Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

[days until christmas: 3.]

Here’s the thing no one tells you about life.

There are absolutely no warnings for when shit goes down. No signs lining the highway leading to your demise, no blaring alarms going WAKE UP, MOTHERFUCKER! YOUR SHIT’S ABOUT TO GET ABSOLUTELY ROCKED!  

Life does absolutely nothing to prepare you for getting up one cold, unassuming December morning, shuffling blearily in your fuzzy slippers into your shared living room, slumping into one of the rickety wooden chairs surrounding your kitchen table, and grabbing the steaming mug of too-sweet coffee your roommate-slash-best-friend-of-three-years has prepared for you as he says,

“I need you to date me, Itadori.”

Yuuji, to the surprise of absolutely no one, chokes.

Boiling hot coffee hurtles out of Yuuji’s gullet to splatter all across his front as he tries to avoid dying of utter shock, because no one ever thought to warn him that this, of all the fucking things, was going to happen to him today , of all the days. 

“Fuck, shit, oww —” Yuuji barely avoids spilling the rest of the coffee onto his pants as he leaps away from the table, hastily ripping his ratty T-shirt half over his head to detach his skin from the steaming fabric. “Fushiguro — what?”

Fushiguro, leaning languidly against the kitchen counter, continues sipping from his own dog-shaped mug (a present from his last birthday; a misshapen, handmade thing Yuuji had pressed into his hands, I know it’s not much , Yuuji had mumbled shyly, It’s perfect, Fushiguro had smiled back) . He looks completely unfazed, like he hasn’t dropped a live bomb into Yuuji’s lap with absolutely zero warning, like the words date me, Itadori, carry the same weight as good morning. Sleep well?

“Explain? Please?” Yuuji feels like an absolute idiot, standing there, slack jawed with shock, head and shoulders and arms all muddled up with the fabric of his shirt, the damp skin of his half-exposed stomach prickling up into gooseflesh in the frigid winter air. 

Fushiguro runs a hair through his untameable hair as he pushes himself off of the counter and pads quietly towards the fridge, frowning irritably as he stares into it, eyes as deep and unknowable as a wizard pondering his inscrutable orb. “Dammit, Itadori, we’re out of eggs. Didn’t I tell you to stock up?”

“Eggs —” Yuuji fumbles for a few seconds, tangled up body still too sleep-heavy to understand the half-baked instructions his brain is sending it, eventually managing to bend his entire torso in a clumsy bow to precariously set his mug down on the table, “dude, you — you’re worried about fucking eggs?”

“Yeah. I need breakfast.”

“You — fucking breakfast — ” Yuuji lets out a garbled groan as he finally manages to tear off the offending piece of clothing up and over his head, and frustratedly tosses the sopping cotton into a random corner of the room, “Fushiguro, I think you’re missing the point — why do you need me to date you?”

Fushiguro shrugs, a languid half-movement of his shoulders as he reaches into the yellow light of the fridge and withdraws a slab of salmon. “Guess we’ll have salmon with rice then.” He slams the fridge shut with his hip before settling a pan onto the burner with a muted clang. “Tsumiki’s boyfriend proposed to her.” 

Fushiguro sips quietly at his coffee as Yuuji continues to gape, muted clown music tinkling somewhere in the depths of his frontal lobe. “That’s the point.”

Yuuji knows a lot about Fushiguro. He knows Fushiguro prefers Pu’erh tea over black coffee, but needs the extra kick of caffeine to start his day; he knows Fushiguro has a half-sister named Tsumiki and lives with his two guardians instead of his parents; he knows Fushiguro once tried to sneak a dog into their apartment complex to prepare for my practicals, Itadori, how else will I know how to perform a respiratory exam , and almost sent the landlord a glitter bomb in furious retaliation when she’d responded with a no, absolutely not, no pets allowed. 

But right now, Yuuji thinks he’s forgotten everything about Fushiguro, about how he prefers to communicate in clipped sentences and blunt words that make sense to him , so either catch up or risk falling behind; or maybe Yuuji’s forgotten how human language works, because Fushiguro’s mixing in instant miso powder with boiling water while popping the pre-cooked rice into their microwave like he usually does when they have the luxury of a free morning, because Fushiguro’s somehow acting like he hasn’t turned Yuuji’s world completely upside down with six short monosyllables: 

I need you to date me.

Yuuji runs a hand through his hair as he heaves out a long sigh. “Fushiguro. You know you’re making absolutely zero sense right now, right?”

“You said right twice in a row. You should buy a thesaurus. Here.” Fushiguro slides the cutlery over towards him, “Set up the table. Food’s almost ready.” 

And it’s not like he, Fushiguro, and Kugisaki are best friends for nothing, the three of them joined at the hip ever since their serendipitous meeting at their university’s Occult Club three years ago. As a first-year fresh out of Sendai, his attendance was a last-ditch effort in finding new friends, painfully lonely and absolutely terrified of taking on Tokyo alone. An hour in and still too-sober for the Club’s crackpot theories about living curses, one tried to set me on fire yesterday! he’d literally stumbled upon Fushiguro and Kugisaki slumped in a heap in the corner, half-drunk out of their minds as they’d sarcastically muttered ooh, I’m so scared of the Oogie Boogie Man, Jesus give me strength. Yuuji had immediately plonked himself down on the ground and gestured for the bottle hidden within their brown paper bag, because if you two skeptics get to be piss-ass drunk as you sit through this bullshit, I sure as hell am not going to stay sober. My name’s Itadori Yuuji, by the way.   

So he sets out the dining mats and the chopsticks, spoons miso soup into identical black bowls, and waits patiently. Because he knows that Fushiguro needs time, time to sort his thoughts out into neat, orderly rows, before he makes his argument, pointed and succinct and nothing but the truth.

I need you to date me.

The microwave dings! as the smell of sizzling salmon permeates the quiet morning air, the beginning of the coda to their late breakfast symphony. Fushiguro pops the microwave door open, upends the plastic container of conibini rice into two bowls, scoops the salmon into a plate, and finally, finally, sits down in the chair opposite to Yuuji’s, eyes still firmly avoiding the other’s quizzical gaze. 

“Itadakimasu.” Yuuji claps his hands together before he picks up his chopsticks to split the salmon into two tidy pieces, the dark silver skin a little bit burnt at the edges (another thing Yuuji knows about Fushiguro — he’s a terrible cook. Improving, but still terrible. You don’t know how to steam rice? Yuuji had realized, horrified, as he stared down into a soupy mess of white swimming within the depths of the rice cooker, No. Fushiguro had grumbled, petulantly, Tsumiki used to do it. And then it was Nanami who cooked, once we moved in) . 

“Douzo.” Fushiguro replies, eyes still fixed onto the plate of fish as he picks up his chopsticks and begins to slide translucent fishbones out of white flesh, the delicate bones of his wrists undulating underneath his pale skin. 

They eat in comfortable silence, and it’s as Yuuji sips his miso soup that Fushiguro finally decides to elaborate. 

“Tsumiki’s boyfriend proposed to her.” He says, as calm as a weather reporter, “Everyone’s always hounded me about finding a partner. It’s annoying, honestly.” He huffs grumpily, and Yuuji stifles a smile at the endearing scrunch of his nose, “Gojo keeps asking if I plan on dying alone. Tsumiki worries herself sick wondering if I’m an unlovable bastard —”

“ — you are a little bit of an ass, Fushiguro —”

Fushiguro glares at him over the rim of his bowl. “Shut up. I’ve heard you bitch about Gakuganji-sensei.” Yuuji laughs, and gestures for him to continue, “And Nanami doesn’t give a shit, but he never gives a shit, unless it’s to do with Noam Chomsky and whatever new anarchist essay he’s published. So.” He sighs, and sets his bowl down onto the worn wood, “Tsumiki getting engaged right before Christmas of all dates — that’s just made them more annoying. All three of them. I even got a text from Nanami, of all people, wondering if I would be bringing more than just myself.” Fushiguro pulls his phone out of pants pocket, clicks his Telegram open and scrolls up a wall of blue in a group titled People I Unfortunately Live With. 

guuuumi

bring ur bf/gf/person to xmas

itd be so cute

i’m bringing hiro!!!!

sister, 9:00am

Megumi chan if u don’t have a bf that’s kinda sad 

look at Tsumiki here already engaged to her college sweetheart at the young age of 25!!!

pain in my ass, 9:01am

Congratulations, Tsumiki-chan. Satoru and I are both very, very happy for you.

nanami, 9:01am

thank you nanami!!! hiro and i are rlly rlly excited!!!

i’ll dm you for caterers if tht’s ok

sister, 9:02am

Of course. I’ll put some feelers out.

nanami, 9:03am

congrats

see you and hiro soon

me, 9:11am

gumi. 

don’t tell me u don’t have a bf/gf/person. U promised u’d find one!!!!

.･ﾟﾟ･(／ω＼)･ﾟﾟ･.

don’t make me sad

i worry about u

sister, 9:12am

yeah, dont make ur sis sad megumi chan

also if ur bringing a partner let us know so we can stock up on condoms

pain in my ass, 9:12am

jesus fucking christ

me, 9:12 am

Satoru, please.

Just ignore him. 

I do.

But do let us know if you’ll be bringing more than just yourself, Megumi-kun. 

I’ll need to buy more groceries if you do.

nanami, 9:13am

that includes condoms!!!~

☆⌒(≧▽° )

pain in my ass, 9:13am

“pain in my ass” was removed from the group by “nanami”

“pain in my ass” was added to the group by “sister”

babe ur sleeping on the couch tonight

tsumiki did u know u r my most favorite child

anyways

megumi chan wtf do u do at uni if ur not fucking around

r u ok

i cant believe ur toji’s son 

cmon spill the beans 

spill the beans or i’ll talk about when u pissed ur pants at the ripe old age of15 when u saw a cockroach in ur room during my speech at tsumiki’s wedding

pain in my ass, 9:15am

for the last

fucking

time

i don’t have a partner.

jesus please dont do that

me, 9:16am

my sources say u do

says ur always hanging around a boy w pink hair and a ginger

pain in my ass, 9:16am

wtf

r u fucking stalking me 

how the hell is this ok

me, 9:17am

It’s not okay.

But Satoru is nothing if not stubborn, unfortunately.

nanami, 9:17am

FUSHIGURO MEGUMI 

ARE YOU TWO TIMING???

Σ(°ロ°)!

sister, 9:17am

jesus

no

who the fuckd o u two take me for

i’d never cheat

me, 9:18am

so u ARE dating one of them (ᓀ ᓀ)

~~ caught you ~~

┬┴┬┴┤( ͡° ͜ʖ├┬┴┬┴

pain in my ass, 9:18am

how tf r u a prof

in physics of all things

and philosophy

how do they trust u w two fucking subjects if u don’t even have the skill of reading comprehension

I just said i wasn’t two timing not that i was dating

me, 9:19am

ah, lying by omission icic

;)

ur not slick young man

pain in my ass, 9:19am

wait gumigumi you’re dating!!!!????

omgomgomg

is it really one of them?

gumi i’m so happy for u 

HUGS!!! (つ≧▽≦)つ

  .･ﾟﾟ･(／ω＼)･ﾟﾟ･.

pls brin gthem????

whichever one ur seeing?

pelaaaaase omg it’d make my year

you know this actually makes me so so happy

im so glad u found someone megumi. seriously. 

i want u 2 b happy more than anything.

sister, 9:25am

“So.” Fushiguro says with all the gravity of a judge passing a death row sentence, “ That’s why I need you to date me, Itadori.” 

“Because your family’s peer pressuring you into finding a partner?” Yuuji sips at his soup, eyes still trained on the wall of text in front of him.

“Because I don’t want to break Tsumiki’s heart when she realizes I’m an unlovable prick for the 21st year in a row.” Fushiguro groans, “She’ll get all weepy. On Christmas. In front of everyone. ” 

“Aww. That’s oddly sweet of you.”

“Fuck you.” Fushiguro glares tiredly.

“Hey!” Yuuji pouts, teasingly, “It was a compliment!”

“Sure. Sure it was.” Fushiguro groans, and snatches his phone away, “Just. Whatever. If you don’t want to, I’ll ask Kugisaki if she wants to —”

“ — she’s dating your cousin.”

Fushiguro whips his head up, normally hooded eyes spread wide open in his own subtler rendition of Yuuji’s idiotic Huh? face, “She’s WHAT?”

“Uh.” Yuuji rubs awkwardly at the nape of his neck, “She told me not to tell you?”

“Not to tell me? Maki’s own cousin?” 

“That’s exactly why she told me not to tell — hey, don’t tell her I told you!”

Yuuji dives for Fushiguro’s phone, the taller man pushing Yuuji’s face away with one hand as he stands up from the table, typing furiously at his phone with the other. Yuuji licks at the other’s palm in retaliation, Fushiguro letting out a what the fuck, are you twelve? before snatching his hand away in disgust. Yuuji yanks at the other’s outstretched elbow, the two of them struggling vainly for the phone before an errant foot catches on someone’s ankle and sends them crashing to the ground. 

“Gimme —”

“ — fuck off, you traitor —”

“ — I’m not a traitor , you drama queen, I just fear her more than I fear your weak ass —”

Fushiguro wiggles fruitlessly underneath Yuuji, hand outstretched for the phone that’s landed just out of his reach. 

“Oh no you fucking don’t— ” Yuuji grunts as he clamps his thighs tightly around the other’s torso and reaches up to pin one of Fushiguro’s wrists in one hand. 

“See? Weak.” Yuuji waves the phone tauntingly in his free hand as he smirks down at Fushiguro stuck between his legs, the other’s black hair a wild mess against the kitchen floor.

Fushiguro raises his free hand, a demonic glint sparkling in his eyes. 

Yuuji reels back in horror. “Don’t you fucking dare —”

Fushiguro grins, and plunges his fingers into Yuuji’s side. 

Yuuji screams out in giggles, wriggling like a helpless worm on the end of a fish hook in a desperate bid to escape Fushiguro’s unrelenting tickles as he flips their positions to hover over him, nimble hands aiming for anywhere and everywhere on Yuuji’s helpless body. 

“Say you’ll date me, Itadori.” 

“You maniac — heeeheeeeeehhaha — this is — this is torture —“

“I’m not stopping until you say it —“

Fushiguro chases after Yuuji on his knees, his fingers dancing over Yuuji’s skin with a sadistic zeal, tears of laughter flowing freely down Yuuji’s face before he finally manages to suck in enough breath to scream: 

“OKAY! Okay! I’ll — I’ll fucking date you, just —  heeheenggk — have some mercy —” 

“Seriously?” Fushiguro frowns as he sits back on his heels, “You’ll do it?”

“Yeah,” Yuuji struggles up into a sitting position, chest still heaving as he recovers from Fushiguro’s abuse, “I’ll do it. I don’t want your sister to cry either, man. And I really, really don’t wanna get tickled again.” 

Fushiguro flushes and looks away. “Put your fucking shirt back on, Itadori.” He scrambles to his feet and throws Yuuji’s shirt back towards him, red-faced. “I mean. If you really don’t want to —"

“Fushiguro Megumi,” Fushiguro turns back, startled, “Will you do me, Itadori Yuuji, the utmost honor of fake dating me?” Yuuji kneels down on one knee, hands outstretched perpendicular to each other in a ninety degree angle, a crude facsimile of an engagement ring box.

“Fuck you, asshole.” Fushiguro snarks back, irritation underscored by the bright red in the face.

“C’mon, bro. You can dish it, but you can’t take it? You know I’m gonna be the best fake boyfriend you’re ever gonna have.” Yuuji smirks. Maybe so good I’ll ruin you for everyone else, something whispers in the back of his head. Shut up, he hisses back. “Say you’ll fake date me, Fushiguro.”

“Fine.” Fushiguro snaps, flushed firetruck red from his hairline to the collar of his sweatshirt, “We’ll fake date, Itadori.”

