Archive of Our Own

Yuuji doesn’t take much with him to college. He’s hardly ever cavalier, but he is about certain things. The books; the heavy jackets; the deep-rooted abandonment issues caused by fucked-up family dynamics.  

Indifferent to most material goods, he notes, biting back a laugh. The corridor is packed, a cacophony of sound and colour flitting through his vision. The air is stale, and boxes are abandoned haphazardly on the ground. He entertains the thought once more, registers that Sukuna would probably (grudgingly) regard it as one of his most promising traits. 

On his first day, Yuuji shows up with a single duffle bag and a penknife. The former contains whatever worldly possessions he owns; the latter is for his roommate’s move-in efforts. 

As it turns out, he didn’t have to. 

“Okay,” he blinks. Then, in lieu of something actually constructive. “I feel like there’s a story here.”

The glare he gets in response would be best described as biting. Still, Yuuji lets it slide because, well, manners. 

And also because his roommate might be the hottest person he’s ever seen. 

Dark hair, long legs. A cutting gaze that lands on him once, twice, before shifting away. “No story,” his roommate huffs, reaching over to swipe a letter-opener off the table. It’s one amongst a variety of blades, ranging from the foldable kind to another the size of Yuuji’s entire fucking forearm. “I like to be prepared.”  

It’s an effort and a half to pull his gaze away from the delicate curve of his wrist. “For what,” Yuuji manages, “a murder?” 

“They offer woodworking classes here,” he responds, in a manner entirely too rehearsed.

It’s an effort and a half to bite back his smile. “I think they provide the tools for you.”

“I don’t like using other people’s shit.” Then, said like an afterthought, “I hope you don’t, too.” 

It’s impossible to miss the warning there. Yuuji suspects that this is when most people would baulk, intimidated by the sheer magnitude and intensity behind every word. His roommate comes off as someone who would flourish in discomfort, oblivious to superfluous social cues and attempts at brevity. 

This is the part where Yuuji will begrudgingly admit that he is stupidly, regrettably , charmed. 

“I hear ya,” he says brightly, extending a hand. “It’s Yuuji, by the way. What about you?” 

A pause, as if he’s weighing his options. His eyes, Yuuji realises, are a very nice shade of green. 

“Fushiguro,” he relents. His grip around Yuuji’s palm is surprisingly tentative; a shy, careful thing despite the earlier hostility. It blindsides him, curiosity burning deep and hot. Yuuji wants to catch onto his wrist, feel the thrum of his pulse under skin. He wants to dissect every intonation and cadence in his voice.  

Instead, he settles on tightening his hold. “Nice to meet you, Fushiguro.”

+

Three weeks in, and Yuuji would like to formally retract every charitable thought he’s had about Fushiguro Megumi.

Never mind that the guy is barely around. It’s that he’s elusive and skittish when he chooses to be; sylph-like and wary despite every single one of his attempts at closing the distance.

Yuuji’s not asking for friendship here — god forbid, seeing how rare it is that he gets something that isn’t a monosyllabic response. But maybe some assurance that he isn’t hunkering down with a serial killer? Some vague insight as to what the hell Fushiguro is doing with his life?

But of course that’s too high a bar for the guy (silently) dissecting a frog in their dorm room. 

No explanation or fumbling apology as to why he currently has a spleen speared onto a scalpel. Yuuji had walked in, spied a splayed corpse by his humidifier, and walked right out. 

He lasts all of five minutes before doubling back.

“So,” he chirps, easing the door shut with his heel. “Biology major.” 

A flash of green, the barest of glances at Yuuji before his attention shifts back to the task at hand. “Nope.” 

It’s not a grunt. Or a half-hearted nod, which Yuuji takes to mean that Fushiguro is in a reasonably good mood. It’s late afternoon, and the sun is casting shadows over his face, sharpening the angle of his jaw. There’s a dust mote caught in his tangle of lashes, making him look oddly vulnerable. 

He goes at it again with renewed vigour. “Biomedical science?”

“Sure.”

“So, it’s a yes?” 

A measured look. Then, a clean slice under the frog’s arms, his movements deft and sure. “I’ll leave that up to interpretation.”

Yuuji would like to think of himself as a patient guy, one worn down by years of living with a volatile twin brother. A grandfather bound so deeply by his own secrets that he had to scurry elsewhere to die, alone and unmoored and stubbornly resistant to the end. And yet, he finds his patience fraying all the same, worn thin by the calculated nature of Fushiguro’s posture, his voice . All of it meant to convey a kind of nonchalance so feigned that it makes his teeth ache with the effort not to grit them.

“Fine,” he says instead, because what else is left to say? “Message received. You don’t have to tell me jackshit.” 

That seems to get his attention, at least, though the look on Fushiguro’s face is best described as unimpressed. “I wasn’t aware that you were trying to get to know me.” 

“And here I thought I was the least subtle guy on the planet.”

Fushiguro huffs, and it’s sickening that the minute reaction alone sends a thrill down Yuuji’s spine. He shoves the feeling aside, tunes back into whatever internal struggle he is attempting to verbalise. 

“Listen, I —”

“Stop,” he interrupts, because the guy is looking downright pained , and Yuuji’s not sure he can deal with whatever bullshit he attempts to cook up. “You don’t have to tell me anything about yourself.” 

It’s funny how he’s able to pinpoint the exact moment Fushiguro’s shoulders drop. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” he echoes. Then, because he’s never learned to let things go, “I’ll just tell you about myself instead.”

The satisfaction from acquiring a hint of irritation from Fushiguro is incomparable to his stunned silence. Fuck, Yuuji’s practically floating from it. His jaw has gone slack, too, which only adds to his perverse sense of joy. Beaming, he crosses the room and flops down onto his bed, kicking his legs up. 

“I’m ambidextrous,” he starts, ticking off his fingers. “And I can skateboard. Or, well, do any sport, really. My dream girl is Jennifer Lawrence. I’m on an athletic scholarship, but I’m not sure if that's what I wanna do for the rest of my life.” Fushiguro’s left the window slightly ajar, and he pauses at the sensation of cool wind against his skin. Closes his eyes to really savor it. “I prefer Pepsi over Coke. And I have our door code combination written on the bottom of my shoe.”

The quiet stretches. He didn’t expect anything less, but it’s hard to ignore the sting in his chest when Fushiguro resumes his movements, the soft schtick of metal against metal drifting through the air. 

Yuuji closes his eyes, and goes to sleep. 

+

The next time he wakes, it’s dark out, and his feet are cold. He squints, momentarily blinded by a shard of moonlight bouncing off the window.

It’s rare that Yuuji doesn’t sleep through the night. He has dozed off at bus stations; crowded restaurants; and even against a washing machine, one time. Most days, he thinks of it as a point of pride. An unflinching ability to cut through the noise in his brain, dampening the intensity of his thoughts until it blinks out into quiet.

Then again, it’s hard to get any shut eye when someone’s trying to shake him awake.

He registers the movement in the split-second it takes for him to kick off his blankets, easing back into awareness in increments. The neon-lit numbers of his alarm. The lazy rotation of the ceiling fan above head. Fushiguro’s pale, drawn face. 

“You sleep like the dead,” he says, as if it’s entirely normal to be conversing at four in the morning. 

“And you’re nocturnal,” Yuuji grumbles, sitting up. The motion dislodges Fushiguro’s hand, taking his warmth with it. He suppresses a sudden surge of bereftness, clasping his hands over his knee. “What’s going on?”

A beat, Fushiguro worrying his lower lip with his teeth. Then, blown out in a single breath, “I need your help.”

Yuuji blinks. “With what?”

“It’s hard to explain,” he replies, as if that’s supposed to be helpful in any way whatsoever. “Can you just get dressed?” 

“So you can frog-march me to get my organs sold off in a black market?” Yuuji snorts. “Not likely. Why don’t you just attempt to use your words?” 

It’s dark, but not enough to mask the glare Fushiguro throws his way. “I need your help moving something.”

“Pray tell, is it a carcass?” 

“It will be if you’re going to continue sitting here and being a dick about it,” Fushiguro says, frowning, as if he has every right to be affronted. Still, the convulsive clench of his jaw gives it away. He’s worried. Cornered; a wild animal desperate enough to let his guard down instead of gnawing his leg out of a trap.

And that’s enough to get Yuuji out of bed.

They’re out of the door in seconds, traipsing down the stairwell and into the open. Fall nights in Tokyo come with enough of a chill that Yuuji has to hunch over, shielding himself against the breeze by folding himself into the crevices and dips of his hoodie. 

“Sorry,” Fushiguro says, soft. His nose has gone red; his gaze fixed determinedly ahead. A man less observant would have assumed he was talking about something else. 

Yuuji bites back a smile, shakes his head. “It’s on me. You didn’t make me follow you.”

“Feels like I did,” he says in response. They’re rounding the corner before Yuuji can ask him about it, Fushiguro’s pace growing urgent as they descend into a parking lot. 

The smell hits before he actually sees it.

“Tell me that’s not a wolf .”

“It’s not a wolf,” Fushiguro echoes, his tone devastatingly dry. Under normal circumstances, Yuuji could have, perhaps, choked out a laugh. The best he manages is an incredulous noise because what the fuck. 

