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Anticipating Fushiguro, Nobara sits in the common room, a freshly brewed mug of tea clasped between her small, calloused fingers. She pinches the teabag string, removing it, not wanting her tea to get bitter. She stands abruptly, nervously shuffles over to a waste bin, and drops the offending teabag inside, letting the lid close with a firm slam. She catches sight of herself briefly on the kettle’s silver surface, and the distortion makes her feel self-conscious. She lifts a finger, wiping away at the lip gloss stain hiding in the small crease that forms whenever she smiles or frowns. She pats down stray hair, adjusts her eye patch, removes a little bit of sleep from her eye and blinks, separating some of the dark lashes on her bottom lid. She returns to her seat and chews on her lip.
It’s 8 pm on a Friday, and she is sitting in the common room in one of her nicer dresses, still casual enough not to arouse suspicion, but certainly the kind of thing someone wears when they are trying to make an effort. As she aged, she noticed that she had finally started attracting a lot of attention, even with the eyepatch. When she walked, she took extra care to swish her hips, and either walked too slowly that those who spectated could get their fill, or as quickly as a comet, burning herself into their memories as that beautiful woman who zipped by one day. She would be the first to admit that she was vain; in fact, she was proud of it. She took immense pride in her appearance– always making sure that she turned heads. Naturally, the eyepatch and the scars from years and years of training meant that she received plenty of attention, both good and bad.
Is it cool if Itadori and I take this mission alone?
Cool. It was more than cool. He’d asked her yesterday, while she was bent over at the water fountain; she hadn’t even had time to finish before she found herself letting out a muffled whatever. He’d walked away almost instantly, before she could say anything more– his wide shoulders stiff and firm as a mountain range. He’d asked her as he’d already made the decision for her– you aren’t coming. She couldn’t decide whether she despised or admired his resoluteness, his ability to calmly advance an agenda like a well-seasoned politician; striking quickly and sharply like a seabird to pluck her, she’d be in midair before she realised she wasn’t happily swimming along. He was being strange about missions recently, almost conspiratorial. He and Itadori spoke in hushed voices whenever she was around, like the old women who gathered on their porches on sundown back in Iwate, recounting the day's gossip and disappointments. Shifty eyes, a hand cupped above the lip in case a talented lip reader was passing through town– the sudden change in the boy’s demeanour left her utterly deflated.
After an uneventful day, at around 5 pm, she had been so agitated by the heat and the sinking feeling that she was missing out that she’d sent Megumi an admittedly horrible text message, so bad that she couldn’t even bring herself to open her phone. She’d called him a string of expletives, and had ended it with the mother of all loaded statements– probably would have been easier for you if I’d died in Shibuya, huh. I slow you two down, right? Is that it? He’d opened the message, left her on read for an hour before sending a simple short message.
Common room, 8:30– we need to talk.
Curt, vague and detached– it was the exact sort of message she hated. She’d stared at it for twenty minutes before taking a cold shower.
What was it that they needed to talk about?
Was it the fact that she broke the spines and dog-eared the pages of all of the books he’d been quietly leaving outside of her door over the past six months? Neither of them had ever acknowledged it; she’d said something about wanting to read more, and the books had appeared a few days later. When she finished them, she returned them to him, piling them neatly outside of his room– soon enough, more would appear outside of her door.
She tore through the novels, leaving little notes in the side-lines, marking her territory. He never offered any complaint, happy to take the books. His nonchalance exhausted her.
Now she waited, with strange feelings bounding up inside of her, piling up high like firewood. She had nothing to say to him, and couldn’t possibly imagine what he had to say to her. Perhaps they would sit in silence for a quarter of an hour before he realised that trying to understand each other was futile. She had been quick to judge him for his decision to exclude her, and he hadn’t risen to her challenge, reacting calmly in a way which made her rage to no end.
“You look sad.” She hears a voice- Itadori’s. He’s leaning on the doorframe, peering down at her with a knowing smile.
So they’re back. She thinks, biting her bottom lip, only just managing to conceal her rage. She’d been waiting here for ages, and Megumi had likely retreated to his room instead of immediately coming to face her.
