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Itadori wakes slowly, the orange of the rising sun bleeding into the backs of his eyelids, the unusual warmth of the bed, the arm around his torso – wait. His eyes fly open. These blue-grey sheets aren’t his. He blinks. His Jennifer Lawrence poster is missing too.
Slowly, and then all at once, he remembers. He had slept over in Fushiguro’s bed, too exhausted to drag himself back to his own bed after last night’s… escapades. He remembers tumbling into Fushiguro’s room together in a tangle of limbs, laughing and horny and so, so warm. Remembers stubbing his toe on the bedpost and having to pause to recover from the pain while the dark-haired boy laughed at him. Remembers molten eyes, heavy breathing, tender confessions. Remembers sharing each other for the first time.
Itadori turns over slowly in the bed since Fushiguro’s deep, even breaths signify that he’s still asleep. He props himself up with an elbow on the pillow, breath catching at the sight of his sleeping face – expression smooth, relaxed, and peaceful.
Itadori stares. He wants to commit this image of Fushiguro to memory. The unruly dark hair is spread out even more haphazardly than usual, thick black lashes sweep against his high cheekbones, slender collarbones kissed by the rising sun peek out of his loose, wide-neck sleep shirt.
“Beautiful,” Itadori murmurs to himself. (Sukuna makes a noise of disgust in his head. Itadori mentally flips him off.)
Without thinking, he leans down to press a soft kiss to parted, pink lips and watches those light-green eyes flutter open sleepily.
“Hnngghrn,” Fushiguro says.
“Good morning to you too, Fushi,” Itadori says, laughing quietly. “Gotta get up. We have training this morning.”
Fushiguro groans, closing his eyes and burrowing his face further into the pillow.
“You also drool when you sleep. It’s cute,” Itadori says.
Fushiguro opens one eye to glare at him. “Shut up.”
“Only if you let me see you drool tomorrow morning too. And the mornings after that.”
Fushiguro softens immediately and closes his eyes again. “Yeah, I’d like that. Not the drool part but-” His lips curve up. “I could get used to waking up to you.”
Itadori’s heart flutters with something warmer than the sun on his back. “Me too.” He leans down to press a sweet kiss to Fushiguro’s forehead. “Okay, I’m gonna go back to my room to get ready. I’ll see you soon.”
Fushiguro mumbles an affirmation, eyes still closed. Itadori spares one more fond glance at him before untangling himself from the sheets. He pads back to his room, the wood floor cold on his bare feet with the chill of the coming winter. He hums happily, taking out his uniform and laying it out on the bed. He stacks up some manga books that lay strewn across the floor. Throws a cheeky wink to his Jennifer Lawrence poster on the wall.
He peels his sleep shirt off and makes his way over to the sink, reaching for his toothpaste. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror – and abruptly stops humming. He gawks at his reflection, turning his head this way and that as the red and purple hickeys that ring his neck and collarbones stare back at him defiantly. He looks like he’d been strangled.
He lifts a finger and touches one gingerly. “Holy shit,” he breathes, wide-eyed. “Holy shit.”
Fushiguro’s door slams open a moment later, and a flushed and mildly frantic Itadori stands in the doorway. Fushiguro stops shuffling around the room to look at him questioningly, eyes still half-closed, groggily scratching his stomach while brushing his teeth.
“Hey, uh, it’s me again,” Itadori said nervously. “I think I may need some… help.” He gestures vaguely to his bruised and blotchy neck, not knowing what else to say, and watches as Fushiguro’s eyes widen comically. His toothbrush falls out of his slackened mouth and lands on the floor with a sad plop.
“What the fuck,” Fushiguro gapes, little toothpaste bits flying everywhere. He points to himself, “Did I do that?”
“Yeah, unless you like, summoned an octopus shikigami in the middle of the night whose lil suckers got real friendly with my neck.”
Fushiguro keeps staring, toothpaste dribbling out the corner of his mouth. Itadori can’t help but snicker.
“Guess I bruise easily, huh,” Itadori says. Then he inhales sharply. “Oh god, everyone’s gonna give us so much shit for this. Wearing my hood will cover it but it gets way too hot during training.”
Fushiguro sputters, and then collects himself. “Borrow my uniform for, uh… however long that takes to fade. Mine has a higher collar.” His eyes linger on Itadori’s neck again and mutters sheepishly, “I’m sorry.”
“Eh, it’s fine. It was worth it,” Itadori winks at him. Fushiguro flushes. “Ya live and ya learn, Fushi. Thank god Gojo-sensei’s away on a trip. The others will go easy on us compared to sensei if they were to catch a glimpse. Gimme your uniform.”
It’s no good. Fushiguro’s uniform has too wide of a collar and hides close to nothing. If anything, it just accentuates the hickeys. Fushiguro puts his head in his hands, groaning in despair. Although he’s thankful that Gojo-sensei is away, he begins to mentally prepare himself for the incessant teasing they’re inevitably about to face.
