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After Shibuya, everything crumbled into something belligerently wild. Campus was quiet, this tumultuous reminder that everything they've lost was their new natural now, even in hopes and dreams, and devoid of simple naivety, the kind that sprung up from the grass of the training field and bloomed life from its own pained roots, so sweetly human in its eternally silent suffering.
However, despite all this, Yuuji is a steady and raucous presence in the dimly lit kitchen, teeming from counter to counter impetuously, something that can only be accounted for by his pointed ambition. The night air, muted with something heavy and longing, is redolent of withheld conversations and a good meal. It’s their first real one in weeks, since before Shibuya.
Yuuji has always loved to cook--Megumi has always loved eating it, though he would never admit it aloud--and he's unfairly good at it. In his element, Yuuji looks so incredibly soft, like he isn't worn down by war or drowning in a sea that has wrecked countless ships. Here, confined within these four walls, there's only Yuuji and Megumi, the flickering light above the stove casting shadows that haunt around the rickety counters and buzzing refrigerator like a ghost with a youth that acts more as a burden than a promise of freedom.
The way Megumi's heart thuds capriciously behind his ribcage, like something feral begging to be freed, is near painful; Yuuji looks like someone ready to be loved, with a gentle abandonment of his too-large heart, and Megumi is prepared to be that lover, because after everything, they deserve to be seventeen again, deserve to patch the chest wound leaking compassion and destruction.
Megumi is giving his heart in soft surrender in return, and Yuuji is taking it, cradling it between the calloused palms of his hands, and rocking it to sleep, like it's worth this kind of devotion. Like Megumi's worth this kind of devotion. And Megumi's heart damn near stops beating, chest positively constricting into something tight and raw like a ball of yarn, because Yuuji is peering over his broad shoulder now to look at Megumi, and allows the gentlest smile to crack open his lips. He smiles benignly, but the tight lines of his mouth is an old tell, and Megumi can read his hand.
Yuuji's smile falters for only a moment, when he realizes Megumi is reading him left to right like a book, and returns back to the stove with tense shoulders and a sharp, linear jaw clenched so tight, Megumi can see the muscle groan under the intense pressure. He’s falling apart, the seams sewn to keep him together tearing like the old fabric of a worn coat, but Yuuji is nothing if not stubborn and he maintains his facade of serenity and strength. Despite this, it’s radiant all the same, and the best damn thing Megumi’s seen in a while. Around the edges are jagged, pulling at the silky scar in the corner of his lips uneasily, which make Yuuji look rugged and older, wiser almost. But the clemency behind it is so warm and rejuvenating that it makes Megumi feel alive again.
And Megumi thinks: benevolent and generous Yuuji is far too kind to be in the same dark world that stark, and terse Megumi is apart of.
“Megumi,” Yuuji calls, almost smugly. Megumi grumbles, slipping from his perch atop his clammy palm, head tilted and his big, doe eyes the sweet shade of dark chocolate. Megumi hunches his shoulders to his flushed ears in embarrassment. He sees more than hears the amused huff Yuuji gives in response. Megumi’s insides melt under the pin-point gaze, and in response, he offers a rather gruff questioning hum.
Yuuji shuffles on his feet, just an inch closer to Megumi. The light flickers overhead, a shadow embracing the incandescent features of Yuuji’s face, and a sudden fear grips Megumi by his throat, the air abruptly stuffy and frigid. It’s a stupid terror, he realizes, that not being able to clearly see Yuuji’s face nearly suffocates him—though, it’s a conviction he narrowly fails to escape. He worries at his raw bitten lips to control the arousal stirring within him from doing something stupid, like resting a soiled palm atop Yuuji’s sternum, above the steady thump of his heart, just hovering, while knowing he would corrupt everything Yuuji’s heart has beat for.
Its selfish, and Megumi knows he’s incapable of protecting Yuuji when he’s the one that introduced him to a world of cataclysm and atonement, but he can’t help himself from attempting to satiate the raucous desire to shelter the last person he knows. Yuuji is admirably strong, in more ways than one, but Megumi is a weak man when it comes to defying his egotistical instincts. He wants to provide a sense of safety, when all he’s bottled up is anger and insolence: The kind that is undue, but not leering. More secure, innocent.