“I’m not,” Nobara says. “I’m angry–”
“You’re always angry,” Itadori laughs, wrapping his knuckles against the firm oak doorframe “I know what you look like when you’re angry, and I’m telling you that you’re not– you’re sad, Kugisaki.”
She cursed beneath her breath. Were all men this emotionally obtuse? Here she was, sitting around, face made up in a pretty dress. Yes, she was moping around, but Itadori didn’t have to say it.
“It wouldn’t have anything to do with Fushiguro, would it?” Itadori says, and he’s got her pinned down. She’s trapped like a deer in the headlights; she fumbles her words, her tongue flaps around in her mouth like a fish on the deck of a sailing boat. A wave of hot embarrassment rises up through her body, and she’s on fire with anger.
“No–I– it has nothing to do with— ugh you’re so–”
“He isn’t very good with words,” Itadori laughs. “You two have that in common–”
“Shut up,” Nobara hisses, slouching down in her chair, posture admitting defeat.
What’s up with you and Fushiguro? Itadori had asked her that a couple of weeks ago, when they’d been sitting in her room studying into the early hours of the morning. She’d only invited him, in truth, to make Fushiguro a little bit jealous, because he’d refused to help her study– in fact, he’d almost completely ignored her when she’d bumped into him and made a little joke under her breath about how clumsy he was, and he’d ignored the little pink blush which had settled over her cheeks when she’d asked if he wanted to come to her room to ‘study’-- no, she really meant to study at the time, because she was sure she was going to fail that test and she almost did, because Itadori was the world's best gossip and the world’s worst study partner.
It didn’t even make Megumi jealous; that was the worst part. He’d stood, curtly told both of them to enjoy and not to bother him if they had any questions, because they needed to learn their lesson and he was sick of them mooching off of his notes the night before every big test. He looked at her boredly, like the thought of another man being in her room didn’t bother him– because why would it bother him?
It hadn’t helped that recently she’d felt herself become ravenously jealous whenever he interacted with Kurusu, something that was making her despise herself. It wasn’t limited to Kurusu, but any woman. She’d watched him pull Miwa out of harm's way the other day, and felt her throat tighten. Megumi didn’t seem to care, and today, he had tossed her aside like an old toy.
“Is Fushiguro….” Nobara cleared her throat; maybe he was injured? That would be a better explanation for his absence. Threat of death was the only excuse she’d accept if he palmed her off tonight.
“Single?” Itadori says, waiting for the end of a sentence that never comes.
“Injured you, idiot.”
“Oh, right, of course,” Itadori says dumbly, blinking. “Not physically–”
Itadori removes his hand from the doorframe, letting it rest on the left side of his chest, over his heart. Nobara flinches; she wasn’t there to see Sukuna rip Itadori’s heart out, but she thinks about it frequently– the size and shape of it, its rawness. She wonders what Megumi’s heart looked like– she had felt his soul once, briefly. It was surprisingly warm, like a gentle sun on a winter’s day.
“His wounds are emotional–”
“Is he mad at me?” Nobara says. “Look, I get that I went a bit overboard but he started it– who does he think he is, telling me what missions I can and can’t go on–”
“It wasn’t like that–”
“If you two think I’m a weakling, you can just tell me to my face, alright–”
“I don’t think you’re weak,” Itadori says.
She flinches again, confidence shaken from her exclusion from today’s mission.
“So Fushiguro thinks I’m weak then,” She says, voice barely audible.
“No– it wasn’t that,” Itadori says, shaking his head profusely. “Jeez, Nobara, you always think the worst of people,”
Then what is it, she thinks, her entire body set on edge.
“How would you feel if it were you?” Nobara says. “Actually, don’t answer that– it just wouldn’t happen to you, would it?”
“Look, it was nothing personal; we just needed some ‘guy time’– all right?” Itadori mumbles. “You know, to talk about man stuff,”
“Yeah, because those bristles on your chin you call a beard totally scream ‘man’, right?” Nobara says, eyeing the shocking scruff of peach fuzz which has gathered on Itadori’s chin. He brushes his thumb against his cheek self-consciously.
