Archive of Our Own ^beta

Seven months, three days, two hours and five minutes after Satoru died, the world ended, restarted, and Sukuna was defeated, Megumi gets a call. He’s at his and Yuji’s ramshackle apartment—where he is most of the time, relearning to live has been hard–when his phone, collecting dust on the bedside table, rings. Megumi stares at it with vague interest and collapsing dread. Yuji has been a godsend in ensuring Megumi’s broken mind and body aren’t bothered by the outside world and as a result Megumi hasn’t gotten a phone call in a long, long time. Of course when he does, Yuji is at Jujutsu Tech for the day. 

The tips of Megumi’s fingers don’t pick up sensation like they used to. His fingers slip twice across the smooth cover of his phone before he manages to get a hold of it. The number across the screen is unfamiliar. He doesn’t answer. The phone goes quiet. Megumi puts it by his pillow and sinks back down, swallowing around the nausea that little bit of effort inflicted on him. Megumi closes his eyes, listens to the quiet sound of the street outside and thinks that he could probably fall asleep before his pain meds wear off and he’s left mostly paralyzed. 

The phone rings again.

He lets it ring through. 

It rings again barely a minute later.

Breathing a pained curse, Megumi snatches the phone up. It’s the same unknown number. Gritting his teeth he answers with an irritated hello.

“Hello, is this Megumi Fushiguro?”

It’s a man’s voice.

“Yes,” Megumi says. “Who is this?”

“Ah, forgive the multiple calls, but I have some very important business to discuss with you. I’m Kenji Tajiro, Satoru Gojo’s lawyer.”

A week later Megumi is sitting in a clinically white and sleekly modern office building in the heart of Tokyo. Jennifer is at his feet, alert, her leash held loosely in Megumi’s grasp. Yuji is sitting on his right, leg bouncing and clad in his “nicest pair of joggers”. He has Megumi’s other hand nearly crushed in his grip. The dog is alert, Yuji is a ball of nerves. 

Megumi feels nothing. 

He hasn’t felt anything since the call, since Kenji Taijiro spoke Satoru’s name into the apartment that was baptized from it. He relayed the information to Yuji that evening when he came home and found Megumi sitting on the floor with Jennifer’s head in his lap. The lawyer had been vague, telling him that details–whatever that entailed–would be better discussed in person. So here they are. 

A short man–a normal, which almost shocks Megumi–with graying hair and large glasses steps out of a door next to the reception desk and leans in to converse quietly with the secretary. Then he turns and looks straight at Megumi. 

“It’s so nice to meet you Mr. Fushiguro,” Kenji says. He bows and Yuji helps Megumi stand so they can return it. He turns to Yuji, mouth going a little strained. “And you are?”

“Yuji Itadori, nice to meet you sir.”

“Yes. Ah. Follow me, we’ll discuss matters in my office.” He turns around and starts to walk away.

“Do you have a problem with Yuji being here?” Megumi asks. Yuji squeezes his palm. 

Kenji sighs. “Satoru was a very private man.”

Megumi swallows the burn of something coming up his throat and the horrifying desire to laugh. He knows how damn private Satoru was. He was an open door that shot you through the head if you managed to get over the threshold. Satoru was deceptively easy to consider open; his loudness was his cloak of invisibility. He was talking all the time and never saying anything. 

“I’m not sure he would want an audience while we discuss his business.”

“He wouldn’t have cared if it’s Yuji,” Megumi says. 

A pause, a wince, but then a resignation. “Of course, please follow me.”

Kenji’s office is grand. Mahogany paneled and lit through floor to ceiling windows that look over the nicest parts of Tokyo. A large desk sits in the middle of the room.  Yuji helps Megumi sit in one of the lush seats in front of the desk. Jennifer puts herself dutifully by his side and Yuji sits on the lip of his own chair, eyes darting around the space and leg ticking again. Kenji sits down behind the desk and pulls out a file. It has Satoru’s name on the little tab on the top. 

“Before we begin, and I hate to ask this, but you have a sister, correct?”

Ash in Megumi’s mouth. 

“Had.”

A brief wince that wrinkles the flesh between Kenji’s brows. “I figured. I am sorry for your loss, Mr. Fushiguro. I cannot imagine how difficult this time must be for you.”

The file is slid over the desk. Megumi stares at it for a few seconds before flipping it open with numb fingers. He reads the paperwork, skims Satoru’s elegant signature at the bottom. Blinks. Reads it again. And again. And one more time. 

An ocean roars in his ears on the last read through. Megumi puts the file down, looks across the desk. 

