Chapter Text
Jujutsu Hall has served as a historic landmark in the green hills of rural Gloucester for hundreds of years. First as a grand abbey, a bastion of piety where wild girls were sent to become women of the cloth. Then it was taken over, as these things often are, by men who call themselves scholars. The Hall remained a place of learning for centuries until the World Wars demanded a place for the broken soldiers in need for a beautiful place to die slow. Now, in it’s current form it stands yet again as a grand institution of learning catering to the brightest (and wealthiest) young women from all around the globe.
The Hall is a world separate from the rest. Only a short drive from London, but it stands like a castle beyond the veil of modernity. The shell of bygone era in use once more. Ivy covers the steepled face of faded white marble, parting for the intricate arched windows to allow in what little sunlight exists in the land of gray skies and mist. Separate wings spread across the estate, like the pieces of a dissected bird. One sprawling building holds the girls’ dormitories, and another a library. All the means to teach and learn everything from theoretical physics to advanced botany in the atrium.
It is a place for the best-tempered sort of girls. The ones who only know ambition and have been fed it with a silver spoon. The girls who behave and think twice before the smallest decision and then twice more. But it is also an old place. With endless halls and alcoves to stow oneself away. Abandoned rooms with antiques covered by white sheets and signs that warn not to enter nailed to the doors. An old and fantastical place. Where the roses and peonies blush pink and roar in swathes of velvet petaled color. The gardeners work twice as hard as any student might try, with how they cut back and tame the flora which crowds every cobbled path and cloisters around well-maintained fountains crowned with cherubic statues. In the summertime, the lake is full of little canoes and shattering sunlight across the water’s surface. Beyond that lies a thick, mossy wood which is strictly prohibited to enter without the accompaniment of a teacher. But when your cage is so gilded, there’s little incentive to break through the bars.
And even less desire to do so when you are the best bird in the cage. The one who sings the loveliest, and the one who preens the prettiest. Megumi had never gone into those woods before. Except for an extra credit in her Environmental Studies course. Which she scored highest in. Naturally. But to walk past the tangled brush and wander the woods all on her own? She’s never felt the urge.
Megumi never cared about being the best. It was just the way things are. As sure as spring brings the rain to Jujutsu Hall, Fushiguro Megumi is the perfect darling among an entire academy of perfect darlings. Megumi is placed on top in every class. She is the lead in every play. A natural virtuoso on the violin and an indomitable opponent with a fencing saber. Every week when the mail comes in and the letters are divvied up between all the students, Megumi’s pile shadows every other with offers for early internships at Fortune 500 companies and pleas from scouts from foreign modeling agencies.
The other students don’t even try to match up to her. It must be irritating for them, really. To put forth every effort, to try and try again, only to have Megumi swoop in with her cool expression and despicably long lashes and take first place without fail. By sixth term, they had long since stopped trying. To score second to Fushiguro Megumi was as good as getting first.
There is something about her that draws people in. That aloof nature. On top of being the kind of pretty which only gets manifested once in a generation. Dark eyes siren eyes and hair like sleek midnight trailing to the small of her back. She’s the type of girl to spark a strong reaction in anyone. Envy, admiration, the gutting desperation to put yourself in someone else’s skin. But what makes Megumi a particularly intriguing type of girl is how she doesn’t seem to care at all.
The aura she holds is like that of a cat lounging somewhere high and out of reach. To be the subject of constant perlustration, to carry the weight of so many eyes, and simply not care. It’s magnetic. The patron saint of indifference that every teenage girl prays to. That every girl dreams to be.
After a period of free reading, Megumi has Classic Lit and Advanced Textual Analysis with Professor Nanami. She likes that class. Nanami is a no-nonsense sort of teacher and he doesn’t let the chattier girls bother her with asinine ramblings. Additionally, she has a particular spot right besides the window. It looks down on the atrium gardens and the seat is always warm with sunlight. Best of all, no one sits besides her without explicit permission in the form of Megumi’s subtle nod.
