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Yuuji’s sixteenth birthday was, predictably, quite the affair.
Luckily, or unluckily depending on how you looked at it, it fell on a Sunday. There were no classes to worry about, leaving the entire day free for birthday-related activities which were boisterous and gluttonous in equal measure. Roused at the crack of dawn that morning by a chorus of party poppers going off like a military salute in Yuuji’s room, by midday, Megumi was exhausted. That was just too bad for him, because Yuuji made it clear that his attendance at lunch—sushi train, but the one where the train is a bullet train, followed by a lengthy visit to the arcade—was not optional. At the arcade, Megumi briefly considered winning some ludicrous toy and presenting it to Yuuji, shoujo-style, but quickly abandoned the idea after Nobara caught him staring at Yuuji on the racing car game.
Dinner was a reservation for eight at a very fine steakhouse in Shinjuku, during which Yuuji and Nobara giggled loudly over the soft jazz, spilled water all over the table, and undid their buttons from overeating before the last course had even come out. This was all at the expense of Gojo’s platinum card, which pleased Megumi enough to mostly outweigh the mortification. At the conclusion of the day’s festivities, he wasn’t even sure he wanted to see Yuuji again for a week, or anyone for that matter.
Naturally, when they returned to their dorms, their energy finally sapped, Megumi strained to hear the quiet sounds of Yuuji shuffling about in the next room, and he heard them and knew that Yuuji was close to him, and all was well again.
Night had settled decisively over the valley; Yuuji’s birthday was nearly over. The campus was quiet but for the sound of the crickets singing their happy birthdays.
On the corner of Megumi’s desk in a gift bag made from soft cardboard with the texture of hand-made paper was a flat box of a moderate size. Inside the box was a gold chain, neither too thick nor too dainty, for which Megumi had saved up his student’s salary for a month to buy. The gift bag sat there pointedly, emitting some sort of smug aura. You’re running out of time, it said, motionless and innocent. Better bite the bullet and just do it. Megumi tried to ignore it. He laid down on his bed and put his pillow over his head, but the stupid chain in the stupid box in the stupid bag burnt a hole right through it.
He peeled the pillow away from his face to check the time on his phone. 10:43PM. Yuuji usually went to sleep around 11. In any case, it would only be his birthday for another hour or so. Megumi considered just wearing the chain himself. Yuuji would never know it was supposed to be a gift for him. It would come at the small cost of looking absolutely moronic—really, how would he look, suddenly showing up to breakfast sporting a gold chain like some sort of delinquent?—but at least Megumi wouldn’t have to knock on Yuuji’s door and hand him a gift that he bought, personally, just for him. Not a group present like the one they’d presented him with at dinner—a turntable complete with records, courtesy of Nobara, Megumi, the second-years, Nanami and Gojo, and Gojo’s bank account—a gift specifically from Megumi himself. A gift he’d ummed and ahhed over at the store. The store he’d returned to several times over the last few weeks because he just couldn’t decide and he thought if he bought the wrong one and Yuuji hated it—or worse, said he liked it but threw it in the back of his closet and never wore it—he’d probably kill himself. It had gotten so bad that the store assistant recognised him eventually and asked if he needed help picking out a birthday gift for his brother, or perhaps close cousin?
He’d said no thank you, picked the one directly under his nose, and resolved not to return to that neighbourhood for the next five years at least.
Megumi checked the time again. 10:45PM. Okay, in fifteen minutes I’ll go . This plan was good because it gave him time to map out exactly what he would say and do so Yuuji understood that this was not a big deal, nor was it anything out of the ordinary for Megumi. Hey man , he’d say. Got you something. Fuck, no, he wouldn’t say that. That was the gayest possible thing he could say. Drop the ‘man’. When had he ever said ‘man’?
Hey. You up?
That was somehow worse. He wouldn’t say that either. Maybe he would just knock on Yuuji’s door and improv from there. One of the countless good things about Yuuji was that he was good at talking, and enjoyed it. Unless the impossible had occurred and Yuuji’s social battery had, in fact, completely depleted, Yuuji would likely start yapping away as soon as Megumi appeared at his door, leaving Megumi free to fling the gift bag into his room like a grenade and make a swift exit. All things considered, this seemed like the way to go.
