Chapter Text
“ If a bitch beef with me we gon' beef foreva.”
-Belcalis Almánzar
With his third iced latte of that morning pumping through his veins, Satoru looks over their formations, hot pink pen balanced between his lips. He pouts, catches the thing as it falls then flips it between his fingers, tapping the blunt end against the sheet on the desk before him.
"I don't know if I like this," he says. Mei Mei takes a pin from between her teeth and sticks it into the banner she's sewing. Squinting, she looks over at where he points. Her glasses slide down the bridge of her nose. He doesn't bother pushing them back up for her.
"Yuuji and Todo can't both be bases for Miwa."
"But they're so close." She returns to her sewing, as if that'll be the end of the conversation.
As if he'll let that be the end of conversation.
"They like to fool around. It's better to seperate them," He's already crossing out Todo's name and shifting him over to Mai's block, pushing Kamo out. "We can barely get through practice without them doing something dumb. She's gonna get hurt-,"
He doesn't even finish the sentence before there's shrieking and a loud crash. The air in that tiny office seems to flow out in a woosh; he can't feel any of it in his lungs in the split second they take to look at each other.
In sync, they jolt up and run, medals and trophies on the shelves clanging in their wake, till they're out in the massive gymnasium. The team is on the mat. All 22 of them in a circle around the one person Satoru's praying won't be lying there on the ground.
Miwa clutches her arm with a desperate wail. He doesn't need eyes to know what's going on. She's not the crying type-always the first to put on a brave front-but the way she's screaming tells him everything. Even if it didn't, the way Yuuji and Todo stand over her, looking like they're ready for the earth to swallow them whole, is hint enough.
Her arm’s broken. There's no way it's not broken.
"What happened?" Mei Mei's already on it, running forward as quickly as her little boots will let her. Satoru hands back, watching their body language as they start giving her some bullshit excuses, a dark feeling bubbling in his gut. She's nodding along, but he can see that worried curl to her lips as she takes Miwa's hands away from the limb to take a look for herself.
She winces.
....Yeah, that's broken.
He hears the conversation but it's as if he's underwater, mind already running off, scrambling to figure out a way to fix this.
"But why were you tossing baskets when Satoru and I were in the office?"
"We thought since Ieri and Geto were here it would be fine."
"Ieri and Suguru are not coaches. You don't put anyone in the air when I'm not there. Do you understand-?"
She cuts herself off. A familiar jingle rings out. The moment the lovely tones of Jeon Jungkook rings out, Satoru already feels a headache coming on. He recognizes that ringtone. He knows exactly who it’s for, and what it means. So when she takes the call and starts nodding along, he can predict what she'll say to him before she even comes jogging back.
"It's Ui. I've gotta go.” Word for word. “Handle this. I'll take Geto and get Miwa to the hospital. The rest of them do not leave this gym until they've got their shit together."
"You can't just leave-."
"Satoru."
She clings to him. Her touch is soft but her nails are like talons, sharp and painted a deep black, scratching against his skin. He doesn't flinch away, looks Mei Mei in her dark eyes and makes sure she knows he's not happy.
"Handle this for me." is all she says, then she’s getting on her jacket and running off. Geto's right on her heels, a crying Miwa in his arms.
Satoru's left with a bunch of cheerleaders all staring at him wide-eyed and absolutely clueless. He doesn’t blame them. He’s confused too. It’s a bit of a shit situation really.
The facts are simple:
- They're down a flyer.
- There are 20 weeks until Nationals.
In the words of a more prolific woman,’ if one plus one is two and two plus two is four, then…’
Then…
Fuck, no stereotype or whatever, but he’s always been too queer for math. All he knows is that his calculations read ‘UR IN D33P SH1T’.
...He...might have a mental breakdown, but he'll save it for after practice, late at night when he's alone in his room and able to cry into his pillow with only the eyes of his stuffed bear Kuma looking down on him.
For now, he bitches.
"20 burpees! 40 burpees for Yuuji and Todo because this is all their fault...who was spotting? Was anyone spotting? No? So our spotters just stood back and watched while they tried that? As a matter of fact all of you just stood back and watched? K, I changed my mind. 40 burpees for everyone. Four laps. Go!"
They bitch and moan and complain but they get on those mats and they start getting those burpees done. He stands over them all, walking back and forth like a drill sergeant, lording over them all.