Yuuji grins and bounds up to pull him into a quick one-armed hug. “No need to look that gloomy about it. This is going to be fun!” He beams up at the taller man, Fushiguro still scowling even as humor crinkles up the sides of his eyes, “I’m gonna be so good for you, babe.”

Fushiguro chokes on nothing, and Yuuji thinks he can see steam hissing out of his ears, “Babe?”

“Better get used to it, Fusighuro. We’re dating now, right?” Yuuji lets go, already hyperaware of the contact and endearments that have slipped too-easily out of him, “Anyways. Lemme just go get your birthday present, and then we can go meet up with Kugisaki and get your birthday really started.”

Yuuji keeps an easy-going smile plastered across his face up until he shuts his bedroom door, immediately burying his head in his bed sheets and letting loose a strangled yell, this is going to be fun echoing mockingly in his ears as he tries his best not to have a mental breakdown. 

Because he’s had a crush on Fushiguro Megumi ever since Fushiguro nudged a bottle of soju over to him in the corner of a dingy dark classroom decorated with shitty black crepe paper and blurry pictures of Bigfoot, a small frown on his liquor-flushed face as he’d grumbled don’t drink all of it or I’ll kill you, Itadori Yuuji. The name’s Fushiguro, by the way. Fushiguro Megumi.  

As he tugs out the gift wrapped in simple brown paper hidden in the back of his closet, Yuuji knows that he’s dug himself a hole, one so deep he’s broken through the Earth’s mantle. But people only dig to unearth priceless treasures, and Yuuji’s already struck gold (a fool’s gold that will wither and tarnish under the first lick of scrutiny, but gold nonetheless) with the taste of babe and boyfriend curving along his lips, and the knowledge that more is yet to come. 

And it’s Christmas, and it’s Fushiguro’s birthday, and Yuuji’s always been a sucker for green eyes and darker hair, so he tries his best to patch over the crumbling earth as he shoves his door open with a wide smile and a Happy Birthday, Fushiguro! Or should I say, Mr. Fake Boyfriend? 

[days until christmas: 2.]

ur a fuckin idiot

queen b, 11:20am

ouch

y r u being mean 2 me 

on xmas????

me, 11:20am

because you are a goddamn idiot itadori yuuji

maki agrees w me

fake date?????

u’ve been pining over him for 

queen b, 11:20am

shut up i dont need a reminder

me, 11:21am

for almost three fuckin years dumbshit

queen b, 11:21am

didn’t i say

shut

up

me, 11:21am

and when have i ever listened 2 u

god 

rmbr to facetime me 

i wanna see this car crash happen in real time

queen b, 11:21am

merry xmas to u too

and no.

me, 11:22am

“Hey, Itadori.”

“Hmm?” Yuuji glances up from his phone over to Fushiguro sat on the other end of the sofa.

“Do you —” Fushiguro wrings his fingers, brows furrowed, “should we discuss. What we’re comfortable with?”

“Comfortable with?”

“You know. With our.” Fushiguro waves a hand in between them, “With our situation.”

“Oh. Oh.” Yuuji hurriedly shoves his phone away, a little bit scared that Kugisaki has hacked into his phone and is currently laughing herself silly over the conversation currently taking place, “I mean. I’m pretty chill with whatever, y’know.”

“What were you like? With Ozawa?”

“Yuko?” Yuuji furrows his eyebrows, “I mean, that was way back in high school, man. So, y’know, the usual. Hand holding, hugging, making out behind the school gym —”

“Disgusting.” Fushiguro pulls a face, “You were one of them?”

“I mean. ” Yuuji flushes, embarrassed, “It was one time. I was sixteen. Shit just happens when you’re young and horny , Fushiguro. Anyways,” Yuuji shrugs, “I’m cool doing whatever you’re cool with doing. So if you don’t want to, like, use pet names or whatever —”

“— I’m fine with that.” Fushiguro plays with the hem of his shirt, staring determinedly at the floor, “I’m fine with holding hands and shit. I just don’t want you to feel obligated to do things you’re not comfortable doing —”

“ Jesus , Fushiguro.” Yuuji laughs, “I explicitly consent to whatever fluffy bullcrap you need us to throw at your family to convince them you’re not a lonely spinster, okay? I mean it. I’m just,” he rubs at the back of his head, “I’m just scared you’re not okay with it, y’know? I — I can get a bit much, sometimes.”

Yuko had told him that once, and so had Junpei when they’d had their thing back in first year, when he’d been so caught up in the warmth of their arms to consider the furrow in their brows — hey, just — maybe not right now, please? You’re. You’re being a lot right now, Yuuji. Sorry.

“You’re never too much, Itadori.” Fushiguro says, his firm words tinged with anger, “Not to me.”

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.” Fushiguro clears his throat awkwardly and pushes himself off of their lumpy couch. “As long as you don’t kiss me, I’m fine with whatever you’re fine with. And you should call me Megumi, once we get there.”

Yuuji chokes, the shape of Fushiguro’s name clogging up his airway as the other man disappears into his room, casual as can be.

[days until christmas: 0.]

It turns out that Fushiguro’s guardians own a winter cottage up in the mountains of Okinawa, tucked near the base of a small ski lodge. With one of them being a retiree and the other a renowned academic in a subject Yuuji’s never even heard of, the two of them enjoy not seeing people, really. And it’s not like they need to be near things, so they end up spending most of their winters there. 

“Turn left after the next bend and we’ll be there in around 15 minutes.” Fushiguro says from the passenger seat, “What the hell is this song, anyways?”

“Dunno.” Yuuji shrugs, his eyes fixed on the snow-covered road, the gleam of their rental car’s headlights the only light permeating the thick forest’s darkness, “My English isn’t that good. Here?”

“Yeah, here.”

Click, click, click, goes the indicator as Yuuji slows down and cuts into a tiny pathway, so narrow the pine trees would’ve hidden it from view if Fushiguro hadn’t spent close to half an hour on the phone with Nanami yesterday just to note down the exact directions. 

“Shouldn’t your dads —“

“— they’re not my dads —”

“— okay, your guardians, then. Shouldn’t they be spending Christmas alone? Wouldn’t that be more romantic? Not that I mind meeting them, obviously.” Yuuji leans forwards in an effort to see beyond the thickets of dark green. 

“Nanami’s from Denmark. Christmas is a family thing for him, and it’s always lined up with our winter vacations as well as Gojo’s days off, so we make it a family affair, too.”

The trees suddenly part, and the path opens up into a small circular clearing. A stout wood cottage sits right in the middle, warm light spilling out of its windows and painting the snowy driveway a comforting orange. Smoke pours out of the chimney, and as Yuuji slowly pulls in next to the small Honda parked out in front, he spots — 

“Is that meant to be a snowman?” Yuuji frowns at a misshapen lump of something sitting next to the door, black stones and sticks shoved haphazardly into it. “Or is it just…trash?”

“Fuck if I know.” Fushiguro sighs, “All I know is that it looks like Gojo’s handiwork.” He looks over at Yuuji, mouth screwed up in a miserable frown. “Well. Should we get going?”

“Hey.” Yuuji lays a hand on Fushiguro’s forearm, “If you really don’t want to do this, we can call this off, right now. We’ll say your boyfriend ditched you or something , and I tagged along last minute to keep you company. Just —” if the thought of dating me makes you look that miserable, I’d rather never see that look on you again, “— whatever makes you comfortable, man.”

Fushiguro leans his head back against his seat, eyes closed as he sucks in a deep breath. “It’s. It’s not you I’m not comfortable with, Itadori. I haven’t done anything like this before, stuff like bringing people home , or whatever.” He rubs a thumb tiredly between his eyebrows, “It’s fine. I’m fine. Let’s just get this over with.”

“So,” Yuuji grins nervously, “we’re doing this?”

“Yes,” Fushiguro opens his eyes, and pushes his door open, cold air viciously rushing into the car’s warm interior like a pair of sharp scissors slicing through ribbon, “we’re doing this.”

The door swings open, and a tall white haired figure steps out into the cold. He waves a gloved hand over his head as he shouts:

“I got extra condoms especially for you, Megumi-chan!”

“Gojo?” Yuuji stifles a laugh. 

“Gojo.” Fushiguro replies stonily. “Come on. Let’s not keep them waiting.”

The smell of pine and dashi broth is the first thing that hits Yuuji squarely in the face, the second being a squeal of:

“Oh my god, you really did bring him!”

“Hey, Tsumiki.” Fushiguro says as he shuts the door behind them, “Merry Christmas to you, too.”

“I thought I’d see Bigfoot before I’d ever catch you bringing someone home, Megumi-chan.” Gojo smirks as he toes off his snow boots, “Itadori Yuuji, was it?”

“Yessir.” Yuuji rummages in his bag and takes out a wine bottle ( just get the cheapest one, Itadori, they won’t care) encased in swathes of newspaper, “This is for you and your husband, by the way. It’s a pleasure to meet you all!”

“Oh?” Gojo cocks an eyebrow, “And he’s polite, too. Surprising, given how rude this one is.”

“Oh, where are my manners!” Fushiguro — Tsumiki, I suppose — reaches out hurriedly for the bottle, “My name’s Fushiguro Tsumiki, Megumi’s older sister, and that’s our guardian, Gojo Satoru. It’s so wonderful for you to make the trip out to see us! I know Hiro couldn’t make it —”

“What?” Fushiguro interjects, loudly. “But, you said —” 

“Well, his boss called him up this morning, something about a last minute change to the project he’s overseeing — he’s an architect, Itadori-san, so I’m pretty used to it by now — which means he’ll be busy for the entire week.” She sighs, sadly, fingers playing idly with the diamond band on her fourth finger, “I really wish he were here to meet you, Itadori-san. We were so looking forward to it.”

“Aw, that’s okay.” Yuuji shrugs, “Maybe next time, right?”

Fushiguro shoots him a shocked look. Next time??????? What the fuck?

Dude, just trust me, Yuuji glances back.

Gojo frowns at them, eyes hidden behind his dark glasses. “Yeah. Next time, if you crazy kids make it that far. Anyways, you two can go put your shit away and Kento will have the table ready by the time you guys are done.” He wiggles his eyebrows leerily, “Don’t take too long, though!”

“Shut up, Gojo.” Megumi glares back as he squeezes past the two of them, “Merry Christmas, you two.”

“Up the stairs, first room on the left!” Gojo calls out.

Yuuji smiles back, almost jumping out of his skin when he feels a cold hand wrap around his wrist to tug him up the flight of stairs, head whipping round to gape at Fushiguro’s broad back as he pulls Yuuji deeper into his family’s home, the tips of his ears stained a pretty pink. He doesn’t let go until the door to their shared room shuts, warmth flooding back into the cold skin around Yuuji’s wrist with a painful tingle. 

“Shit.”

“Hmm?” Yuuji stares down at his wrist, brain still fuzzy with the puzzle of why there isn’t a brand shaped like the curve of Fushiguro’s fingers marked onto his skin. He looks up and almost drops his bags in horror, because right in the middle of the guest room lies 

one. 

fucking. 

bed.

“Shit.” Yuuji hisses out as he gapes at the offending object, a nightmare made out of feathers and thick cotton sheets.

“We can share—“

“— I’ll sleep on the floor—”

“Jesus, Itadori, the floor?”

“The floor can be very comfortable if you’re drunk enough, I’ll have you know.” Yuuji pouts. 

“Unless you plan on getting piss drunk every night we’re spending here, sleeping on the floor isn’t a proper solution.” Fushiguro glares tiredly at Yuuji, “It’s fine. We’ll just have to share.”

“The — the bed?” 

It’s something Yuuji’s fantasized about, but only when he’s fifteen tequila shots in with his liquor-flushed face smushed into the cold living room floor, wondering what would it be like to wake up next to Fushiguro, kiss him awake, slip his tongue into his mouth and tuck his knee up into the space between his legs until he moans —

“ Yes , Itadori. The bed. What, did you expect both of us to sleep on the ground?”

“Well, no, but —“ but what if, what if, what if.

“If I ask for an extra futon, they’ll know something’s up.” Fushiguro shrugs, “And I’m not letting either of us sleep on the floor. That’s just stupid.”

But Yuuji can’t stop staring, mouth agape, at the bed in front of them. Because he’s a shitty actor, and he doesn’t know if he can sleep next to Fushiguro pretending that he’s never woken up flushed and sweaty from dreams he really ought to have stopped having back in high school. 

“If you’re really uncomfortable with this, I get it. It’s fine if you don’t —“

“— no.” 

Because Fushiguro’s right. Their act would fall through, all of their effort gone to waste over a stupid little bed. Besides, Yuuji’s a mature, fully-grown adult now, which means he can deal with this ( he thinks ). 

“You're right. It’d be weird if we didn’t. It’s okay, man. No homo, right?” He grins cheekily.

“You’re such an idiot.” Fushiguro groans, quietly amused, because he’s walked in on more men coming out of Yuuji’s room and vice versa more times than either of them care to count, “If you’re done losing your shit over a goddamn bed , we should get going before Gojo gives me more shit than he already has.”

“So,” Tsumiki asks as soon as the first bottle of wine of the night has been opened and a cheers, everyone! Merry Christmas! has gone around, “how did you two get together?”

“Uh —” Yuuji blanks, and he glances over panickedly at Fushiguro sitting next to him.

“I asked him out.” Fushiguro sips at his glass of red, “Yuuji was going through some stuff a few months back. Exams, college stress — you know how it can get. I caught him freaking out in the middle of the night, and even though I had an exam the next day, I was still making sure he was taking care of himself before I went to sleep.”

“I’ve never known you to be the caring type, Megumi-chan.” Gojo scoffs, one arm slung around the back of Nanami’s chair.

”Shut up, Gojo. You’re no Mother Theresa, either.” Fushiguro flushes. “But — I guess I realized that I really, really cared about Yuuji. So, I asked him out.” He reaches out for Yuuji’s forearm, “It’s been, what, two months, right?” 

“Y— yeah.” Yuuji barely manages to stutter out, because he thought they were lying , not telling some reflection of their lives that’s been stretched and warped through a funhouse mirror — one where everything’s the same except for the fact that Fushiguro’s hand is now clasped around his wrist as he smiles at Yuuji with a softness he usually only reserves for the dogs at the clinic he interns at —  

“Why are you still up?” Fushiguro frowns from his seat at the kitchen table, the microwave behind him blinking 03:00 in neon green. “Don’t you have a match tomorrow? Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“Why are you up? You have a test tomorrow, right?” Yuuji replies half-heartedly as he pads over to the fridge, pulling it open to stare blankly into its contents, like the blue cold will somehow give him answers to the ugly questions swirling in the pit of his brain. 

youdontmeananythingtoanyoneeveryone’spretendingtolikeyoustupidfuckyouthinkyoumeananythingyounarcisssiticbastardlikeanyonegivesashitaboutyouyouuglydisgustingfilthygarbageheapyoudeservenothingnothingnothingnothingnothing

“Itadori?” 

“Huh?” Yuuji looks up, bleary eyed and utterly shattered from the sleepless nights he’s been having, “Sorry. You’re studying, right. I’ll just —”

“Hey.” Fushiguro shuts his notebook and stands up from the table, before gently closing the fridge door, a warm hand on the small of Yuuji’s back, “Go to my room.”

“Your room?” Yuuji thinks he’s hearing things amidst the cobwebs of his exhaustion. 

“You look dead on your feet. There’s melatonin next to my bed, so take two of them and sleep there tonight. A change of environment might help you sleep.” Fushiguro’s face softens, a look of concern melting over his delicate features, “Tell me if this happens again, Itadori. Let me help you, too.” 

Tsumiki claps her hands together, eyes shining, “That’s absolutely adorable, Megumi!” She coos, almost vibrating with sheer happiness, “Oh, I’m so happy for you two!”

“He’s great.” Yuuji shakes himself out of his reverie and plasters on his most charming smile, “Not saying I’m an invalid, but I don’t think I’d have survived three years of uni without Megumi, y’know? Anyways. Best two months of my life, hands down.”

