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Everyone knows Itadori is a pretty sentimental type of guy. He’s sweet on his friends, he freely gives out hugs, he likes to get their sensei gifts-- Itadori being especially mushy isn’t out of the ordinary. Definitely a hugger.
But this is out there. Even for him.
“Fushiguro,” Itadori says, with a faraway look in his eyes, and he trails off into a mumble.
He clamps a hand over his mouth, the tail-end of his sentence muffled by his palm. If any sort of deity looked down with mercy, perhaps the world would crack open and swallow him whole. Itadori looks so far to the side Fushiguro could probably hear his neck crack, the tops of his cheekbones going a potent, rosy red. “Why did I say that,” Itadori squeaks into his sweaty palm. He probably thinks Fushiguro can’t hear him. “Oh, god. That’s so embarrassing.”
This is not a new occurrence. It’s like he’s vomiting out the first thought that pops in his head, and it really isn’t a new thing for Itadori, ‘cause he’s kinda a dumbass, but. Even he seems frustrated with himself, like it’s something he can’t control. And that is not usual, or normal, and one-hundred percent something that makes the little bells in Fushiguro’s head ring like crazy.
Fushiguro squints at the floor. He racks his brain. Itadori still can’t look him in the eye, so he has a moment to think.
A couple weeks ago, Gojo sent them on a mission with a Grade 1. A couple days later, a Grade 2. Nothing special. Even the Grade 1 was easy. Special Grades aren’t as common, and Itadori still isn’t always allowed on those, yet Fushiguro is; he’d like Itadori to be there since they fight so well together, but Fushiguro would also like to make sure he stays safe. So really he doesn’t mind if Gojo refuses to let Itadori tag along, despite Itadori’s incessant whines. (Although Gojo is finicky with that. Itadori has already proven damn well he can hold his own against a Special Grade, considering his toe-to-toe fight with Sukuna. Gojo is well aware. It really depends on the guy’s overall mood when he’s handing out a mission assignment). Maybe something happened with one of the weak curses they ran into? A stupid technique that wouldn’t even be a blip on Fushiguro’s radar?
Itadori abruptly stands. “I’m hungry. I’ll be back.”
Fushiguro looked up at him. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“Yes.” Itadori says, immediately. Fushiguro starts to pull himself out of his chair, and Itadori splutters, flushed. “No, no,” He waves a hand, still analyzing the wall like it’s got some real interesting stuff written on it. “Um. It’s fine, man, really, I’ll see you later,”
“But you just--”
Itadori is out of the room before Fushiguro can even properly object.
“Something is wrong with Itadori,” Fushiguro mutters under his breath. Just because the guy turned him down to get some food doesn't mean something is wrong. But it's weird.
Kugisaki blinks right awake from her catnap, and wipes the drool off her cheek. Her voice is raspy when she snorts, “How is that at all news. I wonder about that everyday.”
“No,” Fushiguro hissed. Itadori is sat to Kugisaki’s right. If they talk too loud then he’ll get curious and want them to share. Kugisaki is good at lying on the spot, and Itadori wouldn’t notice a thing, but it would make Fushiguro feel bad to lie to him. “I think he’s under a technique. He might’ve been hit with something.”
Her brown eyes narrow. “What’s he doing?”
“He’s being weird. And not the usual kind. He’s--”
“Care to share with the class?”
Kugisaki jumps out of her skin. Fushiguro inhales through his nose, and worries that their secrecy has been blown—but Yuuji is fast asleep and drooling on his desk. Moron.
Gojo-sensei grins, all teeth, crouched on his haunches. He’s an incorrigible weirdo. Gojo leans his cheek on his fist and hums. “Is this about Yuuji-kun’s cursed energy being all—” he flicks a hand. “—tangled up?”
Fushiguro’s head snaps to him. “You knew, and didn't do anything?”
His sensei laughs, but it’s not full of much mirth, despite his cheeks scrunching in good nature. “Oh, don’t get protective, Megumi. I would know if something was actually wrong.”
The frown that lines Fushiguro’s mouth deepens. Kugisaki twirls her hair around her finger. “Sooo. What is it then?”
