Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There is nothing to eat. 

Megumi has opened the fridge and the pantry three times now, searched around inside as best he can in his state of half-wakefulness, and deduced that there is nothing to eat. He kicks himself for not stocking up on snacks last time he went into town. 

Without much hope but in the event that food has materialised in the 10 seconds since he last looked, he digs through the fridge again - someone’s half eaten lunch that he doesn’t even want to go near, vegetables wilting in the crisper, ingredients that require more effort than he’s willing to give at half past midnight. Someone’s even eaten the last cup ramen that had been floating around in the back of the cupboard, though that might be for the best. No one here seems to be overly concerned with use-by dates, and going hungry is probably better than expired cup ramen in the middle of the night. 

Gojo-sensei really needs to go grocery shopping, he thinks, kicking the fridge door closed with his foot and scowling at it as if he can intimidate it into producing an onigiri, or some chips or something. Of course, Gojo wouldn’t be caught dead in a grocery store pushing a trolley, that would be far too pedestrian for The Strongest In The World. He’d probably have to levitate his groceries into the cart just to make it worth his time, so no doubt he has someone to take care of duties like that for him. Megumi’s stomach grumbles unpleasantly - they’ve been slacking off, whoever they are. Curses or not, people need to eat. 

He’s almost given up and admitted defeat when the door slides open behind him, and for a fraction of a second Megumi’s sleepy brain imagines some saviour turning up with baskets of food, right on cue - and then it’s just Itadori, disappointingly empty-handed. Megumi watches as Itadori squints in the low light; he must make out the silhouette of Megumi’s spiky hair because recognition flashes across his face. 

“Oh, hey, Fushiguro,” he says brightly, as brightly as ever. Doesn’t think to lower his voice, obviously. “What’re you doing up? Can’t sleep?” 

He’s not - displeased, exactly, to see Itadori (not that he would ever admit that. Not to his face, at least). It’s just that - well, for one, he does not appear to have brought any food with him, and also, he has already said too many words in quick succession for Megumi to be able to process in his current state. They haven’t known eachother long - Itadori’s only been at Jujutsu High for a week now - but Megumi has quickly figured out that he and Itadori are unalike in more than a few ways. Megumi values rest, and quiet, and - not doing things at 100% absolutely all the time, and Itadori does not seem to value any of those things. He doesn’t even have the decency to look tired, or worn out from training. It wouldn’t come as a surprise if Itadori were about to announce he was actually just wandering around looking for something to do, some way to use up his apparently boundless energy, and suggest they abandon food altogether and go punch eachother in the training room, or something. 

Still. He’s glad it’s not Gojo.

“Hungry,” he says shortly, leaning back against the kitchen counter and wrapping his arms around himself. Itadori’s wearing soft, worn out trackpants - they’re a bit short on him, he’s probably had them since middle school - and a hoodie. He wishes he was, too. It’s probably the last cool night of the season before the heat starts to set in. Megumi is a winter person, himself. 

“Yeah, me too. I’m starving, I didn’t have dinner.” 

Megumi catches himself on the verge of saying, ‘ I know,' and then bites his tongue. Itadori’s absence at dinner wasn’t something he'd taken any particular notice of. 

...If he did, it was only because it meant he had to field Kugisaki’s questions about which photoset she should post. Itadori had a much better eye for these things, he seemed to care about things like colours and angles and the ‘grid,’ all things that Megumi couldn’t notice or care about even if he tried. Not two days after Itadori had arrived at Jujutsu High he’d been peering over Megumi’s shoulder to get a look at his Instagram, offering unasked for advice. Temporarily (and poorly) stepping into Itadori’s role as Kugisaki’s social media advisor, the best Megumi had been able to muster up was ‘That one’s nice,’ or ‘I don’t know,’ or ‘Just post all of them.’ Unsurprisingly, she hadn’t thought this very helpful.

(“You’re so useless, Fushiguro! You’d make a terrible boyfriend!” 

“Good thing you’ll never have that problem.” 

