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When asked, his classmates have plenty to say: Fushiguro Megumi is a genius, surely. He’s cool, aloof, and he believes he’s better than everyone. The professor favors him because of his impeccable grades and quiet attitude. He’s pretty, but he doesn’t seem to look at girls much, so maybe he just isn’t the romantic type. Maybe he’s gay, or in a taboo love-triangle outside of university.
In reality, beyond the rumors that should have died out in Junior High, Fushiguro Megumi is a fool. He is not the university type. His grades are passing, sure, if mildly above average, but the classes get on his nerves, his peers are bothersome, and Gojo-Sensei has taken his near-constant overstimulation as permission to pester him relentlessly.
The source of his plight, however, does not lie in weak annoyances. His social reputations are not the cause of his foolishness, although they themselves could stand to be improved. The origins prove to be even more mundane than the university already is, albeit somehow equally as treacherous to navigate. His plight comes from here: where the rumors and reality mix together; Fushiguro Megumi is not the romantic type, he is almost painfully aloof, and he is an undeniable fool for a mediocre guy with a pretty smile.
He sits two rows ahead of Megumi, as does the majority of the class because Megumi chooses the very back and resigns himself to taking a mental nap per period anyway. His first excuse for staring is the hair— surely pink cannot be a natural color, even if he’s heard the guy insist that it is to anyone that tries to insinuate otherwise. Megumi isn’t going to argue because he’s clearly a regular attendee of the gym (and isn’t that a sight to behold as well. Short sleeves and tight shirts and what is he, a little schoolgirl? He might as well giggle and kick his feet at this rate, honestly) and likely could easily take him in a fight if he was unlucky enough to annoy the guy.
But he runs out of excuses eventually, and he doesn’t stop staring. It’s an extremely appealing back of the head, he reasons. Part of him wants to tug on the strands closest to the guy’s neck, and the other part tells him to stop.
The guy turns and smiles once and Megumi is going to die because it’s only just enough for Megumi to manage a glimpse of not-quite-white and slightly crooked teeth. Perhaps if he were a worse person, he would have been upset that the smile wasn’t directed at him, but also this guy is a stranger. And Megumi is nothing if not a fool, truly.
It takes him three weeks to learn his name— Itadori Yuji. It could have been sooner if only Megumi listened instead of his persistent ogling. It isn’t his fault, of course, because who isn’t looking at Itadori? He has nice hands, Megumi thinks, when he raises one of them to ask a question that has the girl beside him blushing into her hand.
This is the precise moment in which he actually listens: “Thank you, Itadori,” The girl says, and Megumi assumes that she’d been too embarrassed to have asked the question herself and subsequently been viewed as stupid. Itadori smiles again (he has such pretty teeth, too, which is crazy, because Megumi knows he’s gotten decked in the mouth before because the crooked alignment gives it away), nods his head, and Fushiguro Megumi is a fool because Itadori has nice hands, a nice smile, and a nice soul.
“Shut up, Kugisaki.” His head rests on his arms, face down and voice muffled as he pretends like the migraine building in the back of his head will simply go away if he ignores it. His notebook is currently being held captive by Nobara as she leans back in her chair on two legs, and he’s got half a mind to push her over. He doesn’t.
She huffs at him, and he feels an eraser bounce off the side of his head. “Just answer the question, where are all your formulas?” She snaps, and then goes back to flipping pages with more aggression than he thinks is necessary.
“Somewhere in the middle,” He groans, lifting his head just slightly to open his eyes and glare at her. “Or on my notecards, back in my dorm.” A lie, really. He’s got his notecards badly scotch-taped together in a stack in the front pocket of his bag.
“‘Kay, well, you need to learn how to label—”
It’s an unfortunate moment of attempting to roll his eyes that he catches sight of Itadori across the library, reaching up in an attempt to get a book from the second to last shelf. An extremely unfortunate moment, because Itadori’s shirt is stretched out and Megumi can just barely catch a glimpse of his abs, and he is so ridiculously fucked.
He blinks, and Itadori’s hand closes around the book he’d been reaching for. He tears his eyes away. Nobara, apparently, never notices his blatant gawking. “—Seriously, Fushiguro, this is unreadable.”
He closes his eyes again, willing the image of Itadori out of his mind. “I can read it fine,” He murmurs with mild frustration. He pushes his bag towards her with his foot, the headache growing. He gestures uselessly to what he thinks might be the front pocket, and listens to hear her rummage through it. “A please and thank you might do you well.” She blows a raspberry, but she does mutter a quiet ‘thanks, asshole’ directly after.
