Chapter Text
Megumi is supposed to be asleep. The room is dark, and the couch creaks beneath him as he shifts, trying to find a position that doesn’t feel like a sharp rock pressing into the spaces between his ribs. But his chest is tight, and he’s becoming more certain by the second that he can’t breathe. His exhales keep catching in his throat, almost like a sob, almost like panic.
It isn’t, though, because at least sobbing would make Megumi feel better once it’s over. Essentially, there’s no feeling better after this.
Someone recognized Yuuji while they were sitting on that curb—a woman. Rachel. Raquel. Whatever the fuck her name is. Doesn’t matter. It isn’t a name that Megumi would prefer to think about after tonight.
Point is, Yuuji lit up like a Christmas tree when he spotted her, and she did the same. There were fireworks and every other stupid, cliche thing in the book between them. That—or Yuuji is fantastic at pretending.
Worst of all, once she was in the picture, it was like Megumi didn’t exist anymore.
She’s beautiful—like someone who belongs on Yuuji’s arm, which is exactly what she held onto the entire walk home. Megumi wanted to bite it off. He didn’t, of course, but that thought did rear its ugly head once or twice on the way home.
Megumi kept quiet, only spoke when spoken to, and tried his damndest to ignore the way his chest started caving in with the addition of her presence. He knew what was going to happen when they got back to Yuuji’s apartment, so he dragged his feet in an attempt to delay the inevitable.
But the sounds from the bedroom—muffled, yet clear enough—break through that aforementioned quiet. Laughter, soft but breathless. Yuuji’s voice—light, careless, warmer than Megumi has ever heard it directed at anyone—including himself. Megumi can’t make out the words, and perhaps that’s a good thing—the best possible scenario for how shitty of a situation this is.
Megumi’s stomach knots suddenly, like a fist twisting deep in his gut. For a long, long, breathless moment, he’s sure he’s going to be sick. Nausea roils through him, flipping his insides upside down. His heart pounds and pounds like he’s being chased—like something is literally hunting him—and he has no idea why. Or maybe he does, and he just doesn’t want to face it.
So, he sits up a little, biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from making a noise. The rhythm of the other voice, the roughness in Yuuji’s breath, the way the door is cracked just enough for sounds to spill out—it feels like a line is being drawn, and Megumi is standing on the wrong side.
He tries to push the feeling down, to tell himself it doesn’t matter. Yuuji is free to do whatever he wants, to be with whoever he wants. But the sharp, bitter twist in his chest won’t let go. What is this? Megumi attempts to recall a time when he felt something similar to this before. The only instance he can remember is when he was younger and found another kid playing with his toy while on the playground. Megumi’s mother had to pick him up from school that day because he shoved that kid off the slide hard enough that he broke his nose on the way down.
It was vindictive, sure. Yet Megumi didn’t feel sorry about it. That kid should’ve known better than to play with what was his.
It comes to him, then, like a semi-truck through a wall. There’s a word for that…
Jealousy? The word hovers at the edge of his mind, unfamiliar and heavy. It feels like too small of a word to accurately describe this. He has never felt this particular way about anything before, not really. Not like this. It’s too severe an emotion now compared to the toy situation from his youth. Back then, it was juvenile—a kid caring too much about something that didn’t matter. Now, it’s caring too much about something that might matter.
Megumi’s hands curl into fists, nails digging into his palms. He wants to get up, to say something, to demand to know why it hurts so much. Anything to halt the pain from festering. But his throat is tight, locked shut by a sudden wave of all-encompassing shame.
Why am I even feeling like this? I don’t even…I don’t know what this is.
This is way out of Megumi’s wheelhouse, and it’s causing a tumultuous avalanche of emotions that he is ill-equipped to deal with. Maybe he’ll be buried under them given time.
Eventually, the sound slows, then stops.
Silence returns.
Megumi lies back down, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. Peace. Or at least the closest thing to it that Megumi has felt in hours.
Does Yuuji care about me like that? The thought surprises him, makes his body burn. His face on fire at the very idea—as if it’s even a possibility. As if that’s something that Megumi even wants.
That can’t be the case. Megumi doesn’t even know Yuuji. But…
He sighs. He’d bet money on the fact that he still knows Yuuji better than whoever he was just inside. Like yeah, Megumi might’ve been invisible on that walk home, but he noticed how superficial their conversation was—the lack of proper banter. The perfunctory script they were following.
He closes his eyes, but the ache stays—a pulsing thing—like a well-kept secret he doesn’t know he is keeping from himself.
It’s scary—how much his own mind hides from him. How the older he gets, the less certainty there is. How he doesn’t recognize his own thoughts at times. How powerless he truly is when it comes to his own whims.
Not much sleep was had. In fact, he stays up most of the night, counting each and every flaw in the ceiling, then each flaw in the wall adjacent to him. Whatever is vaguely lit up by the outside city or passing headlights, Megumi memorizes the shape of it. To keep himself even more distracted, he contemplates how he’d go about sketching each thing, fingers twitching as he considers the merits of grabbing his book and sitting out in the hallway, away from it all.
It’s been so, so long since he’s had the desire to draw anything. It’s crazy how much his creativity has returned since running away. In a short amount of time, he’s gone from being in a creative drought to suddenly bursting at the seams with it. It must be an indicator of something—something good. Something worthwhile.
