Archive of Our Own

Like most everything bad in Megumi’s life, this, too, was Gojo’s fault.

Everything had gone wrong two afternoons ago, the day after school let out for the summer.

The monsoon season had come late this year. Mid-July and the rain was still falling, unrelenting and unending. The drops clung to the humidity in the air, fat and heavy as they tumbled from the sky. It was the kind of weather that made hair flat and skin damp. The kind of thing everyone dreaded.

But Megumi loved the rain. Rain meant cancelled plans and fewer outings. The rain meant more days at home. And Megumi had no plans for his summer vacation but to spend it on the couch of Gojo’s air conditioned apartment, attending to his long-neglected reading list.

And that was precisely how things started, nothing but drinking tea and reading some sci-fi book he’d been putting off with the ac blasting. The perfect summer day. Or, it had been, until Gojo came home that evening, bursting in through the rain, his hair disheveled and his tie pulled loose and a terrifying grin on his face. Gojo smiling was never a good sign for Megumi.

Megumi had looked up from the couch, a distinct air of displeasing wariness circulating him.

“Megumiiii,” Gojo had sing-songed through a grin, plopping himself on the other end of the couch, right on top of Megumi’s socked feet. He could feel the dampness of the rain creeping into the cotton of his socks as he pulled his feet out from under Gojo’s butt. “I talked to Tsumiki today.”

Megumi kept his head bowed in his book. “How’s she doing?”

Tsumiki had just finished her first semester at university. Like the overachiever she was, she’d gotten some fancy research internship at her university down in Kyoto and was staying there for the summer. Which Megumi was a little sad about. Which he would never admit. Especially not to Gojo, who would inevitably tell Tsumiki.

“She’s good! They’re letting her stay in the dorms for the summer, so she doesn’t need to move her stuff. She said to say hi.”

“Cool,” Megumi said flatly.

Gojo leaned his head back over the couch, a stupidly long arm stretched over the backrest. There was an ever-so-slight smidge of a smile on Gojo’s lips that told Megumi he wasn’t spitting out what he meant to yet.

“We talked about you,” Gojo started.

And that was almost never a good thing. As if Gojo wasn’t already a massive nuisance on his own, Gojo and Tsumiki combined were one united force to drive Megumi insane with their nagging pedantic behaviors. Always dragging him out shopping, always asking if he had a crush on anyone at school.

“And, we were thinking—”

Megumi swung his feet off the couch, getting up with the shut of his book. “Whatever it is, I don’t want to be involved in it.”

But as Megumi turned to go back into his room, Gojo caught hold of his arm. Curse Gojo and his stupidly fast reflexes. As if he needed those for his boring ass desk job.

“Come onnnn, Megumi,” Gojo pleaded, hand clutching onto Megumi. “Just hear me out.”

Megumi shook his arm free from Gojo’s grip, crossing his arms as he shifted his weight to one judgmental hip. Hearing Gojo out wasn’t typically a good idea. Ever. Megumi finds himself doing it most of the time anyways.

“Okay. What.”

Gojo grinned at him, sitting up like an excited dog. “Well, Tsumiki and I were a little worried about you spending your whole summer like this,” he said, gesturing to the couch where Megumi had been laying all day. Megumi doesn’t really see anything wrong with using his vacation to rest, but he lets Gojo continue. “And she suggested that you try to learn something useful! And that had me thinking, what’s a useful skill, you know? And I was like—baking! What’s more useful than knowing how to make sweet treats, am I right? Think about how awesome it would be if you could make me desserts right here at home!”

“That sounds a little selfishly motivated,” Megumi muttered. But truthfully, Megumi knows it’s well-intentioned. He knows Gojo won’t ever bring it up, but since Megumi had decided to quit club baseball a few months ago, his life had gotten significantly… emptier. Which was fine. Because he didn’t particularly like baseball anymore anyways. But he’d yet to really fill the void it had left, and both Gojo and Tsumiki knew that.

“So I took the kind liberty of looking into some summer baking classes, and I found one at that cookware store at the mall! It has great reviews too—everyone says it’s perfect for beginners,” Gojo finished with a flourish of his hand.

Megumi just stared.

So,” Gojo said, dragging out the ‘o.’ “What do you think!”

“Absolutely not.”

Gojo crumpled back into the couch, a flat mess of long limbs and wrinkled clothes draping off the cushions. “Awww, come on, Megumi… Pleaseeeee?”

“No.”

“Just think about all the amazing treats you could bring home for me. And Tsumiki.”

“Go buy it yourself,” Megumi retorted with an annoyed squint of his eyes. “You’re literally a trust fund baby.”

Gojo pouted at him, and it was one of those moments Megumi couldn’t believe that this was the trusted adult in his life. “But it’ll taste better if it’s made with love, Megs.”

Megumi scoffed, gesturing at his own sour face. “Does it look like there’s gonna be any love in there?”

Gojo gave him his best sad-kicked-animal eyes, looking awfully personally butthurt about something he had, frankly, nothing to do with. “So you really won’t go? It’s just a week.”

“No.”

There was a beat of silence between them. Gojo opened his mouth. Then closed it. Opened it again.

“But Megumi,” Gojo started at last. “I already signed you up. And it was nonrefundable.”

“Do you really expect me to believe that?”

“I have proof! Look!” And sure enough, Gojo whipped out an email confirmation, the big highlighted block letters at the bottom reading: This purchase is nonrefundable.

Megumi groaned, dragging a hand down over his face. “You didn’t even ask me.”

“Because I knew you would say no.”

“Well, golly gee, if you knew that, why didn’t you put that information to use?”

Gojo just rested his chin in his hand, unperturbed. “I did! That’s why I signed you up.”

“There’s something seriously wrong with you up there,” Megumi said, tapping a finger to his head.

“Geto used to say that about me all the time, too,” Gojo sighed.

“Yeah, and he was right.”

“You wound me, Megumi,” Gojo said with a palm pressed over his chest in feigned hurt.

⟡

So that was how Megumi ended up here today—the sleeves of his shirt soaked through with sticky rain and his hair flattened against his forehead—standing in front of the cookware store at the mall. He groans to himself, dragging both his hands down the length of his face. His hands are slimy with humidity, and it leaves a dank feeling on his skin. He hates it, and it only adds to his determination to hate everything about this.

He knows it’s stupid, being distressed over a meaningless baking class like this. But it’s really the last thing Megumi would like to be doing right now when he could be at home, finishing a book or two, listening to the rain beat sideways against the windows of the apartment. They’re treasured moments of peace, really, when Megumi gets to stay home alone while Gojo is off at work. Gojo, who takes too much joy in making himself available to Megumi and Tsumiki. Gojo, who manages to do so despite working absurd hours. It’s annoying; Megumi appreciates it. He will never say so.

The young employee standing at the entrance of the store smiles brightly at him, and Megumi feels irked by her positivity. It’s unfair of him, really, but it’s just the blatant juxtaposition of her mood and his own right now.