“What is this?”

“Satoru Gojo’s last will and testament,” Kenji says, reading a copy of the page in front of Megumi. “Written May first nineteen eighty nine. Revised December twenty second two thousand and sixteen. Notarized January third, two thousand seventeen. The revision, the true and final version of this will, states that in the case of death, Megumi Fushiguro and Tsumiki Fushiguro will receive in equal parts the entirety of Satoru Gojo’s assets.”

Kenji looks up at Megumi. “Sadly, Tsumiki Fushiguro is deceased. You are the sole heir to Satoru Gojo’s assets.”

Megumi looks back at the page, flips to the next one. A list. A long, detailed list, and a sum of money that makes Megumi taste copper. Yuji is leaning in now, staring wide eyed at the page.

“I’m. I’m not of Gojo blood,” Megumi says in a whisper. “I’m adopted.”

“Yes.” Kenji pulls out another page and slides it to Megumi. A copy of the official adoption forms from two thousand and ten. “And it doesn’t matter.”

It does though. Satoru was the head of his clan. His money is old. Ancient even, woven into the blood and dirt of the compound in Kyoto. That money is bloody, Megumi can’t just. He’s Zenin if anything. 

“I know of his family situation, if that is what you’re worried about,” Kenji says. “The assets are entirely Satoru Gojo’s. The family has no legal claim to it.”

“How? My da– he was underpaid in his profession, this amount exceeds anything he could have saved.” Especially since Satoru threw money around like it was nothing, but Megumi understood very quickly that the money from Satoru’s family was not so much Satoru’s as it appeared to be. Megumi figured it went right back to the family the moment Satoru’s brain died. 

“It was a long legal battle,” Kenji says. He looks a little bit haunted. Megumi thinks maybe there was a physical battle too. “But Satoru was able to secure the money that was rightfully his.” Kenji taps the dizzying number. “Which to be completely honest is more than this amount. The estate is also by legal and traditional terms,  his.”

The estate is not on the list. It doesn’t surprise Megumi at all. Satoru hated the estate with a passion. He’d taken Megumi there twice. And both times he didn’t really have a choice. 

“They’re all old and boring. So just think about something else while they’re talking.”

“You always tell me to respect and listen to my elders.”

“Respect is a two way street, but they’ve kept one side under construction forever. In my opinion, Megs, screw them.”

Megumi had scoffed, refused to let Satoru tie his shoes and tripped on the unkempt laces three steps out the door. The front of his white yukata, made to match Satoru’s, had been stained brown. Satoru laughed at him, then lifted him up and put him on his hip, even though Megumi was probably too big to be carried. 

Jennifer puts her head on Megumi’s knee. He scratches her ears, takes a breath. 

“Who will take care of the estate?” Yuji asks. 

“I’m probably not at liberty to say, but Satoru spoke of a cousin of his who could take it in the event that he passed away.”

“Yuta Okkotsu,” Megumi says to the form. Satoru’s actual blood relative who should be receiving all of this stuff.  The estate is not on the list, Satoru’s cars, one he actually donated to the school are, several checking accounts, each piece of Satoru’s luxury closet listed with value and. Megumi has to bite back a sound. Value and location. There towards the bottom of the list is Megumi’s childhood home. The bungalow on the edge of the city where Satoru raised him and Tsumiki. 

“I thought he sold the house,” Megumi says, out loud, but he’s not really talking to anyone. His vision is blurring the longer he looks at the address that Satoru drilled him to memorize, that’s written in spreading ink in old backpacks and coat tags. “I thought he sold it.”

“Megumi. Hey, it’s okay,” Yuji says. He’s gathered both of Megumi’s hands, but left room for Jennifer to work if she needs to. 

“I’m fine. Just surprised.”

Yuji backs off, but he watches Megumi closely. Megumi refuses to look at him. He reads the rest of the asset list and turns the page. He flips to the front page hurriedly. The last page was about funeral desires and Megumi doesn’t think he can read that. 

“What do you need from me?” 

“A signature and then we can go about getting everything sorted out,” Kenji says. He pulls a pen out of a drawer and hands it to Megumi. “I truly am sorry for your loss. I was fond of Satoru.”

The pen bleeds dark into the paper as Megumi’s grip on it tightens. 