Fushiguro reaches forwards and places a piece of braised ginger chicken on Yuuji’s bowl of rice, the back of his neck tinged pink as Tsumiki squeals and Nanami chuckles — I’ll teach you how to make ginger chicken meatballs, Fushiguro. No one can fuck that up, not even you. Yuuji smiles and whispers out a quiet thank you, a sappy smile big on his face as Fushiguro leans imperceptibly into his side in response, the perfect picture of a loving couple. 

Yuuji looks away from Fushiguro and busies himself with eating, feeling somehow guilty for taking part in this facade — like he’s taken the place of a person who truly deserves Fushiguro’s love and care, who Fushiguro can really bring home to his family, a relationship Fushiguro can really show off without deception or shame — see, everyone? This is the person I have chosen to love. This is the person who is worthy of my love. Of my heart. Of me.

But it’s Christmas, and Fushiguro’s family is loud and loving, and the food is warm and hearty. So Yuuji smiles, slings an arm around the back of Fushiguro’s chair, and tucks into Nanami’s superb cooking as he peppers the conversation with embarrassing anecdotes about Fushiguro’s insane late-night habits — Nanami-san, were you the one who taught Megumi how to scare the living daylights out of me when I walked out and saw a frog’s shadow on the walls? — while Fushiguro cracks a rare smile and retorts — not as scary as the time I thought something exploded and it turns out you and Kugisaki had somehow managed to explode an entire can of shaving cream over our bathroom walls. Remind me not to let her in our house ever again. 

Yuuji excuses himself halfway through dessert to go to the bathroom, giving Fushiguro’s shoulder a quick squeeze as he leaves the table. “Be back soon, babe.”

“Mmhm.” Fushiguro hums back, still engaged in a heated argument with Gojo over the sheer non-necessity of putting an entire bag of marshmallows on one’s hot chocolate. 

Yuuji keeps a smile plastered on his face until he shuts the door to the bathroom before immediately dropping down onto the toilet lid to scream silently into the meat of his palms. 

Fushiguro’s hand resting on his thigh, Fushiguro’s hair tickling his forearm as he leaned back in his seat, Fushiguro smiling at him, actually smiling, Fushiguro, Fushiguro, Fushiguro —

He indulges himself in five seconds of pure unhinged panic before forcing himself up and off of his uncomfortable seat. He stumbles disorientedly to the sink and yanks the tap to one side, aggressively splashing freezing water in his face in an effort to calm his palpitating heart down. 

“Fuck.” Yuuji mutters into the white porcelain basin, cold water dripping off the tip of his nose, “You’re so fucking fucked.”

He towels his face off, makes the executive decision to piss some of the wine out of his system, washes his hands, and sucks in a deep breath before shoving the door open and promptly stumbling into someone’s chest.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” 

“Nothing to be sorry about, Itadori-san.” Nanami inclines his head, graceful as ever, “This hallway is a bit narrow, after all.”

“Did you.” Yuuji gestures vaguely at the bathroom, “Do you — need? To. To pee?”

“Well, yes.” Nanami pushes his glasses up, the green lenses darkened almost black in the dim space, “That is what people tend to do when they go to the bathroom, Itadori-san.”

Yuuji laughs, high-pitched and awkward as Nanami silently stares back at him, gaze just as inscrutable as when he’d studied Yuuji and Fushiguro from across the table. This is the most amount of words Yuuji’s exchanged with Nanami the entire night — the other man having spent most of dinner quietly portioning out food and wine, a small smile playing on his lips as he’d watched the rest of his family shout and squabble over the smallest things, only interjecting when words grew too pointed and heated and Satoru, that’s enough. Half a bag is more than enough for a single mug of chocolate, unless you plan on eating them by the handful like you did the day before.  

With his suit and his quiet words, Yuuji finds himself shrinking in the taller man’s mature presence, feeling oddly like a child who’s been caught dressing up in adult clothes. There’s a world of humanity Yuuji can’t even begin to fathom engraved into the line of Nanami’s jaw, the scars on his face, the cane in his hand and the limp in his leg.

“Megumi-kun has lived with us since he was ten.” Nanami says, completely unprompted, “This is the longest he’s been away from home, did you know that?”

“Uh.” Yuuji fiddles with the hem of his hoodie, “That’s. It’s great that he’s back, then. You two must be happy that he’s home.”

“Yes.” Nanami hums, “It’s always good to have both children back in the house. But what I mean to say, Itadori-san, is that this is the first time he’s brought anyone home with him. And I mean that Megumi-kun has not brought a friend, let alone a partner back home to meet us. Ever. So, I was honestly quite surprised when he came home for the first time in two years with a boyfriend in tow. I’m quite happy to have met you, Itadori-san.” He smiles, one side of his lip lower than the other for the scars rippling across the left side of his handsome face, “You must be a very important person to Megumi-kun, Itadori-san.”

“Oh.” Yuuji flushes, “I didn’t know that. Well, I’m glad to have met you, too, Nanami-san. And—” there’s no lying here, no act needed, “— Megumi’s really important to me, too.”

The two of them stand there in an awkward silence, and the residual wine flowing through his veins must be loosening Yuuji’s tongue as he finds himself saying:

“Did Megumi not have any friends in high school or something?” 

“That’s a definite possibility,” Nanami openly chuckles, “given the fact that he used to come home from school with suspension letters for fighting on school grounds.”

“He — he what?” 

“You didn’t know about that?” Nanami cocks an eyebrow, and Yuuji belatedly realizes that he’s stumbled right into the middle of Nanami’s trap, “I thought Megumi-kun would have told you about his childhood, given the fact that he trusts you enough to bring you home.”

“Well —” Yuuji flounders, “We — we talk about other stuff, you know? And Fu — Megumi’s not the most upfront about stuff, so sometimes he just. Doesn’t tell me things.”

“Hmm.” Nanami looks behind him to the dining room, the sounds of Tsumiki and Fushiguro loudly clearing up the dishes audible even from where they’re standing, “That is true. Megumi-kun can be quite tight lipped, no matter the person. Well, Itadori-san,” He looks back at Yuuji, glasses glinting intimidatingly in the shreds of light streaming in from the room behind him, “Please do ensure Megumi-kun stays happy whilst he’s with you, given that he trusts you enough to let you into such a personal part of his life.”

Nanami brushes past Yuuji, the door shutting behind him with a definitive click as an uncomfortable weight settles into the pit of Yuuji’s stomach.

I would’ve thought Megumi-kun would be upfront about his childhood, given the fact that he trusts you enough to bring you home.

Because that’s what love is, isn’t it? Opening the pages of yourself up for another to browse, allowing them to peer past skin and bone into the thing settled into the core of your spine — Do you see this? This is me. All of me. 

Because what is love, if not the mortifying ordeal of being known? Of sloughing off your lizard-skin and pretty words, until all that’s left is the thing you like to keep hidden away, ugly and warped and coated with grime. Will you love me? the monster locked away within your core gargles, black spittle splattering out of its mouth and onto the floor. Tell me, it pleads, its gnarled fingers clasped in a pitiful prayer, do you think you could still love a thing like this?

Yuuji lets out a long sigh, and manages to swallow down the bile that’s risen into the back of his throat. 

He eventually makes his way back into the dining room, Fushiguro shooting him a concerned look as Yuuji joins him by the sink. 

“Did Nanami say something to you?” Fushiguro mutters as Yuuji automatically starts drying off the dishes he’d set to one side. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m fine.” Yuuji grins wanly as he bumps his shoulder against Fushiguro’s, “I’ve dealt with worse.” 

“Did Kento give you his shovel talk?” Gojo sings from his place at the table, wine glass swirling casually in his hands, “Just know that I know your course coordinator, I-tado-ri-kun!”

“Shut up, Gojo.” Fushiguro glares, “Don’t listen to him. He can’t actually do anything to you, Yuuji.”

“Nope!” Gojo cackles, blue eyes glinting menacingly as he stares over at Yuuji over the tops of his glasses, “What makes you think that I couldn’t convince Shoko to change your biology grades, hmm?”

Yuuji gulps, and single-mindedly dries the plates until they gleam.

“Hey.” Fushiguro frowns as Yuuji steps out of the bathroom (most of his shower having consisted of him psyching himself up to stop using up all the hot water in the house and go to sleep. Next to Fushiguro. You will be fine no I will not be yes you will HOLY SHIT IT’S SO COLD OW OW OW). “You okay?”

“Yeah!” Yuuji grins as he tosses his laundry into his suitcase, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You looked really uncomfortable towards the end there.” Fushiguro shuts his laptop, and gestures at Yuuji to step closer towards the bed where he’s sat, “I know Nanami and Gojo can be a bit much sometimes.” He picks up the hair dryer next to the bed, and Yuuji automatically leans down to let Fushiguro run his fingers through his hair as he dries it, the comfortable action grounding him after the hours of stress.

“Itadori.” Fushiguro watches, horrified, as Yuuji walks past him with sopping wet hair, “Are you not going to dry your hair before you sleep?”

“Uh. Yeah?” Yuuji looks back, confused. “Why?”

“You’ll get a headache if you don’t.” Fushiguro sighs exasperatedly, “Did no one teach you that?”

“Not like I had parents to nag me about that, right? And I never get headaches.” Yuuji shrugs. “Besides. I don’t own a dryer.”

Fushiguro stares at him with an indecipherable look on his face before he stands up and disappears into the bathroom. He exits with his hair dryer in one hand and a towel in the other, juggling the two awkwardly as he unplugs the lamp next to the sofa and replaces it with the hair dryer. 

“Come here.” 

“What, are you going to dry my hair for me?” Yuuji quips, jokingly. 

“Yes.” Fushiguro says in the same tone he uses when offering Yuuji a pack of gum, “Since no one taught you, I’ll help you until you figure it out.”

Fushiguro clicks the dryer off, and Yuuji straightens up as he ruffles his hand through his dried hair. “Thanks. And I’m fine, seriously.” He laughs, awkwardly, “Your guardians are seriously scary, though. If you really do bring a — your boyfriend back, one piece of advice? Warn the dude before you sic them on him?”

Fushiguro rolls his eyes, “I don’t get a say in even half of the shenanigans my family end up getting into. But if they get to be a bit much, just let me know. Seriously, Itadori. I’ll tell them to back off.”

“My knight in shining armor.” Yuuji smiles, his expression faltering when he recalls the conversation he had with Nanami in the cramped corridor, a bitter lump still lodged in the junction between his esophagus and his stomach. “Hey, Fushiguro. Why — why didn’t you tell me you beat people up? Back in high school?”

“Did Nanami tell you that?”

“Yeah.”

“ Jesus .” Fushiguro groans, “I didn’t think you’d need to know about stupid shit like that.”

“But I want to know.” Yuuji says, too-quietly and too-seriously, “I like knowing stupid stuff about you, Fushiguro. Even if it’s not — not pertinent to me, or whatever.”

I want to know everything, if it’s about you, something greedy and too-much whispers out, what do you look like, Fushiguro Megumi?

“Oh.” Fushiguro flushes, before he busies himself with winding the cord neatly around the dryer, “I just. I thought you wouldn’t be interested —” 

“I mean, if you’re not okay with telling me —”

“No. I — I don’t mind you knowing.” Fushiguro stares down at his hands, ears pink. “I don’t mind.”

“Okay.” Yuuji smiles, somehow relieved, and Fushiguro smiles tentatively back.  

“We should sleep.” Fushiguro glances at the clock, 01:30, it blinks. “Boxing Day means Tsumiki waking us all up before noon so she can take cute pictures for the sake of memory, or whatever.”

“Right.” Yuuji tries not to blush as he slips in between the covers, hyperaware of the heat radiating off of the man lying next to him. “Well. Goodnight, Fushiguro.”

“Night.” The light switches off and Yuuji holds himself absolutely still in the darkness, absolutely terrified of moving even an inch closer to Fushiguro — 

“What the hell are you even thinking about?” Fushiguro mumbles into his pillow, “Go to sleep .”

“You didn’t answer. Why’d you beat people up, back in high school?” Yuuji blurts out, too tired to stop himself from asking once again. 

A heavy hand lands on his chest with a slap! “They were homophobic assholes who were bullying the lower years out of their lunch money.” The hand stays where it’s landed, a warm brand burning through Yuuji’s sleep shirt. “Fuckers deserved it. Now go to sleep , Itadori. I’ll tell you more in the morning, if you still want.”

The sounds of Fushiguro’s quiet snores quickly fill the air, his hand curling even further into Yuuji’s shirt as he falls into a deep sleep. 

Fuck. Yuuji breathes out. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He nudges panickedly at Fushiguro’s arm in an attempt at coaxing him over to his side of the bed. Instead (because nothing seems to be going Yuuji’s way these days), Fushiguro grumbles and tightens his grip to pull Yuuji even closer towards him.

FUCK. Yuuji wants to scream, because how the hell is he supposed to fall asleep when Fushiguro’s cuddling me, I didn’t know he was a cuddler fuck he’s so cute like this god I like him so fucking much — 

After almost half an hour more of poking and prodding to no avail, Yuuji sighs and gives up on escaping, loath to disturb Fushiguro’s rest. Whatever, he yawns, mind clouded with fatigue and the warmth of Fushiguro’s body pressed up against his, He’ll let go in the morning, anyways. 

And it’s Christmas, and it’s 2am in the morning, and they’ve crossed so many lines already, so what’s one more? What’s the harm? he thinks as he turns to admire the man slumbering beside him, his usual edges sleep-softened and even more beautiful under the silver moonlight.

What’s the harm, if he won’t ever know about this?

“Goodnight, Megumi.” He smiles softly as he commits the sight to memory. “Sleep well.”

He wakes up to sunlight streaming in through the windows and something tickling his nose. Yuuji groans and buries himself deeper into the warm pillows, cursing his past self for not shutting the curtains properly. He winds his arms around the solid form (probably a bunch of blankets, cozy and warm and just the right side of cuddleable) next to him, and decides to go the fuck back to sleep.

The blankets in his arms shift, and he punches it grumpily to stop it from further disturbing his sleep. “Shuddup.” He mumbles to no one in particular. 

“ Oof —” The blankets respond, distinctly humanoid and very not -blanket like.  

Yuuji blinks awake to find Fushiguro moaning in pain, arms clutched around his middle where Yuuji must’ve punched him. 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” Yuuji pushes himself up and almost falls back onto Fushiguro, the blankets twisted up around where their legs have curled together in the middle of the night, his other arm stuck underneath Fushiguro’s shoulders. “Are you okay? I’m so fucking sorry, man —”

Someone knocks on the door, and Yuuji startles even more before frantically pulling his hand out from under Fushiguro’s head, blood rushing back into his fingertips with an unpleasant tingle. 

“Good morning, you two! I don’t know what you’re getting up to, but we’re meeting in the living room in 15 minutes to open our presents!” Tsumiki sings through the door. 

“Use protection!” Gojo shouts, the distinct sound of a wooden cane making contact with flesh accompanying his undignified yelp. 

“-m fine —” Fushiguro wheezes, “Just. Gimme a sec.”

Yuuji manages to extricate himself from the maze of limbs and blankets, taking extra care to make sure his morning wood makes absolutely no contact with Fushiguro’s groaning form, and dashes off into the bathroom to fill a cup of water for the other man.

“Here.” Yuuji offers the cup out to Fushiguro, “I’m so, so sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Fushiguro gulps down half of the water in one go, his coughs subsiding, “Are you always that violent when you wake up?”

“I was sleeping really well, okay?” Yuuji whines, “And then you moved and — and I just wanted to go back to sleep. I swear, I didn’t do it on purpose —”

“You slept well?” Fushiguro perks up, “That’s good.”

Yuuji spots something gleaming in the join between Fushiguro’s neck and shoulder — something that looks disgustingly like drool. Yuuji’s drool, from where his head was tucked into the crook of Fushiguro’s neck overnight, the first night of truly restful sleep he’s had in what feels like months. Yuuji immediately looks away from the pale patch of skin, a blush as pink as his hair rising rapidly to his face. 

