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moonsvillain · 18 days

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have been toying with the idea of an au wherein shen jiu, after burning down the qiu household and running away, comes across xie lian rather than wu yanzi poaching him immediately afterwards:

i'd imagine in this verse he runs away to town rather than immediately being found in the aftermath of what he's done. at this point, shen jiu would be too paranoid to consider reaching out for directions to cang qiong mountain even if he wanted to make it there: what if they knew what he did? or figured it out if he did know? (if he even had the mind to think of these things through his panic)

he doesn't want to end up begging on the streets again, though—too alike his childhood and last time he was in that position, shen jiu ended up with the qius in the first place

so he takes refuge in temples that he comes across, stealing food when he can before moving to a different part of the rather large town he's ended up in so there's no clear pattern of when he shows up at whichever food stall

despite not holding that same respect and unwavering belief in gods (how could he, after everything he's gone through? shouldn't they have stepped in, sometime? what god would let him suffer as he did, separating him from the only person he loved?) he knows better than to try them, and begrudgingly thanks them for the shelter (because this he did appreciate, at the very least, if nothing else)

winter hits hard when it does, and shen jiu, after spending so many years in the qiu household, forgot how the cold seeps into your skin and bones without solid walls to keep out the frigid breeze.

he quickly falls ill with nothing to protect him from the elements but his threadbare clothing, and when he grows ill, he becomes slow. shen jiu nearly gets caught stealing, running away before he can be dragged to a town guard for his offence, but earning himself a nasty wound to his leg as he retreated

sickness + the cold + the wound leave him weak and wanting: missing qi-ge, reminiscing on nights where they'd curl up together for warmth, still cold but not alone, the two of them steady against the storm that raged on ahead of them

fever-ridden and teetering close to death, shen jiu wanders into a temple late at night and sinks to his knees, falling to his side, heart-rate slowing. in his delirium, he misses the figure taking shelter from the storm in the corner, watching him

shen jiu wakes up (he doesn't expect to), warm while he hears the wind whistle. he's still in that temple from earlier, but it's considerably... cozier. a small fire warms the inside and his clothes aren't as damp against his cold skin. his fever's broken, too—he doesn't know how long it's been, but he's glad he didn't die: never realized that he wanted to live until he was close to forfeiting his right to

here is where he meets his accidental saviour: xie lian stood over a slowly bubbling pot of stew that smells heavenly to shen jiu—he'd eat just about anything at this point, starved

his immediate distrust of xie lian stops him from being truly excited about his appearance

their relationship is veryyy shaky at the very beginning: shen jiu refuses to trust him and xie lian refuses to abandon this strange child he found on the verge of death

(there's a strange sort of bond built up when you nurse someone back to life, dragging them away from the brink of death and xie lian isn't interested, but he's curious about this kid who stumbled into his temple at the dead of night on a midnight in winter)

shen jiu's torn between distrust and this desire for company he didn't know he possessed; after being alone with no one but the qiu household [before he went on his massacre] he didn't realized how much he wanted to share space with someone who wasn't actively hurting him until he was afforded the opportunity to experience non-violent company with xie lian

his distrust slowly declines when he finds out that xie lian is a cultivator. despite being arguably too old to learn cultivation to the fullest extent he could have if he started a few years earlier, he still desperately wants to learn

xie lian, perceptive as ever, slowly starts teaching him bits and pieces of the basics, teaches him to meditate, takes care to keep his distance when it looks like shen jiu's getting overwhelmed

shen jiu can't help but get attached. he hates it

shen jiu decides to test xie lian before resigning himself to this

he was snappy, impatient, and argued with xie lian, when he came over, one day, waiting for some form of punishment to come, bristling like a spooked cat.

nothing came of his experiment but a slight frown from xie lian, which made shen jiu feel almost bad—xie lian almost reminded him of qi-ge, which made him feel doubly bad because he desperately wants to find him

shen jiu came to xie lian the next day with a pastry [that he stole] as an apology. and a request:

"teach me how to cultivate so i can be a disciple at the cang qiong sect"

xie lian agrees easily enough: he's been around shen jiu to see that despite the late start, he has potential to be great [especially untouched by wu yanzi and his twisted form of cultivation]

shen jiu throws himself into his studies, working himself to the bone

xie lian is concerned by this and after trying to soften the load of his work doesn't make shen jiu slow down, he becomes stern: warns him against trying to chase too much frivolously

this leads to a breakdown of sorts—where shen jiu gets angry, dismissive, before becoming upset. the average emotional depth of a teenager but, like, 4 times worse because of the circumstances

xie lian coaxes the story out of shen jiu here; qi-ge [the first time he's mentioned aloud by name], the qiu household [only the barest of details. shen jiu refuses to dwell], and the night shen jiu made qi-ge leave, as well as qi-ge's promise to come back

shen jiu finishes by telling xie lian he needs to make it back to qi-ge, needs to see if he's still alive, he's been selfish for sticking around as long

shen jiu tells xie lian that he needs to figure out as much as he can, as fast as he can, so he can leave and make his way to cang qiong mountain with some sort of base knowledge to make it in. and that he's not sorry for pushing himself because he doesn't have time

xie lian is quiet for a while

puts a comforting hand on shen jiu's shoulder and tells him he understands; he knows someone who would do anything to make it back to the one they loved, understands the pain that comes when time and distance separates the two

however, xie lian tells him, he can't let shen jiu push himself. he'll only stunt his progress by hurting himself rather than speed things up

shen jiu is ready to argue again before xie lian offers to make the trip with him

shen jiu doesn't believe it at first—who would bother with helping him for this long if they weren't getting anything out of it? he already found this hard to believe, let alone the fact that xie lian would drop everything to travel with him for weeks on end

xie lian doesn't shake in his resolve, though. shen jiu figures out he's being serious and wants to argue, but he's just—relieved

so many people have stood as roadblocks on his path back to qi-ge; xie lian might be the first person actively trying to help them

it almost reignites hope in him; someone other than him believes in them. someone other than shen jiu thinks they'll make it back to each other and succeed in reuniting. xie lian's faith in him is like a gust of wind beneath his wings

he agrees to their road trip

[xie lian makes sure to tell his beloved he'll be away for a while]