It takes time to process everything. For accounts to get switched over to Megumi and keys to be rounded up and mailed to him. The car he leaves at Jujutsu Tech. It served a good purpose or maybe an evil one, Megumi doesn’t have the energy to think too hard about that. He just hands the key silently to Ijichi and walks away. He feels the strange grime of wealth settle onto him as accounts swell to bursting. Megumi always knew he was beyond lucky to have Satoru as a guardian. The man spoiled the living crap out of him and Tsumiki. If they even so much as expressed vague interest in something, Satoru would find a way to make it theirs. Megumi always wore luxury brands, luxurious enough that the subtlety of his outfits were noticed as expensive only by the most wealthy. They ate food Megumi could only have imagined, and Satoru filled their lives with opportunities only money could buy. But that wealth was always Satoru’s burden and Megumi’s brattish indulgence. There isn’t that mediator between Satoru’s money and Megumi anymore. And it’s a heavy thing. 

Yuji gets home one evening towing Nobara with him. She greets Jennifer first and then pretends to notice Megumi’s existence where he sits on the couch. He feels bad today. Painful and depressed. Shoko–one of two adults who look in on them every once and awhile–had come by to check on him and recommend he look into a different pain killer and of course to mention again the possibility of antidepressants. She floated the idea of antidepressants to him a month after Satoru’s death. He’d declined. He didn’t tell her why but the idea of something messing with his brain when his body and mind are barely his again, is terrifying. He thinks maybe she knows anyway. Megumi has been on the couch since she came, watching something stupid on television and actively working to shut up the ringing of Satoru’s voice in his head. 

Nobara sits on the couch. She studies him, then sighs and leans back. 

“How’s millionaire life, Megumi?”

Megumi grunts. “Oh you know.”

“Oh come on. You’re set for life now.”

Yuji bustles over. He has a bag of drinks from a konbini in his hands. He passes Megumi a peach tea, already cracked open, that burns hot in its cold against Megumi’s fingers. He thanks Yuji, adoration in his chest, as he takes the first sip. 

“You should look into better treatment for your chronic illness,” Nobara says. She’s picking the label off her own drink, balling the pieces up and flicking them at Yuji. 

Megumi grunts again. “It’s not like I can go to an exclusively normal doctor.”

“Have you tried?”

“No,” Megumi snaps. “Leave it alone, Nobara.”

“Just because you like to sit in your misery doesn’t mean we like to watch you sit in it,” Nobara snaps back. She pelts him with a ball of wrapper. 

“Hey now,” Yuji says. “Let’s not fight.”

“Why did you even bring her over?” Megumi asks. “I didn’t want to see anyone today.”

Yuji winces and sighs. “We need to go to the house, Megumi.”

“No.”

“Yes. We can’t let it just sit there.”

Megumi puts down his tea. “It’s sat there for years already. I don’t want any of the shit in there. What use do I have for luxury sunglasses?”

“Maybe none, but Satoru left them to you and ignoring them isn’t going to help.”

“Well it’s not going to be today,” Megumi says. The tea tastes like nothing on the back of his tongue. 

“Great!” Nobara cheers. She swipes up the remote where it was slowly sinking into the couch. She pulls up some streaming service that is paid for by someone who isn’t Megumi or Yuji, and puts on something animated and colorful. “We haven’t had a sleepover in a long time!”

In the rainy light of the next day, Ijichi drives them down nostalgic streets, and past the park where Megumi broke his arm falling off the jungle gym, to the front of the white house. It looks dull and sagging, the windows dark and closed off with curtains. The plants on the porch, grown by accident one rainy summer are all dead. Megumi’s old bike leans against the fence. 

Nobara is the first out of the car, then Yuji who helps Megumi and Jennifer out. Ijichi had gotten out with them, he looks up at the house in silence, his face cast in mourning. Megumi turns away, pulls the single key out of his pocket and limps up the creaking stairs onto the creaking porch. The others follow in silence, like they suddenly understand that this is a tomb that Megumi is opening.

Someone had maintained the locks. The key slides in smoothly, turns gently, the lock coming undone with a healthy click. Megumi chews the inside of his lip until he tastes blood. Jennifer snuffles his pant leg and Yuji reaches forward to put a hand on his back. 

It's dark. And it smells like dust, but in the spill of light from the open door a shoe cubby is illuminated with pairs of shoes still tucked into the holes. The welcome mat is still there, the key catch, a hand crafted ceramic bowl that Megumi had made in school and in it oh. God. Megumi turns away, breathes heavy, leans down to put his hands on his knees. Yuji makes a soft hurt sound. 

A soft pile of well worn bandages sits in the bottom of the bowl surrounded by the contents of Satoru’s pockets. Candy, wrappers, scraps of papers scribbled with little notes. Megumi can’t do this. This was a terrible idea. 

