Chapter Text
One of the most exciting parts of every show was coming into the costume shop for his final fitting. No matter how many times Fushiguro tried on a new costume, the next was always just as thrilling. The measurements, fitting and refittings, and all the other less exciting parts—at least to the average actor—were done and finally it was time for all the hard work that was put into creating and curating to be shown off to the first audience—the actor. Fushiguro loved this part. He loved knowing that soon, he’d be putting a costume on to finish out rehearsals and be able to fully, truly immerse himself into the character he worked so hard to create. Putting on a costume to perform in for the first time was a holy ritual. Every piece and part that fit together, no matter how plain or extravagant, meant another piece of the puzzle that was each individual's performance. They would all come together slowly over the dress rehearsals to complete the show in its true, proper beauty.
Fushiguro studied himself in the full body mirror they hung in the cubicle. Everything was a base of white that made him anxious—easily stained. The pants he had put on felt much like slacks, creased correctly down the leg and everything, except they crept far higher up his waist. Though there were four buttons on the front where it traditionally would have closed, the actual closure on the costume pants was a simple hidden zipper on the side.
The collar of the shirt was high around his neck, folded over and sewn that way permanently to show the red fabric of the inside. The cuffs of the sleeves were the same color, all three embroidered with a pattern of golden swirls. On each of his shoulders were equally golden epaulettes. Under the right one, a sash was sewn to the fabric of his shirt all the way down to his hip, and around to where it was split by the invisible zipper at the back. From afar, it would look seamless, but it wouldn’t shift and disrupt his performance this way. It was the same bright red as the collar and cuffs, simple in design save for golden trim on either side.
Kugisaki informed him that there were a few detail pieces missing until they confirmed the fit. Namely, a golden medal that would rest over his heart, and buttons that would make sure his cuffs stayed closed and wouldn’t pop open, but would still be loose enough that he could slip his arms in and out without trouble.
The result would be a costume that looked like it had the moving parts and functioning closures it would have traditionally, but a garment that was easy to slip on and off without all the hassle. After all, Fushiguro had a very quick costume change that would involve removing this top layer in favor of the peasant shirt beneath in a hurry. No one had the time to take hours before a show to put all of this together either. Not at this level at least.
A pounding, that sounded more like a swooshing since there was nothing but a curtain hung at the entrance, startled him out of his admiration of the costume.
“Are you almost done in there, princess?” Kugisaki’s voice floated through the thick fabric. “We have other fittings to do today, you know!”
Kirara laughed somewhere further off in the distance, almost hidden from his ears by the whir of the sewing machine she was working at.
Fushiguro clicked his tongue, ripping the curtain open. “I would like to change which costume shop employee gets to be in here with me.”
“Too bad, Kirara is busy. Now move.” She shoved past him, pointing expectantly at two footprint stickers in front of the full body mirror. The space was a little more cramped with the two of them in it, sweat gathered at the back of his knees as she tugged and adjusted. “I want to see if we can bring the waist in a little more, the silhouette is too boxy,” she muttered around a few pins, getting to work doing just that. “Okay, hinge in different directions at your waist and hips. I want to see if you can still move comfortably like this.”
He did as she asked, even moved his other limbs around a bit to make doubly sure that it wouldn’t mess with his performance in any way. She watched every move, probably taking a load of mental notes he couldn’t hope to understand. When they were both satisfied in the experimentation she nodded and he came to a stop. When Kugisaki was in full work mode, it didn’t matter that they’d known each other since high school and were, more often than not, found together. She didn’t touch without asking and she didn’t joke much. This was serious business to her, and therefore, it was serious business to him.
“Did all of that feel okay?”
“It felt great,” Fushiguro confirmed. “It’s really beautiful, actually.”
“You’re a real prince charming now.” Kugisaki smiled. “I’m going to grab your cape to see if it falls right across the epaulettes. Feel free to step out and show Kirara, if you’re comfortable, she did most of the creation on this one.”
Fushiguro was on her heels as she walked out. Kirara found a stopping place in her current project, finally dragging her eyes up to look at him. A smile broke across her lips. She had just made it over to start circling him, fussing about how handsome he was and how he was finally cute when the door to the costume shop opened.
Itadori dragged his headphones to rest around his neck, taking his bag off, and then he looked up. They locked eyes and his bag hit the floor with a deep thunk. Fushiguro winced internally for whatever electronics might have been hidden away inside it.
Kirara lost interest in Fushiguro very quickly. “Yuu-chan, you’re early! Come in, come in! Fushiguro is almost done then we’ll get started with your fitting.”
Kugisaki came over with his cape, finding where it would connect to his shoulders by magnets hidden within the epaulettes and the layers of fabric. It would create the illusion needed that there was somehow no closure, and ensure it stayed on his being for as long as he needed it to. Easy removal as well for when he needed to get rid of it. No awkward fumbling with hidden ties or snaps.
He would have appreciated the craft a little more if Itadori’s gaze wasn’t burning through him.
“Doesn’t it look good?” Kirara beamed, throwing an arm around Itadori’s shoulders. “I was a little skeptical about putting Fushiguro in white, but I think it worked out alright, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” Itadori breathed. “The red is a nice touch.”