Gojo shrugs. “I don’t know.”
What a liar.
Both Kugisaki and Fushiguro groan in unison. Fushiguro pinched the bridge of his nose, and played along. “How does his cursed energy look? Since that’s all you seem to know anything about.”
Gojo considered this. “Hm. Think of crossed wires. Yuuji has no innate technique, so it’s a bit different than most. It has traces of Sukuna’s. Overall the energy isn't very noticeable when he’s not in a fight. Except something is influencing it, so it’s easier for me to track it just by looking at him.”
“Nothing is easier for you,” Kugisaki grumbled. “You can see everyone’s energy just fine. Stop bragging.”
Gojo-sensei laughed for real at that. Fushiguro silently agreed with her, but didn’t bother offering his input. There wasn't any need to encourage Gojo’s ego, or Kugisaki’s antics.
Gojo’s head tilted, to which Fushiguro immediately understood was his usual Six Eyes-observation type stare. Sizing someone up, if you wanted to be juvenile. And, he’s wearing a blindfold, but you can always just.. tell, when he’s looking at you. Fushiguro refused to look him in the face. Gojo seemed to be satisfied with what he found, so he finally stood up and crowed, “Okay! Break's up. Yuuji-kuuuun. Wakey wakey.”
Perhaps nothing really was out of sorts. It hasn't been too long since Sukuna was exorcised, maybe Fushiguro is still reeling from that. From Tsumiki. He might be just looking for an issue that isn't there, protectively hovering over his friend.
There’s the telltale sound of Gojo-sensei and Yuuji’s squabbling to his right. Yuuji groans when Gojo snaps his fingers near his ear, rubbing his eyes awake.
“Aww. Did you miss me?” He’s clearly teasing. It’s not a genuine question.
“Of course, sensei,” Yuuji says, probably still groggy.
Even Gojo’s mouth opened in surprise. Then he grinned from ear to ear and furiously ruffled Yuuji’s already tangled hair. “Thank you, Yuuji-kun.”
Kugisaki leans over to complain in Fushiguro’s ear. “Itadori is so obviously his favorite it’s not even funny. Shouldn’t you be kinda jealous. Isn’t he basically your—”
“No,” Fushiguro says, plainly, before Gojo’s stupid all-seeing eyes and ears can pick up on whatever the hell Kugisaki was about to say. “Shut up.”
“Does my ass look fat in this,” Kugisaki asks them, spinning around in a new skirt she found. They’re perusing the shops, and Itadori is being used as a human-sized shopping cart for her bags. “Say no,”
Fushiguro says nothing. Itadori’s jaw is clenched tight. He keeps giving Fushiguro eyes, rather than paying attention to Kugisaki’s questions.
“You guys are terrible,” Kugisaki complains. “Boys. Don’t even tell me what I want to hear.”
“I think you look nice in it,” Itadori offers, totally honest.
“Nice,” she sighs, twirling in it to watch the fabric spin. “Blegh. Do I look hot as hell, though. That’s the real question.”
Fushiguro eyes Itadori’s reaction. Just to see something. Itadori’s jaw tensed and untensed, over and over, clenching and unclenching like he’s digging his teeth into his tongue. Huh.
“It’s,” Itadori whispers, grimacing like he can’t help himself. It’s painfully awkward, and Fushiguro hides his cringe underneath the collar of his uniform. Weirdly enough, Itadori's eyes slid to him. “I think, um.”
Kugisaki wrinkles her nose in disgust. “Dude. Are you drunk?”
“No!”
“Then stop being so damn weird! You can’t even finish a sentence.”
She brushes off her thighs, smoothing out her skirt, then steps back behind the dressing room door to change. It leaves the two of them alone, with Itadori’s flushing cheeks and Fushiguro's watchful eye. He’s staring deeply at the tiled floor. Fushiguro rolls his next words around in his mouth, and says quietly, “Itadori.”
A noncommittal, “Hm?”
“Look at me.”