Nobara flips on a light. 

“Dusty,” she says. Nobara moves further down the hall, she probably does it on purpose, because it spurs Megumi’s protective instincts and he stands straight. 

Yuji stays close as they follow Nobara to the living room. There’s a sheet over the couch, but Satoru’s indulgent throw blankets are stacked unprotected in the middle. Megumi reaches out to smooth his hand over the top one. A light pink, weighted, soft and fluffy, caught with dust. He remembers Satoru bundled in this and eerily quiet on migraine days. Satoru had gotten both Megumi and Tsumiki soft luxurious blankets for Christmas one year. Megumi kept his in the living room closet and Tsumiki slept with hers. When she was comatose, Satoru had tucked her in with that blanket. Megumi wonders where it is now. 

The entertainment center has been immortalized. Yuji has moved to look at the figurines balanced on top of the television, and the pictures on the shelf above it. He pulls down one from Disneyland where Megumi is almost smiling, Satoru is wearing a pair of Elsa themed Minnie Mouse ears, and Tsumiki is caught mid laugh, a ring of strawberry something around her mouth. 

“You’ve always been grumpy,” Yuji says. He smiles at Megumi, and replaces the picture. 

There are so many pictures on the shelf, Megumi never knew how Satoru got them all to fit. And he knows, as he looks at a picture of Satoru asleep on the couch smeared with cake and permanent marker on his twentieth birthday, that this is not even half of all the pictures Satoru took over the years. 

“You’re welcome to any of the figurines you want,” Megumi tells Yuji. He turns to Ichiji who lingers in the hall looking out of place. “We need some boxes if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” And then he’s gone. 

Megumi takes down all the pictures, places them face up on the couch. Nobara and Yuji go through the figurines. They’re all Satoru’s Digimon, lined up from cutest to ugliest, and Megumi’s Pokemon lined up by type. He doesn’t mention that any of them are his, and his friends paw through them. If he wanted them, if he cared about them, he wouldn’t have let them sit in the living room in the first place. Every birthday, Christmas, any other gift giving occasion, Satoru would give him a little figure of whatever Pokemon he was able to get a store worker to identify for him. Megumi played one Pokemon game, and has one page of a binder filled with cards. It was never really something he loved as much as Satoru thought he did. He never mentioned the misunderstanding.

“What are we going to do with the other ones?” Yuji asks. He has an Evee and Satoru’s favorite Patamon in his hands. 

“Sell them, I guess. Or give them away,” Megumi says. 

Yuji frowns at him. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I don’t want them. I didn’t like them anyways.”

Yuji looks down at the figures in his hands, then over the arranged pictures. “You aren’t throwing those out, right?”

“Maybe,” Megumi says. He walks away before the horror on Yuji’s face makes him admit that he would never throw away the photographs. 

There’s a hall that leads down to the bedrooms. Megumi stands looking down the expanse of it which seems yawning. All the doors are closed. Tsumiki’s is painted a light, seafoam green and decorated with Keroppi stickers. Megumi’s on the other side and a few feet away, white and boring but for a little plaque with his name hung in the middle of the door. Satoru’s is unpainted as well, the only piece of decoration is a jumping Cinnamoroll sticker that Tsumiki gifted him smacked onto the very top of the door. Megumi doesn’t want to go into any of the rooms. His insides curl with displeasure at the idea. 

“I didn’t realize how involved he was with your sister, Megumi,” Nobara says as she comes up behind him. She’s looking at Tsumiki’s door, a little wistful, maybe remembering her own childhood or the lack of being a little girl like Tsumiki got to be. 

“Yeah,” Megumi says. His voice sounds disembodied. “They matched each other's energy. And. He.” Megumi swallows. “He was able to get into anything she was into.”

Satoru was good at everything, and that included intricate hair do’s, and nail art, and bearing with Tsumiki’s indecision when it came to outfits. He was good at gossiping with the mothers of Tsumiki’s friends like they were equals. As if Satoru was anywhere close to normal, as if Tsumiki was his daughter from day one. They were best friends. Tsumiki and Satoru. 

Megumi’s mind conjures up the image of Satoru bent double over a white hospital room, crying silent tears that heaved his back and dripped in long pearly lines to the floor. Standing behind the door, a juice from a vending machine in his hand, Megumi stared, turned around and let Satoru mourn. 

“Her room is probably empty,” Megumi says. He moves past it. Nobara lingers. “You can look inside if you want.”