“It is.” Kirara’s chest puffed in a clear show of pride.
Fushiguro, at the same time, got scolded for hunching over on himself. He wanted to be anywhere but here. Itadori’s gaze was doing something strange to his chest and he was scared Kugisaki might hear the way it made his heart race.
“Okay,” Kugisaki spoke, taking the cape back off his shoulders and folding it carefully to not dislodge any adjustments she made with pins. “Go take the top layer off and just show me the undershirt. I want to make sure it’s not too low or tight on the shoulders.”
Never before in his career as an actor had Fushiguro been so excited to run into a dressing room and take a costume piece off.
As soon as the curtain closed behind him, he let out the breath that he’d been holding tight in his chest. Kugisaki walked over to join whatever conversation Kirara and Itadori were having, her voice growing more distant with every step. He peeled the jacket off himself slowly, careful of her pins and then hung it back up.
He took a moment to just breathe.
As much as Fushiguro loved to be on stage, he didn’t like being the center of attention himself. When he was on stage, he wasn’t Fushiguro, he was whatever character he was playing. Whatever people thought of them didn’t matter because it wasn’t him. Here, in this costume shop, he didn’t have that luxury. Sure, he was in costume, but he wasn’t performing. They all knew exactly who he was and there was a pressure that came along with that fact that he rather hated.
Itadori hadn’t taken his eyes off him for more than a few seconds since he saw him the first time. He was incredibly aware of his gaze and Kirara’s when she would give up on getting him to look at her and follow his line of sight back to Fushiguro. Even Kugisaki, in a way, was looking at him. It had been too much.
Too many eyes. Too much Itadori.
“I know it doesn’t take that long to get that thing off,” Kirara called to him. “I designed it so it wouldn’t! You’re going to eat into Yuuji’s time!”
“Sorry, got distracted,” he called back, dusting himself off and taking one final breath.
The curtain opened again and, like they belonged there, Itadori’s honey eyes were right back on him. So was Kugisaki, busy adjusting and instructing him where to tuck or pull out to get the desired silhouette.
She stepped back, as if to look at the full picture better, and then turned on her heel to walk over to Kirara. They both sized him up from afar. Itadori had already been doing that, but this was far freakier. It was like they were having a whole conversation that no one could hear without even having to look at each other.
Kirara nodded. “The red is fine.”
“Are you sure?” Kugisaki hummed. “It’s not cheesy that it matches the detailing instead of being plain like it would have normally been?”
“If we put him in all white with no pop of color it’ll wash him out. He’d vanish under the lights,” the older girl insisted. “It’s not necessarily traditional, but this isn’t a period piece, it’s fantasy.”
Kugisaki seemed satisfied with the answer, beaming at Fushiguro. “Looking good, dude! You can change and head out.”
Back in the changing booth, he took his shirt off, hanging it up next to the top layer. Pants were always trickier and, after a couple years of practice, Fushiguro was finally confident he nailed the technique. Fold them in half, lining up the seams so the fabric of the entire pant lays as flat as possible, then center the hook, draping the waistband over the top part of the triangle instead of the bottom. With two safety pins, lock it in place. A quick fix for not having specialized hangers or wanting to make a student volunteer hang them in more complicated folds.
The process was methodical now, regardless of how frustrating it had been when he was first learning it. This meant no awkward creases that someone would have to iron or steam out, and it extended the life of costume pieces. Fushiguro was happy to help in that department.
Besides, making the costume shop hate you was a generally bad move. They had full say over how stupid you looked up on stage.
He delivered his costume back to Kugisaki and watched as she put it behind a hanging placard with his last name and character name on it. Organized as always, it was easy to find Itadori’s name and get a quick glimpse at what he might be wearing. A lot of darker colors—blues and blacks. He would be baking in that, Fushiguro would have to remember to request a fan backstage on his behalf.
He would need it.
Kirara bumped his hip as he walked by, grabbing Itadori’s costume and taking it to the dressing stall.
“You guys are close.”
Fushiguro willed himself not to jump, distracted enough by the costume that he’d forgotten its temporary owner was there. “I guess so. The department isn’t very big and Kirara has been working in the costume shop since my first year. She doesn’t have a nickname for me though, Yuu-chan.”
“She told me it was because I’m cute,” Itadori laughed. “I’m not really sure if I should take that as a compliment or not.”
“With Kirara?” Fushiguro pointed over his shoulder in the direction she disappeared. “It’s probably the highest compliment you could get.”
“Good to know,” he hummed, smiling at Fushiguro in a way that felt far too private for a public space. “I guess I should probably get going. Hey, if you have time and want to stick around we could—”
“I have a class I have to get to,” Fushiguro lied. “I’m sorry. Maybe next time.”
“Right,” Itadori sounded like he wanted the floor to swallow him. “Next time for sure.”
Kugisaki glared at him from behind the pink haired man, following him with her eyes as he made his retreat. No doubt he would be hearing from her later. She knew just as well as he did that he didn’t have any classes to be getting to. The idea of having to explain to her that he was avoiding his castmate because he was trying to keep himself from breaking his streak of no showmances was less than pleasant.