“Hi, are you looking for anything in particular today?” she asks him.

Megumi rubs a hand over the back of his neck. This sucks. “Uh, just the cooking class thing—or baking, or whatever it was.”

“Oh, wonderful! You’re just on time,” she says with a clap of her hands, turning on her feet to lead Megumi into the store. “It’s right over here in our test kitchen. Itadori’s such a good baker. He brought in the most amazing fruit tarts the other week. And, he’s so sweet. You’re in great hands, trust me.”

The way she’s talking, Megumi would think she’s talking about her favorite celebrity and not her coworker, but he doesn’t think much of it, just nodding along. She drops him off in the test kitchen, tells him to find his nametag at one of the benches, and wishes him good luck.

Megumi feels incapable of emoting normally right now, and all he manages is a lame, “Thank you, uh,” he glances down at her nametag, “Ozawa-san.”

She just smiles at him, excusing herself politely with a bow.

It’s a reasonably sized room, with four big workstations organized around the instructor’s table in the middle. Ovens and sinks line all four walls. It has the smell of wood cutting boards and stainless steel, and it reminds him a little of Geto, who used to cook for him and Tsumiki sometimes when they were kids. That had been nice.

Megumi still doesn’t really know what happened between Gojo and Geto still. He was young when it all happened. But if Megumi had to demarcate the most pertinent of befores and afters in Gojo’s life, it was certainly before Geto and after Geto.

At some point, they were four: Gojo, Geto, Tsumiki, Megumi. They’ve just been three for a long time now. Gojo never talked much about it. Just smiled and told them not to worry. So Megumi and Tsumiki made a mutual agreement to never tell him they could hear him sniffling at night through the walls. It’s just how it is. Megumi kind of knows what it’s like to lose someone.

Megumi’s clearly the last the arrive to the class. Which he’s a little surprised by, considering he’s still a minute early. Not that that says much.

The workstations are two to a table, and all but one of them are already full. And to his chagrin, he makes direct eye contact with the girl by the empty spot, and she smiles at him so ominously that Megumi secretly hopes someone will faint suddenly and free up a different bench. But alas, no one seems to be fainting, and Megumi braves the walk of shame to his spot. With his luck, they’ll be stuck with the same partners all week.

As soon as he steps within a five foot radius of his benchmate, she extends a hand toward him.

“I’m Kugisaki,” she says. “And you’re?”

She’s not particularly tall, standing maybe half a foot shorter than Megumi with a blunt bob of medium brown hair. And apparently an equally blunt attitude to match it.

Megumi accepts her handshake stiffly. “Fushiguro. Nice to meet you.”

She smiles again (in a way that’s still giving Megumi the creeps) and puts her hands on her hips assertively. “Well, I’m looking forward to working with you for the next week, Fushiguro.”

The whole next week, Megumi internally groans. Outwardly, he just nods, lips drawn flat as he takes the standard issue apron that’s folded neatly on the countertop and starts tying it around his back. There’s a nametag too beside it that he pins to the front of his apron. It has his name scrawled on it in black marker, the handwriting of someone who tried to no avail to make it neat. Though Megumi can tell they definitely tried.

“Honestly, I thought you were gonna be a girl when I saw your name on the roster,” Kugisaki says suddenly, her hands busy tying her own apron around her neck. “That’s why I asked Itadori to put me with you. ‘Cause, well, everyone else on the roster appeared to be a boy. Or old.”

Megumi looks around, and she is indeed right. The class is a mix of old ladies and college-aged boys who are probably here to learn how to impress their girlfriends.

Megumi scratches his neck. “Oh, well. Sorry to disappoint, I guess.”

She does that creepy, plotting smile thing again (Megumi’s starting to think it’s the teeth) and shakes her head. “Oh, no, no, this is more than fine. Don’t worry.”

Megumi just blinks. He feels like he might know what she’s trying to imply, and if he’s right… well, this was gonna be a long week. Honestly, it might be best for him to disclose upfront that he’s not into girls like that, but somehow that seems like more personal information than he owes to a stranger.

“Okay…” is all he ends up saying.

But as if she’s read his mind, she suddenly shoots him a look. “I’m not hitting on you or anything though. I’m gay. Hope you’re not a fucking homophobe ‘cause you’re stuck with me.”

Megumi sighs. Maybe out of relief, maybe exasperation. He doesn’t know. He keeps his response to, “I’m not homophobic.”

Kugisaki just shrugs. “Cool. We’d have a problem on our hands otherwise.”

Megumi doesn’t say anything, just nods again. Kugisaki seems to talk plenty for the both of them. Seems nice enough though.

“Also,” Kugisaki starts again. “I’m not a creep or whatever. I’m Yuuji’s best friend, and I coerced him into letting me look at the roster. Itadori Yuuji, the instructor, I mean.”

“Okay,” Megumi replies, unsure if there’s supposed to be something more he should say to that.

“You don’t say much, do you?”

“Nope.”

“Eh, it’s fine,” Kugisaki says, smoothing out the front of her apron. “You’ll get used to me.”

Megumi sighs. It’s gonna be a long week.

Or maybe not.

Because at that moment, Megumi’s eyes are caught in pink hair and amber eyes.

“Oh, it’s Yuuji!” Kugisaki exclaims, slapping Megumi’s on the arm. He doesn’t think they’re quite close enough for that, but it’s a low priority matter right now.

Itadori Yuuji looks Megumi’s age, maybe an inch or so shorter, dressed in loose jeans and a white t-shirt beneath his apron. His pink hair is mussed from the roots, and it sticks up in odd directions endearingly.

“Hi, everyone!” Yuuji smiles.

Yuuji smiles. And Megumi thinks the world shifts on its axis a little. That the sun has gone a little paler in the face of crescent eyes. And if Gojo had before Geto and after Geto, then Megumi thinks maybe he has crossed that border between before Yuuji and after Yuuji.

Which feels crazy. Because Megumi has seen this boy for less than thirty seconds now. Maybe this week will not be so bad.

He can barely hear the words coming out of Yuuji’s mouth now. A jumble of introductions and greetings and ice breakers drowning in amber glow. An elbow jabs him in the ribs. Kugisaki nudges her chin at the center of the room where Yuuji is. And Yuuji is looking at him. Yuuji is looking at him. Yuuji is looking at him.

“Your turn to introduce yourself for us, Fushiguro!” Yuuji gestures towards him.

Fushiguro. It sounds nice rolling off Yuuji’s tongue. Megumi thinks maybe he should be institutionalized.

Another elbow to his ribs reels him in.

“Uh, yeah, sorry,” Megumi stumbles out. “I’m Fushiguro. Nice to meet you all.”

“And tell us what brings you to class this week!” Yuuji adds, and his eyes bore through Megumi’s chest, clear and bright. His thoughts go tumbling down his neural pathways like loose pebbles.

“Ummm, I like… baking?” he hears himself say.