Megumi opens his door. He’d boxed up most of his belongings when he moved onto campus. They’re stacked around the room and on the desk. His bookshelves are gone, his bed is still made, trophies from baseball have become mansions for spiders, and stuffed creatures are layered over with dust. For some reason, Megumi is surprised that Satoru had left his room alone. That he didn’t touch it after he helped Megumi pack up for school and arrange boxes in some order. 

Yuji joins him in his room looking around the space with an open interest. “What's in these?”

“Clothes mostly,” Megumi says. “Things from when I was little.”

“Oh man, you didn’t tell me you were so good at baseball. Damn, look at all those!”

“It was small league games, hardly impressive,” Megumi dismisses. He…liked playing baseball, and he was good at it. His ability to play is gone now. “No reason to touch anything in here, unless you want something.”

“No,” Yuji says, distracted as he strains to read the trophies. “Don’t you want some of these though?”

“Not really.”

“They’re memories,” Yuji says. He’s watching Megumi with sad eyes. 

“We don’t have room for them in the apartment.”

Yuji blinks. “I thought you’d move back here.”

The thought really hadn’t occurred to Megumi. This is a tomb. A stale sarcophagus of memory and bittersweet pain. It’s a dead husk without Satoru at its core like a beating heart. Even when he wasn’t there all the time in those early years, this house is Satoru’s. Megumi doesn’t want it. 

“No. I think I’ll see if Yuta wants it.”

“Megumi,” Yuji whispers. “It’s. Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Megumi says. “There isn’t anything for me here anymore. It's stupid that he even thought I would want this.”

Yuji’s jaw goes a little taut, his eyes go from sad to wounded. “Okay. It’s your choice.”

They leave Megumi’s room. The tension surrounding them comes with them to stand like a heavy shadow behind them as they stare at Satoru’s door. Nobara slips from Tsumiki’s room, she looks pale and maybe a little disturbed. They stand, shoulder to shoulder like the door is a curse, and maybe it is. 

“Whatever  is in there, we’ve got your back,” Nobara whispers. “We’re going to be okay.”

The room is pitch black. The curtains drawn snug. Megumi doesn’t fumble as he reaches for the lightswitch. He flips it on, the room floods with light. The desire to run makes him nearly dizzy. He takes a step back, raises a wrist to press it against his nose and closes his eyes. 

The bed is unmade. Blue blankets pulled back, the pillows creased, and sheets wrinkled.

It’s harder to stomach than the dusty put awayness of the rest of the house. 

How often had Satoru come back here? How often did he sleep in his old bed, exhausted and trailing pieces of himself across the porch, through the house, until he could collapse here. 

The room is hazy when Megumi opens his eyes again. Nobara is staring at the bed like the corpse it is, she moves across the room first, reaching out to touch the blankets. 

“Don’t,” Megumi rasps. “Don’t touch the bed.”

She takes her hand away, turns to look at Megumi. Her eye is glassy, her mouth trembles. If she cries they all will, and Megumi is doing so well, not crying. 

“It’s like he was just here,” Yuji says. His voice is strained. 

The closet is on the other side of the room. Megumi always thought it was too small for all the clothes Satoru didn’t wear. He crosses the room to it now, making a clean line away from the bed and all the little pieces of evidence that Satoru did not abandon the house like Megumi thought. The will had mentioned a few shirts that Megumi knows are more expensive than the damn house. He opens the closet, tries not to think about all the bright colors and candy shaded sweatshirts that Satoru would croon over, and then never got to wear. 

On the floor is a crumpled pile of dark purple fabric. An old uniform. Megumi kicks it lightly with his toe. Satoru’s residuals reflect weakly from the inner folds of the clothing when the fabric is disturbed. Megumi is going to vomit or laugh or cry. This is a cruelty that Megumi hates Satoru for. 

He starts to pull things out of the closet methodically, dropping clothing onto the floor in piles. Shirts, pants, cardigans, socks and underwear from the set of drawers on the floor of the closet. His friends don’t try to stop him and at one point Ijichi must have gotten back with boxes. Yuji brings in a stack of them and he and Nobara start putting Megumi’s piles into boxes. The closet clears out fast. Megumi pauses when he sees a box tucked into the darkest corner of the space. He yanks it off the floor and sits down next to a cardboard box of pants. 

A part of him thinks he knows what’s in the box. Yuji and Nobara gather close, putting aside the clothes in their hands. 

“What if it’s sex toys,” Nobara mumbles. 

Yuji makes a choked off sound, pinching Nobara’s arm. “Don’t say that!”

“What? It could be.”