“Harsh,” Itadori sighs. “Look, I’m sorry that you took it weirdly, but we didn’t mean to–”
“Cut me out, right?” Nobara sighs. “Seriously, what could the two of you losers possibly be talking about that’s so important that you’d deprive me of a mission, huh?”
“Well…..you for starters...” Itadori says sheepishly.
She raises her brows with mock surprise.
“So it is about me–”
“Yes, but– well, not but– not in the way that you—”
Abruptly, Itadori is pulled out of the doorway; a pale hand grips his shoulder and pulls him back. He stumbles, regaining his bearings. In the doorway stands Megumi, shoulders drawn, looking serious as ever, undereyes draped in shadow like he’s been losing sleep picking his mind over some great problem.
“That’s enough,” he mutters.
“You’re late,” Nobara says, through gritted teeth.
“I know,” Megumi says, voice soft. “I’m sorry.”
Itadori’s eyes flick between them, his mouth opens into a soft ‘o’, and he slowly slips away.
Her body slows, each breath rises slowly through her body like bubbles of air attempting to reach the surface. He stares at her for a few moments before pulling out the chair opposite her and sitting down, crossing his arms over his chest. His jaw is taut, and his mouth twitches. He attempts to speak, his mouth just beginning to form the words, but each time nothing spills out.
“I–I uh–”
“What–”
“Sorry I–”
“I don’t have all–”
“You look like you have something to say–”
“You go first,” She says expectantly.
He looks at her like she’s just suggested they drown a litter of newborn kittens, a look of sheer horror, which, as usual, is muted when it comes to him. Aside from anger and disgust, the rest of his moods are rather muted.
“I….” He says.
“You….” She starts. “You didn’t want me on that mission, did you?”
“I didn’t,” he confirms.
“Why?” She says.
“Umm….” He says, running a hand over his face. “Look, Nobara, can we not do this? Can we reset?”
“I want to know why you didn’t want me to come on that mission today,” She says, brow raised. She raises her leg and gives his shin a little kick under the table; he winces.
“I needed some space to think.” He says. “And it’s sort of impossible to think around you right now–”
“Okay?” She says.
“You’re difficult,” he says. “This is difficult; it’s–”
“Thanks,” She says dryly. “I’m sure every girl wants to hear that she’s ‘difficult’”
“You do,” Megumi says, tapping his fingers against the table in a steady rhythm. He’s nervous; that’s one of his tells. She examines the callouses on his fingers, pale and firm from the iron grip he has on his sword.
“Is there any point to this ‘talk’ or are you just going to insult me?” She says.
He stops tapping and slowly removes his hand from the table, letting it fall into his lap. He takes a long, deep sigh and shuts his eyes. She feels dismayed; all of this effort with the dress and the makeup, and he hasn’t said anything– not that he needs to; it wasn’t like they were anything– all that really existed was this funny feeling deep inside of her, her strange preoccupation with his whereabouts, her attempts to figure out his thoughts and feelings that he kept hidden away from her. Then it hits her, what guy talk really means, and her tongue is a fat fuzzy caterpillar in her mouth, and her head is full of cotton candy. The rush makes her feel like she’s a little bit high, and a giggle flies from her mouth, and she lifts both of her hands to catch it, pressing her fingertips against her lips to stop another foolish word or thought from slipping out.
And it’s nice to finally understand what she feels, but that’s only half the battle.
“Sorry,” She says through her fingertips. “I didn’t mean to–”
“I’m sorry about the mission,” He says. “But I don’t regret it. Things are a lot clearer now, Nobara I….”
What happens next is a blur. A metallic roar hums through her ears, and his lips form the words, but she doesn’t hear his voice, only her own heart thrumming in her ears. She sits, pale and shocked for a few moments. Feelings. She thinks, reconstructing his words. He has….feelings…for me? And before she can respond, her body takes action, answering for her, closing the gap between them with the light impress of her lips against his.