“Did — did you?” Yuuji turns and hurriedly rips off his sleep shirt in a last ditch attempt at hiding his raging embarrassment, “Sleep well, I mean.” 

“Uh —” Fushiguro lets out a choked noise, “Um. Yeah. I slept pretty well.”

“Good.” Yuuji shrugs on a sweater, and turns back around to face Fushiguro, now staring intently at the bedsheets in front of him. “Well, you heard your sister! It’s Boxing Day, sleepyhead!”

“Hey!” Tsumiki waves at them as they make their way down the stairs, “You two were taking so long, we were almost going to get started without you!”

A small mountain of presents practically dwarfs the tiny fake Christmas tree placed in the middle of the room, Tchaikovsky tinkling out from the record player next to the sofa as the fireplace crackles and spurts. Gojo and Nanami are curled up together at the end of the couch, the two of them bickering quietly with coffees in hand ( Worst Guardian in the World scrawled on Gojo’s mug, Acceptable Guardian on Nanami’s), Tsumiki sat on a rug in front of the fire, two cups of tea clasped in her hands ( Child 1, says one, the other, Tyrant Child 2 ). 

Fushiguro muffles a yawn with one hand and reaches out for a mug. “Hey, Nanami. Where’s your coffee stuff?”

“Beans are in the top cupboard, oat milk is in the fridge. I know college can be difficult, but please don’t tell me you’ve become addicted to caffeine already.” Nanami sighs. 

“It’s not for me.” Fushiguro blows tentatively on the top of his Tyrant Child 2 mug, “You guys get started while I go make Yuuji something to drink. You don’t mind oat milk, right?” 

“Nah. Want me to come with you, babe?” Yuuji asks, one hand having wound itself around Fushiguro’s waist without him noticing. 

“No need.” Fushiguro takes a sip of his tea, “You’d be of more help making sure Gojo doesn’t open my presents for me.”

Yuuji makes exaggerated kissy faces at Fushiguro as he leaves, the other’s face screwed up into an embarrassed stop, you idiot, as he disappears into the kitchen. 

“Awwww.” Tsumiki sighs happily, “Hiro does the same thing, you know. He makes me breakfast and coffee every morning before he prepares his own food, the dummy. It’s like he thinks he doesn’t need to eat!” She laughs, a bright and tinkling thing, “It’s cute that you two do that, too!”

“Usually it’s me making sure he eats in the mornings.” Yuuji admits as he settles into the carpet next to her, “Did I tell you about the one time I woke up to congee in our rice cooker instead of rice?”

When Megumi returns to the sounds of how do you fuck up rice, Megumi-chan? and Megumi, that’s a new low, even for you he ignores them in favor of handing Yuuji a polka-dotted mug. “Here.”

“Thanks.” Their fingers slide past each other as the mug passes between them, and Yuuji suddenly realizes that despite fake dating him , he still doesn’t know if Fushiguro’s palm is as soft as it looks. And it’s what he would do, if he really were Fushiguro’s boyfriend — hold his boyfriend’s hand, say thank you, baby, and kiss him on the cheek — 

— so he tangles his fingers in with Fushiguro’s, and finds out that the softness of his palm soothes like a balm when laid upon Yuuji’s coarse calluses. Fushiguro’s whips around, eyes widening and shoulders stiffening with shock before he quickly relaxes into the touch, a small smile on his face as he twines their fingers even tighter together, his grip strong and sure. Yuuji hides his blushing smile in the steam of his fresh coffee (with three large glugs of milk, just how he likes it), and tries his best to stop his palms from sweating as his heart aches from how furiously it taps in his chest, because this feels so fucking real —

Real, like how Yuuji is curled up into Fushiguro’s side as his family tears their way through their small mountain of presents; real, like how Fushiguro is holding his hand as if it actually means something to him; real, like how Fushiguro is smiling over at him (slightly crooked, left side higher than the right) and says:

“This is for you.” He hands over a box wrapped in matte blue paper, small and non-descript. 

“What?” Yuuji frowns as he sets his mug to one side, “Why didn’t you tell me you got me something? I only got you something for your birthday, br— babe!”

“Doesn’t make sense for you to get me two gifts and for you to get none, Yuuji.” Fushiguro jostles the box impatiently, “Open it.”

“Fine. Don’t think you’re getting away with this again, though.” Yuuji pouts faux-grumpily as he reluctantly lets go of Fushiguro’s hand to rip open the paper box. A clay tiger figure falls out into his lap, the misshapen orange-black small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. 

“I — I know it’s not much, yours is a lot better —”

“ —  it’s perfect .” Yuuji breathes out, deja-vu washing over him as he cradles the small object in his hands and runs his thumbs over the curl of its tail, “It’s beautiful .” 

“It’s shit.” Fushiguro says, eyes firmly trained on the carpet, “I’m not as good at this as you are, Yuuji.”

“Shut up.” Yuuji has never wanted to kiss anyone this badly in his entire life, his lips longing for Fushiguro’s touch, “This is fucking perfect, Megumi. It’s the best thing anyone’s ever gotten me.” He raises the tiger to his cheek so that the two of them are staring at the other’s rose-pink face, “Don’t insult mini-me like that ever again, you hear me?”

Fushiguro rolls his eyes, a small smile playing on the corners of his lips. “You’re an idiot.”

“But I’m your idiot.” Yuuji grins back flirtatiously, heart clenching with the badly concealed truth. 

Fushiguro’s eyes flick up to his, a look lurking in the depths of his irises before he blinks, sighs, and slowly turns back towards the gifts in his lap.

Yuuji spends the rest of the morning in a mute daze, too preoccupied with running his fingers over the tiger’s grooved stripes as he loses himself in the incomprehensible Braille engraved onto Fushiguro’s black box of a heart. 

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of presents and piping hot pastries, the last dregs of the mid-winter sunset streaming through the living room windows as Nanami and Gojo shrug on their coats and announce we’ll be leaving for a bit. The same place, like usual. There’s some udon in the fridge and stock on the stove — could one of you have dinner on the table by the time we get back?

So Yuuji somehow finds himself alone in the kitchen with Fushiguro, the other pulling out pots and pans with a clatter and a bang, his sister having disappeared up the stairs with a mischievous glint in her eye and phone in hand — just need to call Hiro for a bit, and I’ll be right down to help you two out!

“Where’s your mirin?” Yuuji asks from where he’s stirring at a simmering pot of anchovy broth.

“Uh.” Fushiguro opens an overhead cupboard filled with flour, slams it shut, pulls open a cutlery drawer, rams that one closed, and shrugs unhelpfully. “I don’t know?”

“Check that one there?” Yuuji juts his chin towards a random cupboard under the sink, which reveals, lo and behold, the mirin.

“Thanks.” Yuuji smiles as Fushiguro’s knees straighten with a loud clack , “Hey. Wanna learn how to make gyoza?”

“Not scared I’ll burn the house down?” Fushiguro cocks an eyebrow, a small smile on his face. “It’s made of wood, you know.”

“Hmm. I think we’ll survive.” Yuuji laughs, electricity dancing up his forearm at the touch of Fushiguro’s fingertips against his own, “I started making these with my grandpa since I was five, so I think twenty-one year old you won’t fuck it up too badly, right?”

“Sure.” Fushiguro glares furiously at the pile of gyoza wrappers piled up on the cutting board, and Yuuji laughs openly at the sheer panic in his eyes, “What?”

“You’re such an idiot. Here.” Yuuji nudges him over with a bump of his hip, one wrapper cupped in the center of his palm, a small teaspoon in the other. “Don’t overestimate how much meat you can fit in here —”

Fushiguro snorts behind his hand. 

“No innuendos in my kitchen, Fushiguro Megumi.” Yuuji wags his spoon at Fushiguro, who bats his hand away with another amused roll of his eyes. “Try to make it a ball in the center, like this. Then, fold it in half — add some water to make it stick if you need — and fold it over, bit by bit. You see?” He grins, the crescent-shaped bundle plump and practically bursting at the sides. “Easy.”

Make them nice and round, Yuuji. He hears the memory of his grandfather’s low rumble, round, like your cheeks, you see? We feed people to make them full, right? 

“Sure.” Fushiguro glares even harder at the round of thin dough in his palm like it’s personally offended him, and places a microscopic amount of meat in its center.

“No —” Yuuji laughs, “More, see?” 

He picks up another wrapper, rounds off a spoonful of meat against the side of the metal bowl, plops it into his palm, and holds out his hand to show the other man. “Like this, Fushiguro.”

“Mmm.” Fushiguro follows suit, and hesitantly pinches the sides of the gyoza messily shut. “This okay?”

“No, Fushiguro —” Yuuji holds in an exasperated giggle at the mess of meat and dough in the other man’s hands, “Here, I’ll show you.”

He steps behind Fushiguro, one hand wrapped around the small of his back, forehead hooked over his shoulder, and delicately replaces Fushiguro’s monstrosity with his own neat pile. “Here. First you fold it, right? Then, it’s just one over another — like you’re folding bookmarks in a page.” 

He wraps his fingers around Fushiguro’s pale ones, his practiced hands deftly guiding Fushiguro’s long fingers around the dough, their fingers tangling together as he slips the halves over and under, over and under, until a perfect crescent sits in between the pair of their hands.

“See?” Yuuji grins proudly, cheek pressed against the side of Fushiguro’s neck, “Simple, right?”

He hears Fushiguro’s breath hitch, the sharp inhale almost inaudible if he weren’t pressed up right next to the delicate line of Fushiguro’s throat. Yuuji startles, a blush already rising to his face as he turns to stare back at Fushiguro’s fluttering long lashes, who turns his head, his green eyes locking intensely with Yuuji’s brown ones. 

“Yeah,” he breathes out, his tentative exhale warm on Yuuji’s cheeks, “Looks — looks nice, Itadori.”

His eyes flick down to Yuuji’s mouth before darting back up, green almost swallowed up by the black of his pupils. In Yuuji’s periphery, he thinks he sees Fushiguro’s tongue dart out to wet his lips, and his own eyes fly down, the pink of Fushiguro’s lips shining in the warmth of the kitchen lights. Fushiguro’s so damn close, his breath mingling with Yuuji’s own, the flutters of his eyelashes fanning across Yuuji’s own face, and he could, he should, lean in and kiss him, kiss him like he’s been wanting to, needing to, ever since Fushiguro handed him a blue box with a present so perfect it sends fissure lines of heartache cracking down Yuuji’s sternum.

“Itadori —” Fushiguro breathes out, voice trembling with something delicate and breakable, and Yuuji’s drawn in, an astronaut crash-landing onto the moon — 

The door bangs open, the violent crash! sending Yuuji careening backwards, fire-flushed red with his heart in his throat, someone else's phantom breaths still whispering across his lips. 

“Megumi — oh!” Tsumiki squeals, embarrassedly, “I’m so sorry if I’ve interrupted something!”

“Uh — no, um,” Yuuji stammers as he smooths down his shirt, “I — we weren’t —”

“We were just making gyoza. I’m terrible. You take over.” Fushiguro comments, deadpan as ever except for the flush on the back of his neck, and Yuuji feels like throwing up because of how damn obvious he was being as he surreptitiously attempts to wipe the rest of his sweat off of his palms.

“Hah, yeah. He kinda needed some help.” Yuuji grins and elbows Fushiguro in the side, desperately trying to emulate some of his effortless cool. “Just trying to be a good boyfriend, y’know?”

“Yeah.” Fushiguro grits out. “Just remembered I had to go send an email. You two have fun making the rest of dinner.” 

He brusquely shoves his way past Tsumiki and out of the kitchen without so much of a look back at Yuuji, his disappearance a vacuum sucking all the warmth out of the stuffy kitchen. 

Yuuji’s helpless heart sinks from his throat down to somewhere below his diaphragm as he stares at Fushiguro’s retreating form, and he wonders if there’s something he could’ve done to make him stay, wonders if Fushiguro would have kissed him back if there had been nothing instead of something between their lips, wonders what it’d feel like if there were actually some kernel of truth buried within their facsimile of Klimt's gold masterpiece. 

hey

u free to call?

me, 23:15

gimme 2s

queen b, 23:17

“Hey.”

“Are you outside?” Kugisaki frowns up at him, her good eye narrowed as she peers into the camera with judgemental confusion.

“Yeah. Fushiguro and I are sharing a room, and everyone else in the house is asleep.” Yuuji shrugs, the small movement making the frozen over iron of the swing chair creak in response. He shivers and huddles deeper into his hoodie, the metal seat digging uncomfortably into the backs of his thighs as a light smattering of snow falls gently around him.

“You’re going to freeze yourself to death like that.” Kugisaki rolls her eye, “Wear more clothes next time. Anyways, what’s up?”

“We almost kissed.” 

“What?” The image on his screen tumbles into black, a muffled fuck! sounding out in the background before her shocked face reappears back on screen, “You two dumbfucks almost did what?”

“Kiss.” Yuuji fiddles at a flaking bit of skin at the edge of his mouth ( stop that, he remembers Fushiguro mumbling quietly, the first words they’d properly exchanged that dinner, you’ll hurt yourself if you don’t stop). “You know. That thing people do with their mouths?”

“Yeah, I know what fucking kissing is, dumbshit,” Kugisaki scowls back, “How’d it happen?”

 “I dunno.” He shivers at the bite of freezing metal through his cotton sweats, “I was trying to teach him how to make gyoza, and then suddenly I look up and I’m basically doing that pottery thing from that American movie —”

“Ghost?”

“Yeah, that one. Like, I was back hugging him and shit and he, like, looked at my mouth, I think? And he was like Itadori and I was like oh shit oh shit oh shit we’re going to do this and then his sister just — she walked in on us. And then he. He just acted like nothing happened.” He shrugs, attempting to regain his usual coat of practiced nonchalance. “We haven’t really. Talked. About it.”

She lets out a groan that sounds mildly like a swear. “Seriously? What, have you two been ignoring each other or something? Just, like, read his mind or something. You’ve always been good at that.”

“Not this time, man.” he sighs, “I’ve got no idea what he’s thinking about. Zero. Zip. Nada. He’s been acting all — all normal , so I’ve been acting normal, or at least trying to act normal, but it’s not like I can sleep next to him and not think about it —”

“You’re sleeping with him?” Yuuji winces at the sudden pitch change, and fumbles for the volume buttons on the side of his cracked phone, “What the fuck, are you insane?”

 “No, like — we’re not sleeping together, not like that —” he blushes, “we’re just. Sharing a bed. And I think we cuddled? And then I punched him when I woke up in the morning because I didn’t know we were cuddling —”

“ — I’m stopping you right there, dude.” She lets out a long groan, eye turned up to the ceiling as she lets out a deep calming breath, “Let me — let me get this straight. One. You two are sharing a bed. Two. You two cuddled. Three. You back hugged him, almost kissed him , and — and what? What’s the problem here? Because it’s — come on , dude.” She rakes an impatient hand through her hair, “It’s so obvious this isn’t fucking platonic, man. Honestly, I know I promised not to tell you the shit he tells me, but you’ve been pining over him for long enough, Itadori. What the fuck is even stopping you?”

Off in the distance, a lone owl lets out a mournful hoot, the sound of its cries echoing eerily through the thickets of moonlit forest.

I had a pet owl. Fushiguro had told him that afternoon, a quiet lull after a long morning of presents, Named it Nue. Do you know the Kanji? It has 夜 and 鳥 as its radicals. 鵺. 

That’s pretty on the nose, Yuuji had laughed. Night bird. 

I was seven. He’d scowled back, Forgive me for not being the most creative pet namer. I found her bleeding from one wing, right here on this porch. Nanami told me that owls were bad omens, symbols of death, in the West. But Gojo told me that in Japan, owls, fukuro, are symbols of good fortune, because of how it’s pronounced. Fukuro and Fukurō. 梟 — owl — and 不苦労 — without hardship. 