“Well, that’s awesome, Fushiguro! I’m excited you’re here,” Yuuji says with a grin and such authenticity Megumi thinks Yuuji might genuinely be excited that Megumi, in particular, is here. “Hope you’ll learn a trick or two more this week!”

Megumi’s brain processes the words it just spit out a few seconds too late, and Megumi has never wished his shadow could swallow him whole right then and there so much. Because, well, fuck. Megumi’s never touched a fucking measuring spoon before in his life. Except that one time he helped Tsumiki bake a cake for Gojo’s birthday. Even then, she’d mostly relegated him to just fetching ingredients from the cupboard and washing the dishes. So basically, Megumi is fucked.

“Well, I think that’s everyone!” Yuuji says with a clap of his hands. “Full disclaimer, this is my first time teaching this class, so I’ll be figuring things out right alongside with you.” He pauses. “Actually, that makes me sound like I don’t know what I’m doing. I do know what I’m doing, don’t worry. I know I look young—well, I am young, I’m still in high school,” The room chuckles and so does Itadori, and Megumi thinks his chest might burst. “But my grandfather ran a bakery, and I’ve been helping there since I could walk. So trust you’re in good hands!”

Yuuji starts laying out a bunch of stainless bowls on his countertop. “So, as you might have guessed from the recipe sheet on your benches, we’re going to be making butter cookies today! Since it’s the first day of the class, we’re going to start with something that really helps you nail down the basics of baking. They look pretty unassuming, but these were actually one my grandpa’s favorites from the bakery.” He cups a hand around his mouth like he’s telling a secret. “Don’t tell him, but I stole this recipe straight from his cookbook.”

A couple of the old ladies in the room chuckle, and Megumi can tell they’re charmed by Yuuji’s cheesy charisma. Who is he kidding, Megumi is just as smitten.

“Okay, so first we’re going to measure out the butter…”

The first hour of the class starts smoothly. Well, as smoothly as it could be. Kugisaki laughs at him for a solid twenty seconds when he starts whisking the butter before demonstrating to him how to properly cream butter and sugar.

(“Are you sure you like baking?” she asks.

“Shut up.”)

He thinks he gets the hang of it pretty quickly, until she has to show him how to fold the flour into the dough without it flying everywhere. So, barring the evil cookie dough, Megumi thinks there’s hope for him to not make a complete fool of himself in front of Yuuji.

Once the dough’s been shoveled into a piping bag (which took Megumi a couple of tries to get the tip fitted right), Yuuji demonstrates how to pipe fun squiggles and flowers and pretzel shapes with the dough, and this is where things go really wrong.

Megumi tries. He really does. But it seems that even the old ladies with their shaking hands and arthritic joints are doing better than he is at piping neat shapes. He does feel slightly vindicated that Kugisaki’s cookies don’t look particular nice either. Although she seems to have resorted to creating strange likenesses of Itadori out of the dough on her tray.

Megumi’s mid-swirl (if it could even be called that), when Yuuji sticks his head into Megumi’s view. It makes Megumi jump a little, breaking his trail of cookie dough.

“Oh, this part is sometimes tricky,” Yuuji says with a grin. “Want some help?”

Megumi stares dumbly at him, still mindlessly squeezing the piping bag as dough falls out of the tip unceremoniously. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

Yuuji grins, scooting himself right up next to Megumi. “Okay, let’s see.”

Suddenly, there is a hand over Megumi’s, wrapping around the base of the piping bag—warm and a little calloused. The sides of their arms are touching now.

“Sorry, do you mind if I just—“ Yuuji takes an arm around Megumi’s back, wrapping it around his waist so he’s got both hands over Megumi’s on the piping bag and Megumi trapped in between his arms.

Megumi is sure his face is the same color as the pink hair poking at his ears right now, and he hopes Itadori can’t hear the deafening pounding in his chest right now because this is insane. He can see Kugisaki very not subtly staring at them from her side of the bench, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Megumi doesn’t know what her deal is. It’s not important right now, not when—

“Okay, just follow my lead.” Yuuji readjusts his hands on top of Megumi’s, their grip firm and sure. His voice is gentle in Megumi’s ear. “You want to apply a steady amount of pressure, not too strong and not too light, and then move the bag back and forth like this.”

It happens so quickly, so effortlessly. There’s a perfect swirl on Megumi’s tray now. It looks strange and out of place next to the clumsiness of Megumi’s previous handiwork. And just as quickly, the warmth on his hands vanishes. As does the warmth around his back. It leaves Megumi reeling.

“Here, now you try on your own!” Yuuji says, stepping off to Megumi’s side again, unaware of this disaster of a rollercoaster he’d just taken Megumi’s heart on.

Megumi’s hands shake ever more now as he readies the piping bag for a new swirl. Everything about it is wrong—the pressure uneven, the shape lopsided—but Yuuji claps him on the back anyways when he finishes off the shape.

“Nice! You’re getting the hang of it!” he says with such enthusiasm that Megumi thinks he might genuinely mean it. “The trick is having confidence in your piping. It’ll come out way smoother that way.”

Megumi nods stupidly, standing up straight to stretch his hunched back. “Thanks for your help, Itadori-sensei.”

“Nah, just Itadori is fine,” Yuuji says with a punch to Megumi’s shoulder. “We’re, like, the same age, right?”

Megumi feels the corners of his mouth lift into the beginnings of a smile. He tries his best to keep them down. He can’t look like that much of a loser already. “Okay, um, thanks, Itadori.”

Yuuji smiles at him. At Megumi. (Oh my god.) “No problem! Just wave me down if you need any more help—that’s what I’m here for!”

A weak “got it” is all that tumbles out of Megumi’s mouth as Yuuji turns away to go check on the other students.

The rest of the class passes in a blur, Megumi’s head mostly stuck in the lingering warmth of Yuuji’s skin. He feels like a fucking creep, staring at the backs of his own hands as he packs his malformed cookies into a tin.

⟡

Megumi goes home that evening, his tin of butter cookies held limply in his hand. He doesn’t even bother with his umbrella, the feeling of calloused hands over his knuckles enough to stave off the rain dripping down his shirt.

“Forgot an umbrella?” Gojo asks him when he walks in the apartment door. He’s settled on the couch with a comic book, peering over the rims of his glasses as Megumi shucks off his damp sneakers.

Megumi shrugs.

“Sooo, how’d it go?”

“Fine,” Megumi answers dryly, tossing his cookie tin onto the kitchen counter.

Gojo practically leaps off the couch. “Fine? Megumi, that is so much more positive than I expected!” Megumi just gives him a flat stare. Gojo grins anyways. “What’s in the tin?”

“Butter cookies.”

Gojo practically tears the lid off, picking up the one Yuuji had helped with off the top where Megumi had placed it carefully. “You made this yourself? I’m so proud of you, Megs.”

“I didn’t make that one,” Megumi mutters. “The instructor did.”

