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The air between them is heavy, loaded with the kind of awkward tension that makes time crawl unbearably slow. Itadori is half-tempted to dig a hole in the ground and bury himself right then and there.
Unfortunately, Fushiguro is still standing in front of him, staring with his faintly furrowed brows and that unreadable expression he always wears like a shield. Itadori wonders if he’s about to get punched or mocked—or worse, both.
Fushiguro’s head tilts ever so slightly, his dark eyes narrowing in what looks like genuine concern. “Are you… feeling okay?”
Itadori’s face burns hotter than it has in his entire life, and his mouth immediately moves to backtrack. “Yeah! Totally fine! I just—uh, you know how sometimes your brain thinks one thing but your mouth says another? Yeah, that’s what happened. I didn’t mean to say… I mean, not like that! I’m not, uh—your hands are normal. Totally normal hands. Very… hand-like.” His voice cracks embarrassingly on the last word.
If the ground could swallow him whole right now, he’d honestly thank it.
Fushiguro’s expression shifts subtly—just a twitch of his lips, a flicker of his eyes—but to Itadori, it feels like a spotlight is suddenly shining on him. “Normal… hand-like hands,” Fushiguro repeats, deadpan, as though testing out the sheer absurdity of the sentence.
“Exactly!” Itadori blurts, latching onto the faint glimmer of something he hopes is amusement in Fushiguro’s tone. He drags a hand through his hair and laughs, a strained, desperate sound that even he hates. “I mean, what else would they be, right? Not like you have paws or claws or something, ha ha!”
Fushiguro looks at him like he might actually be insane.
Itadori’s brain scrambles for any way to save this disaster of a conversation, but all it can conjure up is an endless loop of oh my god, I’m an idiot. Why did I say that? Why this? Why now? He can feel his heart beating in his throat, pounding like a drum, and Fushiguro is still staring at him, his expression unreadable but his eyes steady and so, so focused. Itadori shifts nervously, trying to avoid looking directly at him because if he does, he might actually combust.
But Fushiguro doesn’t let it go. “You… were going to say something else,” he says, his voice quiet but direct. It’s not a question. It’s a statement, the way Fushiguro always speaks when he’s not letting something slide.
Itadori feels the panic clawing up his chest again. “Uh, nope! Pretty sure I said everything! Definitely no unfinished thoughts here!”
Fushiguro raises a single eyebrow. Damn him and his ability to make that look both condescending and strangely attractive.
“You were stammering for, like, five whole seconds,” Fushiguro points out, blunt and merciless. “If you have something to say, just say it.”
Itadori flinches, looking everywhere but at him. The cicada chirps again, a lonely little sound that feels way too loud in the silence.
The late afternoon sunlight casts long shadows over the training field, and Itadori wonders, absurdly, if the universe is punishing him for being too dumb to keep his mouth shut.
He exhales loudly, forcing himself to meet Fushiguro’s gaze. If he’s going to embarrass himself further, he might as well get it over with. “Fine, okay! I’ll just… I’ll just say it,” he mutters, mostly to himself, then sucks in a breath. “I was gonna say that you have really… uh, nice hands.”
Fushiguro blinks, clearly taken aback. “…Nice hands,” he echoes, slower this time.
“Yeah,” Itadori says, already regretting every life choice that led to this moment. But there’s no turning back now, so he barrels ahead. “Like, you know, they’re, uh… cool. And strong. And stuff.”
And stuff. He wants to slap himself.
Fushiguro’s brows furrow again, not in confusion this time but in something closer to skepticism. He glances down at his hands, flexing his fingers as though trying to see whatever Itadori apparently sees in them. “They’re just… hands,” he says, his tone almost baffled.
“No, but they’re not!” Itadori blurts, and then immediately winces because oh no, he’s doing it again. But the words keep tumbling out, unstoppable now. “I mean, they are, obviously, but like—your hands are really… I don’t know, cool? Like when you’re using your cursed techniques and stuff, and they’re all precise and… I don’t know, just really nice.”
Fushiguro stares at him for what feels like an eternity, and Itadori can’t read his expression at all. Is he mad? Annoyed? Thinking of ways to curse him into oblivion? It’s impossible to tell. Finally, after an agonizing pause, Fushiguro says, “That’s… weird.”
Itadori slaps a hand over his face, groaning into his palm. “I know it’s weird! You don’t have to say it out loud!”
Another pause. And then, quietly—so quietly Itadori almost doesn’t catch it—Fushiguro says, “Thanks… I guess.”
Itadori freezes, peeking at him through his fingers. Fushiguro looks away, his gaze fixed firmly on the horizon now, but there’s the faintest hint of color dusting his cheeks. It’s subtle, barely noticeable, but Itadori swears it’s there.
His brain short-circuits.
Did Fushiguro just… blush?
The silence stretches out again, but this time it doesn’t feel as suffocating. It’s still awkward—because of course it is—but there’s something else there too, something lighter.
Itadori lowers his hand slowly, watching Fushiguro out of the corner of his eye. The other boy’s face is carefully neutral, but the tips of his ears are red now too.
Itadori doesn’t know what to say, but somehow, he doesn’t mind the quiet this time. He thinks about Fushiguro’s hands again—strong, steady, precise—and the way they flexed a moment ago, and suddenly, the awkward tension doesn’t feel so bad. Maybe even a little good. Like a secret only they know.
“Well,” he says after a while, grinning sheepishly. “I guess that’s one way to make things weird, huh?”
Fushiguro sighs heavily, but there’s no real bite in it. “…Idiot,” he mutters.
But he doesn’t deny it. And Itadori thinks, just maybe, that’s a win.