Chapter Text
December brings exams for all of them, so Yuuji doesn’t see much of Fushiguro, who’s clearly balancing studying at the café with time spent at home or with Kugisaki. He tries not to miss the other’s company, focusing on his upcoming assessments. He takes fewer shifts at Jujutsu and stops dog-walking for the month, freeing up time to study.
He acutely wishes he had Fushiguro’s number. He should insist, really. Put his details into the other’s phone when he drops by Jujutsu – but he’s anxious. Sure, he thinks, maybe Fushiguro lost the paper Yuuji gave him all those weeks ago, but he’s so difficult to read and may have consciously decided not to text. He’s a man who appreciates boundaries and personal space, whereas Yuuji can’t resist pushing boundaries or invading space. He sometimes thinks he’s trying his luck with the dark-haired man, who gives very little away.
Yuuji’s normally confident and outgoing, but Fushiguro makes him nervous like he’s never been before. He doesn’t want to ruin things by rushing in and thinks Fushiguro is worth being patient for.
Sometimes he catches Fushiguro watching him, thick eyelashes framing an intense gaze. Yuuji feels as though they’re the only two people in the world when he looks at him like that. He loves Fushiguro’s eyes, loves to watch for the minute changes in expression that give away how he’s feeling. He’s taken to reading Fushiguro as he would a new sport – with endless enthusiasm, intrigue, and (he thinks) talent. The slight widening of his eyes and intake of breath when he’s surprised; the crinkles at the corners of his gaze, tiny upturn of lips when he’s happy; the blush that spreads across his neck, climbing to his cheeks when he’s embarrassed – Yuuji finds it all hopelessly endearing.
He doesn’t know exactly when he fell in love with Fushiguro, but he’s been certain of his feelings for a while.
He remembers when they met, when Marshmallow collided with him. Seeing Fushiguro on the floor, Yuuji thought he’d caused the fall of an angel, as cliché as it sounds. When Fushiguro’s blunt dismissal had ended their interaction, Yuuji had searched for an excuse to keep talking, but the other wasn’t having any of it, so he assumed he’d never see him again. Not to say he didn’t search for him every morning after.
He’d been struck with excitement when he first came into Jujutsu. He could have sworn their conversation was borderline flirtatious, but then again, it might’ve been wishful thinking. He’d caught Fushiguro ogling his arms, though, which he counted as a win. He may or may not have positioned them at a flattering angle on purpose.
If Yuuji had to pinpoint a moment his feelings began to crystallise, it was probably when he’d knocked on a door and Fushiguro had opened it, hair mussed from sleep, a yawn on his lips. It had been his favourite week in dog-walking history. He became addicted to the half-smiles he received when he brought coffee, when he came back with Kuro and Shiro happy and tired. He’d been late for more than one shift at Jujutsu that week, having gotten carried away with talking.
He sometimes thinks about the party where they’d spent the night at each other’s side. He likes remembering how Fushiguro giggled, how it had transformed the other’s features into something younger, innocent, open. When he’s tired or bored, Yuuji’s mind drifts and he recalls in slow-motion Fushiguro sliding off his jacket. He’d had no idea the other man was built like that – feline and dangerous in the line of his back, in the laid-back confidence of his stance.
Looking back, he barely knew Fushiguro then, but everything he’s learned since has him yearning to know more, to continue learning about the other man. As they became closer, Yuuji had realised he’d never get enough of him.
He loves how his brow pinches when he concentrates, the way he chews the inside of his cheek or absentmindedly strokes his dogs, focused as he works.
He catches himself on shift, sighing as he gazes at the other man. Inumaki lightly thwacks him with a towel when he stares for too long, desperate for his break to start, needing an excuse to be near Fushiguro, not wanting to irritate him.
Despite Yuuji’s nerves, part of him feels as though they’re already dating. They see each other every day, do things together all the time, mutually seeking points of contact when they’re close. Fushiguro’s always holding Yuuji’s hand when they hang out in Jujutsu. Yuuji likes to snake an arm around his waist when they’re walking, to play with the other man’s hair, running his fingers through the explosive locks – he never pushes him away, often leaning into the touch. Yuuji’s an endless furnace and Fushiguro cools him down.
And yet, the normally straightforward man has never said anything about the burning tension between them, so tangible at times Yuuji knows he’s not imagining it.
Then again, he remembers the one time he’d tried to kiss the other man, after their cinema date. That had ended miserably. He’d been looking into Fushiguro’s chameleon eyes, emerald in the darkness, and had been overwhelmed by his beauty. Yuuji thinks Fushiguro doesn’t know how incredibly stunning he is.