[shen jiu doesn't notice that xie lian buys steamed buns off the same stranger in nearly every town they stop by for a night of rest in the following few weeks]

[xie lian notices, years later, when shen qingqiu doesn't recognize him upon their first meeting in decades. shen yuan doesn't know xie lian, but xie lian knows this isn't shen jiu, anymore]

#i've had this idea in my head for a few months now #only just finding the time to write everything out #i'll write this on ao3 eventually! trust me i will i promise just need to defeat exams first #hua cheng stalking xie lian w a forced smile on his face: who the hell is this fraud and why is he stealing my husbands attention #xie lian with a happy lil smile: theyre just like us san lang he's learning cultivation to find and protect his beloved isnt it so wonderfu #hua cheng letting go of the steamed bun smushed to pieces in his hand: ah yeah sounds great. sooo cute gege. come home soon. Please. ^_^#xie lian meeting shen jiu: what a lovely young man #shen jiu half feral and armed with the worst attitude known to man: who the hell is this fraud #svsss #tgcf #mxtx #shen jiu #shen qingqiu #xie lian #hua cheng #svsss au #svsss fanfiction #scum villain #scum villain self saving system #the scum villain's self saving system #heaven official's blessing

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ruershrimo · 2 months

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take me back (take me with you) | f. megumi x fem! reader | chapter 2: stasis

ao3 link for additional author’s notes | playlist | prev | next

chapter synopsis:

'So let’s just talk again, I guess. Let’s just exchange contacts and chat on the phone and talk about books. I’ve been reading a lot of books about dogs and I’ve so much to tell you. Nothing else has to happen or change; we can act like there was never a barrier between the two of us in the first place. I really miss you.

Let’s just be friends again.

Please?'

---

You're growing, your parents are getting older, and you and Megumi are drifting apart like old seams of clothes being torn the more they're used.

You also discover something new about yourself— leave it to your parents to explain it.

word count: ~8k; tws: mild “gore” that may not even count as gore (a really tiny wound)

2-4-2010

It’s 2010 and your teacher introduces you in front of a previously bustling class turned silent by her (and your) arrival. There’s the chill of spring entering from the slightly opened windows and into your nose and, as desks flank either of your sides before you scrounge for and reach an empty seat. When you sit down you can sense the light graze of spring wind settling itself on your tiny trembling lips and you feel like hiding under the table while your teacher erases your name, written in cloudy white chalk, from the blackboard.

When lunchtime barges in and your classmates sit on each others’ tables or excitedly rummage through their backpacks, you mumble out unnoticed greetings, invitations for connection falling on deaf little ears. There are so many people here, too many for your liking, with voices that accumulate until they make a cacophony reaching the highest heights a tiny, packed classroom of kids can. Of course, they’d start the year with their own friends— there wasn’t much you could do to introduce yourself, anyway, when all of them were off to their own devices in friend groups they were in before the third grade.

In front of you: a girl with brown twintails and a flower hair clip sits on another girl’s dress, while another girl stands there with a cartoon-themed t-shirt layered over long sleeves; on your left: a boy flipping one of those flat, white erasers and playing them with his friends (you wonder if in terms of quality those erasers are actually good for school); on your right: a boy sitting with his head resting against his palms, sitting as if his chair is a hammock, and he’s talking to two other boys about something indiscernible that you probably know less than nothing about. All the way from across the classroom: a boy with the longest black eyelashes you’ve seen, hunched over and engrossed in a book with a title that you don’t know how to read the kanji of yet.

It’s so loud and your senses feel inundated suddenly, like a tiny glass cup about to overflow— so much to hear, so much to see. Your head and the way you think turns their laughter into wails drowning your ears in an inescapable ocean with the most torrential of currents. But you want to go home. You want to be with both your mum and dad again.

You eat from the bento your mother made for you, your hand holding the container up and drenched in cold sweat as you compress and close in on yourself. This new school and classroom is so very, very loud, relentlessly so, and Tokyo is not a pleasant place at all. You’re sure you don’t like it, that you want every chance to leave.

After school your mother takes you to the playground nearby, probably to placate you and shush your cries as you ramble on and on about how much you want to go back to your old school. You have her hand in a vice grip (or at least, you try to, but the strength of an eight-year-old who struggles on the monkey bars doesn’t account for much) as she repeats that it’ll just be for a year, and that if you really wanted to she would let you call them on the telephone later or give you a handphone of your own to talk to them once you’d got older. You wonder why she wouldn’t just give you one now, though.

When the two of you reach the playground she says, no doubt exasperated but still enduring it at all from how the tone of her voice is, “See, darling? Look at the slide! You love slides, don’t you? See? They’ve got swings too, even!” And with a face blotched with tears and hiccups rapidly spilling out of you, you waddle over to the park.

There’s a girl over there, by the swings, long brown hair pulled back into a pretty high ponytail, with an equally pretty white-collared navy blue dress. Probably around your age, or slightly older— she seems quite tall, too; has the friendliest-looking brown eyes you’ve ever seen, those types of brown eyes a person has that make their eyes shine like gold when they smile or when the sunlight hits them; a red ribbon on her hair tie that matches the strawberry hue of her backpack.

Then a boy next to her, and this one you know: long, raven eyelashes that look even longer up-close; spiky hair sprouting out in all directions; green, green eyes that take you by force and bring you into reminisces of fields of grassy gardens in the summertime, pure viridian in his irises as they stare back at you, quiet and observant. The same boy hunching into his book earlier, probably a really smart kid, probably someone you want to make a new friend of if you ever knew just how to.

Were they siblings? Friends? You weren’t sure, but tears were still running down your cheeks as you processed all that information and silently thought to yourself about them, these two strangers, these two kids who could be friends if not for your touch-me-not-plant-like shyness.

“Hey, hey! Why’re you crying? Are you okay?” the girl asks.

