Chapter Text
"Why do you like, never eat?"
Megumi raises an eyebrow, holding up the pear he's washing. "I'm eating right now, what are you talking about?"
Hopped up on the common’s kitchen counter, Itadori finishes tearing apart the tangerine in his hand, splattering sticky juice all over the fruit bowl. "Oops—ah, I'll get that later. I mean like I never see you eat real food. Pretty much ever."
"Fruit is real food."
"Yeah, as a snack," Itadori snorts, lips puckering a bit from the tart. "You're built like a twig, dude, I should be seeing you eat burgers to bulk up instead of those crappy oat bars and boring yogurts and your silly fruit."
Megumi rubs his thumb along the green skin of the pear. There's a little bruise in the side of it, not by his own hand. The fruit feels just a bit heavier now that he has to think about it more. "It's called being healthy. Just because I'm not gorging myself on chips or junk doesn't mean I'm not eating right." He raises it to his mouth to bite down.
"It's not always junk," Itadori argues. "Our styles overlap, man, we spar all the time! I burn tons of energy and I need the fuel, so like, it's kinda weird not seeing you do the same."
He thinks that over as he chews, counting each one. Thirty-two is a nice number, but he stops at twenty-four when he sees Itadori shift at his silence. That's fine. The important part is to never stop below sixteen. It keeps him mindful of what he eats.
He swallows. "Of course I do. You just aren't around to see it."
Itadori bites his tangerine like a pear instead of separating it into sections. It almost makes him want to grab a knife and start splitting his own fruit properly just to show him up at the horrendous display.
"I'm always in the kitchens or going out with you and Kugisaki! But you're never in the kitchens and never order anything other than an appetizer when we manage to drag you out. It's weird!"
Megumi presses the pear to the counter, fist clenched around it. "What's your problem? Why does it matter?"
"Ah, well—" Itadori starts, stops, sighs. His knee bounces as he peels his second tangerine. "I'm just...worried. Sorry. I don't mean to be pushy or insensitive or anything, just, are you doing okay, Fushiguro?"
Megumi watches him in the timespan of thirty-two seconds, watches his blunt fingers pick at the tangerine skin in nervous tatters, pith falling around his nails and falling in his lap. He watches this all, feels something disgusting curl up in his belly where that piece of pear was swallowed down.
"What a stupid thing to worry about," Megumi snorts. "I’m okay. Seriously."
Itadori looks at him like he doesn't believe him, but tears through a third tangerine before deciding to let it go.
Megumi doesn't pick up the pear again, watching it turn brown at the place he bit.
It's not a problem like Itadori thinks it to be. It's just a habit of his, a quirky little trait. Some people pick their skin, or crack their joints, or cover their mirrors. Megumi just doesn't like to eat.
It used to be a problem. From a loosely defined "eating disorder" then to disordered eating habits. It's different. It's better now.
The thing is, he can't classify it as either, really. Therapists might try to pin it on him if he ever bothered to visit one, trying to pick apart his secrets like people pick at their orange skins, but Megumi doesn’t have any secrets to share. There was no traumatic moment, no one decision that led him on this path. It’s who he is. Nothing more.
Tsumiki used to worry a lot. She would sneak extra snacks in his bag when he wasn't looking, always offering him bits and pieces here and there. Ginger candies were never short on hand, the only sweet he can stand for more than one bite. He associates the flavor with the memory of her, now, and is the one taste he longs for the most when it's all sucked away.
Besides that, no one else really cared. He was a skinny kid. So what? A lot of his classmates were. His stature didn't stop him from whipping half the guys in his class.
Of course, his habit got him into trouble once or twice, but that was then. He's now in clinics for more curse-and-mission-related dizzy spells than anything else.
This is now:
Ever since that day in the commons, Itadori watches him a little more often, has a little extra to say.
Megumi tries to eat a bit more in response to his presence, no matter how off-putting it presses on the roof of his mouth, but then Itadori does this horrible thing where he comments on it. Even with other people in the room.
"Hey, that looks really good!" Itadori shouts when he eats a rice ball.
"Try some of mine, it's amazing," Itadori says at a restaurant, offering a piece of chicken.
The last straw are the thumbs ups. Absolutely not. He doesn't need praise every time he so much as counts bites on a handful of unsalted chips. Like a kid.
It's in-character for Itadori, so at first no-one really bats an eye. But he lives in a school of sorcerers whose job it is to be observant and to watch over their fellow comrades. The longer it goes on, the more unusual it will seem, and then? Questions.
If there's one thing he can't stand, it's the questions.