Clearly, the issue at hand is the large, gaping wound on its front paw, crusted with blood and smelling of decay. The other concern is that it is the size of a fucking semi-detached duplex. Fushiguro has some muscle on him but it’s unlikely that he’ll be able to take him anywhere, let alone the nearest veterinary clinic at least six miles away. 

“I have a truck,” he says briskly, interrupting Yuuji’s reverie. “It’s the green one over there. I just need you to help me lug him onto the bed, and not get your wrist bitten off in the process.” Fushiguro’s frown deepens. “He’s not aggressive, but I doubt he’s going to react well to being moved.”

“I’d guess not,” Yuuji muses, dropping to his knees. The dog’s gaze is curious, but not friendly, either; his tail making a slow sweep over the ground. Yuuji’s one wrong move from witnessing him explode into predatory motion. “Hiya,” he says, stretching a hand out.

It works. Fushiguro makes a pained noise when he slowly eases his fingers into soft fur, the dog’s head dipping onto his forearm as he begins to whine. 

“Huh. You think he likes me?” 

“Shut up,” he says, as if it’s Yuuji’s fault for being remotely likable or trustworthy. “Get his hind legs gently, please.”

They lift him, Fushiguro staggering slightly under the weight. It’s a short walk to the truck, and then it’s another five minutes or so spent soothing the dog’s frayed nerves. There’s no leash or seat belt in existence, so Yuuji has to be the one to hold him down throughout the twenty-minute journey. 

“You sure you’re going to be okay back there?” 

He peers through the partition. The back of Fushiguro’s neck is a soft, tender pink. His hair wisps messily across it, cloud-soft and haphazard. If Yuuji was actually looking to lose a hand tonight, he’d graze his fingers over the strands, flatten them in place. 

“Fine,” he ekes out instead, closing his eyes. The truck rumbles to life beneath him, and Yuuji keeps his head tilted up as they pull out of the lot, concrete and fluorescent lights giving way to an open sky. The horizon is shot through with rays of sun, casting the world in orange. It tints the sides of his sneakers, the hollow of Fushiguro’s throat. 

The thought comes to him, swift and sudden. Yuuji shifts, re-angling himself so he can maintain his grip on the dog. Then, with a sharp rap at the divider, “Veterinary science.”

For a heart-stopping second, it seems as if Fushiguro might feign ignorance. In this light, there are flecks of amber in his eyes. 

“Yeah,” he says instead. His mouth shifts; a shape Yuuji has never seen on him before. “You got that right.” 

+

Things are better, after that.   

It’s not like Fushiguro’s gotten a lot more forthcoming, but there’s a willingness, now, to meet him in the middle. His side of the room is still bare beyond his weird collection of weaponry, but there’s a discernible pattern of behaviour that he doesn’t attempt to conceal. He reads before bed. He changes his sheets once every two weeks, always in some variation of blue. He streams sports documentaries whenever he can’t sleep, the tinny sound of a narrator’s dull drone escaping through headphones as his body goes lax.

“Why do you watch that stuff if you hate it so much?” Yuuji asks, popping a grape into his mouth. It’s a Tuesday night, and he’s sprawled on the rug in the space between their beds, attempting to study. If he strains his ears, he can hear the muted sound of a cheer going up; the hollow thunk of metal striking an object.

He pushes his headphones down to hang at the nape of his neck. “I don’t hate it.” 

“I’ve never seen you get through one documentary.”

“Because I watch this stuff all the time when I’m bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,” Fushiguro says. The words are slow, soft. Lacking its usual bite. Yuuji chances a glance up at him, watches as he shifts onto his side and bunches his arms under a pillow. 

“You could always just get a white noise machine.” 

A snort. “And keep my precious roommate from getting the sleep he deserves? I think not.”

“I can sleep through anything, remember?” Yuuji chirps, propping his chin up with his fist. “Don’t use me as an excuse. I’d probably sleep through a hurricane.”

“Must be nice.” 

“It is,” he agrees. “To be fair, I don’t see anything too bad about constantly re-watching Ken Burns documentaries. Are you a wealth of useless baseball information yet?”

Fushiguro, to his credit, doesn’t miss a beat. “There are about 162 games in a season. The most home runs one person has ever gotten in a match is four.”

“Hot.” 

He continues, unperturbed, persistent despite the drowsy note in his voice. “The first World Series was in 1903. An average game lasts about three hours.”

“I think I preferred it when you were just watching,” Yuuji tells him. 

“I can’t sleep when it’s quiet,” Fushiguro murmurs, as if the last few weeks were a dream; a suspension in space and time where unfurling and opening up didn’t seem as if it’d cost him anything. “Where I’m from, there’s always something going on. Even at night.”

Yuuji rearranges the impression he has of him — pencils in a large family, siblings. “Lots of kids running around?” he asks. 

“Just one.” He replies, closing his eyes. “A fucking motor mouth. Never knew how to shut up.”

“So, what? He’d talk you to sleep?” 

“No, but I’d hear him. On the phone, or trundling up the stairs at five in the morning.” The words are slurring together, his voice thick with some emotion Yuuji can’t place. “I hated it. But it was home.”

He thinks of the time Sukuna backhanded him across the face so hard, he tasted blood between his teeth. The month his grandfather disappeared, where he’d learned how to do the laundry, hang things out to dry in neat, even rows. The lump in his throat is gargantuan, robbing him of the ability to speak. 

“I’ll talk until you fall asleep, if that helps.” Yuuji forces out. Fushiguro’s breathing is deep, even. It’s likely he didn’t hear him at all. 

Except he must have, because the next thing Yuuji feels is the brush of his fingers over his hair. Warm. Fleeting. As light as a moth landing atop a leaf, there and gone in a heartbeat. 

+

It’s Todo who brings it up first. 

“Brother,” he says, solemn and gravitational in a way that Yuuji just knows means trouble. “What is this about you giving up your tickets for the big game?”

The sport in question: Rugby. The match: A supposedly friendly tournament against the Kyoto branch of Jujutsu U; a rivalry so far-reaching that even his grandfather had heard of it — albeit in a limited capacity. Campus has been buzzing with adrenaline for weeks, now, primed for a fight composed entirely of an impossible, unknowable grudge.

Players are entitled to two tickets for friends or family. Not that Yuuji plans to make use of that. 

“Inumaki-senpai would want his sister to be there,” he says, in lieu of an actual response. “Did you know that they’re close?”

Todo looks as if he’s struggling to say something profound. “Well, yes, but —”

“But nothing,” Yuuji shrugs. “Anyone who matters to me will already be there, so.”

Somehow, in Todo-speak, that translates to a declaration of affection. Yuuji glances over, only to see that his eyes are sporting a tell-tale sheen that tends to precede full-on bawling. Fuck. 

“What I meant —”

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” Todo interrupts, slinging an arm over his shoulder. Being sandwiched between the world’s largest bicep and the universe’s biggest meathead is, somehow, not entirely terrible. “We might not have known each other for long, but I know what we have transcends the typical bounds of friendship. We’re partners. Companions. Brothers in arms.”

“Sure.” 

“Life may not have dealt you a fair hand,” he continues, oblivious to Yuuji’s valiant attempts at squirming out of his grip. “But that’s okay. Things can and will get better.” 

Any form of struggle is futile, at this point. Yuuji lets himself go slack, tuning out of the one-sided conversation. He spots Kamo in the distance, his stern and imposing disposition unwavering despite the bassoon he’s lugging about. Maki Zenin, picking at her Subway sandwich, calves grass-stained and slick with mud. 

Then he appears in his vision; a goddamned mirage. 

Yuuji blinks. Then, once more, for good measure.

Fushiguro’s with a girl. 

Which, admittedly, doesn’t mean anything, so why does it feel as if he’s been punched in the gut?

She’s pretty. Yuuji notices it right off the bat, then proceeds to hate himself for noticing. Brown hair cut sharply at her jaw, resin-coloured eyes. There’s confidence in her stride; the way she gestures with her hands. Fushiguro’s sipping a coffee, his face impassive. Only someone who’s looking closely would see that he’s smiling, faint and impossibly fond.

His heart squeezes. It’s an ugly feeling, envy and admiration coalescing into something new. How the fuck did she worm past his defenses? Why does he care ? 

It’s in that moment when Fushiguro shifts, his gaze landing on him.

Yuuji freezes, instinct crystallising his muscles and holding him still. Jujutsu U spans several hectares of land, built atop several mountainous areas and hilly terrain. Getting from one end of the campus to the other is a challenge in itself, so he’s never bumped into Fushiguro outside of the confines of their room. It feels surreal, somehow, to witness him in a context separate from eggshell coloured walls and a lone window with the blinds half-drawn.

Surprisingly enough it’s Fushiguro who breaks first, lifting his hand up in a small wave. Yuuji mirrors the gesture, wincing when the motion pulls Todo’s arm tighter around his neck.

“Who’s that?” 

Yuuji blinks, loosening the breath he’s been holding. It’s been a good two minutes since he’s responded to Todo, so it’s likely that he’s come to the realisation that Yuuji has stopped paying attention. The grip around his jaw has gone slack. “Huh?” 

He makes an impatient noise. “The people walking towards us.” 