“I trust you all have followed the instructions given yesterday and found a sonnet to analyze.” His shrewd gaze sweeps the room from behind a pair of round spectacles. “Miss Fushiguro. Would you like to start us off?”
Shakespeare is not her favorite. Themes of love and passion beyond reason seem so… overplayed. Even in the sixteenth century. It’s trite. Hyperbolic. Dare she say tacky. Then again, there are some of her classmates who seem to follow Shakespeare’s doctrine. Megumi avoids the urge to look at Ozawa. But for her, she can’t even imagine a perfect enough boy to send her head through that kind of a spin. Someone who brings you to madness. The concept is uncomfortable. As if even considering it has made Megumi’s brain mushier.
“I chose sonnet 140: be wise as thou art cruel; do not press.” Megumi folds her book of poetry over, looking up to find Nanami raising one eyebrow. “I found it more interesting than the others. It represents the apex of the speaker’s unhealthy relationship with the ‘Dark Lady’ and his attempts to threaten her into behaving how he wants. To love only him, despite the futility in doing so. He has a pattern of making irrational choices regarding this woman, so this poem is just par for the course.”
There’s a moment of reflective quiet. The shuffling of pages as other students find the sonnet in question and read it through with furrowed faces.
“Certainly an interesting interpretation, Fushiguro.” Nanami tilts his head in consideration. “Some might argue it is the futility in one’s actions that make it all the more meaningful. That the ‘irrationality’ is a necessary symptom of the love Shakespeare so often writes about.”
Megumi leans back in her chair. The professor never outright disagrees with an interpretation, but this is uncomfortably close to it. And she is very rarely wrong.
“Maybe he was more susceptible to the chemical imbalances of attraction than most.”
Nanami exhales in a way that resembles amusement. “I think you all might discover— one day— that we all are. Now, lets hear some more analyses and then we’re moving on to Dickinson.”
It was nearing curfew when Megumi and a handful of girls she could tolerate better than others were all sprawled across the Persian rug centered in her private dorm. Kugisaki laid on her stomach, flipping through the newest Cosmopolitan editorial while Maki watched football highlights on her phone with her head on the other girl’s back. Meanwhile, Ozawa drones on about a cute guy she had met on a day-trip to London who apparently goes to the all-boys academy a county over. Megumi sits alone in a chair by the window, watching the clear coat polish dry down on her pearlescent nails.
Outside, a million leaves tremble against each other to the pull of the wind. Through the crack in the window, the syrupy scent of buck thorn latticed with dog rose and honeysuckle carry in on a breeze heavy with the promise of rain. It’s still a little too chilly to keep it open but Megumi does it anyway. None of the other girl’s argue, but occasionally one will shiver.
“Oh!” Ozawa cuts herself off halfway through another ramble about mystery boy’s eyes and smile or something Megumi didn’t bother listening to. “Have you guys heard? We’re getting a new transfer tomorrow!”
There’s a snap of glossy paper as Kugisaki throws her magazine to the ground and latches her attention onto Ozawa instead. Maki grumbles as her backrest moves. “Shut up. Tell me everything.”
Ozawa leans in, glancing over at Megumi before continuing. “I can’t believe you haven’t heard about it. Apparently, she’s from America and she got kicked out from a ton of other boarding schools.”
Megumi shifts her attention over at that.
“She’s beaten up like a ton of girls. And get this—” Ozawa holds her hands up for emphasis, “She used to go to public school.”
Kugisaki gasps and Maki rolls her eyes. They’ve heard about public school. Though, most of the horror stories definitely come from the American ones. Students beating up teachers and giving blowjobs in public restrooms. The barbaric class sizes and slop served as a sorry excuse for edible food. There are a couple students enrolled at Jujutsu Hall who once went to public school— though that was when they were in elementary and Megumi doesn’t associate herself with them anyways.
“I don’t get why everybody cares so much.”