Megumi squeezes the sides of the box and then pulls the lid off. And yeah. That’s about what he expected. The button of his old uniform glints in the light, a pair of round sunglasses rest on top of the folded fabric. Megumi pulls the items out, setting them aside. There’s  another uniform shirt under. Suguru Geto’s uniform. A pile of fading polaroids folded in the overlapping arms. Some of them look water damaged or are faded until nothing but the vaguest outlines of human figures are illuminated in static lines. Megumi looks through them quickly, passes them off to Nobara and Yuji’s curious hands. This is a part of Satoru that was both extremely loud yet held with steadfast privacy. The smiling faces of Suguru Geto and Kento and Shoko and people who have slipped into obscurity and lost their names, stare back at Megumi. He passes the last of them to Yuji and tips the box back towards himself. There’s Satoru’s old phone. Megumi remembers when he finally upgraded the thing. It took a long time.  The flip phone had eventually given up and Satoru had pouted the whole time they went to get him a phone that was actually relevant to the tech of the time. 

“Oh no way,” Nobara says. She reaches over and takes the phone out of Megumi’s hand. She flips it open, the screen is smudged and chipped in a few places. It took a beating in the years it was Satoru’s phone, even when it wasn’t falling out of his pocket feet above the ground, but also in the hands of Tsumiki and Megumi. 

“I wonder if it still works,” Yuji says. 

“No,” Megumi murmurs. “It crapped out on him years ago.”

“Why did he keep it?” Nobara asks. She snaps the phone closed and turns it over in her hands again. 

Megumi shrugs. 

They pack up the room in silence after that. Megumi doesn’t want any of the closet. Nobara looks at every piece and picks out a few things for herself, but everything else goes into boxes. The bedside table is a mess. Old medication bottles are shoved into the very back of the top drawer. There are bits and pieces of face care routines, all old to Nobara’s disappointment. There’s candy, and notes and bills, which are so weird to find that they make Megumi pause for a bit. Most of the things in the bedside table get thrown away. Yuji looks concerned as they clean out more and more medication bottles. But they date back years at one point. 

“Was he an addict?” Nobara asks quietly when the drawer is empty and a bag is tied off. “That was a lot of pill bottles.”

“He had chronic migraines,” Megumi says. “And maybe a hoarding problem.”

Yuji sighs and looks around the room. There honestly isn’t much outside of the closet and Megumi still feels a jagged stab of hurt when he looks at the bed. They need to do something about it though, check the mattress to see if there is anything that made it unsalvageable.  

Megumi reaches for the pillow. Silk pillowcase a light green color and pull it off the bed. He strips the pillow, inspects the fabric. There are a few sweat stains bleached a light yellow into the pillow. But it smells clean and barely like the shampoo that Satoru used. It is a terribly human thing, a pillow stained with sweat and scent. 

“Here.” Megumi tosses the pillowcase to Nobara and the pillow to Yuji. “Toss the pillow, pack the case.”

He refuses to feel anything as he yanks off the comforter, bundles it in his arms just for a moment, like a phantom hug, before he tosses it into the same box that the pillowcase went into. His friends let him take the bed apart himself. Quietly folded the things he tosses onto the floor. Sheets, mattress protector. The mattress itself is spotless. 

“Megumi.” Yuji reaches up to cup Megumi’s face. He turns away, running a hand under his nose, and stalks out of the room. 

Ijichi had brought another mountain of boxes, and like a man possessed, Megumi goes through the kitchen. He throws unbreakables into one box and harshly sets glass into another. His sinuses burn, wetness drips off his face and into the boxes he’s leaning over. Fatigue has started to catch up with him, and an ache has drilled itself into his bones. 

He hates Satoru for doing this to him. He hates this house and all of its ghosts.

There’s a mug on the top shelf of a cabinet that freezes Megumi in his frenzy. He reaches for it with trembling hands. And really it’s stupid that this is what makes his knees give out. Pushes him down where he curls over the mug until his forehead kisses the floor. 

Satoru bought the damn thing for himself. 

The company fucked it up. 

It should have said World's Best Dad!

But something had gone terribly wrong. 

Wld Best! Dud.

Satoru laughed until he cried when he opened it on Christmas morning the year Megumi turned ten. Tsumiki had laughed too and Megumi had been distracted by the stuffed thing that Satoru got him.

But that mug sat on the counter and in the sink and on the coffee table for years. It witnessed all the goings ons of the Gojo household. If it could talk Megumi wonders what stories it would relay. Would it talk about the good times or the bad where they would fight or be sick or injured. What stories of Satoru did it hold that Megumi wasn’t privy to. What did Satoru tell it, slumped over in the early morning, or held in the break room at school? 