“Hm, yeah, I see that now,” Gojo says, observing the difference in quality of the rest of the cookies. “Well, it’s no matter! They’re all beautiful to me,” he insists, taking a bite out of one of Megumi’s deformed cookies. “And tasty!”

Megumi rolls his eyes. Sometimes Gojo acts like Megumi’s still six years old and bringing him home diagrams of his fucked up family tree from school. He doesn’t hate it entirely.

“Whatever,” Megumi says with a wave of his hand, turning to go to his room. “You can have them all.”

⟡

Tuesday brings bagels.

Yuuji shows them how to use the stand mixer to knead the dough, and it’s much easier having a machine do all the work rather than Megumi’s graceless hands. They proof the dough while they clean up their workspaces, and then it’s time to shape the bagels.

Megumi is good at following instructions, or so he thinks, at least. He’s copying the way Yuuji is rolling the dough out into thick strands and then wrapping it around his fingers to form the bagel shape. Yuuji uses his fingers to gently stretch the hole of the bagel to form a neat ring, and Megumi can’t help but observe how adeptly his fingers move through the dough.

Megumi does his best to follow along, and he does pretty well in his opinion. In fact, at some point, Yuuji even comes by to compliment Megumi’s hole-shaping skills (in those exact words). Kugisaki snickers, and Megumi swears he sees a pink flush blotch across Yuuji’s cheeks. Megumi’s no better though, the tips of his ears hot as he brushes it off with an awkward “thanks.”

(”He complimented your holes, Fushiguro,” Kugisaki says when Yuuji’s gone.

“Can you not.”

“Gee, you’re such a stick in mud, Fushiguro.”)

So even if Megumi’s holes are a little larger than Yuuji’s neat, tight ones, they do look like bagels. And Yuuji complimented them. So it’s a success, really.

⟡

The train gets stuck on the tracks for twenty minutes on his way to the mall on Wednesday, and Megumi should’ve taken that as an omen for the day.

Fifteen minutes late, he practically bursts into the classroom, a trail of sweat running down his spine from sprinting up the subway stairs. A few heads look up from their mixing bowls, and Megumi is suddenly self-conscious of how pronounced his breathing is right now. He’s definitely a little out of shape now that he’s not running laps around the baseball field five times a week anymore. And he would tag along to the gym with Gojo, but the last time he did that Gojo had spent half the time just fucking around with the machines and flirting with the receptionist. So, yeah, never again.

He sheepishly skirts over to his bench, tossing his apron haphazardly over his head. Kugisaki is whisking some yellow mixture in a pot over a portable cooktop next to him.

“Oh, look who finally showed up,” she says teasingly, not even bothering to look up from her task.

“Don’t even bring it up,” Megumi just groans, fingers fumbling with the strings of his apron.

Yuuji comes bounding over then, a grin beaming from his face. “Oi, Fushiguro, you made it!”

Megumi nods, his breath finally catching up with himself as he glances over at the recipe sheet. “Yup. Made it.”

“Hmm, let me help get you up to speed!” Yuuji rubs his hands together. “We’re starting with the custard for today’s fruit tarts, so we gotta start by separating the egg yolks and whites.” He smoothly cracks an egg open with one hand, dropping the viscous blob into one of his palms. “You’re just going to pass it back and forth super gently between your hands, until the whites separate from the yolk like this.”

Megumi watches the slick liquid drip between Yuuji’s fingers. It’s almost mesmerizing, the way the yellow bulb in the center slips off his fingers and into the bowl.

“You try now!” Yuuji invites, his hands held out, still sticky with egg.

Megumi chews down on his bottom lip in concentration as he cracks an egg into his hand, passing it between his fingers slowly the way Yuuji demonstrated. It’s cold and slimy, and the texture is honestly kind of gross. But Yuuji is watching earnestly over Megumi’s shoulder, and his warm breath against Megumi’s ear is not helping Megumi’s focus.

“Okay, I think one more pass, and you’ll be good,” Yuuji whispers in careful anticipation.

But the tickling sensation of Yuuji’s breath breaks Megumi’s focus once more, and one of his inept finger stabs the yolk.

“Oh, shit,” Megumi states dumbly, staring at the golden goop spilling over his fingers.

Yuuji’s hands are around his before he can process them there, guiding the dripping mess to the bowl before it spills onto the counter.

“All good!” Yuuji says with a shake of his head. “It happens all the time. Let’s just—” Yuuji tugs a hand down around Megumi’s dripping fingers, sliding all the spilled yolk he can into the bowl. “There we go!”

“Thanks,” Megumi mumbles, the vestige of solid fingers wrapped around his own still ripe on his skin.

“I’ll get started on heating up the milk,” Yuuji says, wiping his hands on his apron. “Why don’t you just whisk in the cornstarch and stuff into the egg yolks.”

Megumi nods, reaching for the cornstarch as the tacky residue left on his hands grits his fingers together. He diligently adds the cornstarch, sugar, and salt to the bowl, whisking it carefully together. Yuuji comes over with a pot of steaming milk a moment later, pouring a dash of it into the eggs.

“This is called tempering the yolks,” Yuuji explains. “You ever make scrambled eggs?”

“Not really,” Megumi admits a little sheepishly. It’s not that he doesn’t know how (Okay, maybe he doesn’t know how), but Gojo hates plain eggs so it just wasn’t something they ever had around the house much.

Yuuji just blinks at him, eyes big and wide and brown. They seem so open, so trusting, so earnest. “You’ve never made scrambled eggs before, huh.”

He can hear Kugisaki snorting a few feet away. Curse her.

“It’s just,” Megumi tries to explain, “not really a thing we ate much growing up, I guess.”

Yuuji rubs a hand to the back of his head with an air of rumination. “Well, basically that’s what we don’t want to happen to our egg yolks. Because if we add the hot milk all at once, the eggs will scramble. So to avoid that, we just add a little bit at a time to temper it.”

Scrambled, over-easy, sunny side up, poached—it’s all basically the same to Megumi, but he nods along anyways like he knows what Yuuji is talking about. Because he may not know what Yuuji is yapping about, but it is something that’s coming out of Yuuji’s mouth. And Yuuji is, well, cool. Intriguing. Or at least the object of Megumi’s intrigue. So yeah, he’s trying to understand.

Yuuji helps him finish up the custard before he’s whisked away by one of the lame boyfriends on the other side of the room, who’d scrambled his custard. Megumi revels a little in the fact that his custard is perfect, actually. Not a scrambled egg in sight. Never mind that was mostly Yuuji’s doing.

He starts on the pâte sucrée next, cubing his butter into slippery cubes. He looks down at the recipe sheet that’s on the worktable for reference. The instructions say he’s supposed to “cut the butter into the flour mixture,” whatever the fuck that means.

“Kugisaki,” he asks, standing stupidly with his mixing bowl in one hand, the clumps of butter dropped unceremoniously in the bed of flour. “What does ‘cut the butter’ mean?”

She looks up at him from where she’s gathering her own pâte sucrée dough into a ball. “It means get a knife and cut the butter into cubes, idiot.”