Itadori doesn't get it, probably won't get it even if he explains, but he looks and stares and comments like he's trying to because that's just who he is as a person, all five feet and eight inches of overly determined jock idiocy and sincerity pushing him on. He wants to fix even when there's nothing to fix.
He just doesn't like food. That's all.
Kugisaki now stares at them, too, and others have looked at him weird once or twice, and before long he's going to have more attention on an issue that is not an issue and he will hate it.
Instead of helping, it has the opposite effect. The kitchens are dangerous. Going out is torture. Every carefully planned meal of his day has to be rearranged, changed, adjusted based on who what where and there's a certain point where it stops mattering as much. Not thinking about it is so much easier. Skipping is simple.
Itadori knocks on his door more often now, begging him for movies and shopping trips and more time, more, more, more, when Megumi knows that Itadori just wants the time to pick more.
If someone he cares about is hurting, he will stop at nothing to end it even if he doesn't understand what is wrong, exactly. But he's figuring it out and Megumi doesn't want to let it get to that point.
Nothing is wrong.
"Fushiguro, I am begging you, please use a face mask or something," Kugisaki complains when Megumi escapes to Kugisaki's dorm, the one place Itadori wouldn't expect because he's been extra-avoiding people recently.
But Kugisaki is surprisingly quiet when it's just them, painting her nails or cleaning her tool kit. The most she ever pesters him about is technique, dogs, magazine gossip, and beauty tips. It's tolerable.
Touching his face, Megumi tries to feel for any imperfections. "Face masks?"
"Or a lotion, a cream, something! I seriously don't get how you have such great skin that looks like shit all the time because you don't take care of it properly."
Well, that was contradictory, but he won't question it. He's too tired to start an argument. He goes back to his book. "It's just who I am."
"You're so boring." There's a click. She must be messing with her bag.
Megumi jumps a bit at a touch to his hands, pulling him away from the book. His calloused knuckles are poked and prodded. "Even your damn hands! You know you need those?"
"What?" Touch. It feels strange. Megumi hasn't touched many people skin to skin outside of life or death in a while. Kugisaki's hands feel nothing like Tsumiki's, harder and firmer, but it's not bad. Just not what he remembers.
The book falls to his lap as she drags his hands to the bed where she sits, him still at the desk chair. A dollop of lotion is dropped on them—the click must have been from a bottle, not a bag. It smells sweet like a cinnamon bun. His mouth involuntarily waters.
Not gentle in the least, she scrubs at the skin like she wants to peel it off. The smell sinks so deep in his pores he thinks it'll reach his blood, traveling through his heart and down to the veins caging his stomach, filling it with more unwanted weight.
Fingers drag between his, through the center, massaging and pulling. "Sandpaper! Literal sandpaper!" Kugisaki complains at the texture.
"What? Hey! W-why are you doing this?” Megumi stutters, unused to the focus, the sensation, the smell.
She smiles. It's not a kind smile, she always has an edge of teeth in her grins, but he can see she's trying a little more today. "Showing you what you're missing! You come into a girl's room and not expect a little attention? Tch. You'll never get a girlfriend like that."
A blush falls over his skin. That's one of the worst topics she could have brought up. "That's not—I'm not—"
"Or a boyfriend, whatever," she says, so casually. "Anyways, I'm just messing with you. Loosen up a bit."
Even though his hands are sufficiently smooth, hers continue exploring, messing with his nails and pressing on calluses. Anxiety flows around him, an old friend. Her eyes are far too sharp. Just like he came in here with a purpose for distraction, she has her own reasons for this too. Kugisaki hates to be left out of the loop. She knows something is up.
Itadori blabs way too much.
She pokes some more. A fresh cut is pressed on his ring finger, a long scar is scratched in the dead-center of his palm. "So boney too. Do your dogs chew on your hands and mistake them for snacks? Yeesh."
Dangerous. This is becoming dangerous. She's just joking right now, but if she prods any deeper disgusting secrets might just spill out of him, skin peeling back in layers to reveal the rotted pith underneath.
"I train a lot."
"I know, so do I."
She does and yet still, for as much as Megumi trains, neither Kugisaki nor Itadori get hurt as much as Megumi does. Hence his discipline schedule.
Finally, after a long moment, her hands pull away. "Seriously, you need to try a face mask. I have I few I could recommend you. You have eye bags down to here,” Kugisaki says, poking at his chin.
Megumi pushes it away. "Quit it. Stop, just—stop."
No good. Looking for a distraction is pointless, he's terrible at conversation topics. His hands are still slightly wet with lotion. He can't even pick up his book like this, he'd hate to ruin the pages.