"I honestly think you're forgetting that you're here to perform. I don't care if you're from the Bay Area, some bumblefuck town in Texas, or Shibuya. I will send you packing back to wherever you came from, and I'll get someone else to take your spot. You know I will."
It's an empty threat. The incident just now proved it. There is no flyer to take Miwa's spot.
Which means the Jujutsu Crows are fucked.
There's a Killers song playing on the radio. Megumi knows it too well. It was the show closer for the concert his Dad took him to back in 2012. He doesn't have another memory like it: sitting on the shoulder of a giant, lording over all the others in the crowd, looking down on the tops of heads, above the acrid scent of sweat and beer and smoke, to get cool air.
A great visual of those lights. Of those men on that stage making sweet music that seemed to settle in his soul.
'Boy,' Brandon Flowers croons. ' One day you'll be a man. Oh, girl, he'll help you understand.'
Smile like you mean it.
Megumi sits in the passenger seat and taps his finger against the hole in his jeans, listening to the tune even when the car comes to a stop. His father doesn't undo the locks. He just lowers their windows, pulls a cig from his pack and lights up.
It's his favorite brand: Lucky Strike. Megumi can draw the box from memory. All white with the red circle in the center lined in gold. But the visual alone isn't good enough. He tries to commit the scent of it to memory now, sharp nicotine laced with something almost spicy. He almost wishes it would stick to his clothes, weasel its way into his suitcase and attach itself to everything he owns.
A little piece of home that he carries with him. All he has left.
He and his Dad haven't been on the best of terms lately. But that's still his Pops. Megumi's still his kid, and in moments like this, he feels it: those couple strings that still tie them together. More than a fair share have snapped under the pressure of all the shit they've been through but there's some troopers holding them down.
Taking a deep breath, Megumi reaches out for one and tugs,
"I guess this is it."
The cig's only half-finished. Pops plucks it from his lips and grinds it out in the ashtray anyway.
"Guess so." His voice is raspy. It usually doesn't get like that when he smokes. Maybe he's getting old. Maybe there's no maybe. It is aging that has put those streaks of gray in his hair, that gave him those lines around his mouth and faded the glint in his eye. Age and stress.
Megumi purses his lips and nods, swallowing back the lump in his throat. He's not sure why he's expecting something more, but there's that longing in his chest, a bittersweet ache that only grows more sour the longer the silence between them stretches. Pursing his lips, he nods and decides to cut his losses.
And as soon as Megumi turns away, there's a hand in his hair, as heavy but gentle as it's always been.
"Be good. This is a fresh start for you. It'll...It'll be good."
Let the record show that Toji Fushiguro has never been good with words. He's a man of action. Sure enough, none of the sentimental shit he awkwardly spouted will stick with Megumi after this. No, it's the touch.
It's been a long time since Pops rustled his hair. He used to really go for it, pushing him down as Megumi whined about how it would make him shorter. Now it's just a passing motion, no more than a couple seconds, but his head still tingles from the touch long after he climbs out of that beaten up Chevy.
It's not difficult to get to his dorm room. All of the buildings are packed close together. His dorm is only a few minutes walk from the main gate. He's already moved most of his stuff in over the past weekend with Baba so this is the last trip. He enters Room #411 and the moment the door shuts behind him, he feels it. That strange feeling of the atmosphere of Jujutsu College enveloping him, bathing him in their essence, making him one of them.
He's a Crow now, and no matter how much he resisted it, there's no going back to who he was before. Setting the suitcase down, he goes up to the window, cracking it open to take in that fresh Torrance, Californian air. It's nice. Salty with the faint scent of the sun hanging on the breeze. That's how he can tell they're close to the beach. It's not like home... not as congested...and there are a lot better views.
He could get used to it. Eventually.
Rubbing his shoulder, Megumi turns on his toes to get a look at the place. It's a single room, so no roommates. A lot of privacy. Quiet to let him think. Reflect on what he's done or whatever.
A little like juvy, but even during his short stint, he had people to talk to. He's not the most social but it would be nice to have the choice to get a roommate in the first place. To choose a single room on his own terms instead of this.
...He can already hear Uncle Naoya bitching at him about his 'attitude'. His ungratefulness after all the kindness the family's shown him, as if they weren't falling over themselves to make it up to-.
No.
No old shit. Don't focus on all of the old fights.
Shoving that strange swell of bitter emotions down, Megumi walks over to the mirror, and looks himself in the eye, takes in all the glinting green and his crooked nose and that one scar slitted through his eyebrow from that one fight and the spot of acne that magically appeared on his jaw that morning and the imperfections, flaws, hidden little hideous things.