Megumi still doesn’t quite think they’re close enough for her to be calling him an idiot, but he’s starting to come to terms with the fact that this is just her personality. “No, obviously I know that—”

“Do you actually, though?” Kugisaki cuts in with a raised brow.

Megumi grumbles, setting his bowl down on the counter with a blunt thud. “Yes, I do actually. What I’m asking is what does ‘cut the butter into the flour’ mean?”

Kugisaki peers over into his bowl, surveying what he’s got going on in there.

“Hmmm,” she starts, putting a hand on her hip. She turns away towards where Yuuji is helping another student.

“ITADORIIIII,” she yells. Everyone—literally everyone—turns to stare. “Fushiguro needs help with his pâte sucrée!”

There are several wishes that cross Megumi’s mind in that moment. One: A comet strikes planet Earth. Two: Time turns back five seconds, and Megumi knocks Kugisaki out. Or, three: Megumi has a heart attack right now and dies. Any of which would be a better outcome than what’s happening right now.

Yuuji looks over, a light wash of surprise over his face. “Um, yeah, I’ll be right over in a sec!”

Megumi groans, gesturing at Kugisaki’s perfect ball of dough in her bowl. “You literally could’ve just showed me,” he hisses. “What’d you call Itadori over here for?”

Kugisaki just sticks her tongue out at him with a shrug. “I’m doing myself a favor, loser. I’m tired of your insufferable ass blushing at him all the time. Besides, Itadori’s better at explaining this kinda stuff.”

“I’m not—”

“Give it up,” Kugisaki says with a roll of her eyes. “I have eyes, Fushiguro. I’m not blind. He’s single by the way.”

Megumi drags a hand down his face with a groan. His fingertips are still greasy with butter though, and it’s an immediately regretful decision. Megumi reaches for a clean corner of his apron to wipe his cheek.

This was a lot of new and monumental information. If Kugisaki can tell, then can Yuuji tell? And if Yuuji’s single, then—

There’s not much more time for his thoughts as Yuuji pops on over.

“How can I help?” he asks, slapping his palms down on the counter.

“Well, I was, uh, asking Kugisaki,” Megumi stutters, “what it means to ‘cut the butter into the flour.’”

“Oh, yeah, I think you might’ve just arrived when I was explaining that.” Yuuji looks down thoughtfully at Megumi’s bowl for a second. “Okay so basically, you want to just use your fingers to kind of, um, smush the butter into the flour. Which sounds weird, I know. It’s kinda hard to explain, but um, you know what—let me just show you.”

Yuuji grips the bowl with his left hand, then uses his right to carefully smash the chunks of butter between his fingers, melding the butter into wonky discs of flour.

Megumi is paying attention—he really is. Well, not to the butter maybe. More to the flex of Yuuji’s forearm as each time he squashes a chunk of butter flat. And the accompanying veins. It seems baking gives people nice forearm veins. Or maybe that’s just Yuuji. It doesn’t mater.

Yuuji passes the bowl back to Megumi. “Got it?”

Megumi blinks. “Uh, yeah. Smush the butter.” It comes out more like a question. Like he’s asking for Yuuji’s permission to smush the butter.

One of the old ladies calls out for Yuuji’s assistance, and Yuuji shoots Megumi double finger guns as he steps away. “You got it! Holler if you need me.”

“You’re welcome,” Kugisaki whispers at him when Yuuji’s left.

Megumi ignores her, smushing his butter as instructed, and after some minor struggling, his pâte sucrée comes together successfully.

Yuuji demonstrates to the class how to roll the dough out into the tart tin, and Megumi is proud that he manages to only tear his in a few spots. They fill the tin with pie weights, plop it on a tray, and bake the crusts off in the oven while they prep the fruits to go on top.

And it’s all going fantastic until Megumi goes to fetch his tart crust from the oven. He thinks maybe he’s pulled the tray out at a weird angle because two of its corners are wedged against the sides of the oven and it won’t budge. Megumi jostles the tray gently to see if it will come unstuck, but it’s to no avail.

“Hey, Kugisaki,” Megumi calls out behind him, tugging on the tray a little harder. “I think I could use—”

And everything goes to shit.

There are pie weights flying at him, and Megumi feels the peppering burn of hot ceramic balls on his thighs as he ducks himself down for cover. By some wild luck, he manages to dodge the burning hot tray that comes shooting down off the oven rack, but the tart tin does manage to skim his back.

Megumi shoots back to escape the burn, falling back on his butt on the floor of the classroom. He can hear Kugisaki and Yuuji yelling in panic, their footsteps rushing near to him.

The next part happens in slow motion. And the worst part is that Megumi sees it coming, too. Three loose pie weights rolling right in the path of Yuuji’s foot.

“Wait, Itadori—” Megumi starts.

It’s of no use.

Megumi witnesses it frame-by-frame. The bottom of Yuuji’s sneaker comes into contact with the balls, his other foot attempts to find solid ground, his arms shoot out in a futile attempt balance himself, and then he falls. Ass flat on the hard tile ground. And he laughs.

Yuuji laughs, and Megumi, still beet red, forgets for a second that he’s sitting in the remains of a tart shell.

It’s so odd. The way they’re sat on the ground of the kitchen, pie weights rolling all around them, the crumbs of Megumi’s tart littering the space around their feet. It’s odd the way Yuuji finds it in himself to laugh. The way its sound grips something in Megumi’s chest. The way he adores it. Him. Yuuji.

It makes Megumi feel fucking crazy. This boy he’s known for three days who already has the strings of Megumi’s heart all tangled up and knotted like some kind of sick cat’s cradle. It makes him feel fucking deranged. No wonder Kugisaki seems to have him all figured out.

Yuuji is wiping a laughing tear away from his eye as he scoops himself back up with a comfortable ease, like he hadn’t just gotten the air knocked out him. He walks over to Megumi, who’s started to get himself back up too, and offers a hand. Megumi takes it, warm and rough and a little dry. It’s perfect, nonetheless.

“You good there?” Yuuji asks. “That looked gnarly.”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Megumi answers, dusting off the back of his pants. “Are you okay?”

Yuuji flashes him a grin with two thumbs up. “Yessir.”

“If you say so,” Megumi says with a skeptical nod.

They look around, surveying the damage. Yuuji hums before turning on his heels. “I think… we’re gonna need a broom for this. I’ll be right back!”

He’s gone before Megumi can say anything.

Kugisaki bumps an elbow into Megumi’s side. “Nice one, rookie.”

Megumi just deadpans at her.

Yuuji returns a minute later, broom and dustpan in tow.

“Let me take care of it,” Megumi says, reaching for the broom.

Yuuji pulls the broom out of Megumi’s reach. “Nuh-uh, I got it. Just stay right here for, like, one second.”