That’s the life I want. He’d sighed, the steam of his breath mixing with the heat rising from his mug, Fukurō. For everyone I care about. 

Where’s Nue now? Yuuji asked quietly, I don’t see her anywhere.

She flew off one day. Haven’t seen her since. Fushiguro shrugged nonchalantly, eyes glazed over as he stared into the thick throngs of green forest. I used to sit out here at night and keep an ear out for her, hoping that I’d hear her again. But I think she’s living a better life out there, where she belongs.

He lets out a wistful sigh. Maybe, she’s found a fukurō of her own.

“I’m not scared he doesn’t like me back. Not really.” Yuuji mumbles, the quiet swish of midnight wind through pine needles the only accompaniment to his words, “Let’s say you’re right. Maybe — maybe he does like me back. Maybe, if we dated, we’d be great together. But how am — how am I supposed to know that? What if it turns out terribly? What if he finds out how much of an annoying piece of shit I can be, and he breaks it off? I — I don’t do shit halfway, Kugisaki.”

“I know.”

“Then — then you know that in the hypothetical case that we end up dating, and it — it ends up not working out — I don’t think I could ever be friends with him again. Not for a long time, maybe not ever . And —” he lets out a self-deprecating chuckle, “And I really, really don’t want to lose him. So it’s safe , just being his friend, because if I don’t tell him, then I can’t fuck us up, right? I can’t lose if there’s nothing to lose. Besides, what if I’m not a person who can give him the happiness he deserves, you know? If you think about it, he really would  — ” 

“Don’t you dare say he deserves better.” Kugisaki growls out viciously. “You fucking know I hate it when you shit on yourself like that. Besides,” she grins, “you’re both equally terrible people.”

“Thanks. I pour my heart out to you, and this is what I get in return.” 

“Suck it up.” She snaps back, blunt as ever. “Look. I get it, okay? Maki and I — we were great as friends. But —” a small blush rises to her face, the flint of her gaze softening to a malleable gold, “she makes me so happy. And it’s like — like, what the fuck was I even scared of? Losing her? Because I’m not letting go of this easily, that’s for goddamn sure.”

“Simp.” He smiles at the gooey expression on her usually frowning face.

“Who’s the one calling me at midnight to whine about their flaming mess of a love life?” She snipes back. “ Anyways , before you so rudely interrupted me — what I meant to say is that I’m happy now, and that’s all that matters to me. Because no one knows what the future holds, no matter how much life you’ve got under your belt. You can completely fuck your life up at fifty — but you could also make the best decision of your life at twenty-one, too. So, yeah, maybe you date him, and maybe you two break up. Maybe you’re really not his happy ending, or whatever stupid self-deprecating shit you’ve got cooked up in your brain. But here’s the catch, Itadori — you don’t live for those maybes. You live for the shit that makes you happy , here and fucking now.”

“I guess.” Yuuji mumbles into his collar. 

“ Exactly . That’s what life is , dummy. It’s just one big, giant, guess .” She shrugs. “So why not make the guesses that make the most sense now, rather than the guesses that might make the most sense later?”

She ends the call with a definitive click , too impatient to hear his answer. Her profile picture blinks up at him — a selfie of her and Maki, the older one’s face half buried in Kugisaki’s neck, her arms slung around Kugisaki’s shoulders, their identical smiles blindingly bright with the happiness specific to love.

He just manages to make it through the back door and into the laundry room as the kitchen light flickers on with the soft fftz of electricity passing through worn filaments. Yuuji hurriedly hides himself behind the door frame as Gojo comes into view, the tall man padding silently towards the stove. Without the cover of his dark glasses, Yuuji notices the mottled purple ringing his blue eyes, the one overhead light casting a gaunt shadow onto his usual handsome features. Gojo braces himself over the top of the iron stovetops, his stooped shoulders heavy with the weight of his midnight thoughts.

“Satoru?” Nanami’s voice rings out quietly through the doorway. 

“In here.” Gojo croaks back. 

Nanami plods heavily into the kitchen, hair ungelled and falling messily into his eyes, eyebrows furrowed with concern. “Hey there.” He calls out, tenderly.

“Hey.”

The clunk of Nanami’s prosthetic leg against the wooden floor rings out amidst the somber quiet as he makes his way over to his husband. He leans one hip on the counter next to the taller man and rests a hand comfortingly on the small of Gojo’s back. “Would you like me to make you some tea, dear?”

Gojo nods, quiet as a grave.

“Chamomile?”

Another nod.

“Alright then.” Nanami presses a lingering kiss to the side of Gojo’s head, and begins to pull out dried flowers and mugs with a well-practiced ease. 

Yuuji glances away, his gaze an unwanted intrusion upon the intimacy of fresh tea shared between two lovers.

The kettle whistles, the mugs clunk onto the countertop, the tea pours gently into the white ceramic.

“Careful,” Nanami blows gently at the steaming tea cupped in his hands, before reaching out to fold one of Gojo’s hands around the ear of the mug, “it’s hot. I’ve put some lavender honey in yours, to help you sleep.”

“Thank you.” 

“Of course, sweetheart.” Nanami smiles warmly. 

“Sorry for being a burden.” Gojo sips carefully at his tea and lets out a quiet contented sigh before resting his forehead on the blond’s shoulder.

“Nonsense. You’ll never be a burden to me, Satoru.” Nanami cards his scarred fingers tenderly through his husband’s messy hair, and presses a soft kiss into the soft skin behind his husband’s ear. “What was it this time? The hospital again?”

“No,” Gojo shudders, and Nanami smooths a comforting hand over the planes of his back, “it was you, this time. It was your crash, and — and I — I had to — I had to do it all over again —” his voice breaks, something wet choking off the rest of his words.

“Shh, shhh,” Nanami places their mugs back on the counter and pulls Gojo into a tight embrace, one hand cradling the back of Gojo’s head as he shakes, “I’m here. I’m standing right here, Satoru.”

Nanami presses his face into the side of Gojo’s head as he whispers quiet truths that sound like never leave and I love you into Gojo’s hair . They stand there for a forever, the one overhead kitchen bulb illuminating their universe of two, Gojo falling to pieces as the circle of his husband’s arms puts him back together.

“Love you.” Gojo whispers out.

“Love you too, Satoru.” Nanami leans back, and tips Gojo’s face up with one finger to press a chaste kiss to his husband’s mouth. “Always.”

“Promise you won’t die on me again in my dreams?” Gojo grins waterily as he draws himself up to his full height.

“Promise,” Nanami laughs quietly, “like I’d ever be able to get rid of you.” 

Gojo cradles the back of Nanami’s neck to draw him in for a deeper kiss, reverent and fragile. They break apart just to touch their foreheads together, eyes closed, their synchronized breaths all the evidence they need as proof of their aliveness.

“Bed?” Nanami whispers out.

“Yeah.” Gojo ducks in for one last kiss, a genuine smile playing on his lips. “I love you, Kento, have I told you that?”

“Yes, my love,” Nanami rolls his eyes affectionately, “you have. You head up first, I’ll clean up.”

“Fine.” Gojo pouts as he reluctantly extricates himself from his husband’s space. “Don’t take too long.”

“Mmhm. Go get some sleep now, dear.” 

As soon as Gojo disappears from the kitchen, Nanami turns, his arms crossed as he stares at Yuuji’s hiding place. “You can come out now, Itadori-san.”

Yuuji slinks out, a flush high on his cheeks. “I — I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to —”

“It’s quite alright.” Nanami turns to pour out their cold tea, the tap turning on with a flick of his wrist . “Just — please don’t tell Megumi-kun or Tsumiki-chan about this. They worry enough about us as is.”

“Sure, Nanami-san.” Yuuji fiddles awkwardly with the hem of his shirt. “You — you sure do love Gojo-san, don’t you?”

Nanami halts, soapy suds coating his hands and the mug in his grasp. 

“Sorry — I —” Yuuji shakes his head, “Sorry, that was uncalled for.”

“Yes.” Nanami answers, sure and unwavering. “Yes, I do. With all I have.” He shoots a quizzical look over his shoulder. “Why?”

“Just —” Yuuji nibbles on his lip, a midnight surge of courage overtaking his logic, “were you two friends? Before you got together?”

“In a sense.” Nanami gives the mug one last rinse, and shuts off the tap to turn fully towards Yuuji. “I wasn’t his best friend. In fact, I don’t think I’ll ever be that for him. But we had — a partnership. An understanding, wholly unique to the two of us. So, I think we were at least close friends, before we started seeing each other.” He smiles, a small one that Yuuji now recognizes is unique to the topic of his husband, “To love someone entirely is to love them wholly, after all — eros, philia, pragma, storge . Best friend, partner, husband — they’re merely arbitrary delineations that are there to help us center ourselves as we navigate this complicated, multifaceted thing we call love .”

Nanami looks at him, something calculating and sharp in his eyes. “Is that not what you feel for Megumi-kun, Itadori-san?”

“Uh — of course!” Yuuji chuckles, a flush rising to his face. “Just wanted to know if — if it was the same for you two, I guess.”

“Mmhm.” Nanami stares pointedly at Yuuji, and lets out a small, amused chuckle. “Well. It’s getting quite late, Itadori-san. I’ll see you tomorrow morning?”

“Night, Nanami-san,” Yuuji waves, “sleep well!”

As Nanami’s steps disappear into the distance, the one overhead kitchen bulb falls over Yuuji, standing all by his lonesome in the chilly kitchen air.

Eros, philia, pragma, storge.

He stares for a long while at the two cups drying by the sink, before he reaches out and plunges the world into a deep, unfathomable darkness.

Yuuji tiptoes back into his room, wincing at the quiet creak of rusty hinges as he swings the door shut behind him. As he crawls under the covers, Fushiguro shifts silently, slightly uncurling from the tight ball he’s made on the opposite side of the bed. Yuuji waits with a bated breath, unsure of whether to dread or crave Fushiguro’s touch.  

No comforting warmth falls over his chest, and he tries his best to squash down the unhappiness that rises up into his gullet as he stares sightlessly up at the white ceiling above him. He doesn’t know how long it takes for sleep to finally overtake him, his eyes fluttering shut to the feeling of cold linen stretching endlessly between him and the person responsible for the thoughts looping endlessly through his head. 

He blinks awake to streaming sun falling across his face, letting out a long groan as he drags the bedsheets up and over his head. Something pokes him in the back, and he lets out an annoyed whine in response, the dregs of poor sleep fogging up his brain.

“Itadori.” Another poke. “It’s past noon. Wake up .”

“Five more minutes.” Yuuji grumbles sleepily. “Just a lil more.”

A hand rests on his forehead, cool and comfortable to the touch. “Are you sick?”

“Just slept late. ‘m fine” Yuuji peeks out over his cocoon of blankets to the sight of Fushiguro sitting at the end of the bed, forehead wrinkled up in concern. He peers up at him, jolting at the dark lines dying the underneath of Fushiguro’s eyes. “You don’t look too hot yourself, Fushiguro.”

“Like you’re one to talk.” Fushiguro scoffs, hurriedly turning his face away to escape any further scrutiny. “I made you some tea, by the way. Don’t burn yourself.”  

Would you like me to make you some tea?

Careful, it’s hot.

Yuuji flushes and valiantly fights off the urge to pull the covers up and over his head and hide. “Thanks, Fushiguro. Hey —” he falters, too scared to rip his eyes away from liquid sloshing between his cupped hands, “about yesterday— we — we’re good, right?”

Fushiguro raises an eyebrow expressionlessly, “Why wouldn’t we be?”

“Well —” we almost kissed. I almost kissed you.

“It’s nothing, Itadori.” Fushiguro interrupts curtly as he clambers off of the bed, “You were just doing what I asked of you.”

“Right.” Yuuji clenches his fist around the blankets, his stomach knotting uncomfortably together, “Yeah. We were just acting, right?”

“Exactly.” Fushiguro hovers by the door, his fist white-knuckled around the handle. “It’s fine, Itadori. I’m fine. Besides, we’re leaving tomorrow, so you won’t have to keep helping me out anymore.” He casts a stilted smile over his shoulder, eyes directed somewhere next to Yuuji’s head. “Remember to come down for some food after you’ve washed up. I’ll be in the backyard if you need me.” 

The door shuts, and Yuuji feels decidedly not fine. What do you mean? He asks the mug cupped between his hands.

It doesn’t answer, as most liquids do. He sighs dejectedly, and takes a sip. 

“FUCK!”

“I told you it was hot!” Fushiguro shouts back exasperatedly, voice muffled through the closed door. “Idiot!”

There's your answer. The tea seems to gloat, and Yuuji glares back, sorely tempted to flush it right down the toilet in revenge for his scalded gullet.

It’s snowing. 

It’s not that Yuuji isn’t used to the feel of snow crunching beneath his feet. After all, the sight of Sendai in mid-winter is similar to what he sees outside the window — a blinding white blanketing the rooftops and the streets as far as the eye can see. But it’s not pure, not in the way winter in the Okinawan countryside is. The white blanketing Sendai’s city center fast quickly becomes slush under the pounding feet of salarymen rushing through their morning commute; scooped up and tossed to the wayside by blaring trucks as bystanders curse the blackened sludge as it melts into their boots; weathermen on the radios shrugging out a sorry, folks. Congestion on the Joban Expressway will be severe due to the unprecedented snowfall as car horns blare and drivers swear . So, Yuuji’s seen snow before — the flakes hovering in the Sendai air for a brief, delicate moment; a taste of nature’s beauty before it’s shattered to pieces and turned into a muted, melting gray. 

Oh, the weather outside is frightful, he hears as he makes his way down the stairs, but the fire is so delightful.

It’s still white outside, despite the late morning hour. No people to shatter the scene, to interrupt the fantasy. 

And since we’ve got no place to go, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

The door to Nanami and Gojo’s room is cracked open and out of it floats the tinny sounds of an English song. Yuuji, despite himself, peeks through the gap, and immediately jerks back.

The two of them sway in each other’s arms, like they did last night under the glow of the kitchen light. Gojo laughs quietly as he dips Nanami in his arms, the other glaring back half-heartedly as he mumbles, “My back isn’t as young as it used to be, Satoru.”

“Hmm. I beg to differ.” Gojo lifts him back up, the other falling back into his arms with a soft chuckle as the song continues playing, the wood floor creaking in time to its cheerful tune as the two of them continue dancing, a private performance for an audience of two. 

Oh the fire is slowly dying,

And, my dear, we're still goodbye-ing,

But as long as you'd love me so,

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

Yuuji wonders what it’d be like for time to suspend like it does in this small house in the Okinawan countryside, a picture-perfect snapshot immortalized in reality. But just as snow melts, time similarly runs out — the harshness of tomorrow invading upon the blissfulness of today.

Fushiguro’s staring off into the forest when Yuuji finally makes his way out into the backyard, eyes glazed over as he hunches further into the thick blanket cocooning his form. 

“Move over, fatass.” He hipchecks Fushiguro playfully, a plate of onigiri in one hand, mug of tea in the other. 

“Says you.” Fushiguro replies grumpily as the mound of fabric barely shifts even an inch across the swing bench, and Yuuji happily shoves himself into the freed up space with a small yay!  

With just a mop of messy black hair and a sliver of pale skin peeking out of the top of the blankes, Fushiguro looks, dare Yuuji admit it — cute. Like one of those babies with so much fat on their cheeks that it stirs up something strangely violent deep within you, a primordial urge to squish or bite into their unsuspecting softness. 

Yuuji shivers, the winter chill biting through his thin jumper, and sniffles. Idiot, he hears Kugisaki gloating, I told you to wear more clothes .

“You should’ve worn more layers.” 

“Too lazy to change.” Yuuji shudders, teeth chattering, “Besides, it’s a beautiful day! It’d be such a waste to spend it indoors.”

Fushiguro lets out a vaguely judgemental noise, which he decidedly ignores as he munches on an onigiri. The two of them sit in a relatively comfortable silence, the swing rocking gently as Yuuji pushes them backwards and forwards with his heels.