(And the rest was history, but you’d still like to tell it anyway.)

She heads over to you, her pleasant expression contorted into one rife with worry, and your mother smiles, letting out a relieved sigh. The girl pats your back and it’s the warmest touch you’ve felt since you arrived in Tokyo, her hand feeling like home or your old bed from before you moved; you almost melt in it the same way ice cubes do in hot chocolate. “Aw, it’s okay,” she coos, awfully gentle, managing this strangely comforting tone for a child your age or maybe just a year older, “You’ll be okay.”

You start bawling again when she says that for a reason you can’t tell yet; it’s just so comforting, the way she rubs strokes across your back with her palm and tells you it’s okay. It feels like a promise. It feels like she’ll keep it.

When everything’s calmed down and you feel a bit light-headed from crying so much, and the hiccups have been smoothed over by longer, calmer and steadier breaths, she guides you to sit down on one of the swings, your hand in hers. “Are you okay now?” she questions. The boy seems slightly concerned, but perhaps too hesitant to communicate with you, instead seeming perfectly comfortable with watching you and following behind her, becoming the girl’s shadow.

“Uh huh,” you sniffle. You still want to go home, though.

“That’s good,” she smiles, and it really is pretty and pleasant. Her smile isn’t just an ordinary one: it’s one of those smiles that gleam like the sun or candles flickering at midnight; it’s the type to have that glimmer in it, that twinkle in her brown, almond-hued eyes that solidifies itself in some comfortable nook or cranny in a person’s memories forever, the type that you can just think of when things aren’t going well and suddenly you can tell yourself you’ll be alright because somehow you now know you can. Because somehow that kind of smile grants people the ability to keep going.

“I’m Tsumiki,” she introduces herself, “And this is my little brother Megumi. What’s yours?”

Tsumiki, you think to yourself, Tsumiki and Megumi. Tsumiki and Megumi. They’re nice names. First Tsumiki, with the ‘tsu–’ produced by back of the teeth and the tip of the tongue, the ‘–mi–’ carrying the voice over to the lips, the ‘–ki–’ light and brisk with the back of the tongue and the roof of the mouth; second Megumi, ‘–me–’, ‘–gu–’ and ‘–mi–’ a quick ride from the lips to the tongue against the roof of the mouth and back, something soft and sweet and quick and quiet about the name.

“[Name],” you mumble, eyes moving all over the two of them indecisively— maybe your mother was right when she tried to force the impeccably useful skill of using eye contact onto you for situations just like these, “Tsumiki, Megumi, can… can we be friends?”

“Sure!”

Tsumiki and Megumi, you think again, Friends.

8-4-2010

It seems that, at his sister’s behest, Megumi makes an effort to interact with you more or at least look out for you in school— reluctantly, though, and that’s how you know this must be Tsumiki’s doing. He doesn’t talk to you between lessons, uttering not one word to you in class, but he does direct you to different places at school if you seem like you want to go somewhere, but are too scared to ask, leaving your anxious face as the only clue for others who take notice of you.

There was one time, before meeting Tsumiki and walking to the playground together with Megumi in tow and after a particularly riveting lesson from one of your favourite teachers— a young woman with glasses and silky brown hair in a bob— when you’d wanted to go to the library, yet didn’t know how. In your mind you merely contemplated whether you should ask anyone you saw, or whether you should wait for the sake of keeping your mind at rest.

Once Megumi saw you, eyes wandering aimlessly outside an empty classroom as you tapped your foot louder than you thought you were, merely scowled.

“Hey.”

“Huh? O-oh, hello.”

He sighed exasperatedly, almost too grumpy for an eight year old— “What is it? What do you need to find?”

“T-the library,” you stammered, hands pulling the fabric of your clothes into tight fists, “It’s okay! I’ll find it myself—”

Suddenly something pulled you forward, like a still-damp shirt on a clothing line, and he dragged you along. Your footsteps stumbled behind him until you matched his pace, his hand lightly squeezing your wrist as he continued to walk.

“Wha—?”

“I’m taking you there,” he said, “Just pay attention to the route.”

“T-thank you,” you stuttered, unsure of what to say.

So you saw the way your footsteps echoed behind his, his right followed by your right and his left followed by your left. You followed him through the hallway, then down the stairs until it was you and him on the ground floor, and the cherry blossoms were raining down like snowflakes. You didn’t see his face and he didn’t turn back to face you until you arrived.

Back then you didn’t know why that made you feel a little sad.

“We’re here,” he signified with a finger pointed to the library door. You thanked him again and promptly entered through the large glass door, using all the force your limbs could muster, only to find out that the door being opened was a feat only accomplished by the force of your arms combined with his own, too. “What?” he asked pointedly after noticing your glances at him, “I’ve to come along too.”

And soon it became just that. In your own silly little tradition, you’d stand outside the classroom and wait for him at the end of the day, and the two of you would walk with zero words exchanged until you got to the library and picked out a book each. You’ve found that Megumi likes to read long-winded books about anything and everything— especially about animals; you’ve learned that there exists no one who adores dogs and animals related to them except for him— besides the same fantastical creatures and adventures that you enjoy reading about, with kanji on their covers that you can’t read.

But he’s always the same every day: frowning and rolling his eyes at your anxiety-induced antics or your curiosity over what he reads. You don’t think he actually means it— he still does the same for you, spending time with you in the library every day, and even though he seems to huff whenever you peek at what he’s reading and ask him how to read the kanji in his books, he’ll still teach you anyway. It’s not like Tsumiki seems to know either. She still encourages the two of you to get along as if you don’t know each other at all.

9-6-2010

The first and only time you see Megumi smile, you know it isn’t intentional. As if it just slipped out of him on accident without him realising, because you know hundred per-cent, even at your age, that someone like Megumi would never smile on purpose.

It goes like this: the day before Tsumiki’s ninth birthday, Megumi approaches you after class before you go outside to wait for him.

These days you feel like you’re opening up so quickly, it makes you feel giddy at times. You stutter less, you can speak a little louder, and you can even read through texts in class when you’re called to without stumbling through and accidentally blabbering about whatever you’d read before.