At 11:01, Megumi sat bolt upright in bed with the same sort of steely resolve that he imagined people who go ice-hole swimming feel when they’re about to jump. He swiped the gift bag from his desk with force, as if it had personally wronged him.
Yuuji usually left his door ajar, but Megumi found it closed. He could just take it as a sign. He could put the bag back on his desk and return it to the store, or give it away, or leave it on the train for some person to find in a stroke of luck, or take it to the wilds at the edge of campus and bury it like a dead body.
Megumi knocked.
‘Yeah?’ came Yuuji’s voice.
‘It’s me.’
‘Come in!’
The lights were off in Yuuji’s room, except for the lava lamp on his bedside table. The lava was pink and it levitated in a viscous purple liquid, staining Yuuji’s face the same colour as his hair. He was lying on his stomach with the covers pushed down. Only the sheet was pulled up around his midsection; it was stuffy in the room despite the open window. In the corner, a pedestal fan blew feebly. Megumi swallowed, feeling the heat in a way he hadn’t noticed in his own room. The woven strand of the handle on the bag chafed in his sweaty palm. He was aware that he was not moving or speaking, just standing in the doorway like some kind of night-ghast.
Yuuji went back to his phone after briefly acknowledging Megumi’s appearance. ‘What’s up? I was about to fall asleep,’ he said, but he didn’t sound annoyed.
‘Sorry,’ Megumi said, stilted, then realising this was his invitation to come in. Yuuji was not precious about his room or his space in the way Megumi was; his door was always open, so to speak, even when it was closed. They had met, not on any sort of schedule but often enough that it was not unusual, at night, upon the concrete step of their shared patio, or perched together in the windowsill in Yuuji’s room, each one in his own corner. Sometimes a purposeful meeting, to talk about a mission or a technique or a fight won or lost. Sometimes about a dream Yuuji had or a book Megumi had read. Sometimes for a conversation that went nowhere, or no conversation at all—a cup of tea, a shared quiet. From the windowsill they could see the glowing city and the moon where it hung, the roofs of the campus buildings and the sparse houses tumbling down the hill into the valley, where they became invisible.
It would not be strange—it wasn’t strange—for Megumi to sit on the foot of Yuuji’s bed, so he did. Yuuji shuffled to make room for him. If Yuuji noticed the bag clutched in Megumi’s lap, he didn’t say anything.
‘Did you like the food at the restaurant?’ Yuuji said after a silence brushed through the room like a gentle breeze.
‘Yeah, it was nice.’ Megumi paused. ‘The dessert wasn’t great.’
Yuuji put his phone down and propped himself up on his elbows to look at Megumi. ‘Okay, I’m glad you said that, because I actually didn’t like it that much, but Gojo-sensei was so excited about it, so I didn’t want to like—I don’t know, ruin it for him. Nobara didn’t like it either. But he seemed so pleased.’
‘You could have given him your leftovers if you didn’t want yours.’
‘Yeah, but I didn’t want to disappoint him, you know? He was paying for the whole thing. But it was so sweet. The dessert, I mean. It made me feel a bit sick.’
‘I thought you liked sweet things.’
‘I do! Didn’t you think so, though?’
‘It was way too sweet. It seemed like they messed up the recipe, but I didn’t want to say anything in case I was wrong and it was actually supposed to be like that.’ The offending dessert was a green melon cake with chocolate frosting. The staff had written Yuuji’s name on it and all, and drawn a tiger in icing on top saying ‘Happy 16th birthday!’. Probably Gojo’s idea. He’d been quite delighted—Gojo, that is—and the waitress had been very kind and attentive, so he’d followed Nanami’s lead and mangled his slice a bit, to give the impression of enjoyment, and placed a napkin over the top.
‘Me too!’ Yuuji said emphatically. For what it was worth, he had finished his whole slice and gone back for more. ‘What’s in the bag?’
Megumi blanched. Under the pleasant illusion of just being in Yuuji’s room to chat, he had all but forgotten it was there. Yuuji was craning his neck, trying to look inside.
‘Nothing,’ Megumi said, closing his fists around the top of the bag.