He drags his fingers over his face, slaps his cheeks to make them redder, shakes his head, smooths out his eyebrows, tugs at the tip of his nose.
He tries a smile. Lips. Teeth. Back to lips. Brighter. Happier. A bit more normal. Like the kids on the cover of the pamphlet. The ones that locked their arms around each others and leaned in real close for the camera.
All he has to do is play his cards right, and he can be like them. Perfect, like them, with a degree in hand and a chance at scraping through the real world. A chance at making something out himself despite it all.
Lips. Teeth again. Lips, with relaxed shoulders and an arched brow. Perfect.
This is his fresh start.
For some reason that Satoru cannot fathom, Miwa decides to come to evening practice.
In a cast.
"Fuck," he breathes, watching the poor girl approach. On one hand, it's good to know he was right. On the other hand, he's literally about to lose the entire fucking plot. The others- nosy little monsters-sensing his impending break down, stop in the middle of their stretches and jump to watch as Miwa comes over to him. He doesn't want to give them a show, so he stops the curtains before they can rise.
"No." He holds out a hand. Miwa stops. Her chapped lips part but he cuts in right in the nick of time. "Don't even bother saying it out loud. Even I can see that cast. Just...go home."
He's tapping his foot. There's a heat in him, so terrible and violent, like a summer storm at sea or a suburban mom when her son's coach takes him out of the game. He tries to squash it, to keep it out of his bright smile and cheery tone as he continues, "As a matter of fact, Yuuji and Todo, you two go home too. Nobara, you stay. We always need another spotter hanging around."
"What? Wait-!" As expected, they both jump to their own defence but Satoru doesn't give a fuck.
"I'm sure you both have a lot of shit to spout, but I can't be bothered to listen to it right now. K?"
He watches the way they wilt beneath the cold, bitchy fury of his words. Yuuji goes down easy, but Todo's a stubborn motherfucker.
"K," He answers his own question, not giving the man a chance to speak. "Go home babes. Maybe a day off will help you figure out how to do your fucking jobs."
Of course, Mai has to open her mouth. She can't just sit down and wrap her bony ankles in silence. She has to offer a snide little, "You don't have to be such a bitch about it." that absolutely no one asked for. Because that's all she can do: insert herself in other people's business to make up for her dull, unfulfilling life and low self-esteem.
"Go!" But he can outbitch her and outcheer her. Any. Day. "Toodles!"
They stand there, looking at him like kicked puppies.
Satoru hates animals.
Tilting his head to the side, he gives them his biggest smile and a little wave.
" Byyyyyye Felicia! Get outta here!"
And they're out, slinging their backpacks over their shoulders and grumbling as they get out of his gymnasium.
The Miwa Group is gone, and they're down to two main flyers and two alternates, with a massive pyramid to pull off, and a limited amount of time before nationals.
Either they get a replacement this late in the game, or they re-do the whole routine. It's not his call to make (even though he wishes it were) but surely Mei Mei won't mind if he takes the initiative to start revamping the routine. He tells the others to run through that little dance segment. Utahime takes the front, as per usual, directing the others with clear, clean directions as Satoru goes to sit in the bleachers, watching them perform.
His expresson's foul. He knows it is because the freshmen keep glancing at him with fearful looks. They should be scared. He has half a mind to take them all off mat and start the team anew. Most accidents he can deal with gracefully, but a flyer accident? One that was completely uncalled for? Of course he's going to freak out about it.
Miwa's lucky to get out of this with a broken bone. It could've been so much worse.
Suguru's the one to come to him because he and Shoko are the only two that can mediate when Satoru gets into one of his moods, and Shoko can't be bothered half the time. Satoru doesn't even have to look up. The weight of the arm that wrap around his neck is familiar enough.
"Mai's talking about you," Suguru says. He's using that placating voice, the one that's almost melodic, humming towards the end to give an air of nonchalance. "She thinks you're being a bit of a dick."
"Mai needs to change her tampon and get her bloody vag off my dick."
"Don't be crude."
"We're down a flyer!" Satoru has to turn to him then, and not even the sight of Suguru's pretty face and luxurious hair can placate him. "That's literally a third of our routine that needs to be rearranged. And that's only if Mei Mei decides not to cut that entire squad from the piece-."
