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English
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Published:
2020-11-29
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1,479
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1/1
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One Hundred Sleepless Nights

Summary:

Itadori’s hair is a poofy mess, there are crease marks from the sheets indented into his face, and he’s wearing an obnoxious salmon colored shirt that’s about three sizes too big for him. Megumi doesn’t think he's ever looked better.

or Megumi has nightmares

Notes:

title from 'One Hundred Sleepless Nights' by Pierce the Veil

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Megumi wakes with a jolt. His heart beats a sharp marcato against his ribs, breath coming in stilted gasps.

It was that dream again.

The one where Itadori consumes the first, second, tenth, twentieth (time has shown Megumi that the number doesn’t really matter) finger and bursts into flames. Or is consumed so fully by Sukuna no trace of Itadori remains. Or is dragged screaming into a pit of darkness. Or has his heart ripped out and thrown into the mud, grass and dirt staining the delicate ventricles and aorta and—

(Time has shown Megumi that the method doesn’t really matter. The terror is the same.)

Once he’s settled, Megumi does his check.

Ten fingers. Ten toes. One desk. One chair. One door. One closet full of clothes. One heart, beating steady in his chest. And finally, finally, when his breathing follows his heart, Megumi listens.

Itadori doesn’t snore, but he moves around a lot. Megumi strains his ears to hear the ruffle of Itadori’s sheets, to hear him knocking his ankles against the bed frame and cursing softly.

But no sound comes. Megumi waits and listens, but nothing drifts between their thin walls.

A different kind of panic seizes him.

Megumi knows it’s irrational. Itadori is probably sleeping soundly and dreaming of silly tourist attractions, but Megumi can’t stop thinking of the smile Itadori gave him before he collapsed to the ground, of Itadori, with a gaping hole in his chest cavity.

He pushes off his sheets and is out of his room before he knows it. The floor is cold under his bare feet, slippers forgotten at the foot of his bed.

Megumi stands in front of Itadori’s door, forehead pressed to the smooth wood.

He’s being silly, he knows he is. But he can’t help but to raise his fist and rap his knuckles against Itadori’s door, once, twice, three times.

For a few moments, there is still nothing. The worst flashes before Megumi’s eyes in a million ways, until he hears creaking, shuffling, the door knob turning, and then Itadori’s head pokes out of the door.

“Fushiguro?” He asks, voice a sleepy rasp.

Itadori’s hair is a poofy mess, there are crease marks from the sheets indented into his face, and he’s wearing an obnoxious salmon colored shirt that’s about three sizes too big for him. Megumi doesn’t think he's ever looked better.

“Fushiguro, what’s wrong?”

Megumi’s heart is in his throat. He can’t reply, can only stare.

Itadori must see something in his face, because he opens his door completely, grabs Megumi by the wrist and drags him in.

Climbing back into bed, Itadori takes the side nearest the wall. He holds the comforter open, an invitation for Megumi to get in.

Megumi stands rooted by the door. He could turn around and leave. He’s confirmed that Itadori is okay, he doesn’t need to be here anymore.

At that moment though, Itadori gives him a sleep-warmed smile. “Come on Fushiguro, you’re letting the heat out.”

And who is he to argue with that logic. Megumi pads over to the bed and slips in. Itadori wastes no time closing the distance between them.

They lay there, staring at each other.

Moonlight cuts in through the blinds, casting stripes of light and shadow on Itadori’s face. Megumi is mesmerized as he watches the light catch Itadori’s eyes with each rise and fall of his chest.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Itadori asks, breaking Megumi out of his thoughts.

Megumi shakes his head against the pillow.

“That’s okay,” Itadori says. “When I was a kid, my grandpa used to do this to help me sleep.”

Itadori’s warm, rough hand cups over Megumi’s ear and he begins tapping out a gentle rhythm.

After a few moments of this, Itadori’s hand begins to slow, his eyelids drooping, and without thinking, Megumi reaches out both arms and wraps them around Itadori, pulling Itadori closer to himself.

Itadori’s eyes snap open again. “Fushiguro? Are you okay?”

Megumi buries his face in Itadori’s shoulder and shakes his head.

This is ridiculous. His face is burning, the incredulity of the situation is catching up to him, and Megumi can hardly believe where he is, what he’s doing.