Of course, Kugisaki never made anything easy on him. Later came sooner than he hoped. He was nearly out the doors of the building the costume shop was housed in when her voice reached his ears. She was calling after him and it wouldn’t be long until she would round the corner and see him. He resisted the urge to take off in a sprint and pretend he was already outside, unable to hear her, when she called.
“Fushiguro Megumi, stop right there. You take one more step and I’ll make sure you don’t walk again,” she cried, voice carrying down the hall and making the few people walking through it glance between them and whisper amongst themselves.
Fushiguro Megumi did, in fact, stop right where he was, hiding the creeping embarrassment behind the high collar of his sweater.
When she reached his side, Kugisaki looped her arm through his own and smiled dangerously up at him. They walked together where she pleased, finding themselves in front of the vending machines in the building that housed a majority of their classrooms, studios, and the main stage. They were tucked away down an awkward hallway right off the front doors. Just a little further down the hall, behind a door, was a hallway of offices and an entrance to backstage that the actors used; coming up one of the forgotten stairwells from the dressing rooms to avoid the eyes that would be lingering outside the theater.
She took them in the other direction when she got their drinks, past both pairs of double doors that led into the theater and through a different door, slightly tucked away. The green room lay behind it, this door leading to the outside, the other at the opposite end, leading backstage.
Kugisaki took a seat on one of the couches, patting the space next to her. Fushiguro followed obediently. She waved the green tea she bought him in front of his face until he took it from her.
“So what’s going on with the two of you?” Kugisaki asked, poking the straw through her strawberry milk.
“I don’t know,” he lied.
She threw him a nasty side eye.
“I’ve been having trouble separating my feelings from my character,” he corrected.
Kugisaki nodded, considering something for a moment. “You’ve never had a problem with that before. Are you sure you don’t just like the guy? I mean, he’s sweet and handsome and pretty much exactly your type.”
“My type?” Fushiguro huffed.
“You know,” Kugisaki gestured vaguely with her milk, “the big brown-eyed tiger type.”
“Tiger?”
She looked at him like he was stupid. “Not too far from the puppy type, but they’ve got a little more of a spine. Very charming and playful, would do anything you asked, but could also throw you around and be into it instead of wanting to cry about it.”
“Kugisaki!”
“You asked.”
He had, but that was certainly not the answer he was expecting, nor was it an answer he really wanted her thinking about too hard. Not because he thought she’d steal Itadori away or something equally as ridiculous, but because it was currently in the process of giving him some kind of new complex and he did not want her reading that on his face.
Kugisaki was right. Itadori was handsome, that much wasn’t hard to see for anyone with eyes. He was well built and deliciously tanned despite the fact everyone else was well on their way to losing their sunkissed looks from the summertime. Which meant he just looked like that. Entirely unfair, if you asked Fushiguro. He was funny and he had a nice smile. He was the kind of guy you could take home and not worry about what he might say or do. The kind of guy that older sisters trusted enough to hand your number to without a second thought. He was kind. Truthfully, Itadori Yuuji was the guy that people dreamed about falling in love with.
Fushiguro was not people. He was just confused.
Kugisaki didn’t bother him about it any further, taking her leave to rush back to the costume shop and leaving her trash behind for Fushiguro to clean up.
He took a sip of his tea and tried not to wonder what kind of drink Itadori gravitated toward.
—
Dress rehearsals came and went in that strange flow of time where, as a whole, it felt far too fast, but, as single days, had dragged. By the time they reached opening night, Fushiguro was running almost solely off caffeine and a prayer. He was behind in classes, he hadn’t been able to work at all so he knew his bank account would hate him when he got paid next, and, worst of all, he spent almost every minute of his evenings with Itadori.
He was there in the dressing rooms—saving him a spot next to him or sitting next to him when they did their makeup, talking to Fushiguro through the privacy booths they set up as they got into costume, chatting while they waited for a closer point to the top of the show to move backstage. Itadori followed Fushiguro like a shadow, which was rather funny when he was the brightest one between the two of them. If anything, Fushiguro should have been his shadow.
It was getting increasingly hard—even as they enrolled and de-rolled every night together like Yuta had suggested weeks ago—to ignore the fond feeling in his chest when Itadori was around.
To make matters worse on himself, they spent their breaks during rehearsal together, and often met up, either before or after rehearsal, to eat dinner together. The evening of the final dress rehearsal before opening night, they met in the green room, Itadori carrying two bentos he insisted on making because he wanted to eat with Fushiguro but his bank account protested.
When he opened it, he was hit with the familiar smell that had long since vanished from Itadori’s hoodie. It clicked, suddenly, why the smell had been so comforting and why it might be more concentrated near his hands. A heaping pile of pickled ginger sat in Fushiguro’s bento. When he caught a whiff of the meatballs that sat in a mini rendition of nabe, he could smell the ginger there as well. A rather heaping bit of it if it broke through all the other delicious scents between them.
“You said you liked ginger,” Itadori started, a bit bashful looking. “I’ve been working on altering the recipe to be a little more ginger forward for a while.”
For a while was right. Their dinner had been at least two weeks ago now.
“Thank you,” Fushiguro said instead of anything else that he wanted to.
Itadori just smiled and waved him off, digging in.