Kugisaki smiles again. It's meaner this time. She’s not finding answers, and it clearly frustrates her. "Haha. You look funny." Luckily, though, she moves away. Now her tool bag truly clicks open. "Want your nails done too?"
"No—no, thanks."
Kugisaki clicks her tongue. "Your loss. Itadori loves it."
He knows; sometimes they both show up to practice with matching nails. Itadori doesn't complain when the polish chips in battle, he just likes the sensation of painting. Megumi knows this because, again, the guy talks too much. Megumi won't admit to liking it once in a while, but he does. He does.
There's another click and the smell of nail polish thankfully permeates the room, covering up the sweet scent. "Say, are you and Itadori fighting or something?" Kugisaki wonders. She's painting her nails blue today with little white flowers decorated by a toothpick.
"No."
"Liar," she snorts. "Well, settle it out, would you? He's making me antsy. Don't let it affect missions.”
"Of course not."
Kugisaki groans. "You're acting so weird lately, Fushiguro. Like a fucking clam.” And there it is, the worry he wanted so much to avoid. "The hell's going on in that big stupid head of yours?"
"Why does everyone keep asking me that?" Megumi mutters, frustrated, and Kugisaki hones in on that like his shikigami with a curse.
She even sits up slightly. "Is that what's going on? You're being bitchy because we're asking? Newsflash! We're teammates!"
"And?"
"It means I want to make sure I won't lose my life on the field if you get all distracted and screw us over, airhead."
"I said I wouldn't. I don't need the worry."
"God you are so annoying." Kugisaki messes up a brush stroke and has to use a cotton ball to wipe away the excess. The glare she sends it almost sets the alcohol swab on fire. "You act like you don't care, but I've seen you. You've this big old soft spot in your boney little chest that you just hate us looking at. Why bother? It holds you back.”
Megumi grits his teeth. It hurts, bones aching, the cinnamon roll smell burning his skin. "As a sorcerer—"
"That's an excuse and you know it! It's fucking you up big time. If it's causing you to look like that all the time, you need to speak your mind more and stop keeping all those stupid secrets. I don't care but it's making you all weird, whatever it is, and as a sorcerer you should put more faith into the people who got your back. I'd rather know now than later."
“I don’t have any secrets.”
"What, is it embarrassing or something? Something's got you cagey."
"Nothing. There's nothing. You know there's nothing!"
“Do I? What do we know about you, really? Jack squat. It makes you look real suspicious. Also, kinda depressing. You're a sad guy."
His legs twitch a little, agitation making him antsy. “You and Itadori don’t tell me everything about yourselves. Why are you holding a double standard?”
“Itadori literally announces every time he goes to the bathroom,” Kugisaki complains. “You? I don’t even know your favorite color, or favorite food! But I can still tell that something's up. You got that look.” The nail polish splatters a little more. Kugisaki’s eyebrows are furrowed, concentrated but not on her task. Calculating, curious.
“If you don’t know and don't care, then why bother yourself with it?”
“Tch. It’s annoying, and making Itadori beyond annoying too. You don't act normal, and not at all like your usual. You're not yourself. Such a pain."
"I am myself!" How could he be anyone else?
"I'm sure you are, liar," Kugisaki mocks. "C'mon, spill."
This was a mistake. All of this was a mistake. Picking, picking, picking, they won't stop picking. He can't even pick at his own nail skin, the skin's too soft for it now. No good.
He stands up, but Kugisaki's not done.
"You're clearly not sleeping, you've got the world's driest skin, you actually took the time to visit me, and don't even get me started on your hair. It's all lank and dull," Kugisaki points out. "That's what I'm seeing. It's almost like—oi, are you eating right?"
Megumi slams his book closed and tucks the desk chair back under. "Goodnight, Kugisaki. Thanks for the attention."
"Hold on, what, wait a damn second—"
As stupid as they act, his teammates are too smart for their own good. Megumi melts into the shadows, ignoring Kugisaki's yelled insults, and washes his hands eight times back in his own dorm. The unscented soap is not enough to wash out the sweet smells, nor the feel of touch.
Megumi ignores, ignores, ignores. No matter how much his stomach twists angrily, Megumi tucks his hands under his side and breathes through his mouth. Sleep comes patchy that night.
After that, Kugisaki won't leave him alone, either. She keeps trying to get him by himself again but Megumi is a seasoned veteran at dodging social interaction.
Eventually she gives up and just resorts to passive aggressive glaring. That's fine. Preferable, even.
That doesn't stop the notes, though. His dorm door has an unholy number of nails hammered into it, each one bearing a threat, a warning, once a veiled concern, and an insulting amount of granola bars. Itadori loves it and always doodles on the notes when he sees them, stopping by for his daily Megumi check-up.