The hand that was against his ear moves up and weaves its way into the hair at Megumi’s nape.

Itadori cards his fingers through Megumi’s hair, uses his thumb to rub small circles into Megumi’s scalp.

Where did he learn to do this? Where did Itadori’s hands learn such tenderness, Megumi wonders. Or maybe this is the same tenderness that has always lived inside of him, finding its physical release?

“Wanna talk about it?” Itadori’s breath is warm and sends shivers down his arms. Goosebumps break out on his skin and Itadori moves his hand away from Megumi’s nape for a moment to rub warmth back into Megumi’s arms.

Before Megumi has a chance to miss the hand playing with his hair, Itadori moves it back.

Does he want to talk about it? What even is there to say? How can he tell Itadori that he wakes in terror more nights of the week than not, plagued by dreams of Itadori dying the most gruesome deaths? Wouldn’t that just be placing another burden on Itadori? Blaming him for his own murder?

But Megumi can’t help himself tonight, it seems. “You’re alive,” he chokes out.

Itadori pulls back, surprise written on the soft lines of his face.

“Of course I am,” he says, like this is an obvious fact. Like Megumi hadn’t watched him rip his own heart out of his body.

(Megumi knows it wasn’t technically Itadori’s own hand, but the dreams that find him don’t seem to care about that distinction.)

Megumi moves his hand across Itadori’s chest, plants it firmly over his heart. Its steady thump, thump, thump is a thing of wonder.

“You’re alive,” he repeats, more firmly.

The angle is awkward, but Itadori places his other hand over Megumi’s.

“I’m alive,” he repeats.

“You’re alive,” Megumi says again, this one breathless and whispered. And then, the strings that are holding him together are cut and all of Megumi’s fragile little pieces fall apart.

He crushes Itadori’s body to his own, their hands trapped between their chests. Itadori is strong and warm beneath Megumi’s arms and it’s a blissful reminder that he’s alive, alive, alive.

Letting himself mourn Itadori was something he wasn’t going to dwell on, even though it had left a hole in his chest, as though Sukuna had ripped Megumi’s heart out as well.

But now, the tears flow freely, out of Megumi’s control. He sobs between them, laments over the fact that he’s soaking Itadori’s shirt and probably scaring the shit out of him.

“Fushiguro, hey,” Itadori starts, then stops, when Megumi holds him impossibly tighter.

“I was scared,” Megumi says, lips moving against the skin of Itadori’s neck, below his ear. If he wasn’t crying so hard, he’d probably be able to feel Itadori’s pulse.

Itadori hugs him back with one arm and his shoulders start to shake as well.

“I was scared, too,” Itadori’s voice is a small, broken thing between them. “I didn’t want to regret anything, my grandpa’s last wish, you saving me, but, but—”

Itadori has never spoken words like this before, never let anyone into the darkness in his mind. Megumi doesn’t know if he feels honored, or if he feels responsible for plunging this boy into this strange, awful world he’s now a part of.

Both, maybe.

Megumi dislodges one of his hands to cup Itadori’s face, wiping away errant tears. Itadori leans into the touch.

“Do you regret it?” Itadori asks, frown creasing his brow.

“Saving you?”

Itadori nods.

“Never.”

Then he’s moving, face pushing closer to Itadori’s, close enough to count his tear streaked lashes, clumped together.

But it’s Itadori who presses their lips together.

The feeling sends a jolt down Megumi’s spine. This is the kind of intimacy he’d written off for himself completely, the kind of intimacy reserved for people with normal lives and fathers who wanted them.

To have it now, and from Itadori of all people, is enough to inspire a new wave of tears, watery little soldiers marching a path down his cheeks.

Itadori kisses him so softly, like he is something beautiful and precious, like he’s not the one who dragged Itadori into all of this.

His lips find Megumi’s again and again, and Megumi kisses him back with equal gentleness. Because Itaodri actually is someone precious. Megumi will never understand the internal compass that guides Itadori’s life, but he knows it’s a rare kind of kindness, the one Itadori possesses, and Megumi holds him accordingly.

Eventually, Itadori’s lips slow and slip away from Megumi’s all together. He yawns and buries his face in Megumi’s neck and they fall asleep like that, wrapped up in each other.

Notes:

thank you for reading :>

shout out to blulights for being my awesome beta!

talk to me on twt!