‘Oh, yeah?’
‘It’s nothing.’
Yuuji shrugged. ‘If it’s nothing, I’ll kick you out and go to sleep.’
That would undoubtedly be the less mortifying course of action. Appear in the doorway, sit on Yuuji’s bed for five minutes, leave. Let Yuuji think he was toting the bag around like some kind of talisman or something. It was preferable to him knowing the truth.
‘It’s really nothing. It’s just a stupid thing. I can take it back if you don’t like it.’ Before it was too late, he thrust the bag in Yuuji’s direction. ‘Happy birthday, I guess.’
‘Huh?’ Yuuji sat up. ‘It’s for me?’
‘Obviously…’
‘Jeez, Fushiguro… but you already got me something, didn’t you?’
‘Yeah, but that was from everyone. Idiot.’
Megumi looked away as Yuuji tore into the bag, as if something gruesome was unfolding before him. Yuuji pulled out the flat box and tossed the bag onto the ground, forgotten, which served it right for the way it had terrorised Megumi earlier. Like ripping off a bandaid, or dying, it was over in a matter of seconds. Yuuji opened the box.
He cocked his head, frowning. ‘What the hell?’
Megumi began to formulate a plan to relocate overnight to the Kyoto school. Actually, that wasn’t far enough. Perhaps Yuta could put him in touch with that sorcerer in Africa. ‘I told you, it’s nothing—just give it back and I’ll return it—’
Yuuji snatched the box away from Megumi’s lunge. He shuffled up to the head of the bed, tucking his knees up to his chin in defense. ‘Hey, let me look at it! Do you want me to have it or not?’
‘I don’t know,’ Megumi groused, but Yuuji wasn’t listening. The chain clinked softly as he lifted it out of the box, holding it up. It swung gently in front of his face. The light from the lava lamp reflected off the polished gold surface, shimmering across the wall.
‘Jeez, Fushiguro,’ Yuuji said again. ‘You didn’t have to get me this.’
‘I know.’ Megumi scratched at his neck. ‘I mean…it’s fine if you don’t want it. I didn’t know—there were…loads of different types. I didn’t know if that was the right one.’ Yuuji was looking at him now, and something in his expression struck Megumi dumb. He cleared his throat. ‘I kept the receipt.’
‘Can you put it on for me?’ Yuuji held out the chain.
Megumi took it from him, and Yuuji turned around so his back was to him. The room was so quiet; it seemed to Megumi that he was breathing so loud he’d wake the whole building up. He fumbled with the catch on the chain. If it were a curse he would have been dead ten times by now. It seemed to him a different sort of curse, how his hands shook now.
The clasp came open, and Megumi leaned forward on his knees to place the chain around Yuuji’s neck, willing the tremor out of his hands, but it was too late. He could only hope that Yuuji didn’t feel it. Megumi’s fingers brushed the back of Yuuji’s neck as he did the clasp up again. He felt the warmth of his skin and the tiny soft hairs there, like a peach that had been left in the sun. His mouth was so dry. He swallowed audibly.
Megumi leaned back. Well, there was no taking it back now. The lava in the lamp rose gracefully to the top of the globe, then fell to the bottom in one glutinous mass, as if with a sigh of relief.
‘Uh…well, yeah. That’s it. There’s no card or anything, so…’
Yuuji turned around. He was beaming. ‘Are you freaking kidding me, man? Get outta here! This is sick!’
‘Oh…cool.’
Yuuji seized his phone from the table, opening the camera and turning it on himself. He admired his reflection from a number of angles, turning this way and that, tugging at the chain with his thumb. ‘I look tough as hell!’
Megumi shrugged. ‘Tough’ wasn’t the word he had in mind, but as long as Yuuji was happy. His heart was pounding, he realised. He felt it in his fingertips.
Yuuji threw his phone onto the bed. He reached out and shoved Megumi’s shoulder. He was still beaming; it was that smile Megumi loved so much he thought he might burst, and it was so difficult to look at. ‘I can’t believe you got me this! It’s perfect! How did you know I wanted a chain?’
‘I dunno.’ Megumi had suddenly become very interested in his knuckles. ‘I just thought you’d like it. It looks—it suits you,’ he said, his voice so low he hoped it might get caught up in the hum of the fan.