Just as he’s about to grab his backpack and leave the confines of this small area, the door to Yuuji’s room swings open, and that girl saunters out. She doesn’t so much as glance Megumi’s way, which is probably a good thing. Megumi only hopes that she can feel the intensity of his glare—can feel it burn enough that she doesn’t want to return and put Megumi through the torture of listening to her moan Yuuji’s name out loud again.
Yuuji props his shoulder against the door frame, arms crossed as he watches her leave. He’s shirtless. Hair a mess. A lazy sort of smile still playing on his lips.
It pisses Megumi off.
“No farewell kiss?” Megumi asks as the front door clicks shut, startling Yuuji out of his stupor.
To be honest, Megumi is just glad he didn’t have to witness it if it did occur. It’s one thing to hear it. It’s an entirely different beast to see it. There’s no telling what he would’ve done. Probably’ve thrown up.
Once Yuuji gains his bearings, he shakes his head, smiling. “Nah. Too Prince Charming.”
“I thought the whole appeal was your charm,” Megumi says. He tries not to freak out when Yuuji struts over and takes a seat on the arm of the couch, directly next to him. “Or was that a lie?”
Yuuji clears his throat—looks down at his hands. Stalls.
Finally, he says, “Didn’t mean to keep you up.”
Is he changing the subject? Not only changing the subject, either, but steering the conversation into uncharted, dangerous territory.
Now it’s Megumi’s turn to thwart the conversation—to stop it in its tracks. To direct it elsewhere.
“I thought you were gonna kick me out,” Megumi confesses, voice low. Almost too low for Yuuji to even hear it. “I was sure you were gonna kick me out.”
Yuuji stills, eyes widening as he tilts his head toward Megumi. Surely he must realize why Megumi had the wrong idea, right?
Just one night. Well, one night has turned into two, and Megumi has a sneaking suspicion that it’s about to turn into three.
“What? Why the hell would I do that?”
At that, Megumi shrugs and absentmindedly picks at his cuticles, unsure what to say. Unsure what’s safe to say.
“You said you had a long day tomorrow. Or like—I guess today. I figured…I don’t know. Maybe I was in the way. Maybe you were too nice to tell me to fuck off.”
“You’re not in the way,” Yuuji says immediately, with no hesitation. It makes it believable. It makes it unsafe.
Is it that easy? Megumi swallows past the lump in his throat, trying to unclump it enough to speak.
“You sure?”
After a few moments, Yuuji shifts, sliding down the arm of the couch to sit beside him fully. Their shoulders brush, and Megumi wishes he could exist exactly like this for as long as possible—next to the man he owes his life to—the one who makes Megumi truly think that everything will be okay, even if it won’t be.
And after a lifetime of things being not-so-okay, that’s huge. Addicting, even.
“Yeah,” Yuuji says, unstructuring Megumi’s fears—tearing them down one at a time. “I’m sure, Megs. You can stay as long as you want.”
For a while, Megumi just stares at his knees, his heart doing god awful things inside his chest.
“Why are you being so nice to me?”
It’s silent for a while, save for a faucet dripping. The irritating drip, drip, drip invades his conscience, and he can’t pay attention to much else other than that grating sound. Has that always done that? Megumi didn’t notice it last night.
Yuuji shrugs. “You looked like you needed it. Hell, you still look like you need it.”
“That’s not a good reason,” Megumi says, arguing, trying to ruin the moment for god knows what reason. “Everyone always looks like they need something. You can’t help them all. So, why me?”
The next words out of Yuuji’s mouth stun Megumi.
“It may not be enough of a reason for you, but it’s more than enough for me. Don’t martyr yourself so hard, kid. You deserve help.”
Is that right? Can that be a thing? Someone being nice just to be nice? Because Megumi supposedly deserves it? The explanation sticks itself inside Megumi’s subconscious, and his breath catches, just slightly—barely perceptible. Nevertheless, he feels it. A skip in his lungs like his body’s trying to figure out how to digest that answer.
And then Megumi almost laughs. Once again, it catches in his throat like a sob, but for a different reason than earlier. He tips his head back, pressing it against the wall behind them.
“I hate how safe I feel here,” he explains with a crackling in his voice. Tears form along his lash line, but he doesn’t allow them to fall. “It makes me think I’ll fall apart if I leave.”
Yuuji doesn’t answer right away. And it’s tense, and Megumi could swear that if someone were to drop a pin on the floor, he’d hear where it landed loud and clear…
Then—
“Then don’t.”
There it is again—that thing in Yuuji that makes Megumi’s throat go even tighter. That low sincerity that cuts through everything else. He turns his head slightly and finds Yuuji already looking at him. Staring at him.
There’s no one else around. No distractions. Just this—raw and humming.
Yuuji leans in.
“Is it okay if I stay this close?” he murmurs, breath fanning across Megumi’s cheek. His palm brushes Megumi’s wrist, tentative and warm and soft.
Megumi doesn’t blink. Just nods, slowly at first, then more firm.
There are green flecks in Yuuji’s eyes. From this distance, he can count them. Six in his left, five in his right. Something no one would notice from any other angle except this one.
Just as quickly as Yuuji is in his face, he’s out of it just as fast. He stretches, joints cracking. Bathed in soft light, he looks golden—totally untouchable. Like nothing in this world could ever dim him. And Megumi can’t imagine anything that could. Not completely. Not entirely.