Noticing the shift in mood, Yuuji swallows thickly and clears his throat, capturing Megumi’s attention again. “Are you okay?” he questions tentatively, his signature goofy smile pulling the corner of his lips just slightly. He almost looks nervous, if Megumi didn’t know him better. He’s trying to alleviate the tension in the room, and there is a certain unease where he fiddles with the spatula in between his fingers, but he’s not necessarily nervous. More timid, skittish. Which is odd for someone as extroverted as Yuuji, but Megumi can’t blame him for changing after the alterations to their society. "I've been calling your name for a while, but you never answered. It made me kind of worried if i’m being completely honest.”
”Sorry.”
"'S okay," Yuuji blinks. His head is still lolled to the side, and Megumi would find it endearing if he wasn't studying him like a school textbook. "What were you doing?"
"Jus' thinking," Megumi grumbles. He doesn't like this. He wants to go back to watching Yuuji cook, something domestic thick in the air, and his heart beating too big for his body.
Megumi doesn't understand what this feeling is, doesn’t persist enough to break it down, just that it fosters a sense of warm dwelling that he never wants to feel fade away. His pulse is a rapid thrum behind his pale wrist, bumping against the underside of his chin where he shifts to respite again. There's a slight burn at the corners of his eyes, not enough to warrant evasion, but enough to make his stomach drop.
The pain still lingers.
This is wrong. What this is, Megumi isn't exactly sure of, and it keeps him on his toes; he just knows that he wants to keep seeing Yuuji doing what he enjoys.
"About?"
Yuuji has all but abandoned cooking, setting the spatula on the counter and slinging the dish towel over his shoulder, and it slides icy dread down the knobs of Megumi's spine. He approaches Megumi’s side confidently, like he’s shaken all caution to the wind, and Megumi can hear the soft plumes of air he exhales right next to his ear with how close he is. Since Sukuna ripped Yuuji’s effulgent heart out, he’s lamented about always being so cold now; Megumi can definitively feel the chill that washes in when Yuuji sternly plants his feet, and he unconsciously shivers.
Megumi swivels in the stool to face him, and suddenly, he feels all warm now, like the temperature has adjusted with the unnatural proximity between them. Yuuji reaches out to playfully squeeze a plump cheek, and Megumi bats his hand away with no real intention behind it. Yuuji laughs, and Megumi pins that on his mental cork board of Best Things He’s Heard. It’s pleasant, airy, and so fucking full of life. Yuuji might’ve indubitably changed a lot, but his humanity never wavers.
Yuuji’s eyes quickly become mischievous, and his grin turns inscrutable. Megumi narrows his eyes anxiously. "Come on." Yuuji extends a hand, and grasps Megumi's forearm. A shudder runs through him at the simple touch. Megumi frowns skeptically.
"What?"
"Come on, up you get." Yuuji gives a quick, playful tug, and Megumi stumbles right out of his seat, caught off-guard.
"Where are we going?"
"The kitchen, you goof," Yuuji says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and hastily guides Megumi towards the stove. "You're going to help me cook."
"What?" Megumi rears back incredulously.
Yuuji laughs, amused, and Megumi’s heart flutters. Megumi distantly realizes Yuuji hasn't let him go, and he likes how grounded he feels when Yuuji's callous’s rub against his scars.
"I said, you're going to help me cook."
"No, I heard what you said the first time," Megumi snaps, long deserting the frown for the sake of a scowl instead, his brows dipping down impossibly further. "There's no way I'm helping you cook. You know I'm awful at it."
And he is. In Nobara’s words, Megumi is the worst cook on the planet. This fact is not something to be questioned - Megumi should not ever step foot into a kitchen, unless he wants to set the building on fire and kill them all. The irony of the situation makes him want to hermit back into his chair, and he digs his socked feet into the tile petulantly when Yuuji tries to bring him in further.
"Come on, 'Gumi," he whines, throwing his head back. Regardless of how much Megumi loathes when Yuuji doesn't have an affable smile gracing his face, making his head all hazy, he refuses to give in when he knows he shouldn't meddle where he doesn’t belong. A prospect that Megumi has ignored before, and has decided he won't ever do again.
But then Yuuji is speaking again, in that tenderly earnest tone of voice, and Megumi realizes he’s lost all his defiance to some simple, coaxing words: “You know, it’s very lonely in this kitchen all alone,” he pouts. “C’mon Gumi, it’ll be so fun! I’ll teach you.” All the fight leaves Megumi in a defeated huff—he’ll blame it on the bone-deep exhaustion if asked about it later.