To Megumi’s frustration, Yuuji holds the broom hostage with him at his own little demo table in the center of the room and starts explaining to the rest of the class how to fill their tart shells with pastry cream and top it with the fruits. When he’s done and everyone has resumed filling and decorating their tarts, he returns to Megumi, who is still standing dumbly in the wreckage, arms hanging limply at his sides.

Yuuji just shoots him a smile as he starts sweeping up the pieces of the tart shell into the dustpan. He seems so unperturbed by the mess in a way Megumi could never be. An ease in the face of disaster. Megumi simply follows him awkwardly like a child, gathering up whatever pie weights he sees rolling around.

The designated class end time rolls around soon enough, and Yuuji has everyone box up their finished tarts and head home for the day.

Megumi and Yuuji are both crawling around now, still searching for runaway pie weights that had rolled under the cabinets and the shelves. They seem to pop up endlessly.

Kugisaki takes one judgmental look at the two them on their hands and knees, then states she has dinner plans and will be leaving them to fix this on their own. She crouches down to whisper something in Yuuji’s ear that Megumi is clearly not privy to before she leaves. But whatever it is, Yuuji just looks at her with confusion, and it apparently warrants a kick in the shin from Kugisaki. Megumi just hopes it doesn’t have anything to do with him.

“I think that’s all of them,” Yuuji declares ten minutes later, a bowl of ceramic pie weights in his hand.

Megumi breathes a sigh of relief, uncurling his hunched spine as he stands back up to drop his own collection of ceramic balls into Yuuji’s bowl. “Thank god. I thought they were fucking reproducing amongst themselves.”

Yuuji laughs. “You’re funnier than you look, Fushiguro.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Megumi retorts with a raised brow.

“Nothing, I guess there’s just more to you than that serious face,” Yuuji explains with a shrug, like that explains anything at all. “Anyways, you should head home—I’ll finish cleaning up here.”

Megumi looks down at the floor, greasy streaks smeared across it from the buttery tart shell. “It’s okay, I can help you clean up. Was my mess anyways.”

Yuuji just brushes it off. “Eh, I’ve made way worse messes before. But, I mean, you can stay if you want. I’m gonna go get the mop.”

Megumi stays. It’s mostly out of guilt for the mess he made. And definitely not because of the nagging voice in the back of his head that demands he get to know this pink-haired boy a little better. It’s obviously not that. It’s just that Megumi is being… well, responsible. Right?

So he helps Yuuji put away all the mixing bowls and equipment and restock the ingredients. They wipe down the counters and clean the floors, and Yuuji chit-chats as he works. He’s good at chit-chatting, unlike Megumi, and Megumi finds Yuuji’s chatter refreshing—full of air and life. Megumi learns that Yuuji’s favorite dessert to make is a swiss roll, which they’re apparently going to learn on Friday. He also likes Naruto and American movies with Jennifer Lawrence in them, and he doesn’t have any allergies. He’s been working at the cookware store for two years now since his grandpa’s bakery closed, and the former teacher of this baking class had a baby so that’s why he took over. Megumi stores all this information neatly inside his brain with some subconscious hope that he’ll have a reason to use it one day.

“That’s all!” Yuuji declares with a pleased clap of his hands when the last of the counters have been wiped down. He’s stands proudly at the front of the room, hands on his hips. “Let’s get out of here, Fushiguro!”

Yuuji’s delight manages to crack a smile out of Megumi’s face. “Sounds good.”

“You going to the station?” Yuuji asks, untying his apron.

Megumi nods. “Yeah, you?”

“Hold on, we can walk together—I just gotta grab my stuff,” Yuuji says, disappearing off to the staff only room.

Megumi is pretending like this is not kind of monumental. He’s going to do the five minute walk to the subway station with Yuuji. Not a big deal. Not at all. The beating in his chest says otherwise.

Yuuji comes jogging up behind where Megumi is waiting in front of the store. He slings an arm around Megumi’s shoulders, and Megumi feels suddenly all too aware of every bone in his back.

“Boy, I’m starving,” Yuuji says, and as if on cue, his stomach lets an out a demanding grumble. “You didn’t eat dinner yet, right Fushiguro?”

“Nope,” he answers stiffly, trying not to move his shoulders too much. Imagine if he flinched wrong, and Yuuji took it as Megumi not liking his arm around him. That would be bad. Very bad.

“Hmm, do you want to eat together then?” Yuuji asks, taking his arm from around Megumi to get out his phone. Megumi’s shoulders relax a little. “There’s a good donburi place by the station.”

“Sure,” Megumi answers as nonchalantly as he can manage.

“Great, let’s go!” Yuuji says, skipping a step or two in front of Megumi.

He’s cute. Yuuji is very cute.

They arrive together at the restaurant. Yuuji orders a steak donburi, and Megumi gets eel. The waitress leaves, and they don’t say anything for a minute. Megumi pours them cups of water, and Yuuji passes him a spoon and chopsticks. They talk about the weather a little, and Yuuji rambles a little about how he misses sunny days. Megumi says he doesn’t really, and Yuuji just laughs awkwardly. The conversation slows a little, and the restaurant starts to feel a little warm and the seat a little hard and the tag on Megumi’s shirt a little itchy. Yuuji looks mostly unbothered, thrumming his fingers to a rhythmless beat against the edge of the table.

“I have a confession to make,” Megumi blurts out. It’s stupid really. Some strange impluse to make conversation, even if it’s at the expense of his pride.

Yuuji cocks his head at him, a thoughtful pout on his lips. He looks adorable. Megumi might explode. “What is it?”

“Well,” Megumi starts, scratching at the back of his neck awkwardly. “I don’t really like baking.”

Yuuji bursts into loudest laugh Megumi has ever heard from him. He doubles over, his forehead on the table, laughter shaking his whole body. Some of the other diners are sending concerned glances their way, and Megumi feels the tips of his ears go hot.

“Fushiguro,” he wheezes out between his dying laughter. “I know that.”

“You do?” Megumi asks tentatively.

“Yup. Honestly, Fushiguro, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone worse at baking than you,” Yuuji answers so wholeheartedly it kind of kills Megumi’s entire ego.

“Well, that was encouraging,” Megumi says, deflated.

“That’s okay though! You’re getting better,” Yuuji adds. And he says it with so much optimism it manages to cut through Megumi’s embarassment a little bit.

“For the record,” Megumi adds. “You complimented my bagels.”

“I did.”

“Did you mean it?”

“Of course! I wouldn’t lie about that. Your bagel hole-shaping skills were pretty decent considering your general, um… ineptitude for baking.”

Megumi gives him his best flat stare, holding down the corners of his mouth that are itching to twitch up. “I can’t tell if that’s supposed to be a compliment or not.”

“It is, trust me,” Yuuji says, a fist over his heart. “I’ve been very impressed with your consistent and diligent efforts in my class.”

Megumi’s face breaks into a small smile. Around Yuuji, it feels inevitable.

“Well, it’s all thanks to your instruction,” Megumi says as the waitress sets their bowls in front of them.

