Archive of Our Own

From its perch at the edge of the city, Tokyo Jujutsu High looks much like it did five years ago: clean, orderly, a place out of time. It smells the same, too—like amber and clean wood. The trees wink golden and ruddy with afternoon sun. A late September breeze stirs the branches, kicking up a muted chorus of whispers.

It’s still warm enough for t-shirts, sandals—but it’s getting to the time of year when, once the sun starts going down, Itadori finds himself wishing he’d grabbed a sweatshirt.

He fishes his phone out of his pocket, flips it open. 3:24 pm. Gojo-sensei asked him and Fushiguro to meet on campus at 3:30. Well—asked maybe isn’t the right word. Itadori navigates to the group text and rereads the message:

Yuuji-kyun! Megumi-chan! Come to the school at 3:30 tomorrow, okay? (>^3^)>

Itadori’d given the message a thumbs-up reaction. Fushiguro left a cranky face emoji, but he’d followed up with a single word: Fine. Itadori smiles at the curt exchange. Fushiguro isn’t as aloof as he pretends to be. He imagines his friend scrolling through emojis, putting in the extra effort to ensure his irritation is legible.

And speak of the devil—Itadori spots a person-shaped figure reclined high in a tree just off the main walkway. Black hair, dark hoodie, one long leg propped on top of the other. The familiar lick of Fushiguro’s cursed energy curls up Itadori’s brainstem.

“Fushiguro!”

Nothing. Itadori steps closer.

“Fushiguro.”

He doesn't stir. Doesn’t even twitch.

“Fu. Shi. Gu. Ro.”

Itadori knows Fushiguro is awake. His friend’s never been a heavy sleeper—he’d more than once let himself into Itadori’s room back in school, jostling him out of a deep sleep with a raised fist because Itadori hadn’t woken up to his still-blaring alarm. Still, aside from the slow rise and fall of his chest, Fushiguro doesn't move from his cradle of branches.

Itadori sucks his teeth. He knows what he has to do, and he's pretty sure it's going to piss Fushiguro off—but that's what he gets for playing games. Itadori's a good sport, but he doesn't like to lose.

You asked for it, he thinks. He takes a deep breath, cups his hands around his mouth, then searches his mental catalogue for the pitch Gojo-sensei always hits—high, nasal, uncanny—

“Megumiiiiii,” he whines. Fushiguro immediately flinches. Itadori smirks when a dark eye slits open, twitches in his direction.

“Don't do that.”

“Then wake up!” Itadori shouts, kicking the tree trunk. “We have to meet Gojo-sensei in—” he glances at his phone again, “—three minutes.”

The eye regards him for a beat. Another. Then it closes, but before Itadori can start hollering again, Fushiguro’s sitting up. He runs a hand through his hair—shorter than it was when they first met, but still long enough to fall in his eyes.

“I thought you’d be here earlier. I got bored waiting.”

Itadori shrugs, foot still pressed against the tree. He twists his ankle, watching the bark flake under his heel. “It didn’t seem urgent, so I stopped a couple places on the way.” Twist. Crunch. “Then again, sensei doesn’t really make anything seem urgent.”

Fushiguro swings his legs to the side, begins a graceful descent. “Why do you still call him that?” he asks when he lands next to Itadori. His expression looks so much like a grouchy emoji that Itadori nearly laughs.

Instead, he shrugs. “Gojo-sensei? Hmm…well, he’s Gojo-sensei! I dunno. It feels weird not to.”

Fushiguro evidently doesn’t have anything to say to that. He tucks his hands into his pockets and begins walking toward the building that houses their old sensei’s office. Itadori jogs after him.

“Hey, want to grab dinner after this? It’s been a while since we’ve hung out.”

Fushiguro gives him another glance. To most it’d probably read disinterested, even cold—but they’ve known each other long enough that Itadori recognizes the spark of interest in Fushiguro’s dark eyes.

“Maybe. Where do you want to go?”

“There’s this new barbecue spot near my place. It’s half off on Tuesdays!”

Fushiguro visibly considers.

Itadori grins. Fushiguro’s on the hook—now he just has to reel him in. “We can get squid.”

Fushiguro’s eyebrows twitch. Got you. “...sure. Sounds fun,” he says. Itadori pumps one fist in the air, lets out an over-the-top hoot. It earns him an elbow in his side and a small smile.

Gojo-sensei greets them with a delighted cry. “My cute little students are here!”

Fushiguro frowns. “Gross.”

“Keep frowning like that and you’ll get wrinkles in your twenties, Megumi,” Gojo-sensei chides. He hops out of the low chair he’d been reclined in when they entered, glides over to sling an arm around Itadori’s shoulders. “Tell him, Yuuji.”

Itadori nods gravely. “I can already see the crow’s feet.” Fushiguro shoots him a lethal look. “See, there they are! Grandpa, have you seen my friend? He was just here!”

Gojo-sensei snickers. Itadori does, too.

“Ugh,” Fushiguro groans. “Do you have a mission for us, or not?”

“No-nonsense Megumi,” Gojo-sensei says with a soft, sad sigh. But he moves on quickly—he frees Itadori, then claps his hands together and produces two slim folders from seemingly thin air.

“I do have a mission for you,” he says. “Here, take these.”

Itadori takes his folder, flips it open. There’s not much inside: a couple pages of testimonials, an address, a handful of photos of the same brick facade from various angles. A few of the photos appear to be taken at night—there’s a not-insignificant crowd of people in these.

Something catches Itadori’s eye.

“Who’s this?” he asks, tapping on a blurry figure in two of the nighttime photos. It’s a man, he thinks. He’s wearing a white suit, but his face is obscured—by night, by a shaky camera, it’s hard to tell.

“That’s your target!” Gojo-sensei chirps. “We don’t know his name. Actually, we don’t know anything about him! All we know is someone keeps calling down a curtain near this club, and we think it’s probably him. He’s there a lot, might be some kind of VIP. Nitta-chan’s seen two curtains on nights he’s there.”

Fushiguro scans Nitta’s report. “Any weird occurrences? Fights? Disappearances?”

“That’s the thing—we don’t have evidence of anything bad happening. We just don’t have a record of a sorcerer operating in that part of the city.” He plops back down in his chair. “The principal wants someone to go undercover and find out more about this guy, see if he’s dangerous.”

Itadori hums. “So just a recon mission, then?”

“Exactly. You and Megumi go in, observe him, check out the space. Then report back and we’ll figure out next steps.” His expression darkens—an outsider might not catch it thanks to Gojo-sensei’s trademark blindfold, but Itadori can tell by the subtle tension in his former teacher’s jaw, the line of his mouth.

“And keep in mind—we also don’t have evidence of bad things not happening.”

Itadori nods. Fushiguro does, too.

“Any questions?”

Itadori has one, actually—but he’s not sure he should ask it, doesn’t want to come off rude.

Thankfully, Fushiguro’s never been afraid to speak his mind: “No offense, Gojo-san, but isn’t this mission a little below our grade? Seems like the kind of field work we did back when we were students.”

“Maybe,” Gojo-sensei sings. “Maybe not. Remember, we have no idea what this man is capable of, or what’s even happening in that club.” He presses one hand to his chest, lays the other palm-up on his forehead—the picture of distress. “It’d bring your poor old sensei some peace knowing you two are on the case.”

“Besides,” he adds, a mischievous smirk creeping through the feigned dismay. “I’ve got a feeling you two will do it best.”

It’s pretty cool, actually, that they get to go to a place like this on a mission. Most of the time their work takes them to schools, hospitals, places where loneliness and heartache run rampant—typical wellsprings for negative emotions. An outsider might see the sea of black-clad people Itadori and Fushiguro are currently standing in and think the worst of the spikes and tattoos, but for a sorcerer, fringe cultures are a sight for sore eyes.

Turns out, the scariest-looking places—gathering spots for horror enthusiasts, punk bars, places that make mainstreamers look for the nearest exit—are some of the safest, at least as far as curses go.

It makes sense when you think about it, Itadori muses. These are the places where the people who don’t always fit in…well, fit in. Self-consciousness, bitterness, rage—all that gets left at the door. You don’t have to worry about being scorned for your off-color interests when you’re surrounded by people dressed in the same odd hues. An alternative underground nightclub may look kind of intense, but it’s also a place where people can let their guard down. No judgement. No fear.

Itadori thinks that’s pretty cool.

What isn’t cool, however, is how long they’ve been waiting in this goddamn line. “I’m gonna freeze to death before we even get in there,” he grumbles, scrubbing his hands up and down his goosebumped arms. He really needs to start carrying a jacket.

Fushiguro tsks at him. “It’s not that cold,” he says. But Itadori notices him shift slightly—he angles his shoulders, takes just half a step backwards. That’s enough to block most of the unseasonably brisk breeze winding its way down the line they’ve been standing in for nearly an hour.