“Yeah, well, good luck to whatever poor soul ends up with you, ” she’d said, grumbling into her dinner. Later on, his phone pinged to alert him that Kugisaki had tagged him in her pictures. There was one of the three of them at that sushi place the other two had insisted on back when they’d gone to pick up Kugisaki in Harajuku. Itadori was pulling a face. In the next one, he was stealing a piece of tempura prawn from Megumi’s plate. 

She’d put little stars next to all of their names. )

“How come?” he asks, before he can think better of it. It’s not his business. “There’s no food, by the way.” 

“I was reading,” Itadori says, with his head in the fridge. The light from inside makes his hair glow almost purple. It suits him, Megumi thinks, and then immediately unthinks it. He pulls at a loose thread on his t-shirt instead. 

“You read?” 

“Manga,” he clarifies. Well, he didn’t exactly have Itadori pinned as the type to lose himself in a hefty novel. “I was way behind cause I’ve been so busy here and the new chapter just came out, so I thought I might as well get caught up.” There’s a thud from inside the fridge; something falling off of something else. “There is food, Fushiguro, what are you talking about?” 

“Huh?” 

Apparently victorious, Itadori emerges with an armful of ingredients that Megumi’s eyes had simply skimmed over, seeing as they took more than 30 seconds to make into edible food. Chicken mince meat, a very wilted scallion, ginger...

“We can have meatballs,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “We have all the stuff.” 

“Meatballs? It’s - it’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?” 

“Nah,” Itadori says sunnily. “They’re really good, I’ll show you how to make them. It’s my Grandpa’s recipe.” 

Internally, Megumi winces. Itadori’s grandfather’s passing, at least, is not Megumi’s fault. But any reminder of that night, of his failure, is unpleasant. He doesn’t… Itadori’s grandfather’s death isn’t something he could have helped, no, but he - he shouldn’t get to be the one who Itadori shares his memories with. Those sorts of things should be entrusted with his friends back in Sendai, if anyone; not him. Itadori should still be with them, he shouldn’t even - shouldn’t even be here talking to him right now, they shouldn’t even know eachother.

The silence is stretching on a beat too long, and Megumi has to fill it with something. He’s still picking at the loose thread on the sleeve of his shirt, curling it around the tip of his finger and pulling tight until it snaps off in his hand. “I...I dunno…” He should leave. He - it’s not right. 

“Oh - no - it’s not like that,” Itadori says, and Megumi looks up at that. “I’m not, like - gonna start crying, or anything. Really, I’m fine about it. I knew he was, like, sick, and everything. You don’t have to feel awkward. I’ve made these a million times.” He smiles, and then his face falls dramatically. “Wait, you’re not, like, vegetarian or something, are you?” 

“Vegetarian? What? No, I… that’s not…”

“Oh, good,” and the relief on his face might almost have gotten a laugh out of Megumi, under other circumstances. “C’mon, Fushiguro. It’s fine, I promise. Stay.” Itadori blinks at him for a moment, and then an unreadable expression comes over his features, just briefly. “If you want, obviously,” he adds hurriedly. “Sukuna isn’t just gonna jump out, either, if that’s what you’re worried about. I think I have a pretty good handle on him.”

Megumi forces himself to hold Itadori’s hopeful gaze, swallows, and makes a decision against his better judgement. He thinks he must be a very selfish person. 

After all, it’s at least partly his fault Itadori is here in the first place. It wouldn’t do well to be - cold, to him, on top of that. It would be the right thing, the more moral thing to do, maybe. To keep him at arms length to make sure that his miscalculations wouldn’t hurt Itadori again, wouldn’t put him in danger. Megumi doesn’t want to lull him into any false sense of security that the world of Jujutsu is fun and welcoming and about saving the world, because it isn’t. But...

He’s clearly making an effort to be friends. Megumi isn’t - he isn’t a cruel person. Not to those that don’t deserve it, and he isn’t a robot either, despite the jokes his classmates make. Itadori doesn’t deserve it. 

With a sense of finality, he thinks: Tsumiki wouldn’t like it if he were unkind to Itadori, when Itadori was being kind to him. And that settles it. 

“...Alright.” 