“Achoo!” He sneezes violently, the birds perching peacefully in the surrounding trees squawking angrily and flying off in response. “Sorry!” He yells after them guiltily, a bashful grin spreading across his face. “Fuck, it really does get cold up here in the mountains, doesn’t it?”

“You saw three inches of fresh snowfall and you thought it’d be, what, warm?”

“Well, no, but I usually run hot — achoo! — so it’s — snnnnk — it’s usually not a problem.” Yuuji moans as he rubs pitifully at his running nose with the end of his sleeve.

“C’mere.” The blankets open up, an exasperated Fushiguro revealed in all of his scrunched up glory. “Get in here, it’s fucking freezing.”  

“Gladly.” Yuuji dives into the warmth, his nerves tingling as warm blood rushes back into his chilled peripheries. He leans into the other man, a delighted hum vibrating out of his chest as he pulls the thick blankets tighter around his shoulders. “Thanks, Fushiguro.”

“What kind of fake boyfriend would I be if I let you freeze to death?” Fushiguro shrugs casually.

Yuuji stiffens, an unpleasant bitterness clawing its way up his throat. “Yeah. I — I can just warm up for a bit, and then I’ll head back up to grab a jacket. Not like there’s anyone out here to see us, right?”

Fushiguro glances over at him, confused. “It’s warmer like this, Itadori. Why would you need to go up?” 

“I mean —” Yuuji stammers, glancing away from Fushiguro’s quizzical gaze, “what, are the birds gonna tell on us for not acting couple-y?”

“You literally just scared them all away.”  

“Now you’re just being rude on purpose.” Yuuji pouts.

“Am not.” Fushiguro snipes cheekily back, nose delectably reddened from the cold air. 

“Are too.” Yuuji wants to kiss him. Yuuji wants to pinch Fushiguro for making him want to kiss him. 

“Am not.” Fushiguro nudges Yuuji playfully with his shoulder, his pinky finger landing atop Yuuji’s own with the movement. “Seriously, Itadori. Don’t bother. It’s too cold to move anywhere, anyways .”

“Sure! If you say so, Fushiguro!” Yuuji chokes out, the finger branding itself onto the skin of his hand, and he desperately scrounges for a topic, anything, to get the feeling out of the forefront of his mind. “Your guardians are pretty fucking gone for each other, by the way. It’s adorable.”

“Don’t tell me they were making out in the living room again, God, that was genuinely scarring the first time that happened,” Fushiguro groans, “you know, I used to wear earplugs when I slept in this house?”

“ No . Not Nanami-san. You’d better tell me more.” Yuuji laughs incredulously as he relaxes into Fushiguro’s side like they’re back on their lumpy couch, Yuuji slumped onto Fushiguro’s shoulder, all sweaty and aching from basketball practice, what’s up? Fushiguro would ask, God, you’ll never guess what Inumaki did, Yuuji would groan back.

It’s comforting to hear Fushiguro bitch about something or another, Yuuji happily munching on his lunch and offering up a few interjections whenever it’s needed — no. Not the kitchen! or even a scandalized shut up. That’s not fucking true. — as he gazes at Fushiguro’s profile, eyes tracing the other’s minute reactions as he rants about how in love they are, God, it’s fucking disgusting .

“I think it’s cute.” He hums thoughtfully.

“What, you think being in your mid-forties and still going at it like rabbits is cute?” Fushiguro wrinkles up his nose in distaste.

“Okay, obviously no , you dummy.” Yuuji laughs, “But it’s good that they’re still in love. I don’t — I don’t know how the marriage thing works, but being together for as long as they have — it’s rare for people to still be so in love, like they are.” He sighs, and leans his head against the back of the bench with a quiet thunk. “If I ever get married — and that’s a big, fucking if — I’d want that. Disgustingness and all. I think I want that, actually.”

“Oh.” Fushiguro says, his tone suddenly bereft of all its previous humor. “I — I didn’t know you were looking for a partner.”

“Well —” Yuuji scratches awkwardly at the back of his head, “aren’t you?”

“I never gave it much thought.” Fushiguro ducks his head into the tops of his knees, face hidden as he curls up into himself. “I — I don’t think I’ll ever date, even.”  

“Oh.” Yuuji feels reality plummet into the pit of his stomach, queasy and too-heavy, like a regretful late-night junk food run. And, because he’s an emotional masochist, he asks:

“Why not?”

“I just don’t think I’m made for it.” Fushiguro mumbles as he picks nervously at a hangnail, “I’m not made to be warm and fuzzy and — and couple-y . And, hypothetically, even — even if I did have someone I was interested in, I just don’t think he’d be interested in me.” He lets out a pitiful chuckle, so quiet it almost disappears into the wind, “Scratch that, I know he wouldn’t be interested in dating me. Hypothetically.” 

“That’s fucking stupid.” Yuuji spits out with a vitriol. 

“What?” Fushiguro looks over, confused.

“Who — who wouldn’t be in love with you, Fushiguro? You’re — you’re smart, and funny, and — and you obviously care for the people close to you, and — why — who wouldn’t? Just — ” he lets out a laugh, a bit pained and strained at the edges, “just, tell me who that hypothetical fucker is, and I’ll beat the sense into him myself. Anyone would be lucky to date you, Fushiguro. I —” he wrenches his usual smile back onto his face, “— I’d know that, being your fake boyfriend and all. Want me to write a recommendation letter or something? A+ boyfriend, 10 out of 10 — ”

“Itadori —” Fushiguro stares back at him, an unknowable emotion glittering in his emerald irises, “— it’s alright, you — you wouldn’t know him, anyways. I’m fine, it’s fine , just — ” 

“ — not so hypothetical, huh.” Yuuji swallows uncomfortably around the lump in his throat, pushes down the emotions already rising in his gullet as he lightly elbows Fushiguro in the side. “You have a crush on someone and you didn’t tell me?”

“It’s —” Fushiguro glances around, something like panic flashing in his eyes, “it’s none of your business, Itadori, seriously. Don’t worry about it.”

“You sure?” Yuuji feels slightly lightheaded, the warmth surrounding him suddenly cloying instead of comforting, “I’m your best — best friend, man. You can tell me anything, you know?”

Fushiguro stays silent, and Yuuji suddenly feels like crying, because Fushiguro likes someone, a someone that isn’t him.

“Oh, there you two are!” Tsumiki’s voice rings out behind them, a welcome distraction from the weirdness that’s strangling the air in between them, “ Aww , you two are so cute. Like two peas in a pod!”

“Hi, Tsumiki-san.” Yuuji wrenches his head backwards, furiously blinking the wetness out of his eyes, “What’cha doing out here?”

“Oh, I’ve just got a little surprise for you two lovebirds!” She laughs as she reaches up to hang something green on the rod, a mischievous grin on her face. “Ta da! Merry Christmas, you two!” 

Fushiguro looks up, and immediately blanches gray at the sight. “Tsumiki, what the fuck.”

“What’s that?” Yuuji squints up at the mess of twigs and leaves, oddly reminiscent of the herbs he used to pound into a powder as a traditional remedy for his grandfather every morning. 

“Nice, right?” She grins slyly, a trace of Gojo embedded in the curve of her mouth as she whips out a Polaroid camera. 

“Tsumiki, no —” Fushiguro glances over at Itadori, panic clearly written across his face, “This is embarrassing, he just got here.”

“Like you didn’t watch and laugh when Gojo did that to Hiro and me when I first brought him home.” She sticks out her tongue tauntingly, “Let’s just call this payback , sweet little brother of mine.”

“Uh.” Yuuji raises his hand questioningly. “What’s going on?”

“That, Itadori-san, is what we call mistletoe. Nanami told us that Westerners do this thing where they kiss under it during Christmas — supposed to be good luck, or something — so I thought, why not return the favor!”

Tsumiki beams happily, and Yuuji feels his heart stop. 

“Kiss?” Yuuji yelps. 

As long as you don’t kiss me, I’m fine with whatever you’re fine with. Past Megumi echoes in his ears. Don’t kiss me, don’t kiss me, don’t kiss me.

“I — we —” Yuuji stammers as he hurriedly extricates himself from the blankets, “— Megumi doesn’t — we don’t do PDA —”

“Oh, shush. This is a family tradition!” She flippantly waves her hand in the air before halting abruptly, her eyebrows furrowing as she peers worriedly at Megumi’s deadened expression, “Megumi, why do you look like a dog’s just died? I mean —” she suddenly looks apologetic, fingers twisting around the camera as she glances nervously up at the mistletoe, “— you two looked so close yesterday, and I felt so bad for interrupting, so I guess I wanted to do this to make up for it? If you two aren’t okay with it, we can just forget this happened —”

“No. It’s okay.” Fushiguro grits out, and Yuuji suddenly feels a pair of hands dragging him in by his lapels, and — 

Fushiguro’s kissing him, his lips closed tightly from where it’s pushed up against Yuuji’s own, like it’s paining Fushiguro to be doing this, kissing him. Yuuji almost pulls himself away, past-Fushiguro’s one request flashing through his mind, but Fushiguro suddenly lets out a tiny, contented sigh before relaxing into the press of flesh against flesh, his hands resting flat against Yuuji’s chest as he turns his head and their lips finally slot together, two puzzle pieces finding their home. And it feels amazing, the slow parting of Fushiguro’s mouth against his own, so he can’t help the hand that curls against the nape of Fushiguro’s neck to draw him closer, his mouth opening in response to the movement of Fushiguro’s lips, warm and inviting and everything he’s ever dreamed about.  

But there’s an uncomfortable mix of he doesn’t want this and god, I want this roiling in his chest as Fushiguro’s hands fist themselves into the fabric of Yuuji’s hoodie, and suddenly, he remembers that this isn’t what Fushiguro wants. That he isn’t the man Fushiguro wants to be kissing, wants to be dating, remembers the look of horror on Fushiguro’s face when he realized they’d have to kiss — 

— and the snap of the camera shutter sends Yuuji reeling backwards, gasping for air around the emotions clogging up his airway, the phantom warmth of their kiss still tingling on his lips as he grins tremulously and chokes out a sorry, guys! Gotta pee!

He makes it all the way to the bathroom before he slumps onto the ground ( dramatic, much? His inner Kugisaki comments unhelpfully), head buried in his knees as he tries to convince himself that this is okay, that this is fine, that this , the feeling of Fushiguro pressed up against him, is something he can forget as soon as they’re back in their shared flat in Tokyo.

That doesn’t sound fucking likely, man. He hears his subconscious comment sadly.

He leaves a wet patch in the crook of his elbows, and keeps lying to himself anyways. 

“Itadori-san?” A knock jolts him out of his pitiful reverie, his head hitting the door with a loud crack. “Are you quite alright?”

“Uh —” He hastily swipes at his nose with the hem of his shirt, wincing as his knees clack noisily as he pulls himself up into a standing position. “Yeah, yeah! Peachy-keen, Nanami-san!”

He splashes ice-cold water onto his swollen eyes, the face staring back at him a hollowed-out carcass of a long-fallen tree. 

Pull yourself together, Yuuji. He hears his grandpa say, gruff and stern and absolutely no fucks given. You look miserable. 

“Do you need some…medication?”

“He’s scared you’re shitting yourself to death!” Gojo sings out, a sharp slap and a whiny owww quickly accompanying his words.

“No, no!” Yuuji clears his throat, voice hoarse with disuse and mucus, “I’m fine, thank you! I’ll be right out!”

He reaches out for the fraying edges of his psyche and tugs the seams closed, a rush job — and a messy one, at that — but one that allows him to flush the mound of tissues down the toilet, dry his face off, and unlock the bathroom door with a smile and a:

“Sorry for occupying your toilet for so long, Nanami-san! Swear I didn’t mean to, I just — my tummy felt a little funny. That’s all!”

“You’re sure you’re fine? Do you have a fever, or any chills?” Nanami’s brows furrow together quizzically. “If it’s something you ate…”

“No, no! I’m fine, seriously, no need to worry!” Yuuji laughs, the sound of it painfully fake even to his own ears. 

Nanami frowns back at Yuuji before glancing over at his husband, who merely shrugs and pointedly raises an eyebrow in response. He tilts his head to one side and Gojo nods back with a sly grin. 

“Itadori-san.” Nanami intones gravely as he looks back at Yuuji, “Come join us for the rest of the afternoon, why don’t you?”

By the time they make it to their destination, the sun has already traveled more than halfway down the sky, yawning out a bluish-purple amidst the exhausting cold of mid-winter. 

Yuuji hangs back behind the two of them, silently slotting his feet into the tracks left by the two of them, a mindless habit he picked up when he was three and too short for the slush that coated the city streets.

“We’re here!” Gojo announces after a while, his usual cheerfulness dampened by the thick snow surrounding them. “Just give me a sec, and I’ll be right back.”

Yuuji looks up and sees a wrought iron gate stretching up above him, the name chiseled into the limestone columns flanking it rendered close to unreadable by the passage of time. But there’s nothing mistakable about the rows upon rows of grey slabs stacked almost on top of each other, or about the dead flowers withering away in front of a select few. 

Maybe they’re going to kill me. Yuuji thinks, hysterically. They’ve brought me to a graveyard, and now they’re gonna kill me for walking in on them last night. 

“Don’t worry, Itadori-san.” Nanami smiles gently at him as he pushes the gate open with a grating creeeeeak of cold unoiled hinges, “We’ll be done before you know it. Why don’t you sit over there for a while?”

Yuuji mutely sits on a bench at the bottom of the path leading up the main hill, watching confusedly as Gojo and Nanami walk off into the distance, their heads bowed towards each other in quiet conversation. Nanami plants a soft kiss onto Gojo’s cheek, Gojo smiling back warmly before he continues his trek up the winding path, Nanami standing still and staring after him before he turns, and makes his way back down towards where Yuuji sits. 

“May I?” Nanami gestures at the empty seat next to Yuuji, and he nods as he hastily swipes snow off of the metal grating. Nanami grunts as he carefully lowers himself onto the bench, settling his weight firmly into the metal before propping his prosthetic out in front of him and beginning to gingerly massage at the join between flesh and metal.

“Winter’s never a good time for Satoru.” Nanami remarks off-handedly as they watch Gojo’s tall form shrink off into the distance, a solitary speck of black amongst the white and grey, “Reminds him of too many bad things.”

Yuuji nods awkwardly as he fiddles with his fingers, the two of them watching silently as Gojo sweeps a light smattering of snow off of the stone before leaning down to relight the half-burnt incense in the pot laid before it. There’s a certain heaviness to his movements, an indelible somberness that weighs on him like a lead jacket, a miasma of complicated history surrounding the man and the dead person buried in front of him.

“What happened?” Yuuji asks, his voice muffled by the blanket of solemn silence overlying the graveyard. 

“His fiancé died. Ten Christmases ago.” Nanami flicks a flake of fresh snow off of the end of his cane. “Satoru pulled the plug himself.”

“Oh. I didn’t — I’m — uh. I’m sorry. About. About that.” 

“Nothing to be sorry about, Itadori-kun.” Nanami smiles with a gentleness that can only be obtained with the passage of time, one that makes Yuuji feel 15 again, too young for the ashes clasped in his teenaged hands, “Satoru has bad winters, and I have bad springs. Yu’s just over there,” Nanami points somewhere to their left with a long finger, “but winters aren’t for him. They’re for Suguru. So, when the air turns warm and green leaves grow back again, Satoru will sit where you and I are sitting right now, and wait as I pay my respects to someone I myself loved and lost, a long, long time ago.” 

Gojo claps his hands together and bows, his long form folding over into itself like a paper crane. 

“You must be wondering why I’m bringing this up all of a sudden.”

“Uh. Yeah. A little, I guess.” Yuuji mumbles as he traces out random patterns in the snow with his toe, “It’s not like we know each other that well, Nanami-san.”

“That is very true, Itadori-san,” Nanami chuckles, “we don’t. But I think we could, given enough time.” 