“Sorry if we were loud,” Yuuji says, not really sounding sorry. It prods at the crater in Megumi’s chest—the reminder.
Can’t Yuuji recognize and respect Megumi’s valiant attempts to divert this topic of conversation? Talking about it would mean acknowledging it, and Megumi is too out of sorts to do that right now. Not while he’s trying to untangle other convoluted thoughts swirling around in his head.
“It’s your place,” Megumi says. Too fast. Too flat.
Yuuji pauses. Tilts his head a little. “Still. Hope it wasn’t weird. I’d hate to make you uncomfortable, Megs.”
Weird.
Megumi could laugh.
Instead, he sits up, blanket falling off his shoulders. His mouth tastes especially bitter. He wants coffee and a cigarette and maybe to punch a wall, but instead he merely replies (and lies), “Didn’t hear too much.”
Yuuji makes a face, like he doesn’t quite believe him, but lets it go.
“That’s a relief. You were out cold, huh?” Yuuji asks as he walks to the kitchen and starts rummaging inside the cabinet above the counter. “Figures you’d sleep like a rock after inhaling all that whiskey. I’ve never seen someone take to drinking as well as you did last night. Might wanna pay attention to that.”
Meanwhile, as Yuuji yaps on, giving unsolicited advice, Megumi watches his back, the words muffled in the background. The way his muscles shift under his skin is captivating. And yeah, Megumi can still technically hear the sounds from last night, playing on loop behind his ribs, echoing around his eardrums, but Yuuji doesn’t need to know that.
He hates those sounds. He wants to crawl inside them.
But most of all, he hates the way he loathes them. Hates the confusion permeating his mind as he tries to parse out the reasons why he feels the way he does. Except it’d take longer than the few seconds this conversation allows, so Megumi promptly gives up.
This could simply be how Yuuji is. Warm. Open. Someone who makes you feel like you matter just by sitting next to you—giving you an ounce of their attention—and then turns around and freely gives that same thing to someone else, like it never meant anything at all. Megumi vaguely knew of those types of people; he just never thought he’d become a victim of one of them.
Besides, it’s not like Yuuji can help it. It’s not like he gave Megumi any reason to believe that he mattered more than anyone else. Victim is a strong word, after all, but it also feels so apt—as if nothing else could describe this sensation.
Yuuji turns and offers a half-full box of cereal, shaking it so the sugary sweet bits make a hollow sound.
“Want some?” His mouth is full as he says it, so it comes out more like ‘’ant sum?’
Megumi doesn’t want food. He wants to go back in time. Or forward. Past this. Past whatever the fuck this is. Past whatever this feeling is, this ache in his chest.
This may be the end of their short-lived acquaintance, yet Yuuji simply stands there, crunching on that fucking dried cereal, leaning against the counter like it’s just another morning. Like nothing has irrevocably changed.
And the worst part is—it didn’t. Megumi is the only one who’s wrecked by it. Megumi is the only one confused and bothered by Yuuji acting like any other normal 22-year-old man. Is this how Megumi is going to act in a few years? Giving himself to strangers and then acting like he didn’t bare his soul to them the following morning?
It’s just sex.
“No,” Megumi finally says, his voice coming out tighter than he wants, his ears ringing. “I’m good.”
Yuuji keeps eating, standing there in his sleep-rumpled boxers, his hair still messy from her hands. Chewing like it’s any other morning. It compounds the initial rage with each passing moment.
“Did she leave her number?” Megumi suddenly asks, bitterly slicing through the stillness before he can stop it.
Yuuji blinks. “Huh?”
“The girl,” Megumi says, his eyes on the floor. “Or do you not even care enough to ask for that?”
It’s supposed to come out sounding like a joke.
It doesn’t.
“She’s never exactly been the clingy type,” Yuuji answers, his eyes narrowing. “What’s with you? You’re being weird. Are you mad at me or something?”
The worst part is that he sounds genuinely curious. Not defensive. Not guilty. Just confused. Like Megumi is a puzzle he’s trying to solve over breakfast. The issue is, Megumi doesn’t know entirely why he’s behaving this way—only that it feels really fucking good to see Yuuji beginning to show tiny signs of distress over it. The slight twitch of his lip, the way his fingers flex as he continues to stare at Megumi helplessly.
“No,” Megumi replies—terse. He gets up, only to grab the thin, shitty hoodie he’s been wearing the past couple of days. His hands are shaking as he slips it on. “I’m going for a walk.”
The only thing Yuuji does is give a half-hearted salute as Megumi leaves through the front door. The outside air bites his cheeks when he makes it to the sidewalk, and he briefly wonders what the fuck he’s doing and where the fuck he is supposedly going. All he knows is that he had to leave, to get distance from the man—the catalyst—of these grueling, punishing emotions.
The sun is just beginning to rise.
Megumi stands there, unsure where to go. Unsure he could find his way back if he wandered too far off. The temperature is punishing, and the concrete sidewalk is equally awful, yet he sits down on the curb, teeth chattering as the initial anxiety in his chest seemingly calms down through a plethora of deep breathing.