“I don’t think we should go to the library today,” he says.

“Huh— why? I don’t want to walk home on my own…”

“Just because we aren’t going to the library doesn’t mean that you’ve to walk home alone,” he sighs, “I need you to come to our house. We’ve to prepare for Tsumiki’s birthday since she’ll be coming back later today.”

“...”

“You never asked when her birthday was?” he asks, his tone the embodiment of an audible facepalm.

You suppose you didn’t, because you don’t know, or perhaps you’ve asked, been so absent-minded you’d forgotten what she’d told you, and eventually forgot you’d even asked her in the first place.

“...oh, no!” you shudder, “Today’s her birthday?!”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s tomorrow. It’s just that we should start preparing early if we want to keep it as a surprise for her.”

“Ohh…”

“...so? Can you come along today and tomorrow?”

You pause. Your mother would be fine, right? She’d probably ask how many adults there were, but then again, even if their benefactor wasn’t there, she’d met Tsumiki and Megumi at least once or twice. Even for children your age she’d know that they were trustworthy enough, so it should be fine. You’ll just ask her the next day anyway. She’d probably let you be there.

“Of course!” you tell him.

The path to his house stretches over concrete sidewalks and compact alleys filled to the brim with storefront signs. Temperatures have started to rise, and your switching from knee-high socks and cardigans to t-shirts and socks that only reach your ankles have been an indicator of that. Summer has started to bring in its breezes which blow like whispers against your ear, leaving warmth crawling and blooming across your skin.

When you reach the crossing, your legs continue to carry you forward before you stop to check the traffic light, you crash against Megumi’s back.

“—gah!”

“Hey!” he goes, “It hasn’t turned green yet! Be careful!”

He pulls you forward by the hand until you’re by his right, and squeezes your hand. “...you should stay next to me instead of staying behind so that you can still see.”

“You’re not blocking me, though?”

“...but it’s still better if you’re walking next to me instead.” He turns his head away from where you can still see his face. He looks like a sea urchin.

“Okay.”

Hand in hand, the two of you cross the road right when the light changes from red to green. You don’t let go of his hand, even when you’re turning to the left, or on a crossing again, or when you’re standing right in front of the door.

You’re sure that if you would ask him why he hasn’t let go of it, he would say that he was doing so deliberately just so you wouldn’t get run over or lost, but you’re also worried that if you did, he would somehow realise that he hadn’t let go of his hand all this time on accident. And you like holding his hand— it’s not like when you’re holding your mother’s, when suddenly her hand grows dead on you and you have to hold her sleeve or her arm instead, or when you used to hold your father’s and it would get unpleasantly sweaty. It’s warm, and even if your palms must be balmy at this point you don’t think either of you mind that in particular.

A part of you thinks it must be embarrassing for him to be holding a girl’s hand, especially with how being teased for being friends with boys is all too familiar for you. You were your father’s daughter, after all, and at times your father could be insufferable in that way, even over the phone calls you and your mother had recently had over him. For some reason, he’d be fine if you mentioned Tsumiki, but as soon as it was Megumi he’d giggle and talk about you being “so young and already having a boyfriend!” That saddened you more than it was supposed to, sometimes; it was as if he thought you couldn’t have a boy as a friend without wanting to marry him when you were older.

But you’ll be selfish. You don’t really want to let go, because it’s not like you’ve held a friend since more than a year ago, anyway. You keep his hand in yours and squeeze it every once in a while, feeling the warmth spread across the back of your hand and your fingertips.

He only lets go of your hand when you begin to bake the cake, and he flips the cookbook to a recipe for strawberry cake. Whenever you come across something in the recipe that you don’t understand, he’s reading it for you straight away. He even knows how to decrease the amount of each ingredient that you use so the cake can come out to be just enough for everyone, and when you’re in awe of how smart he is, he just turns his head away somewhat bashfully and says he’s doing it according to the ratio. You don’t even know what that is.

At the same time you make your own additions to the recipe based on what you know from your mother— a little more vanilla extract, slightly less icing sugar so that it doesn’t end up too sweet when paired with the cake. There isn’t any strawberry extract in their house so you make do with just strawberry puree alone.

The sight of him wearing oven mitts and holding the cake mould as you’re opening an oven about the size of his torso must almost be comical. You should’ve got parental supervision, but he seems fine, and you are too. Initially you’d offered to be the one placing the cake in the oven, but Megumi insisted on doing it when you tried to open it and immediately turned away after the heat of it rushed right before your face like a cat dumped in water.

For two eight year olds with limited baking experience, you’d say the cake turned out well, and that it’s amazing how none of you have any burns or have caused any accidents. It’s warm when he takes it out and you leave it out to chill by the time Tsumiki is supposed to be coming back. You feel a bit guilty over leaving her alone, but you try to reign it in and tell yourself that this is a surprise for her, and that it’ll only last for two days: this one and the next.

When it’s laid out on the table and the scent of it wafts through the air, there’s a satisfied grin on his face. You’re supposed to be taking the icing out of the fridge, know it must have been one that he’d shown on accident, because it’s there for just that one second, but the fact that it was there at all, even if he thinks that you probably won’t be able to see it, is something you’d never imagine.

And his smile, that grin— it looked like one of those smiles that spread to the people around them like the scent of fresh flowers in a new vase. That smile was a bouquet of flowers

With a spatula, the two of you take turns slathering the icing around the now less warm cake. It smells so sweet and tasty that you feel you won’t be able to sleep tonight from how excited you are for the celebration tomorrow.

“Yay!” you say, clapping your hands when it’s all done, “We’re done!”

“Now we can just put it in a container in the fridge so that she won’t find it,” he says, “We should put the tray back, though. We usually don’t keep ours in the oven.”

Maybe it’s because you’re sleepy from how much time you’ve spent solely on baking in the last two hours, or maybe it’s because you’re absent-minded as usual, but your first response is to grab the still scalding hot tray from the oven.

