r.

WHEN YUTA STROLLS onto the court the next morning, there’s a new calmness about him, a relaxed easiness to his gait that for some reason makes you smile. Part of you thinks you might be more nervous for this match than he is—all of you are, Maki on your left and Toge on your right, tense with anticipation.

Opposite Yuta on the court stands Naoya Zenin, leering, arrogant. The sun makes their silhouettes stretch long and spindly along the ground, exaggerated puppets of their true forms.

As the two of them approach the net to shake hands, Maki goes rigid beside you. Toge is fully ready to start booing before you elbow him in the ribs.

There’s a low exchanging of words, and you can’t help remembering what Naoya said to Toge at their match. Worthless son. Great expectations.

What has he dug up on Yuta? God, you hope he’s not spewing shit about Rika or something. No doubt that Naoya would stoop that low.

But Yuta looks at ease as he walks back to his side of the court, and you’re a bit far away to tell, but you think Naoya might even look a little annoyed.

The asshole serves first, and you hold your breath as he sends a ball to Yuta’s box—it’s slow, easy to hit, Naoya’s attempt at throwing off his opponent early.

And Yuta just stands there and lets it hit the ground.

You clap a hand over your mouth as Toge starts giggling beside you.

“Holy shit,” Maki says.

Holy shit, indeed.

Yuta is doing to Naoya exactly what Naoya did to Toge. Psyching him out. Playing with him. You aren’t sure if you want to congratulate him or run down to the court and shake him by the shoulders.

But you trust Yuta. You trust his ability and his knowledge of that ability. He gave up a point because he knows he can get it back, and that confidence says volumes. Naoya is absolutely off his game now.

Yuta service breaks in the first game. Wins the second. The third is Naoya’s again, but he’s already faltering, no match for the unpredictability of Yuta’s movements, the sporadic nature of his serves. His aces, right into no man’s land.

By the time Yuta takes the first set, whatever apprehension you’d been feeling about this match is somewhere deep in the gutter, melted off you like snow in spring. It’s early—in theory, Naoya could still get this back. But you know for a fact that he won’t.

With the lead secured, Yuta continues to play with Naoya’s emotions, building off his frustration as he racks up games. When Naoya snags a point, Yuta grins at him, and Naoya nearly throws his racket into the ground.

On set three, Yuta puts on a show, makes it close, but everyone knows damn well he just let Naoya win. And then… then he lets him win set four, too.

It’s unlike him to draw it out like this. Yuta is a good sport, not manipulative, there to win the game fair and square. He’s already won and everyone here knows it. But the crowd isn’t upset, even as the match enters its fourth hour. They’re eating this up, watching Naoya Zenin get played like a fiddle.

Toge is downright giddy beside you. Maki is thoroughly enjoying watching Naoya get pummeled, and you don’t say anything when she quietly pulls her phone out and records for a few minutes. Footage of Naoya losing his shit. Perfect for a rainy day.

Yuta runs Naoya Zenin into the ground. When he snags the final point, he doesn’t so much as smile, just leveling Naoya with a calm expression from across the court. The rage that sweeps over Naoya’s face is heated and visceral, and you and Maki have to physically turn around because you’re laughing so hard.

You don’t kiss Yuta in front of everyone, but you waste no time doing so as soon as you get him behind closed doors.

—

“Are you dating?” Toge asks casually as you hit back and forth, wiggling his eyebrows as he sends the ball across the court to Maki.

You’re back on campus, and Yuta and Toge are joining you until a few days before the invitational. For the last few days, they’ve been testing you and Maki as a unit, but today you’ve switched up your pairings for a change of pace.

Are you dating?

What a question. You haven’t talked about that, the label, but not because of any hesitation—it just hasn’t seemed important, in the grand scheme of things. You’re… something, certainly. But is he your boyfriend?

Apparently you’ve hesitated too long, so Toge shouts to the other side. “Yuta! Are you guys dating?”

Yuta stumbles, wide-eyed, and misses the ball.

“Oh my god.” You make a pleading face at Maki, but she just smirks.

“Yeah, Ace,” she calls. “You guys dating?”

Yuta straightens, making eye contact with you over the net. He’s wearing black shorts and a white tank, which is a stupid decision but one you’re infinitely grateful for. It’s scorching, and all of you are drenched in sweat. The image of the fabric clinging to Yuta’s torso is… not an unpleasant one, to say the least.

He shrugs with one shoulder, as if to say I’m cool if you’re cool.

