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The surname on Megumi’s client registry should have rung a bell.
There is only one Itadori he knows in his hometown. But when he scanned his list of dogs for the day, he was too busy stressing over the akita inu, Japanese chin, and shiba inu booked in three back-to-back slots on his schedule. He thought the first two dogs would be the worst, thanks to their thick coats, and underestimated the shiba inu’s temper and disregard for human life.
Now, he is plopping Itadori’s terrier into his station’s bath tub, staunchly ignoring the lead weight of Itadori’s gaze on the back of his neck. Boasting a black and white coat and brilliantly named “Panda,” the terrier is a saint in comparison to the previous dogs. Completely silent, save for a whine here and there as Megumi starts to lather him up. Itadori, on the other hand—
“You look like this actor from that one popular drama,” Itadori hums from where he stands and watches a few meters away. “He played Nobunaga, I think, but I can’t remember his name.”
Megumi pauses and scowls to himself. “Last time I checked, Nobunaga never groomed dogs for a living.”
“Not the dog part. Just the pose, with you kneeling. There was some scene where he knelt over another samurai. The hairline on the back of your neck matches, too. Hasegawa Hiroki, maybe? No, that’s not right—”
Straightening up to shoot Itadori a look over his shoulder, Megumi scoffs, “Four years since we last talked, and this is what you wanna say to me? I don’t even know who Hasegawa Hiroki is.”
“No way! You’d know him if you saw him,” Itadori laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners in a familiar warmth that tightens in Megumi’s stomach. And then, with a casual ease, he adds, “So, you do remember me.”
Megumi doesn’t dignify that with a response. At a fundamental level, Itadori is hard to forget. Back when they were second years at the same school, he mouthed off to anyone with ears. That included instructors, so he spent his fair share of evenings in detention or the counselor’s office. Seems like he hasn’t outgrown his mouth yet. And he looks the same, too, besides a new haircut—matte-pink hair on top of a dark brown undercut. Panda’s leash, currently wrapped around Itadori’s hand, matches the colors.
The years have hardened the cut of Itadori’s jaw and cheeks, but only a little. His body has also toned up, Megumi would wager, but Itadori’s hoodie is so loose that he can’t tell by looking. All he can tell is that Itadori is almost a head taller than him now, and his silhouette is twice the size of Megumi’s. He catches Megumi staring and gives him another smile. Those wide, round eyes are just as bright as they were four years ago.
“You don’t have to wait back here with the dog, you know,” Megumi reminds him as he returns to shampooing Panda.
Itadori takes that as an invitation to amble closer. He leans over Megumi’s shoulder, voice thrumming beside his ear. “And miss the chance to watch the Mad Dog Fushiguro groom an actual dog? Oh, you missed a spot, I think—”
“Don’t. Call me that,” Megumi hisses through his teeth. When Itadori simply laughs again, some of the tension unspools in Megumi’s back. “That might as well be a past life. I’m just Tired, Underpaid Dog Fushiguro now.”
This time, Itadori doesn’t respond. With him, silence was always unsettling. Reminds him of those days that they first met, when Megumi was at his most unruly. He bloodied his knuckles on dozens of faces, including Itadori’s. He’ll never forget the spring of one year when he punched the wrong person, a kid Itadori believed didn’t deserve to be punched, and all the chatter that typified Itadori dried up. That congenial glint in his eyes fizzled out, and in the emptiness left behind, something alien and frighteningly intense took its place. That evening, Megumi went home with bruised ribs and one eye swollen shut.
The day after that, Megumi apologized. Only to satisfy his own guilt, honestly. Certainly not to make friends with a fellow unhinged second year—one he barely knew, and who wasn’t even his classmate. But from that point on, Itadori sought him out every day like they were old friends, whether Megumi welcomed him or not. Until, eventually, Megumi began to welcome him.
Finally, Itadori pipes up, “Weird how all the delinquents used to compare themselves to animals. What did they call me—the Leopard? Bobcat? Um—”
“Tiger,” Megumi supplies. The tips of his ears burn at how quickly he answers. “The Tiger of West High.”