Itadori brightens suddenly. “Oh, I know! Inumaki-senpai’s uniform. His mask will cover everything. Come on, let’s catch him before training.”
Fushiguro lifts his head from his hands and looks up slowly. “That… could work. The issue would be persuading him.”
Itadori throws him finger guns and grins cheekily. “Don’t worry, Fushi, leave it to me.”
So they clamber out the dorms after dressing hastily, Fushiguro’s hair still an uncombed, spiky mess and Itadori’s hood pulled comically tight around his entire face. They corner poor Inumaki right as he steps out of the second-year dorms.
“Inumaki-senpai!” Itadori calls.
Inumaki swivels around and nods in greeting. “Salmon.”
Itadori and Fushiguro stop in front of him, slightly out of breath.
“Okay, I know this is a weird request, but can I please borrow your uniform for like… three days?” Itadori musters up his best puppy dog face while Inumaki shifts his gaze between the two first-years questioningly.
“Bonito flakes.” A refusal.
Fushiguro swallows down his dignity. “Please, Inumaki-senpai.”
Inumaki raises an eyebrow at Fushiguro and huffs, unamused. Then he cocks his head to the side as if asking, Why?
The first-years both flush before staring at each other and nodding in silent agreement. Inumaki looks increasingly puzzled.
Itadori sighs heavily. “Okay fine, I’ll show you why. Please don’t like, be too horrified.” He then yanks his hood off and stretches his neck to the side, showing Inumaki a glimpse of the angry red-purple blotches.
Inumaki stares. And stares. And stares some more.
Then, he nods very slowly, looks Itadori straight in the eyes, and solemnly says, “Tuna.” (The Inumaki-equivalent of “Damn.”)
Wordlessly, he leads them back into the second-year dorms and into his room, switches uniforms with Itadori, and waves off their constant sheepish thank-you’s. As they leave, Inumaki gently tugs Fushiguro’s elbow, pulling him back for a moment.
He stares accusingly at Fushiguro for a moment, before huffing in disbelief and slapping him on the back. (The Inumaki-equivalent of “Attaboy.”)
~~~~~~
His peers give Itadori and Inumaki some questioning looks that morning.
“Tuna,” Inumaki says gravely, after they ask him why he’s wearing Itadori’s uniform. An unhelpful response. They move on to hounding Itadori.
“I’m trying to see if I, uh, want to change my uniform design,” Itadori lies lamely, scratching his neck. Fushiguro looks considerably more tense than usual. No one sees Inumaki roll his eyes.
During training, Itadori is paired with Maki to hone his close-combat skills against an opponent with longer range. She keeps him at a distance with her long staff, lunging and maneuvering skillfully. Itadori dodges her jabs swiftly, ducks under her swings, tries to kick her legs out from under her. He finds an opening just after Maki strikes him, ignoring the blow in favor of driving in and trying to close the distance between them. Maki steps back lightly, thrusts her staff toward his face, Itadori barely dodges –
And the staff snags the uniform’s mask, wrenching it down.
For a moment, neither of them move. Itadori stares at Maki, absolutely mortified. Maki gawks at him, gaze rapidly shifting between his eyes and his neck and back to his eyes and then back to his neck.
“Maki-senpai, I can expla–”
“What the fuck,” Maki whispers. “What the fuck?” She says louder. “What the FUCK?” She’s shouting now.
The others are running to them, alarmed. “What? What happened?”
Oh god, no. No no no, this cannot be happening right now. Itadori panics. He reaches for the mask frantically, trying to cover his neck before they reach him.
Maki strikes his hands away with her staff. “Oh no you aren’t,” she says, gaze almost evil. “Don’t even think about it.”
Fushiguro, Nobara, Panda, and Inumaki reach them. Itadori wants the ground to swallow him whole. Fushiguro takes one look at him, his exposed neck, Maki’s smirk, and then promptly turns heel in a very conspicuous attempt to flee. Inumaki immediately grabs his collar and wrenches him back. “Bonito flakes,” he tuts, shaking his head.
It takes approximately three seconds for everyone to connect the dots, stares shifting from Itadori’s neck to Fushiguro’s increasingly reddening face and back again. Then they all explode –
“Damn, Fushiguro-”
“You’re an animal-”
“-it’s always the quiet ones-”
“What are you, a vampire?”
“Trying on a new uniform design, my ass-”
Nobara pokes a particularly purple one on Itadori’s neck and shrieks hysterically. Itadori and Fushiguro sigh and look tiredly at each other, utterly and completely defeated.
Meanwhile, Inumaki stands slightly off to the side, shaking with laughter and looking irritatingly smug.
“Tuna mayo,” he quips.