Now, there was no hint of that smiling boy who put extra ginger in his meatballs. The figurative curtain would rise in ten minutes and Yuuji was busy pacing back and forth through the hallway of offices, mumbling to himself. Fushiguro thought he might have been muttering his lines, but he couldn’t be sure. Not with the way his hands shook almost as bad as his voice. His breaths were coming in increasingly rapid patterns. He both looked and sounded crazed.
Fushiguro stood with him, watching carefully, until the last of their castmates passed by them into the backstage area. There were a few of them that tried to stop, but they quickly thought better of it when Fushiguro shot them looks. This was not a group project kind of encouragement. If anything, he was sure that would be worse for Itadori. One too many people telling him that he could do it and they were counting on him might shatter him.
When the door closed behind everyone, Fushiguro caught Itadori by the shoulders on his next pass. The man struggled only for a moment before he looked at him. His face was nothing short of anxious.
“What’s going on?” Fushiguro asked him. “You were fine last night. What changed?”
“It’s real now,” Itadori said, sounding like it hurt him to form complete sentences. “Everyone is counting on me and if I—”
“Itadori.” Fushiguro shook him once, hard. “Everyone on that stage will be looking out for you the same way they expect you to look out for them. It’s a group effort.”
The man shook his head, eyes wild. “What if I get out there and bomb? Fushgiuro, what if I blank so hard they boo us off the stage because I can’t even remember a place to pick up the scene and I ruin all this hard work? Tsukumo-sensei took a chance on me and if I fuck that up tonight I’ll lose this forever. I’ll lose yo—”
“Yuuji,” Fushiguro tried again, “are your boundaries the same?”
A common practice they’d done every rehearsal since the initial boundary check that Yuta led them though. It helped to know where you could touch your scene partner without making them uncomfortable in the name of experimentation. Itadori and Fushiguro had gone over theirs with each other more times than he could remember. Enough that they could slip into a comfortable, far less time consuming check-in. A simple question and simple answers.
He wasn’t sure why that was the question he chose to ask and, based on the look Itadori fixed him with, the other man wasn’t sure either.
“Is now really the time for that?”
“Answer me,” Fushiguro begged.
Itadori blinked, slow and confused, then he nodded. “Yeah, they’re the—”
Fushiguro, try as he might to calm him through his many scenarios, wasn’t getting through and he wouldn’t be able to quick enough for them to not have to delay curtain. He did the next best thing he could think of.
Fushiguro kissed Itadori.
Itadori kissed him back.
A calloused hand landed heavy on the back of his neck, fingers running gently along the edge of inky hair. Fushiguro let his hands settle on his waist where his costume hugged it in a way that was completely unfair. They stayed like that, lips pressed together gently, breathing each other’s air and squeezing where they held for a long, silent moment. Long enough that Fushiguro gained an ounce of his braincells back and realized how fucked they were.
He pulled away, trying not to make it look like he’d done that completely on accident and impulse. That would certainly not help Itadori’s state of mind at all.
Up until that point, though the script called for it more than once, Fushiguro and Itadori never kissed. It was by Itadori’s own request—though Fushiguro had planned on asking for the same when his feelings grew complicated—that Yuta choreographed stage kisses. Angled just right where it looked like they were kissing, but they were really just sharing very awkward air for a bit.
Itadori’s lips were chapped, even under the natural color that was painted on lips, Fushiguro had been able to feel it.
Itadori was wearing makeup. Fushiguro was too. Stage makeup. The kind that smelled vaguely of motor oil and felt like you were smearing cake batter across your features. The kind that refused to stay put when something rubbed against it.
Shit!
There, painted on Itadori’s face around his lips, was evidence of their kiss—paler by far than the base makeup Itadori used. He cursed their decision to not truly kiss for the first time since they made it. If they really were expected to kiss up there, under the lights, they would have figured out a way to keep their makeup from smearing, and they wouldn’t be in this situation because Fushiguro acted on a stupid, ridiculous feeling.
Itadori’s wrist was in his grip before he could think, tugged along behind him as they raced down the stairs and back toward where their makeup was being held.
They fixed their faces with rushed movements, checking each other over like they didn’t believe the mirrors. When they were satisfied, they ran back toward the steps, taking them two at a time. They burst through the door to the hallway, taking only a few seconds to calm their breathing, and then they walked into the dimly lit backstage area together.
Their stage manager heaved a sigh of relief when she saw them, clutching at her chest like she might have been on her way to a heart attack. “Five to places.”
“Thank you, Five,” Everyone whispered back to her.
When Fushiguro looked over at Itadori, he found honey eyes were already on him. He was smiling so brightly that Fushiguro was pretty sure they could have turned off the little lamp that illuminated the room—just enough no one would fall—and they still would have been okay.
“Five to places, Itadori,” he reminded him.
Itadori didn’t seem to care that his entrance was from one of the wings and he would need to head off before Fushiguro.
“Thank you, Five.” He whispered against his ear instead, reaching out to squeeze Fushiguro’s hand when he shivered.
This was going to be a very long two weekends of shows.
—
Fushiguro Megumi was an idiot.
