"Are you sure?"

You wake up with a start. A few drops of water slide down your cheek as you prise it away from the windowpane that you've steamed up with your breath. Sitting up with a wince, you drag the heels of your hands over your cheeks to smear the tears away.

Ichiji is asking you, for the third time, if you really want to go. And you tell him, for the third time, yes, you're sure. And since everyone else is unavailable, and Gojo cannot be relied upon to show up, you're about the best Megumi has in way of backup.

You try to recall what you've been dreaming about before being so rudely interrupted by the sound of Ichiji's voice. For a moment, you think that you might remember, but the elusive whisper of the dream escapes you.

I am fine, I am fine, I am fine.

You wrap your mantra around you like a silken shawl as you ease out of the car. Slowly, painfully, in fits and starts. Pausing to wheeze for breath like an old woman. Ichiji is watching you. You know that if he finds you lacking, you'll be sent back to the infirmary; to studying the water stains on the ceiling high above you, to counting the minutes and hours as you watch the clock, wishing the days away until you can have something, anything, to distract you from the monotony of your life.

I am fine, I am fine, I am fine.

As soon as you're out of Ichiji's sight, you press more painkillers to your lips, already stained a bright, unnatural red. Pain sears at your insides, dulled by drugs but not eliminated. The corridors of the school are dim. Your skin crawls as though trying to escape from the shadows. Walking up the stairs is a painful effort, and you keep one hand on the wall to steady yourself. Everything tips and sways and spins.

Megumi is outside, perched upon a wide slip of concrete. The window is webbed with cracks, but not smashed completely. You punch clumsily at the panes; the glass groans. You punch at the glass again, your knuckles stinging in protest.

This one motion throws you into a rage of coughs. Weak. You're too weak. A Heavenly Restriction, they call it. But your body, sickly painful flesh that it is, feels anything but heavenly.

You press a hand to your mouth and crawl through clumsily. You move towards the sound of your name being called, towards the dark-haired boy telling you to run, moving away from the shards of glass which poke and cut.

"Megumi!"

His lips look cut up, bloody. A river of blood trickles down his temple. Strange purple welts make spreading circles on his face and throat.

"Run!"

Much too selfless, much too kind. Still worrying about others, even with the wretched state he's in. The volume of his voice is rising, the words spilling out of his mouth as if they're too hot to swallow.

"It's Sukuna! A special-grade!"

You realise what Megumi's saying much too late. You feel a malevolent presence behind you. Carefully, you turn, but just as quickly, you're pinned in place like a butterfly to a specimen board with the full force of Sukuna's stare.

Ryomen Sukuna. The King of Curses.

A God.

He's a dominating presence. Tall, lithe, dangerously intent as his blood-red eyes stare at you with an emotion that you can't quite place. Drinking in your rumpled form, your ashen face, your lips stained with bright red roses. Fear and confusion should smother you like a weighted, heavy blanket, but instead, peace envelops you, a warm embrace chasing away the chills and uncertainty. A sense of rightness lodges itself in your mind.

It feels as though you're returning to a home you have no memory of leaving.

His voice slides across your skin, leaving warmth in its wake. "[ NAME ]?"

Hearing your name on his lips does odd things. It feels as though he's speaking of someone else, even though you know that's your name, that he's calling for you now.

"Yes?" You answer quietly, falteringly, because you're too unnerved to be anything but honest. You wonder why you're fighting back the urge to weep.

He's still staring at you, his expression fierce and haunted. He breathes out your name again. A needle of pain in his eyes, passing his lips. He reaches a hand up to your face, brushing a single strand of hair from your eyes, tucking it behind your ear. The horrible pain in his eyes seems to recede like the tide going out.

You're sure that he can feel it - how your body melts and remoulds at the featherlight touch, some small part of your body registering from a place deeper than memory that this, too, was familiar. That this tenderness had been reserved for you, and you alone.

"It's okay." You'd said. Your smile had been easy, beautiful, even as convulsions had moved through your body. "It's fine. I'm – "

"Don't."

For a moment, you have an image of Sukuna cradling you, staring at you with glowing eyes, saying those exact words.

The picture and the accompanying sensations slip away as fast as they slip in, leaving you shaking, pressing sharp pains from your temples with your palms. Confusion and uncertainty rise sharply in your chest until you fear that you'll drown under the heavy anxiety. That had been your voice, but you hadn't remembered opening your dry mouth to speak. You don't remember speaking. Your chest tightens, your brain desperately coming up with reasons for the memory, that by all possible accounts, should not exist.

A figment of your imagination. A fever dream.

You cling to those reasons gratefully. There's no other explanation for it.

Why else would you have been held in the arms of a God?