An hour passes, maybe. He wouldn’t know, it’s unclear if he took a nap or not. He can’t remember the time passing, anyway, and the tension in his head is only somewhat relieved. Kugisaki has settled into trying to cram his notes onto her own cards, with all four of her chair legs safely back on the floor.
He watches her for a minute, because she’s his only friend and he cannot get stuck drooling after Itadori again. She must feel his eyes on her, because she flips him off with one hand and doesn’t look up. He acquiesces, resigning to putting his head back on his arms and ignoring all his problems.
The problem stands: Megumi Fushiguro cannot stop staring. As apparent as this issue was before, it has not relented in the time after he left the library (bidding a tired and mildly irate Kugisaki goodbye) and every subsequent class period he shared with Itadori. It has in fact grown worse, since the guy seems to coincidentally be everywhere that Megumi did not expect— at the library (again and again and again, shouldn’t Megumi have learned by now? Itadori did not strike him as a book person, but stereotypes didn’t do anyone any good), at the campus coffee shop, his own dorm building.
In fact, that last one has consistently been the thorn in Megumi’s side after having realized Itadori lived there too. A coincidence, of course, but no less painful to try to handle. Because, as stated in every note written about him, Megumi is a fool.
“Oh— Fushiguro!”
A fool. He keeps his head down as he walks, hiking his bag higher up on his shoulder. Footsteps fall into sync with his own as he journeys towards the elevator. He does not turn to acknowledge the voice, for fear of meeting the eyes that he has spent far too many nights matching the perfect color code too from memory. An embarrassment, he knows he is. Truly.
“Come on, wait up!” Itadori calls out to him. Megumi does not turn, and he has half a mind to move even faster. Itadori’s voice comes out of breath as he catches up, which turns out to be a whole different issue that Megumi can’t think about right now.
Despite the head start that Megumi had received when entering the building before Itadori had noticed him, Itadori catches up quite easily by the time that Megumi reaches the elevator. Megumi does not acknowledge him as he reaches out to press the button for the fifth floor. Itadori blinks at him.
“Dude, are you like, mute, or something? Wait no, that’s mean,” He said, mumbling the rest of his words as a tone of pink (a warmer shade than even his hair— Megumi would know) creeps up his neck in embarrassment. “Sorry, that’s not what I wanted to say. Well, yes it is. Not like that though.”
“Itadori,” Megumi says finally, glaring sideways at the other guy as he shuffles awkwardly in place. Itadori shuts up under his scrutiny. “Get to the point.” Itadori blanches at the statement. Megumi wishes the elevator would go faster.
“We have— uh, English Lit together,” He says, rubbing the back of his neck as he speaks. The elevator jolts into motion, only shaking slightly as a result of the building’s age. “You sit in the back corner, don’t you?”
Megumi closes his eyes and wonders if somehow, this was Gojo-Sensei’s doing. There was no way Itadori could have known he was in that class, it wasn’t like they sat all that close to each other. And why would Itadori have any inclination to even look for him, much less know his name from it? It isn’t like they’ve spoken before (and this is reason number totally irrelevant for why Megumi Fushiguro’s crush on this boy is irrational and unfounded). “Yes.”
Unbeknownst to Itadori (he infers, based on what’s been mentioned a moment before), Literature is not the only class that they share. In fact, Megumi has spotted him in two of his other classes (odd, too. He wouldn’t have pegged Itadori as a political science type. Or philosophy, for that matter) from his vantage points around the rooms.
Itadori grins at his short response, looking reinvigorated by Megumi’s lack of shutting him down. Evidently, Itadori’s strong suit does not lie in him ‘taking a hint’. “Oh, awesome, I wasn’t actually sure, but Gojo-Sensei recommended you when I asked—“ Stupid, incessant, meddling guardian. “— and I need a good essay.”
Megumi blinks. “…You need what?” He asks, realizing that he was not, in fact, listening to Itadori’s entire speech. The elevator dings and the doors open to the fifth floor, but Megumi makes no move to step off yet.
“I need you to review my assignment.”
Surely this was a joke, he thinks. His grades are quite good in Literature, but he was sure there were others with higher ones. The girl beside him, for one. He knew she’d made full marks on her last exam. But maybe…“Fine, meet me in the library, tomorrow.”
Itadori nods. Megumi steps off the elevator moments before the door begins to close. “Oh— wait! What time—“ Itadori tries to say, but his words are cut off with resounding silence as the elevator begins to descend again. Itadori, perhaps, may be a fool as well.