his footfalls are near silent as he follows yuji down the hallway; steps muted by soft cotton socks against wooden floors. megumi lags behind, that same quiet curiosity lingering at the fringes of his mind, around the rims of jade eyes as he watches yuji rush on ahead. and, ultimately, as he blinks, watching the interaction between the two in stunned silence.
yuji itadori is many things. loud, obnoxious, loyal to a fault, and — most importantly — megumi's best friend. megumi wishes he could say he was surprised to see yuji behaving like an idiot, but he could never tell that to someone with a straight face; or, at the very least, could never do it without feeling an accusatory tingling in his fingertips that registers as mild panic, wondering if anyone might parse his attempted deception. and so he stares, blankly; unfazed and unbothered. that is, until yuji itadori's older brother's voice demands things from him in a firm, commanding rasp. it shakes something in him.
he's never been sure of what to make of yuji's older brother — from the stories yuji told, he could glean that sukuna is strict in some ways, and completely uninterested in others. he knows that they were left to themselves from a fairly young age, and so sukuna stepped into the role of guardian. he knows sukuna hates junk food. he knows — now — that the hills and valleys of sukuna's muscles are covered in traditional tattoos. that they span, it would seem from the hints the loose tank-top he's wearing provides, from his wrists, over a strong chest, and up his neck; that his voice is deep and demanding, brooking no argument. the gravel of it... megumi wonders, fleetingly, if he might find cigarettes laying out somewhere around the apartment. the flushed tips of his ears feel damning, regardless.
swallowing thickly, he stares for only a moment longer before he stutters into action, eyes darting from yuji's confined wrist to the serving plates. megumi takes a moment to bow, even if it isn't particularly deep, to say, "yes, itadori-san." before he's moving, swiveling around the brothers, steps light as he grabs two or three plates at a time to take them to the dinner table where they are placed with a satisfying rumble of porcelain on wood. it doesn't take long before the food is laid out, the smell of it admittedly mouth-watering. it's only as he sits, waiting, that he feels either a little stupid or horrendously out of place.
"the table is set," he offers.