He doesn’t know how long he has been sitting there before he hears someone approach him. It’s stupid, really—how he can already discern it’s Yuuji from the weight and cadence of his footsteps. It’s entirely unconscious. Yet his conscious brain recognizes it all the same.
“Wanna cig?” Yuuji asks from behind him.
Megumi doesn’t need to think twice about it.
“Yeah,” Megumi admits, and pats the spot next to him like he owns this side of the street. “Sit.”
Yuuji does, handing Megumi a cigarette in the process. He’s wearing one of those blue automotive uniforms, and upon closer inspection, Megumi sees a patch on his chest. Itadori.
“Your last name?” Megumi asks, pointing at the patch—breathing in as Yuuji lights his cigarette for him.
Yuuji glances down, then nods.
“Sure is.”
The tobacco goes down more easily than the first time. It’s chilling how quickly we become accustomed to the things that are bad for us.
“What’s your last name?” Yuuji asks in between lighting up his own. “Figured we’d be on a last name basis by now.”
“Fushiguro.” That name comes out of his mouth like a curse. It feels vulgar. Wrong. “I’d rather forget about that, though. At least for the time being.”
“We can forget about it,” Yuuji says and gives Megumi’s knee a comforting squeeze. “Just lemme know when, if ever, you wanna stop forgetting.”
“You accept me so readily,” Megumi murmurs as he watches the way the paper burns higher and higher, making its way toward the filter nestled between his fingers.
Yuuji peers at him, a pinched line between his brows. A scoff escapes his lips. Like what Megumi just said is so unbelievable.
“What’s there to accept?” Yuuji asks—that line growing deeper. “You’re you, Megs. It’s not my job to dictate that. Whatever it might be. No last name…no first name…doesn’t matter to me.”
“How’re you—“ Megumi stops. Swallows. That lump reappears in his throat, and it makes it almost impossible for him to force the words out. An unexpected rush of white-hot anger flows through him. “How’re you this way?”
“What way?”
Megumi gestures wildly at Yuuji, the ash flinging down from the tip of his cigarette onto the asphalt at his feet.
“You always have the right thing to say. It’s—it’s fucking infuriating. How do you live like this? I don’t understand,” Megumi half-says, half-rants, watching Yuuji’s face morph into one of complete and utter bewilderment. “And you don’t even know it, either. You’re so good and kind, and you don’t expect anything back from me. What am I supposed to do with that?”
“I’m—” Yuuji opens his mouth, and almost looks like he’s going to continue the rest of his sentence, but stops short. “I’m confused.”
Megumi releases a shaky breath, one that’s been caught in his chest for far too long.
“Yeah,” he mutters, biting the inside of his cheek. “Me too.”
Yuuji carefully scans him, probably searching for some sort of clue as to what the fuck Megumi wants from him. But that’s the thing—Megumi has no idea what he wants from Yuuji. Has no idea what he wants out of life. Wouldn’t even have a clue if anyone were to ask him what his favorite color is at this moment.
“I’m not trying to be anything, Megumi,” he says finally. “I’m just talking. I’m just…here.”
Megumi laughs, but it’s petty, petulant—ugly in a way he doesn’t care to hide.
“Of course you’re just here. Of course, you get to be the guy who shows up and everyone likes. You don’t even try. You don’t even have to fucking try. You just exist, and people trip over themselves to be near you. It’s fucking stupid.” He hurls the cigarette away like it burned him, like the world is conspiring against him through cheap tobacco and warm boys with big hearts. “I’ve had to work for every second of peace I’ve ever gotten. Every second. Had to lock myself down so hard I can barely feel anything, and now I feel everything. And you come along, all loud and kind, and—”
Everything boils down to a standstill. What point is Megumi trying to make with this? What is the goal of finishing his thought? To make Yuuji feel bad? No. It’s to make himself feel bad. To push away. To burn the bridge. To ruin something before someone else gets the chance.
Yuuji doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t recoil or lash out or get angry. He just sits there, steady and heartbreakingly gentle.
Then, after a brief pause, Yuuji says softly, “Okay. That’s fair.”
Another pause. This time longer. Yuuji presses his thumb into the seam of his dirty, oil-stained jeans.
“I’m lonely too, Megs. I may be around others constantly, but…” Yuuji’s brows raise, like he’s surprised that he’s confessing this. “But I’m lonely. All the time.”
That’s when it hits Megumi. In the bright, blue, expansive sky, even the sun gets lonely.
Megumi wants to apologize. For snapping and projecting—mainly for everything, but he’s not quite sure how to do that without making it worse.
So, instead, he says, “I don’t feel lonely when I’m around you.”
And Yuuji doesn’t look at him, but Megumi can see the way his shoulders drop just a little. Like maybe hearing that meant something. Maybe Yuuji really fucking needed it.
“I should get going,” Yuuji says eventually as he snuffs out what’s left of his cigarette on the curb. “Boss’ll kick my ass if I’m late again. Even if I am charming.”
He grins as he says that, and it’s gentler now. Worn at the edges.
“You’ll come back after?” Megumi asks, trying and failing to keep the apprehension out of his voice.
“‘Course.” Yuuji stands and brushes off his hands. “You’ll still be here?”
“...Yeah. I’ll be here.”
“Cool.” Yuuji offers a two-fingered salute again. “Try not to freeze to death.” He turns to go, but before he’s out of earshot, he adds, “And Megumi?”