Megumi cries. 

He hasn’t. In all of these months he has yet to really cry from grief, from anger. He’s sobbed in physical pain as his body relearned itself. Not like this though. Not bent over lost in the darkness of his grief, of his loss. The gaping wound in the middle of his soul, sucking away everything and leaving him numb to the glaring fact that his family is dead. 

“Oh, Megumi .”

Arms are around him and for a moment, a brief second, his mind tells him it’s Satoru. 

It's Yuji, because it’s always Yuji who saves him and keeps him afloat. Megumi curls into him, sobbing against his shirt. The click of the mug on the floor is almost enough to pull him out of the spiral. But Yuji is warm, Jennifer has come to make sure his heart isn't in danger, and Megumi doesn’t have it in him to try and get up. 

Eventually the hot greasy smell of fast food snaps Megumi back to reality. He opens his eyes, blinking twice to clear the muggy feeling and turns his face out of the heat that is Yuji’s stomach. The light in the room has changed. The sun is going down, the gray sky is more gray. Nobara and Yuta sit across from them, leaning against the cabinets. They sit in a wonky half circle around a bag of take out. 

“You feeling okay?” Yuji says. He’s looking down at Megumi, brushing his hair out of his face. 

“What time is it?” Megumi rasps. 

“About six.”

“How long?”

Yuji smiles at him. “A few hours.”

“God.” Megumi turns his face back into Yuji’s shirt. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Yuji bends down, presses his lips to Megumi’s forehead, runs his fingers through the little tangles that have knotted themselves against his scalp. “Had me worried, Megumi.”

“I’m sorry,” Megumi says again. He doesn’t know what else to say. “You can push me off.”

“Nah.” Yuji kisses his forehead again. He rearranges himself so he can scoop Megumi up into his lap until he’s holding him more firmly. Megumi tucks his head into the crook of Yuji’s neck. Jennifer lifts her head to look at him, he gives her a tiny smile, holding out his hand for her to sniff. 

“You didn’t have a heart attack,” Nobara calls. “Yay.”

Megumi huffs. He feels…lighter? Maybe. He’s not sure. Some of the pressure in his chest has lifted, maybe he really did need that. 

“Are you okay?” Yuta asks. He’s watching Megumi steadily, his crutches leaned up against the cabinet beside him. Megumi has had a hard time looking at Yuta recently but he meets his eyes now. 

“Fine. What are you doing here?”

Yuta points to the bag of food. “I brought food.”

They eat McDonalds sitting on the floor of the kitchen. Some of the mess Megumi had made has been sorted into boxes and those are stacked in front of the sliding door that leads out into the overgrown backyard. 

“I don’t want this house,” Megumi says into the silence. All the eyes in the room turn on him. “I hate this house.”

"I...have no interest in taking it from you. Sorry, Megumi," Yuta says.

"I'll sell it then."

“Okay,” Nobara says. 

“Wait.” Yuji puts down his fries. “Megumi, I know it hurts right now, but you’re going to regret it if you sell it.”

Megumi looks sharply at him. “How do you know that?”

“Because I watched you today. It hurts right now, but if you let this place go it will hurt forever.”

“It’s a house, Yuji. An empty house.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“Yuji,” Nobara butts in, “it's his house, Satoru left it to him, it's his choice.”

Yuji frowns at his lap. “I just don’t think it’s right to sell so much of Satoru’s memory. Or. Your sister Megumi–”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Megumi snaps. 

Yuji’s jaw flexes in a rare show of annoyance. He’s less sunshine and ease these days. Still happy and supportive, but less afraid to show when something starts to make him angry. 

“Maybe not, but damn if I didn’t want something physical to remind me that my family existed.”

It's not the same. At least Megumi wants to say it’s not the same. His loss is so multifaceted so layered that nothing seems anywhere near as devastating. And it’s not the same, because Yuji’s own grief and pain and loss transcends the flimsy bounds of himself. He hurts for everyone, has lost people like a shade tree whose branches were clipped too many and too close to the trunk. 

“I hate that Satoru vanished after he died,” Yuji admits. He’s looking at his lap again. Exhaustion rings his eyes, and the scars on his face pull. “I hate that he went out of the world so completely. I don’t have a grave to go to. Or a shrine to kneel at. He was kind, and good, and saved me. Saved us and it’s like he never existed.”

Yuta has placed his own food down. He looks nauseous as he leans his head back against the doors of a cabinet. 