“Easy for you to say!” Itadori whines. “You have sleeves!”

To be fair: barely. The day after their Jujutsu High visit, a package had shown up on Itadori’s doorstep. On the outside, scrawled in Gojo-sensei’s playful script: To help you blend in on your mission! He’d assumed Fushiguro’d gotten one, too.

Itadori’s outfit is composed of a pair of snug black pants that ride low on his hips and what might pass for a standard athletic tank, if not for the fact that it only covers about half of his torso. A studded belt and a simple choker, both black, complete the look.

On the other hand, Fushiguro’s dressed in a tight shirt with see-through sleeves, the thin mesh clinging to his arms. His pants fit more like joggers: tighter at the hips and ankles, but loose in between. Itadori regards them with no small amount of jealousy, shifting in his pleather. He resists the urge to tug at the hem of his shirt.

Over the years, they’d both grown to roughly the same height, but the platform in Fushiguro’s boots lends him a couple extra inches—which Itadori’s glad for, now that his friend’s blocking the chill. He eases up on his toes to glance at the line over Fushiguro’s shoulder.

“Do you think the guy we’re looking for is out here?” he murmurs. Some of the folks behind them are wearing even less clothing. Itadori shivers.

“If he’s some kind of VIP like Gojo thinks he is, he’s probably already inside,” Fushiguro answers. “Stop gawking.”

“I’m not gawking—hey! The line’s moving!”

Quite quickly, in fact. Space must’ve opened up inside. The mission brief mentioned this being a pretty big club, but it didn’t specify how big, or how many rooms, or what it even looks like in there. Finding all that out’s part of their job.

The bouncer gives their IDs—fake ones, included in the box from Gojo-sensei—a hard look. He seems to be doing that with everyone, but Itadori still feels a small flutter in his chest. He’s never been a great liar. Not for the first time, he wonders why Gojo-sensei picked him for this mission. Kugisaki probably would’ve been a more obvious fit, or even Inumaki-senpai, but Itadori knows not to doubt the strange intuitions of Gojo Satoru.

I’ve got a feeling you two will do it best, he’d said. He’d refused to elaborate beyond that, despite Fushiguro’s grumbling.

Itadori tries not to look visibly relieved when the bouncer hands back their IDs and gestures them inside. Fushiguro is—pretty close, Itadori realizes. In fact, he’s practically crowding him down the low-lit stairwell as they approach a pair of double doors. Everyone who was ahead of them seems to have already gone in.

“Remember,” Fushiguro says, “we’re just doing recon. No confronting the mark. We don’t draw attention to ourselves.”

Itadori nods. “Right. Keep our heads down. Scout the area. Find the guy, watch him.”

They open the doors.

The first thing Itadori notices: It’s loud. Bone-thumping loud. Bass creeps up through his soles and throbs in his limbs, his guts, behind his eyes. It’s all-encompassing. He didn’t hear anything before they walked in—what the hell were those doors made of?

The next thing he notices: The place is huge. Three, four levels—had they really gone down that many stairs?—of catwalks surround a central dance floor practically seething with bodies. To the left, there’s a bar that stretches nearly the whole length of the club; to the right, vertiginous stairs leading up to those industrial-looking walkways, all equally thick with people.

“Holy shit,” Itadori says, but the words are buried under the rhythmic pound of electronic music. A huge lighting rig paints the room in purples and reds, and there are people dancing on that, too. He nearly points it out to Fushiguro, then remembers they’re supposed to look like they belong here.

“You’re gawking again.” Itadori nearly jumps out of his skin—Fushiguro’s voice is right by his ear. He’s not one to lose track of his physical surroundings, but this place is pretty overwhelming. He turns around to find Fushiguro standing very close, which makes it easy for Itadori to lean in and cup his hand around his friend’s ear.

“How the hell are we supposed to find anyone in here?” he shout-whispers. Fushiguro gives him a look that’s hard to read in the low lighting, then glances around in a way that’s enviably casual.

There’s a brief dip in noise as the music transitions from one song to the next. Fushiguro takes the opportunity to respond quietly while still scanning the crowd.

“We’ll probably have to feel him out. Do you sense any cursed energy?”

“Nope.”

“Me neither. Let’s just—” The music starts to swell again. Fushiguro makes an annoyed face, then quickly covers it with a disaffected mask. He leans in close again. “You go left. I’ll go right. We’ll meet in the middle.”

“What—” But Itadori doesn’t get to finish the question—Fushiguro’s already melting into the dancing crowd, no doubt aided by his shadows. Itadori shrugs, then veers left to do the same.

It’s easier than he thought to move through the crowd. The people on the dance floor seem totally wrapped up in the rhythm surrounding them, but they peel apart and rejoin as Itadori delves deeper. With the air sweat-thick and hot with human effort, he almost feels like he’s underwater, passing through a school of fish, shimmering and hive-minded.

He scooches past more than one duo (or trio) doing things more intimate than dancing. It startles him a little at first—he’s not exactly used to seeing strangers’ tongues, much less in other strangers’ mouths. But he knows he shouldn’t gawk, and besides, if this is a place where loners can find a little closeness, who is he to judge?

Itadori spots a hand futzing with a zipper. His face heats, and he wiggles past. He’s grateful for the low lighting.

Once he reaches the far end of the dance floor, he swings back, heading for the center. So far he hasn’t spotted anything or anyone out of the ordinary, and he hasn’t sensed even a speck of cursed energy. He’s wondering if Fushiguro’s had any more luck when he feels someone grab his arm.

“Fushi—” he starts, but it’s not his friend. It’s a man with long hair and a sharp chin, a little taller than Itadori. Probably a little older, too. His fingers are loose but deliberate around Itadori’s bicep, his thumb rubbing there, just slightly. He seems to take Itadori’s momentary hesitation as an invitation and steps closer, hooking a finger in one of Itadori’s belt loops.

“Want to dance?” the man asks. His voice is a heady rumble in Itadori’s ear—he had to get close to be audible over the music. Itadori looks him over in what he hopes is a subtle way. He doesn’t see any weapons, doesn’t sniff out any cursed energy. The man’s fairly built based on what Itadori can see through tight leather and blood-red lighting, but he doesn’t seem the type to pick a fight. He’s just part of the crowd, Itadori realizes.

He doesn’t really want to dance with this guy, but it might look weird if he doesn’t, and he doesn’t want to blow their cover. They could dance for a little while, then he could make some excuse about wanting a drink or needing the bathroom and peel away. That should be fine, right? He leans into the hand on his hip and reaches for the other one, opens his mouth to respond—

He’s pulled almost roughly backwards.

The man looks a little surprised, but only for a moment. As soon as he sees whatever yanked Itadori away, he throws both hands up in a quick I surrender gesture, then slips back into the crowd.

“It’s me.” Now it’s Fushiguro’s familiar timbre all cozied up to his ear. When Itadori tries to turn around, Fushiguro—hugs him, almost, from behind. He’s got both hands on his hips, and he’s pushing and pulling Itadori’s body, chest almost touching his back. They’re dancing, Itadori realizes.

Pretending to dance, anyway. To blend in.

“I didn’t find anything. Did you?” Fushiguro asks. Itadori shakes his head, still scanning the crowd.

“Nope. Didn’t pick up any cursed energy, either,” he tosses over his shoulder. He’s kind of glad, now, that it’s him and Fushiguro on this mission. They’ve always worked well together. It’s easy. It’s intuitive. He doesn’t worry if they look out of place on the dance floor, because he doesn’t think about it at all. They just listen to each other—their words, their glances, their bodies.

Maybe that’s what Gojo-sensei meant. You two will do it best.

It happens fast. A sharp, precise jab of cursed energy—so quick, a sorcerer could miss it. But Itadori isn’t just any sorcerer. He traces the stab of energy to its origin: a small, cordoned-off area on the second story catwalk. There’s a man in a white suit sitting on a dark couch there, looking down the flute of an empty glass. It’s hard to tell from this far, but Itadori thinks he might be wearing a mask.

Fushiguro must spot him at the same time—his grip twitches on Itadori’s hips. That burst of cursed energy felt different—not like a cloud or a wave, but more like…a line. A thread. A strand of connection between consciousnesses.

That’s when the target looks up. Into the crowd. Directly at them.

“Shit,” Itadori says. “Shit, Fushiguro, he sees us.” His heart jumps in his chest. Is this going to go south? Will they have to fight? Fuck, there’s so many people here—

He only hears Fushiguro swear because they’re pressed so close. Their target stands and begins walking toward the stairs. He’s still staring at them. “Shit, shit, we have to get out of here—”

“Play along,” Fushiguro says in his ear, then, also, softer, “Sorry.”

One of the hands on his hips is suddenly gone, then it’s on his chin. There’s a pull, Itadori’s entire head twisting back, and then—

Fushiguro’s kissing him.