Itadori pauses, and looks up. He’s so fidgety. Gripping the black of his pants into his hands, pulling and tugging and letting go so they snap back against his knee. Red shoes tapping repeatedly on the floor, like he’s been drugged up with a syringe of sugar. “Fushiguro—?”
“Is something wrong,” Fushiguro asks, dead serious.
“Huh?”
He grits his teeth, and sticks his chin out so Itadori can see his entire face. “Is something wrong. You’re acting odd. Something is wrong. Gojo even said your cursed energy was off.”
“It’s not that big of a deal,” Itadori croaks. Which is confirmation enough.
“So tell me what’s—”
Kugisaki comes out of the dressing room in an entirely new outfit, with a white blouse and a totally different style of skirt. It’s flowy and reaches her knees. “Alright, losers. What about this one?”
He wishes he could be frustrated with Itadori for refusing to ask for help. Selfless and self-sacrificial to a fault, even if it kills him. Pisses Fushiguro off to no end whatsoever. Sometimes Fushiguro wishes he could grab Itadori by the shoulders and just maraca shake him until he realizes he needs to care about himself, too.
“It’s fine,” Fushiguro starts, because Itadori has shoved his nose into the red collar of his uniform, looking off to the side. Probably afraid of saying something stupid again. “The color is nice on you.”
“Oh my god. You’re worse than Itadori.”
When he gets a moment alone, Fushiguro corners him.
“Fushiguro?” Itadori blinked, staring at Fushiguro’s reaching hands. “Are you alright?” He grabs him by the collar and pulls him with him, and Itadori yelps in surprise.
He pulls Itadori halfway across the school. They shoulder past two of their senpais, Maki and Panda, who are lounging in the common room of their dorm. Panda blinked. “Go easy on him, Fushiguro.”
Maki shook her head. “Don't bother them,” then she lowers her voice, but not nearly quiet enough. “All we can hope for is that they’re gonna go have s—”
“Maki-senpai,” Fushiguro glowered. A single glance behind him, and Itadori was refusing to even look in his direction, pink hair a mop over his forehead. Itadori is far from a prude - Fushiguro has seen that pinup poster in his room. But usually Itadori is a bit more oblivious than that. It’s kinda cute. He can’t say he hasn't been somewhat enjoying seeing Itadori get all out of sorts, when sometimes he can be so damn clueless.
Fushiguro clicks the lock on his dorm, and tosses Itadori inside. Then he turns to Itadori with a stony glare. “I’m gonna ask you something and you’re gonna give me a straight answer.”
“Okay,” Itadori wobbles. “Are you angry with me?”
Not exactly. He was frustrated that Itadori was hiding something from them. He hasn't even told Gojo. Not even Shoko, who is the most likely to be able to help. “No.”
Itadori visibly relaxes in relief.
“What happened to you a couple weeks ago,” Fushiguro starts. “I don’t know what it is. Maybe you're under a cursed technique, but it’s one of those stupid, insignificant ones. You can’t even talk coherently.”
Itadori blinks slowly, like a cat. “Your eyes are pretty.”
He takes a very, very deep breath. “That is not important.”
“It is, actually,” Itadori says weakly. “It’s all I’ve been able to think about all week. Your hands, too.”
His— Fushiguro looks down at his thin, pale hands. Is that the.. cursed technique, then? Does it make you gay? Fushiguro gawked at him. He’d always pinned Itadori as a pretty straight guy. Now Fushiguro is having a—whatever the Americans call it. A come to Jesus. Perhaps that assumption was off.
“I understand what it does,” Itadori spills, looking everywhere but him. “I got hit with - the curse gave me - it hones in on a strong feeling. Or emotion. Or whatever. And it makes it so amplified it's all that ever crosses my mind. Not that it's making it bigger than it actually is, it just— my mind is flooded out of anything else. I can’t focus in class. I can’t help Kugisaki when she shops. I can’t think about anything except for—”
Itadori slaps a hand over his mouth. Which is stupid. He’s already gotten his point across.
Fushiguro’s mouth is open, and he doesn’t even notice until his tongue goes dry. He hesitates, then asks, “When will it wear off?”