The slant of his eyes, heavy lidded and intense; his high cheekbones and dark hair silhouetted in red; his soft lips parted.Yuuji had wanted desperately to kiss him. So, he’d moved in with intent, burning inside, just as the other had bent down to grab something. In a moment, their heads collided – not what Yuuji imagined at all. He’d felt foolish, but at least Fushiguro didn’t know what he’d tried to do.
He’s being patient for good reason, but Yuuji feels like a broken record, playing thoughts of Fushiguro on loop. He itches to know what he would feel like pressed against him, to experience the taste of the other’s lips.
He can’t wait for exams to be over.
.
Yuuji finishes exams the day after Fushiguro, on December 20th. The next day, having no way of contacting him, he heads into Jujutsu despite not having to work. Sure enough, the other man’s there, with Kugisaki, Maki and Panda. He grins, joining them.
Kugisaki congratulates him when she spots him, scooting over to make space for Yuuji between her and Fushiguro. He silently thanks her, smiling at the group.
“It’s good to be done,” he plops down in the vacated seat. “Congrats to all of you, too.”
Fushiguro doesn’t say anything to Yuuji, silently joining their hands under the table. Yuuji plays with his fingers as the conversation continues around them. When Fushiguro’s finished his coffee, he drops his head onto Yuuji’s shoulder, sighing deeply.
“Tired?” Yuuji asks.
“Yeah. It was a long two weeks.”
“You can nap on me, if you want,” he offers, leaning down to press an almost-kiss to Fushiguro’s head. He freezes, but the man beneath him either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care, because he says nothing.
“Mm, that sounds nice.”
“Hey,” Yuuji begins, slightly nervous, “what are you doing tomorrow?”
Fushiguro raises his head, looking at him directly. They’re close. Yuuji admires his mouth, Fushiguro’s dark eyes narrow. “Why?”
“I, uh, thought I could come over and we could make hot pot. I’ve got an easy recipe for ginger pork meatballs…” he trails off, unable to read his expression. Maki’s talking loudly about how awfully her final exam went, but Yuuji can sense Kugisaki’s attention on them instead of her girlfriend.
“I’m no good at cooking,” Fushiguro says quietly.
“That’s okay, I can teach you, if you want,” he breathes, lightly squeezing the hand in his grip. “It’ll be fun.”
Fushiguro’s neck is turning red, Yuuji notes with interest. “Alright, come over in the afternoon.” Yuuji lets out the breath he’d been holding. Fushiguro places his head back on his shoulder.
.
He knocks on Fushiguro’s door at three o’clock, ingredients in a little bag. When the door opens, Yuuji smiles, taking in the other man. His hair is artfully chaotic, spiking naturally in all directions. He’s wearing his trademark nonchalant expression. Yuuji finds him achingly soft in an oversized T-shirt and comfy black tracksuit pants, wearing fluffy blue slippers.
“Come in, dumbass. We’re letting out the heat.” He gestures loosely to a matching pair of pink shoes for Yuuji to step into, heading to the kitchen. He’s also got two aprons prepared, blue and pink, the latter of which he hands to Yuuji while glaring at the floor. Yuuji grins from ear to ear.
“Okay, so…” he begins, spreading the items out on the island counter as Fushiguro ties his apron around his slender waist. They’ve each got a chopping board and a knife, ingredients laid out between them. “Let’s chop vegetables. Could you dice that onion for me?” Yuuji starts puncturing the meat packets, dropping the mince into a large bowl.
“Like, make it into dice?” Fushiguro asks, knife in hand.
Yuuji laughs, before he realises the other man is serious. “Oh my god,” he says, “You’re serious.”
Fushiguro frowns, “Don’t make fun of me. I have a weapon.”
“How do you not know how to dice an onion?” Yuuji asks, flabbergasted.
“What did I just say,” Fushiguro’s turning beetroot, undermining his threat.
“It’s cool. I, uh, said I’d teach you.” Yuuji moves behind Fushiguro, bringing his arms around the other man’s body. He only realises how potentially awkward the position he’s in is when Fushiguro’s shoulder blades tense momentarily beneath him before he relaxes back in Yuuji’s hold. Yuuji breathes out lightly, hooking his chin over Fushiguro’s shoulder.
He takes the knife from the other and deftly peels and slices the onion in half, before guiding Fushiguro’s right wrist so he’s holding the tool. He takes his other hand in his – he can’t stop himself from running a thumb over his knuckles – as he shows him how to hold the vegetable.
“You know what dice means,” Yuuji tells him. Fushiguro doesn’t answer. Since he can’t see his face, he continues. “Remember in Slug Mania? When the heroine says I’m going to dice your body into a million pieces right before she totally obliterates the slug bastards? Remember all those cubes of goop?”
Megumi’s shoulders shake, “That’s not the most appetising image.”