“Haha, oh yeah! Well, you reminded me a lot of a puppy, and you used to volunteer at that shelter for dogs, so I always thought Mad Dog suited you,” Itadori observes, and as Megumi is opening his mouth to argue that he is not and never has been a puppy, Itadori continues, “I kinda hoped you’d do something with animals someday. Felt like you’d be happier that way. Did you ever end up going to college? Wait, this means you finally gave up taking over the family business, right?”
“Yes. To both,” Megumi replies, voice tight and pulse drumming at the inside of his throat so hard he’d swear Itadori could hear. The curtness staves off further questions for the moment. But Megumi knows that won’t last forever because once Itadori gets started, he slides from one question to another like tires on black ice, and Megumi could never resist answering him. Not when Itadori's eyes are glittering like they are right now.
Even now, after four years apart, Itadori has a way of making the sticking points of Megumi’s life sound irrelevant. The Mad Dog persona cost him admission at his first choice of universities, and his second choice cost him opportunities to become that veterinary surgeon he once dreamed of becoming. The family business plagued him his entire life, especially when distant relatives from his birth family started condemning him after his father died and he was adopted. To Itadori, though? He hoped things would turn out this way. With Megumi stooped over for sixteen hours a day, washing smelly dogs at a pet salon for a pittance, up to his elbows in suds and loose fur. He hoped Megumi would be happy. And while Megumi wasn't quite happy yet, he was closer than back then. A lot closer.
They fall back into silence as Megumi rinses Panda’s fur and starts to dry him. Itadori is still standing incredibly close, just like he did during school assemblies and sports events back in their high school days. From the faint heat of his body, Megumi can recall with startling clarity the imprint of Itadori’s hand on his back, on his shoulder, and rough fingers rubbing at the back of his neck—Itadori was already fond of friendly touches to start with, but when it came to Megumi, he took as many liberties as he could. Megumi’s lashes flutter at the memory of calluses scratching against his nape. Those touches never meant anything, not really, until the summer before their third year.
The little terrier, almost fully dry now, glances up at Megumi with concerned eyes. Not a peep from his muzzle, and Megumi briefly finds himself frustrated that his single easy, cooperative dog of the day is overshadowed by memories of the past. He finishes drying Panda and lifts him onto the grooming table, which gives him an excuse to nudge Itadori out of the way and increase the distance between them. The clippers and brushes are stored in a cabinet underneath the table, so Fushiguro kneels down to grab them, hoping Itadori isn’t looking at him and thinking about Hasegawa Hiroki again, or whoever that actor was.
When he chances another peek over his shoulder, Itadori meets his gaze before looking down to the floor. He should be sad. Even Megumi feels a little melancholy himself. But all he sees on Itadori’s face is a wry smile. And slowly, but surely, it grows.
~~~
The summer before their third year, for one day, Itadori changed. Only for one day, brief as a spike on a heart monitor in the grand total of Megumi’s twenty-two years of life.
That afternoon simmered, sticky-hot, against Megumi’s skin. Once again, he had started a fight with a group of boys, and Itadori was helping him assess the damage. Despite the fact that Megumi took his shirt off and ran the AC on full blast, he was still sweltering where they sat together in his room. Megumi couldn’t tell the difference between his blood and his sweat as Itadori sat in front of him, gracelessly slapping bandages onto the wounds on his arms.
“Not so hard, mallet hands,” Megumi hissed.
“I’m being gentle!” Itadori argued with a pout. “You’re fine, anyway. Looks like it’s all just scrapes and bruises. You’re lucky you’re so strong.”
“‘S not luck,” Megumi huffed, lifting his nose in the air. A little ball of light glowed in his chest in spite of himself.
Itadori finished patching him up, giving him a hearty smack on both of his cheeks for good measure. Fuck “gentle”—that alone stung like hell and rattled Megumi’s brains. He gave Itadori a shove, nearly launching him off the edge of the bed. And of course, Itadori shoved back. That turned to kicking and punching, and they exchanged hits until all of Megumi’s skin tingled and he was breathless with laughter.