The girl has her arm looped around Fushiguro’s now; a gesture, Yuuji realises (belatedly), borne out of necessity rather than affection. With each step, she’s towing him closer in their direction, gaze steely and determined. 

“Hi,” he manages, at their approach. Fushiguro is tomato-red, flushed to the roots of his hair. His friend remains undeterred, her mouth inching into a stubborn frown. 

“So,” she starts, sizing him up. “You’re the roommate.” 

“I am,” he says, making sure to keep his tone agreeable. Amicability seems to be the best approach when mired in an interrogation. “I guess I should say it depends on who’s asking —” 

“Kugisaki Nobara,” she announces, stretching her hand out. “Fushiguro and I have been friends since high school.” 

He’s not really sure what to do with that information. “Okay,” he says, for a lack of something better to say. The embarrassment on Fushiguro’s face is plain; a small comfort despite the assessing quality to Kugisaki’s gaze. Her stare is flinty, every single one of his words a potential errant spark that could set this whole interaction into flames.

But no pressure, or anything. 

Yuuji clears his throat. “And this is my friend, Todo. We play rugby together.” 

“Hello,” Todo booms, right on cue. “Any friend of my brother’s is a friend of mine.” Then, probably because he’s never received any form of socialisation as a child, “What kind of women are you into?” 

The expression that Kugisaki arrives at is best described as appalled. “Excuse me?” 

“You’re right. You’re a lady, so I should be asking what type of men —” 

“Don’t presume anything about my sexuality!” 

“That wasn’t my intention, I was merely asking —” 

Kugisaki puffs up like a cat when she’s angry. It’s fascinating to watch now that the heat is off him. Yuuji pitches forward on his elbows, attempting to mask his slow-forming grin behind the juncture of his elbow. The movement mirrors the uneasy shifting of Fushiguro’s feet, exaggerated enough that it pulls his attention away. 

Fushiguro is looking right at him. Sorry, he mouths. 

Yuuji shrugs. It’s okay, he says back. Next time, just take the long way out of the quad. 

A smirk. And miss this? No way. 

You’re responsible for separating them, then. 

That earns him a light kick to his ankle. He fakes a pained grunt, mostly because he likes seeing the kaleidoscope of emotions that flitter over Fushiguro’s face. Panic. Hesitance. Worry. 

“There goes my rugby career,” Yuuji says, grinning. Fushiguro scowls back, goes in for another punishing jab. The hook of his ankle around Yuuji’s heel is a burst of cold against the wool of his socks, setting off a shiver deep within him. 

He’s batting Fushiguro’s hand off when they’re interrupted, Kugisaki’s voice piercing through. “Y’know, some people do have to get class.” 

“And you will,” Fushiguro retorts, dropping their linked fingers; a preventative measure so he can’t get his ice-cold fingers on Yuujis’ neck. At least, that’s what Yuuji is telling himself. “See you later, Itadori. You can tell me all about your failed rugby venture later.” 

Of course Todo sees it as an opportunity to open his big, fat mouth. “You’re not going to be at the game?”

Yuuji’s mouth goes dry. 

A flicker of surprise, of which settles into something calm. Curious, almost, before Fushiguro turns to meet his stare once more. “Sure,” he says. 

Fuck. Well, they have to win now. 

+

(A day before what could possibly be the highlight of his college career. 

He’s stretching out his calves, taping up his knee for good measure when Fushiguro gets back. It takes him a second to register what’s different, to parse the bright eyes, the wild hair, the fucking goofy smile. 

Drunk , Yuuji realises. His own grin eases into place, unbidden. 

“Hey,” Fushiguro says, sliding gracelessly onto the floor. It’s raining, the planes of his face eclipsed in the half-light. Like this, all he sees is the gentle slope of Fushiguro’s throat, the curve of his smile. A different person, armor shed and guard down; an outstretched palm instead of a fist.

“Hi,” he says. “Good night, I take it?” 

Another smile, this time with teeth. “It was okay,” he replies, shifting to mimic his posture. Slumped back, leg extended out. Foot brushing against the inside of Yuuji’s thigh, devastating in its warmth. 

Move, Yuuji thinks. He sees it before it happens; an apology, an accident, an assurance. Follow the script, Fushiguro. Move away. 

“It’s getting better,” he says instead. This is how they touch: ankle to thigh, calf to knee, in the dark where they can pretend not to see. Veering off the track of what they’re supposed to be, who they’re meant to be to each other. 

The moment stretches, tenuous. As if a single breath could shatter it. 

Yuuji holds himself still, closes his eyes for good measure. If this is all he ever gets, he’d stay in it forever.)

+

Jujutsu U wins, fourteen to eight. Gojo-sensei cries despite showing up for practice all of three times to actually coach, while Nanamin-sensei insists that it’s just rainwater on his face. Someone heaves Todo into a garbage can. Panda upends the cooler of Gatorade over his head. Yuuji is bodily maneuvered to the afterparty, where people are sniveling and screaming into their jello shots with equal fervor.  

It’s fucking insane. He’s thrilled.

No one comes right out and says it, but Yuuji’s pretty sure he was instrumental in taking down the Kyoto team. He gets numerous drinks handed to him throughout the night, back slaps and high fives all around. He doesn’t need it, but it’s nice to be acknowledged. To be liked. 

Mai starts flirting with him around his eighth beer, fingers running down the length of his arm. He entertains the thought of kissing her, something easy and good. Ephemeral as it is inconsequential. 

He catches sight of unruly black hair in the distance. The thought sours instantly, turning the beer in his mouth rancid. 

“Sorry,” he says, ducking past her. Mai makes a noise of protest, but he’s out of there before she can latch onto his wrist. The air has gone thick, sludge-like in its consistency. He sucks in lungful after lungful of it, edging past clusters of people to get to the door.

The rooftop is, blessedly, empty. 

He kicks a stray beer can out of the way, drops into a crouch. The wind is cool against his skin, slowing the feverish pitch of his thoughts. Yuuji thinks of strawberries, tart and sweet on his tongue. The cactus on his desk Inumaki-senpai gifted him. Warmth on the back of his neck whenever he manages a morning run.

Interrupted by the slow murmur of voices, low enough that he can’t discern the words. 

Yuuji blinks, straightening. It’s coming from the far-edge of the space, behind a small alcove that probably goes largely unnoticed unless you know to look. He shuffles his feet forward, chancing a peek. 

The first thing he sees is Gojo-sensei, the set of his mouth unusually somber. His shoulders are rigid, too, as if holding himself back from shaking the person before him. “You never do what’s good for you,” he huffs, accusatory.  

A sigh, then, with a note of impatience, “No, I just don’t do what’s convenient for you.”

If Yuuji was smart or had any sense of self-preservation, he’d bolt — not just because the voice belongs unmistakably to Fushiguro, but also because they’re clearly talking about a private matter. Then again, Yuuji is neither of those things, so. 

“They’ll eat you alive.”

“You give the clan too much credit,” Fushiguro scoffs. Yuuji braves another step forward, easing his hands behind his back. If he tilts his head just so, he can make out the hard clench of Fushiguro’s forearms; the stubborn jut of his jaw. “They’re not going to manipulate me into doing anything over a goddamn dinner.” 

It’s rare to see Gojo-sensei be at a loss for words, but Yuuji suspects it’s a more common occurrence when Fushiguro is around. The silence holds for five more seconds before it breaks. “I’d feel better about it if I could be there,” he says, finally. 

“They hate you.” 

“That’s the point!” 

A frustrated noise. “We’re not going to find out what they really want if you show up,” Fushiguro replies. “I like pissing them off as much as the next person, but I’m not going to risk finding out what they’re up to just to see Naobito sweat.”

“Or you could do both,” Gojo-sensei points out, grinning. “Bring a girl home. Or better yet, a boy. Just imagine the look on Naoya’s face when that happens.”

“I wouldn’t inflict that on Kugisaki.” 

“I wasn’t talking about her.”

Yuuji stills. It’s barely perceptible, but the way Gojo-sensei is angling his body has changed, somehow. As if he knows —

“How about it, Yuuji?” he calls out, cheery. “You wouldn’t mind accompanying Megumi for a quick family reunion, right?” 

Busted. To be fair, he’s not the only one caught off guard. Fushiguro jerks so spectacularly, it’s a miracle he doesn’t pitch over the railing. Grimacing, Yuuji ducks out of the shadows, rubbing at the back of his neck. 

“Hi,” he ekes out. 

“How much did you hear?” Fushiguro says, in lieu of a greeting. Pro: He doesn’t sound that mad about it. Con: He’s looking at Yuuji in a distinctly contemplative-like manner, as if what Gojo-sensei is saying actually has merit.

He’s not sure if he could survive a trip to Fushiguro’s hometown all whilst pretending to be his boyfriend. Unless…? 

“Just that you’re dreading heading back, I guess.” Yuuji hedges. “I wasn’t spying on you guys, or anything. I just came out to get some air.” 

“Got tired of people fawning all over you?” 

“I mean, it did get a little tedious after the eighth person declared their love for me.”

That actually pulls a laugh out of him, bright and clear and lilting. Yuuji just about dies. “And here I thought you’d only be satisfied if someone popped the question,” Fushiguro says. There’s fondness in his voice, though, the warmth of it sliding down his back like honey.