Megumi nods once, if only to indicate that he’s listening.
“You don’t have to lock everything down all the time. You know that, right?”
Megumi doesn’t answer—just diverts his gaze onto his worn-out shoes, the fabric falling apart from constant use. There isn’t much to say to that anyway. It’s a wish—a hope—but ultimately, it’s a lie.
Not that Yuuji is a liar. Just that he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. If he witnessed Megumi at his worst…his lowest…
Megumi shakes his head. He’d be out on the street first thing tomorrow if he didn’t shut parts of himself out. The parts with exposed nerves—the parts that bleed and scab and scar. If Megumi does nothing else for Yuuji, at least he’s sparing him from the depths of his emotions.
At the end of the day, it’s a mercy.
He waits awhile on that curb, watching the people float by on their way to their jobs, or taking their children to school, or simply going on their morning strolls. It’s more peaceful in the early hours of the morning. The commuters mostly keep to themselves, but occasionally one will wave or smile at him.
He doesn’t ever return it, though.
The rest of the afternoon is spent napping. When he originally returned to the apartment, he debated whether he wanted to sleep in Yuuji’s bed, since it’s probably at least marginally more comfortable than the sofa. He decides against it, however, and some undetermined time later finds himself woken up by a persistent, annoying knock on the front door.
It can’t be Yuuji—there’s a zero percent chance he’d knock on the door to his own apartment. Briefly, he thinks it could be Satoru, and flinches at the very thought. But that can’t be true, either. Satoru is the type to burst in, uncaring as to whether the person inside wants to see him or not.
Slowly, ever so slowly, because let’s be real, he’s still in the process of fully waking up, he stumbles toward the door, blanket held at his hips, hair sticking up in every which way. The door itself is stuck, and it takes a few good yanks before it opens, revealing a guy Megumi met last night.
Yu…something.
Megumi squints at him.
“Yu—” Megumi begins dumbly, narrowing his eyes even harder at him.
“—uta,” Yuuta finishes, nodding. “Yuuta.”
Megumi sniffs and wraps the blanket a little tighter around himself. What’s he supposed to do now? An awkwardness rapidly forms between them the longer Megumi stands there without replying.
“Can I come inside?” Yuuta asks as he points in the general direction of the kitchen space.
“Yeah,” Megumi says, stepping aside and breathing a sigh of relief.
“I’m supposed to babysit you,” Yuuta mentions, almost offhandedly as Megumi closes the door behind him. “Not really that into babysitting, though.”
“I’m not into being babysat,” Megumi says, and the usual ire that would accompany that statement is just not there. Which, in all likelihood, could be due to the exhaustion. “You don’t have to stay. I’ve just been sleeping, and I’d like to continue doing that.”
It’s a not-so-subtle hint.
Yuuta blinks at him, then glances at the clock above the stove. “It’s like 4 p.m.”
He can’t remember the last time he slept this late—or this deep, for that matter. Having a good night’s rest was not practical while living with his father, and it certainly wasn’t practical while living on the streets. Although he didn’t really have too long of a homeless stint…
“Yeah?” Megumi says, settling on that response because what the fuck else is he supposed to say to that? “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Yuuji keep you up?” Yuuta asks and leans in, like he’s eager for the answer. “He has the worst insomnia I’ve ever seen. I’m just waiting for him to drop dead one of these days from it.”
Megumi tilts his head, like he’s thinking about it. “No. I mean…” He shrugs. “I just didn’t sleep.”
Yuuta hums, unconvinced, and starts opening the cabinets and pulling things out. He fills up the kettle next, and places it gingerly on a burner, like he’s done that exact thing a thousand times before.
“You want tea or something?”
“I’m fine,” Megumi responds, and it could be argued that he really isn’t, but Yuuta doesn’t seem like the type to split hairs like that with him.
“Yuuji told me that he didn’t want you alone today,” Yuuta says as he takes a mug and a teabag out of the cupboard. “Not that I’m gonna hover or anything. I’ve got a book. You don’t have to talk to me.”
“Good.”
It’s dry. Cold.
Nevertheless, Yuuta smiles a little. “Alright. Strong, silent type. I can respect that.”
Megumi’s eyes track the steam coming out of the kettle, slow and suspicious. Then he realizes he’s waiting for a trap that never comes. A stipulation. A rule. Anything that’ll ruin the arguably great thing he’s got going on here.
“He’s a good guy,” Yuuta says eventually, quieter now. “Yuuji. A little chaotic and rough around the edges, but he doesn’t do anything halfway. You’ve probably realized that by now, though.”
It doesn’t warrant a response—Yuuji truly doesn’t do anything halfway, and even an idiot could see that. He couldn’t even take care of Megumi halfway—he went full force with it—offering Megumi a residence for some undetermined length of time while demanding nothing in return.
Then Yuuta perks up and changes the subject. “You wanna get a haircut?”
Instinctively, Megumi touches his hair. It’s long. Longer than he would like it to be, at least. Down to his shoulders—wavy and ultimately feminine, just how his dad preferred it. So, Megumi never gave too much thought to what kind of hairstyle he’d like to have, because at the end of the day, it didn’t matter.
“Why?” Megumi asks, avoiding the question.
Yuuta plops the tea bag into the mug and sits down on the floor, back to the counter.