Megumi winced internally when Yuuji didn’t respond right away. He half-hoped Yuuji actually hadn’t heard him after all. This —sitting on Yuuji’s bed in near-darkness, their knees almost touching now—had not been part of his plan. Any semblance of his plan now lay in tatters on the carpet along with the bag with the texture like fine paper.
‘I love it,’ Yuuji said after a long moment. Megumi couldn’t help it; his eyes darted up, and he saw what he was afraid to see: Yuuji looking right at him in that soft, terrifying way that made him certain Yuuji could see all the way down to his bones. If his heart had been in a frenzy before, it was positively maniacal now. A war the size and shape of a butterfly waged inside him—look away and preserve himself? Or look for as long as the moment would allow him?
Megumi held his gaze.
Yuuji appeared to have nothing left to say, but he made no move to signal to Megumi that the exchange was over. In some distant part of his brain, Megumi knew he ought to be making his exit now. The deed was done, the stupid bag and stupid box and stupid chain were out of his life now, and reason would dictate that he could now retreat to the safety of his own room, shut the door and forget about the whole thing, like leaving the exam room after some dreaded test. Even more so, since it had apparently been a success. But he, too, stayed put. For some reason, he noticed the rise and fall of Yuuji’s chest beneath his cotton t-shirt; it seemed more pronounced than it had before, like he’d just taken a brisk walk around the block, but of course neither of them had moved.
‘Um,’ Yuuji said. His voice sounded far away, or perhaps he was just very quiet, quieter than Megumi would have thought possible were he not mere inches away. Yuuji’s gaze, for a moment so fleeting Megumi certainly could have imagined it, moved to Megumi’s mouth. In much the same way—as if it were coming from somewhere outside himself—the realisation struck Megumi that perhaps something monumental was about to happen.
‘Yeah, so, anyway,’ Megumi said, snapping his eyes to the corner of the room. He got up from the bed as if had turned to a pit of snakes and began hurriedly gathering the pieces of packaging scattered on the floor, heart thudding wildly. ‘Glad you like it. I’ll see you in the morning, yeah?’
So determined to look at Yuuji only moments ago, Megumi now directed his gaze anywhere else. A metre away on the floor was the turntable everyone had got him, removed from its box and plugged into the wall, with a record already on the platter. Surrounding it were the other records he’d been gifted, with the lyric booklets and inserts pulled out. Megumi pictured Yuuji sitting there on the floor, cross-legged, examining them all.
He heard Yuuji clear his throat from behind him. What a coward Megumi really was, not even being able to face him! ‘Yeah. See you in the morning, Fushiguro.’
Finally, at the door, hands clutched to his chest with torn-up cardboard, the woven handle swinging pathetically, Megumi turned. Perhaps it was to prove to himself that Yuuji was really there, and he hadn’t dreamed the whole thing. Yuuji was still sitting in the same place he had been, where their knees had been nearly touching, his face was still stained pink, and he was still looking at Megumi. He was smiling a small, odd smile, tugging absentmindedly at the chain. ‘Thanks, man. For this.’
‘It’s fine. Night.’
‘Night.’
Ten minutes later, even a half-hour later, Megumi could not convince his heart to relax. There was no noise from next door, no muffled sounds of music or chatter coming from Yuuji’s phone, so he supposed Yuuji had just rolled over and gone to sleep, unaware as he’d ever been of Megumi’s predicament. Good.
Perhaps it would take until the birds had started taking over from the crickets for him to fall asleep. It was alright. All of it was alright. They would go on like they’d always done. They’d have breakfast with Kugisaki the next morning, go on a mission and get black eyes and broken bones, and fall asleep in their identical beds with a wall between them. And when some pretty girl eventually caught Yuuji’s eye, it would be alright. Megumi was no dreamer. He had given Yuuji the chain, and it would sit flush against his skin, close to him even when Megumi couldn’t be.
Only when the sound of a Japanese bush warbler started to filter through the greenery surrounding the dorms did Megumi sleep, and he slept wholeheartedly. The whole thing had not, in the end, been the most terrible idea.