It’s not—look, it’s not like Itadori’s never done this. He’s not a kid anymore. Being a sorcerer makes intimacy tricky, but he’s only human. He’s still tried. A handful of dates, some overnights here and there. Nothing serious, but the point is: Itadori’s not some innocent lamb, and he’s enjoyed his fair share of kisses.

But he’s never kissed like this. Or maybe it’s better to say he’s never been kissed like this. It’s wet from the first touch, Fushiguro’s mouth open and hot; and when he pulls lightly at Itadori’s chin he finds his mouth opening, too. Like it’s natural. Like it’s obvious to let Fushiguro in when he asks, to meet the heated pull of his mouth.

The music surges around them. They’re nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with a dozen strangers, but it’s like Itadori doesn’t feel them anymore—every one of his senses is fine-tuned to Fushiguro’s frequency. The pressure of his thumb on his chin. The inside of his lower lip, slick velvet dragging against his own. Hot breath between them, loud somehow, despite the music, but not as loud as Itadori’s heartbeat, thundering in his ears.

It’s—it’s a really good kiss. Of course Fushiguro would be good at this, someone inside Itadori’s brain thinks, but then he realizes it’s him—he’s thinking that. It just feels so far away because Fushiguro’s pulling him closer, angling his head so his—his tongue can slide in easier, and that punch-drunk voice in his brain tells him to match the effort, make it convincing, don’t fuck everything up, so he throws out an arm, hooks it around the back of Fushiguro’s neck and leans back even more.

This has an effect. What effect, Itadori doesn’t really have the wherewithal to name—he can only notice the physical results, which include the short, cool rush of a gasp, and a sound he can only feel: a cut-off hum in Fushiguro’s chest, clockable only because it’s flush against Itadori’s back. The hand on his chin breaks away and skates down Itadori’s hiked-up arm, then up, gripping his bicep tightly.

That’s when he notices Fushiguro’s other hand—it’s sliding up his hip, against the bared skin of his stomach. And higher, under the loose fabric of his tank, along his ribs, his chest. Itadori has enough sense in him to feel a flash of uncertainty because—because he’s kind of sweaty, and Fushiguro must feel that, must think it’s a little gross, but he keeps moving his hand higher, past his sternum, higher still, until his fingers creep out of his collar and grasp, so gently, at Itadori’s throat.

And. Huh. It’s not a kind of touch Itadori’s known before. It shocks him, the way his own body reacts: His mouth falls away from Fushiguro’s because it’s suddenly too much to keep it there, to hold the angle, and he makes a noise. A pitch he’s never hit before. He’s glad he can’t really hear it.

Between the featherlight pressure against his throat and the hand gripping his arm, Fushiguro's shoulder propping his skull, Itadori feels pinned. Like a specimen. Like something being cut open and scrutinized.

And then Fushiguro’s mouth is open and working against his jaw, his neck, the place his collarbone blends into his shoulder. Fushiguro puts his teeth there, and the scrape blooms like lightning through Itadori’s body. He fists the back of Fushiguro’s shirt, which earns another bite. This isn’t real, he reminds himself, eyes closed, breath short, knees weak and getting weaker.

Then Fushiguro’s mouth swims up his throat, to his ear:

“Come on, Itadori.”

And it’s like the ground opens, the way Itadori’s stomach jumps—like he’s swallowed a lit sparkler and his insides have gone to crackled heat, light, smoke. He’d thought, after all these years, he’d completed the catalogue of Fushiguro’s vocal range (bored, annoyed, intrigued, amused-but-pretending-to-be-one-of-those-first-three-things, etc.) but now Itadori realizes there’s a whole new index of sounds his friend can make: dark, thick, urgent.

And before he knows what to do with that discovery, Fushiguro’s gone.

Or, well, he’s not gone—he’s just not bearing down on Itadori like a hungry dog anymore. The pressure—the press—is gone, but he’s grabbed Itadori’s wrist and is now dragging him into the crowd.

That’s when he realizes that searing linear tension, the one he’d felt when he locked eyes with their target—it’s gone. Itadori squints into the crowd. It takes a couple sweeps but—there! He spots the mark, no longer bee-lining at them but heading instead toward a small set of double doors behind the bar.

Fushiguro’s grip is like a brand. Itadori feels hot from the top of his head to the points of his toes. He swallows.

What the fuck.

It does go south. They do have to fight. Thankfully away from innocent bystanders—it turns out their target is a rogue sorcerer, and as soon as they catch up to him in the alley behind the club, he calls down a curtain.

“So you’re not unreasonable,” Fushiguro says. His voice is back to normal. In fact, he shows no sign he was just gnawing on Itadori’s neck like a bone-in rib. Which, shit, Itadori had almost forgotten about after running up all those stairs—it really hadn’t seemed like that many on the way down—but now that he’s thinking about it again, he can feel himself start to flush.

“We don’t want to fight you,” Itadori says, hoping his face reads tough, not kissed-senseless.

“You’re right,” says the man. “You don’t want to fight me.” He pulls what appears to be a full-length, vicious-looking halberd from one of the pockets of his white jacket, which, being a jacket, should not be possible.

“We’re here on behalf of Gojo Satoru and Tokyo Jujutsu High. We just want to talk,” Fushiguro says, even though he’s shifted into a fighting stance.

“Oh, I know why you’re here,” the man shouts back. “Your little coalition has been trying to get me to shut down my club for years. I won’t do it!”

“I don’t think—” Gojo-sensei wants to do that, Itadori tries to say, but he doesn’t get a chance to finish. Their target surges forward, shockingly fast, halberd extended.

Fushiguro calls up Toad just in time to whip Itadori out of the way of the cursed weapon’s wicked point; meanwhile, Fushiguro sinks into the shadows. There’s not really enough room for Fushiguro’s other shikigami in the narrow alley, so he’s probably going to try and get the jump on him through one of the many dark corners. Their target’s weapon also isn’t ideal, given its length. If Itadori can get past the sharp end, he should be able to subdue him.

The man's stance widens. He keeps his weapon raised. His face is still mostly hidden by his mask—only his eyes are visible through a thin slit in the material. Itadori watches there for a hint at the man's next move, and he gets it—a glance left, so Itadori launches toward the right.

The sharp end of the halberd whistles past Itadori's head, close enough that he can feel the cursed energy boiling from it like a flash of heat from a fire. He ducks low, dodging an awkward horizontal swing, and sweeps his leg at the man's feet. But the target dodges it, putting space between them as he does. Itadori tsks.

"We're not trying to stop your club, you know," he says, still crouched, ready to move. "I mean, unless you're doing something bad."

"Something bad?" The man scoffs. "You're all the same. If it's different, it's bad. Why do you think I even made this place?"

"Uh, we literally don't know," Itadori answers. He notices the target's shadow starting to elongate—he has to keep him distracted. He sways lightly on his bent legs, giving the impression he might move. "So why don't you tell us?"

There's an annoyed huff from the mask, the man's grip tightening on his halberd. "I can't."

"Why?" Itadori's eyes narrow. "Because it's bad, isn't it!"

"No!" The man cries, clearly starting to get exasperated. Over his shoulder, Itadori can see Fushiguro's gradual silhouette.

"Then why can't you tell us?" Itadori presses. "That's so fishy. And probably bad!"

"I'm not fishy—" their target starts, but it cuts into a gulp when Fushiguro's hand, shedding the last layers of darkness, lands heavily on his shoulder.

"Then talk." His voice is gravelly with command.

For a moment, Itadori thinks it's done. The man's eyes are wide, bewildered, he's clearly unsettled and outmatched, and he knows it. They're done with the fight, and now they can just figure this out. No violence needed.

He should really know better.

A grunt. A clatter. Then their target jolts forward, and Itadori notices his halberd's swapped business ends—the end between them's naked now, the end behind now carrying the blade.

And it's wet with blood.

"Fuck," Itadori curses, just as Fushiguro grabs his side—the side their target's just sliced. Blink-fast, the blade melts into the pole and pops back out on the side facing Itadori, and he charges full-force.

No more fucking around.

It's fast, and a little meaner than Itadori wants it to be—the black flash he pistols at their target's torso. He probably cracks a couple ribs, which certainly isn't going to earn them any good will...but Fushiguro's bleeding. And that pisses Itadori off.

"Hoargh," the man says. Or rather, half-vomits. The hit sends him flying back, but before he collides with Fushiguro he's snatched by a long, pink arm—no, it's Toad again, tying the man in a knot of tongue. The halberd clatters to the ground, then vanishes before Itadori or Fushiguro can grab it.

"You okay, Fushiguro?" Itadori calls quick, eyes still trained on their stunned target.

"It's fine," Fushiguro grunts, clearly annoyed. He lifts his hand briefly, then winces and re-applies pressure. "Well, it's a little deep. But it's not serious."