They all look over when Megumi speaks. Her voice is soft and carries very little inflection, but it’s heard much in the same way as the rain. Something you notice without thinking.
“Ha, yeah, it is kind of stupid.” Ozawa agrees demurely. “I’d like to see her try and beat you up though. She’d be in for quite a surprise.”
Megumi glances towards the shelf besides her bed. The only decoration she’s really bothered with. It’s laden with medals and trophies for everything from archery to spelling bees. And quite a few self-defense disciplines to boot.
“Like I’d ever stoop so low.” Megumi feels a prickle of disdain at the mere notion. She’s never felt the urge to fight anyone in her life. Excluding her dad maybe. Though, that guy is just annoying— Ignore the picture of him next to the certificate of excellence in classical violin.
Kugisaki scoffs a laugh. “Yeah, I genuinely can’t imagine you getting upset enough to fight anyone over pretty much anything. Me on the other hand? I’ve been itching for someone to say something.”
Maki adjusts her glasses. “You’ve never fought anyone in your life.”
“But I could!”
They argue over the semantics of school fights as Megumi looks back out the window. This is always the reaction to the prospect of a new student. She struggles to wrap her head around everyone's fascination. Another body to ignore when passing in the halls. Another person to score beneath her on a math quiz and come second in swim matches. It’s quickly approaching the late hour where she regrets inviting anyone to her room in the first place.
That night, after everyone hears the clock chime ten and leaves for their own rooms, Megumi lays in her bed and stares at the ceiling. The lattice of woodwork and framed molding that arch in patterns that center the shadowed fixture of amber glass. She wonders if there was ever another girl who lived here and stared up at this very ceiling mulling the tomorrow to come.
Probably not, she thinks. There is only one girl like her. Only one Fushiguro Megumi. The best student at Jujutsu Hall and the girl everyone wants to be. She tries to remember if that thought ever made her feel better.
The next morning, Megumi eats eggs benedict over a slice of buttered rye. She has the same thing every morning. Protein and whole wheat with a cup of black coffee and side of sliced fruit. Balanced. What the administration would call a ‘smart’ breakfast. She never understood how her friends take so long to choose what to eat when the options barely vary. Then again, she’s not one to eat for any reason beyond the necessity of it.
It was during free reading when a black Royce eased to a stop at the front steps of Jujutsu Hall. Under a rare cloudless sky, it glittered amidst the pea gravel like a lost piece of jewelry. A shard of obsidian arrowhead that means a battle was once fought here. Megumi was the first to witness it. She always had first dibs to the high-backed chair set besides the windows overlooking the face of the estate. Normally the view was serene. Sprawling green, dappled with brushstrokes of flowering color that ebb away to the forest beyond. That peace seemed to shatter at the arrival from something so jarringly modern. Somewhere deep in her chest, Megumi felt a twinge of annoyance.
The drivers’ door slams shut and like dogs when kibble is poured, all the girls in the room whip their heads up. It took all of two seconds for each and every one of them to crowd around the glass, murmuring predictions as to who might be inside. It’s rare to get new students so late into the year. Usually, that sort of transfer isn’t allowed unless the donation is sizable enough… or if the girl’s behavior is truly incorrigible.
Megumi pretends not to look. She keeps rereading the same sentence over and over before lifting her gaze just barely over the top of the book as the driver drops a couple of cases of luggage on the ground. Bright cherry red, scuffed up all over and covered with noisy stickers. God, they’re ugly. Tasteless. Her stomach starts dropping before the other door even opens. A growing sense of horror that whoever is waiting in that car is about to ruin her perfect world.
Then the new girl steps out. Gasps tear through the throng of girls crowding Megumi’s once peaceful reading nook. The murmurs turn into a full-on chatter. Oh my god, she’s so cute! The squeak of Mary-Jane’s on the antique floorboards as they all scramble for a better look. Megumi resists the urge to elbow a first-year who starts mouth breathing on her neck. Look at her hair! I hope she’s in my year!
