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Knock, knock. Itadori doesn’t wait for an answer as he pokes his head into Fushiguro’s room.
“Hey! I’m making hotpot for dinner. Wanna help? I’ll teach you how to make those ginger meatballs you liked.”
Ginger. Fushiguro’s ears perk. He peers over at Itadori standing in his doorway waving a wooden spoon and wearing an apron – a gag gift that Kugisaki got him for his birthday, obnoxiously yellow with “HANDS OFF MY BUNS” emblazoned atrociously across the chest.
He won’t admit how endearing it is – Itadori is just so cute – and wills himself not to blush (they’re dating for god’s sake). He sets his book down, swings his legs off the bed, and makes his way to the door. He presses a kiss into the pink hair and lets Itadori pull him toward the kitchen eagerly.
The kitchen already has evidence of Itadori’s hard work – there’s ground chicken in a bowl, eggs on the counter, and a pot of stew already boiling on the stovetop.
“Okay, the ingredients for the meatballs are ground chicken, green onions, ginger paste, egg yolks, and a pinch of salt and pepper. Can you chop the green onions by the sink right there while I work on the broth?”
Fushiguro nods and Itadori pushes a knife and a cutting board into his hands before turning his attention to the broth boiling on the stove, humming happily. Fushiguro stares at the green onions and cautiously sets one shoot down onto the cutting board. He starts chopping, clumsy and uncertain in his movements. Then he hears Itadori laugh lightly behind him and a tuft of pink hair appears in the corner of his eyes.
“Line up all the shoots like this,” Itadori says, pressing close to his side. He places all the shoots in a neat line and guides Fushiguro’s hand to press down on them to hold them in place. He grasps Fushiguro’s hand holding the knife, his warmth bleeding through the apron and into Fushiguro’s side. “Cut off the ends-” the knife crunches satisfyingly “-and then start chopping them into small pieces.” Small, even green onion slices scatter across the cutting board with one skillful stroke.
“Okay,” Fushiguro nods. Itadori shoots him an encouraging smile and shuffles back to the stove. Fushiguro immediately misses the warmth by his side but obediently chops the vegetable to the best of his ability – it turns out less uneven than he anticipated. He drops them into the bowl as Itadori cracks open the eggs, and then shuffles behind him to tuck his hands underneath Itadori’s apron and into his hoodie pockets. He rests his chin on Itadori’s shoulder as he watches him mix the ingredients.
Itadori leans his head back and turns his face slightly to press a kiss to Fushiguro’s temple, smiling as he hears a low sound of contentment rumbling from the body pressed behind him.
“We’re using twice the normal amount of ginger this time,” Itadori says.
“Huh? Why?” Fushiguro asks.
“Well, you really like ginger, don’t you?”
Fushiguro looks at him out of the corner of his eye. “How did you know?”
Itadori thinks about how Fushiguro drinks ginger tea every night before bed while he reads. Thinks about how his face considerably brightens when Itadori places his pickled ginger slices onto Fushiguro’s plate whenever they go out for sushi, how he always writes ginger into their grocery list. Thinks about how he always requests ginger rice when Itadori says he’ll cook takikomi gohan, adorably hovering by the kitchen extremely conspicuously and asking if he can “taste test” every five minutes, to which Itadori always obliges out of sheer endearment –
“…Eh, just a hunch,” Itadori quips.
Skillful hands knead at the mix and Fushiguro reluctantly pulls his hands out of Itadori’s warm hoodie pockets to help mold spoonfuls of the mix into small spheres. They drop the meatballs into the boiling stew and wash their hands together in the sink.
“Huh, that was easier than I thought,” Fushiguro says, resuming his position behind Itadori, chin on his shoulder as his boyfriend stirs the stew.
“Right? Let me know if you wanna help me cook. I know a bunch of simple recipes,” Itadori replies, throwing a wink over his shoulder.
Fushiguro hums. He’s content – the warmth of Itadori against his chest, the smell of homemade hotpot, the promise of ginger in his dinner. He turns his head slightly and presses his lips to the nape of Itadori’s neck.
Itadori twitches, wooden spoon in his hand jumping. “Fushiii,” he whines. “You know I’m sensitive there.”
Fushiguro smirks against his skin and presses in more insistently. The wooden spoon in Itadori’s hand stutters again. And then, without warning, a pair of strong hands slide around Itadori’s waist and spin him around without warning.
He yelps in surprise and Fushiguro smothers his sounds of protests with a kiss as he pins his boyfriend’s hips against the counter. The wooden spoon plops into the pot as Itadori drops it in favor of looping his arms around the dark-haired boy’s neck to tug him closer.
Itadori smiles against his lips. “Fushi, the food –”
“It can wait,” Fushiguro mumbles against his lips, reaching around blindly without breaking the kiss to switch off the gas.
Itadori huffs out a laugh. “You’re impossible.”
And they stand there in the middle of the kitchen, giggling and chasing after each other’s lips. Itadori’s lips are soft and Fushiguro claims them hungrily, their dinner forgotten on the stovetop. Itadori hums against his lips as a hand plays with the short hairs at the back of his head.
Itadori drags a hand down from Fushiguro’s neck to rest against his firm chest, fisting his loose shirt between his fingers to tug him impossibly closer – their bodies pressed flush against each other and hips pinned against the counter. Fushiguro leans forward as Itadori arches into him, one hand sliding into his dark hair. A thigh slots in between Itadori’s legs and he parts his lips with a gasp. Fushiguro takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into his mouth, sliding one hand into pink hair while the other pushes the apron aside to tease underneath the hem of his hoodie.
“Mmm,” Itadori hums from the back of his throat as a warm hand splays against the bare skin of his abdomen. Fushiguro can’t get enough – the taste of him, the clean smell of shampoo clinging to his hair, the heat of his skin as his stomach flexes under his hand. His self-control around Itadori is outright pitiful and Itadori is no better.
They’re so lost in each other – fingers tangled in hair, licking into each other’s mouths, Fushiguro elbow deep underneath Itadori’s hoodie and hand dragging up his sculpted chest, that they don’t notice they have company until they hear an ear-piercing shriek.
“MY EYES.”
They jump apart from each other instantly. Kugisaki is hunched over and leaning heavily against the door frame, scrubbing frantically at her eyes and muttering curses. Maki pats her back reassuringly and stares at them, expression dead and unamused.
“Itadori,” Kugisaki chokes out furiously. “I thought you were making hotpot for dinner.”
“Um. I was. Er, I mean – I am.” Itadori scrambles to switch on the gas again and grab the wooden spoon laying abandoned in the pot, eyes big and innocent. He has the decency to blush and look apologetic. Fushiguro, on the other hand, doesn’t give a fuck. It’s Kugisaki and Maki, not Gojo. Actually, he’d probably care even less around Gojo, just to spite his irritatingly nonchalant nature.
Kugisaki straightens, heaving and clutching the wall dramatically for support, eyes still squeezed shut. “That’s it. We’re getting takeout,” she declares, and turns heel. Maki rolls her eyes at them and sighs before she lets herself be pulled out of the room.
Itadori splutters. “B-but I made dinner!”
Kugisaki is already halfway down the hallway, stomping loudly and yelling back, “Eat it yourself!”
Itadori stares at the empty doorway helplessly. Then he turns to Fushiguro slowly, his cheeks still tinted pink. His expression changes abruptly, lips curving up mischievously.
“In that case,” he says coyly, eyes twinkling. He steps in close, warm irises darkening behind his lashes, and tugs him close. Fushiguro swallows. “Let’s continue where we left off.”
He doesn’t think twice as their lips meet again. Dinner can wait.