“Still here,” Gojo-sensei pipes up. Then, pointedly ignoring Fushiguro’s hiss of disapproval, “So, how about it, Yuuji?” 

He casts a wary glance over at Fushiguro. His face has resumed its careful mask, void of emotion. Unreadable as always.

“Sure,” he says, careful. “If you’d like me to.”

The world has gone quiet, eclipsed by the fucking thundering of Yuuji’s pulse. Fushiguro seems to be making a concentrated effort to avoid his gaze, shoulders curling in on himself as if he’d like to do nothing but hide. Turn in on himself until he dissipates, flesh to blood to dust.

The words that leave his mouth, however, bely that completely. “Okay,” he says. “I could use the company.”

+

So, here’s the thing: The Zenin clan remains one of the oldest and most extensive family lines in Japan, spanning back to the Sengoku period. They’re politicians and thieves; law-makers and criminals; the capable and crooked. Every single one of them has held influence in some measure, and are responsible for some of the biggest triumphs — as well as the worst atrocities — in history. 

I’m second-in-line for the clan head position. Or at least, I was, before I left.

They mostly pretend I don’t exist. Which is why it’s strange why they’re inviting me back into the fray now, under some guise of Zenin tradition. I heard from the grapevine that Naoya has been mixed up in some sort of embezzlement plot, so it’s likely that they’re gathering the ranks to make sure no one squeals. 

I’m not expecting much to happen from my return. Just — stay sharp, Itadori. And keep your head down. We’ll be out of there before you know it. 

+

Fushiguro doesn’t bring up the whole boyfriend part of the agreement until they’re en-route to Kamakura.

“You don’t have to do it if you’ve changed your mind,” he says, trying at nonchalance. The insistent tapping of his finger against the steering wheel gives him away, though, as does the way he’s stealing glances at him through the rearview mirror. “It’s just, you know, Gojo being Gojo . ”

“I don’t, actually.” Yuuji responds, shrugging into his hoodie. It’s devastatingly cold out, and Fushiguro’s a fan of keeping the windows down. Not that he minds, really. They’re far away enough from Tokyo now that the scent of gasoline and pollution have given away to salt and brine. “What’s the relation, there?” 

A pause, Fushiguro worrying his lip with his teeth. “He took me in. It gave me options, when I thought I didn’t have any.”

“Purely out of the goodness of his heart?” 

Something must give him away, because that pulls a small smile from Fushiguro. “Out of spite, more like. Gojo comes from a family that’s hell-bent on opposing mine.”

“Huh,” Yuuji smiles, pushing back against the seat and easing his feet up. “I can’t picture Gojo-sensei as a dad, but I guess you turned out pretty okay.” 

“You think?” he retorts dryly. “Because I’m seriously starting to question your judgment here.”

“You’re not an axe murderer.” 

“Well —” 

“— perhaps you just have the disposition of one —”

That earns him an elbow in the ribs. Yuuji chokes on a laugh, squirms away the next time Fushiguro’s hand flies out. “Oh c’mon, you remember the first time we met. You tried to bite my head off.”

“I didn’t —” he makes an exasperated noise. Yuuji’s pretty sure he doesn’t even attempt to conceal his eye-roll. “How was I supposed to trust you, then?”

You trust me now, he doesn’t say, because he can’t risk Fushiguro pulling back; a tide doing as nature wills it and receding into wet sand. Then, in argument of that: You can’t take back the pieces you’ve given to me willingly. I won’t let you. 

“I get it,” he says instead. “You don’t have to explain yourself.” 

The wariness in his expression is tempered by yet another playful shove at Yuuji’s shoulder. It is a movement that sends warmth trickling down his limbs, bringing to mind the slow, searing heat of a sauna. Is it how this shit happens? Slow, before it subsumes you completely?

 “You’ll get it when you meet them,” Fushiguro grouches. “It’s a fucking pain.” 

“So they know I’m coming?” he asks. 

Fushiguro turns an interesting shade of puce at that. “Well, sort of,” he hedges. “I did tell them I was bringing someone.”  

“Where does ‘sort of’ come into play, then?” 

His knuckles have gone white over the steering wheel. Yuuji decides, out of politeness, not to mention it. 

“I told them I was bringing my boyfriend over. Someone I’m serious about.” His jaw is working furiously, gaze fixed straight ahead as if braced for impact. A semi barrelling down the road to send the van screeching down the interstate; Yuuji’s vehement rejection of the entire situation.

Yuuji’s not going to give him the satisfaction of being right. “Okay,” he replies. “So, like we talked about.” 

The noise that leaves his lips sounds distinctly as if he’s being strangled. “I mean, yeah, to a certain extent. But you should know, they’ll be expecting —”

“This?” he cuts in, dropping his cheek onto Fushiguro’s shoulder. It’s not the most comfortable, if he’s being honest. Fushiguro is all sharp angles, barely allayed by his inclination towards humongous outerwear and baggy sweaters. Still, he smells good. Clean, like fabric softener and pine soap. “I’d hold your hand, but I don’t want you to steer us through the divider.”

“I’m not going to go into conniptions just because you’re draped over me.” His voice holds steady. His thigh, however, has started up a restless rhythm.

Yuuji has to work to bite back a smile. “You should, seeing how I’m supposed to be your loving boyfriend.”

“Am I supposed to be concerned that you don’t know how healthy relationships work?” he points out. 

“Now I’m just worried about this supposed wealth of experience you have.” Yuuji pouts, nuzzling at the space beneath Fushiguro’s ear with dramatic flair. The irritated huff he gets in response would be worth a punch in the face, he thinks. “Am I just another dude amongst a long line-up?”

He stills beneath him. Yuuji hopes (fervently) if the punch lands, it’ll be anywhere but his nose. 

“You’re the only person I’ve brought home. Ever,” he says, quiet. Then, as if remembering where he is, and who he’s with. “Be sure to soak in the honor of it all, Itadori.”

A part of him is tempted to defuse the tension, respond with the same brevity as he always does. Instead, he shifts, meeting his gaze. “Yuuji.” 

Fushiguro levels him with a curious stare. “What?”

“That’s what you should be calling me,” he replies. There’s something in his eyes that he can’t decipher, a kind of uncertainty that makes him want to add, for the ruse. For this sham we’re participating in. For legitimate reasons that don’t have to do with whatever it is I feel for you. 

And yet something holds him back. Yuuji turns his face towards the window instead, stares out. Sometimes, it’s best not to offer any more explanations. 

(It’s worth it, later, when he hears Fushiguro say his name. Offhand, like he’s been doing it for years. Like it’s the easiest thing in the goddamn world. If this is what familiarity is, Yuuji could get used to it.)

+

The last person he’s expecting to see is standing by the door, beckoning them in. 

Yuuji squints. “Is that Maki - senpai?” 

“Yeah,” Fushiguro says, as if it’s no big deal that Jujutsu U’s star athlete — and Yuuji’s, like, fucking hero — is gracing them with her presence. “We’re cousins.”

It clicks then, his stomach roiling uncomfortably at the realization. “Is Mai here?”

“Probably. She’s the only reason Maki is here, most likely. She left a little after I did.”

Sometimes, it astounds Yuuji how Fushiguro is the smartest and also the dumbest person he knows. “And did you let them in on this whole charade?” he asks, punctuating the statement with a wild gesture of his fingers. 

Fushiguro hesitates. “No.” 

“And you’re okay with the entirety of Jujutsu U thinking that we’re dating?” 

“I don’t care,” he grouches, crossing his arms over his chest. And there it is again, the sullen slouch of his shoulders; the flawless imitation of indifference. “But if it bothers you —”

He grabs at his wrist before he can dart away, pulling him back before Fushiguro can go skulking back into the shadowy parts of his own head. “It doesn’t,” Yuuji says, interlacing their fingers. His skin is cool to touch, soft in a way that is strangely at odds with his entire being. “I was just making sure.”

That, of all things, seems to shame him. “Right,” he mutters, eyeing him carefully. “Sorry if that came off defensive.”

“It did, but I can hardly fault you for it.” Yuuji points out, pitching their linked fingers forward. The momentum of it sends Fushiguro staggering, earning him a dirty look. “It’s pretty much a core part of your personality.”

“Remember the part where you’re supposed to be playing my loyal, dutiful boyfriend?” 

He puffs his chest out exaggeratedly, pitches his voice at an ear-splitting decibel. “Is my Megumi upset that he’s not getting enough attention?” 

Forget puce, this time Fushiguro flushes a livid, scarlet red. “I hate you.”

“Can I redeem myself with a hug?” 

“No.” 

“Bicep squeeze?” 

“ No. ” 

“Kiss on the cheek?” He’s a few inches shorter than Fushiguro, which means Yuuji has to go up on his toes to drape his arms over his shoulders. 

The noise Fushiguro makes reminds him, distinctly, of a scalded cat. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“You can try.” 

“You guys are nauseating,” Maki-senpai interrupts, easing the shoji-screen door open with her foot. It’s the first glimpse Yuuji gets of the Zenin compound, done up in muted shades of white and oak; tall and stately and imposing. “Naobito is going to keel over.” 