It was easy enough to avoid Itadori during the day when they had a show that night, and then again after the show where he would wish Itadori a goodnight and feign exhaustion. It was a little harder to do when Monday came and they wouldn’t have another show until Thursday night. They didn’t have rehearsal between show weekends so Fushiguro couldn’t use that as an excuse either.
Monday he got out of a meal with Itadori by insisting he had to catch back up in his classes. Tuesday, the same excuse had worked. Wednesday he was pretty sure Itadori was catching on to the fact he was being avoided. The best excuse Fushiguro could come up with was that he had to help his sister walk the cats. Which he did not have and normal people did not do.
He ran away before he could see what kind of expression Itadori was wearing and take back his rejection.
It wasn’t Itadori’s fault that Fushiguro kissed him, but it might have been his fault that it was the only thing he could think about.
In the shower, brushing his teeth, or trying not to smile like an idiot in front of Tsumiki at breakfast. He thought about how rough his lips were when he was supposed to be taking notes in classes and he thought about the way his hand had mirrored the feeling on his nape while he was trying to study with Kugisaki in the library. He burnt a batch of cookies that Tsumiki left him in charge of and had to remake them because he was too distracted tracing his tingling lips to realize the timer was going off in their kitchen. Every stupid fucking minute of his life since it happened, kissing Itadori was all he thought about.
He wondered what it would feel like to be grabbed and kissed the same way they pretended to on stage. He let his mind conjure up what it might feel like to have his lips against his cheek, his neck, his shoulders, even his hands. Those thoughts came mostly when he was locked in the dark of his room, trying to make himself fall asleep.
Thursday night came and when Itadori cornered him after the show, it became very obvious to Fushiguro that he was being tested. This would be the breaking point, right here.
“Did you want to go grab something to eat?” Itadori looked hopeful.
“I’m sorry,” he forced out, trying not to notice the way the smile on his lips grew dim. “I went to eat with my cousin before the show. She wants to hang out tonight. Maybe next time.”
“Yeah, sure, man. Next time,” Itadori grumbled as he walked off. “Goodnight, Fushiguro.”
The door leading to the stairwell slammed behind him, making Fushiguro jump. He gathered the rest of his things and ignored any looks from his concerned castmates as he walked in the other direction. He would take the long way, a different stairwell that would spit him outside far, far from Itadori and the guilt he felt when he looked at him.
He would text Maki to apologize for skipping out on her later. She would be plenty happy to be left alone for drinks with Yuta tonight anyway, he was more than sure of that. They had been dancing around each other since his first year, maybe longer. Enough that he really was convinced he was just never told when they started dating.
The air outside was chilled, more than it had been the night Itadori walked him home. It bit at his skin and made his joints stiff even through his long sleeves and pants. He reached into his bag, pulling a bright red hoodie over his head.
“Just a little longer, Itadori,” he whispered to the stars.
“Who are you talking to?” A voice behind him twinkled. “And whose hoodie is that? You never wear red.”
“Gojo,” Fushiguro sighed.
“You know, you could start by thanking me for coming a fifth time,” Gojo instructed, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He leaned enough of his weight on him that Fushiguro was forced to bend under it, freakishly long fingers ruffled his already unruly hair. “Some people would kill to have that kind of attention from me.”
“I hope they take me,” he grumbled, shoving until Gojo released him with a chuckle.
They walked in silence, which Fushiguro was more than grateful for. Gojo looked over at him occasionally, but he wouldn’t let his gaze linger for long and he never gave much reaction to whatever it was that he saw there. They didn’t say much outside of deciding what to listen to on the radio when they got into Shoko’s car. Gojo in the front—freakish limbs gave him an advantage there—and Fushiguro in the backseat.
Her car always smelled vaguely of cigarette smoke and whatever spray she used to try to mask the smell. Or maybe the floral scent was Utahime’s perfume. She was a frequent face in this car. Not tonight it seemed. She’d come to see him on opening night. Her students had dance recitals the next weekend so she was putting in overtime preparing the venue and tending to the other duties expected from a head dance teacher at a prestigious studio in Tokyo.
For some people, it would have been an off-putting smell, but to Fushiguro, it was pretty close to home. He took a deep breath and settled into the old leather seat.
“Sorry I couldn’t make it earlier, kid.” Shoko caught his eye in the rearview mirror for a split second. “I had some online choreography to do with a Theatre company in Osaka. Gojo told me opening night went well.”
“It did,” Fushiguro confirmed, ignoring the tingle in his lips. “It went really well.”
“Really well?” Gojo smirked, latching onto the slip up.
Fushiguro hardly ever said more than just “well” when talking about his performances. After all, every artist was their own worst critic. There were always things that he thought could have gone better or things that he might have slipped up on. Live Theatre was both thrilling and terrifying for that reason. If you messed up on camera, they could call cut and start over again, no one would ever know. That luxury did not exist for the stage. It was unheard of to stop a play and start over.
Shoko clicked her tongue, shooting the older man a look that was scarily reminiscent of the kind of looks Fushiguro was used to being on the other end of with Kugisaki. Shoko was infinitely scarier and had actually originally gone to school to be a doctor. She knew about twenty ways to kill a man and make it look natural or accidental. Gojo, as anyone with that knowledge would, shut up quickly.