Itadori twitches a wary glance at his friend, but he seems to be telling the truth—it's not the most blood he's seen coming out of an open wound on Fushiguro's body. Still, they'd better wrap this up.

"Don't," their target wheezes, mask slipping. Fear is more legible now that more of his features are visible—and now that he understand the kind of sorcerers he's up against. "You don't understand."

Fushiguro moves so he's in front of the man rather than behind him. "Then change that." His eyes narrow. Toad's tongue tightens marginally, and the man groans in pain.

"I just," he pants, "wanted to make a place where people could be free. Of—of all the negativity. I made a binding vow—unless I tell them about it, no one that exudes cursed energy can pass through my curtain. That includes sorcerers, curses, all of them. I wanted it to be," he coughs, "a safe space."

Itadori doesn't say anything. Fushiguro doesn't, either. Toad blinks damply.

"Wait, that's it?" Itadori finally says.

The man sputters. "What—yes? What do you mean that's it?!"

Itadori's joints start to relax, his raised fists loosening. "You're really not doing anything bad? Or like, evil?"

The man sputters again. "Evil?! No! I'm just—I'm a night club owner who doesn't want a bunch of curses and self-righteous sorcerers cocking up my parties!"

"Geeze, you should've just told us!" Itadori sighs, relief washing over him.

"Well, he couldn't," Fushiguro offers. He still looks annoyed, but his posture's more relaxed. Is he starting to look a little pale, too? Or is it just that weird curtain-lighting?

"Ah, right. The vow."

"...so," their target says, hesitant. "Uh."

"Look," Fushiguro says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "No one cares about your parties. Or your club. It just can't be a secret. That's when other sorcerers get suspicious."

"You should come with us and meet Gojo-sensei!" Itadori exlaims. "Just explain it all to him. I'm sure everyone will be fine with you doing what you do if you fill them in."

"But—" the man starts.

"Gojo Satoru is a lot stronger than we are," Fushiguro grumbles. "If you don't come willingly, he'll come find you. And probably kill you."

The man is silent for a beat. Then he deflates. The mask clatters to the ground; underneath, he just looks like a guy. "Fine. Can I get out of the frog now?"

"Great!" Itadori chirps. "My name's Itadori, and that's Fushiguro. What's yours?"

"Takeshi," he answers. "...Oh, also, my halberd's coated in a non-coagulant."

On cue, Fushiguro faints.

Are you feeling better, Fushiguro? Want to hang out?

No. No, that’s not right.

Hey Fushiguro, up for a movie at my place?

Maybe? …Actually, no. That doesn’t seem right either.

So, we should probably talk about

About what?

…that kiss

…how you touched me

…the way you sounded

…how I can’t stop thinking aboutuguengienrgn

Itadori chucks his phone across his apartment.

It’s been a week since the club. Fushiguro’s been on mandatory bed rest per Ieiri-sensei’s orders; Takeshi's halberd didn't do significant damage, but Fushiguro'd still lost a fair amount of blood, so Itadori'd accompanied Takeshi solo to meet with Gojo-sensei and Masamichi-gakucho. As he'd predicted, it was an absolute non-issue: Takeshi explained the nature of his club, Gojo-sensei oohed and aahed, Masamichi-gakucho nodded sagely.

"Just keep it clean," the principal said. And that was that. Gojo-sensei'd patted Itadori on the head and told him to take care of poor Megumi-chan. If he noticed Itadori's cheeks turn pink, he didn't say anything.

He'd actually already visited Fushiguro with Kugisaki earlier in the week, and it wasn’t weird—but he suspects that’s because Kugisaki sets the tone in every room she enters, and the one she’d picked for their visit was tell me all about the nightclub sorcerer with a little bit of you guys are dumb for getting hurt, which left no room for Itadori to get tangled up in the feeling of Fushiguro’s fingers against his throat.

Okay, it’d been a little weird. But only when he looked at Fushiguro for longer than two consecutive seconds.

They do need to talk about it. Right? Right. This can’t go unaddressed.

Itadori knows he’s never been the best at navigating sensitive situations, so he bulldozes them. If something’s weird or off or uncomfortable, he puts it all out in the open. Calls a spade a spade. Cards on the table, heart on his sleeve. It usually works out.

So why is it so hard to send a goddamn text message?

Itadori buries his face in his hands and sucks in a long, deep breath. Holds it.

Come on, Itadori.

He pushes his fingers into the meat of his forehead, biting his lip.

Come on.

Still holding his breath, Itadori leaps off of his couch and scrambles over to his—miraculously unbroken—phone. He jabs in a message blindly and hits send before he can second-guess himself.

Fushiguro! When can we hang out? I’ll bring snacks.

The sigh practically explodes out of him. It feels like his whole body deflates. He leans back against the wall and slowly slides down until he’s seated, fingertips buzzing.

The reply comes so quickly Itadori nearly throws his phone again.

It reads: I’m free tonight.

Fushiguro looks good when he answers the door, and Itadori tells him as much.

“Uh, I mean, healthy,” he clarifies, stupidly, then feels even stupider when the tips of his ears start to go warm. “You look like you’re all recovered.”

Fushiguro regards him for a second, but it feels like a week. Then he steps aside so Itadori can enter his small, modestly furnished apartment. “There wasn’t much to recover from. I think Ieiri-sensei overreacted.”

“You still listened to her, though,” Itadori teases. Fushiguro shrugs, but it’s an affected gesture—Itadori sees the tension in it. They may not be students at Jujutsu High anymore, but they both know better than to go against the school doctor’s orders. Ieiri-sensei has a way of finding out when her patients don’t listen, and she has even worse ways of making them wish they had.

Itadori suddenly remembers the bags he’s carrying. “I brought dried squid! And crackers, and chips.” He’s been to Fushiguro’s place lots of times, though it’s been a little while since his last solo visit. He dumps the contents of the bags on the low table in the middle of his friend’s apartment, where they usually watch movies. “And beer!”

At that, Fushiguro’s eyebrows raise. “Beer? Are we celebrating something?”

“Nope. Well, your recovery, I guess.” Fushiguro rolls his eyes, but he sits down next to Itadori regardless.

What Itadori doesn’t say is that he’s nervous, and beer seems like the thing people typically turn to to solve for that. He’s not a big drinker—fair to say he’s got some, ah, hangups around not being in full control of his faculties—but one or two won’t hurt, and it’ll hopefully keep him from wanting to bail on this whole endeavor.

So he cracks a couple cans and slides one over to Fushiguro. He raises his own; Fushiguro, he can tell, is hiding a smile when he lifts his.

“To your health!”

“Thanks. And to yours.”

And it…isn’t weird. Really, this time. It’s always been easy to talk to Fushiguro, and Itadori’s relieved to discover one off-night hasn’t radically changed that. They recap the fight from last week, they talk about the two novels Fushiguro’s finished in his downtime (two! two whole novels!), and Itadori regales him with a scene-by-scene recap of an American vampire movie he’d watched last night.

“No, seriously, less than five minutes into the movie this guy Blade starts slashing the whole club to hell. It’s crazy. And everyone’s already covered in blood from the sprinklers!”

Chewing on a cracker, Fushiguro says, “I’m glad we didn’t have to deal with blood sprinklers.”

“Me too.” There it goes—that flutter in Itadori’s stomach. Shit, is this—the moment? Is this when he brings it up? Fushiguro’s swiping crumbs off the table into the cup of his palm and depositing them in a napkin. It is, Itadori realizes with a pang, an endearingly fussy motion.

“Still, it was kind of a crazy night,” he continues, willing nonchalance into his voice. “Not blood-rave crazy, but…hey, Fushiguro, where’d you learn to kiss like that?” Itadori laughs because he wants it to sound like a joke, like he’s teasing, but he’s suddenly not sure what his normal laugh sounds like, or if he’s ever laughed at all, or what a laugh even is, so he just—makes a sound and smiles a little too hard and stares fiercely at the condensation gathering on his beer.

Because he’s looking down, he doesn’t see Fushiguro choke—only hears it. There’s an aborted gurgle, then a wheeze, the sound of aluminum crunching in a fist. By the time Itadori looks up, Fushiguro’s already turned the top half of his body away and is coughing loudly over his shoulder. The back of his neck looks…pink?

“Oh, shit!” Itadori yelps, crawling around the table to deliver a series of hearty slaps to his friend’s back. This appears to be the wrong move, because Fushiguro twists even further, leaning away, urgently waving the semi-crunched can in Itadori’s direction.

“Sorry! Sorry.” Itadori stops smacking, his hands hovering awkwardly in mid-air. He eventually sits back on his feet, watching anxiously as Fushiguro goes from hacking, to gasping, to eventually breathing normally again. His friend takes a deep breath, then turns back around to face him.