With a clenched jaw, Megumi does look. There on the front lawn of the most prestigious boarding school in all of Europe, stands the strangest girl she’s ever seen. Bright, bubblegum pink braids, ears glinting with stacked silver hoops and a dozen piercings, and there on her face; the largest smile Megumi has ever seen.
Megumi’s grip tightens on her book. In the very pit of her stomach curls a new and very ugly feeling. Something green and nauseating. Her fingernails dig crescents into the white pages. She stares and stares as all the other girls flood downstairs to meet the stranger in the main hall. She stares as the girl insists on carrying her own bag and heaves them with ease. She stares as that strange face turns upwards, meeting her own through the leaded glass.
Megumi whips the curtain close. Her heart hammers. There’s something wrong. Something she cannot source despite how her mind races. That girl…
That girl does not belong here.
Less than an hour since the girl’s arrival and it’s as though the entire school can talk of nothing else. Megumi spent the rest of her free reading period doing exactly what she was supposed to— reading. Meanwhile, everyone she overhears thinks one new transfer is more than enough reason to abandon their studies and gossip. Against her will, Megumi catches little rumors about how the new girl’s family recently came into money. How she won a state championship in softball back in America. Most of all, everyone who has met her says she is nice.
But what does ‘nice’ mean really? A placeholder word for when no one has anything better to say. Megumi is talked about often. Described as beautiful, intelligent, sometimes cold. Never nice.
By the time the clock chimes for the next period, Megumi has gritted her teeth hard enough to cause a headache. She switches out her post-WWII coming-of-age novel for class copies of Dickinson’s Final Harvest collection and Voltaire and makes her way towards the north wing of the campus. English Lit should be some reprieve at least. Professor Nanami abhors gossip and never shies from sending any girls who participate straight to the headmaster’s office. And besides, it’s her favorite class. Megumi anticipates her seat that sits in cozy sunlight, overlooking the vines blooming in the atrium below. And everyone knows not to sit beside her without explicit invitation.
Almost everyone.
Shrouded by a halo of golden light and sitting in Megumi’s seat, is the source of all the rumors. Her pink hair barely hits shoulder length, wrapped into two braids that tie off with cutesy charms. All the jewelry in her ears catches the sunlight, glittering to pull stares in and keep them on her face. A bright neon band-aid partially covers one eyebrow, opposite to a faint scrape healing on the corner of her lips. Her uniform isn’t on quite right. The tie is loose and one of her stockings has scrunched around her ankles.
Megumi’s eye twitches. This girl is a delinquent.
And yet, her stolen desk is swarmed by other students. Ozawa sits on top of the desk, kicking her feet as she probes the girl with questions, only to be cut off when another girl beats her to it. So much noise. So much giggling. So fucking irritating.
Megumi sets her books down on the desk besides her usual spot a little louder than necessary. The noise makes a couple students jump. The conversation lulls as attention drifts to Megumi.
“Oh! Fushiguro, you haven’t met the new girl yet, this is—”
“Class is about to start, Ozawa. And you’re not supposed to sit on the desks.” Megumi doesn’t bother looking at any of them as she unzips her black book bag.
There’s a little click of heels as the girl slides off the desk as told. Then, she hesitates before going towards her seat, as if sensing the other girl’s annoyance so she speaks again in attempt to fix it, “Oh, Itadori, maybe you should switch with Fushiguro. That’s usually her spot.”
Megumi looks over just as the new girl opens her mouth to respond, a hand going to the bright yellow backpack slumped against her chair. Despite the sudden, violent flush of anger in her chest, she keeps her tone flat. “I don’t care. Sit where you want.”
“Are you sure—”
Just as the girl starts talking, the class falls silent when the professor walks in. If he notices the strange tension in the classroom, he doesn’t bother showing it. There’s a moment where he straightens papers on his desk, then reads over one in particular before his eyes land on Yuji.
“Ah. Our new student.” His eyes linger on Yuji and for a moment Megumi holds her breath hoping he mentions the sloppy state of her uniform or the multitude of dress code violations, “Would you mind coming up to introduce yourself for the class?”