“I’m honestly surprised, Fushiguro,” Yuuji says, lifting his first spoon of rice to his mouth. “You don’t seem like the type to like sweets a whole lot.”

“I don’t,” Megumi answers honestly. “My dad—well no, he’s my guardian—really likes them. He ate the whole tin of butter cookies as soon as I got home on Monday.”

Yuuji laughs for a second, then suddenly gasps. “Wait, Fushiguro, I can’t send you home empty-handed then.”

Since Megumi’s tart shell had seen its demise already, he hadn’t gotten to take anything home. Megumi shrugs anyways. “He’ll live.”

Yuuji waves his hands emphatically. “No, no, no. You should take my tart.”

Megumi shakes his head, his mouth full, but Yuuji only looks up at him more pleadingly, his eyes wide and golden in the restaurant light.

“Pleaseeeeeeeee,” he begs. “I’ve had a million of these tarts before, don’t worry.”

Megumi gives a reluctant sigh. “Only if it’s really okay with you.”

Yuuji lights up. “Yay!”

It makes Megumi smile a little more.

They fill the rest of their meal with comfortable chatter. Megumi finds himself telling Yuuji about how he misses having Tsumiki around and Gojo’s annoying antics. The words feel strange slipping from his tongue, the kinds of things that he so rarely says aloud. In turn, Yuuji tells him about his grandfather, and the nurses at the hospital who love Yuuji’s treats. There is an ease to their back-and-forth.

When they’ve finished their meals, they head to the station together. The summer twilight is hazy and blue, flecked with the yellow of street lights.

“That used to be my grandpa’s bakery,” Yuuji says, pointing a finger at a small storefront. “It’s a flower shop now.”

The storefront is lit nicely, a woman in an apron busying herself at the counter with jars of tulips and lilies and flowers Megumi doesn’t know the name of. He can almost see it, the trace of the place it used to be—full counters, warm scents, bread wrapped in cellophane.

“Do you miss it?” Megumi finds himself asking.

Yuuji hums, kicking a pebble off the sidewalk. “Yeah, I think so. But I dunno if it’d be as much fun without my old man there.”

“I could see that,” is all Megumi responds with.

They reach the entrance of the station, and Megumi starts down the stairs.

“Ah, wait, Fushiguro,” Yuuji calls out, still standing on the top step. “I’ll see you tomorrow!”

Megumi turns around, his feet stuck on different steps. “Huh? Are you not taking the train?”

Yuuji just waves a hand. “Nah, I live around here. I was just walking with you to the station.”

“Oh,” Megumi says, his mouth rounding in confusion. Yuuji had just wanted to walk to the station with him. Wait, Yuuji wanted to walk to the station with him. For no apparent reason. There are four hundred possibilities that race through Megumi’s head, one of which includes the most terrifying of possibilities: that Yuuji could be interested in him too. Megumi panics.

“Well, um, I’ll see you tomorrow, Itadori,” he ends up saying flatly. And it sounds so unexcited coming off his tongue it makes Megumi cringe as soon as he’s finished saying it.

But if Yuuji thinks anything of it, it doesn’t show, and he flashes Megumi his usual two thumbs up as Megumi turns back down the stairs.

“Oh wait, Fushiguro!” Megumi hears him call from behind. Megumi turns back again, and Yuuji’s holding out his tart box. “I almost forgot to give you this!”

“Oh, right.” Megumi accepts it, cradling it with more care than anything he’s ever made himself. Yuuji’s handiwork is something worth protecting, Megumi thinks to himself. “Good night, Itadori.”

“G’night, Fushiguro! I had fun tonight.”

And before Megumi can respond to that, Yuuji turns behind the station entrance with a final wave, and he’s out of sight.

⟡

“Home so late?” Gojo asks the second Megumi walks in the door. He’s sitting on the couch with slippered feet propped up on the coffee table, like he’d just been twiddling his thumbs waiting for Megumi to come home.

“I was out,” Megumi states, trying to carefully peer over the tart box to kick his shoes off.

“You? Out?” Gojo gasps. “Who are you, and what have you done with my son?”

Megumi sets the tart box down on the kitchen counter with a roll of his eyes. “I was just having dinner.”

“Alone?”

“With a friend.”

Gojo bolts up from the couch. “A friend? Megumi, are you okay? Did something happen?”

The response isn’t exactly unwarranted. Megumi did have friends but not many. And not many he bothered to hang out with during the school vacations.

“No. We met at the… you know… the baking class.”

Saying it out loud feels incredibly embarassing. He already knows he’s not going to hear the end of it from Gojo over this.

“You mean the baking class I signed you up for?” Gojo asks with an annoying grin, sitting back down.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t let it get to your head,” Megumi grumbles with a dismissive wave of his hand, starting for his room.

“Nuh-uh,” Gojo stops him. “You gotta give me more than that. I have to give Tsumiki updates, and I need to know what kind of miracle worker was able to drag you out.”

Megumi sighs, dropping himself into one of the armchairs in the living room.

“He’s the instructor of the class.”

Gojo props his chin up thoughtfully, and Megumi already knows something stupid’s gonna come out of his mouth. “Megumi, we’ve talked about this before. You have to be careful of older men. You’re probably exactly the kind of prey they—”

“He’s my age,” Megumi interrupts flatly.

“Oh. Well, that’s good.”

“He made the fruit tart over on the counter. You can have it.”

The word “fruit tart” seems to distract Gojo from whatever monologue he would’ve gone on about child predators. He’s up and off the couch in mere seconds, fork grabbed from the drawer and hands fiddling with the flaps of the box.

He cuts himself a kind of absurdly large piece, and it makes Megumi honestly wonder how Gojo manages to maintain such a lean body type with his shitty diet. In fact, Megumi’s pretty sure Gojo’s diet would put most people in a coma with its sugar content. Then again, Gojo seemed to move through the world by his own set of natural laws. It was just who he was. Megumi’d been living with him long enough to know that much.

Megumi watches him take the first bite, and for a moment, Megumi feels like he ought to hold his breath. There’s an unusual silence to Gojo’s chewing—reverence, almost.

“Megumi,” Gojo says quietly, an uncharacteristic gravity to his voice. “You need to marry this boy. Now.”

It freaks Megumi out for a second—the way it almost seems like Gojo has a sixth sense for Megumi’s rapidly developing crush or something. But he also knows Gojo might be the least perceptive person known to mankind when it comes to relationships. Or maybe that’s just his own relationships.

“Yeah, yeah,” Megumi says with a dramatic roll of his eyes, trying his best to play it cool. “You haven’t even met him.”

“Well, that can be easily fixed,” Gojo replies, with an excited clap of his hands.

“You’re insane.”

“So I’ve been told.”

⟡

Thursday passes much more smoothly than Wednesday (thank god).

Megumi had spent most of last night turning over Yuuji’s words “I had fun tonight” in his head. It’d kept him up till an embarrassingly late hour, trying to wrack his brain for what they could mean—or imply, really. He knows what they mean, just not what they mean to Yuuji. Did he want to be friends? Did he say it out of pity? Was it just an archetypal farewell with no real meaning? It’s still scratching at his mind when class starts.

