers him less than he thought it would, that it's sukuna's words which brought him to consider pushing further than what he knows. maybe he'll change his mind later; but for now it's just the slow thoughtful simmer of untapped potential, trying to make itself articulate.
still outside, he stops in front of the building.
it might be sentimental, or simply emotional, or something more complicated when megumi murmurs soft under his breath the incantation for the remaining divine dog. it hasn't fully manifested before it's in his arms and he presses his forehead to its nose in apology. aside from tsumiki, they are the ones who were with him the longest. and they aren't animals. they are his own energy. but megumi calls upon them, speaks to them, has faced death with them.
he hasn't lost until now though and...in its own way it's too much.
itadori above all, one would argue; because he was human, because this wasn't his world to begin with.
megumi tries not to be a selfish person and mostly, one can objectively say, succeeds in every category except one: the lives he saves. maybe it's karmic, this uselessness. but he's not one who believes in that anyway, so who cares?
under the moon, fushiguro megumi and divine dog black are two blots of shadow that steep into each other. the way he rested his hand on nue's head was no accident of compassion; he pushes his fingers back through his dog's fur in a way that is as grateful at least one is still here as it is sorry. but the loyalty of two dogs will be found in one now and megumi can already feel it, the intrinsic part of him that manifested so many years ago.
if toji has stayed somewhere, megumi of course cannot feel him, but even if he could it's uncertain whether he would go to him because again: what would be the point?
it doesn't stop him wondering. ]