Chapter Text
Megumi squinted against the sunlight shining directly into his eyes as he washed his hands. The ceramics studio faced west, its large front windows allowing the pale walls to be lit up in a warm glow each sunset — Megumi liked watching it fade to a cool dark blue while he cleaned up after classes. He wiped his hands on his apron, and turned at the sound of his students squeaking their wooden stools against the floor as they began to get up and file out of the studio.
“Bye Mr. Fushiguro!” one of the boys called, swinging his bag over his shoulder and following his mom towards the front door.
“I told you guys to stop with the formalities” Megumi mumbled, knowing it was pointless.
He’d been running ceramics workshops since his first year of college, moving between more casual paint-and-sip nights to advanced glazing to beginner’s wheelthrowing, awkwardly comforting 40-year-old women when they pulled their cylinders of clay up with too much force the first time around. He only took up his first youth classes last year, after Yuuta graduated and left the studio behind to pursue an MFA abroad. Megumi wasn’t the only one worried about how his demeanor would pair with a bunch of elementary school personalities — where Yuuta was patient and smiley, Megumi was tolerant at most, his praise only offered in the form of silent nods — but the studio was pleasantly surprised with the odd combination.
The kids found Megumi’s blunt nature unthreatening, his skill impressive, and his nonchalance encouraging. Megumi liked how honest the kids were, how they laughed instead of complaining each time a bowl accidentally collapsed onto the bat of a wheel and chased each other with hands coated in slip, ready to get it all over their clothes. They had no ideas that were too big — unless they were physically, truly too big for the studio’s kiln — asking Megumi if it was possible to sculpt a cat that breathed fire or their own father as a brain-eating zombie (a personal favorite idea of his). The scenes reminded Megumi of his early days running around the studio with his sisters, Tsumiki, Mimiko, and Nanako, splattering a rainbow of glazes over pinch pots and collecting clay dust across their cheeks, waiting for Geto to gently chastise them from his seat at the wheel in the corner.
It wasn’t a family business by any means — Tsumiki now the only one to come in occasionally and create a few mugs as gifts for friends and coworkers — but Geto’s ceramics studio was as familiar to Megumi as the house he, for the most part, grew up in. Megumi learned how to wedge clay before he knew how to ride a bike.
Much to Megumi’s disappointment, the bell at the front door chimed, disrupting the kind of quiet that only came after class was out, and a familiar copper head entered the space.
“Hey loser,” Nobara called in a cheerful greeting, “stick any kids in the kiln today?”
“Nah, but one of them took a look at your shelf and asked if you thought the studio was for making weapons and not pottery.”
Nobara took a seat at her station, framed by a few rows of work in various stages. She started renting a shelf from the studio two years ago, Megumi unable to shake her off after meeting in a ceramics course and making the regrettable decision to introduce her to his cousin — and her now-long-term girlfriend — Maki.
While she didn’t plan on pursuing it full-time, Nobara had developed a distinct style while working at the studio — begrudgingly, Megumi had to admit her pieces were nothing but cool. She detailed her mugs, bowls, and small charms with intricate floral carvings, spikes coated in metallic glaze, and bold washes of earthy pinks that quickly made her a fan favorite at local markets as a weekend vendor. Megumi was fond, if not envious, of how well her creations reflected her personality. A constant thorn in his side, Nobara was also his closest friend.
“Liar, you know they ogle my stuff every time they come in. I’d take that as a compliment, anyways.”
Megumi shrugged and grabbed a large broom from the studio’s corner of cleaning supplies, wanting to finish closing up before Nobara had the chance to complain, loudly, about how hungry she is after her night class. She was in the middle of getting her MBA in fashion management from the university, excited to become some sort of cut-throat CEO in the design industry. Megumi shivered at the thought of anyone ever having to work under her.
“So…” Nobara began, clearly trying to delay whatever news she was about to break.
“So what..?” Megumi asked, eyes narrowing into suspicion. Nobara didn’t pause before saying anything unless she knew it was a bad idea — which, according to her, she rarely had. She took a deep breath before beginning.
