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Megumi hates missing class.
Gojo-sensei teaches non-jujutsu lessons the exact same way he does jujutsu ones— ruthlessly quick and with high expectations— and he generally expects his students to figure things out amongst themselves if someone isn’t getting it. And since, of the first years, Megumi is the one who pays the most attention to their homeroom lessons, he has found himself stuck in the role of impromptu tutor. He lets Itadori and Kugisaki borrow his notes when they miss, and if Gojo’s explanation of something is confusing, he does his best to phrase it some other way.
When he’s the one missing, things tend to go downhill.
Their last mission had a small hitch in the middle: a cursed spirit that wasn’t particularly strong or mean, but turned out to be extremely unpredictable, which Megumi learned the hard way. His injuries really weren’t that bad, although based on the glimpse he’d gotten of Itadori’s expression when it happened, it might’ve been the end of the world. He’d only needed two days of rest.
And now he’s standing in the doorway of Gojo’s classroom, lamenting the fact he needs to play catch up on last week’s trigonometry lessons.
“Not to worry, though,” Gojo chirps, butting into Megumi’s thoughts. He’s sitting cross-legged on top of his desk at the front of the room like a little kid. The chalkboard is covered with indecipherable chicken scratch. “Yuuji has offered you his very thorough notes.” He produces a beat-up red notebook from behind the desk and tosses it at Megumi without warning.
The pages flutter open in the air and Megumi scrambles to catch it, which forces him to stop leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed. Gojo snorts and Megumi throws a glare at him, notebook caught awkwardly between both his hands. A loose slip of paper drifts out of the splayed-open pages and he crouches to pick it back up. One of the notes Itadori occasionally passes to Kugisaki, somehow under the assumption Gojo-sensei doesn’t notice. Megumi puts it back in without reading it. He’s sure it’s something stupid.
“Thanks,” he says flatly.
“Don’t thank me.” Gojo grins. “In fact, you should go find poor Yuuji. He’s been so mopey the last few days for some reason.”
“Sure,” Megumi says, mostly ignoring him out of habit, and tucks the notebook under one arm as he turns out of the classroom. He walks down the hall, making his way towards the dorms.
It’s already late in the day, so he just reads in his room for about an hour or so before heading to the kitchen for dinner after the sun sets. He leaves Itadori’s notes on his desk, deciding to look over them tomorrow morning.
He doesn’t hear any hints of chatter, but warm light is spilling out of the door to the kitchen. Megumi peers inside, surprised to see Kugisaki and Itadori, both of them facing away from him, leaning forward with their elbows braced on the counter. He didn’t know those two actually had the ability to be quiet when occupying the same space. Kugisaki’s head is tilted to one side so her hair brushes lightly at her left shoulder. Itadori is pressing buttons on the rice cooker with a weird amount of focus.
“How many servings?” Megumi asks, and they both jolt, turning towards him. Kugisaki quickly erases the surprise from her face, and she simply raises a hand in greeting, while Itadori’s expression breaks into a wide grin. He looks about two seconds away from going in for a hug.
“Fushiguro!” he exclaims. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
Megumi’s face warms at the attention. “Uh, thanks. It really wasn’t a big deal.” He points at the rice cooker. “Servings?”
“Oh, yeah, there’s enough for everyone,” Itadori says.
Megumi nods.
“And we’re gonna reheat the pork shogayaki I made yesterday,” he adds. “You want to eat with us?”
He hadn’t planned on eating in the kitchen, usually preferring to bring food back to his room to eat in private, but the “sure” is out of his mouth before he really thinks about it. Itadori just looks so… happy to see him, he guesses. He’d feel mean refusing.
Plus, something keeps fluttering in his chest whenever Itadori smiles at him, his eyes warm like honey, his hair just slightly mussed.
He steps into the kitchen, moving to stand with them at the counter.
Kugisaki briefly brings up the field mission Megumi had gotten hurt on, much to his embarrassment, but that quickly turns into a discussion about sparring, which eventually devolves into talking about movies and Jennifer Lawrence and how long they think Gojo-sensei’s longest ever relationship lasted (Itadori guesses a year, Kugisaki guesses four months, and Megumi does his best to tune out completely).
The rice cooker emits a shrill beep half an hour later, and they put together their bowls at the counter. Kugisaki finds some chopsticks leftover from the last time Gojo brought in takeout. She snaps them apart and skewers her rice before offering the other two pairs to Itadori and Megumi.