“That’s the point,” Fushiguro says, sounding ridiculously cheered by the prospect. “Have you met Yuuji?”

She dips her chin over at him in acknowledgement. Moss-green hair, intense eyes. It’s strange how he’s never once noticed the resemblance before; the similar edges from which they’re formed. “Of course. Itadori is a big man on campus — something you’d know if you actually left your room more than once a week.” 

“I’m working on that,” Yuuji smiles, stretching a hand out. “It’s nice to meet you officially.”

Her answering grip just about breaks two of his fingers. “Likewise,” she says. “Though I’m still confused as to why you’d sign up for this shitshow voluntarily.”

“Yuuji’s a good boyfriend,” Fushiguro shrugs. This is followed by a surreptitious squeeze of his palm that has no right to send his pulse stuttering like that, and yet. “Any idea which room we’ll be in?” 

“I wouldn’t put it past Naoya to shove you in the basement.” 

Fushiguro frowns. “Shouldn’t he be more concerned about all the allegations people are leveling against him?”

“It’s Naoya, ” Maki huffs. “He’s never worried about anything.” There’s a watchful quality to her stare, pity interlaced with envy. It travels from Fushiguro’s face to his throat, skitters down to their joined hands. “Don’t get soft,” she adds. 

The warning in it is clear. Yuuji pinpoints the exact moment when Fushiguro steels himself; flesh to armour, posture ramrod straight and unyielding. 

“Never,” he replies.

+

They’re left to their own devices for the rest of the afternoon. Someone gets their bags and spirits them away into a far-flung corner of the sprawling mansion. Fushiguro shows him around the spaces he remembers. The koi pond he dipped his toes in as a kid; the gardens he hid out in during the summers. 

“I bet you’re one of those kids who were super productive even during the holidays,” Yuuji says, watching as Fushiguro peels away at the skin of a tangerine. Deft, sure movements. The steady grip of a doctor-in-training, unfaltering. 

He hums in response. Relaxed and eyes half-lidded now that he’s away from the prying eyes of the rest of the Zenins; a blur of faces and half-muttered names that Yuuji could barely keep up with. “What makes you say that?”

“You just seem like the type.”

“And you seem like the kind to get tanned,” Fushiguro says. “Let me guess: You surfed. Skated. Seduced the girls at the country club.”

Yuuji snorts. “How good looking do you think I actually am?” He shakes his head, pops a perfectly shaped, crescent-moon curve of tangerine into his mouth. “I don’t get as many girls as you think I’m capable of, y’know.” 

Fushiguro mutters something that sounds suspiciously like could have fooled me. 

Is he jealous? No, Yuuji’s not going there. He can’t — not if he’s hoping to emerge from this trip with his heart unscathed. “You fed stray cats in the neighbourhood,” he says instead. “Went for audio-visual tours at the museums. Read newspapers on the porch at the crack of dawn.”

“It’s cooler out at dusk.” 

“So I am right.” 

“For the most part,” he huffs. His feigned irritation doesn’t chafe as much as it once would; a farce borne out of habit more than anything. Yuuji smiles, kicks at his sneakers until he continues. “I listened to the radio a lot, too,” Fushiguro adds, soft. “It was nice.” 

He makes an agreeable noise. “You liked the type of music they played?”

“No, I liked the stories more,” he says, before reaching over to grab at Yuuji’s ankle — still jostling against his — with practiced ease. “Quit it, you’re going to give me a bruise.”

Yuuji grins. “And here I thought you weren’t the delicate type.” Fushiguro’s fingers are pianist-long, slim and soft against his scar-worn skin. It burns hot despite the breeze suffusing the air. “What kind of stories did you like?” 

“Mm, it’s hard to explain.” He casts his gaze up to the sky, chin tilted back. The pads of his fingers are pressed into the rise of Yuuji’s tibia; a reassuring pressure. “I found some podcasts that were similar to what I listened to. It’s just people talking about their interests, I guess. What fascinates them, what haunts them.” He licks at his lips, swallows. “Wanna listen to one?” 

He recognizes it for what it is: A peek into Fushiguro’s head, permittance into a place he keeps fiercely guarded with spikes and moats and goddamn turrets. It is a situation that has arrived unforeseen. A situation that is inevitable. 

Yuuji’s not sure which he’s leaning more towards, now.

“Sure,” he ekes out. Fushiguro drops his leg, pulls a pair of AirPods out. The sensation of his hand ghosting along his ear and pressing the headphone in is enough to light Yuuji’s whole fucking body ablaze.  

“It’s kind of weird,” Fushiguro says, right as the opening notes begin to play. “In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer,” someone says. The air smells of citrus and honeysuckle, heat blanketing the back of his shirt. Cicadas chirp in tandem. There’s an inch of space between them; Fushiguro’s knee a warm weight against his. 

Oh, Yuuji thinks. Fushiguro is glancing at him again, earnest and apprehensive, as if his judgement alone could keep him afloat. As if what Yuuji thinks matters more than most. So, this is what falling in love feels like.

+

The peace shatters soon after, when their presence is requested in the dining room.  

Fushiguro has a white collared shirt on. It’s funny how he thinks formal wear can shield him from the oppressive atmosphere that has descended, but Yuuji lets it slide — mostly because it allows him to appreciate the span of Fushiguro’s shoulders in something beyond a sweatshirt.

Yuuji’s in flip flops and shorts; an inspired combination designed to spark just the optimal amount of ire.

(“What,” Fushiguro had remarked, watching him duck out of their shared room. “No booty shorts?”

“Well, I’m sorry I misunderstood the assignment.” Yuuji shot back.)

As it is, no one comments on their attire. No one is saying much of anything, really, even after the first course is served. Naobito is ignoring them in a steadfast fashion; a guy who Yuuji thinks is called Ranta is biting into a chicken cube with vigour; while Naoya is eyeing Fushiguro with barely disguised loathing.

He’s pretty sure he’s been to funeral receptions more cheerful than this. 

“So,” Yuuji says brightly, “what are we celebrating?”

That seems to get Naoya’s attention, at the very least. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m just assuming that there was some sort of good news, seeing how sudden this whole reunion shebang was,” he points out. It’s worth it, he thinks, just to see the vein by Naobito’s temple throb dangerously. “Megumi mentioned that he doesn’t see you guys often.” 

“By choice,” Fushiguro interjects, his voice deceptively pleasant. “I gave up any right to the Zenin name a long time ago.”

“Out of an inflated sense of pride,” Naoya sneers. “As if leaving your family behind is a honorable thing to do, as if taking your mother’s name —”

“Oh, so you’re going beyond embezzlement now to speaking ill of the dead?” 

Naoya barks out a laugh. “Don’t talk about things you don’t understand, you fucking mongrel —”

“ Enough ,” Naobito snarls. Yuuji moves out of instinct, steadying the table from a force that doesn’t arrive. “We’re not here to discuss past grudges. This is important clan business, and it should be treated as such.”

“Don’t tell me,” Fushiguro snorts, folding his arms across his chest. “Naoya’s getting arrested.”

“Tell us something we don’t know,” Maki drawls, sounding distinctly bored. “Like if Naoya was actually raised in a barn, or if he was dropped on his head a lot as a baby —” 

Naoya doesn’t shoot out of his chair, but it’s a near thing. “Shut up, you good-for-nothing scum .”

Maki’s biting response is lost in the boom of Naobito’s voice. “We need you to return, Megumi,” he states. Offhand. Casual. As if it’ll cost Fushiguro nothing to come home to the very place he ran away from. “We need you to take your rightful position at the head of the clan.” 

Fushiguro, to his credit, remains unnervingly calm. “Why?”

“Naoya’s going to be put away,” he replies, folding his arms across his chest. “And I’ve just received a less than optimistic prognosis from my doctor. The clan needs someone capable to lead, so the Zenin’s won’t be reduced to ruin.” 

A beat, the muscle by Fushiguro’s jaw tightening convulsively. “And what makes you think I give a shit about the people who spurned my mother and loathed my father?” he says.

“You don’t. But your sense of duty means you won’t just walk away, either.” 

The blow lands. It’s subtle, but Yuuji discerns the exact moment Fushiguro flinches. In the distance, the cicadas scream. Mai’s face is an impassive mask; Maki, livid.

Yuuji swallows, stretches a hand out. Skin on skin, his fingers circling Fushiguro’s slim wrist. “Megumi?” 

He meets his gaze. Blinks the disorientation away. 

“Fuck your duty,” he says to Naobito, before turning away. Yuuji’s hand slides off at the movement, grazing the edge of the table before Fushiguro snatches it up once more. A messy clasp of fingers; a tangle of warmth. “Let’s go, Yuuji.”

+

They’re three miles out before the rain begins to come down in sheets, forcing them off the road. 

“I’d just like it on record that this wasn’t my idea,” Yuuji says, shoving his hands into the pockets. It’s uncomfortably humid inside, the hood of his parka ruched up and plastering to the back of his neck. Abovehead, a ceiling fan whirls lazily. The man at the counter is still glaring.

Fushiguro is staring right back, unmoved. His face is illuminated by the glow of the vending machine; rows of latex and plastic in every variation possible.