“I don’t know!” Itadori wails. He shoves his burning face into his palms, shaking his head. “I don’t know what it wants from me! All I can think about is how pretty you are.”
A pause. Fushiguro raises a thin eyebrow, tries to will away the reddening of his cheekbones with sheer spite. “Is that so?”
“Don’t make fun of me,” Itadori pleads, hanging his head. “I don’t know what to do. I can’t even tell Gojo-sensei because—”
“Right.” Fushiguro almost pities him. That would be a nightmare for everyone. “I don’t blame you. He’d probably get a kick out of it.”
He doesn't bother telling him that Gojo actually already knows - but that might freak him out.
It occurs to Fushiguro that Itadori is acting normal now that he’s talking about his effects. However normal it is, anyway, to hear Itadori compliment him so candidly. At first, Fushiguro had thought maybe the curse was hindering his speech, or scrambling his brain, or playing with his inhibitions (which may still be true). He’s been bottling it all up for several days now. And Fushiguro has noticed it slip out at times, but clearly the curse is less painful if Itadori is actively talking about it.
“Does it hurt?” Fushiguro reaches his hand up to feel his forehead.
“It was like a constant headache,” Itadori says, tilting his face into Fushiguro’s hand. He has no temperature, so Fushiguro puts his hand down. “If I didn’t talk,” he frowns, cutting himself off. “Put your hand back up.”
That was also the curse’s doing. Fushiguro huffed, and complied. “I understand now.”
Itadori’s eyes close as he relaxes into Fushiguro’s hand. Then his face smooths out, and he goes unconscious.
Fushiguro gives up dragging Itadori with one arm around his shoulder and opts to just bridal-carry him. He’s too worried to care if someone teases him. The faint patter of Itadori’s heart is encouraging enough.
He gets to Ieiri’s office within the minute, his breathing in short wheezes, legs already aching from carrying his own weight plus Itadori on top of it. Shoko is half across campus. It is not a fast walk. Itadori is an excellent runner, and can hold Fushiguro up like he weighs nothing. It’s unfortunate that the roles are swapped, but Fushiguro would rather die than have a curse that forces him to voice his thoughts for Itadori aloud.
To their luck, Gojo-sensei is sitting with his infinitely long legs on Ieiri’s desk, probably terrorizing her against her will. She never really likes it when he hangs around her office. Ieiri is nursing a cigarette, which is momentarily forgotten as she notices Fushiguro burst through the door. Her eyebags seem better than usual, and she’s not visibly hungover, so he supposes that's a positive.
While Ieiri looks over Itadori, Fushiguro relaxes against the wall, looking up at the ceiling. Gojo stands next to him. He can feel him looking at him.
Ugh. Apparently, he’s waiting for Fushiguro to open up first.
“I was right,” Fushiguro starts, exhausted. “He’s been hit with a curse.”
Gojo hummed.
“It’s not something to worry about,” he offers.
Gojo barked a laugh. “I wasn’t going to! My students are very capable without my help.”
He really, really did not want to share what the curse entailed. Regrettably, he knew he would have to, since it was important information Ieiri-san needed to know. And Gojo wasn't going to leave, because despite what he says, Fushiguro knows he’s only sticking around because he’s concerned about Itadori’s recent behavior. Although - he’s been lying. He knows exactly what’s up with Itadori, he knew when they were talking in class. It’s likely Gojo didn't say anything because it would embarrass both Itadori as well as Fushiguro, despite that being out of character for him. Majority of the time, Gojo would jump at the opportunity to mortify his students.
“He’ll be fine,” Ieiri says immediately, when she walks in. She peels off the latex gloves, and shucks them in a bin. “His brain was literally overflowing with serotonin. Knocked him right out, but he’s only sleeping.”
Goddamn, he is pathetic. Like - pathetic, pathetic. It is a blessing that Kugisaki is not present, because she’d be giving him the most distasteful stare that she’s ever made. Even his shikigami fare off better than he does, because at least his hounds are willing to nuzzle Itadori for pets. The image that pops into his head is very unnecessary, not to mention unhelpful. Fushiguro turns away, pink to his roots. For the love of god.