Megumi cups his palms around the warm bowl, taking it over to the table. The steam rises up to his face. It smells good. Really good, actually.
“I used extra ginger,” Itadori says, settling across from him, bowl piled high and spotted with sesame seeds.
Kugisaki sits at the head and starts mixing the meat into her rice. “You’re a surprisingly good cook,” she says around a chunk of pork.
“Of course I’m a good cook,” Itadori squawks. He tries jabbing her forehead with one of his chopsticks, which she bats away easily before retaliating with her own.
Megumi suppresses a smile, instead opting to start eating. Maybe he missed them the last couple of days.
After they eat, piling their dishes into the sink for someone else to deal with, they walk together to the dormitory, the early night thrumming with cricket song. Yawning, Kugisaki waves them goodnight at her door, and Itadori stops outside Megumi’s room for a moment.
“Thanks for the notes, by the way,” Megumi says, opening his door but not yet stepping inside.
“Oh— huh?” Itadori says.
“Your class notes. For the days I missed.”
“Uh. R-right.” Itadori rubs the back of his neck, hesitating with his mouth open for a second, as though looking for words. “How’d you get those?”
Did he forget? It has been a few days. “Gojo-sensei gave them to me,” Megumi says, suddenly feeling awkward. “Sorry, did you—?”
“No, no, it’s fine.” Itadori smiles, although he’s still exuding a strong sense of discomfort and his hand is still on the back of his neck— a nervous gesture of his, usually accompanied by sheepish laughter or blush. “Glad to help out.”
“Okay,” Megumi says, and then neither of them move. Itadori’s features look soft in the blue of night. He’s struck by the thought that he would like to fit his palm over Itadori’s cheek, or run his fingers through his hair. Where the hell did that come from? Megumi clears his throat. “Good night.”
“Right, yeah.” Itadori shakes his head a bit and turns to his door. “Night,” he says over his shoulder and hurries into his room.
Megumi stands alone for a moment, listening to the quiet of the hallway, hand still on his door knob. Then he huffs, and goes inside.
***
The next morning, Megumi wakes early. He changes his clothes and finger-combs his hair before going to find some breakfast. It’s a day off, so unless Gojo has a surprise mission for them (he’d better not) or there’s an emergency of some kind, he has all day to study.
The kitchen is empty when he gets there, morning sky pale and pinkish through the windows. He microwaves some rice from last night and heats up a pan on the stove for eggs.
Since no one is around and it’s a nice morning, he eats in the kitchen, enjoying the slow solitude. By the time he finishes eating and rinsing his dishes, Maki-senpai arrives, no doubt heading straight for the coffee maker. They greet each other wordlessly as Megumi passes her, and he tucks his hands into his pockets as he walks back to the dorms.
Right as he turns the corner of the hallway his room is down, he freezes.
Itadori is standing outside his room, Kugisaki a few feet back with her arms crossed, tapping one foot on the floor. Itadori is… pressing his ear against Megumi’s door?
Megumi squints at them for a second, waiting to see if something will explain what they’re doing. Kugisaki whispers something and Itadori shrugs without moving his head. Megumi starts towards them.
“What are you doing?” he asks, once he’s gotten closer.
Itadori springs back from the door with a half-strangled squeak. Kugisaki snorts, covering her mouth with one hand.
“Just, uh, wondering if you wanted to go shopping,” Itadori blurts out. “Right now.” His cheeks are a bit red.
Megumi raises one eyebrow. Why is he being so weird? He glances at Kugisaki, who shrugs, and then back. “Sorry,” he says. “I have to study. I’m behind.”
Itadori seems to deflate. “Yeah, of course.” He sounds upset. More upset than he should be at Megumi refusing to go on a shopping trip— he does that all the time.
“C’mon,” Kugisaki says, grabbing a hold of Itadori’s shoulder and tugging. “You’ll survive.”
He follows her down the hallway. Megumi hears him groaning about something right as they round the corner out of sight, but the words themselves are too quiet for him to make out.
What…?
Megumi shakes his head. Okay, he’s just going to ignore that.
He opens his door, switching on the lights and moving over to sit at his desk. Itadori’s scuffed red notebook is sitting neatly where he’d left it the night before, and Megumi pulls out his own (much cleaner) notebook to lay beside it, intending to start by copying down whatever Itadori had written and then go from there. He flips from the back of the notebook until he reaches the most recently filled out page. No date, but a quick scan tells him it’s probably what he needs.
There’s a crease near the bottom where something had been messily erased, and Megumi imagines Itadori hurrying to correct the line before Gojo moved on to something else. He smiles at the atrocious handwriting. It’s endearing for some reason.
