Work Text:
"And someone you love enters the room
and says wouldn't
you like the eggs a little
different today?
And when they arrive they are
just plain scrambled eggs and the warm weather
is holding."
—"For Grace, After a Party" Frank O'Hara
It starts when Megumi burns his scrambled eggs at 8 o’clock in the morning.
The pan ends up with a layer of char coating it and the eggs look like shriveled-up pieces of cardboard and his stomach makes an embarrassingly loud rumble as Yuuji walks into the kitchen, raising a brow.
He’s still in his loose, school-issued pajamas that are about a size too big for him and his hair is sticking up in a way that makes it look like a baby bird’s nest, all soft and messy. There’s a patch of dried drool left cracked at the edge of his lips and he looks ridiculous standing there by the tiny fridge, smile crooked, sleep-filled eyes staring into the burnt pan. It’s almost unbearable how lovely he still manages to look, Megumi thinks solemnly, as the morning light through the kitchen window frames him a gentle gold.
And as soon as he moves closer to the stove and peers over Megumi’s shoulder, he cracks up at the sight of the eggs—if they could even be called that anymore.
“I didn’t think you could mess up scrambled eggs this bad,” he says between his fit of giggles. “They’re just. Scrambled eggs.” He leans in closer so that his chin rests on his shoulder. Megumi’s face goes red. He hopes Yuuji isn’t paying attention.
“I don’t know what I did wrong,” he says back, frowning, and willing the red-blush of heat away so that he doesn’t embarrass himself any further. “I just cracked them into the pan.”
“You put the heat too high,” he says, head still on his shoulder. “It needs to be on medium. And you didn’t put any butter. Scrambled eggs need butter.”
“Oh.”
Yuuji hums and reaches for the panhandle, then ceremoniously dumps the eggs into the trash can, making prayer hands with the back of the pan pressed to his palm, looking up to the ceiling like it’s a makeshift sky. “Please forgive Fushiguro Megumi’s atrocious attempt at making scrambled eggs and may you give Itadori Yuuji the strength and power to teach him how to cook scrambled eggs the right way.”
That’s really where it begins. With Megumi shadowing Yuuji around the kitchen as he reaches for the carton of eggs, and watching while he explains how much butter he needs to use and how the flame needs to be a precise heat, and how if he messes up eggs again, Yuuji won’t be mad at him because he gets it, he didn’t mean to make fun of him, eggs can be difficult sometimes.
“Here,” he holds a plate of perfect scrambled eggs up to him. He’s made a smiley face with the ketchup on the side.
They taste like regular scrambled eggs. Like the kind his mother would make him before school. They taste good. They taste even better with Yuuji sitting in front of him at the old dining table, beaming and bright, twirling his own fork into the plate between them.
“Next time I’ll show you how to make them sunny side up.”
Next time ends up being the next morning.
Which is fine, but Megumi doesn’t expect to see Yuuji standing in the middle of the kitchen at 7:30 a.m, a spatula in one hand, an egg in the other, and a pink apron with a pretty strawberry design tied tight around his waist. He really can’t help the short laugh that escapes him when he sees how the apron matches the strawberry-pink of his hair, and Yuuji breaks into a smile, asking what? I think it’s cute.
So do I, Megumi bites back.
“There’s one for you too,” Yuuji says, pointing to the blue apron laid on the table. It’s got a pair of scribbled dogs in the front of it and his name scrawled on with the same sharpie on the front pocket.
“They’re supposed to be your divine dogs. R.I.P. to Snowball. He was a real one.”
“Who’s Snowball?”
“The white one, I named him Snowball.” Yuuji says. Then, “do you like it?”
“I like it,” he says too fast. He thinks he would love anything Yuuji sets in front of him.
He needs help tying the back so Yuuji sets the egg and spatula down and crosses the room towards him, muttering a soft turn around, I got it. His hands work quick, feeling where the string would be most comfortable, to not make it too loose, too tight. Megumi can feel the almost-there touch of his hand, and the warmth of his closeness again makes him sigh. The moment feels like one of back then, back when Tsumiki would fix the back of his shirt or collar. The feeling of care through hands. Yuuji’s hands, now.
“There, you ready?”
Megumi nods and silently follows him to the stovetop.
They make the sunny-side-up eggs and when Yuuji accidentally pops his yolk, Megumi doesn’t think twice before sliding his own egg onto his plate even though he protests. He takes the runny, coated yellow one for himself and they both eat silently, save for the radio station ads that play quietly in the background from the dusty radio Yuuji had somehow gotten to work.
“We’ll have omelettes tomorrow.”
They both smile at each other across the table.
Preparing omelettes is one thing. Megumi finds out that flipping them in the pan trying to keep them in one piece is a completely different dilemma. Apparently, he hadn’t buttered the pan enough—always the butter—and now his omelette looks more like a soggy-yellow, deformed sock. Unsalvageable.
Yuuji is double over laughing at his lopsided omelette, but then, miraculously he ends up saving it by flattening it hard with the spatula he takes from his hand and throwing in some more green onions and red peppers to make it look more colorful.