If he doesn’t start acting “more like himself,” whatever that means, they’re just going to start breaking his door down.
Because he doesn't want those threats to escalate, he makes more of an effort no matter how damn exhausting it all is. He agrees to outings. He leaves a few empty wrappers out for them to notice. He doesn't eat them all, but he tries, at least, to get them off his back.
He trains and trains and trains.
Gojo finds him occasionally, watching him with covered eyes and cracking jokes. He offers advice when Megumi does something wrong, but besides that is entirely unhelpful, just how Megumi likes it. Megumi hasn't asked Gojo to train him in a very long time.
Juggling his social on top of his work is extremely tiring. Before, his discipline allowed him only the energy to perform well in school, but now his schedule is stretched so thin. It's not enough. He needs to try harder.
But there are so many distractions.
He's bent over a notebook trying to plan his days—almost impossible, considering how the first years love to spring things on him last minute to try and catch him like a rat in a clip trap—when he receives an unexpected phone call.
"Okkotsu-senpai?"
"Hey, Megumi! How are you doing?" Okkotsu's cheery voice echoes though the tinny phone.
Megumi sits up straight and tries to focus. A call from his senpai is quite rare, he's so busy all the time, and it never fails to cheer him up. Out of all the second years, he respects Okkotsu the most, and they get along well.
"Good," Megumi says warmly. "Practicing. Studying.”
“Ah, so formal as always,” Okkotsu says lightly. "Did you get any new shikigami?"
"I'm working on it. There's a large one I've had for a while, an elephant, but it drains too much energy. I need to work harder with them."
"You'll get it, you always do! I miss those puppies of yours. So fluffy!" Okkotsu says, and Megumi smiles.
Megumi leans back on his bed and kicks his feet up, feeling more like the teenager he is than he has in a while, chatting with friends on the phone without a worry in mind. "Anyways, how are you doing? Is your secret overseas assignment going well?"
"It's pretty good. I can't reveal too much, of course, but the best times are the breaks in between. I'll bring back lots of souvenirs for you!"
"You don't have to bother. Gojo-sensei brings back enough when he goes out. I'm running out of space to keep them."
"You can't stop me! If it'll finally lighten up your empty room then that's a good thing. Do those friends of yours bring you stuff, too?"
"My teammates?" Megumi wonders. He hadn't told Okkotsu about them last time he called, but that was very early on in the semester. Gojo must bragged about them, as he’s prone to do. "Yes, sometimes."
"Tell me about them! Are you getting along? What are they like?"
Now Megumi feels vaguely like he's chatting about gossip mags and crushes, an activity he sometimes partakes with Kugisaki but feels a little weirder with his senpai. He stops kicking his legs, an involuntary movement. "They're...nice. A bit pushy. Crass. But they're good people."
"And we all know how much you don't like those. I'm joking, by the way!"
"I know. You're full of questions today." It's suspicious. This is the longest call they've had in a while, and so unexpected too. Okkotsu is a very busy man.
"Well, sensei told me things have been a little stressful so I just wanted to make sure everything is okay. You know how he likes to talk around things," Okkotsu laughs.
Ah, so that's how it is. His teacher is getting crafty. Did he have to bother his senpai about it, though? That annoys him more than anything else.
"I'm good."
"Are you sure? You're eating right? Staying safe?"
Megumi clenches his fist in his lap. Gojo probably wouldn't have spilled anything directly, but Okkotsu is very perceptive and knows how to pick up a breadcrumb trail. It pisses him off that Gojo would go this far as to bother his upperclassman, his very busy upperclassman, about something as ridiculous as this.
"Everything is fine. I'm fine."
"...Is your sister doing okay?"
No. "Same as always," Megumi says. "Let's talk about something else, please."
"Well...okay," Okkotsu sighs. "But if you do need to talk, you know I'm here, right? And those friends of yours too. And I know sensei doesn't act like it but he cares a lot too—"
"Okkotsu. Please."
"Okay, okay..."
Fifteen minutes later, the call ends and Megumi goes out to buy a large bag of gummy bears to leave outside Gojo's room. Gojo would eat them without a second thought and the snack is subtle in flavor. Left there as a gift by his student, too? He wouldn’t think twice.
And the next day when Gojo is hunched over the commons counter moaning in intense stomach distress, Megumi smirks. Sugar-free gummies were definitely the way to revenge.
Underneath Gojo’s stomach complaints, Megumi’s own makes a valiant attempt at being heard, before quieting without another sound.