Itadori grins at him, and dumps the ingredients unceremoniously on the kitchen counter. “You will not regret this. These meatballs are gonna make you see God.” 

Despite everything, despite what he may have just signed himself up for, Megumi thinks he smiles back at him, even if it’s only a twitch in the corner of his mouth. He hopes Itadori sees. 

Searching around in the top drawer for the lighter so he can put the stove on, Itadori regards Megumi from the corner of his eye. “You look beat. You fell pretty hard in training today.” 

Ugh, that’s right. It hasn’t been long enough for the ache to have properly set in yet - he’ll feel it tomorrow morning - but Megumi is almost certain there’s a sizable yellow bruise beginning to bloom on his knee. Probably down his shin, too. He’d been off his game, that morning; he’d slept poorly, almost missed breakfast, and Kugisaki had taken him out in hand-to-hand combat practice with an especially strong swipe around his ankles. She’d celebrated like she’d just won the Olympics, and Megumi is quite sure that if he were to open up Itadori’s phone there’d be pictures documenting the whole thing.

“Yeah, I mean, it happens. But it’s kind of always like that, so. If you don’t get beat up one day, you just get beat up another.” 

“Inspiring,” Itadori deadpans, nudging him out of the way so he can retrieve something from a cupboard, and Megumi absolutely does not take any particular notice of the brush of the back of Itadori’s hand against his shoulder because that would be completely ridiculous and embarrassing. Itadori touches people so freely, it’s - presumptuous. Inappropriate at worst. Yes, it is, he decides, brushing his hand inconspicuously over that part of his arm anyway. 

“You are allowed to complain, sometimes, y’know,” Itadori continues, slapping the scallions on the chopping board and attacking them with the knife much too quickly.  

Megumi just shrugs. Really, it isn’t that bad, and if he were going to pick something to bemoan about being a jujutsu sorcerer it wouldn’t be just having an off day in training. “I know. Doesn’t change anything, though.” 

“Yeah, but it feels good, though, doesn’t it?” Itadori says. “I get what you’re saying, my Grandpa was like that, too. He used to say that only babies and idiots whine, and I guess I know which one of those I am.” He laughs. “But, look - ” he tips the sliced scallions into the bowl, holds up the knife he used to chop them in a way that might be comical if it weren’t so concerning. “If I were to slice my hand open by accident right now, it would hurt, right? I wouldn’t be able to go back and change it. I would just have to wait for it to heal up for the pain to go away. But going, ‘Ah, shit! This really hurts!’ would help a bit, wouldn’t it? Just to let it out? Just so someone else can hear you and go, ‘Yeah, I bet that does hurt.’” Itadori looks at him imploringly. He’s still holding the knife. 

“No.” 

“What do you mean, no?” Itadori says, definitely loud enough now to wake someone up, and waving the knife liberally in his exasperation. Megumi takes a pointed step back, thinking back to when he saw Itadori throwing that shotput at his old high school. He could lose a limb like this if he isn’t careful. 

“Don’t you ever feel that? Sometimes, like,” Itadori huffs, “things are so bad, and you know you have to - get through it somehow, right? There’s no way around it. But at some point you just have to stand back and go,” he cups his hands around his mouth and tilts his head back, as if directing it to some giant, invisible foe, ‘This sucks! Fuck this!’” His hands fall back to his sides. “And then you get on with it.” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Megumi lies.

Itadori’s shoulders slump, and he shakes his head, turning back to the task at hand. “You’re making fun of me, man. While I’m cooking for you, out of the kindness of my heart,” he laments. Megumi wonders when the last time he had to work this hard to keep a smile off his face was. 

They stand in silence for a bit while Itadori finishes mincing the ginger, somehow without losing a finger, rolls up his sleeves and dumps the meat into the mixing bowl. Megumi half-watches, mostly out of politeness, not helping and too tired to retain any of the method at all. His eyes are heavy, chin almost resting on his chest when Itadori speaks again. 

“You’re a pretty serious guy, aren’t you, Fushiguro?” 

He blinks awake. “Um. I guess so.” 