Yuuji shuffles awkwardly as the white haired man in the distance crouches down to chat quietly to the grey stone in front of him.

“I’m telling you this, Itadori-san, because while I may not know you very well, I do know Megumi-kun. He may not call me his father, and I may not call him my son, but I know him far better than Fushiguro Toji ever did, that’s for damn sure.” 

“What — what has this got to do with Megumi?”

Nanami turns to stare at him, his brown eyes behind their green lenses unflinching in their honesty as he says with the same bluntness as Fushiguro:

“I know what it looks like when he’s lying, Itadori-san. And I have a feeling that you are, too.”

Yuuji feels his blood freeze in his veins. “We —” 

“Don’t bother, Itadori-san.” Yuuji shrinks into himself, feeling like he’s five years old again with chocolate smeared all over his mouth, his grandpa looming over him as Yuuji swears that it wasn’t me, I swear! It — it must’ve been the rats!

“I’ve known for quite a while now. What a miracle, for Tsumiki-chan’s greatest wish to be fulfilled right before her wedding. What a happy coincidence. But,” Nanami gestures at his husband with his free hand, “there are some of us who don’t really believe in things like that.”

“So — so both of you know —”

“I don’t think Satoru suspects a thing, to be honest. He barely notices it when I switch his oat milk out for full fat cow’s milk, despite his claim that he hates the latter.” He smiles, the curve of his mouth a well-worn mix of exasperation and fondness, “Or maybe he does. He does like to keep things close to his chest, just to spring them on you when you least expect it. Either way, Itadori-san,” he sighs, “ I know.”

Gojo straightens up, wincing slightly at the crack that must have gone through his knees, before reaching down to tidy up the flowers left next to the burning incense.

“Have you ever lost someone close to you, Itadori-san?”

“Yeah.” He says as he thinks about this life of his, one built on the foundation of absences rather than presences, “I have.” 

“And so young, too.” Nanami’s eyebrows draw together in concern. “Who?”

“I don’t remember my parents. Ojii-san died a few years ago, back when I was still in high school.” 

“I am very, very sorry for your losses, Itadori-san.” Nanami says quietly, and somehow, Yuuji believes him like he’s never believed the innumerable people dressed in black attending the funerals he’s hosted as Nanami stares off into the distance, an indelible sadness clouding his gaze, “I truly am.”

“It’s okay.” Yuuji shrugs awkwardly, “It hurts, yeah, but — but I dunno if that’s the type — the same type of loss you and Gojo-san have, Nanami-san.”

What Yuuji feels, when he’s all alone at night and buried too deep within the spiral of his thoughts to even begin clawing his way back out, is a painful awareness of an emptiness . The same emptiness felt by the prisoners in Plato’s cave, their eyes glued to the fire-flickering shadows dancing before them, forever unable to fill in the smeared black with definite colors and lines; because what shape does the warmth of family — of home cooked food, filled chairs on Christmas Day, the view from your parent’s shoulders, the knowledge that you will always be loved — take?

It’s an emptiness , yes, but it’s not a hollowness. It isn’t a cast-iron bell that rings out a mournful tune every time the shadows shift with the seasons, its reverberations vibrating through your nerves to readjust the fields of your vision, the fall of your hand, the line of your shoulders as you gaze at where a portion of your heart is buried, deep beneath the snow of winter and the grass of spring. 

“No.” Nanami says, quietly. “I don’t think they’re quite the same, Itadori-san.”

Gojo leans forwards to rest his hand on the grey rock, his lips moving in a quiet see you next year, Suguru.

“There’s a certain beauty to being a physicist, you know. They have this — this unshakeable belief that there is no such thing as free will, or fate, or even bad luck, despite the fact that the things they study can be just as invisible and incomprehensible as the things they disdain. Because to them, there seems to be some sort of — some form of solidity in the black and white of numbers and equations, one they just can’t seem to find in the ineffable flippancies of gods and demons. So, when Satoru’s fiancé died, that was just a fact to him. A fact written into the fabric of spacetime, a tragedy determined as soon as the first atoms collided together in the Big Bang . Because to Satoru, there is no such thing as God’s plan. There is only the truth that the things that have happened, will happen, and that the things that will happen, have happened.

“Between you and me, I don’t quite subscribe to Satoru’s philosophies, all of his doctorates be damned. One may claim to be above the frivolous superstitions humanity has created for itself; that there is nothing more to life except for the few meaningless decades we’ve been randomly allotted; that death is simply an ending with nothing else beyond it. And that’s what the physicists say, the ones like Satoru who tend to abhor holiday festivities in favor of empirical truths . And yet, despite all this, every year Satoru stands in front of his ex-fiancé’s grave on the week surrounding Christmas Eve, without fail. So, it is Satoru himself who makes me question these physical theories he’s purported his entire life. Why would a man, so absolute in his faith in logic and measurable reality, talk to a consciousness that is no longer there? Maybe, despite himself, he still believes that there lies a kernel of something within each and every one of us — a something that has the power to transcend scientific laws and mathematical predictions. An absolutely unempirical idea — an illogical argument, as his colleagues like to say — but maybe, a truer idea than the ones they like to write about up in their ivory castles.”

Nanami taps his cane against the ground, a solid one-two-three ringing out through the cold air.

“Maybe,” he continues musing, half to himself, half to the boy sitting next to him, “despite what the numbers say, there really is something hidden in the invisible bonds we form with one other — you with me, me with Satoru, you with Megumi-kun. Maybe, it’s something that can transcend space and time, and possibly even death itself. Maybe, it’s something with the power to change those initial conditions set out by that universe-defining collision, something which disrupts the paths those primordial forming elements determined for us so many eons ago.”

Gojo turns around and waves wildly down at them, a wide grin on his face, and Nanami raises his fingers in response, a matching smile on his. 

“I am telling you this, Itadori-san, because I have loved, and I have lost. Satoru, too. And maybe these losses were a direct consequence of our actions, or something preordained by the particles that made up this miserable universe. But what I do know is this — that Satoru and I are infinitely lucky to have found each other after losing something we thought we would never get to experience, ever again. And not everyone experiences something as precious as what I had with Yu or what I have with Satoru even once in their lives, let alone twice. 

“I’m no physicist. I’m not a philosopher, either. I’m merely a simple retiree who enjoys baking bread and spending time with my family. And so, unlike Satoru, I do not need to justify my actions with arguments and papers. All I need is trust. A trust in myself, a trust that my life is a consequence born of my own actions, regardless of whether these actions lie in accordance with the will of God, or the logic of an academic. So, Itadori-san,” Nanami leans heavily on his cane and stands up to meet his husband, the white haired man loping languidly down the hill towards them with his arms outstretched before him, “my question for you is this. Do you intend on being carried along by the whims of atoms and quarks until you reach the destination they’ve set out for you, like Satoru thinks they do? Or are you willing to believe in my unfounded, irrational belief that you, Itadori Yuuji, like me, Nanami Kento, have the power to shape your future with your own hand, laws of the universe be damned?”

Nanami stares intensely at Yuuji, his gaze sharp and unflinching in their interrogation, his words lying heavily in the frigid air between them.

“Hey, baby.” Gojo smiles as he tucks an arm around Nanami’s waist. “Have a good talk with our future in-law over here?”

“I may have monologued a little,” Nanami says, chagrined, “but I think we had a fruitful discussion.” 

“Well. Glad I wasn’t here for your little discussion . Sounds like it must’ve been absolutely dreadful to sit through.” Gojo laughs as he presses a smattering of kisses to Nanami’s cheek.

“Get off of me. You’re freezing.” Nanami grumbles as he doesn’t move away.

“Mmhm.” Gojo tangles his pale fingers in with Nanami’s. “Let’s go home?”

“About time. I thought I’d never feel the warmth of the indoors ever again.” Nanami mutters grumpily. “Itadori-san? Would you like to stay here, or would you like to accompany us back to the house?”

“I. I think I’ll stay here for a minute, thanks.” Yuuji mumbles, Nanami’s words still echoing in his ears.

“I understand.” Nanami nods kindly, “Take all the time you need, Itadori-san.”

“The fuck did you do to the poor kid?” Gojo stage-whispers as the two walk back towards the graveyard gates, snow crunching underfoot, “What, did you break his brain with theories about the best temperature to bloom yeast in?”

“Hush, now. Unlike you, some of us can appreciate a good sourdough, Satoru.” Nanami snipes back.

The two of them disappear off into the distance, the sounds of their fading bickering still audible well after they round the bend.

Yuuji sits and stares at the gravestones stretching far off into the horizon as he thinks about the atoms that make up his body, of ionic bonds and magnetic fields, of initial conditions and butterflies with wings that could change the universe. He sits until the clear blue sky bleeds into a stunning watercolor of oranges and purples, until the dark night air muffles the sound of birdsong, until a new layer of fresh snow settles back over the grave Gojo cleaned mere hours ago. 

He gets up, snow falling from his pants as he trudges over towards the grave, hesitates, and leans down to wipe the slate grey stone clean once again.

夏

油

傑

之

墓

03/02/1989 - 24/12/2017

“Merry belated Christmas, sir. And a Happy New Year.” Yuuji bows. “I hope you’re doing well, wherever you are.”

He turns and walks back towards the house, the sun dipping below the horizon in farewell as the moon begins to say hello — like they always do, like they always will — because that’s how the universe made them, so many infinities ago.

He takes his time walking back to the house, the other two’s footsteps already invisible under the thin layer of fresh snowfall. 

It’s quiet, in the way the city never is. No sounds of honking cars, couples fighting in the apartment next door, the local drunkard puking his guts out at the bottom of his cheap flat. Just the sounds of the wind, ruffling pine needles, and his thoughts to keep him company.

Do you intend on being carried along by the whims of atoms and quarks until you reach the destination they’ve set out for you? Or are you willing to believe in my unfounded, irrational belief that you, like me, have the power to shape your future with your own hand, laws of the universe be damned?

He’s not sure. 

Because there’s some element of control you can have over yourself — when you work, when you sleep, when you shit, when you eat. There’s an element of autonomy that comes with obsessively scrolling on your phone until the birds start singing and your clock shows 6:00; an element of this is my choice, my will, that comes with the irrationality of falling into bed with people you couldn’t care less about — because it’s a choice to not care, to choose the things that hurt you, to shoot yourself in the foot before the universe has the chance to stab you in the back and leave you hanging out to dry. 

But there’s no control over you when it involves another person — no choice in how you feel, how you think, how your autonomic nervous system chooses to respond (overdrive, overdrive, overdrive, hands sweaty, heart pounding, stomach churning, butterflies, butterflies everywhere). There’s no choice in caring — no way for you to logically parse out that this, this is the one I choose. This one, because they won’t hurt me, they won’t betray me, they will make me happy, they will like me back.

So maybe it really is the universe that alters the chemicals in your brain, picks a name out of a hat and shoves them into the gyri of your frontal cortex for you to angst over for an ungodly amount of time. Because he never chose to fall head over heels for Fushiguro Megumi, never weighed the pros and cons of pining for his roommate who likes someone that isn’t him. Because the matters of the heart are fickle, chaotic things; things humanity has spent all of its existence trying to map out and make sense of — through writings, paintings, songs. Because you can’t titrate the exact mix of chemicals synthesized by your synapses at the sight of a person; can’t calculate the velocity of your heartbeats when that Certain someone enters the room — because these matters, the matters of invisible and ineffable things, lie solidly in the realm of the arts rather than the sciences.

It scares Yuuji shitless. 

In a life as chaotic as his has been, there’s never been a reason for him to give up control, to let himself go; because there’s always been a crisis on the horizon, an emotional catastrophe for him to weather through. And control — control over his finances, over his daily living, over how he presents himself to social workers to avoid being put into a home — is something that’s just as him as his pink hair and sunny smile. Something he’s not sure he can put to one side, ignore in favor of the unpredictable push and pull of his emotions combined with someone else’s.

He rounds the corner, and there, sitting on the swing chair next to his sister, is Fushiguro Megumi.

And maybe — just maybe , he can have some control over this . Over choosing to be rejected before it can happen to him, over choosing to prepare himself for hearing I’m sorry, but we can still be friends and being able to respond with a strained smile and yeah, I know! It’s okay.  

They both look up at the sound of Yuuji’s boots crunching in the snow, panic obvious in Tsumiki’s eyes, a dullness in Fushiguro’s, his green eyes boring into Yuuji’s own as he continues trudging forwards.

Or maybe this is what the universe intended all along. For him to stop in front of Fushiguro, fists clenched tightly in his pockets as he asks:

“Can we talk, Fushiguro?”

And maybe the universe planned for Fushiguro to quietly respond with a:

“Yeah. I think we should.”

Fushiguro leads him to a small clearing, a rocky outcropping that opens up into a view of the mountainside far below them, the moon and stars above them their only witnesses. The night wind blows gently through their hair as they sit side by side on a smoothed-out boulder, too small for their shoulders to not touch despite themselves.

“You wanted to talk?” Fushiguro asks.

“Yeah.” Yuuji nods. 

And he doesn’t know if it’s him who’s chosen to open his mouth, or Fate that’s pulling on the tendons in his mandible as he blurts out:

“I used to think your name was 愛, you know. Instead — instead of 惠. Love, not blessing. I heard Megumi, and I dunno why my brain just automatically filled it in for me, because — because I thought it suited you. Love. And when someone showed me your name in print, all I could think was that — that was it was a bit of a shame, y’know, like when a guy takes off their mask and you’re thrown off for a split second because the face you’d given them in your head wasn’t the face they actually have.” 

Yuuji clenches his fists, determinedly staring down at the barely visible treeline amidst the twilight dark. Because he’s suddenly realized that he’s had enough of not being able to say with words what he’s been showing with actions for the past few days, of sealing something so big away from the best friend he’s ever had. 

Because above anything else — any anxieties, any worries, any fluttering feelings churning in his chest — he’s just plain

tired.

“You’re the grumpiest, bitchiest person I know, but you’re also so — so warm , Fushiguro. A real tsundere, like the ones in those shoujo mangas.” Yuuji chuckles. “You just accepted me, without judging me. And it sounds easy to do, but so many people look at me and just — they hear orphan, they hear jock, they hear bisexual and — and they all put me in a box that I don’t even fit in without bothering to know me outside of the shit they’ve presumed me to be. But — you’ve never done that, Fushiguro. You and Kugisaki — you’re the first two who took me as I actually am, rather than how other people suppose I should be.”

“What —” Fushiguro lets out a trembling breath, “what are you trying to say, Itadori?”

“Something — something stupid, honestly.” Yuuji smiles wanly, “But if I don’t say this now — I don’t know when I ever will.” 

He sucks in a breath, steeling himself, because Nanami’s right — good things don’t happen often, and he’s never been good at science and philosophy, at the things that peel apart the universe to peer into its inner workings; but he’s good at action, at choosing, at deciding that this is what he wants, universe and consequences be damned — 

“You’ve made me a better person, Fushiguro. You — I don’t think you even know this, but — I was a mess , before college. I just felt — I felt so angry, and sad, and — so lost. It was like I’d suddenly become the captain of a massive oil tanker, and my grandpa had just gone sayonara. Have fun figuring this life thing out, and dove off of the side. And I’ve gone to therapy, I’ve gotten better, but you — you’ve always been my reference point, you know? Before I do something, I find myself asking — what would Fushiguro do? What would Fushiguro say, if he saw me? Because you’re good. You’re a good, kind man, who,” he chuckles, “who can sometimes be a stubborn, grumpy asshole, but you always — you always do the right thing for the people who matter. So, yeah. I knew you were a good person, as soon as I met you. That’s why I filled in the blanks and thought — love. Yeah, that suits him. ”

The stars sparkle way above the two of them, a sea of silver against dark navy. Look, he remembers an adult, probably his dad, possibly his mother, whispering into his ear, you see that, over there? That’s Kengyu — the Cow Herder — and that’s Orihime next to him— the Weaving Princess. She was a princess of Heaven, and when they fell in love, she came down to live with him, here on Earth, and they were so, so happy. But Orihime’s father, the Sky King, got so furious once he found out she’d stopped weaving her beautiful tapestries for love that he separated them, and forced them to live far, far away from one another. And she cried, because they were torn apart, him still on Earth and her all the way up in Heaven. And she wept so sadly and so beautifully the magpies heard her pleas and took pity upon her boundless heartbreak. And so, on every seventh day of every seventh month, those kind magpies fly up into the sky to make a bridge of stars out of their wings, just so Orihime can run back down to Earth to tell Kengyu she loves him, for as long as the stars shine in the eternal skies.