Their conversation about what to listen to went unheard by her ears apparently. They sat in silence the rest of the way to the home Fushiguro grew up in, listening to whatever underground band Shoko listened to on the way to the show.
Fushiguro let the satisfaction of a job well done, the comforting smell of stale cigarette smoke, and the fluff of the hoodie lull him to sleep.
He didn’t get up again until Gojo woke him from outside his childhood bedroom, asking if he was going to class that day.
The answer, he decided, shoving the hoodie back into the bag at the foot of his bed, was yes. As much as he would have rather rolled over and gone back to sleep, if not just to avoid seeing Itadori somewhere on campus, he had a show to do tonight. Faking sick wasn’t an option.
His worries, however, were unfounded.
Fushiguro’s day was unpleasantly void of any sign of Itadori and when they were forced to be in the same place that night, Itadori stayed about as far away from Fushiguro as humanly possible until they were on stage. At least he was professional enough to put their strained relationship aside and deliver a very convincing performance.
The next day, there were no classes to worry about, but Itadori avoided him the same way when Fushiguro arrived at the theater a few minutes before call time. Yet, again, another stellar performance from Itadori. Of course, the last show followed much the same pattern and this time Fushiguro patted himself on the back for putting his aching heart aside and delivering a decent final show.
They took a short hour break after bows to eat and then the cast and crew were back again to help the scene shop with striking the stage. It was Fushiguro’s least favorite part of every show. He was never great with tools and he was, more often than not, expected to help with the actual removal of the set instead of getting a slightly more pleasant job like helping the costume shop organize and store their costume pieces.
As it always happened, everyone was expected to arrive on time in close-toed shoes and clothes they didn’t mind getting dirty. The Technical Director, Yaga, gave a quick run down of what would be expected of them and who the authorities of the space were. After that, the scene shop manager would step up and read off the pairs they were separated into. The cast and crew outnumbered the student volunteers that came along from the scene and costume shops, which meant that a few of them would have to be paired up together and just stick close to someone who was more experienced.
The list for the costume shop was given first, then the props and lighting—all of which Fushiguro was not a part of—and as their numbers dwindled, Fushiguro noticed Itadori was also left amongst the crowd. Suddenly, the theater was very hot and the folding chair he sat in was far too small.
The list for who was partnered together droned in his ears, then, it happened.
“Fushiguro, since you’ve been part of quite a few strikes now for the scene shop, I’ve paired you with Itadori. Take care of him.”
Fushiguro gulped, trying to ignore the feeling of honey eyes on him. “Yes, sir.”
They met down on the floor, standing as far apart as they could while still being in a close enough proximity that it was easy to spot who they pairs were. Itadori wouldn’t look at him now and Fushiguro couldn’t seem to stop looking at him.
For the most part, they were stuck on the duty of walking things that wouldn’t fit on the truck back to the scene shop. It was easy for Itadori to make conversation with the other pair that was tasked to the same job and for Fushiguro to keep his big, kiss-trigger-happy mouth shut.
When they were done moving all the various set pieces off the stage, it was time to paint it. Itadori was perfectly happy on the opposite end of the stage, chatting with Kamo about coming back to audition for the next season. If Fushiguro happened to accidentally bring his roller up a little too high and catch Kamo’s pants with black paint, well it was just that. An accident.
As everyone finished their jobs, and found nothing new that needed to be done, they filed into the seats again in trickles. The last to arrive was the costume shop help. Yaga gave a quick thanks and sent them all on their way home.
Except home was only temporary on a night like this. Everyone knew that much, including the staff that pretended to be clueless about it.
After all, any job well done deserved a celebration. A cast party—named rather incorrectly if the crew and random Theatre students showing up had anything to say—was inevitable, and Fushiguro was the sucker that offered his apartment up this time around.
Tsumiki liked hosting, she was excited when he told her he offered to hold the celebrations at their place. Fushiguro was less enthusiastic. He went to cast parties because it helped boost morale, but he was normally one of the first to dip out. He couldn’t exactly do that in his own apartment. Sure, he could hide away in his room, but it would only be a short time before someone came looking for him or he realized the noise leaked through the walls and he wouldn’t get any peace after all.
When he arrived home, Tsumiki made him check the communal alcohol she bought and the snacks she prepared. Only after he assured her that everyone would be happy with her choices was he allowed to take a shower to scrub sawdust, sweat, and guilt from his skin.
The first guest to arrive was Kugisaki, barging into their home while Fushiguro was still dressing after his long shower. She got to work helping Tsumiki with whatever she needed and shooed Fushiguro right back out of the kitchen when he tried to lend a hand. He was instructed to make sure the playlist the two of them carefully curated would be able to play through the speaker system attached to their TV. Which was code for “go away and don’t touch anything” because they all knew it would. He went through the motions anyway.
Right on time, the first—and probably last—knock, that would need to be answered, of the night echoed down the hallway and into their living room.
Fushiguro was the one sent to answer it and Kugisaki started the music in his absence.
Kirara held a couple bags full of snacks and her rather looming boyfriend, Hakari, held a box full of alcohol. Tsumiki met them at the kitchen, helping to arrange all the offerings they brought amidst their already incredibly full counters, cooler, and fridge.