"It would devastate them. Yuuji and Todo have been working hard-."
"Not hard enough. Not if they're dropping people like that in the middle of stunts."
Suguru's lips twist but he stays silent. Satoru turns away from him, back to those on the mat, focusing on Toge's jumps in particular. He's good. Great stamina but his technique is nothing like Miwa's, and he's not sure if they can get the guy to that level before April.
"Mei Mei's not here to make the call," he says absently, shifting his eyes to Yuuta.
"Where is she?"
"Something's up with Ui Ui."
"Again?"
"Mmm."
Could he convince Maki to fly? She'd be willing, no doubt, but her twin would literally find a way to slit his throat in his sleep. No, Maki and Mai can barely fit on the same team, let alone in the same position. That's a sibling rivaly he doesn't want to touch.
"Maybe it's his environment? Has she considered switching schools?"
"I don't want to get in their family business."
No. Maki's a more than capable base. Nobara would be a better fit for that flyer spot. She's got some experience. Again, not ideal but probable....Mmm but maybe they could pull someone else? Someone they rejected before? They could host a whole new mini-tryout and see where that takes them. He'll have the check the rules but it might work. It would be better than moving Nobara around. He likes her right where she is.
"She needs to be here though. It's affecting the team."
"Mmmhmm," Satoru's already pulling out his phone, getting into Discord and plugging information into the Groupchat. If they get these tryouts done within a week, they'd have time to train a newbie. It would take a ton of work, but he could train them personally. It could work. It'll be crazy and insane and incredibly difficult on both their parts...
But it could work.
"I'm down to do the research for her. There should be, like, charter schools that are better suited for him. If it's a money issue, the team would def be willing to do, like, a car wash or something to fundraise...She's like our mom. He's like our little brother. I wish she would just let us help-."
"Mei Mei's kind of old school though. She likes that privacy." He reads over the paragraph, checking for any spelling mistakes or any phrasing that could be correctly construed as 'rude' before sending off the announcement.
"I can respect that, but at the same time, she should be reasona...ble. Gojo, what is this ?"
Suguru only ever calls him 'Gojo' when he's annoyed. Cheeky, Satoru grins and bats his lashes. Hoisting his phone up, he winks and wriggles the thing.
"A solution."
Megumi's first real day was spent walking around campus, just looking at things and trying to get his bearing in this new place. It's all out of his price range. He grew up scrappy. It was just him, Pops, and Tsumiki. The Fushiguro Clan tight-knit at three members. They spent their time in thrift shops and In-n-Out Burger. Not Rodeo Drive and Nobu. These kids are a little out of his league.
The campus is good for nature and stuff though. He can walk barefoot in the grass without worrying about broken glass or anything weird. The air's clean and the sun's starting to set so it's not too hot outside. Perfect for him to break out his yoga mat and claim a quiet nook for himself. He goes through his stretches. It's been a while. Three months to be exact, but once he gets into a groove, the burn becomes a comfort zone.
He missed this. The sweetness of this pain. Megumi doesn't compete anymore but he's still a gymnast. There's no events. No practice. No coach. But his body remembers all the moves.
It's...kinda sad. He can taste that bittersweet thing on his tongue again, has to hold himself to keep it together when that feeling suddenly swells in him, before falling back.
It wouldn't hurt to do a couple stunts. Just to take the edge off. He starts off easy. Cartwheel. Aerial. Handspring. The last one makes his wrist sting but he likes it. That pain's familiar to him. Rewarding, even. It means that he's worked at something and accomplished it. He'd be lying if he said he doesn't relish the validation of it.
Shaking out the thing, he pushes himself just a little bit further.
Scissors Leap. Full Layout.
An Arabian Double Front-.
He completely fumbles it. Something throws him off balance. He gained a bit of weight since summer, finally got some meat to his thighs, so he's got to adjust his distribution-.
Wait.
No.
No he doesn't.
He's not a gymnast anymore.
...He should stretch.
Stretching is easy. He pulls a full split, ducking his head till his forehead is too his knee, reaching forward and looping his index finger around the strap in his stirrup leggings. He tugs at it, focusing on it to ignore the burn in his thighs, counting in his head as he goes. Twenty seconds fly before he gets up again. He goes for a heel stretch, a shaky arabesque, pausing to breath for a second or two as he looks up.
The sky's painted purple and pink. The sun's red in the distance. Focusing on that great ball of fire, he twists. Keeping one foot grounded, he brings the other one up high, reaching over his head to grab at his ankle.