Fushiguro’s cheeks are bright red, his eyelashes clumped with tears. His brow is furrowed in such clear un-Fushiguro-like embarrassment that Itadori can’t help it: He laughs.

“Real mature,” Fushiguro grumbles, hoarse.

Itadori tries to apologize, but the sincerity is undermined by a giggle halfway through. Fushiguro shoves him—a little hard, but the tilt in the line of his mouth makes it clear he isn’t really mad.

Once they’ve both calmed down, Fushiguro clears his throat. He takes a sip from his wrecked-looking can, clears his throat again. Finally, he says: “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Hm?” For a second, Itadori doesn’t, either. But then he remembers what he’d asked, and he still feels funny getting into it, but not as much as before. “Oh! Yeah. The other night. You’re so…it was intense,” he says. It’s easier to look at Fushiguro as he says these things, now that they’ve had their moment. “You just grabbed me, and bam!”

Fushiguro places a hand over his mouth—his thinking gesture, Itadori notes. Only he’s pressing a little harder than usual, almost like he’s trying to push his mouth into his face. Or hold something back. “Intense, huh?” It sounds muffled through his fingers.

“Super intense,” Itadori says. “Surprised me. I didn’t expect that from you, Fushiguro. I was like, Who is this guy?!”

“Hmm,” is all Fushiguro says. And now Itadori can see it, just under his hand: the redness that’d faded after his coughing fit returning to Fushiguro’s cheeks.

And because Fushiguro doesn’t say anything else, and because Itadori cannot physically restrain himself from filling a silence, and because he so rarely thinks before he speaks, he blurts, “Are you always like that?”

The hand against Fushiguro’s mouth visibly spasms. Through his fingers, stiffly: “Am I always intense?”

Now it’s Itadori’s turn to clear his throat. “Y-yeah. Unless you don’t want to tell me. I mean, I get it. That’s private. We don’t have to talk about it anymore. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I just—”

“I don’t know,” Fushiguro interrupts. “I guess.” His hand finally comes away from his face; he plucks at the tab on his beer can. “It depends.”

“Oh,” Itadori says. He suddenly takes stock of where he is: on Fushiguro’s side of the table, sitting a little too close to be casual. He should probably back up.

He doesn’t.

“Depends on wh—”

“Look, I’m so—”

Their words meet in the limited space between them and get all tangled, like two strangers attempting to pass each other through a bead curtain.

“You can—”

“I didn’t mean to—”

Figurative arms flailing. Figurative beads flying.

“I—”

“You—”

“Goddammit.” The remaining structural integrity of Fushiguro’s can is eradicated by the force of his squeeze. A light spume gathers at the opening. “Itadori, I’m sorry.”

That’s…not something Itadori was prepared to hear. In fact, it never even occurred to him that the other night might merit an apology. It takes him a moment to process, and when he does, he frowns. “Sorry for what?”

Fushiguro does something Itadori’s never seen him do: He wilts, just a little. “For the whole…thing,” Fushiguro mumbles, propping his forehead in a hand, shoulders rounded down. “Takeshi saw us, and I just—I did the first thing I could think of. To hide us. I wasn’t thinking.”

There’s a flash of a feeling, quick, like a glancing touch against an almost-gone bruise. Itadori ignores it. “It’s no biggie. You did what you had to for the mission.”

Fushiguro slumps even more. He looks…ashamed. It looks so strange on Fushiguro’s frame that it sets Itadori on edge. It’s alarming, he decides. He doesn’t like it.

Fushiguro heaves a huge sigh. “At first, yeah. But then I…I pushed it.” He finally sits back up, shifts so he’s facing Itadori fully. Their knees touch. “I was watching him. He almost immediately turned the other way. But I didn’t stop.”

The gears turn slowly in Itadori’s head. “Oh.” Maybe a little slower than usual. Because beer. “So we were just…we were just doing that? For no reason?”

Fushiguro, for his part, doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. He keeps staring directly into Itadori’s eyes, which feels…Itadori isn’t sure how it feels. He’s reminded of that pinned-down sensation at the club.

“There was a reason.”

He almost tells Fushiguro his kettle’s boiling, but then he remembers no one’s making tea—the sound is his own ears ringing, and the distant rush of something vital and fluid in his own body.

“Itadori,” Fushiguro says, and it’s so desperate sounding, so edge-close to miserable. “You know I like you.”

“You like me?” Itadori yelps, then claps a hand over his own mouth. Remember: Thinking before speaking. Not his specialty.

The rushing sound gets louder. It’s his blood pumping, Itadori realizes. And now it’s pumping so fast it sounds like static, loud static, and maybe Ieiri-sensei missed one of Fushiguro’s wounds, because he looks so pale right now he surely must be bleeding from somewhere, and a lot.

Suddenly the ground under Fushiguro’s crossed legs goes dark, pliant. His edges blur.

Itadori reacts instantly, all instinct—he grabs Fushiguro’s sleeve and hauls, pulling his friend practically on top of him. The sound Fushiguro makes is not elegant, and they end up in a strange sort of straddle: Itadori with his back against the couch, hands fisted in Fushiguro’s shirt; Fushiguro with his arms on either side of Itadori’s head, knees caging his legs.

“Were you going into your shadows?” Itadori shouts. It’s not necessary—Fushiguro’s right in his face, he can definitely hear him—but there are a million bottle rockets firing off in his head at once and he doesn’t know how to feel all that and not yell about it. “After saying that, you were going to run away?!”

“Yes!” Fushiguro shouts back. He looks as angry as Itadori’s ever seen him, but he also looks like he’s about to start laughing, or maybe crying. It’s scary. And a little…something else? “I’m—this is so—I thought you knew.”

“How was I supposed to know?!”

“I—we—all of our missions, everything we’ve done—”

“You never said anything!”

“I didn’t think I had to!”

It feels like Itadori’s head is going to explode. Just pop, right here in Fushiguro’s home. And that might be nice, because then all his memories would be spread out on the floor and the walls and the ceiling, and he could go back over five years of friendship with a magnifying glass and see where he overlooked the part about Fushiguro liking him.

They stay like that for a beat. And another. Chests heaving. Angry, confused, angry about being confused. Itadori doesn’t let go of Fushiguro’s shirt, and Fushiguro doesn’t try to move.

“Are you mad at me?” Fushiguro asks, and he says it in such a demanding, pissed-off way when he has absolutely no right to be pissed off or demand anything that it lets all the air out of the moment.

And Itadori laughs.

It sounds a little crazy in his mouth, but he laughs. He lets it bloom to its full volume before he lets his head fall back on the couch cushions behind him, releasing Fushiguro’s shirt. By the time his laughter dies away, he feels light headed.

“Sorry, sorry. This is just stupid,” he says.

After a moment, Fushiguro lets out a dry-sounding chuckle, too. He runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah. It is.” He stands, gathering cans and other trash from the table and walking into the kitchen.

Eyes closed, still reclining, Itadori says, “I’m not mad.” He picks at a loose fiber in the cushion behind him. “I just...I really didn’t know.”

“I thought…you just weren’t interested.” He can’t see it, but Itadori imagines Fushiguro doing one of those slow blinks he always does after making a decision no one else would make. “And I’m good at compartmentalizing.”

“You’re dumb. You should’ve said something.”

Fushiguro’s quiet a long time.

Then: “Maybe. But it was enough, I thought. To be your friend. I didn’t want to risk losing that.”

And: “I still don’t.”

Something cracks open in Itadori’s chest. It’s a gentle break, like an eggshell opened over a buttery pan—warm, orange, yolky. He’s felt it a couple times tonight; he’s felt it throughout their whole friendship, he realizes. Fondness. A distinct flavor of it, unique to Fushiguro.

The small, secret smiles. The way Fushiguro waited for him in school, after trainings or classes, and still does it, outside restaurants and movie theaters, trailing behind with him while they're following Maki-san or Kugisaki on shopping trips. The way they fight alongside one another, filling each other’s gaps. All the times Fushiguro found him in the cold shadow of everything Sukuna made him do, back then—and joined him there, turning the dark into dusk. Night instead of nothing.

How had he never noticed?

Itadori climbs up on the couch now, peeks over the back so he can watch Fushiguro putter around his kitchen.

“Do you want to kiss again?”

Fushiguro freezes, foot poised over the pedal of his trash can. “What.”

He sounds almost appalled, which stings. Itadori prickles, but before he can ask Fushiguro what his fucking deal is, his friend scrubs a hand over his face, then again through his hair. “Wait. I meant—do you want me to tell you? What I’m thinking right now?”

“Obviously!”

Fushiguro takes a deep breath in. Lets it out. Then he turns so he’s facing Itadori, suspending him in time with eyes dark enough to make his heart stutter. “About you.”

“Huh?”

“Your question, earlier. You asked if I’m always intense.”

Fushiguro takes one step, two. There’s still a couple feet and the back of the couch separating them, but Itadori feels warm.