"You're going to regret it when you have no kitchen tomorrow morning," he mutters bleakly, and Yuuji is practically vibrating with bliss at Megumi's silent acceptance. He laughs, a good, honest laugh, and drags Megumi fully into the kitchen. The atmosphere between the kitchen and the island is so different: It’s alive, so distinctly Yuuji, and smells of rich, potent flavors that leave Megumi’s mouth watering. Aloofly, he realizes Yuuji is about to teach him how to make his signature meatballs, if the ingredients on the counter are anything to go by. He remembers Yuuji promised to demonstrate the recipe a while back, and he feels his neck flush.
Out of his comfort zone, Megumi feels so small in a world too big for them, and they're merely surviving somewhere that no longer feels decent. It’s always been crude, but now its harrowing, too, and every unsightly thing in between has sprung to life with no one left to police it.
"It'll be okay because it's you,” Yuuji shrugs shyly. Megumi chokes, mouth agape and the breath stolen from his lungs. He feels especially like passing out when Yuuji directs a modest grin towards Megumi, whose eyes have seen the worst depths of hell, and it almost feels taboo to witness something as precious as this. Yuuji can't say things like that, not when hes oblivious to what it does to him.
He can feel the fluster creeping up his neck darken, peeking out from the wrinkled collar of his sleep shirt, and he looks anywhere but Yuuji. Unfortunately, he is ultimately unavoidable, because Yuuji is everywhere; he’s in the frantic drip of the faucet paired with the damp dish towel, the scallions finely chopped and resting in a salmon-pink bowl, the container of eggs that Nobara and him drew silly faces on one late evening earlier in their first year. "Come on," he urges softly, and this time, when Yuuji pulls him towards the oven, Megumi goes willingly.
Just as Megumi predicted, it is an absolute mess with him in the kitchen. Hes blundering through the instructions Yuuji gives him like a kid just learning how to walk, and it is mortifying. Megumi hates it. The meatballs are rolled unevenly in comparison to Yuuji’s, eggshells haphazardly scatter the granite tops, and there's a ginger stain covering a large portion of Megumi's sleep shirt where the tube bursted when he accidentally squeezed too hard; Yuuji was keeled over, wheezing at him for that one. Although Yuuji is consistently giggling at him here and there, he’s so incredibly patient with Megumi through the entire process that it’s near painful. It causes something raw to tear open inside his chest.
Yuuji explains the process of how long the meatballs are meant to cook for, and the temperature the oven must be set at, but Megumi has tuned it all out in favor of watching Yuuji talk about something he's enthusiastic about. His hand not handling the baking pan is busy expressing in the air. His shoulders are quivering, like he’s cold. There’s goosebumps rising on the skin of his arms. Megumi notices Yuuji's shirt seems to be a tad bit too small, because every time he moves, it rides up along his abdomen just a little, and a span of toned hip juts out for Megumi to admire. He quickly looks away, feeling intrusive, and settles for Yuuji's face again.
There's a passion glinting in his eyes, brown like autumn and home, and Megumi could get lost in those eyes if they held his gaze long enough. There's a canny crookedness to Yuuji's nose that Megumi's never realized before. He feels like he should've. His lips don't touch when they close, likely due to the injury Megumi knows Yuuji is so insecure about, but Megumi thinks it is so fatally charming. It sets every nerve in Megumi alight. His ears twitch when he talks - Megumi pauses. His ears aren’t twitching, which means that Yuuji isn't talking anymore. Seemingly, he hasn’t been for a while.
When Megumi returns a bashful glance back to Yuuji’s eyes, he finds they're already looking at him. It's almost like they're sifting through his soul. His eyes flit to Yuuji's chapped lips, shaped into a lopsided grin, and Megumi feels his knees begin to buckle.
"Are you even listening to a word I'm saying at all, 'Gumi?"
No, he wants to say. No, I haven't heard a single word you've said because I'm too busy looking at you and -
Oh.
Oh.
Megumi understands this vulnerable, suffocating emotion that wallows in the pit of his stomach now.
It's love.
Love.
Megumi is in love with Yuuji.
The realization knocks all the air from his lungs.
With his lack of response, Yuuji carefully places the pan into the oven, genuine solicitude beginning to fray his smile for a slight grimace and it’s all wrong. He should never be looking like that, in despair and insufferably sad. Megumi's seen a variant of that look in Shibuya and it sparks a hasty urgency inside Megumi that makes him lurch forward.
