Work Text:
Megumi has had worse days.
The “worse day of Megumi’s life” trophy still is firmly held by the day he fucked up in competition and cracked his head open on the ice, only to wake up in the hospital next to his sister who’d been involved in some equally disastrous accident across town. That was definitely the day ‘Life’ was in a “fuck the Fushiguro family in particular” mood.
Realistically, there’s probably about four other days he could firmly place between first place and today. This day still sucks though.
His gym bag slides off his shoulder as he pushes the door open to his apartment complex. He awkwardly catches it with his elbow, pain flaring out from his shoulder as he struggles to yank it back up. He hisses as the strap naturally finds its way to a particularly nasty bruise on his arm. His shoes slosh against the tile floor, his eyes drifting, guilty, to the unmanned cleaning cart by the desk.
His foot slips slightly. He catches himself but the pain shooting up from his very tired ankles makes him wonder if it was worth it. It doesn’t feel worth it. All he wants to do is collapse on the floor then and there. The floor cleaner can clean him too, right? Soap is soap after all.
His mind drifts to the awful locker rooms at the facility, the vinegar smell of body odor permanently stained in the air by the residential hockey team (cause figure skaters don’t have body odor, it’s a fact). There is definitely a right and wrong kind of soap.
He stumbles a little as tile suddenly switches to carpet as he nears the elevator. A hand catches his arm.
“Woah, you okay?”
Megumi turns his head. He knows the face - his pink haired… neighbor? They live in the same building but not quite the same floor so… yeah no, too complicated for his exhaustion riddles brain so neighbor will have to do.
“Yeah, thanks,” Megumi replies, pulling his arm away from the neighbor. The neighbor nods his head and then steps forward to hit the button, calling the elevator.
They stand next to each other, waiting for the elevator. Megumi glances sideways at him. It's hard not to. Pink hair demands a certain amount of attention. He is attractive despite the weird scars under his eyes. So yeah, there’s lots of reasons for Megumi to look at his neighbor and therefore, lots of perfectly sound reasons for Megumi to remember a face. As far as he can remember though, this is the first time they’ve spoken.
The elevator door pings loudly, the doors opening with a clunk and a woosh. Megumi hesitates for a second, the strange neighbor takes it as his queue to enter first. He waddles in after, conscious of his bags.
“Which floor?” the neighbor asks.
“Thirteen,” Megumi replies, watching the neighbor press 10 - must be his floor - then 13 and then press the button for the door to close (Thank fuck). The doors close with a woosh and a clunk. The elevator jostles them a little as it drops and then starts to rise. Megumi leans against the wall, exhaling loudly.
“Did you need help getting those bags to your apartment?” the neighbor asks. He’s leaning against the opposite wall, hands tucked into his sweats.
He’s weak, so he does contemplate burdening the neighbor with his bags but then his politeness gets the better of him. “No,” Megumi replies. “Thank you though.”
The neighbor just smiles slightly and nods. He tips his head back, looking up at the numbers as the climb. Megumi shifts his weight a little, the strap avidly reminding him of the bruise on his shoulder which reminds him of all the other bruises littering his back. He bites back a hiss. God he hates jumps. Twisting his mouth, he looks at the neighbor once more. Maybe a little help wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world?
His eyes slip to the level counter. 4, 5, 6… nah he can get it. It’s just a few more floors and then a short jaunt down the hall. Then he can face plants on the floor in the comfort of his own apartment and no one will judge if he just stays there for the rest of the day. He’s made it this far.
The elevator suddenly jerks. Megumi is blinded by pain as multiple bruises and sore joints are jolted at once. He barely hears the screeching of the cables. The elevator stops moving with a sudden thunk. His stomach sinks. He watches the neighbor look at the ceiling, concerned, and then reach to press at the buttons on the wall. Nothing happens.
“Try the help button,” Megumi says. The neighbor’s finger immediately moves, pressing the red “HELP” button right above the floor button. Megumi’s brows furrow. As the neighbor presses, the metal around the button suddenly pushes in too. When he retracts his finger, the metal comes with, the whole thing clumsily tumbling free to hang pathetically around the buttons.
His shoulders sag, bags sliding free to thump against the floor. Megumi’s eyes slip shut, his head tipping back in prayer. Please, don’t let this be another ‘Fuck the Fushiguro family in particular’ kind of day.
“Do you have cell service?” the stranger asks.
“Fuck,” Megumi groans.
“Okay, I texted someone to call the management,” Megumi says, locking his phone.
“Who’d you text?” the neighbor asks. He’s already set himself up comfortably on the elevator floor, tilting his head as he looks up at Megumi.
“My coach,” Megumi replies, tucking his phone away. Gojo isn’t good for a whole lot but it’s not like he has many students, so he shouldn’t willingly cast one aside to a tragic fate of death by elevator. There’s also the whole “sort of adoptive parent thing” but Megumi puts more faith in Gojo’s ego than his heart.
“Coach?” the stranger asks.
“For figure skating,” Megumi replies.
“Ah! That’s cool. Are you pro?”