“My real answer is: about you, yes.” Fushiguro gives him a steady, guarded look. “You might not want that. All my...I think about you a lot." He takes another slow breath. "But I can be okay with just being friends.”

Itadori swallows. His throat clicks. He’s suddenly very thirsty, and he isn’t sure what to say.

“...You’re good at kissing, Fushiguro,” is what he lands on.

He feels it: soft shadow, swirling at the periphery—of what, his mind, the room? He’s not sure. All he knows is Fushiguro comes closer, grips the back of the couch between them.

Itadori looks at his hands. Puts them on top of Fushiguro’s. Then he looks up, watches the flush rising high in his friend’s cheeks, his eyes going even darker. He lifts up on his knees, craning toward—

Fushiguro pulls away.

“I thought—” Itadori starts, but Fushiguro shakes his head quickly.

“I want to,” he says, blushes harder, “...but my breath smells like dried squid.”

That’s how Itadori ends up fisting a spare toothbrush in Fushiguro’s too-small bathroom, the pair of them trying and failing not to elbow each other in the ribs while brushing cheap beer and squid slivers from between their teeth, pretending they can't see the pink in each others' cheeks. They've done this—or something like this—a thousand times before. Back at the dorm, at hotels on missions, at each other's apartments after a hard day. But it feels different now.

Intimate.

Anticipatory.

When they’re done, Fushiguro leads them silently to the only other room in his apartment: His bedroom. He pauses, hand on the knob.

“Don’t ask me if I’m sure,” Itadori says quickly, because he knows what Fushiguro’s about to say. “I am.”

And Fushiguro listens. They enter the bedroom, and the door closes behind them.

The shift is stark. Before to after. Light to dark. Fushiguro out there—hesitant, embarrassed, red-eared—to Fushiguro in here. Present. Bold. Heady.

Itadori finds himself immediately pressed against the door—but not yet kissed. Fushiguro goes for his neck first, burying his face there, inhaling against the worn collar of Itadori’s T-shirt. It sends a shiver racing along his limbs, goosebumps chasing. Then a kiss, and another, chaste against his racing pulse, and more, all the way up to Itadori’s ear—God, he thinks with a shudder, he really likes that—where he whispers, “There’s so much I want.”

“L-like what?” Itadori wishes his voice wouldn’t shake, but that’d probably take Fushiguro not lipping his earlobe, dragging his tongue along the outer whorl—and he doesn’t want that to stop, ever.

“I want to kiss you for hours,” Fushiguro breathes. He pulls back, staring Itadori dead in the eyes. “I want to look at every part of you, and taste it, too.”

Itadori is reminded of the way he felt when Fushiguro'd slid a hand under his shirt: shocked with an ache he now knows is desire.

“Intense,” he murmurs, then wraps his arms around Fushiguro’s neck and kisses him.

It’s like the club, but not. Fushiguro is immediately open to him, wet and hungry, but the kiss is slower this time. Indulgent. His mouth slides against Itadori’s precisely, like a tasting, like they're sharing a deeply ripe fruit. There’s a pounding beat, too, but it’s not electronic music—it’s Itadori’s heart, bullying his ribs. He’s half worried Fushiguro can hear it, but his other half isn’t thinking much at all.

Fushiguro cradles Itadori’s jaw in both hands. Itadori lets him tilt his head, lets him slip into his mouth. He feels warm all over. He feels like he’s had ten beers, not two. He pushes a hand up the nape of Fushiguro’s neck, curls his fingers until he’s got a loose fistful of dark hair, and he gets to hear that hum from before, the one he only felt: gruff, almost wounded.

“Can we go to the bed?” Fushiguro whispers against his lips, voice already so dark. Even in the low light, his gaze is bright with want. It’s a look that ties Itadori in knots: He wants to look away, to lean in, to hide under a blanket, to bite something.

This guy, Itadori thinks. He nods, and Fushiguro steps away, and it’s like the temperature drops twenty degrees, so it’s Itadori that does the crowding, this time—hungry for warmth, he keeps step with Fushiguro as he backs up, as his knees connect with the bed, as he sits down. He makes himself hold that heated look as he climbs into Fushiguro’s lap, watching everything seething there, rare and unguarded: need, disbelief, all of it almost manic. He only breaks their gaze when he pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it aside.

“Holy shit,” Fushiguro breathes—evidently before he realizes he’s doing it, because he immediately flinches, dipping into that muffled sort of embarrassment from earlier. Itadori laughs because he’s not used to a bashful Fushiguro. It’s cute.

“Don’t laugh,” Fushiguro grumbles.

“You’re pouting,” Itadori says. This time he takes Fushiguro’s face in his hands, angling him by the jaw until his chin’s nearly resting on Itadori’s chest. “It’s my first time seeing you like this.”

Fushiguro grips his bare waist—hard. A little too hard. He gasps, but the points of pressure feel good. They remind Itadori how strong Fushiguro is, that he’s as deadly with his fists as he is with a sword or a shikigami.

“Will you tell me if I’m—if it’s too much?” Fushiguro asks, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Itadori’s chest.

“Yeah,” Itadori answers, because he thinks it’s what Fushiguro needs to hear. Not it won’t be too much, not I trust you. It’s why they work. Only they can reach each other when they’ve gone too far. Only they know how to drag the other back from the edge, from beyond it.

Another kiss near his collarbone, then a scrape of tongue, then Itadori’s gasping again because Fushiguro’s fit his whole mouth over the swell of his pec. Tonguing his nipple. Sucking. At the same time he smooths his hands up Itadori’s back, soft, then scrapes back down with blunt nails. It makes Itadori’s back arch, makes him push harder against Fushiguro’s mouth. Makes him want to squirm, especially when Fushiguro wraps one strong arm all the way around his waist, his other hand skirting up to stroke a thumb against Itadori’s swollen bottom lip.

“Fushiguro,” he says, all breath, and licks against his thumb. Fushiguro moans, really moans, a sound too affected for such a small touch, a sound that goes into Itadori’s body because Fushiguro’s still biting, licking, sucking at his chest. Consuming him. His thumb chases Itadori’s tongue into his mouth, and when Itadori catches it with his lips, Fushiguro makes that raw sound again, tightens the arm around his waist.

The gesture drags Itadori closer, close enough now that they’re flush from the torso down. With a jolt, he feels Fushiguro’s cock, hard under his thigh. When Fushiguro’s mouth swims up to crush back against his own, his thumb still there, their tongues working together and slick around it, Itadori feels it—Fushiguro’s cock jumps, pulsing against his leg.

And Fushiguro must feel him, too, because he rolls his hips up and against Itadori, the muscular plane of his stomach dragging against his hard dick. Even through his jeans, the friction is electric. It’s raw. It’s new and not-new, because it’s Fushiguro but it’s a new way of being with Fushiguro, and Itadori really likes it.

So he presses down, grinds them together. Sparks of pleasure dazzle up his spine. Fushiguro’s hands are on his hips now, squeezing, his thumb slick with spit. He rocks up when Itadori works down, rhythmic, increasingly urgent. Their breath mingles ragged in the slight space between them. It’s dizzying. Itadori lets his forehead thunk against Fushiguro’s shoulder, uses it to keep himself from melting entirely.

“I think I could come from this,” he admits, eyes closed, embarrassed but also aching. Fushiguro lets out a harsh, sudden breath, immediately pushes Itadori back the length of his lap. It shocks Itadori enough to feel briefly hurt, wobbling on Fushiguro’s knees. “What—”

But Fushiguro’s not looking at him—his eyes are pinched shut, and he’s breathing rapidly through his nose. When Itadori glances down, when he sees Fushiguro gripping himself tight through his shorts, he feels a thrill, heat blooming in his cheeks.

“Fuck,” Fushiguro pants. His face also looks flushed, even in the sparse bedroom lighting. After a moment, he seems to calm down, then he gives Itadori a look that’s hard to read—he thinks it’s awe, but that’s not a way Itadori’s used to being looked at, so he figures it must be something else.

"Sorry," he says, quiet. That poutlike look's back again. "I...need a second. I don't want it to be over so soon."

This guy! Itadori thinks again. Who does he think he is, looking so bashful with kissed lips and fucked up hair and dark, dark eyes and—

"Take it off," Itadori says, pulling at Fushiguro's shirt.

He's seen Fushiguro shirtless plenty of times, but Itadori's realizing he never really paid attention. He knows his friend is strong, but he's never looked closely at the swell of his arms, the contour of muscles in his stomach. He touches because his body tells him to touch, tracing old scars over hot skin.

“Itadori,” Fushiguro says, shivering under his fingers. Then, softer, “Yuuji.”

They stare at each other, night a blanket of boldess. “Again,” Itadori says, smoothing his hands up to cup Fushiguro's face.

“Yuuji,” he whispers, one hand returning to Itadori’s waist, then sliding around, rubbing slow circles at the small of his back.