“So there’s this guy in my management class and he’s working on remodeling his family’s cafe — and the story is actually weirdly touching — and he’s trying to revamp the menu and design and everything and, anyway, he needs new dishware sets! So I gave him your number and I told him you’re open for commission,” she said all at once, bracing for impact when she finished.
“No.”
“But Megumi, he-”
“No, no. Are you insane? That would be a huge project, I’m alr-”
“Megumi. No offense…well, maybe some offense…but it’s not like you’re really busy making anything else. Classes don’t count. I just thought you could use something to finally get you out of your funk! Forgive a girl for trying.”
Right. My “funk,” Megumi thought to himself. “Funk” referring to the last eight months he’s sworn off sculpting — you know, the thing he thought he wanted to do for the rest of his life. No big deal, just a funk.
“I’ve been filling smaller dishware commissions for the studio this entire time, genius. Hasn’t changed anything.”
“I know, I know. Listen, you should still meet with him. He doesn’t want just any old, boring set of plates and mugs. He’s really trying to do something special, creative.”
“So you recommended that he come talk to me, the ceramicist that’s been unable to fire anything except for a million sets of old, boring plates and mugs for the past few months,” he deadpanned. “Maybe you should rethink your business degree.”
“Whatever. I don’t need to convince you, he’ll be able to do it himself. Just agree to a consultation,” Nobara finished. “Can we go now? I’m starving.”
Megumi sighed, poured his dustpan into the trash, and moved to grab his bag, unhooking the studio keys from the belt loop of his pants to lock up behind them.
“Who even is this guy? What’s so special about this cafe?”
“Like I said dumbass, you just need to talk to him. His name is Yuuji — Yuuji Itadori.”
The name rolled around in Megumi’s head the entire bike ride home after dinner, his headphones prematurely dead and unable to distract him with their usual repertoire of deafening music.Yuuji Itadori. He imagined him as older and overly confident, how Nobara described the majority of students in her general management courses. He doesn’t know anyone his age looking to run an entire cafe at the moment. The options for twenty-something-year-olds that Megumi has observed include an unemployed gap year, month-long abroad benders, entry-level jobs they had to go through six rounds of interviews for, or avoiding all of those options in favor of earning another (debatably useless) degree. And, of course, Megumi’s own: avoidance, part-time employment.
He flicked the living room light on as he walked into his two-bedroom apartment, slipping his shoes off at the front door. Kuro, then Shiro right behind him, excitedly approached for attention. For the sake of their lungs — and the dozens of extremely breakable pieces lining the studio walls — Megumi is forced to leave the pair at home each day. Luckily, Tsumiki’s been on summer break from her position as a middle school teacher this past month, readily available to dote on their childhood dogs whenever they pleased.
“Welcome home,” his sister murmured, hunched over their kitchen table. Her small plate of dinner looked long forgotten, pushed to the side in favor of pages upon pages of lesson plan drafts.
“You’re turning into even more of a hermit than I am,” Megumi tsked. “Eighth grade literature is so difficult you lost your appetite over it?”
“There’s no need to be rude Megs, especially when you can clearly see me having the worst possible time of my life,” she replied, her face sinking down straight into the pile of papers in front of her.
But Tsumiki never stayed down for long. She took a deep breath and popped her head right back up, chin to table. “Let’s watch a movie. How were your classes? I’ll make popcorn.”
“Same as always. I can make it, stay there.”
Megumi didn’t know if it was something in his walk over to the kitchen cabinets, or the force he used to close the microwave, but like always, Tsumiki caught wind of the thought still occupying most of his mental energy.
“Okay…and what else happened that you don’t want to talk about?”
While he couldn’t see it, too busy looking for their biggest bowl, he could practically feel the knowing smile develop on her face — she was smug. With Tsumiki, he’d learned to take the path of least resistance. She would always figure it out anyway.
“Kugisaki. She wants me to take a commission for this guy in one of her classes, for an entire cafe. I don’t even know how many pieces that would be, and I don’t even know this guy. Apparently he’s looking for something special? Unique? I have precisely zero information about it.”