It’s a bit sad, isn’t it, the person had smiled down at him, but sad things can be so beautiful, right, Yuuji-kun?  

The stars sparkle way up above them in the navy blue sky, and Yuuji’s so sick of being miserable, of accepting half-measures in favor of a life fully-lived, because happy things can be beautiful, too. And he doesn’t want to be like those figures in the fables, unable to fight back against powers bigger than themselves, or merely a human-shaped collection of atoms forever dictated by the decree of numbers, because — 

— because Fushiguro’s next to him, eyes trained on Yuuji’s face, nose flushed red from the biting cold, his warmth pressed up against Yuuji’s side — 

— and Yuuji wants this to mean something more than a lie, wants it more than he’s ever wanted anything in his entire life — 

“And eventually I realized that I thought it’d suit you to be named 愛 instead of 惠, because I love you, Megumi. I’ve loved you for a long, long time. And it’s so fucking stupid of me to be telling you this because — because I think I’m ruining the best fucking thing I’ve ever had, and I’m so, so sorry for ruining your holiday, but — but I needed you to know this. I want you to know this.”

He finally wrenches his head to the side to look over at Megumi, his green eyes spread wide open, mouth hanging slightly agape, still the prettiest thing he’s ever seen, will ever see.

“I love you, Megumi.” Yuuji says with all of the conviction he can muster up from the depths of his twenty-one year young marrow, hands trembling with the cold and his nerves, “愛してる, 恵.”

“ Fuck .” He rubs a hand through his hair, the words falling out of his mouth like they’re something simple to feel, something easy to voice, something that doesn’t scare the absolute shit out of him every time he thinks it, “I love you.” 

He lets out a small laugh, the weightless choice of letting go freely pouring out between the grooves of his ribs. He casts his gaze up into the night sky, eyes searching for where he knows Orihime and Kengyu reside, watching them silently from the heavens above. 

“I haven't been acting the past few days. I wanted to do that, all of that, so, so bad. And I — I know you were acting. I know you are.” He shuts his eyes, a wet heat beginning to prickle behind the dark of his eyelids as he lets out a self-deprecating chuckle, “Perfect at everything, as always. If veterinary school doesn’t work out, you should look into theater —”

“You thought — you thought I was acting?” Megumi lets out a choked noise, “ Acting, Yuuji?”

“Well — yeah . You like someone else, right? Some — some asshole who doesn’t like you back, for some stupid, weird reason.” Yuuji mumbles, pulse hammering so hard he can see the lines of his vessels expanding and contracting behind his closed eyelids, “I’m me , Megumi. And you’re — you’re you . Why the hell would you love me back?”

“You must be the biggest fucking idiot that’s ever fucking existed ,” Megumi breathes out incredulously, “because that’s exactly why I love you, Itadori Yuuji.” 

Yuuji barely has time to open his eyes in shock before a pair of lips crash onto his, Megumi’s cold hands cradling both his cheeks like he’s something delicate or fragile —like he’s something to be cherished. 

It’s not like the kiss from this afternoon — a bit questioning, hesitant and explorative. Megumi’s now pressed in so close it almost hurts , Yuuji almost freezing under the frantic press of Megumi’s lips against his before he relaxes and surges forwards in response. Their mouths clash, desperate and feverish in their movement as Yuuji grasps at the small of Megumi’s back to pull him impossibly closer, one hard carding through the mess of his black hair as he falls even further into the intoxicating feeling of Fushiguro Megumi. 

It’s not like kissing Yuko, or Junpei, or any of the many other people he’s brought home. When Megumi gasps against him, moves one hand to the back of his neck, licks at the join between his lips, that’s all there is in the world — no thoughts, no worries, no interruptions — just Itadori Yuuji and Fushiguro Megumi, two boys in love.

It’s Megumi that draws back to rest his forehead on Yuuji’s own as they pant, the steam of their breaths melding together in the inch of space left between them.

“Hi.” Megumi smiles, slightly crooked, left side higher than the right. 

“Hey.” Yuuji replies, breathless and kissed-out. “You love me?”

Megumi punches him in the arm, the exasperated roll of his eyes betrayed by the expression on his face, “You’re an idiot .”

“Your idiot.” Yuuji laughs as he leans in and presses a lingering kiss to Megumi’s smile, more teeth than lips, “I’m your idiot, Megumi.”

“I — I don’t have a speech.” Megumi breathes out as he twines their hands together, “All I can tell you is that I’ve loved you for a long, long time, now. You think I’m good?” He laughs incredulously, “Have you seen yourself? You — you’re the one who volunteers for five hundred and one charities. You’re the one who stays back to help Todo practice his defense even if you only got two hours of sleep that night. You give me gifts I never knew I wanted, you say yes to anything I want to do, even if it hurts you — you give me so much of yourself, and all you ask for in return is for me to dry your hair, or give you a place to rest. You’re the only I know who keeps — keeps fucking apologizing for even existing, when the world doesn’t know how lucky it is to have you in it.”

He strokes a thumb across Yuuji’s cheek, his touch leaving gold trails in its wake. 

“How couldn’t I be in love with you, Itadori Yuuji?”

Yuuji lets out a little sniff before leaning forwards to rest his forehead in the crook of Megumi’s neck, Megumi winding his arms around Yuuji’s waist to hold him tight as Yuuji trembles, the stress and panic of the past three days rushing out of him in one heady go. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” Yuuji sobs, “I just — I thought I’d never get this, and I’m so scared, Megumi, I don’t know what to do — how am I supposed to make you happy? How do I make this last? Because, what if — what if this doesn’t work out? What if I fuck up, like I always do, and you end up hating me, or leaving, or —”

“Hey.” Megumi presses a small kiss to the side of Yuuji’s forehead, “I’m never, ever leaving you, you hear me? I — I’ve wanted you for so long, Yuuji. I’ve never stopped wanting you, and I never will. So what if we fuck up? Then we fix it, and we keep going. I love you, and you love me, and that’s all that matters.”

Megumi leans back and wipes gently at the dampness on Yuuji’s cheeks, stoic and gentle. “When I imagined this, I didn’t think you’d be crying all over me, to be honest.”

“Ta da.” Yuuji chuckles wetly. “I swear I’m fine, I was just — it’s just been a stressful few days. Sorry.”

“You need to stop saying you’re fine when it’s obvious that you’re not. If you need to cry, just cry. I won’t judge. I’m sorry.”

“No, it wasn’t your fault. It was mostly just me and my dumb, overthinking brain. Besides, I — I really liked meeting your guardians, honestly. Do you think Nanami-san could adopt me?”

“He’s already adopted me.” Megumi scrunches up his nose in disgust. “Don’t make this weird, Yuuji.” 

And it’s so blunt, so Megumi , that all Yuuji can do is laugh, laugh until he’s almost hunched over with the force of it, Megumi bright eyed and laughing alongside him. 

“That’s more like it.” Megumi strokes the underside of Yuuji’s jaw, tender and loving, “I don’t like making you cry. I really am sorry for stressing you out.”

“It’s okay.” Yuuji lets out a breath and shoots Megumi a watery smile in response, “Seriously. I just got super in my head about — about what everything between us meant, and I was sad, and guilty, and jealous, because I thought I was, like, doing the wrong thing, or going too overboard — it was all me. Nothing to do with you.”

“But I did those things, Yuuji.” Megumi sighs, “ I was the one who pushed you too far — and — I wasn’t exactly happy, either, the past few days. I thought you were just being nice to me, which made me so, so mad, because I wanted it to be real —”

“ God , me too —”

“— so I’m sorry if I was being too much, or pushing you out of your comfort zone, because I wasn’t acting, Yuuji. I never was. I just wanted everything, if it was you who was giving it to me, and I guess I just — I went too far.”

“We’re so fucking stupid.” Yuuji laughs. “I wanted — I want everything with you too, Megumi. Everything.”

“Tsumiki already told me that. Gojo too, once he got back. I — I was going to confess tonight, and apologize to you for bringing you here. But I guess you did it first —”

Yuuji cuts him off with a kiss, his heart fluttering like a butterfly’s wings. 

“I love you.” He breathes out, giddy with happiness, “I love you so goddamn much, Megumi.”

“I love you, too.” Megumi laughs, “Christ, how many times are we going to say that?”

“Too many. Not enough.” Another kiss, another laugh. “I don’t know. I don’t care.”

Megumi laughs, the sound of it ringing out like a church bell over the treetops. “Okay. Sure, Yuuji.”

“Seeing as us not talking got us into this mess, I just wanted to know —” Yuuji looks down at where their fingers are wound tightly around one other, “— I know you aren’t a dating person, so — what are we, Megumi?”

“Whatever you want this to be.” Megumi says quietly. “I’ll take anything you give me. You know that.”

Yuuji sighs, and runs his free hand through his hair. “I don’t want to fuck us up. But — I don’t want to dance around this, or be weird around you — and I don’t want to just let this thing be, you know? Because you love me, and I love you, so we should do something about it, right? Grab the bull by its horns? So, I — I don’t know, Megumi.” He grips tighter onto Megumi’s hand, suddenly scared all over again. “I don’t fucking know .”

“We don’t need to do anything, Yuuji.” Megumi says gently as he runs a thumb over the back of Yuuji’s knuckles. “This thing — it’s just between the two of us, right? So if we want to take this slow, we take it slow. We’re already living together, so we might have skipped a few steps, but — I don’t know what I’m doing, either. You’re — you’re the first person I’ve loved like this, Yuuji.”

His fingers tighten, the join of their hands akin to a  drowning man’s clutch on a floating raft. “I’m scared, too. I’m just as lost as you are, Yuuji.”

Because love isn’t static. It isn’t something you can draw out onto a map, go left, go right, x marks the spot. It’s something ever-changing, evolving and transforming as you venture into its depths; Daedalus’s labyrinth, except no thread in the world can ever spool out the way into its center. That’s why there’s no theory, no equation to describe it — because math and science are binary things, things fundamentally unsuited for the description of changing things — 0 or 1, yes or no. 

But there are an infinite amount of ways to say I love you outside of the rigidity of numbers  — a dance, a gift; a peeled orange, a cup of tea. So maybe, some things can be predicted by the universe — whether or not you’re born, what personality you get, who your parents are. But there are other parts that are up to you to choose — how to love, how to grow, where to go, when to start.

Love, it seems, is the most unknowable thing there is.

“How about we start at the beginning?” Yuuji smiles as he holds out his hand, “Hi there. I’m Itadori Yuuji. Will you be my boyfriend?”

Megumi laughs back incredulously, and slots his hand into Yuuji’s outstretched one. “Hello. My name is Fushiguro Megumi. Yes, I’ll be your boyfriend, Itadori Yuuji.”  

Gojo laughs at them once they break the news to Megumi’s family. 

“I fucking told you they were acting!” he gloats as he ruffles Yuuji’s hair, “God, you looked absolutely miserable this afternoon! And this idiot,” he jams a thumb in Megumi’s direction, “tells his sister he fucked up! After kissing his supposed boyfriend!”

“Satoru.” Nanami sighs, a small smile on his face as he watches his husband stick out his tongue in Megumi’s direction, “Gloating isn’t a good look on you.”

“Oh, I’m so happy it worked out for you two.” Tsumiki sighs, slumped over with genuine relief. “I thought I’d really fucked up. I’m so sorry, gosh, don’t lie like that again, Megumi!”

“Sorry.” Megumi deadpans.

“Sorry!” Yuuji beams.

“I’m very happy it worked out.” Nanami smiles at them as he tugs his husband away from Yuuji’s thoroughly messed up hair, “But that was an extremely stupid way to go about it, I have to say.”

“Can’t beat the time you asked me out by —”

“Dinner’s ready, let’s go eat.” Nanami drags an indignant Gojo out of the room as he hisses, “Breathe a word of that to the children, and you’re sleeping on the couch.”

Tsumiki hugs them both, a genuine weight lifted from her shoulders. “I wouldn’t have forgiven myself if you two turned out badly, I really wouldn’t have. Don’t scare me like that, Jesus! The pair of you almost gave me a heart attack, you running off and you ranting to me for over an hour —”

“Okay, that’s enough.” Megumi extricates himself from his sister’s arms, a blush high on his cheeks. “Yuuji doesn’t need to know about that.”

“Oh no I do. ” Yuuji grins mischievously, “What did he say, exactly?”

And they all laugh as Megumi drags him into the dining room, their first meal in this house free of lies and deceit — one where Megumi leans into his side because he can, where Yuuji winds his ankle around Megumi’s because he can, where Megumi places food on his plate because he can — 

“Do you two need condoms, then?” Gojo frowns as he wags a chopstick accusatorily at them, “Because this is a very liberal household, and I do have some spares lying around, but I’d really rather not overhear you two going at it —”

“Satoru.” Nanami doesn’t even deign to look over at him as he stuffs a piece of mackerel into Gojo’s open mouth. “Please, shut up.”

Yuuji laughs openly, the entire table following suit as he looks over at Megumi — someone who he loves, and who loves him back in turn — and squeezes his hand under the table.

Megumi looks back, a smile on his face, and squeezes back.

Love is a terrifying, overwhelming thing. But when someone ducks in underneath the hulking weight of it, hefts half of the burden onto their shoulders, and tells you let’s do this together, my dear — 

It can be a blessing, too.

Chapter Text

“You two are so stupid.” Kugisaki sips at Maki’s milkshake as she jabs a finger at the two of them. “So, so stupid. Do you know how long I had to deal with you two? First, he —” a jab at Megumi, “— starts whining to me about how hot Itadori is , and then you —” a jab at Yuuji, “— start pining like your life depends on it.”

“Horrible.” Maki deadpans. “I expected better from you, Fushiguro. We’re cousins.”

“And!” Kugisaki slams the table, Maki expertly swiping their drinks off of the table surface to prevent them from spilling over, “You wanted to bring me, a lesbian, as your fake date? Are you stupid?”

“Yes.” Megumi says, rolling his eyes. “I got the message.”

“No, I don’t think you did! You and I are about as straight as cooked pasta, how the fuck would that have worked?”

“You’re his only friend that isn’t his cousin or his boyfriend, babe.” Maki takes a bite of Nobara’s pasta. “Oooh, I like that.”

“Good, right?” Kugisaki smiles, suddenly pure goo, “Just switch with me if you like it more.”

“It’s okay. Take my milkshake if you want, though.” 

“Thanks, babe.” Nobara smiles, before she turns back to continue her vicious tirade, “So, where was I? Oh, yeah — cooked fucking pasta, Fushiguro.”

“We’re sorry!” Yuuji whines, bright red with embarrassment, “Please don’t be mad at us for being dumbasses, please?”

“No.” Kugisaki glares back. “You two owe me so much money for emotional and psychological damages.”

“I regret being friends with you.” Megumi groans.

“Five thousand yen. Minimum.”

“I’m broke!” Yuuji yells, horrified, “I don’t have that kind of money!”

“Ten thousand.”

“Kugisaki!”

Megumi squeezes Yuuji’s hand under the table, and shakes his head with a poorly hidden fondness. “Seventy five hundred.”

“Eight thousand.”

Yuuji can’t help laughing as Megumi and Kugisaki begin bartering like two old women at the market, incandescently happy at the feeling of his boyfriend’s hand in his, just as warm as it was three months ago on that fateful December night.

My blessing, he thinks. My love.