“More or less.” Megumi, wincing, sits down on the elevator floor too, stretching out his legs. “What do you do?”
“I play hockey!” the neighbor says proudly. “I’m a left winger for the Tokyo Curses.”
Megumi’s brows furrow. That’s the team he (regretfully) has to share locker space with since they practice in the same facility. He stares intently at the neighbor. He’s seen posters of the team, he knows he has. There’s a big one stretched around rink three where they usually loiter. It’s got the list of players at the bottom underneath that tacky fucking logo. Mentally he walks down the lines of pictures. There’s Yuuta, Hakari, Noritoshi… then Number 20 -
“Itadori, right?” Megumi asks.
Itadori smiles - oh, he has a really nice smile - nodding his head. “Are you a fan?”
“If the locker room smell is any indication of your playing, then it’s probably better I’m not,” Megumi grumbles, eye twitching. Itadori just laughs him off.
“What’s your name?”
“Fushiguro,” Megumi replies.
“Nice to meet you,” Itadori says. “You wouldn’t happen to have any cards or anything do you?”
“ This is Gojo, leave a message -”
“Oh this fucking asshole,” Megumi curses, jabbing his thumb onto the screen.
“He didn’t pick up?” Itadori questions, wilting a little.
He sneers at the 10% battery image. Fuck it, if he’s going to die in the stupid elevator, its not going to be without telling Gojo how he really feels. He chews on his bottom lip as he types out an impromptu but detailed vision of what he’s going to do as a ghost to make sure Gojo ends up dead.
“Can we try my coach?” Itadori asks. He flinches a little when Megumi looks up at him. It cools Megumi’s temper instantly.
“Yeah, we can, what's his number?”
Itadori turns his phone towards him, showing off the id. Megumi squints a little, typing in the number. He presses the call button, holding it out in front of his face. It rings for a minute, then two, his stomach sinking.
“ This is Geto Suguru, please leave a message -”
Megumi can feel his eye twitching. These fucking useless adults with no sense of responsibility to answer their goddamn -
“Wanna try 119?” Itadori comments.
Megumi blinks at him. Had they not tried that? Well shit….
“Yeah,” he says slowly, typing out the numbers on his phone. They should have done that an hour ago. His phone rings once, twice, then dies. Megumi’s face pinches, tapping on the screen. He hits the button on the side. The screen resolutely stays black. He inhales shakily, rage boiling.
Itadori clicks his tongue. “Screaming for help might work.”
Megumi frowns at him. Itadori just laughs.
Itadori has nice thighs. They’re muscular but a little squishy and fit nicely around Megumi’s head. He holds onto Itadori’s calves, gripping the jeans. They wobble slightly. Itadori’s belt buckle yanks on a few pieces of hair, Megumi hisses.
“Can you hurry up?” Megumi grumbles.
“Hold on,” Itadori replies. He shifts again, Megumi’s body screams in protest as he does his best to keep him steady. He hears the metal latch of the ceiling panel lift up, metal sliding against each other. “Ah! There -”
Metal scraps and groans loudly. Itadori curses, his legs squeezing Megumi’s head. Something about the world wobbles - or does it sink? It definitely sinks. He curses too, both of them wobbling precariously for a moment. He shoves a leg out, trying to balance them, pain flaring. It dawns on him then that he absolutely does not have a will. Who gets his shit? The Zenins? Fuck.
Thankfully the sinking stops just as quickly as it started. Megumi holds his breath for a moment. They’re still standing upright, the groaning has stopped. In freefall, you’re supposed to float right? Megumi wonders to himself, looking around awkwardly. It doesn’t feel like they’re falling so maybe they are actually okay.
“Let’s just stay put,” Itadori says.
“I’m cool with that,” Megumi replies.
Itadori’s hands snake under his thighs, gripping Megumi’s shoulders. Megumi feels the pressure of him lifting himself off - oh no, the thighs, he mourns - but it's only for a moment before Itadori is standing next to him. He’s fixing his clothes a bit. They both quiet for a pregnant pause.
“Wanna tell ghost stories?” Itadori asks.
Megumi snorts. “Yeah sure why not.”
The first indication that help has arrived is when the elevator music switches from calm, nondescript noises to a song Megumi knows by heart. He spent hours upon hours, weeks upon weeks, practicing with ‘Moonlight Sonata’. He knows every beat, every swell, every decrescendo. He also remembers the exact point his ankle gave and pain filled his senses as he hit the ice.
Megumi absolutely will not listen to it again.
“That mothering fucking useless excuse for an adult,” Megumi curses, taking aim before throwing his sharp, sharp skate at the speaker again. It clatters loudly against the metal, leaving scars behind before plummeting to the floor. It lands on the blade, staying upright. Megumi yanks it free from the carpet.
“I thought elevator music was supposed to be uplifting?” Itadori asks, watching bemused.
Megumi glares at him until he raises his hands up, quietly laughing. Megumi rolls his eyes and returns to his attempt to destroy the elevator speaker.
“Did you practice a shitty routine to this one or something?” Itadori asks.