You burn the tip of your finger before he can react and stop you.

“Ow!” you wince.

“You burned your hand?” he rushes to pull you— he pulls you a lot, it seems- to the sink and runs your finger through lukewarm water before blowing it and chiding you. “Be careful!” he scolds, “Even if you can’t help it sometimes you need to think before you do things. Don’t act recklessly like that!”

“Sorry,” you say. It didn’t hurt that bad, though. What feels worse is how worried he is about this despite how aloof he typically seems. “I’m okay, though. It’s just a small burn.”

“It’s still a burn,” he shoots back.

“…sorry.”

He keeps the oven open to release the heat from it, and places the cake in the container.

“You know, Megumi,” you start, “You’re really amazing.”

He pauses for a while, but continues to place it in the container. You make a mental note to buy candles or get any leftovers from home if your mother allows it.

“At first I thought you were scary, but after getting to know you for a while you’re a really nice person. You teach me even if I’m probably really annoying or a bother sometimes, and on the street just now you let me hold your hand even if it must have been really embarrassing for you. And even when we were baking, when you did that number to number thing to tell how much of everything you needed— you’re really smart, you know! And every time you’re with me, and even with other people, you’re really caring without saying it. So even if you seem scary or bad-tempered you’re actually really nice,” you smile, “You’re really good! Every time you’re there I think: ‘Megumi’s really cool!’ So I hope you can be my friend forever!”

“…thanks.”

He whispers something else that fails to fall on your ears.

“Hm? What’d you say?”

“Nothing.”

After Tsumiki arrives back, the three of you spend the evening watching TV together. Fortunately, summer’s waves of rain haven’t started coming in yet, so the satellite wasn’t messed up and the three of you got to watch them interrupted, huddled together on the sofa.

Your mother smiles that night when you tell her you were spending time with your friends, but grimaces once you tell her that it was just you and Megumi for a while. When she and you are on the phone with your father, she frowns even more.

You recount the details to him: the strawberry cake, the cartoons on the TV, the cosy compact couch they have in their house.

“So it was just you and Megumi alone? Aw, you’re too young for dating, sweetie, you should be doing those things your daddy before you go around doing them boys! And with just him, too!” you think that’s supposed to be a joke, but you feel offended regardless despite not knowing why. It could be because you don’t like his teasing, or because you can make friends without the intent of marrying them, or because he’s insinuating that you’d rather watch TV and bake cakes with some boyfriend than with your own flesh and blood— you probably would prefer doing that with Megumi instead of him, though. Less annoying and way more fun.

“No, no, no! We were just baking a cake for Tsumiki!”

“Oh, leave her alone, darling,” your mother says as if sighing knowingly, but the frown on her face indicates otherwise, “She’s just a child, still, nothing will happen. Let our baby make some friends, won’t you?”

You don’t understand why they’re saying anything they’re saying, but you shrug it off and continue to talk to your father anyway.

Thankfully, the burn on your hand has disappeared, though. You’re surprised it went away so speedily.

10-6-2010

Her birthday goes like this: there are decorations dangling from the ceiling of their house and a party hat on her head (courtesy of their benefactor and his “work friends”), while their benefactor has a party horn squeezed tightly between his lips and a digital camera in his hands. He’s invited some of his friends, too: a lady with brown hair, concerningly dark eyebrows and a mole by her right eye, and a tall, muscular man with blonde hair and a white suit donned who seems just as annoyed with the white-haired man as Megumi always is.

They’re singing her happy birthday, and she’s over the moon. When they get to “...happy birthday, dear Tsumiki…—” the grin she has on her face is something for the ages: you’ve never seen anyone look happier than she is right now. The candles flicker as she claps their hands, dancing along to the cacophony of voices singing even one of the simplest songs unsynchronised and out of tune, dancing along with it just because she seems to be on cloud nine.

It’s dark outside, the yawn you let out gets you bleary-eyed and you’re quite sure all six of your voices combined sounds awful, but everything feels so unimaginably warm.

It’s beautiful. The sight in front of you is pure joy.

“Make a wish, Tsumiki!” you tell her before she blows out the candles, and a faint line of smoke dissipates through the air right after the candles go out and everyone’s clapping.

The tenth of June, 2010, Tsumiki’s ninth birthday is a great day, and one of the happiest days of your life. It stays that way forever.

30-6-2015

Your phone whines in your pocket like a crying baby. There’s a book shop you want to head to, and you’ve decided that after that you’re going to let the bed mattress cradle you to sleep as you’ll flip through some pages of that new shoujo manga you bought the other day. You’ve decided that’s a swell plan for the day: you’ll mostly be free today, after all. But you rush to pick up the phone, even though the ring had made your nerves spin giddily and switch courses from calmness to anticipation.

The screen displays an unknown contact.

Although your mother was always adamant on her stance on what you should do with unknown contacts buzzing your phone, you pick it up. You can only hope, yet the mere image of that “unknown contact” icon on the screen fills you with joy.

“Hello?” a voice calls from the line. Despite everything, these things will always belong to her and her only— that voice, that smile, that beautiful kindness.

“Tsumiki!”

“[Name]!”

Missing loved ones from far away works in mysterious ways— people know they miss them, but often people haven’t a clue about what of them they missed or why they would have missed them so much for those things. And you were no exception to this, because you never realised how lovely her voice was or just how much you missed it.

You miss Megumi’s voice, too— or perhaps his tone when he spoke to you. Even if it sounded rough around the edges sometimes, really it was as gentle as he was. You’re not sure if it’s changed, though, or if he’s grown a foot or two (though the latter would make him out to be really tall). The last time you saw him in person, he was slightly scrawny and around the same height you were, and that was four years ago when you were nine. Now he’s thirteen, and you’ve seen the thirteen-year-olds in your school and on the island. Everyone’s growing in one way or another. Even you.

Would he be taller now, towering over you, perhaps? Would he have grown out of how he was before, a body composed of long, skinny joints and bones? You think he’d be tall. You think he’d have a nice voice. And maybe, just maybe, if he was a little softer now, you’d have a crush on someone you thought you’d long got over.