“There has to be more than one room available,” he insists. “The sign out front says vacancies. As in, plural.” 

“I’m not so good with my english.” 

“Or room allocation, apparently,” Fushiguro snaps back. The rain has rendered his hair a wet, tousled mess, plastered to the side of his face. Yuuji’s mostly just looking at everything but the translucency of his dress shirt; the way it molds distractingly to the deep vee of his hips. “How is it that people are voluntarily choosing to stay in this shithole?” 

The man smirks. “For the same reasons as you guys do, probably. Though most of them drop the act by the time they’re through the main door.”

He gets his arm around Fushiguro before he lunges; a near-thing, seeing how Yuuji’s instincts are literally dampened. Fuck, he’s cold and wet and goddamned miserable . “Stop it,” he asserts, giving his shoulders a quick shake for good measure. “Let’s just take the room. I’ll sleep on the floor if I have to.”

“Don’t, it’s probably full of roaches,” Fushiguro scowls. Still, his touch seems to have worked. The fight has gone out of his shoulders; his body angled towards the stairs rather than the door. “There better be hot water,” he huffs, a paltry attempt at a parting shot before Yuuji steers him away.

“You’re such a diva . ”

“How is asking for basic necessities classified as outrageous behaviour?”

Yuuji bites back a smile. “It’s the tone,” he says. It dies the second Fushiguro eases the door open, revealing a too-small, garish bed decked out in silk pillows. The shower is visible through the strategically-placed window, and there are condoms on the bed.

He shouldn’t have expected less from a love hotel. The next nine hours are, possibly, going to be the longest of Yuuji’s life.

“You can take the first shower,” he chirps out, bright. “I’m just going to watch some TV.”

+

TV is a bad, bad idea.

The only channels they have are showing softcore porn; the audio button is broken so it’s always blaring at top-volume; and it is positioned directly across from the shower area so he accidentally catches a glimpse of Fushiguro’s bare ass in the glass. 

All of this means he’s sporting a stiff one by the time Fushiguro emerges, and he has to practically fucking sprint to get to the bathroom in time. 

He’s feeling better by the time he’s showered, though. The water is blistering-hot, the heat of it scorching away every single untoward thought he’s had. There’s some sort of weird moss growing from a crack in the wall and the mirror is so smudged he can barely see himself in it, but being warm and clean goes a long way in the grand scheme of things. 

Fushiguro’s sprawled on the bed when he gets out, reading. 

“Hey, you’re on my side of the bed.” 

That pulls a snort from him, his gaze fixed unerringly on the page before him. “As if you give a shit. You’d fall asleep on train tracks if you were tired enough.” 

Yuuji flops down next to him. “So, you’re not even going to pretend to be considerate?”

He raises a brow at him. “Sure,” he says, latching onto the pillow beneath his head. For a second, Yuuji contemplates the possibility that Fushiguro might fluff it for him. Then, a sharp pain right to face. 

It takes him a moment to realise that he hit him with it.

Fushiguro’s in hysterics by the time Yuuji recovers, scrambling to his knees so he can pin his wrists down to the bed. His laugh sputters out by the time Yuuji starts tickling at his ribs, dissolving into hiccuping pleas for him to stop.

“Not so fun when you’re on the other end, huh?” Yuuji huffs, sitting back on his knees. “You’re such an ass.” 

Another laugh, his shoulders shaking with it. “Oh, c’mon. I needed to unwind.” 

“At my expense?” 

“I’d hardly think it’s your expense.” 

The air goes still. Nothing moves beyond the rise and fall of Fushiguro’s chest; the slow part of his lips. Yuuji has turned into granite, immovable and unyielding and waiting . Yearning. He’s torn between the desire to stay where he is, holding up the crumbling vestiges of their friendship or letting himself break apart. 

In the end, Fushiguro is the one who decides for him. 

The second his hand goes on his jaw, it’s over. Yuuji’s knees give out, sliding onto the sheets so he can lean down to kiss him fully. Fushiguro responds with equal enthusiasm, winding his arms around his neck so he can press closer. Like this, he can feel his hardness digging into the inside of his thigh. The bite of his fingernails against his back. 

It’s enough to make him go feral with it, his hands grabbing at Fushiguro’s sweatpants and tugging. He makes a wounded noise in response, retaliates by shoving Yuuji’s shirt off with enough force to send him off-balance. 

He regains his wits in the lull it takes for Fushiguro to get the lube out, his brow pinched in concentration as he works himself open. 

Yuuji swallows, ekes out a faint, “Should we talk about this?”

The look Fushiguro gives him is brimming with some sort of emotion he can’t discern. Exhaustion. Hope. Fear. “Yuuji,” is all he says instead, before he gets his hand on Yuuji’s cock. 

He stops thinking entirely.

+

(Around their fifth go-around, something shifts in his brain. 

Megumi, he thinks, mouthing at his shoulder as he sinks in, grabbing onto his hips and manoeuvring him into place whenever he goes boneless. Megumi, he says into the dark, letting the word settle into the back of his neck whenever he gets too loud. A reminder, chiding and fond.

“We’re out of condoms,” he says, the next time Yuuji breathes it into his skin. Three in the goddamn morning and still strangely insatiable, desperate to burrow into his warmth and swallow him whole. 

Yuuji stills. “Oh. Oops?” 

Megumi snorts, slides his fingers into his hair. Tugs. “You can come inside,” he says, level, as if the admission alone doesn’t fucking shatter all remnants of self-control; whatever fragment of doubt and caution and wariness he has.

This time, they get loud enough that it warrants the neighbour slamming their fist against the wall between them, preceded by a howl of shut the fuck up, man!

Yuuji is secretly, ridiculously , pleased.)

+

“You broke me,” Megumi says, accusatory, the second he cracks his eyes open.

He grins, pulls at his wrist until Megumi comes willingly, rolling onto his back so Yuuji can kiss him stupid. “That’s a bold admission.” 

“I’m serious, Yuuji. I’ve come out of brawls with less bruises,” he grumbles, pushing at his chest until he lets up, propping himself up with his elbow. “I know I asked for it, but have you ever considered the fact that you’re goddamn insane?” 

Yuuji shrugs, wipes at the grit of sleep by the corner of Megumi’s eye. “To be fair, you’re pretty sensitive.” 

“Me, sensitive?” He gapes, makes an offended noise. “You do realise you fuck like the goddamn terminator, right?” 

“Well —” 

“It doesn’t help that your dick looks like that. ” 

He spares a glance down at it, rapidly filling out despite Megumi’s feigned hostility. “You liked it last night.”

“I like it a lot. That’s the problem,” he says, pressing his fingers into his cheeks and squeezing. It’s teasing, the movement gentle. Yuuji can’t help but smile, angle his head down for yet another bruising kiss.

Megumi’s breathing hard by the time they break apart, a flush working its way down his chest. “I’ll help out with that but I’m too sore,” he admits, rubbing his knee along his length. “I can, however, suck you off.”

“Good enough for me,” Yuuji declares. In the end, he settles for humping Megumi into the shower wall, a hand clasped around his mouth so he can’t scream bloody murder and wake everyone on their floor.

It’s one of the things he loves about Megumi — how the stoic personality dissipates the second he’s stimulated, crying and whining whenever Yuuji works a second finger up his ass, or gets him bouncing on his cock. The rush of power it gives him is heady as it is addictive.

“You need some water?” he says, once they’re cleaned up. “Breakfast?”

“An ambulance would be good.” 

Yuuji clicks his tongue at him reprovingly, drops a teasing smack to his ass when he walks by. “Smartass.”

They pack up in comfortable silence after. Megumi puts on an episode of his favourite podcast the second they get in the truck, starts talking about the ambiguity behind the whole concept of general relativity. Yuuji contents himself with listening, interjecting from time-to-time before the conversation spirals into his addiction to mobile games. This, somehow, requires them to stop for ramen so Megumi can berate him about it further, eyeing his phone with distaste as Yuuji explains the controls in excruciating detail. 

“I just don’t get what’s so fun about playing a game that mostly just involves tapping really aggressively at a screen.” 

Yuuji heaps a generous helping of ginger onto a dumpling, drops it into Megumi’s bowl before he can protest. 

“It’s more than that, though. It involves strategy, timing…” he trails off, darting a glance up at him. “But that’s not what you want to hear. You’re stalling, because you can’t figure out what to do about the Zenin situation.” 

The look he gets in response is distinctly withering. “Don’t psycho-analyze me.” 

“I’m not. You’re just — I don’t know, becoming easier to read.” 

All things considered, it’s not the smartest thing to say. He doesn’t have to be seated by Megumi to feel the sudden tension that latches onto his frame, turning his shoulders rigid. Shit. It’s too fast, too soon; a shove out of the door rather than the gentle easing Yuuji has been trying for. 

As quickly as it arrives, it passes. Megumi sighs, pressing a knuckle against his brow bone. “You’re right,” he concedes, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. “I feel like I’ve come up with a good alternative to this clusterfuck. But not everyone’s going to be happy.” 

“And by everyone,” he says, raising a brow, “you mean Naoya and Naobito.” 

Megumi shoots him a grim smile. “At this point, I’m prepared for them to do their worst once they figure out what I’m up to.” 

“Do I get a hint?” 