A needle. He used to be able to keep it up for a minute, but he can barely last ten before he's dropping out of it, wincing as a muscle in his back tweaks out. Megumi sighs, tries to stretch it out, and turns to find some asshole staring at him.
Pink hair, but dark at the roots, with big brown eyes and a round-ish, baby face. He's full on staring. The ice cream in his hand has already started to melt, dripping white all over his fingers. His friend's not as obvious about it, but it's clear the guy was looking at him. He's got a normal face, black hair and huge; a mountain of a man and actually hard to miss. Megumi must've been lost in his head not to notice them.
Gross.
"Perv." Megumi says, loud and scornful enough for the man to hear. He starts gathering his stuff. Hoisting his yoga mat, he sets off in the direction of the dorms. There's some commotion behind him. He can hear their footsteps, heavy thuds and frantic whispers. They're tailing him.
Megumi doesn't mind. He can fight.
"Wait!"
He does not wait.
"I'm sorry! I just-! Oooh, you're fast!"
Pinkie's caught up to him. Megumi whips around just in time to block the man's hand from reaching his shoulder, eyes narrowed into a glare. Pinkie reels back, holds them both up, palms out in a sign of surrender. He looks apologetic. There's a certain innocence to his eyes. A childlike naivety.
"I saw all your stunts!" He says. "That Full was great! And that Arabesque? Whew! You can give some of the girls a run for their money! You're flexible!"
That makes him stop short. It's not often that a stranger knows what an Arabesque is, let alone how to pronounce it. Pinkie's got a southern twang-Texan most likely-but the word still rang out clear.
He has full intentions of taking advantage of Megumi's sudden silence. Like an eager puppy, he leans in, all bright-eyed and earnest.
"Do you cheer?"
Megumi shakes his head. "Once, a couple years ago. I'm a gymnast."
Was a gymnast that little voice in his mind corrects. He doesn't amend anything aloud. Pinkie's earnestness hasn't faded.
"How do you feel about being tossed in the air?" He asks, which is a strange question regardless of the current context. Megumi looks at him, trying to see if he can suss this guy out. His friend seems content to hang back (he's eying some sorority chicks across the way) so Pinkie's alone in his pursuit.
He's cute. Honest-looking. But Megumi knows better than to trust people based on first impressions.
"I don't know what you're selling, but I'll pass."
He walks off, or at least he tries to. Pinkie's a persistent one. His friend eventually comes along too. They latch onto him like dogs, following at his heels as he makes his way back to the dorms. They're telling him some wild story about how they're a part of one of the 'greatest collegiate cheerleading teams in the country' boasting about how they've won Nationals five years in a row, how badly they need #6 because their gracious coach needs something good in her life, but boo-fucking-hoo they're down a flyer because someone broke her leg (???) and apparently they need a replacement.
Megumi just so happened to fall into their laps with a standing split that's straight as a ruler and, hey? Couldn't Megumi be that replacement?
"No." He says, swiping his Student ID to get in.
They are absolutely shameless about following him in. They corner him in the elevators. They explain that it was their fault their flyer broke her ribs (????). They talk about how guilty they feel with tears in their eyes and noses stuffed with snot. They bemoan the fact that their whole team hates them. How they've disppointed their poor, hardworking coash who's already struggling to balance her work and family life. How they've added more onto her plate and have to make it up to her with a brand new flyer and a shiny trophy all the way from Florida. Oh, please, couldn't Megumi consider it? What does he have to lose?
"Everything. I'm not here by any merit. I'm here because..."
...He doesn't owe these guys shit. He doesn't have to explain his life story to them. He doesn't have to make friends. He just needs to get this stupid degree, graduate, and find himself a steady job. This is what Tsumiki would've wanted for him. What his mother would've wanted for him. What his grandmother threw so much money at this college for.
A fresh start. Three words. The mantra.
"I...I can't fuck this up. I'm sorry, but I can't help you."
He's turning the doorknob. He's already got his foot raised to enter his room. Then there's some wild stroke of fate. Megumi doesn't believe in a god, but apparently there's a deity out there working in Pinkie's favor.
Because his stomach rumbles. Loud and clear like lightning and thunder. He feels the ache of hunger and knows that showering just to get back out to a Dining Hall would be a bitch to deal with.
Pinkie's a little annoying, but the kids knows how to snatch an opportunity when he sees it.