“Oh my god— I haven’t heard your voice in ages!”

“Me neither! Never realised how much I missed talking to you in person. Well, I guess this brings us one step closer.”

You nod over the phone. The line seems to be lagging behind a little. “Mhm”

“—Oh, it’s [Name]! Want to talk to her—?”

“Ah! Is… is Megumi there, too?” You hope he is, you genuinely do.”

“I’m sorry, but he isn’t…”

You guess it must have been someone else talking to her, then.

But— if it weren’t someone else, why would he not want to talk to you? Of course, you have to believe that he wouldn’t, but what if he wanted to avoid you?

Had you done anything wrong, said anything wrong in your letters and emails?

If you’d seen him again, would you do the same? Because it’s silly, really, how he was technically your ‘first love’ before you realised it, but you admitted nothing, acted on nothing, trying to make fragile proof or something to stick it to your father in the way eight-year-old you thought you could. You’d probably do the same now. Perhaps because of your age or your immaturity, you’re overly prideful in that sense, because telling people you love them is like cutting the skin off an onion— it’s okay, though, you’re only thirteen. That happened years ago and you should probably just move on; you know you can. You don’t have to act on anything and you’ll keep things that way.

(You should probably stop being over in your head like this.)

At least now you know he isn’t a bad father, never was; he was just a man in a world where they don’t know girls can live without a constant desire for marriage or romance encroaching upon their conscience. And even for a man, he isn’t so bad to his daughter, you think. Now, you know how to draw conclusions like that.

You don’t really know anything. You don’t really know anything at all. So you shove it aside, that overthinking, and talk to your friend like a normal thirteen-year-old.

And he probably doesn’t care about you anymore, either. (But if he did, what caused him to stop? He was so caring so was it just you?—)

It’s okay, you can live without him anyway.

“That aside, how is everything?”

23-11-2010

“Megumi, I think we should exchange books,” you suggest as the two of you make the daily walk to the classroom. You catch up to him now, legs meeting his pace, not something he has to stop and turn behind to glance at before turning his head forward again. “My mummy said it could help. She said it’s good if we read more books from other genres.” (You feel like patting yourself on the back for knowing how to use a word like ‘genres’.)

“We like completely different books,” he says, “You’d get bored really quickly with mine.”

“I mean, if it’s something interesting, I won’t.” And even if you didn’t know the kanji in them, you’d just ask him. “...when have I ever found the stuff you read boring?” you add, to prove a point.

“Yesterday,” he states, “You picked my book up, flipped one page over, then slid it to me over the table surface.”

“But that was because I couldn’t read it!” you retort childishly, “If I can’t read it now, I’ll search it up, or I’ll ask you. If you don’t mind.”

“Fine,” he acquiesces.

“And just so you know, the teacher said I was getting better at reading kanji, and I do think that the stuff you read is nice sometimes.”

“So, what book are you giving me?” he asks, trying to force the library door open on his own. You add your own weight to it as usual and soon the two of you are walking to the same corner you always do. In spite of the school library’s relatively small size, it was a treasure trove of fantasy and reality alike. Students at the high school nearby would go there just to study, and the sight of them hunched over the tables while snoring was one you witnessed every day.

“The same one I finished reading yesterday,” you reply. That book became a favourite of yours. It entailed a young girl learning that she was actually a witch, and one of the adventures that followed that, namely one with a wizard who she’d fallen in love with. Fortunately, your mother didn’t know of the story— if your father was in the house and saw you reading it, he’d tease you endlessly. “I’ll return it first, though. Then you can borrow it again. What about you? What’ll you give me?”

“A book about dogs.”

“I should have expected that.”

12-12-2015

“Are you that excited for Christmas, sweetie?” your father asks as you hang ornaments on the tree. He’d assigned that task to you this year, saying neither he or your mother could bend their backs and legs so much anymore. And he was correct: they seemed to become weaker and more brittle with each year. Eye bags and wrinkles piled under his eyes like stacks of paper to the point that he had to quit doing work so often, and the number of times your mother had to go to the hospital in six months had gone from one to five. They’d started to talk about dying even if they were far from it in your eyes. They’d just need some medicine and a trip to the doctor— they’d be alright in the end like always. Right?

“Mhm!” you answer jubilantly, “I think talking to Tsumiki again did me good, heh.”

“I’m glad,” he smiles, walking over to you, “Need any help?”

“No, I’ll be okay— you should go and rest,” you advise him.

He shakes his head, “I’ll be okay if it’s just for a while, you know that for me it usually isn’t that bad. I can still do things like this as long as I’m not tired.”

“Daddy, your eye bags make you look like a panda.”

“Wow, okay,” he says, sarcastically, “Can’t believe my baby girl doesn’t love me anymore.”

You drop one of them by accident and it falls pathetically, the glitter on it spreading across the floor. “Wait, sorry, let me get that real quick—”

Although you rush to tell him not to, he bends down to retrieve it, and as he gets up he winces and has to support his back with once-strong hands. He’s withering away, slipping like dust blown away from his old table back in your grandparents’ house.

You’re scrambling to help him up, to scrunch your brows in worry and ask if he’s okay, but because you forget to move your hand away, your elbow smacks against his head.

“—Ow!”

“Ack! Daddy, sorry, Daddy, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Are you okay, sweetie?”

You feel yourself twist in guilt. How could you have ever felt annoyed by this man in the past?

22-12-2015

You don’t know what brings you to do it. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s his birthday and you’ve only been able to wish him via asking Tsumiki to send him your regards, or because you’re feeling sentimental and remembering Christmas five years ago in Tokyo, but you write a letter addressed to Fushiguro Megumi on a chilly Tuesday that you don’t have the intent to send. Or maybe you just don’t want to yet.

Dear Fushiguro Megumi,

I don’t really know why I’m writing this to you. Maybe I’m desperate for some kind of romance so I’m writing this to turn my thirteen year old self into a shoujo manga protagonist (I feel like you’d cringe at that, sorry).