It was a gay curse. Holy shit.
“Megumi,” Gojo prods.
“Ah,” Ieiri starts. “Did he tell you what the technique did to him?”
“You’re blushing,” Gojo sing-songs. Fushiguro turns his head even further away.
“Satoru,” Ieiri snapped. “If you’re gonna antagonize him, I’ll make you leave.”
His sensei huffed, and waved a dismissive hand. Bastard. “Sorry, sorry.”
“He did tell me,” Fushiguro begins, weakly. Ieiri crosses her arms, and follows along. “He told me that it’s focusing on a strong emotion that he feels. And makes that the only thing he can think about.”
Ieiri raised an eyebrow. She was perceptive enough to figure it out. Gojo certainly knew.
His stupid teacher is grinning, Cheshire style. “I see what you mean.”
“Satoru,” Ieiri shot at him. Fushiguro appreciated her contempt, but he could see the little tilt to her mouth, just barely edging on a knowing smile. “I’m kicking you out. Fushiguro, you can go too. You’ll be the first to know when he wakes up.”
Naturally, Ieiri is very efficient, and applies her RCT within the hour, followed closely behind by Itadori blinking awake. Fushiguro is notified immediately, so he’s there when Itadori’s eyes are just now adjusting to the light of the room.
Itadori meets his eyes, and Fushiguro can pinpoint the moment he panics. “Fushiguro,” he breathes, squirming under his stare.
Genuinely, Fushiguro refuses to believe that Itadori hasn’t crossed that line between platonic, I-love-my-friends, and outright romanticism. A curse clinging to you and making your infatuation the only thought that you have any space for? Not platonic. Fushiguro knows enough for that to be true. And if Itadori tries to shrug it off with an awkward laugh and an apology, Fushiguro will lose it.
Before Itadori can even begin to conceive an excuse, Fushiguro holds up a hand. Itadori rubs his neck sheepishly.
“You’re not just gonna shove this away,” Fushiguro says. “Didn’t I tell you that I need you to be honest with me?”
“I was honest,” Itadori asserts, uncomfortable.
“Idiot,” Fushiguro tsked. “Even right now, you can’t look at me.”
Itadori winces. Fushiguro narrowed his glare.
There was very little Itadori could do that would convince Fushiguro to allow him to leave this conversation. Besides, he's still bedridden and Ieiri hasn't cleared him, so unless Fushiguro is the one that leaves, Itadori is stuck. Itadori squeezed his eyes shut, gathered up as much courage that he could muster, and asked, meekly, “Can I kiss you?”
Syrup-thick silence. Fushiguro’s jaw hit the floor. He was more shocked that Itadori actually made the first move. Then he surged forward, dug his fingers into Itadori’s collar, and kissed right into Itadori’s open mouth.
Itadori was stone-still for only a moment. He scrambled to bury a hand in the spines of Fushiguro’s hair, and kissed just as fiercely as he fought. It’s only a little awkward—neither of them have kissed anyone before and it’s extremely likely Itadori is copying what he’s seen in chick flicks. He must have some sort of reference, considering all the movies Gojo had him watch.
They broke apart chastely. “Dude,” Itadori says, stunned. “Oh my god.”
Well. Not that part.
“Do not call me ‘dude’ while we’re kissing,” Fushiguro grimaces, still holding Itadori a breath away from him. “How old are you?”
Fushiguro has to be the prettiest boy Itadori has ever met in his life. He’s had only a handful of male crushes, and one of them was Junpei, so the list is slim. He has thicker, longer eyelashes than he has any sort of reason to have, pink lips, his smile, his laugh—
“When did you find out,” Fushiguro mumbles, switching gears and begins to kiss down the column of Itadori’s neck. He twitches when Fushiguro’s mouth finds the space under his ear. It’s an odd angle, but it’s worth the budding pain. Itadori tries not to totally freak.
“Honestly? Because of the curse,” Itadori laughs breathily, then chokes when Fushiguro nips at him. “It was telling me all these things I’m sure I’ve thought before, yanno. But I’d never seen them in that way.”