Megumi begins copying, rearranging the information in a way that makes more sense to him, and then flips to the prior page.
His eyes are immediately pulled to scribblings at the bottom of the paper. It’s a doodle of some dogs. His divine dog shikigamis, he realizes after a second.
“Huh,” he says out loud without meaning to. It’s actually not bad. The white dog has its tongue lolling out of its mouth, doing that contented dog smile Megumi knows so well, while the black dog is standing, ears perked up, with lines indicating that its tail is wagging. Hastily scrawled notes are crammed uncomfortably around the two dogs, but the characters never intersect with the drawing.
Megumi briefly peeks at the backside of the paper for more doodles before reminding himself that he’s supposed to be studying right now. He goes back to transcribing into his own notebook, although there’s the faintest twitch of a grin on his lips now.
As he continues, he finds little things like hearts and five-pointed stars and frowny faces in the margins, but it’s another handful of pages before he encounters the next true doodle. It’s three miniature cartoon portraits: Itadori, Kugisaki, and him. Of the three, Itadori is the only one drawn smiling. He and Kugisaki both have exaggerated scowls scribbled onto their faces.
Megumi scoffs. His hair does not look like that.
In the opposite corner, there’s a heart with “Y + M” written in the center. Megumi stops, fingers stalling. Does… Does Itadori have a crush on someone? He’s never mentioned anything like that. Megumi swallows down something bitter in the back of his throat.
As far as he knows, the only people Itadori really hangs out with now are fellow Tokyo Jujutsu High students. Which leaves… Maki-senpai?
Megumi furrows his brows and tilts his head at the notebook, like that could make the little doodled heart make sense. No, there’s no way. They’re friendly, but most of their interactions consist of sparring. Just last week Maki bashed Itadori in the face with a wooden polearm so hard his nose bled for half an hour.
Unless he’s into that?
Well, Megumi could bash Itadori’s face in too.
Megumi frowns, suddenly feeling irritated, and rests his chin into his palm. He turns another page and scans the notes, pen poised to keep copying, before he realizes that he recognizes the information from two weeks ago. Oh. He’s caught up now.
Still, curiosity makes his fingers twitch. He taps the end of his pen on the desk, staring at the thin blue lines and the eraser residue and the pencil smudges and the familiar handwriting that makes fondness swell in his chest for no reason. They’re just drawings. And Itadori did lend him his notebook in the first place.
Megumi flips the page (nothing), then the next (a bowl of ramen and what he thinks might be a sushi roll, although he can’t quite tell), and then the next. There are a few little messy sketches of hands scattered about the margins. Megumi runs his eyes over them for a couple seconds, looking at the neat curves of the nails and the careful shading on the knuckles, before he recognizes that they’re his hands. They’re approximations of the summons for his shikigami: the crossed palms of Nue and the curled fingers for Rabbit Escape. One pair is scribbled out completely, so he can’t tell what it’s meant to be.
The thought of Itadori studying his hands makes Megumi’s entire face go hot, and he pulls up the collar of his shirt to hide the blush, even though no one’s around to see it.
He finds a few mini Gojos and a scattering of attempts at sketching, he assumes, Panda, although they look more like dogs than bears.
Maki is nowhere to be seen, Megumi notices, which tells him she’s probably not actually the M of “Y + M.” The thought is vaguely comforting.
He keeps browsing. Then, overtop some of Itadori’s confused, stunted physics notes, there’s a drawing of Megumi. Just Megumi. His breath catches in his throat. It’s the most detailed one he’s seen so far— his side profile, leaning slightly forward so his hair hangs down over his brow and with his shoulders hunched up close to his ears. He’s smiling softly. The pose seems specific enough that Megumi wonders if Itadori might have been looking at him when he drew it. There are messy hearts like a halo all around his head.
Megumi brushes his fingers over the edge of the paper.
Oh , he thinks.
“Oh,” he says out loud.
Megumi slams the notebook shut, his heart suddenly beating fast, and stands from his desk, although he’s not sure what his plan is exactly. He should probably go find Itadori.
He’s already out his door and down the hall, notebook in hand, when he realizes he has no idea where Itadori even is. He cusses, pulling his phone out of his pocket and fumbling to open his messaging app.
Hey , he types. Where are you?
He stands in the middle of the hallway waiting for a response like an idiot for two minutes.
on bus back to school grounds , Itadori responds.