Itadori closes his eyes. “Again.”

“Yuuji,” Fushiguro says, leaning back.

“Yuuji,” he says, squeezing his ass.

“Yuuji,” he says, once they’re both lying down, bare chests touching.

“Megumi,” Yuuji says, quiet, face hidden in Megumi’s neck. Megumi extracts him with a firm hand knotted in Yuuji’s hair, then brings their mouths together slowly, deliciously.

“I want to fuck you,” Megumi murmurs between drunk-making kisses. “Yuuji. Can I fuck you?”

No one’s ever asked like that. No one’s ever made Yuuji want it like this. He wants to say yes, to shout it, to kiss and touch until the sun comes up and more. But he’s only gone all the way with girls before, and yeah, he knows what happens, but he—

“I haven’t,” he admits, “with a guy.”

“I’ll make it good. I want you to feel so good,” Megumi groans, kissing the corner of Yuuji’s mouth, his cheek, his forehead. But he stops, catches Yuuji’s blurry eyes. “Only if that’s what you want.”

Yuuji doesn’t trust his voice not to crack—not out of fear, but something else, a feeling so big inside him, one he never lets out, something canine and broken and desperate for a kind touch he’s so sure he doesn’t deserve—so he nods. He nods, and Megumi kisses him breathless again.

He rolls so he's hovering over Yuuji, then tracks a trail of wet bites down his torso, tonguing at the tapering V-lines of his hips. Yuuji watches with a thundering heart as Megumi pulls down his jeans, blushes hard at the ample wet spot darkening his underwear. Then he blushes more when Megumi licks there, mouths the head of his cock through damp cloth.

“M-Megumi,” he stutters over the name, not sure what he wants to say or how to say it. More? Please? The other man keeps it up, kissing and licking, lightly stroking fingers around the shape of Yuuji's clothed cock, creeping a thumb into one of his leg holes, rubbing against the seam of Yuuji's groin. "Oh, shit."

"Do you want my mouth here? On you?" Megumi asks, and Yuuji knows he's looking up at him, can feel it, but he can't bring himself to look back—he thinks he might explode if he does.

"Yeah," he says, breath caught, eyes closed.

Megumi shifts to the side. "Here?" he asks, sucking hard at the spot next to his thumb.

"Fuck," Yuuji coughs.

"Here?" Megumi asks again, and then his other thumb is there, pressing back, and in, into the cleft of his ass, nudging against a place that makes Yuuji's stomach flip.

"Anywhere," he gasps, covering his burning face with a hand. "I'm gonna die like this."

Yuuji feels the strained breath, hears a choked groan, then Megumi leans back, pulling Yuuji's underwear off. But he doesn't expect what happens next: When Megumi comes back in close, he wedges his hands under Yuuji's knees, pushes up and back, and before he can process this new position, this vulnerable position, Megumi's face is buried in his ass.

It's almost like Yuuji gets the wind knocked out of him, the way it shocks him breathless. Sudden slickness where he's never felt it, hot and intentional. A kind of astonished pleasure. Megumi's tongue circles his hole eagerly, then pushes flat against it, rubbing, teasing. Once he has the wherewithal to gasp, and with his eyes still covered, Yuuji can focus on the feeling, new and igniting—and then Megumi spreads him wider, licks harder, and he moans, and his mouth is so wet.

"Oh my God," Yuuji says, or barely says—his voice sounds small and shocked, even in his own ears. He didn't know...this could feel like. Well. This. He's leaking even more now, precum dripping steadily from the tip of his twitching cock, pooling near his navel. Megumi lets out another hungry groan, shifts one of Yuuji's thighs to his shoulder, and smears his newly freed hand through the wetness gathered on Yuuji's stomach before wrapping it around his dick.

"You're gonna make me come," Yuuji half-sobs, because he's suddenly there, just on the precipice, balls tight and heart racing, and he's a little panicked because it feels huge, this nearly-there pressure, and when it happens he might die. "Stop, Megumi, stop," he begs, thighs shaking.

Megumi pulls back with a gasp, hand stilling. Yuuji finally looks down, and he immediately wishes he hadn't, because what he sees sends a jolt through his body that nearly pushes him over anyway: Megumi, caught between his thighs; his cheek grazing Yuuji's swollen, dripping cock; his mouth and chin shining with saliva, panting and dizzy-eyed. He looks like he wants to eat Yuuji, like he could, but there's a brute and painful force holding him back.

It reminds Yuuji of a dog. Shaking, teeth bared. All that animal want arrested by an invisible trust in the command not to bite.

"Come up here," he says, overwhelmed. Megumi drops his thighs and crawls up his body immediately.

Yuuji finds he doesn't mind kissing a mouth that's been where Megumi's has been. He smells musk and sweat, tastes salt and skin. It makes his heart beat faster. Makes his nerves buzz with anticipation. He liked being touched there. What comes next—will it feel even better?

"Yuuji," Megumi slurs, and it's not a question, doesn't even sound like one, but Yuuji nods because right now he thinks Megumi needs an answer. The other man sways back, rips off his shorts, then pauses with his thumbs under the elastic of his underwear.

"...I know you told me not to ask," he says, suddenly coherent. "But I—are you sure?"

Seriously? Megumi just had his tongue up his ass—with no warning!—and now he asks? "I'm sure. Really sure."

Megumi still hesitates. A little bit of his classic, inscrutable skepticism begins to overtake the desire clouding his expression. "You can be...very self-sacrificing."

Yuuji rolls his eyes. This guy!

"Megumi," he starts, staring his partner, his friend, his...Megumi directly in the eyes. "I trust you more than anyone. I like you more than anyone. And I'm not a complete idiot! You think I don't know that having sex with your best friend changes everything?"

Megumi gapes. Just a little.

Yuuji props himself up on his elbows, just enough so he can encircle the other man's wrist, still frozen by his hips, with his fingers. "Everything after this will be different. It's scary, yeah, but it's also exciting. And you're the best person to do scary, exciting things with, so I want to try it." He smiles. "The thing that comes after being best friends."

Megumi makes a sound—not a sigh, but like it. A mouthful of tension that just...escapes him, shaking and sudden. The way his brows soften, his shoulders melt down, his head droops on his neck, it all tells Yuuji his friend's been holding back these feelings for a long, long time. His grin broadens when Megumi looks back up, a small smile on his own face.

"I'm the idiot," Megumi murmurs. He carries the hand holding his wrist up to his mouth, peels it loose, and kisses the open palm.

From there, it's easy to help Megumi fully undress. It's easy to kiss, and bite, and suck marks onto each other until Yuuji feels like a thread about to snap. It's even easy to turn over, spread his legs the way Megumi guides him to, to let the other man part his cheeks and ease a lube-wet finger into his hole. It's a little embarrassing, but he trusts Megumi knows what he's doing.

And soon, the strange intrusiveness of it all starts to soften. To deepen. To feel more like an itch he needs scratched, but darker. Megumi slides a second finger in, pumps them slowly, rotates, pushes. Yuuji bites his arm so he doesn't make a weird sound, feels heat creeping up his neck, his ears—he thinks he might be blushing all the way down his back. He's sure Megumi can see it, like he sees all the things Yuuji tries to hide.

And then Megumi's wrist curves, and his fingers reach, and he touches something inside Yuuji that startles a cry out of him. The other man leans over him, breathes hot in Yuuji's burning ear:

"Yeah? Is that good? Right there?" he asks, sounding as winded as Yuuji feels. He brushes it again, and Yuuji again makes a sound he can't stop, short and high, and he pushes his hips back, shamelessly chasing the pressure.

Megumi obliges, working a third slick finger inside. He rocks a slow rhythm against that spot, steady, just firm enough to fire jolts of pleasure up Yuuji's spine, and it feels like his whole world is thickening—the blood in his veins, the air. He feels honey-drenched, like his ears are full of water. He's never been so damn hard in his life.

"Megumi, oh my God," he moans into the crook of his arm. "That feels crazy." He doesn't have brain to say more than that, but Megumi seems to get it. He pushes his fingers in and out a few more times, twisting, flaring slightly. Then he gently removes them, pulls Yuuji by the hips until he's on his knees.

"I'm putting it in," Megumi whispers, and Yuuji's glad for it, because he thinks if he said it any louder he'd shatter. "Take deep breaths. I'll go slow."

He does. Yuuji thinks he'll come apart anyway. It's a radiant, building pressure—first the head pushes in, and Megumi waits, works it back, then he pushes in again, a little deeper. He does this inch by excruciating inch, and Yuuji's both grateful and furious, because yeah, it's intense, but it's also good, it's addictive, it's like the first bite of something spicy that coats your tongue and burns and drives you back for more, but he can't say any of that. He can't say anything at all, can't form words. He can only breathe, mouth hanging open.