“Tomorrow we’ll make something other than eggs,” he says through a mouthful, “maybe, like, pancakes. Oh! We can buy whipped cream and blueberries later today. Maybe Gojo-san will give us money if we make him some.”
“That sounds good.” Everything sounds good when it’s with you.
And sometimes, it’s more than orange mornings when they share the kitchen space together.
Sometimes it’s the clear-blue of midday when Yuuji calls Megumi in to try a new concoction he’s whipped up that almost always has something to do with chocolate. Sometimes it’s the pink of evenings where they buy things to make hot pot and call Nobara and Gojo over for dinner. Sometimes it’s the blue of night, illuminated on the kitchen tile as they sneak in to grab the pack of chocorooms Gojo forgot on the counter.
Sometimes, when they all come home tired from an assignment together, Yuuji will make his meatball recipe and even though they’re all exhausted, he rounds them up in the kitchen and gives them instructions. Nobara will pout while chopping the green onions and ginger, and Megumi will smile softly to himself while separating the egg yolks from the whites. Yuuji will sneak up next to them and blow into both of their ears to hurry up, and Nobara will point the knife at him and Megumi will tilt his head back and laugh.
“My grandpa gave me the recipe,” he says when the meatballs are almost done and they’re all left watching them boil in the giant pot on the stove. “He always made me make them for him when he got too weak. That’s how I got good.”
Nobara wraps an arm around him and lays her cheek on his shoulder. Megumi gingerly takes the spoon from him and flips one over in the broth to make sure it's cooked all the way before switching the flame off.
“Sometimes I can still feel his big hands on my tiny ones back when I was a kid, ya’know?” He makes a pat-pat motion, holding an imaginary meatball between his palms, smiling sadly. “I miss him all the time.”
Yuuji looks up at the both of them. Smile smaller and softer now. “I have you guys with me now, though. My grandpa sent me to the both of you. I’m sure of it”
When they’re done eating, they work on cleaning up. He takes washing duty and Yuuji takes drying duty and Miki Matsubara is singing you just call out my name, and you know wherever I am, I’ll come running through the speaker, and Megumi can’t picture a moment clearer than this one with Yuuji shaking his hips, purposely bumping them into his, singing along to the radio in a high-pitched voice. He really can’t picture it more beautiful if he tried: the taste of garlic still fresh in his mouth, soap bubbles somehow rising to get into both of their faces, Nobara doing a dance in the middle of the floor with a dirty plate balancing in the crook of her arm.
Now, ain't it good to know that you've got a friend, Miki Matsubara sings, and Megumi looks at Nobara, then to Yuuji, thinks, yes. Yes. Yes, it’s the best feeling in the world. Mom, you would love this, you would love them.
“You want some?” Yuuji asks him when they’re both done with the first round of training. He had disappeared somewhere immediately after and had appeared with two oranges in his palm.
“Sure,” Megumi responds, sitting up and expecting him to hand him the orange.
But he doesn’t, just plops down beside him and peels back the tough skin himself, getting juice all over his fingers. “I could peel it,” Megumi tells him.
Yuuji shrugs and shakes his head, “I want to peel it for you.”
“OK.”
Megumi watches him rip the skin, watches the peek of his tongue at the corner of his mouth in concentration, watches his hands take the orange apart into its slices, his own heart beating rapidly at the way the orange seems to pulse sticky in his hand. Do you love me like I love you? He wants to ask. Badly. But is this it? Watching the boy you love peeling an orange meant for you, only you, seemingly taking you apart with all the care in the world concentrated right there, in his hands. This is it, isn't it? When Yuuji hands him the peeled, dripping orange, glittering smile vivid on his face, he thinks he finds the beginning of his answer.
“I like cooking for you. I like knowing you’ve eaten.”
Another morning. Bodies brushing, the kitchen warm.
They’re cooking regular old scrambled eggs. Megumi thinks he might’ve mastered them by now with how many times they've made them.
“I like cooking with you better, though. It makes me happy, it’s like, dunno,” he rambles, “like. This kitchen feels like it's ours. Like a second home, kinda? It’s like I was lonely and I’m sure you were too, and now. It’s not that the feeling is totally gone, but,” he pauses and looks down at the eggs, “it’s better. With you, things are better. Agh! That’s crazy, right? How a person can make you feel that?”
Megumi could cry, could shout, could become a puddled-up mess on the tiled floor. Instead, he says: “I like you too, Itadori.”
Later that night, Megumi dreams for the first time since he can remember. In it, the smell of breakfast wafting through the room wakes him up. Pancakes drizzled with local syrup, topped with whipped cream, and thickly sliced strawberries, paired with misplaced oranges scattered around the perimeter of the plate. A side of scrambled eggs. The sound of his mother’s laugh is chirpy and vibrant. She stands next to Yuuji, who flips pancakes and cracks jokes with her, both of them tipping their heads back in easy laughter mixed in with the radio still playing a city pop tune. They both look back at him warmly, and seeing them there, even if it’s just a dream, to know that he can still have a part of this with Yuuji beside him, is the sweetest thing.