Eventually, Itadori wrestled Megumi onto his back on the bed and pinned his hands by his head. As Itadori knelt over him, mirroring Megumi with a lopsided smile, a single bead of sweat dripped from his chin onto Megumi’s bare neck. Those wide eyes narrowed in warmth, glazed over from exertion, and Megumi’s stomach suddenly started to simmer with the same sticky heat of the summer air.
He swallowed, his throat clicking. “Unfair advantage. I’m already hurt.”
Itadori shook his head in disbelief and sat back, weight settling just above Megumi’s hips. The warmth in Megumi’s stomach grew. “Ever thought of … chilling out? Just for a little while. If you keep picking fights, you’re gonna get a suspension. Or worse.”
“Survived just fine until now,” Megumi shrugged with a self-assurance that he would come to regret in the future. Goddamn university.
“I mean it, dude.”
“Okay? Who are you, my mom?” Megumi retorted, eyebrows rising. He tried not to look down at where their bodies meet, or think about the fluttering in his chest. “Why are you worried now?”
Rubbing the back of his neck, Itadori hummed, “I dunno. Guess I’m worried that if one of us gets into too much trouble, we might not graduate together. And I really wanna graduate together.”
“Then we will,” Megumi told him.
There was silence—more of that unsettling kind, but in a new way this time, one that tangled up each breath in a link of barbed wire. Itadori leaned forward, bracing his elbows on either side of Megumi’s head, and pressed their foreheads together. When he spoke, each word whispered across Megumi’s skin, just shy of his mouth. “You promise?”
“Itadori?” Megumi says. Or at least, he tries. All that comes out are the consonants, the click of his tongue against his teeth.
“Graduation, university—if you’re not there, there’s no point. And I don’t wanna miss out. So, no more fights. Promise me,” Itadori pleaded, lips brushing Megumi’s cheek with every word.
No sound would leave his throat. The only other time Itadori came this close was when they helped each other with their stretches during P.E., and during a couple of uncomfortable dreams Megumi woke up from covered in sweat. He tried, and successfully managed, not to think about them, until now. Before, the future was easy to forget, since he didn’t think he would have one. And it certainly never occurred to him that he might have a place in Itadori’s.
Now that he knew, his imagination unspooled out in front of his eyes. The two of them, walking at graduation together. Studying for entrance exams in Megumi’s room, Itadori bent over a worksheet with his brows furrowed and pink tongue between his teeth. Getting into the same university, because Megumi knew wherever he went, Itadori would follow. Maybe even sharing a room where they would hang out together on Megumi’s bed, like they were now. With Itadori this close, it was easy to imagine how it would feel if he moved his lips over just another centimeter, and the idea sent a wave of panic crashing through Megumi’s chest.
He opened and closed his mouth, and after several unsuccessful attempts managed to rasp out a shaky, “I’ll try.”
Itadori pulled back a little, staring into Megumi’s eyes for a period that outlasted the breath left in his lungs. He couldn’t stop staring at Itadori’s half-parted lips, soft and wet as two slices of a peach. There was something Itadori wanted to say. Megumi can tell by the weight of his gaze.
And then, Itadori sat up fully, a rueful smile stretching across his face. He climbed off of Megumi’s hips, offering a hand to help him sit up. “I guess that’s good enough for me.”
Dazed, Megumi accepted his hand. When he sat up, Itadori returned to acting like normal. Megumi can hardly remember what they did after that—probably played video games or talked about homework. Now, he mainly remembers the confusion, the dreamlike aura of the evening hours as they darkened the sky. Eventually, Itadori left.
They never talked about that afternoon again. Once, Megumi tried to bring it up in a roundabout way, and Itadori acted like he didn’t understand.
Still, Megumi kept his promise. He stopped picking fights, and they graduated together. Not a hard sacrifice to make, admittedly. And the pride on Itadori’s face as they walked the stage together was worth it.
Shortly after that, Itadori moved. And like high school friendships tend to do, slowly, he fell away.
And since that time, four years have elapsed.
~~~
By the time Megumi finishes trimming Panda, buffing his claws, and otherwise primping him, the salon is about to close. As he leads Itadori and Panda through the shop, the terrier’s head held proud and high, Megumi thinks that at least Itadori could never find fault in the quality of his work. Not that Itadori would, but knowing that makes Megumi feel better.