"Let me buy you dinner!" Megumi can't remember the last time someone laid a friendly hand on his shoulder. Pinkie's got nice hands. Big, firm, and just a touch on the side of rough. "Let me buy you dinner, and we can talk."
"If you're new, you need friends right?" His friend says, wriggling his brows. "We're the best guys for that! There's not a party on campus that we don't know about."
Megumi's sure he won't have fun at their parties, but it wouldn't hurt to have a friend or two.
(And his Father taught him never to say no to free shit. Especially not a free hot plate of food.)
Jujutsu College is stuck so far up their own ass they think they're too good for normal food. They've got shit like quinoa and acai bowls, nothing he's ever tried before. Megumi manages to get himself some vegan chick'n nuggets shaped liked dinosaurs, sweet potato fries, and a non-dairy milkshake (literally, what the fuck?)
His new 'friends/meal swipe plugs' load up on grilled proper chicken and spinach, with a tall glass of lemon water. That's it. He wants to feel bad for them but his better senses tell him to keep his emotions in check. Duck his head. Take a bite out of his fake chicken nuggets. Take his free meal and get outta here.
But they're funny. First impressions really mean nothing because these two are...kind of idiots, but they're real. Everyone else seems a little pretentious but these guys have got good hearts. Pinkie- Yuuji, Megumi learns-has got a knack for impersonations. There isn't a movie he hasn't seen, and he can talk about every one with ease. Megumi likes his voice, likes that little drawl that blurs his words sometimes, the ' nuttin' s and the 'fixin to 's.
Muscleman-he goes by Todo- is a little too energetic. There's a good heart underneath all that bulging muscle, but he's too high-energy for Megumi to last longer than three hours at most. He's romance-obsessed. There isn't a woman alive that doesn't catch his eye, subject to his appraisal regardless of whether they're interested or not.
"I just want to be married," He says, which is honestly really sweet, but then he follows it up with a sighed, "I just want a good wife. Long legs. Big butt and some hair to hold onto."
"...And her personality?"
Todo looks at him, scrunches his brow. "What am I going to do with a personality?"
Megumi would pretend he didn't hear it, but Todo just keeps it going.
"What's your type?"
"I like nice people."
"That's boring as fuck man. What about the face? The body? Tits?"
"What's a body compared to the soul?" Megumi drones, twirling a fry. He bites into the thing. It's a little salty. He takes a couple more bites before he notices the other two staring.
"Megumi...you're a weird guy."
He thinks they're the weird ones, but it's cool. They know how to have a good time. Megumi can't remember the last time he had a friend group he could laugh this much with. His old one...Well, they weren't really his friends were they? They were his boyfriend's friends, and they weren't as light as these guys are. Their jokes were a bit more cruel. A bit more mean. They talked a lot of shit in Japanese and he tried to pick up the language-he really did-but fuck, it was hard.
And they weren't about to bend over backwards to accomodate him, which...was understandable. It still made him feel a little shitty, not knowing when he was the butt of the joke.
These guys don't make him feel like that. If he doesn't get something, they explain it to him without making him feel like a total tool. They're a lot more welcoming than the people he's met so far. He's even laughing when they go to throw their trash away.
Of course, he manages to fuck it up. Whatever god is up there doesn't like him very much. Maybe the sound of his laughter offends them.
So, he trips over nothing. Like, literally eats shit on empty air, tumbling forward. He catches himself before he hits the ground but his oatmilkshake goes tumbling through the air. It's like in slow-motion. Like one of those scenes out of those cheesy, late 90s coming-of-age movies. There's the pink matter flowing out of the cup in an elegant arc-a tidal wave, if you will-sloshing through the air only to land on the chest of one of the most pretentious-looking rich assholes he's ever seen.
Instinct alone tells him that a man who wears black sunglasses indoors, low-rise jeans and a crop top that shows off smooth, waxed abs and a glimmering belly button piercing....is going to be a total dick about getting strawberry milkshake all over the front of his chest. Vegan or otherwise.
The entire room is quiet save for the plip plip plip of milkshake dropping to the floor, a quick tempo that matches the thudding of Megumi's heart against his ribs. It's not until Stranger drops his tray of salad, till the thing crashes against the ground, sending argula and tomatoes and a cup of boba rolling away, that he looks up. Stranger cluthes at the hem of his baby tee with shaking hands. His lower lip is wobbling. Megumi thinks he might cry.