“And I know you’re hurting, Megumi. But I can’t stand that we’ve banished the mere thought of him.” He looks up and around at all of them, eyes glittering in the light. “I don’t think I can stand to pretend this part of him, of you, means nothing.” Yuji sniffles. “Sorry.”

Megumi shakes his head silently. “Don’t apologize.” He’s about sick of apologies.

“I could buy it from you,” Yuji says. “I don’t have much, but I thought maybe I could negotiate the price down, cuz, you know.”

“What? No, Yuji. No. I–” Megumi rubs his face. “I won’t sell it. I just. I can’t be here alone.”

Nobara makes a sound in the back of her throat. “Who said anything about alone, Megumi? We don’t do that. There is no alone. We can just upkeep it. Trade off weeks.”

Megumi draws his legs up, tucking his arms around them and looking at the mug that has migrated across the room. “Okay.”

They stay at the house late into the night, boxing, cleaning, mourning. Megumi goes into Tsumiki’s room and sits on her bed. There is so much dust in this room that it makes breathing hard. He remembers when he had begged Satoru to keep his comatose sister at the house, and remembers refusing to talk to him for three weeks after Shoko had her removed to a medical facility. They caught each other one night in the doorway of Tsumiki’s room. They sat together on the floor and didn’t talk. 

Megumi wishes he had talked more. He wishes he had filled silences when Satoru eventually gave up. Wishes he had asked Satoru more questions about himself. There were so many things that Megumi took for granted. He’s not sure he remembers the last time he hugged Satoru or Tsumiki. He hopes they’re together, Tsumiki and Satoru.

Tsumiki’s room stays immortalized. Megumi removes the doorknob and tapes over the hole. They come together in the living room as midnight arrives and exhaustion has started to make Megumi shake. Yuta is leaning heavily on his crutches, he has the mug in his grasp. He holds it out silently to Megumi. 

It's the only thing Megumi takes from the house.

The next few weeks the boxes are dispersed. The keys are duplicated and handed to his friends. Then months turn the house into something of a communal place for food and safety. Maki returns like a shadow from wherever she had been, leaning on Yuta who helped her to the couch in the living room where she slept for a few days. The pictures and figurines made it back out of the boxes and by the sixth month of being away from the house Megumi returns. It doesn’t feel like a stranger anymore. He agrees to stay a weekend with everyone, the first weekend of the summer. It’s rainy then hot and one morning Megumi gets out of bed and decides to go hiking. 

There is something he needs to do. For himself and the grinning face of his. His dad in the pictures littering the house. 

He goes alone, despite Yuji’s wide eyed worry and Shoko’s quiet disapproval. Megumi takes Jennifer and the mug, wrapped in a hoodie and placed at the bottom of his backpack. Really he shouldn’t be venturing out like this. But there is a trailhead almost in the house's backyard that Satoru used to take him and Tsumiki out on picnics. There’s a sunny clearing where they would spread an old blanket and eat fruit and a series of unhealthy things that Satoru brought back from around the world. 

Megumi is out of breath, wheezing, by the time he gets there. Like everything else left to neglect, the clearing is thick with tall grass and tangled weeds. Megumi staggers through them until he finds a patch of grass that is oddly preserved amid the overgrowth. He all but collapses to the ground, wrestles his bag off and sags on one arm. Birds call, the soil is wet, and it’s quiet enough to be daunting. 

Megumi pulls the mug out of his bag. He cups it between his palms, rubbing his thumbs over the stupid words before he sets it in the grass. 

“I’m.” Megumi swallows past the lump in his throat. “I’m sorry, Satoru . I’m sorry I was a fucked up kid, I’m sorry I killed you. And.” He swallows again, wipes at his wet face. “I should've done this sooner. I should have fought for you.”

The mug is tiny in the nature surrounding it. And really Megumi isn’t sure that Satoru actually liked the woods or if he liked it when it was the three of them and sweets from all over the world. But either way, the mug seems settled in its new green home. A tiny shrine for man that was so large in so many ways. Megumi drops a piece of candy into it and a coil of bandages. 

He sits there until the day has turned gray in dusk and moisture has seeped into his skin. Megumi gets to his feet and looks up at the sky. From there the stars aren’t visible, not to Megumi. But Satoru can see them. 

“Bye dad.” It hurts to say. Tears up his throat, makes him want to vomit. But he says it again, and again and again. And when he thinks he can’t breathe anymore he turns away. “I’ll be back, okay? And so will the others.”

The lights in the house are on and Megumi’s family waits on the porch to greet him.