“Mm.” Itadori looks up, grins at him again like he’s just said something worth grinning about. “S’alright. I still like you.” Megumi swallows hard, and oh, he is so selfish. So selfish and stupid. 

Itadori ends up banishing him to the table to wait until the food is ready, citing the fact that he looks like he could “fall asleep standing up,” and Megumi takes him up on it gratefully because he is, in fact, bone tired. He lets himself slouch over the table, rest his chin on the back of his hands, folded flat on the surface.

“Anyway, it’s super easy,” Itadori is saying while he works, but his voice seems like it’s far away. “You just chop everything up and put it in a bowl and mix it with your hands - you have to use your hands, otherwise it doesn’t work - and then you just make it into ball shapes and fry it. My Grandpa used to make it all the time. Apparently it was the only thing I wanted to eat when I was a kid. It’s really good in hotpot, too, but I won’t make you sit here and wait for hotpot. One day, though. Come to think of it, I don’t know if it’s actually his recipe - I mean, it probably isn’t, I’m sure he got it off someone…but I like to think of it as the Itadori family recipe. What sort of stuff does your family cook, Fushiguro?” he asks over his shoulder, and Megumi is glad that he’s close enough to sleep that he doesn’t have to answer that question. His head hits the table with a soft thunk, and he’s out like a light. 

“Oh,” Itadori says, turning around after his question goes unanswered. “Never mind.” His voice is quieter, now. 

What could have been hours later but in reality is only about 15 minutes, Megumi is awoken yet again, this time by the sound of Itadori placing a bowl none-too-lightly on the table in front of him. More than that, though, it’s the smell - steam is wafting off the freshly-fried meatballs and they smell absolutely heavenly, ginger and oil and cooked meat. 

“Ta-da,” Itadori says, pulling up a chair and pressing a pair of chopsticks into Megumi’s hand. “I told you it was easy. And you said there was no food,” he says, mock-disapprovingly. Wasting no time in starting, he pops one into his mouth, chews for a second, then, eyes skyward, makes a noise of utter satisfaction. “Ugh! So good, hurry up and try one, Fushiguro.” He starts on his second before he’s finished chewing.

Somehow, Megumi manages to coordinate his hands and his brain, picks up a meatball, follows suit. Itadori is already on his third, having launched into an impromptu recap of the manga he’d been reading. Does he ever stop talking? He chews, eyes still closed. 

It’s - damn it, it’s really good. Obnoxiously, effortlessly good, in the same way that Itadori can do 3 laps of the oval while everyone else is still tying their shoelaces, or land a punch that can throw the recipient through a wall, and shrug his shoulders after and say “It’s no big deal.” It’s just meat and a bit of - green stuff, it shouldn’t be this good. How annoying. 

“...and then they have to fight this giant monster thing, it’s like, a huge octopus with wings, but underwater obviously, cause it’s an octopus, kind of like your shikigami, actually,” Itadori is saying, mouth full of meatball, “and it was throwing these poison ink balls at them, and the main character got stuck in one of the ink balls and he was drowning - how’s the food, by the way?” 

“What?” Megumi blinks his eyes open again. Itadori is looking at him expectantly, chopsticks poised, with his knees tucked up under his chin. Cute , Megumi thinks, too tired to crush the thought before it breaks the surface.

Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it. 

“They’re,” he clears his throat, rubs the back of his hand into his eyes, hopes it’s too dark for Itadori to notice the redness he can feel on his face, the tips of his ears. “They’re really good. Thanks.” 

“Welcome,” Itadori says, clearly pleased with himself. “I’m gonna make you learn, next time, though. They’re easy enough, even you could make them. Kugisaki too.” 

“...What do you mean, even me?” 

“Well - ” Itadori says, the shadow of a laugh on his face, and in the dimness the second set of eyes under his real ones just look like creases, the ones cheerful old people get from smiling too much. Megumi doesn’t think he’ll end up with many of those at the end of his life, whenever that will be. “Can you cook?” 

No. “Yeah.” 

“Like what?” 

He chews on another meatball. “I could cook, if I wanted to.” 

“Hah. Right.” 

Maybe Megumi should be selfish more often.