Dude's acting like it's the end of the world. As if he can't just toss the thing in the wash.
(Megumi still feels a little bad.)
Stranger's glasses have slid down the bridge of his nose. His eyes are mismatched shades of blue. Both bright as the sky on a clear summer day, but one's a shade dimmer than the other. A trick of the light perhaps. The way his hair- bleached a white blonde with not a single root gone untouched- falls into his face, heavy from the milkshake. Darkening his expression. Making the sharp angles of it that much fiercer.
Megumi chooses to extend the olive branch.
"Shit, I'm sorry. I tripped. I-...Let me help."
He gets a napkin, the only thing he managed to hold onto, and goes to reach out.
Then Stranger slaps his hand away. It's not like it hurts. It just pisses Megumi off. Nothing ticks him off more than disrespect and, sure enough, he can feel that initial surge of anger burst through him, whipping around in his chest like a forest fire. It's like seeing an old friend again. A shitty one that was there for you throughout the worst period of your life. One you loved dearly once upon a time but had to tuck away into past to move forward with life. Be healthy or whatever, because they're not good for you. You thought (or hoped) you'd never see them again.
But-how does that movie quote go?-' sandbox love never dies' .
"This custom Baby Phat. Auntie Kimora gave this to me for my twentieth birthday " is the string of words that leave Stranger's mouth. Megumi wishes he didn't understand any of them but...alas. He brings his hands back to himself, clenches his hands into fists to funnel that tension somewhere, and schools his expression into something a bit more neutral.
Breathe. In one, three, five, seven. Out one, three, five, seven. Speak clearly and with intention. Seek solutions. Just like the fancy ass therapist said.
"Like I said, I'm sorry. We could go to the bathroom and wash it out."
Stranger looks at him. In the eye for the first time, glasses skewed to the right side, then his gaze strays. Up. Down. Back up. Nose wrinkled and lips pressed into a line.
Judgement. Megumi can recognize it from a mile away. He's been subject to this test before, and he knows the very second he fails. He doesn't have a big scary boyfriend at his side anymore. Megumi on his own has never been intimidating enough to pass. High metabolism and a knack for athletics gave him a lanky body, and he's always had a face that was just too pretty, even when bloodied up.
He just didn't think even the twunks wouldn't back down. Megumi really needs to up his game.
"Don't ever look me in the eye again, and maybe I'll let you graduate from this school. C'mon Geto."
He doesn't notice Stranger's friend till the man calls out to him. He's not as flamboyant, dressing in a simple white t-shirt and grey sweats. Megumi doesn't see much of him. Black hair tied up into a high ponytail. Dark eyes. Attractive face with a beauty mark or two. Black diamond studs in his ears that glitter in the light.
That's all he sees before Stranger shoves him with his bony shoulder. Megumi doesn't move, doesn't even flinch. He takes it like a champ, turning around only to glare but that asshole doesn't glance back. He feels that heat within him again. Anger doesn't benefit him; he knows that. It gets him into more trouble than it's worth. But Megumi would be lying if he said he weren't itching for a fight. He could take him. Someone pretty like that has probably never scrapped in their life. It would be an easy one. Three hits and a lesson learned: Don't fuck with Fushiguro Megumi.
He could take him. He could grab him by that pretty white hair and drag him out into the streets so this whole fucking school could watch, and see, and know that Megumi wasn't going to take shit. That he wouldn't let any of them hurt him, or belittle him, or make him feel like he was lesser-,
"Hey, don't mind Gojo. He's a piece of work....You okay man?"
The hand at his shoulder is warm. It's amazing; how kindness can be conveyed through something as simple as touch alone. He takes a breath, tries to regulate himself before he turns around. The smile at his lips is weak and ungenuine. Those two take it at face value and grin back.
"I'm cool," he says, but he knows he's not.
It's...scary. How mad he gets. It scares him. He thought he had it all under control, that the distance would help out but that thing within him still rears its ugly head at the slightest provocation. He can't be fighting on the first day and still expect for this whole 'new school' thing to work out.
Maybe he needs to pick up a sport again. It's easier when he's competing. He needs something to focus his energy on that isn't fights or hot-wiring cars or sex or breaking into warehouses-.
Oh.
Cheerleading's a sport. It's not gymnastics but it's pretty damn close.
His smile hikes up just a bit higher. There's more warmth to it. A bit more honesty in the curl of his lips as he follows the other two out with a sly,
"Tell me more about your cheer team."