Slowly, people began to arrive. Most knocked before letting themselves in, a courtesy. At a certain point, guests knew knocking was pointless. With music, conversation, and a game of poker led by Hakari going around their table, no one would have heard a knock anyway. The only alert anyone else joined the party was the general joyful call of a name and a little less space to move around the apartment. When the first hour hit, most everyone had arrived.
Yuta brought Maki—who made Fushiguro take a couple shots with her to apologize for running out on them—and Maki brought Mai. She was more than content to find Kugisaki and discover new ways to drive her up the wall. Fushiguro thought they might have been flirting, but it was so aggressive that they could have also just really hated each other and he would never be able to tell. Kamo showed up and made a bee-line for the drinks without much conversation on the way. He talked briefly with Fushiguro before he caught sight of Mai and excused himself to go speak with her.
More familiar faces passed by and spoke with him briefly—Inumaki, Kurusu, and about a dozen other classmates or castmates—but there was one that was, very notably, missing.
Itadori was nowhere to be found.
Not exactly a surprise considering the host was Fushiguro, but he hoped he would have at least come along to celebrate for a while and just avoid him like he’d grown so good at doing. Secretly, he was sort of hoping he might be able to convince him to listen while Fushiguro explained how stupid he was and had been. From his very first talk with Yuta all the way to realizing that if Itadori was the first person to make him struggle so much with letting go or fake feelings, they probably weren’t fake. If nothing else, he wanted to apologize for kissing him and freaking out about it.
The drink in his hand had long grown warm, untouched, when Kugisaki shouted something that got his attention.
“Itadori,” she called, waving wildly over the side of the patio. Yuta reached out to grab hold of the back of her shirt, looking about as nervous for her wellbeing as Fushiguro felt. “Hurry up! You’re missing the fun!”
He must have said something back to her because she nearly pitched herself over the railing, and sent Yuta into a heart attack, to flip him off.
It didn’t take Itadori any longer than it should have to come walking through his front door, but it felt like an eternity. Once more, like they belonged there, honey eyes landed on Fushiguro just as soon as Itadori closed the door behind him.
Fusiguro froze, knocked slightly off balance when Kugisaki came barreling past him to greet Itadori. She ushered him past Fushiguro and outside to the patio. Only after he passed him was Fushiguro released from his gaze. Not, from his presence, it seemed. Before he could think better of it, he was placing his drink down and making his way outside behind them.
He kept to the side, starting up a conversation with Yuta. Every once in a while, he would feel honey gaze dripping over him, sickly sweet and tempting, but he would ignore it. If Itadori knew he was being watched too, it would only put him on high alert. A cornered man could get mean, Fushiguro certainly had a time or two. That was the worst outcome of tonight. At the very least, he would have liked to come out of this still on friendly terms with Itadori. Would it probably kill him to hear him say he didn’t feel the same? Sure, but he would get over it eventually. Maybe.
Kirara made her way out to slot between the two of them, pouting about losing a game of poker. She requested to bum a cigarette off Fushiguro and scolded him for his awful taste when he returned to her side with the pack.
She lit one up anyway, showing off by making a few smoke rings. Her party trick worked wonders on Yuta, who was quick to ask exactly how she did it. Not that Yuta smoked, but he was naturally curious and easy to talk to. Fushiguro listened in, adding a comment occasionally, but mostly content to study the few stars he could see in the sky. At some point, their conversation became a comforting buzz in his ears, far too focused on trying to see if he could name any of the stars Tsumiki taught him.
Kirara noticed his gaze and pointed a few out to him, showing off again. She may have worked in the costume shop, but her degree was in some form of astrology that eluded him now. The stars were as familiar to her as looking at her own palm. Which meant they could only hold her attention for so long. Eventually, she was off, chatting with someone else and leaving Fushiguro alone with his thoughts. Yuta was gone somewhere else too, most likely finding his way back to Maki’s side or making sure nobody else was trying to throw themselves off the balcony.
A cigarette was placed between his lips, and before he could flick his own lighter to life, a tan hand reached out to offer an already lit flame instead. When Fushiguro puffed out, he let his eyes drag up that strong arm and meet that sticky, honey gaze.
“Thanks,” he hummed.
Itadori nodded, settling close enough that his shoulder pressed into Fushiguro’s.
“I didn’t think you were coming,” Fushiguro admitted. He placed his cigarette between his lips, offering the pack to Itadori. When he declined, it was shoved into his pocket again and his lips were freed to speak. “I figured you’d be one of the first people to arrive.”
“I wasn’t going to come,” he answered. “Kugisaki kept blowing up my phone though. I figured if nothing else I would come for a while to appease her.”
“Right.”
Fushiguro took a deep breath in, letting the smoke seep from his lips far slower than he normally would. He didn’t have anything else to add. Admitting that he sort of wanted to hear Itadori say that he came to see him was stupid when it was Fushiguro who avoided him first. It was only natural that Itadori wanted nothing to do with him. He’d suddenly left him behind without any clue as to why. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. There was a pretty big clue but that made it about ten times worse.
“I can’t stand parties.” Itadori let the admission linger in their silence.