But I’ll write it anyway. I really liked you but I didn’t really notice it— well, more like I didn’t want to admit it. My dad was being a little annoying about it and that was probably young me’s way of giving him this big middle finger but I won’t really go into it. He’s pretty okay about all of this now, and these days I can bear with him a little better too. (Hopefully that’s how things are for you and your benefactor, too— he always seemed more like a father anyway, even if he was always there. Would that be too presumptuous of me to say?)

Still. I used to really, really like you. I don’t know if I still would if I met you again, but hey. We should try it, meeting each other another time. I really want to see you again.

I still think you were really cool. I bet you’d still be so now. Taller, too. (More handsome if you’re fine with me saying that, but maybe that could just be attributed to being part and parcel of one’s physical growth? Truly, I don’t quite know.)

I know you probably never felt the same, but I thought I should just let you know. YOLO, am I right? I’m, like, living life to the fullest with no regrets right now.

I know how much of a burden I was, how annoying I must have been. But I guess because of that I know how caring you can be. So I’ll always be thinking, ‘Megumi is really, really cool!’ when I’m reminded of you.

I don’t know why you don’t want to talk to me anymore— maybe you’ve given up on me, and I get that. Whatever it is, though, I know it would be valid, even if sometimes the fact we stopped talking in the first place makes me feel a little hurt. Because I know it’s my fault too, since I was too scared then to talk to you.

So let’s just talk again, I guess. Let’s just exchange contacts and chat on the phone and talk about books. I’ve been reading a lot of books about dogs and I’ve so much to tell you. Nothing else has to happen or change; we can act like there was never a barrier between the two of us in the first place. I really miss you.

Let’s just be friends again.

Please?

28-12-2015

“We’re not going to be here forever, you know,” your mother says as if she’s about to drop dead at any moment. She’s not and you can’t bring yourself to fathom it. So you won’t.

Your mother is amazing— she cooked for you, comforted you, tried her best to raise you properly and lovingly even if she hadn’t been herself. She made sure you never slept hungry and tried her best to make you think you were the most beautiful girl in the world no matter what others said, even if in the end she couldn’t. She held your hand even if in the end you stopped clinging to hers as you grew. She did the chores even if her body was falling apart and deteriorating like yellow paper.

You don’t think you could ever handle having to do that even if it was for your own children. You don’t think you could ever be her.

It had always been a bit of a curse that your mother had you a little late. She said you were supposed to have an older sibling once, one that she couldn’t carry to term. So that’s why you were born, and born a bit later in their lives; that’s why you were their cherished baby girl.

So you try, you’ve been trying, to be of use. To be the medicine that ameliorates their headaches and backaches and joint pains. You help out with the chores even if you seldom talk to your mother these days; you listen as your father regales you about (mostly fake) stories from his youth if it helps him feel better. Because if not for you, your mother would have less wrinkles on her face; if not for you, your father would be less hellbent on working to provide for his family.

“…mhm.”

“I think that you should know something, though. I just… I don’t want to die, darling, but I think I will. So I feel like I should tell you this,” your mother begins, “Honey, let’s… let’s tell her about it.”

There’s something eerily calm in the depressing air your father casts over himself as your mother says this.

“Okay,” your father agrees.

Your mother starts first, “Do you remember seeing that weird sunglasses-wearing, white-haired man?”

“Oh. The… the benefactor? What about him?”

“Well, for starters, he’s not just some weird guy. That man’s name is Gojo Satoru,” she states, “He’s a jujutsu sorcerer, like me.”

“Oh… okay, but… um. What? I thought you were a doctor. Are you two like Harry Potter…?”

“No, we’re— um, do you remember seeing that dog?”

“The one with the red markings?”

“Yes. The thing is, normal people can’t see things like that dog. But people like you, your mother and I can,” your father explains.

“So we have superpowers, or something?”

Your mother smiles and she looks younger, happier. “Something like that. There’s something called cursed energy and most people have it. It’s formed from negative emotions, and the people who have more than the average person can see cursed spirits— the creatures manifested from leaked out and fermented cursed energy, who jujutsu sorcerers basically try to get rid of before they cause normal people who can’t see them any harm. —Oh, goodness, I feel like an encyclopaedia.”

“So the dog was a… ‘cursed spirit’?” you wonder, “It sounds like we’re in a shounen manga.”

“No, the dog was a shikigami.”

“Wait— those things are real?”

“But it was your friend Megumi's shikigami, specifically. Some jujutsu sorcerers can summon simple shikigami. Those were ones generated from his cursed technique, though,” your father clarifies, “Most jujutsu sorcerers have cursed techniques, which is when they channel cursed energy into their own ‘powers’. People who don’t have cursed techniques like your mother—”

“You’re going like a bullet train. My brain’s getting pulverised. Please slow down,” you say, “So he has a cursed technique, and mummy doesn’t have one. Do I have one?”

“That’s what we were worried about,” he starts, “When you were born, neither of us wanted you to get into that life. So we moved to the countryside, specifically places with little to no cursed spirits. Then when you got older we figured we should just check if you could see them in general, but nothing happened except for when you saw that dog. We think you’re a window, though. Someone who isn’t a jujutsu sorcerer, with no technique but the ability to see curses anyway.”

“But you think I do, now?”

“No. We just wanted you to know about all this. I’m sorry we didn’t tell you.”

“No, no, it’s fine— nothing happened because of it. I just never knew, but I guess I do now. So you were a jujutsu sorcerer?”

“He was,” your mother answers, “Technically, he’s already quit due to health complications. But your father’s been saving a lot, and it’s not like jujutsu sorcerers have a meagre pay…”

“We’re rich?”

“I mean… the stronger ones are loaded, but we still have enough money to last us for a while without working,” your father says, “But I have a cursed technique and so I was a sorcerer last time, so I’d always be working away from home before I took the shinkansen back. The year you were in Tokyo, I was working with a team of other sorcerers to eliminate groups of curses spread all over Japan. Then when we found out you could see them, we just decided to go back to the countryside. But now we know we can’t keep you out of the city forever— we know how much you love it, and we love our girl. So we needed to tell you about this.”