“My girlfriend occasionally cuts hair. Thought you might like a haircut, is all.”
His hair is another thing he could shed from his old life.
He jumps at the chance.
“I would,” Megumi says much too quickly. “I’d like that very much.”
At that, Yuuta stands up, leaving the steaming mug of tea on the counter and waving Megumi forward.
“Cool. Let’s go, then,” Yuuta says with the tiniest smile on his face. “Maki isn’t working today. And she’s probably not in a mood.”
Megumi follows him out.
“A mood?”
“Mm,” Yuuta grunts. “You two sorta look alike. Maybe in another life you would’ve been siblings, or like, cousins, or something like that.”
Yuuta doesn’t live far away, only a few blocks give or take. It’s a similar building, possibly nicer (which isn’t saying much). Their front door seems to work the way it should, and the apartment itself is adequately decorated. It has significantly more character than Yuuji’s bare living space. Framed photos on the walls, a throw blanket over the sofa, plants on the windowsills…
A woman exits what must be the bedroom, and in response, Megumi straightens up, never having seen such a buff woman in his entire life. He resists the urge to let his jaw drop.
“This the kid?” she asks Yuuta, talking about Megumi like he isn’t even in the room. “You weren’t kidding—she’s even tinier than I thought. Don’t they feed kids wherever she came from?”
She. She, she, she. Megumi swallows. There’s no use in correcting Maki—especially with her and Yuuta doing something so nice for him. Besides, what is he gonna do? Start an argument in their home? Absolutely not.
Therefore, Megumi keeps his mouth shut tight.
“Not everyone can have a physique like you, Maki,” Yuuta says. He hangs up his jacket on the wall near the door and kicks his shoes off. “Megumi was out on the streets for a while.” Yuuta turns toward him, brow cocked. “Weren’t you?”
Megumi shakes his head. “Not very long. Maybe a week, give or take.”
“Too long for a teenager,” Maki mutters, arms crossed with a frown on her face. “I can’t imagine sleeping out there for even one night, let alone seven of them.”
“It wasn’t so bad,” Megumi replies, and he’s trying to actively forget how cold and hungry he was—how scared he was to sleep more than twenty-minute increments in case anyone snuck up on him. “I got to see a lot of the city.”
More of it than he would’ve liked.
“He needs a haircut,” Yuuta says.
It interrupts the flow of their conversation, and Maki shoots a proper glare at him over it.
“Did—“ Maki stops and tilts her head, really looking at Megumi for a few long moments. “—he want one, or are you imposing one on him?”
“I want one,” Megumi says. He steps closer to Maki and takes a couple of tricks out of Yuuji’s book, unleashing the best puppy dog eyes he can muster. “It’s so long, and dirty, and hard to take care of—“
“Okay, okay,” Maki interjects, rolling her eyes. “Lemme go get my stuff. Get a chair for him, Yuuta, and set it up in the middle of the living room—not on that rug I bought last month at the flea market.”
Grabbing a chair from the tiny, bistro-sized table in the corner of the kitchen, Yuuta sets it where he was told to, then motions toward it with both hands like one would a king to a throne.
“This is so much better than what I originally had in mind,” Yuuta stage-whispers through the corner of his mouth. “Beats sittin’ around reading all afternoon.”
When Maki reenters with a pair of scissors and a face of pure determination, Yuuta quickly scrambles out of the way. Resuming the same position he took at Yuuji’s apartment, he leans his back against the fridge and watches.
“What do you want? Just a trim?” Maki asks while she runs her fingers through his hair. “Nothing too complicated, I hope. But also, nothing too boring, either.”
Megumi glances up. She has piercings on either side of her nostrils—little silver hoops.
“Surprise me?” Megumi says, a bit unsure about it all.
It’s not like he knows anything about different hairstyles. He’s had the same one his entire life, and it was maybe once a year when his mother brought him into a hairdresser. He never liked it, and he was never given the opportunity to tell anyone that.
“Just don’t keep it too long,” Megumi adds.
Maki gives him a solemn nod and, after positioning his head the way she wants it, starts cutting.
“Are you going to the show tomorrow?” Maki asks mid-cut—she’s somewhere around his ears now, and the sound of the scissors snipping rattles around his skull.
“I—”
Is he? Megumi furrows his brows.
“I’m sure he is,” Yuuta answers for him, his nose in a book. “Yuuji’s been taking him everywhere. Hell, he couldn’t even handle the idea of Megumi being alone today that he called me—frantically, mind you—on his lunch, begging me to check on him and make sure he doesn’t—”
Yuuta snaps his jaw shut.
“—do something reckless,” Yuuta finishes lamely, clearly editing his original statement on the fly.
Maki raises a brow, not pausing her hands as she layers through the side of Megumi’s hair. “Reckless, huh? Didn’t know Yuuji was the type to play helicopter mom.”
“He isn’t,” Yuuta says, flipping the page, though his eyes haven’t moved from Megumi. “He doesn’t even remind me to eat. But I guess you get one emotionally devastating stray per lifetime.”
“I’m not a stray,” Megumi protests, grimacing.
“You are until he feeds you three times,” Maki says, tapping his shoulder with the handle of the scissors. “Then you’re his.”
Megumi doesn’t justify that with a response, but his lips twitch—an almost smile.