Fushiguro huffed a breath from his nose, lips twitching up at the corners. “I figured someone like you would enjoy a good party.”
“Someone like me?” He challenged.
“Someone charming,” Fushiguro clarified. “You’re a pretty perfect fit to be the kind of guy to be the life of a party.”
A laugh broke through Itadori’s lips. He turned around, letting his elbows rest on the railing, back to the outside world. This way, they didn’t have to strain as much to look each other in the eye. This way, Itadori looked beautiful. Fushiguro had to focus very hard on finishing his cigarette so he didn’t press himself up against the enticing lean of Itadori to kiss him stupid.
He would have loved to have been able to blame that thought on too much alcohol.
“I hate parties, too.”
Itadori hummed, tilting his head. “Do you wanna get out of here?”
“Please,” Fushiguro breathed out, stamping his cigarette out on the railing.
They made their way through the crowd of people. A respectable distance apart even as Fushiguro’s palm itched to reach back and grab his wrist the same way he had opening night. The space created a slight problem that they kept having to skirt around, which was people trying to get their attention or strike up a conversation. For the most part, they were able to avoid it, but there were more than a few awkward moments where one of them had to pretend to do something while they waited for the other to be free. Fushiguro made it down the hall and toward his bedroom first, waiting with a racing heart for Itadori to join him.
They escaped behind his door, the chaos beyond it becoming a muffled buzz when it shut behind them.
Itadori let out a sigh, plopping down on his floor and leaning up against his bed. The ease of the movement, like it was something familiar to Itadori, did something strange to Fushiguro’s stomach. When he sat down next to him, it was close enough that their knees touched.
There was a comfortable silence that settled over them for a long while. Itadori’s chest rose and fell steadily in his peripheral vision and Fushiguro’s own breathing evened out to match it. For the first time since he kissed him, the only feeling in Fushiguro’s chest around Itadori was that comfortable warmth he’d grown accustomed to.
“Why’d you do it?” Itadori asked, turning to stare into Fushiguro’s soul.
“I wanted to,” he admitted, “for a long time.”
“Then why ignore me?”
It was a fair question. If Fushiguro wanted to kiss him, why had he freaked out about it? What had pushed him to avoid Itadori long enough that he started to avoid Fushiguro first to save face?
“I wasn’t sure if what I was feeling was really me,” Fushiguro answered, barely above a whisper. He followed Itadori’s example and turned so they were sitting face-to-face. It was more intimidating to look at him head-on like this, but Itadori looked so vulnerable, it balanced out a bit. “I thought that maybe I was just having trouble differentiating my feelings for you from Sato’s for Takashi. I asked Yuta about it and he suggested changing our enrolling and de-rolling process. When that didn’t do anything, I thought maybe it was just because I felt so strongly about the play that I would just have to live with ignoring a bubbling showmance.
“But then it just kept getting worse. I realized, after I kissed you, that every time I felt a little more for you, it didn’t happen in the rehearsal room or on stage or even running through lines. It was always something you, Itadori, did for me. Fushiguro, not Sato.” Itadori reached out to grab the hand that was picking at a loose thread on Fushiguro’s pants. It forced him to meet his eyes again, to see the hope barely contained within them. “I wanted to kiss you for a long time, Itadori. I just wouldn’t let myself admit it until it was too late. I felt sort of guilty for how it happened and I wasn’t sure you felt the same, so I decided it would be better to wait until after the show was done to talk about it. I avoided you because I knew if I was with you alone I would…”
Itadori leaned in, close enough that his breath ghosted across Fushiguro’s ear. “You would what, Fushiguro?”
“Kiss you again,” he breathed. “Can I—”
Itadori didn’t let him get the question out. It was Fushiguro taken by surprise this time. One of his hands curled in the front of Itadori’s hoodie, pulling him ever closer until his free arm was forced to bend at the elbow, forearm pressed into his carpet to help balance his precarious recline. Itadori tasted like something incredibly fruity, but there was no trace of alcohol beneath it. His lips were still just as chapped as they were when he kissed him in the hallway. This time, he let himself feel across them with his tongue and teeth. Itadori yelped when he bit down gently, but he made no move to pull away.
He took his turn to chase after whatever he tasted on Fushiguro’s tongue, making him shiver when Itadori licked across his teeth. It tickled in a way he was sure he would never get tired of.
When their lungs burned enough they couldn’t ignore them any longer, they parted. Fushiguro dragged in mouthfuls of that stupid floral detergent and a new citrusy note. Cologne. No ginger this time, but he was sure it wouldn’t be missed for long.
Itadori bumped their noses together, gentle and cat-like. “You’re an idiot.”
“I really must be for you to think that,” Fushiguro teased.
It earned him nothing more than the gentle sting of teeth on the tip of his nose.
“Have you decided then?” Itadori asked, leaving barely enough space between their lips to be understood.
Fushiguro nodded. “I think I really, really like Itadori Yuuji.”
The grin that pulled across kiss-swollen lips was the only warning he got before his back hit the floor fully and Itadori kissed him breathless.
Fushiguro didn’t do showmances, but he was pretty sure he could get behind having a good romance for himself if Itadori was the love interest.