Fushiguro sounded way too smug for a guy that blushed at everything. Just like how he was right now, although he was dutifully ignoring it. “Like calling me ‘pretty’?”
Itadori’s face burns. “Yeah. I’ve - that’s not like. A new thing for me to think about. When I first saw you at— when, um.”
Without missing a beat, Fushiguro exhales against his prickly skin. “You’re stupid.”
For a moment, Itadori processes the question, and then he perks up like a flower getting its first rain. “What about you? C’mon, tell me.”
“When you died,” Fushiguro says, dryly. Joking about it is easier than grief - much less for the living.
“Oh.”
“Should've dragged you out by the ankles in that school,” A pale hand drags down his neck. Itadori wants to drag Fushiguro down into the bed, roll him over and climb on top of him. It's an animal-like desire, like he wants to gnaw on a bone. Too bad he’s hospitalized, and certainly not cleared to do so. “And you never would've had to call on Sukuna for help.”
“He knew, I think. About—” Itadori sighed, and flicked a finger between the two of them, “—us. He was really annoying about it. I never understood what he meant.”
“I’m sure that made him even angrier.”
“I’m really not as dense as you think,” Itadori’s grin was lopsided, cocking his head like one of his shikigami. “You're a whole lot worse than me—”
Itadori exhales when Fushiguro moves back up his neck to kiss the corner of his mouth, right over the scar on his lip. Back when his mouth was ripped open in Shibuya and he lost several teeth, which Ieiri had to replace with fakes. Still got the cool scar, though. Makes his face look like he's always smiling.
He frowns, then paws at the hem of Fushiguro’s uniform, to which Fushiguro stammers, grabbing his wrists. “Are you— what—”
“Your scar,” Itadori mumbles, hands falling slack. “The one I left. Lemme’ see it.”
Fushiguro is blushing, which easily subsides. His eyes soften. “Oh.”
It doesn't occur what Fushiguro figured Itadori was trying to do until he begins to peel his shirt partly up his stomach. Itadori barely has in it himself to get flustered, because right over the muted edge of Fushiguro’s belly is a long, gnarly slash. It wasn't Fushiguro that Itadori was aiming for, but it was still his body. Itadori is hesitant to reach and touch, because that might be a bit off-putting, but Fushiguro just sits and watches Itadori’s fingers reach out. Emboldened, Itadori presses his palm flat against Fushiguro’s ripped and torn skin. It’s pliable against his calloused fingers. His forehead rests on Fushiguro’s chest, with the other boy slowly reaching up a hand to cup his nape, where they breathe as one. Fushiguro’s gentle breathing brushes against the shell of his ear.
“I almost lost you, y’know,” Itadori’s fingers skit across the skin. He looks up at Fushiguro, who is staring down at him with dark, midnight-black eyes. “Fushiguro.”
Fushiguro’s expression mellows. It was so satisfying to see such an emotionally unavailable, surly, grumpy guy soften out just because of Yuuji. “Yuuji?”
Even though he hasn’t ever said that name before, it comes out quite naturally. Perhaps a little foreign, sure, but it sounds really nice in Fushiguro’s voice.
Yuuji chokes on his own spit. It should be kinda gross, but Fushiguro is aware he’s whipped enough to find it endearing. He thumps his chest with a clenched fist, bug-eyed. “I—you—yes? Yeah?”
“When will you ever use my name? I think you have that privilege.”
“Me-gumi,” Yuuji tries. It makes his chest shudder. Fushiguro’s always been a bit stingy about his name, because it’s usually a girl’s name and sometimes he gets laughed at. Yuuji doesn’t get it. He’s always thought Fushiguro’s name was cute. He grins. “Megumi.”
Shivers rack Megumi’s spine, shutting his eyes. “Never mind. I take back what I said.”
“That means you always have to call me Yuuji,” Yuuji points. His heart feels so warm he could cry. “Goes both ways, man.”
Megumi’s expression folds into a scowl. “Do not call me—”
The door flies open. Megumi and Yuuji split apart within milliseconds, but there’s no way they weren't seen.