Your mother sighs, “We’re sorry again that we never told you any of this. We just wanted to keep you safe.”

“Okay. It’s okay, you don’t have to apologise. I mean, I don’t really want to die either, even if it means saving people and things like that. There’s probably other ways to save people. Plus I’m probably a window like what you and daddy said.”

“Thank goodness,” your father smiles, “I’ve lived through it and… well, Daddy doesn’t want that either.”

“Neither do I,” your mother says.

You don’t want to be a jujutsu sorcerer. The thought of people walking into that world, of children being born into it, of people like your father, kind people walking to death every day.

You think it must be the ones in power— they don’t seem to care; how could they if they’d just let fates like that befall your father?

And Megumi, Megumi— Megumi, the guy you haven’t talked to in years, walked into it. He sought to protect you first; told you there were monsters and warned you to be careful.

Just how much of a burden were you then?

That’s the first thought that crosses your mind. Because there’s never been a time you weren’t a burden, not to your friends and never to your family, and thinking that Fushiguro Megumi would care anymore, for you, was beyond reality.

20-12-2015

Your father’s cursed technique is called cell manipulation.

“It’s a pain to use, but I’d say it’s always been quite powerful,” he explains on one of the days he’s teaching you about the jujutsu world, “Like the name says, I can control cells. But I have to imagine things really vividly, down to a cellular level, and put lots of cursed energy into picturing how exactly you want the cells to shift and change.”

“So… just the cells? Can you do anything more than that?”

“Just the cells,” he says, “At least, that’s what I think. But I suppose that makes it liable to entities who have cells that can go against my cursed technique, or can control their own bodies at a subcellular level. Who knows, really…” There’s a hint of sadness underneath his tone.

“D’you think you’ll ever use it again, then?”

“Maybe. But I’m definitely not planning to,” he tells you, saying it with conviction that’s stark against that soft, weary voice he has so often nowadays, “I don’t want you to use it either. I’ve never wanted you to have it. If you did, everyone would be telling you to walk into death willingly, every single day. Everyone would ask you to be useful. I’ve already told you so many times that I don’t want that for you. I can still do some simple things with minimal effort, though. Want me to show you?”

You don’t understand why he’d have make himself “useful”— he’s always been, he’s your father after all. He doesn’t have to do anything else, doesn’t have to prove anything to add meaning or worth to his existence. Truthfully the one who has to be useful is you; you have to be a better daughter, a more helpful one; you have to be a better friend and a better person.

You smile, “Okay. But just a little.”

He holds out his hand, displaying his palm. It’s slightly wrinkled, littered with old calluses like mildew on leaves that you never knew the true stories behind. Sights such as these remind you of his age, who he’s speeding to fifty before he may even see you reach your twenties. “You see how my hand’s like this, right?”

You nod your head.

“So, what I can do is imagine—” he starts, closing his eyes, “And this happens.” There’s a rift that’s forming slowly in his hands like the land giving way to sprouting volcanoes, before scarlet blood is pouring out of his hand.

“Gah! No, no, it’s okay, you don’t have to show me any more—!”

The wound closes up and he opens his eyes once more. “See? Good as new,” he grins, “It’s much harder when it’s not used against humans, though. You don’t always know the cell structure of other cursed spirits, so they have to be studied like Pokemon. And if those cursed spirits aren’t the same,” he goes, immediately turning grim again, “You’ll have to use it on yourself. That means that every time you use it, one mistake could cost your entire life.”

You can’t imagine it: that for years when you were living carefreely, thinking your father was off at a hospital or a clinic, spending his time examining tongues with popsicles or holding stethoscopes to chests and stomachs— he was, in truth, risking his life; about to be the cause of his death at any moment. And for what? For money? To save others’ lives? For you?

The notion itself is terrifying.

“Then I think we’re the same,” you say, “Because I don’t want you using that either.”

1-4-2016

The last time you and Megumi uttered a single word to each other was five years ago.

You haven’t talked to Megumi in a long time, but you call Tsumiki whenever either of you are available. That about sums things up. But every once in a while you and Tsumiki— just Tsumiki— hold your phones next to your heads as you chat and gossip about your days and the people and events in them, crossing your legs as you’re sitting on the bed or doing chores as you secure the phone between your shoulder and ear.

Last year you’d learned a few things: school eats away at your life like a parasitic fungus, you’re someone who can see monsters that rarely even live where you do anyway, and that even if you’ve finally the maturity to admit that you may have loved someone, you won’t act on anything if you’re sure what you’ll face is either rejection or anything but reciprocation.

At least you can still live your life. At least your parents are still here, thank goodness.

“Tsumiki, I’m serious. ”

“But I really think you should! You can’t just tell me that and expect me not to react like this!”

“Honestly, Tsumiki…” you start, “I haven’t talked to Megumi in years. I can’t just. Ask him to talk to me again, you know.”

“Still, you said you liked him! Megumi! My little brother! And he said he wouldn’t mind seeing you again, too!”

“I don’t know, I just. I felt silly so I thought of telling you. If you told him now it wouldn’t change anything. And I think he’s avoiding me. I think he’s been avoiding me for a while.”

“I know, but… sometimes when he does this to other people, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to talk to them. He’s just… what’s the word, emotionally constipated? He’s like that.”

She sounds so excited over the phone.

“I’ll just pass that old letter to him and nothing will happen. Then I’ll live my life peacefully and I probably won’t ever see him again.”

“...I honestly think that if you did that he’d just try to find you again.”

Yeah, right, you think to yourself.

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#sorry for the long wait :)#for the ao3 readers chapter four is coming soon!! I’ll try my best to finish it by tomorrow #take me back (take me with you)#jjk megumi #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #megumi fushiguro #megumi #fushiguro megumi #megumi fluff #megumi angst #fushiguro megumi x reader #megumi fushiguro x reader #jjk x fem!reader #fem!reader #ruer writes #megumi x reader

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