"'Gu-"
All the words die on Yuuji's tongue when Megumi crashes his lips down onto his. The sigh Megumi lets out at the contact portrays his pent-up pining, because nothing has ever felt so right in his life. Yuuji doesn't move, and Megumi thinks he might not even be registering what Megumi is doing because it's really just a brush of lips, nothing more. He goes to pull back, when a hand that's slithered around the nape of his neck draws him back in. Megumi is only a few inches taller, but the trivial towering distance allows Megumi to tilt his head to slot their lips together more serenely, and he desperately wants more. More of Yuuji Itadori.
Their first kiss isn't really a kiss; it’s something more clumsy, like a knock of noses, and a clank of teeth, but it’s everything Megumi didn’t know he’d been needing and more. With the way Yuuji is kissing back, just as fervently, he’s been needing it, too. It’s sloppy, and desperate for reasons entirely different than carnal devotion; it’s a melancholy born from watching the other near death so closely. It’s a trepidation that latches on like a leech, similarly to their hands, that the other is going to disappear: Then an overwhelming relief that the other is tangible, within arms length. It’s a type of reassurance that’s whispering, but so loud it’s almost deafening - and neither are complaining.
When they pull apart, it’s all spit and gasps.
Megumi never thought he’d get to this point, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he believes Gojo would be proud of him for taking the initiative (even if it was all messy; that he would tease Megumi for ‘til no end). Megumi has never loved someone before, not in the way he loves Yuuji, and it makes him all giddy inside that he’s exploring a new path in life that’s been left desolate for so long. The hand that’s wrapped around his nape comes forward to his cheek, cupping it dotingly, and Yuuji brings their foreheads together. There’s a sharp sting at the collision, but they ignore it altogether for the sake of being as close as possible. Yuuji smells like lemons, an undertone of something more salty from the kitchen, and mint. Megumi is sure he’s going to bury himself in that scent. To him, it’s home, and that’s all that matters.
”’M sorry,” Megumi whispers.
Yuuji looks at him strangely. “For what?”
Megumi shrugs. “For not kissing you earlier than now.”
Yuuji gapes his mouth open, sputtering, and screws up his lips as a blush overtakes his striking, cool tan.
Megumi takes that as his cue to continue, an honesty weaving onto his tongue that he’s never possessed before this moment. He dives back in to kiss Yuuji again because now that he’s got a taste of the sweetness on his lips, he can’t get enough. It’s an addiction, an insatiable one, and Megumi is already having withdrawals.
When he pulls back, Yuuji keeps his eyes closed, and Megumi sighs, watching as Yuuji’s lips part slightly in response to the warm air. Megumi swallows thickly, unable to form a coherent thought or find his own voice.
“God ‘Gumi, do you know what you do to me?” Yuuji whispers softly, and Megumi freezes. His pulse has increased rapidly and he prays Yuuji can’t feel the way it drums against his skin. By the smile Yuuji gives him, his prayers were left unanswered.
”I love you,” Megumi hurries out, eyes wide in surprise. Yuuji is no better. Then he gives a watery laugh and it’s music to Megumi’s ears. He huffs a breath of relief.
”I love you, too,” he admits solemnly. “In case that wasn’t obvious.”
And Megumi really can’t help himself when he says things like that so sincerely, so he ducks back down for a third time and kisses the corner of Yuuji’s mouth, right atop that scar that taunts him. Theres a stutter of breath that Yuuji expels. It makes Megumi smirk proudly.
Megumi doesn’t know how long they stand there, holding each other like a lifeline, but it must be long because Megumi’s feet are starting to ache.
Then he smells it.
”Yuuji,” he grins.
”Hm?”
”I think your meatballs are burning.”
The smoke seeping out the oven would be worrisome if Megumi wasn’t so in love. Watching Yuuji flit around the kitchen in a panicked flurry was comical, but felt like coming home after a long day. The meatballs were burnt to a crisp when Yuuji pulled it from the smoldering oven, utterly inedible, but they didn’t mind: They weren’t really that hungry anyways.
And, just like Megumi said, they, in fact, did not have a kitchen in the morning. They would need to order a new oven, but that would have to wait. For now, Megumi’s okay with being hungry as long as Yuuji is there to stave it away.