Kugisaki has a string bag of sweets in one white-knuckled hand, with an iced coffee in the other, blowing bubblegum. The bubble pops against her face when she walks through the door, her mouth hung open several inches.
They all stare at each other. Yuuji meets Megumi’s horrified, mortified eyes equally with his own, then he looks to Kugisaki’s giddy ones.
“Do my eyes deceive me,” Kugisaki whispers in her thankful exasperation, probably to herself. “Or do I see—”
“Time for you to go,” Megumi quickly walks up to her, spinning her around and pushing her by the shoulders.
Kugisaki sets the bag down. “These are for Itadori,”
“Right, got it.”
“Use a condom, dorks.”
Yuuji’s breath chokes out of him in one giant swoop. Megumi slams the door shut behind her, and they are left in the ensuing silence. Megumi’s face is pointed to the floor as he pinches hard at the bridge of his nose.
When Yuuji opens his mouth, Megumi glowers at him. “If you say anything, I will hit you.”
Yuuji’s mouth snaps shut. He nods furiously.
“Seems like you figured it all out on your own.”
Fushiguro groans, thumping his forehead against the table. His bowl shakes with the force. He almost wishes he had the courage to dump his face in the miso. “Not today, please.”
Gojo must've warped here, considering he was popping into existence from nothing but grey matter.
“Where’s Yuuji-kun,” Gojo-sensei asks in faux concern. Fushiguro glances up for just a moment to see Gojo towering over him, with the blackout glasses instead of the blindfold. That idiotic grin did nothing to make Fushiguro feel better. “Did you lose the kid? Perhaps he’s in your room?”
“I will murder you.”
“Okay!” Gojo says cheerfully. Fushiguro expects it before it happens: Gojo’s hand comes down to pat Fushiguro on the head, flattening the spikes of his hair before they shoot right back up. “I’d give him a shovel talk, but—”
“Megumi, have you seen my—oh, hey Gojo-sensei!”
Fushiguro feels his face drain of any sort of color. Yuuji beams at them, and waves in the most adorable fashion. He hangs his head in defeat.
He had forgotten Itadori had been discharged. Should've ushered Gojo out of here when he had the chance. It’s extremely possible Gojo had already had an inkling about how the two of them had exorcised the curse - simply feeding into what it wanted. Kissing Yuuji senseless was a valiant display of genius.
Like a shark to blood, Gojo-sensei is. Gojo meanders over to his student, and slings a comfortable arm around his shoulder. “Megumi?”
Yuuji meets Megumi’s eyes, apologetic. His tiny smile is like: sorry? If looks could kill.
He stutters, “Um. That is.. his name?”
Telling Gojo that Yuuji is referring to Fushiguro with his given name is essentially telling a father that his daughter brought a boy home. That is the closest equivalent. His smile is shit-eating. This will take years for Fushiguro to live down. “Ohh, Yuuji-kun. You’re a sweetheart.”
The pleased embarrassment on Yuuji’s face is almost worth it. Almost. This concept is immediately forsaken when Gojo’s stupid-ass, blue-ass freaky eyes zero in on Yuuji’s neck, and Fushiguro abruptly stands from his chair, breakfast half-eaten. Yuuji is too late to haphazardly cover the purple splotches before Gojo can see.
Gojo bursts into laughter. “Oh, my god.”
“Time to go,” Fushiguro hisses, grabbing Yuuji by the wrist. “Gojo-sensei, you have to go. We’ll see you in class.”
“Oh my god. Nobara-kun!”
Their sensei’s thoroughly amused laughter echoes down the hall as Fushiguro half-walks half-sprints with Yuuji in tow, who has a hand clamped over his bruised neck, every drop of blood in his body having gone to his face.
Everyday, the people in this school test his vascular system. It’s like he's being taunted - hell yeah, Fushiguro. Die of heart failure, rather than the proper way every sorcerer is supposed to go.
In any case: it can’t be that bad—Yuuji is laughing, the most carefree he’s been in months. There is little else Fushiguro would ever wish for.