The manager and his coworkers are already gone. Megumi volunteered to lock up long before Itadori arrived, and now he’s paying for his generosity. He and Itadori are the only two left in the entire salon. Plus Panda, of course. Megumi rings Itadori up and barely restrains himself from sighing in relief as he leans over the counter to hand Itadori the receipt.
Itadori reaches out, fingers stopping just short of the receipt. New scars wreath his knuckles and crawl across the back of his hand. Where did he get those? A job, maybe? Or a fight, if he’s still prone to occasional violence? Only now is Megumi realizing that in the embarrassment of meeting Itadori again, he never bothered to ask how Itadori’s life is going. He hazards a glance at Itadori, who stands frozen with his lip caught between his teeth. His gaze is soldered to the paper clutched between Megumi’s fingers.
“Something wrong?” Megumi asks.
“I,” Itadori starts before taking a deep breath and scrubbing his face with both hands. “I really don’t want to be a creep. I really don’t. But I have to ask you something.”
Something curls again in Megumi’s stomach—something sour and yet nauseatingly sweet, plummeting like a stone through his body with no signs of hitting the bottom. “Okay?” he croaks, against his better judgment.
“That time in the summer, right before our third year. When I was patching you up in your room, and we were talking about graduating, and I—you remember, right?” Itadori asks, and when Megumi nods numbly, he nods back. A flush blooms in Itadori’s cheeks, soft and tawny. “Um. Well, I—fuck it. I’m just gonna come out with it. I was trying to ask you out, and I couldn’t do it.”
“Oh,” Megumi responds. The syllable echoes hollowly, barely audible over the blood rushing in his ears.
“I thought maybe if I got real close to you like that, you’d realize on your own, and—I dunno. I was an idiot. After that, I was so embarrassed that I never brought it up again.” Itadori sucks in another breath, nose scrunching to an almost comical degree. “I just wanna know—if I had asked you back then, what would your answer be?”
It takes all of Megumi’s effort to keep from shaking. He thinks back to that moment, trapped underneath Itadori’s body with their lips separated by the thinnest sliver of air, and that future he dreamed of that gave out under the slightest pressure, like a piece of wet paper. But even though he never pictured them meeting again this way, this is still the future. And here they both are.
“I probably would’ve told you ‘no,’” Megumi admits.
Screwing his eyes shut in pain, Itadori groans, “Ugggh. Yeah, I figured. It’s okay, though—past life, like you said.” He opens his eyes again and rolls his lips together. They are still soft and peachy, just like Megumi remembers. “But—man. I should’ve kissed you then. I’ve regretted that ever since.”
The corners of Megumi’s eyes burn. A handful of times, he has dreamed of what he would say to Itadori given the chance, and what Itadori should say to him. The first words out of his mouth should have been “Sorry for almost kissing you and then ghosting you afterward.” Megumi deserves an apology, goddammit. Because yeah, Itadori should regret it. Megumi can’t be the only one.
Itadori is watching expectantly, pain lining the edges of his smile. There’s something more he wants to say, but he won’t, and Megumi feels like he’s eighteen again, lying on his back under Itadori and unable to break the final barrier between them.
“Well, thanks for letting me clear the air,” Itadori says after an awkward silence that lasts several seconds too long. “I hope I didn’t make you too uncomfortable. Oh, and thank you again for taking such good care of Panda!”
And then finally, Itadori grips the receipt. He pinches the paper with his thumb and forefinger, right at the line where his total is printed, gives it a gentle tug to pull it free.
Except, it doesn’t come free. Megumi is still holding the other end. He stares blindly at where he clutches the paper, and for a moment, he is as shocked as Itadori. Why is he still holding the receipt?
“Fushiguro?” Itadori asks, and Megumi makes the mistake of meeting his eyes. They glitter with specks of light that are jagged as shards of glass. And amongst those broken pieces is the same mouthy kid who occupied Megumi’s life for what felt like a moment that never truly ended.
He fists a shaking hand in Itadori’s hoodie and blurts out, “I really wanna graduate together.”
“Uh.” Eyebrows rising to his hairline, Itadori murmurs, “But we already—? Oh! Ohhh.”