Megumi swallows, thumbs hovering over the screen for a few moments, pulse racing like he’s in the middle of a life-or-death fight. Can we talk?
Six whole minutes pass before Itadori finally replies. Megumi fidgets, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
sure.
Another minute passes.
vending machines?
Alright .
***
Standing at the vending machines that neighbor the track field, Megumi stares at the bright rows of soda cans, pretending he’s thinking about buying something.
He’s holding the notebook still, fingers pinched around the cold spiral binding. What is he even going to say? He shouldn’t jump to conclusions, first of all. ‘M’ could still be a number of people, someone from Itadori’s old life maybe. Megumi ignores the way his heart feels light when he considers it might be him. Shit, does he have a crush on Itadori?
He’ll just… give the notebook back and ask him about it directly, he supposes.
Megumi takes a slow breath and stares at a can of melon soda like he could make it combust with just his eyes.
“Hey, Fushiguro,” Itadori’s voice calls out a minute later. Megumi turns to see him approaching from the opposite direction of the track, one hand raised in a wave, the other in the pocket of his hoodie. Megumi waves too, and when Itadori comes to stand in front of him, he offers the notebook forward.
“You get everything you needed?” Itadori asks awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck as he accepts it. He looks sort of miserable.
“Yeah,” Megumi says before the capacity for language seems to vacate his brain. “Uh…”
“Listen, I’m really sorry if that weirded you out or anything.” A nervous laugh escapes from Itadori’s mouth, and he averts his eyes, instead looking over at the snacks in the vending machine next to him. “I swear I’ll cut it out, just y’know—”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s— what?” Itadori stops, looking back to Megumi, eyes wide. His ears and cheeks are starting to bloom red.
“I mean,” Megumi starts and then hesitates, changes course. “I’m assuming you didn’t actually give your notes to Gojo-sensei for me.”
Another tense almost-laugh. “Nope.”
“And… you like me?” Megumi asks, heart in his throat, just to be absolutely sure.
“Yeah,” Itadori says, and Megumi’s head spins. Wow . “But, seriously, you can just ignore me.”
“I think I like you too.”
“Oh.” Itadori stills, his mouth hanging open. Then his brows furrow. “Wait, ‘you think’?”
“I kind of just realized actually,” Megumi admits. Damn it . Gojo knew, didn’t he. He probably looked through the whole thing because he doesn’t know how to mind his own business and invading Megumi’s privacy is his favorite hobby. He grits his teeth. Megumi is seriously going to punch him this time.
“I totally thought you were gonna tell me to never talk to you again,” Itadori says, relief palpable in his voice, pulling Megumi out of his thoughts. He’s clutching the beat-up notebook to his chest, still blushing hard.
Megumi scoffs, crossing his arms. “I wouldn’t do that either way.” Then: “The drawings were cute,” he mutters, and Itadori’s face lights up.
“Aw, Fushi, you’re so sweet,” he coos. “So, are we dating now?”
“W-we, I—” Megumi sputters, caught off guard. “Give it a minute ,” he eventually manages, mortified at the heat climbing up his neck. “We haven’t even kissed yet.”
“Do you want to?” Itadori asks, his voice entirely genuine. Megumi stares at him, and his grin ebbs into something sheepish. “Sorry, that was— We don’t have to.”
“No,” Megumi says quietly, glancing over towards the sunlit track and then at his shoes, anywhere other than Itadori’s eyes. “I’d like that.”
Itadori doesn’t say anything, instead taking a step closer. Megumi looks up through his lashes, and they’re so close he can feel Itadori’s breath on his mouth.
He’s not sure who moves first, but their lips are suddenly pressed together, and Itadori’s palm is settling low and warm on Megumi’s back, and he’s tilting his head so they fit better. Megumi’s hands, in contrast, are hanging limp and unsure at his side. Hesitantly, he moves one hand to Itadori’s waist, barely even touching at all, and the other he cups at the nape of his neck, fingertips gently grazing the buzzed undercut.
They break apart both breathing hard, and Megumi wipes the spit off his lips with the back of his hand, cheeks warm.
“How about now?” Itadori asks. “Are we dating?”
Megumi plants his palm on Itadori’s cheek and shoves him away, quashing the curve of a grin on his own mouth. “Shut up.” He looks into Itadori’s eyes, soft and smiling and unguarded. “Do you want to go try to punch Gojo?” he asks.
“Sure,” Itadori says. “We can probably take him.” He laughs, and Megumi, for once, doesn’t ignore the way it makes his heart lift.