“Maki,” he says, in answer. 

+

There’s a different slant to his days in the aftermath of everything.

Yuuji wakes to Megumi curled up around him, now; head on his chest, his breathing soft and even in the quiet. Some nights, he startles awake because Megumi decides it’s a great idea to get his mouth on his dick. There are times, too, where he can’t sleep and needs Yuuji to fuck him to the point of exhaustion. 

More often than not, though, just being in each other’s company is enough. Megumi’s hands in his hair when he’s gaming. The slide of his sock-clad feet pressed to the back of Yuuji’s calves when he’s cold. Going to the laundry room at three in the morning, sharing headphones and listening to the same podcast.

It’s peaceful; a promise of everything they could have if Yuuji’s only brave enough to ask. 

But he’s not. He can’t. Not when Megumi flinches away when he leans over to see who’s texting. Not when he clams up whenever Yuuji pushes him on the whole Zenin situation, posture wary and his gaze going guarded. 

They went to a party together, once. Megumi kissed him in a shadowy alcove, eyes bright and lips damp with alcohol. He could barely see the green of his eyes in the dark. 

Say something, he thinks, watching the rise and fall of Megumi’s shoulders in his sleep. Fucking say something, before he wrenches your heart out and reduces it to a bloody pulp.

He never does. 

The next time he thinks about it, it’s a Tuesday afternoon — a week before midterms. Yuuji’s situated in the library, attempting to cram a whole semester’s worth of coursework into his brain. He’s been doing this for eight hours straight. His vision is blurry, his despair mounting. 

Then there’s a hand on his shoulder, a cup of coffee pushed before him. 

Yuuji lifts his head. Identifies the messy hair, first, the disapproving curve of his mouth and those goddamned legs for days. 

“I love you,” he croaks out. 

Megumi sighs. “Did you even shower?” 

“No,” Yuuji says mournfully, surveying the slew of papers within his carrel. “I figured impending college dropouts don’t deserve to use the amenities.”

“You’re an idiot,” he huffs, and it says something that Yuuji doesn’t have to strain to pick out the note of affection in his voice. “Move aside. I’ll help you make flash cards.” 

Megumi’s a good teacher, because of course he is. Organized, patient. Calm throughout all his flailing and despondency. He doesn’t even complain about having to make several food runs because Yuuji’s useless when he’s hungry. It occurs to Yuuji, later, that he doesn’t have to tell Megumi what he likes either. He remembered. 

They leave just as the sun comes up; seven in the morning and walking out to a deserted campus. 

“If I pass, I’m buying you fifty of those pork scallion dumplings you like so much.” 

Megumi casts him a pained look. “Please don’t. I’d prefer if the owners didn’t hate us.”

“I’ll teach you how to make ‘em yourself.” 

“Why? I have you for that.” 

He has to hide his smile behind the shadow of his hood. “C’mon,” he says, dropping his skateboard onto the ground, stabilising it with his foot on the wheel. “I’ll give you a lift back to our room.” 

“All that studying has fried your brain,” Megumi says, disbelief apparent. He’s eyeing the board as if it’s going to come alive and snap his ankle clean off. “It’ll tip under our weight.” 

“It’s a long board.”

“You’re saying that like I understand what you mean.” 

He tugs at Megumi’s fingers, unclenching them in a slow, fluid motion. “Trust me,” he murmurs, pushing close. In the hair’s breadth that they’re apart, he can feel the bob of his throat when he swallows. Hear the stuttering of his breath when he tips his head up to plant a kiss at his jaw. 

“Cheat,” he says breathlessly. Yuuji laughs because, well, fuck if he isn’t. 

It takes Megumi a few minutes to get settled. He’s tense on the board, knees locked and hands stiff. Yuuji snorts back a laugh, re-positions him so he can slot his arms around his waist comfortably, grinning the entire fucking way.

(They could be good together. They would. Yuuji knows it the way he grasps certain things, like surfing or rollerblading. Seamless and instinctual, bone-deep.)

“Let’s go,” he tells him, kicking off with one foot. They barrel forward, propelled by momentum and the sound of Megumi’s laugh in his ears, incredulous and joyous in equal measure.

+

(To celebrate Yuuji’s continued attendance at Jujutsu U — with a collective GPA of 2.8! — Megumi gets him a pen.

Navy-blue, rollerball. The kind you’d get for a cheap at a stationary store. 

He stares, blinks. Maybe he should have asked for a blow job. “Uh, thanks?” 

Megumi blushes something furious. “It’s good for you, idiot. This one has a rubber-grip, so you’re not going to get friction-burn all over your fingers on your next written exam.” 

It occurs to him, then, how much Megumi notices. How much he cares in that self-possessed way of his, going out of the way to do things for him outside of his awareness. For all of the withdrawn sullenness he exhibits, he makes it a point to actually listen to what Yuuji is saying. To act on things in the best way he knows how, even when it comes to the things Yuuji doesn’t talk about. 

There’s a lump in his throat. He wonders, sometimes, if he’ll be better with all of this if he’d experienced it more as a kid. If kindness and attention and devotion had been given more freely; his relationships less transactional. 

“I love it,” he says, turning his face into Megumi’s stomach. He relaxes further when he feels the scrunch of his fingers against his hair, massaging his scalp. “I’ll use it for everything.”)

+

Everything goes to shit the week before the summer term.

It happens thanks to a number of things. One, Yuuji’s grouchy because he pulled a muscle at rugby the day before. Megumi did waylay him with a variety of muscle relaxants and cooling patches, but he’s sore as fuck and mad about it. 

Two, Megumi’s been more distracted as of late — his attention frayed due to a challenging course load and the whole Zenin situation which he, resolutely, refuses to tell Yuuji more about. 

Then there’s the fact that he’s not even watching the movie he picked out. 

“Okay,” he says, the next time Megumi pulls his phone out to text. “If you’re going to be this way, can I at least watch football instead?” 

The hostility of his tone cuts through despite Megumi’s resolute focus. He looks up, startled. “What?” 

“What,” Yuuji echoes, fighting to keep his voice level. “It’s not like you’re watching. You’re too busy texting god knows who.” 

He’s familiar enough with the planes of Megumi’s face to discern the exact moment it tightens, annoyance and impatience warring. “I’m dealing with a situation here.” 

“That’s fine. But at least let me watch whatever the fuck I want.”

Anger is replaced momentarily by hurt. He wants to take it back the second the words leave his mouth; wants, more than anything, to lean forward and kiss Megumi until the expression fades. And yet, he can’t seem to move, rooted in indecision and some sort of fear that turns his blood cold. 

“You said you liked the movies he directed,” Megumi says quietly. “Don’t make it sound as if I forced this on you.” 

“You didn’t ,” Yuuji snaps. “But the point is that we’re supposed to watch it together. I liked his last few movies as much as I did because I was watching it with you. How do you not get that?” 

“I was distracted for all of five minutes,” he retorts, crossing his arms over his chest. His form is hunched-over. Defensive. Yuuji turns away, buries the ache that rises at the sight of it. “How are you making it sound as if I’ve been ignoring you this entire time?” 

It takes a considerable amount of effort not to give in. To resist the urge to smooth things over like he always does. “It’s not that you’re ignoring me. It’s that you’re always hiding shit from me, and pretending that it doesn’t hurt my feelings —”

“The only reason I’m not telling you shit is because I don’t want you involved in this.” 

“This shit is your goddamn life.” 

“Only a part of it!” Megumi snarls, jerking up from his chair. “With everything you know about me, how —” he huffs, tugging his hand through his hair. His tone goes soft by the end of it. Desperate. “How is it not enough?” 

It’s a testament to whatever the fuck this is that Yuuji deciphers it. How is it that whatever Megumi has given him isn’t enough? Why does Yuuji keep pushing for honesty and transparency and everything else that Megumi isn’t equipped to shell out?

Because I love you, he doesn’t say. “That’s not how a relationship works,” he manages instead. 

His expression clouds over at that. It’s in that instant where Yuuji recognizes it for what it is, grasps the severity of what’s about to take place. 

“Don’t do it,” he pleads. Closing his eyes doesn’t help. Megumi’s face is imprinted upon his lids, sombre and defiant and keyed up with a kind of recklessness that never bodes well. “Megumi, please.” 

“Why would you think we’re in a relationship?” he asks. 

And Yuuji just… breaks . 

“Fuck you,” he swears, pushing to his feet. His eyes are hot, his whole body trembling with the force of holding himself back. He wants to kiss him. He wants to shake him until the lies and deception and cowardice falls away. He wants to run.“ I don’t understand. Why can’t you just be brave, and fucking love me back?” 

Megumi reels back; the impact of it traversing through his body. Unsteady footing, shaking hands. It shows, no matter how practised he is at impermeability. 

This, somehow, hurts more than anything. 

“I think you’ve misjudged what’s been going on between us,” he says, once he’s recovered.

There’s nothing left to say. Yuuji feels strangely detached from it all, taking in the carnage between them. The remnants of the pizza they devoured; the movie playing in the background; fairy lights flashing sporadically against the window pane. The life they’ve built, crumbling to nothing in a span of minutes. 

“Yeah,” he forces out, before turning around and walking out. “That must be it.”