Yuuji groans, laying his forehead on the base of the other’s neck, “My point is, Fushi, that you know how to dice. We’re making the onion into little cubes. Okay?”
Fushiguro giggles, “Okay.”
Yuuji grins, bringing his head back up. Slowly, he guides their hands until they’ve roughly diced one half of the onion. Reluctantly, he steps back.
“Now try the other side,” he says. Fushiguro glances back at him, face unreadable, before doing as he’s told.
Yuuji finishes cutting up all the other vegetables in the time it takes Fushiguro to chop his one onion-half. But, to his credit, it’s perfect. Yuuji sets aside the stuff that’ll go into the broth and heaps double portions of fresh ginger on top of the seasoned meat and diced onions, before asking Fushiguro to stir it.
“You do know what stir means, right?”
“Yeah. It’s what you’re doing right now. Stirring shit,” Fushiguro mutters, mixing the ingredients.
Yuuji laughs, heating the broth up. “Okay, last thing to do before we chuck everything in the pot is make the meatballs.”
Fushiguro, who had no problem steadily (albeit slowly) dicing the onion, for some reason simply cannot make a meatball come together. Every single time he tries it falls apart in his hands.
“You really suck at that,” Yuuji comments.
“The more you talk, the less likely I am to want to do this again.”
Yuuji chuckles, quickly finishing up another meatball before he moves to help Fushiguro. This time standing in front of him, he once again takes the other’s hands in his, tenderly shaping the ball between their fingers. When he opens their hands to reveal a perfect sphere he beams at Fushiguro, who’s already looking at him.
“Your turn.”
Fushiguro deftly scoops some meat, skilfully moulding it between his palms. “Like this?” He asks, coy. The meatball is perfect.
“Uh, yeah. I told you it was easy,” Yuuji says, surprised.
Fushiguro smiles, “So you did.”
When the ingredients are in and the hot pot’s bubbling away, they take off their aprons and move the portable stove to Fushiguro’s kotatsu, set up for the winter between his TV and sofa, where they sit, talk, and eat.
Fushiguro blows on his first meatball twice, cheeks puffing with the motion, before tasting it. Itadori watches him take a bite, sees his eyes crinkle as he chews, and asks, “So?”
Fushiguro glances up, “It’s good.” Yuuji punches the air, causing the dark-haired man to snort into his broth. “Calm down. I only said it’s good,” he’s rolling his eyes, but Yuuji hums a happy tune as they eat. He shuffles a bare foot forward, finding Fushiguro’s leg and nudging underneath the loose trousers to tickle his shin with his toes.
“Shit,” Fushiguro hisses. “Your feet are like ice.” Yuuji giggles, leaving his foot there when the other doesn’t pull away. A few minutes later, the dogs emerge, yawning, and settle half under the blankets as well.
Yuuji’s been to this apartment many times now, but never for an afternoon. The flat is decorated in muted colours, with accents of blue here and there; stylish and simple, but not unloved. The furniture is soft and worn. There are dog toys thrown around the place; textbooks, notebooks, and novels form haphazard towers in the living room. There are small prickly cacti and dark, leafy ferns on window-lit shelves. A collage of landscape photos is carefully arranged on a large pin-board. It’s been defaced by Kugisaki, if the pictures of her and Fushiguro stuck crookedly along its border are any indication. The apartment smells clean and fresh, comfortable; a humidifier is lightly puffing lemongrass into the air.
Yuuji thinks Fushiguro smells like jasmine in the morning and cinders at night. He wants pictures of him to be on Fushiguro’s wall.
They share easy conversation throughout the afternoon, and time passes quicker than Yuuji would like. It reaches seven before he realises it.
Fushiguro sighs, “I’m sorry, I’ve got a thing I need to do this evening.”
Yuuji, who hadn’t expected to be able to stay all night, is disappointed anyway. “Ah, that’s okay. Let me help clear up.”
After the washing’s done, Yuuji makes to leave. He cuddles Kuro, who emerges from the kotatsu to see him off. He hesitates, gazing into the other man’s eyes, thinking Fuck it, I’m not a coward, and says, “Give me your phone.”
Raising a single eyebrow, Fushiguro tugs the device from his pocket and hands it over. Yuuji puts his number in and texts himself before handing it back.
“See you tomorrow?”
“Yeah.” Fushiguro’s leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, relaxed and gorgeous.
“Cool,” Itadori opens the door, stepping outside, before the other man speaks once more.
“Yuuji, I had a good time. Let’s do it again.” He hesitates, before leaning in and softly kissing Yuuji’s cheek. His lips are warm and dry, Yuuji is on fire. The door immediately shuts in his face, but Yuuji’s grinning like an idiot, practically skipping home.
In his happy shock, he doesn’t realise Fushiguro had used his first name until he’s back at his own place.