“So, Bowie or Bolan?” Maki asks, clearly refocusing on the task, getting to the crown of his head now.
“What?”
“David Bowie or Marc Bolan,” she clarifies, as if it makes any more sense. “Big difference in shag philosophy.”
“Bowie?” Megumi answers, unsure. “You’re giving me a shag?”
“Yeah,” Maki replies. It leaves no room for argument. “Thought I’d ask the style first, though. I’d hate to give you a Bowie cut and then find out you walked into traffic.” She parts his hair sharply with her nails and angles the scissors again. “Tilt your head this way.”
“I’ve got some stuff you can borrow,” Yuuta offers suddenly, breaking the silence. “A few shirts, jeans that might fit. Real ones. Not polyester hell like what everyone else is wearing right now.”
“He means his leftover Levi’s and whatever else he’s spilled oil on,” Maki adds, smirking.
Yuuta decidedly ignores her. “They’re clean. I swear. Might be a little big, but we can cuff the pants. Maybe grab you a belt.”
“Thanks,” Megumi says after a beat, quiet again.
“Don’t mention it,” Yuuta replies, and returns his attention to his book.
With that, Maki finishes one last snip and then gives his shoulder a firm pat.
“Done. Go check it out in the hallway mirror.”
Thus, Megumi gets up, heading toward the narrow hallway with a mirror situated just past the bathroom. The reflection that greets him is…surprising, to say the least. The layers around his face are jagged and asymmetrical in a way that somehow looks deliberate. There’s texture now. Movement. His face looks a little bit rounder. The shag suits the angularity of his face, and the bangs are messy in that cool, effortless way that actually does take some amount of effort.
He reaches up and brushes the fringe out of his eyes, only for it to fall right back into place.
When he steps back into the kitchen, Maki raises a brow like he’s waiting for him to say something—anything.
“Well?” she asks.
Megumi simply shrugs, but there’s a pink tint to his cheeks. “It’s…alright.”
“I think that’s a rave review coming from you,” Yuuta says cheerfully.
That’s a fair assessment. Not that he’d tell Yuuta that.
Maki tosses the scissors back into the case she pulled them out of earlier. “C’mon, then. Let’s find you some jeans that don’t look like they became sentient and crawled out of a donation bin. My clothes would probably fit you better than any of Yuuta’s.”
He doesn’t argue with her—he just follows. Having clothes that fit him would be nice. More than nice. Fantastic. Something that doesn’t feel as though he’s swimming in it. Something that maybe, possibly, Yuuji might like. Not that it’s the sole purpose of it, but it’d help Megumi feel more confident in whatever he might be wearing. The approval—especially from someone as important as Yuuji.
At the end of it all, Maki ends up giving him a couple of pairs of pants, a few shirts, a jacket that fits, and a pair of better shoes. When Megumi tried to reject the offer, stating that it’s too much, Maki insisted, going so far as to threaten to throw it all away if Megumi doesn’t take it. It’s manipulative, yet it’s manipulative in a way that Megumi needs. A thinly-veiled threat that forces Megumi to take something for himself for once.
“There,” Maki says after he puts on one of the outfits. There is a slight curve to her lips. “You look like you live under a roof now.”
“I feel like I live under a roof now,” Megumi responds, unable and unwilling to keep the smile off his face. “I feel like a human again.”
“We can watch Maude while I paint your nails. I’m the one who’s always painting Yuuji’s, that big oaf,” Maki tells him while she corrals him toward the front of the apartment. “Yuuta will make us a super early supper.”
“I will?” Yuuta asks, still sitting on the floor.
“Yes,” she replies, and it sounds more like a demand. “Something with a lot of fat and protein.” Maki’s eyes glide down Megumi’s body. “And give this one the biggest portion—he needs it.”
xxx
A few hours later, the phone connected to the wall rings. It’s loud, and Megumi nearly jumps out of his skin. He’s been half-asleep on the couch while Maki and Yuuta watch some movie he can’t recall the name of anymore. It’s black and white. Old.
When Yuuta picks the phone up off the receiver, he answers it like he already knows exactly who it is.
“He’s here,” Yuuta says, rather than the standard greeting. “Stop worrying, man.”
The conversation doesn’t last long. It lasts long enough for Yuuji to say something back, then apparently hang up the phone. Yuuta puts his back onto the receiver and turns in Megumi’s direction.
“He’ll be here soon,” Yuuta informs him, taking a seat next to Maki again, and sighing like he’s exhausted.
Megumi’s heart speeds up—palpitating over the idea of seeing Yuuji again after spending all day without him. This is wrong. This doesn’t make sense. Why does it feel like my soul is crawling out of my body at the very idea of being near him again?
Soon turns out to be less than ten minutes later.
Yuuji hasn’t even changed out of his work clothes when he arrives, nor does he enter Yuuta’s home. All he does is open the unlocked door and stand in the doorway, shoulder propped against the frame as he silently waits for Megumi to gather his things. There’s dirt streaked across his hands and face, and what must be oil on his jeans. There’s a five o’clock shadow, too. He wears it well.
As Megumi passes him by, Yuuji ruffles his hair and says, “Whoa. Lookin’ good, kid.”
Except it isn’t said like someone who thinks someone else is attractive, or whatever. It’s said like a friend complimenting another friend. Megumi’s stomach drops at that realization. Quite literally sinks into itself like a collapsing black hole.