+

Megumi’s gone when he returns the next morning. His stuff is, too. But Yuuji didn’t expect anything less. 

Todo gives a low whistle at the sight of the emptied space; the quiet imprint of Megumi’s presence lying in its wake. The ring of dust by the corner where he kept his humidifier. The bed yanked back into place, a good distance away from Yuuji’s. 

“That’s rough, buddy.” Todo says. 

“I know,” is all he says. In his head, he begins a countdown. Day 1 in the after, in a life without Fushiguro Megumi. It’s as lonely as he thought it would be.

+

This is what he learns from sniffing around: Megumi’s camping out in Kugisaki’s room for the time-being. He’s applied to live off-campus for the next semester. And no, he doesn’t want to see Yuuji. Or talk to him, for that matter.

“I’m not going to say that he’ll come around.” Maki points out, matter-of-fact. “Megumi’s the most stubborn person I know. Pigs will fly before he admits to missing you.”

It’s the answer he expected. The one he’s been banking on. And yet, he finds himself strangely disappointed anyway. “I figured,” he tells her. “Thanks anyway, Maki-senpai.” 

She dips her head in acknowledgment. “For what it’s worth,” she says, “I’ve never seen him as happy as he was with you. He smiled a lot.”

And what good does that do? Yuuji thinks idly. It’s been three weeks since Megumi upped and left, and a week since his sleeping and eating habits have begun to regain some form of normalcy. He can stomach noodles, now, and bread with cheese. Most nights, he can still only fall asleep if he has the TV going but he did wear himself out to the point of passing out that one time.

Baby steps. Tiny increments until he remembers what it’s like to breathe without shattered glass in his lungs. 

Todo says the best way to deal with a broken heart is by keeping a busy schedule. Your rate of recovery is proportional to how much you’re sweating, and suffering, and doing. 

Yuuji takes up volleyball, first. When he masters that, he takes his skateboard out and attempts yet another series of ridiculously complicated tricks. Then there’s pottery, and archery, and baking. The last of it: Going on runs so fucking far and long that he falls asleep the second he makes it back to his room. As it is, he realises, you can outpace your demons. 

He adds another mile every time he thwarts an urge to establish contact, does suicide drills with every aborted text. Life is a game of association — keep doing this long enough, and soon his brain registers anything to do with Megumi as a needless exercise in suffering.

It works, for the most part. 

By the end of the third month, Megumi isn’t the first thing that comes to mind when he wakes. He is an ache that throbs at the sight of entwined couples; the hollow, bottomless numbness that descends whenever he’s had a long day. It’s grief and regret and a bone-deep kind of tired. It’s a weight he’s learned to carry. 

He thinks about it when Megumi’s birthday comes around, goes as far as to pick up his phone and bring up their chat. But then Yuuji remembers that nothing he will ever say will sound as good as the fantasies he’s played out in his head. The closure that he’s dragged to the surface on his own accord. 

He puts the phone away. 

+

The next time he sees Megumi, it’s from a distance.

His hair is longer. The space beneath his lids are smudged purple, and the sharp cut of his jaw is protruding through skin. He looks older. He looks tired. 

He looks how Yuuji imagines him to be, if his presence — and subsequent absence — meant more to Megumi than it actually did. As it is, Yuuji’s not delusional enough to believe that. His haggard appearance is elucidated upon in the papers, dissected in morning talk shows and podcasts. 

Exiled successor of the Zenin clan exposes members' involvement in one of Tokyo’s largest drug rings, the headline reads. Fushiguro Megumi disintegrates one of Japan’s wealthiest families, another states. 

The finale to the entire matter: Zenin Maki inherits remaining assets and fortune.

Megumi disappears from the press entirely, after. It’s soundless and swift, a ghost treading its way straight and through a graveyard. Unlike with Yuuji’s heart, he leaves no craters in his wake.

+

Autumn again. The cold snap in the air makes rugby impossible for anyone who isn’t Todo. 

The team goes up to the mountains instead, ringing in the new year with a trip to one of Japan’s finest ski resorts. Yuuta-senpai sprains his ankle skiing; Panda chokes and throws up during an overly enthusiastic round of chubby bunny; while Yuuji gets body-checked by Inumaki-senpai when they attempt snowboarding. He’s fine beyond a shattered phone screen.

“I’m just saying,” Todo suggests, as they sip languidly from cups of hot chocolate. Frost crunches under their boots as they ascend another small hill, civilization shrinking in the distance. “It might be time to start dating people again.” 

Yuuji can’t help it. He laughs. “I’ve been on dates.” 

“I mean seriously, brother. Not casual hookups or prospects that you know are all wrong for you that combust within a week.” He punctuates the statement with a stern clasp of his arm; a shake that just about loosens Yuuji’s molars. “I’m asking you to try.” 

There is nothing before them but trees and quiet. Yuuji exhales, watching his breath rise. “Okay.” 

“Do you mean it?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good,” Todo says, satisfied. “You can start by asking someone to go to the film festival with you.” 

He jerks out of Todo’s hold, somehow nearly manages to lose his footing in the process. “The one next weekend? No .” 

Todo frowns. “Why not?” 

“Because,” Yuuji says, as if it explains anything. He lands on a memory of Megumi’s smile gleaming in the dark, a kaleidoscope of colour flashing on the milkiness of his skin. That’s the thing about Junpei Yoshino films, his voice echoes. Everything means something. “I like to watch those movies by myself.” 

A beat. Todo, thankfully, doesn’t push, though he does sound fairly disgruntled on their walk back down to the resort. 

Yuuji concludes that it’s a good thing he didn’t bring anyone on the day. The lines are out the door, and the waiting area is teeming with folks hawking Yoshino merch. He finds himself a quiet corner by the back door, resting his frame against a lamp post so he can slouch and game until the movie starts.

He’s so into it, it takes a second for him to comprehend that someone’s calling his name. 

“Yuuji,” the voice says again, louder than before. He looks up, and, oh. 

It’s like looking at an old photo of someone you’ve known for the longest time. At its core, they’re no different. Move closer and you’ll see the differences: A freckle, a new angle to their face, a changed smile. 

Megumi. 

He looks… better. Less like he’s been dragged through the mud and left in a ditch to die. There’s weight to his face now, his fine-boned features coming off delicate rather than gaunt. Beyond the way he’s worrying his lip with his teeth, he seems fine. Less tightly-wound than he was in the split-second glimpse he caught of him; the pictures and frames caught on TV. 

Yuuji blinks. “Hi.” 

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, soft. His gaze drops to the phone in Yuuji’s hand, a wry smile peeking through. “Or that you’ll be stuck on a game that’s close to a decade old.” 

It doesn’t occur to him to hold back, to show restraint in the face of the person who so thoroughly shattered his heart. “That’s what they call a classic. ” 

“Clunker, more like.” 

“Iconic.” 

“One man’s trash,” Megumi snorts. The good mood fades soon enough, though, giving way to hesitance. “You changed your number,” he broaches, shifting his feet.

He glances down at the device in his hands, its shell varnish-smooth and clean. “Right. Inumaki-senpai broke mine, and my contract was up, so…” he trails off. It occurs to him, then, as to what Megumi is insinuating to. “Did you try to contact me?” 

His voice is a steady, unwavering thing. “Yes.” 

Everything has gone quiet. The crowd, the screens, the traffic. In the silence, Yuuji thinks he hears the exact moment a leaf falls; Megumi’s sharp intake of breath. 

“I wanted to call to apologise,” he begins, swallowing. “To tell you that I missed you, and that I was wrong, and that I wanted to try again — if you’d let me, that is. I wanted to ask if you’ll give me the opportunity to prove that I can be less careful. Less cautious. Less fucking afraid of everything that you mean to me.” 

His chest has gone tight, his throat dry. It’s everything Yuuji allowed himself to dream in the dead of the night. It’s nothing he thought it would be. It’s somewhere between the two.

It’s Megumi.

“I understand if you’d prefer to walk away. Or if you need me to be just a friend. I’ll take anything you give me,” he ducks his head, sucks in his cheeks. “However long as it takes,” he continues, hugging onto his elbows. “I’m aware that it’s a lot to take in, and you might —” 

“Megumi,” Yuuji interrupts. His eyes are the exact green he remembered; of moss and leaves and growth — the emergence of life through the cracks of a bathroom wall he noticed a lifetime ago. “Would you like to watch a movie with me?” 

+

There’s a lot of things to take in about Megumi’s new apartment. 

The sloping ceiling, studded with posters and stars; a single humidifier, now a little worse for wear; the rows of books and magazines arranged in alphabetical order. 

The sports jacket draped over a chair, bearing his initials and frayed at the sleeves from wear. A fixture in Yuuji’s closet that had disappeared mysteriously in their time apart, lost in the walk from the laundry room to the dorms. 

You can’t go back in time. But as it turns out, you can go home again.

Megumi peeks his head out from behind the door, surveying him. “Well?” he asks, “are you coming in?” 

“Yeah,” Yuuji tells him, toeing off his shoes. It’s a short walk across the threshold, a path made even shorter, strangely, when he leans over to grab ahold of Megumi’s elbow. He squeezes it once; an affirmation of where they are. What they will grow to be. “I’m right here.”