Itadori leans over the counter, towering over Megumi with infuriating ease. The frustration dissolves as Itadori presses their lips together. They slot together a little off-center at first, and Itadori grunts against Megumi’s mouth before grabbing him by the arms and tugging him half over the counter. Megumi gasps and catches himself with one hand on Itadori’s shoulder, and this time when their mouths move together again, Itadori’s lips cover his completely. Itadori holds him there and sucks slow, open-mouthed kisses from Megumi until the backs of his calves burn from having to hold himself up on his toes.
“Fuck’s sake,” Megumi whispers shakily. He pulls away and braces one hand on the counter so he can jump over. As he does, Itadori takes a step back to accommodate, breathing another awed, Ohh!
“So cool,” Itadori chuckles, and though he is teasing, the words still carry a note of genuine admiration.
“Shut up,” Megumi scoffs, cupping the back of his head to yank him close for another kiss.
One hand flies to Megumi’s waist and the other rests on his back. Itadori sinks into him a little too hard and crowds him against the counter. Their hips meld together and a groan leaks out of the seal between their lips, and Megumi can’t tell who it came from. Itadori runs just as hot as he used to, his heat creeping between Megumi’s legs at the same moment his tongue licks into Megumi’s mouth. Barely there, at first—just the tip of his tongue flicking at Megumi’s bottom lip and his teeth. Megumi scratches his fingers through Itadori’s undercut, the bristling hairs soothing against his palms, and Itadori’s entire body shivers against him. And then, Itadori’s tongue is filling his mouth and tracing the ridges of his palate.
Itadori shifts a little so his weight pins Megumi’s hips fully, and this time Megumi lets out an obvious moan. A wash of humiliation flares up the length of Megumi’s neck. If Itadori notices, he is too busy sucking on Megumi’s tongue to care. Megumi screws his eyes shut, losing himself in the wet smack of their mouths sliding together, the click of their teeth knocking together, and the weight of Itadori’s body forcing him back just a bit too far for comfort. Sweat sticks against Megumi’s chest and he feels like he is right back in his room on that summer afternoon, skin raw and aching and buzzing with life.
The hand on his waist grips him almost painfully tight, and Megumi bites Itadori’s lip in retaliation. As he holds the flesh between his teeth, Itadori grins at him, jagged breaths pouring from his open mouth.
“Shtill got that mad dog in you,” he jokes, overenunciating each syllable.
Letting Itadori’s lip snap back, Megumi pants, “And you’re still a dickhead.”
That bastard simply smiles wider, flashing all of his teeth. He opens his mouth, probably to continue the argument, but is cut off by a reedy whine. They both look down to see Panda staring mournfully back at them. There is a huge damp patch of fabric on the leg of Itadori’s cargo pants, which Megumi realizes must have come from Panda licking him to try and get his attention.
“Sorry, Panda,” Megumi says.
Itadori prods at the terrier with his foot, huffing, “Gimme a couple more minutes, Panda.”
“No, Panda’s right. We’ve gotta go. Past closing time,” Megumi says, stomach sinking.
“Mmh,” Itadori groans petulantly, his eyes narrowing. He rests his forehead against Megumi’s, murmuring, “‘We,’ huh?”
Flushing, Megumi answers, “Don’t get the wrong idea. I’ve gotta get home. I promised I’d help clean the kitchen, so I can’t be out late.”
“Can’t you put that off?” Itadori whines, and so does Panda, who matches his pitch. Worry cools the blush on Itadori’s cheeks. “Especially now, after we’ve finally—you know? We have so much to catch up on. Unless you’re thinking this was just a one-time thing? After that kiss, I don’t think I can—”
Megumi covers his mouth with a hand. “And that’s exactly why we should wait until I don’t have to clean my fuckin’ kitchen. Goddamn, you’re just as pushy as you used to be.” He uncovers Itadori’s mouth and grabs his cell phone from his pocket. Handing Itadori the phone, he says in a wavering tone, “L-let’s just start with trading numbers. And then when we both have time, we’ll catch up, for real.”
The disappointment melts from Itadori’s expression. The corners of his eyes crinkle up as he takes Megumi’s phone and agrees, “That’s good enough for me.”