“Megumi, an entire cafe? That could be huge! Can you imagine…going there and knowing that you made every single piece? Hundreds of people using something that you made, only you!” Tsumiki exclaimed, eyes big and bright.
“You know I don’t care about that kind of thing,” Megumi scratched the back of his neck. “He doesn’t want- I don’t think I’m the right person for it right now.”
“Hey,” Tsumiki’s voice softened. “You know that stoneware is all you’ve been making recently. If anything, you’re exactly the right person. I know that you might feel…it’s not sculpting, Megumi. Just because you’re not doing that right now doesn’t mean you don’t still know how to be creative. If that was true, your classes would suck, right?”
Megumi knew that Tsumiki had a point. This was an opportunity, freely handed to him, that was perfectly within his capabilities. It wasn’t the task in front of him that was the problem, but what could come after. If it’s not a bunch of old, plain plates, if the commission is actually interesting enough to excite him, Megumi’s afraid he might begin to feel that old humming underneath his skin again. He might want to start sculpting.
Their microwave beeped just then, interrupting an inevitable spiral.
“Just think about it,” Tsumiki said, springing up from the kitchen table to head into the living room.
After finishing up two morning rounds of coil pot tutorials with twenty 9-year-olds, Megumi felt a bit all over the place. While he enjoyed his younger classes the most, the transition from a cacophony of non-stop, overlapping voices vying for his attention (Mr. Fushiguro, am I doing this right? How do I attach this part? Why does mine look so ugly?) to dead silence is always jarring. Luckily it was noon, meaning he had a little over an hour to readjust before his next class.
Sitting at his personal throwing station and gazing out of the studio’s big windows, Megumi paid no mind to the chime at the front door. Tsumiki was filling in at Geto’s crowded front desk today, meaning she’d be able to handle whoever was coming in to inquire about classes or pick up an order from their online shop.
“Hi, so nice to meet you! I called earlier, they said to come in at noon? Or, you said to come in at noon, I guess? Sorry,” the voice said, sounding a bit out of breath. “I had a meeting right before this so I kind of ran over. It looks so awesome in here, by the way.”
The voice let out a light chuckle, warm and filled with something Megumi could only identify as wonder, so much so that he finally turned his head towards the sound.
The voice was a man. Megumi saw his side profile: a dimple, a crinkled eye, a sturdy jawline, a bead of sweat on his temple. He looked around Megumi’s age. It looked like his hair was a dusty pink. Megumi blinked to double check.
“Thank you, I’m really glad you were able to come in,” his sister giggled in response. “Megumi can probably give you a little tour. I’m Tsumiki, nice to meet you.”
“Itadori Yuuji, nice to meet you. So Megumi is…” he began, fully turning towards the larger part of the studio space, where the windows were, where Megumi had just stood up straight out of his seat, awkwardly, mouth agape. He was going to kill Tsumiki.
“This is him! It’s about time for my lunch break, so I’ll leave you guys to your consultation.” From behind Itadori, Tsumiki put her two small hands together in a mock prayer, mouthed a worthless and desperate “I love you,” grabbed her purse, and slipped out the front door.
Itadori, oblivious to the entirely awful exchange, walked closer and closer to where Megumi was standing, stretching his hand out towards him in greeting. He was wearing a light blue button up, rolled at the sleeves and tight above his elbows, collar undone. Megumi couldn’t make direct eye contact yet.
“Kugisaki has told me a lot about you, hi. It’s Fushiguro, right? And Megumi is your first name?”
Thankfully, Megumi had enough life experience to turn on autopilot and try to push down his surprise. He blinked, cleared his throat, and shook Itadori’s hand. It felt oddly formal. His grasp was warm, maybe a little sweaty. Or Megumi’s hand was sweaty. Megumi’s hand was dirty, he quickly realized.
“Oh- my hand is…there’s some clay, sorry.”
“Hey, no worries! I’m in a ceramics studio, aren’t I?” And there was that carefree laugh again, only this time with a grin to match it, lit up by the sun coming in through the windows.