"Fuck, Yuuji." Comes Megumi's stunned groan. He's not even all the way in yet.

Yuuji's never felt anything like this. Never felt so raw, so open, so close and connected to another person. And that's coming from him, someone who once had an entire entity living inside him. Sort of. The logistics aren't one-to-one. But as Megumi pushes in more, slow, steady, slick, one hand gripping Yuuji's hip vise-tight, the other running soothing tracks up and down Yuuji's sweaty back, he knows it's right. It's right.

When he finally feels Megumi's hips against him, Yuuji lets out a cut-off sob. Megumi's immediately over him, leaning down, kissing noisily at his shoulder, the pulsepoint in his neck.

"Okay?" he asks, and Yuuji nods fast. "You feel—incredible, Yuuji." Yuuji lets out another sound, one he should probably be embarassed about, because it's just words and Megumi's not even doing anything right now, except being so still and patient even though Yuuji can feel him trembling on top of him.

"Okay," Yuuji says, eventually, when his throat works, "move some. I'm okay."

Megumi starts with a short thrust, another, small motions to get Yuuji acclimated, but even those are enough to pull wild noises out of his throat. He pushes his face into a pillow to muffle the high, stunned sounds, but Megumi gets him by the shoulder, pulls, hikes Yuuji up onto his elbows so the sounds roll out and free like water. Soon, the overwhelming pressure starts to feel more like velvet on his insides, rich and warm.

"What the fuck," Yuuji says, is stunned to hear it come out of his mouth, how much he sounds like he's crying. He might be—crying—but he isn't sure because every part of him feels tingly and wet, and he's pretty sure he can't see straight either way.

"Does it feel good?" Megumi asks, voice a stuttering growl, and when Yuuji nods again he goes a little harder, a little faster. "Tell me. Say it, let me hear, please."

And Yuuji wants to, because it is, but words won't order themselves right in his head, so he says "Oh my God," instead, and then Megumi thrusts once hard for that, and he finds that toe-curling place again, and Yuuji's voice jumps almost an octave when he says it again: "Megumi, oh my God."

"You're perfect, Yuuji," Megumi groans, and starts fucking him in earnest.

Intense isn't the word. It's more like entire. Because Yuuji's entire consciousness winnows down to this feeling, Megumi driving into him, the sound of their bodies connecting, the building glow inside. Megumi's saying punched-out things like good and yes and beautiful like this and it feeds something hungry inside him, sends arcs of pleasure up his spine. And every time Megumi fucks up against that place, it feels even better, unseats his sense of self even more.

He doesn't even recognize his voice right now.

But there's one more—one more thing he wants. One thing he hasn't been able to get off his mind, even now, with his brain spinning in his skull.

Arms shaking, Yuuji uses a hand to push himself more upright. He uses the other to reach back to the hand gripping his hip, taps it once.

Megumi slows, kisses under Yuuji's ear. "What? What do you need?"

Yuuji musters...his courage, his sanity, all of it. And he pulls at Megumi's hand. "Hold me here." Tugs it around and up. Toward his neck. "Like before."

Megumi's big hand settles there. The J-curve of his thumb and index finger cradling Yuuji's throat. Shaking, but firm. Yuuji swallows, they both feel it. Someone says fuck.

And then Megumi's moving again, really moving, and something about the new angle of Yuuji's hips, the shameless arch of his back, the way Megumi's hand is both support and presure, it's all starburst in his nerves, in his eyes. His breath's catching under Megumi's grip but not too much—just enough that Yuuji, again, feels caught, pinned, here, made to feel each groan and throb and surge of pleasure. Made to hear Megumi chant good, so good in his ear until his consciousness narrows to a pinprick of scorching light, and his dick's so hard, and he's so close, precum's leaking everywhere, and then Megumi starts chanting come for me, please come for me, Yuuji, let me see, let me see—

When he comes, it feels like his heart stops. Just for a second. (He would know.) Then it's everything at once: a rupture, a release. Pulse after pulse of cum, and so much of it, he's gotta be wrecking Megumi's bed, how can it feel like this, he wasn't even touching his dick, but he finds he can't care about any of that, can only gasp through a series of hoarse, dazed moans.

Yuuji's knees nearly go out from under him as he starts coming back down—his thighs are shaking, and his ears are ringing, but he can still hear Megumi's hiking breath, can feel his fingers tightening everywhere they hold him.

"Yu-Yuuji," Megumi gasps, his pace frantic, and the hand on his throat abruptly slides up to his jaw, gripping, turning Yuuji's face toward him, and Yuuji doesn't have the sense to school his face as he meets Megumi's desperate eyes: he stares back, bleary-eyed, sweating, mouth slack as he hauls in breath in stunned lungfuls.

Megumi comes without breaking the gaze, which means Yuuji gets to see the agonized furrow of his brow break, the way his edges blur blackly. Gets to watch Megumi's reddened mouth work around sounds that make Yuuji shiver, even now. And it means Yuuji's already there when Megumi starts to droop forward, looking for him, and they kiss so wetly Yuuji thinks he manages to scrape up just a little bit more pink on top of his already full-body blush.

Megumi's hips gradually slow, but he doesn't completely stop. Eventually he's still grinding lazy circles against Yuuji's ass, and it makes them both gasp, both shudder. It's too much. But it's like Megumi can't help himself, pushing for more.

Until Yuuji's thighs properly give out, and he slumps down, into his mess, unable to care.

For a minute, maybe two, their panting is the only sound in the dark room.

Then, eventually, Yuuji finds enough braincells to mutter: "...Holy shit."

The other man just grunts into Yuuji's shoulder.

They stay like that a few more minutes, catching their breath, sweat cooling to a stinging dust on their tired bodies. Yuuji's tempted to let his jellied muscles soften even further, to chase the lengthening breaths he can feel building in Megumi's chest, still mashed against his back.

"W'should shower," he mumbles instead, gently jostling the weight above him.

"Mm," Megumi says. He doesn't move.

Yuuji laughs weakly. "Ooooi. We should." Jostles again, gets a second, more annoyed mm.

"If we don't do it now," Yuuji persists, "we'll fall asleep all gross."

"M'already asleep," Megumi hums into Yuuji's back. It's thrilling to encounter yet another new side of Megumi, now that things are—now that it's changed. Yuuji's never seen Megumi this...lazy. Bratty. It's surprisingly cute.

Still, he would really, really like a shower. And Megumi's not moving.

Yuuji has no choice, really. He sucks in a deep breath.

"Megumiiiiii!"

Yuuji feels the flinch, the weight on his back abruptly shifting. It's enough for Yuuji to crane his neck over his shoulder, where he sees—

Yup, Megumi looking down at him, absolutely horrified. It's easily one of the most offended expressions Yuuji's ever seen on his face. Could be top three, definitely top ten. They've seen some pretty insanely fucked up stuff over the years, so it's hard to say for sure.

Yuuji can't help but laugh.

"Please," Megumi says, grave, "don't ever do that in bed again."

Yuuji smirks. "I won't. I promise."

"You're lying."

"I am not!"

"Yes, you are."

"That really hurts, you know. That you wouldn't trust me."

"So it's not hurtful for you to lie to me?"

"After everything we've been though," Yuuji sniffs theatrically. "And the night we've shared."

The corners of Megumi's mouth tighten, like he's really fighting back a smile. It doesn't matter—his eyes are bright and playful, candidly fond. Yuuji can tell, and it makes his toes curl. Makes him smile harder. "Idiot."

"No, you're the idiot, remember?" Yuuji chides. "Now get up, let's take a shower. Please?"

Megumi kisses him, once, deep, intense, then complies, hauling Yuuji to his feet while he's still reeling from it.

Once they're clean and the sheets have been changed, Yuuji follows Megumi back into bed. Their air-cooled legs tangle under the blanket, and Yuuji's whole body tingles with pleasure at this small intimacy—he hadn't known he'd wanted it, and now that he has it, he's almost spilling over with a bright contentment.

He hears a relaxed sigh and knows he's not alone in the feeling.

"I guess I'm glad we went to that stupid club," Megumi says quietly, almost to himself—Yuuji probably only hears it because they're curled so close together.

"Me too," he answers. A hand skates up his arm, and when Yuuji focuses he can see Megumi watching him with that same intense expression on his face from earlier.

"Why do you look at me like that?" he asks, yawning. He's sleepy and getting sleepier, but he wants to know.

"Because I can't believe this is happening," Megumi answers softly. The words come quick, easy. "I can't believe I get to do this with you."

Yuuji feels his heart stumble, his ears immediately warming. He's not sure what he wants to do: pull the covers over his head, shove at Fushiguro, laugh at him, kiss him. He settles for rubbing their ankles together. "Geeze, Megumi. When you say stuff like that..."

The other man chuckles. "Sorry. I've been told I'm a little intense."

And that does make Yuuji laugh.