Meanwhile, Yuuji seems distinctly unperturbed by the significant (it was to Megumi, at least) growth in their relationship last night. He spends most of the class chatting up the old ladies in the group. They laugh at his antics and call him adorable, pinching him on the cheeks and slapping his arms. Yuuji promises to bring them more recipes from his grandfather’s bakery so they can impress the other ladies at the senior center.

It’s endearing, really, the way they adore him. Well, Megumi finds it endearing. After all, Megumi, too, seems to adore him.

They make these miniature basque cheesecakes, and Megumi thinks they kinda look like burnt blobs of shit, but Yuuji says they’ll taste good once they’re cold. And Megumi trusts him.

Yuuji only comes over to Megumi’s bench once or twice. Once, to help Megumi line his pans with parchment. The second time for no apparent reason but to brush Megumi’s bangs away from the batter. It makes Megumi feel crazy, the way he wants Yuuji to do it one more time—to brush his calloused fingertips against Megumi’s forehead.

Regretfully, Megumi has a dentist appointment this evening on the other side of town, so he has to book it as soon as the class is over. And while it’d be nice to have another excuse to talk with Yuuji, telling him he has a dentist appointment sounds embarrassing for whatever reason. Something about getting your teeth cleaned seems so… uncool. That, and he doesn’t really want Yuuji conjuring up any images of Megumi’s mouth being pried open while some middle-aged man violently sticks his fingers in it. So when Yuuji is turned away, talking with Kugisaki, Megumi just quietly takes his leave.

⟡

Megumi wakes up on Friday with an unnameable dread in his chest.

He tries to read a book but finds himself flipping the pages mindlessly without ever reading the words. When he gives up on that, he steeps himself a cup of tea, which he promptly forgets about as he plays a shitty round or two of Pokemon Unite on his phone and tidies up the mess of comic books Gojo’s left on the coffee table. The tea is cold by the time he remembers it.

Megumi dresses himself for class, then undresses himself. Then does it again, just in a different outfit this time. It’s only marginally better. He settles for it. He brushes his hair and fluffs it out like he usually does. It feels wrong anyways.

The time to go to class rolls around, and Megumi drags his feet out the door and down to the station and onto the train. He can’t quite pinpoint what’s wrong with him, though there’s a non-zero chance it’s the perpetual thrum in his head of the reminder that today is his last day with Yuuji.

Megumi arrives to class five minutes early—a first, for him. Kugisaki is already there.

“You look like shit,” she says plainly as Megumi sets his stuff down.

“Thanks.”

“Something the matter?”

Megumi shakes his head wearily. “Nope.”

“Liar,” she says, returning her focus to tying her apron strings. “Last day today!”

Her words seem to taunt him.

The class passes in some kind of dreadful slow motion. It feels like an out-of-body experience almost, the way Megumi’s hands seem to move miles away from his head.

But Megumi does exceptionally well today. He whips the egg whites to perfect stiff peaks, folds the batter gently, prepares the most perfect sponge cake to be rolled into a Swiss roll. His whipped cream is perfectly whipped—not too loose, not curdled. The assembly is perfect. Even Kugisaki seems impressed by his handiwork, giving him an impressed nod of approval. Megumi himself is surprised, too, looking down at his finished cake, a perfect cylinder.

Yuuji hadn’t come over once during the class. Which Megumi is both disappointed by and also grateful, considering he’s not really in the most present mental state right now. Yuuji had shot Megumi a grin and a fist pump when he saw Megumi’s perfectly baked sponge come out of the oven, but that had been all.

The class ends, and Megumi starts packing his things up slowly—too slowly, really. Because there seemed to be some subconscious part of him that hoped he’d get to talk to Yuuji one last time. And maybe if some god was on his side, Yuuji would give him his number and they might stay in touch. Or maybe Yuuji would just send him a stupid TikTok every few months that would make Megumi’s heart clench at the thought of being remembered. Or maybe he’d just get to say a proper thank you and goodbye. Maybe just that was enough.

Yuuji is still chattering away with one of the elderly ladies from the class, his head bowed seriously over a thick binder of papers. Recipes, probably. Kugisaki goes up to him, slapping Yuuji on the back as she waves goodbye with a promise to see him tomorrow. Megumi wishes he were seeing Yuuji tomorrow.

Megumi starts for the door. It’s stupid, really, to be this hung up on a boy he’s only known for a week. In fact, it’s irritating—the sway over Megumi’s heart Yuuji has maanged to capture in such a short time. Megumi’s brain all week has been nothing but Yuuji slop—Yuuji this, and Yuuji that. It makes him feel almost pathetic, and Megumi is resolved not to—

“Oi, Fushiguro!”

Megumi accepts that he pathetic.

Yuuji comes jogging over to the door, an eagerness in his brown eyes. “Are you in a rush to get somewhere?”

“Yeah,” Megumi lies for some reason. He curses himself.

“Oh…” Yuuji says, and Megumi thinks that could be a tinge of disappointment in his eyes. “Well, um, are you doing anything this weekend?”

“No,” Megumi answers honestly this time, and he wants to not hope. He hates hoping. He hopes nonetheless.

“Well,” Yuuji starts, a hand sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “Would you maybe… I dunno, want to go out with me again sometime? But like, on a date, I mean.”

Everything stops. And it’s just the rush of mall-goers and distant honking and telephone calls drowning out Megumi’s ears. He’s buffering.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to, like, assume or anything,” Yuuji starts rambling, his hands gesturing rapidly. “Kugisaki told me there’s no way you weren’t, I dunno, into guys—wait, sorry, I hope that’s not offensive. But, um, you get the point, right? I just thought, you know, it’d be cool. If we could, uh, hang out maybe? Or something. Or not. Whatever’s cool with you. Like just platonically, too, is cool—”

Megumi kisses him. It’s short and sweet and chaste, and the kiss is planted a little askew on Yuuji’s lips.

“Shut up, Itadori.”

Yuuji just stares up at him, eyes stunned, lips ever so slightly parted.

“Oh,” he stutters. “Okay. Um, okay. Wow. Alright. Oh my god.” Megumi’s starting to wonder if something broke in Yuuji’s head. “Okay, you’re cool with this. That is. Awesome. More than awesome, actually. Fushiguro, this could be like. The best day of my life. I can’t believe you’re, like, interested in me like—”

Megumi kisses him again, this time with better aim and more intention. Yuuji softens into it, and they stay for just a brief moment like that. Not too long though. Megumi is very aware of the old ladies from the class still watching, scandalized.

“Yeah, I’m interested in you like that,” Megumi says when they break apart.

Yuuji just looks at him, a shy laugh escaping his lips. His eyes are crinkled brown and gold, and Megumi thinks his heart might spontaneously combust. This, too, was Gojo’s fault.