It shouldn’t sting. It does anyway.
What if you never look at me like you look at them?
That prospect feels impossible to recover from—a huge fucking mountain to surpass, while Megumi hasn’t done so much as practice a straightforward hike. Briefly, Megumi wonders whether Yuuji would notice him like that if he were more feminine and less stand-offish. More demure and less outspoken.
“Thanks,” is the response Megumi settles on. What feels right. Anything more than that and he’d start spilling his guts.
Yuuji grins, bright and unbothered as always, and reaches over to squeeze the back of Megumi’s neck. It’s affectionate, careless, and familiar.
“Let’s get going. You miss your ugly, old couch yet?”
“Desperately,” Megumi says with a hint of dryness, even though the ache in his throat is making it difficult to keep his voice steady.
The short walk back is silent, save for the ambient hum that Yuuji’s always doing when the world around him gets too quiet. The door to the apartment creaks open, and Megumi steps in first. It’s warmer than Yuuta’s place—more tidy, yet more chaotic.
But somehow it feels like returning.
Yuuji drops his keys on a nearby counter and pauses, fingers still resting on the wood. “By the way,” he starts, much too casually, “I didn’t call earlier this afternoon ‘cause I was worried you’d run off. I just…had this strange moment at work where I wanted to say something stupid to you. And when I realized I couldn’t, it kinda sucked. So, I called Yuuta instead. Just to—I dunno. Feel a little closer.”
Megumi exhales through his nose and sinks into the couch.
“I didn’t know you called earlier today. What were you gonna say?” he finally asks, curious.
Yuuji hesitates, then shrugs, eyes flicking up toward the ceiling.
“I was gonna tell you I saw a dog today,” he says, uncharacteristically serious. “Outside the shop. Looked like a mop with legs. Real ugly-cute. It wouldn’t stop staring at me. Thought maybe you’d like that. Or hate it. Hard to tell with you.”
“You called to tell me about a dog?”
“Yeah, but then Yuuta said you were busy with Maki,” Yuuji replies with an unrepentant nod. “Now scooch over. You’re in my spot.”
“You don’t have a spot.”
Yuuji tilts his head to the side.
“I do now.”
And Megumi, despite himself, scooches.
He does roll his eyes, as well. Obvious enough for Yuuji to undoubtedly notice.
“You wanna learn how to set up sound systems?” Yuuji asks when he unceremoniously falls right into Megumi’s space. He’s staring in earnest at Megumi, as if daring him to reject the offer (but also like he’s strongly, strongly hoping he doesn’t). “You could come with me to our show tomorrow…learn how to do all of that shit. Then, I don’t know, be our sound guy. None of us likes doing it.”
It sounds like a fantastic idea. However, just to give Yuuji some shit for it—
“You want to give me the job no one likes doing?” Megumi teases, bumping Yuuji’s shoulder with his own. “Gee, thanks. Can’t wait.”
Despite the bait, Yuuji’s eyes sparkle.
“So, you’ll do it?”
Of course I’ll fucking do it. I’d do anything you asked. What do you think this is, Yuuji Itadori?
Megumi shrugs, all nonchalant like, and replies, “Sure. Always liked learning new things. Beats waiting around in a crowded bar.” A moment passes. “I’ll probably do a better job than you, too.”
Yuuji’s jaw drops, yet he quickly schools his features and says, “Alright, hotshot. We’ll see how cocky you are when you’re knee-deep in speaker cables and trying to keep the amp rack from overheating. Don’t cry to me when you fry the horns.”
“Horns?” Megumi questions.
“High-frequency drivers,” Yuuji says, a bit smug. “Y’blow those and Suguru will have a tantrum.”
“I think I can handle some tangled wires and a few cranky tweeters.”
“Not if you plug a quarter-inch into the wrong input on the power amp. You’ll fry the whole stack, kid,” Yuuji says, getting closer, their shoulders firmly against each other.
“Sounds like you’re speaking from personal experience.”
A hint of pink colors Yuuji’s cheeks. Then, most likely to save face, he clutches his chest dramatically.
“That amp never stood a chance. May it rest in power.”
Megumi chuckles, and then—just because it feels right—he says, “I’ll help. I want to help.”
“You sure?” It isn’t asked like someone who wants the answer to be ‘no’. “It’s loud. Like, JBL-speakers-stacked-to-the-ceiling-loud. Wires everywhere, mixer knobs with no labels. Feedback that’ll rattle your damn molars.”
“I don’t need quiet,” Megumi murmurs.
I need to stay here. I need to stay around you.
“You’ll get a cold soda and a slice of pizza out of it,” Yuuji says, grinning.
“Generous.”
“You can even wear one of my band shirts. That’ll make you look the part, at least.”
Megumi rolls his eyes, but secretly—secretly he’s thrilled. At the whole prospect, really. Learning how to be useful, wearing a dumb shirt that belongs to Yuuji, and most of all, embedding himself deeper and deeper into this life.
“Just don’t give me one that smells like beer and sweat,” Megumi says, only half-joking. He’d wear whatever Yuuji gave him.
Yuuji’s grin widens. His eyes crinkle at the edges.
Megumi’s heart flutters.
“Too late. That one’s lucky.”