Out of the corner of her eye, Megumi watches as the girl grins and pops out of her seat. She has a silhouette so different from her own. Curvy, but athletic. She’s not nearly as tall as Megumi. Nor does she hold any of the same grace. But there’s something powerful in the way she moves. Thick thighs of toned muscle peek from underneath her gingham skirt. There’s a golden layer that seems to shine underneath her skin, sun-kissed. Megumi snaps her gaze back up to her face when the girl suddenly turns around.
“Hi everybody, I’m Itadori Yuji,” She scans the class with big brown eyes before they settle right on Megumi, she grins before announcing with her entire chest, “and my type is tall guys with six-packs. Like, Ryan Reynolds.”
The professor chokes on his coffee. The classroom goes silent. Megumi blinks in surprise.
Yuji frowns and scratches the back of her head. “Huh. Usually that lands a little better...”
One girl snorts a laugh from the corner of the room and smacks her own mouth to cover it. Then, a couple more hidden giggles from somewhere up front. Then the class is bursting out into laughter. Even Nanami gives an amused roll of the eyes before dismissing Yuji back to her desk. It takes a moment to rein everyone in, but not Megumi. Megumi didn’t laugh once.
“Psst.”
Halfway through a lecture comparing two dense scripts revolving around the passions within Shakespeare’s plays and the inevitable tragedies they wreak, Yuji stretches a foot out to nudge her desk.
“So… You gotta type?”
Megumi breaks the lead of her pencil at the sound of her voice. She even talks like a delinquent. Colloquial American speech and improper grammar. That lazy, laid-back accent. Megumi draws a slow, regulating breath as she resharpens her pencil.
“That has nothing to do with you.” Megumi whispers back, keeping her voice low as the professor drones.
Megumi doesn’t even know how to answer the question. Which is alarming in its own right. She always has an answer. Sure, she’s never been great at the girl-talk exchanged late at night in the dormitories, but she always had something sensible to say. I don’t care what they look like, just that we share the same values and ethics. A people-pleasing answer. Something nobody can disagree with and all the younger years can look up to as sage advice.
For some reason, Megumi feels that if she were to say that to Yuji… she would laugh in her face.
“Ohhh, I know.” Yuji leans over, chair tilting so she can put an arm on Megumi’s desk with a broad grin.”You like girls.”
“Excuse me?”
The scratch of writing on the chalkboard halts. Nanami turns around to look between the two, eyes narrow behind his round glasses. Megumi has never been on the receiving end of that look before. It scalds her skin. Humiliating. As if she’s failed at something. Meanwhile, Yuji drops her chair back and slouches in her seat like the devil may care.
“Is there something you’d like to share with the class, Fushiguro?”
Megumi shakes her head, deadpan. Yet her face feels hot with anger. So much anger. She can feel it in her blood, the way it sears her veins. Yet, shoves it down. Shoves it deep, deep down.
“No, professor.”
Yuji doesn’t bother her with any more questions that period. Instead, she flicks little wads of paper at Ozawa and playfully kicks the chair in front of her when the professor isn’t looking. Megumi can feel the energy beside her. Buzzing like a fly. The constant, insistent tapping of Yuji’s foot. The outrage seems to hit her in waves. Whenever she thinks about how Yuji is in her seat or catches a glimpse of pink hair out of the corner of her eye. Most of all it hits when she thinks about that question.
Megumi spends the rest of the class firmly planted within her own body. The foreign heat of her own blood. The jaw that clenches without her conscious efforts to keep her expression blank. She snaps her pencil’s lead three more times before opting for a pen. It’s an irrational anger, she tells herself. Megumi breathes in slowly through the nose and tells herself, since she’s self-aware, that the anger dissipates. That she can outwit a measly feeling.
But it doesn’t. It stays, jagged and sharp, in the pit of her stomach like the stone Cain clutched in the pit of his palm.