“No,” Megumi hisses, taking aim. “Well yes, but that’s not why he’s torturing me with it now.”
“Oh,” Itadori comments. He says it politely but with a leading edge, baiting Megumi to tell him more. Megumi throws the skate again, this time the skate dangles lazily from where it's caught in the speaker mesh, the music twinkling out from around it. Megumi sighs heavily.
“I got injured,” Megumi explains. “Fell and hit my head hard during this competition. He keeps playing this for desensitization or whatever and its fucking annoying. I’m doing fucking couples trials to this shit too.” He jumps up, trying to snatch his skate back but he misses the leather barely.
“Couples trials?” Itadori asks.
Megumi grits his teeth. “Recovery fucked me over cause I missed all the pre-qualifiers so now I can’t qualify for the year as a solo competitor. So Gojo’s been dragging me through these couple skater trials to see if we can find a match so I can keep my pro status.”
“Is it harder? Couples skating?” Itadori asks.
“Yes and no,” Megumi replies, getting ready to jump again. He can already feel his heart rate starting to spike, the song moving closer and closer. This is where he sets up for the jump. “All your movements and jumps are basically the same. Lifts are where things get messy. No one wants to get dropped at 30 mph.”
Hands hook under his arms suddenly, fingers squeezing mindfully into his chest. He’s lifted up, closer to the skate. In the mirrored elevator walls, he can see the distorted image of Itadori, lifting him up. Like he weighs nothing. His stomach does a funny little flutter. He yanks the skate out of the speaker, slicing something in the process that finally shuts the music off. Itadori gently sets him back down. Megumi’s automatic processes kick in, keeping him standing.
“Yeah, I get that,” Itadori says, letting go and stepping back. “Plus no one wants to get sliced either.”
“Yeah,” Megumi comments absently, his brain booting back online. He turns around, eyes naturally drawn to the scars.
“Oh, those aren’t from skates,” Itadori says, laughing as he waves a hand in front of his face. “Those are from a cult.”
Megumi blinks at him owlishly. “I’m sorry wha- ack!”
He’s cut off by his own surprise as the elevator jolts, lifting a little before slowly sinking downward.
“Oh hey! Finally!” Itadori cheers.
“Thank god,” Megumi groans.
It’s not long before they reach the ground floor again, the elevator lurching as it stops. The elevator chimes loudly before the doors open with a woosh and a thunk, revealing a smiling Gojo and some other dude that Megumi assumes is either Itadori’s coach or another disaster fling of Gojo’s.
“Megumi-chan!!! You’re alive!” Gojo says.
Megumi doesn’t hesitate to throw the skate at him, narrowly missing slicing his instructor. He steps out of the elevator, pointing as he says, “You are the absolute worst.”
“Oh good, I was worried your students were just feeding that horrific ego of yours,” the other man replies.
“That’s just how this one expresses his love and adoration.” Gojo reaches for Megumi to pat his head but Megumi just swats his hand away.
“Plus, we weren’t sure what you were up to,” Gojo comments more quietly, glancing between Megumi and Itadori.
“Oh, we just met,” Itadori comments.
“And?” Gojo replies.
“Nope, not doing this,” Megumi says, going for the stairwell. He steps inside, slamming the door shut on Gojo’s cackling. He sucks in a deep breath and then with as much determination as he can muster, he bolts up the stairs.
He winces as sunlight and a stiff neck finally bring him back to the world of the living. He didn’t even make it all the way to his bed, passing out in a sprawl over his couch. Groaning, he pushes himself up, rubbing at his neck. He’s off today so he’s at least got time to be a lazy piece of shit and figure out how to deal with these sore muscles. Ice bath sounds fantastic but lugging bags of ice up the stairs does not.
There’s a knock at his door.
Grumbling, he forces himself to his feet and towards the door. He yanks it open carelessly. He’s not sure why he expected Gojo, but he did, and is more than a little surprised to see Itadori on the other side. Itadori takes one look at him and smiles, amused.
“I brought your stuff up.” He says, holding up the two bags he abandoned last night. “Gojo gave me your apartment number.”
“Fucker.” Megumi grumbles. He reaches for the bags, lazily hauling them into the apartment. “Thank you for bringing them up though.”
“No problem!” Itadori says. He doesn’t turn to leave however.
They stand there in the doorway. Itadori shifts awkwardly from on foot to the other. A hand comes up to rub at the back of his neck. Dread fills Megumi’s stomach.
“What?” he demands.
“So… about that couples skating thing you mentioned?” Itadori says. “I guess Geto agreed to let Gojo borrow me for a trial…”
“But you’re a hockey player?” Megumi says.
Itadori shrugs. “Yeah, but how hard can it be?”
Megumi’s face falls into disbelief, his body aching. While yes, Itadori would be better than a random person off the street because he at least knows how to skate and not immediately eat ice, the fact that he thinks its going to be easy is shaving years off Megumi's life. So is Gojo, because what kind of fucking plan is this?
However… he could probably squirrel his way into getting Itadori in a mesh body shirt for the competition.
“I can work with this.” He mumbles to himself, ignoring Itadori’s confused look.