You shrug back. Sure.

“Yes,” he says firmly. A grin breaks out across your face unbidden. That warm, fluttery thing that’s been rooted in your chest for months now seems to hum a little. “Yes, we are.”

“Oh my god, yeah you are,” Toge gapes. “You just did that creepy twin thing where you have a whole conversation without talking.”

You snort and make to swat him with your racket, and he nearly falls on his ass dodging your swing. “Maybe don’t compare us to twins when we just told you we’re in a relationship.”

“Creepy couple thing,” Toge amends, serving a new ball. Your rallies are long, your hits all over the place, and even alongside Maki you can see the love of doubles in Yuta’s playstyle, how much he’s remembering his own joy as he moves across the court. It’s addicting to watch, and you have to make a conscious effort to focus on your own game.

The days go by, and it feels like nothing has changed, even though in a way, everything has.

Yuta Okkotsu is your boyfriend.

Nobody seems surprised, but Nobara does scream so loud in her apartment that the girl from across the hall comes over to make sure she’s okay. She and Toge go back and forth between terrorizing each other and everyone else. Gojo loudly gives Yuta the shovel talk in front of your entire team, and you want to die, but Yuta just stands there smiling politely and then says, seriously, “If I ever hurt her, everyone on this court better come after me with everything they have.”

Shoko just looks all-knowing and unfazed. Tsumiki asks if she should give you the safe sex talk with a shit-eating grin on her face. Ino starts sending you Instagram reels of Yuta’s matches captioned do u know him?

The assistant coaches are back from their big coaching convention or workshop or whatever that Shoko and Gojo skipped out on, so now your practices are more structured, with Kusakabe and Nitta around to pick up some of the slack. You throw yourself into the extra work, and you keep going after hours, when Yuta and Toge drill you and Maki into the ground.

And then, after after hours, Yuta’s all yours.

He takes you on a date to a nearby restaurant, hat pulled low over his face to avoid recognition.

Then he takes you on another one and doesn’t bother hiding. You raise a questioning brow when he picks you up outside your building with no hat or sunglasses, and he just shrugs. “Let them know,” he says. “Your heart is more impressive than anything else I’ve ever won.”

He says it so casually. You don’t stop thinking about it the entire night, not when he takes your hand and leads you down the street, not when he pays for your ice cream at the corner shop, not when he kisses you in front of the California sunset and whispers “I’m so in love with you” against the shell of your ear.

You say it back.

Everything about it feels right. He just fits perfectly into your routine, inside and outside of tennis, with or without the rest of your friends present. Somehow he’s become so integral to all aspects of your life over the span of just a few months.

He’s not your “other half.” You are both whole, and when you’re together, your Venn diagram becomes a circle. It’s just… easy.

Toward the end of August, you drive him and Toge to the airport. The US Open is coming up, and your whole team is in full training mode anyway. Even though it’s the second year of the pilot program, it’s strange, this being a fall sport. You like it like this, the immediacy of it. A fresh start on all fronts.

Before Yuta gets out of the passenger seat, he kisses you and says, “Be back soon.” Like it’s normal. Like you’ve always done this. Like you’re going to keep doing this for the rest of your lives.

You’re grinning the whole way home.

—

“I’m going to kill you!”

Ah, some things never change.

Iori Utahime stands glowering up at a relaxed, smirking Gojo, her fists clenched and shaking so violently you half expect her to combust. She’s red in the face and absolutely livid, and you’ve been here for all of… you glance at your watch.

Four minutes.

You’re familiar with the Kyoto campus and most of the players on its tennis team. Most are welcome faces, but there are a few you never know quite what to do with.

Mai, for instance.

No matter how many times you see them interact, no matter how many times Maki explains that she and her sister have an understanding, you do not understand how they actually feel about each other. They’ll spit lethal words at each other and then shrug and shake hands. In some ways, they remind you of a pair of middle school boys—having a fight, punching each other, and calling it even.

They don’t greet each other when you and Maki walk onto the court. Mai just looks at her coolly, and Maki inclines her head ever so slightly.

“I don’t get you,” you say for the thousandth time. “Are you mad at each other?”

“No more than we usually are,” Maki says unhelpfully.

Geto has stepped between Gojo and Utahime—finally done with embarrassing the twins in front of everyone—and Utahime stalks off in the other direction, fuming, as Geto and Gojo settle into their we’re flirting in front of the students and we’re going to deny it later routine.

“You guys!” Kasumi Miwa shouts as she runs up to you and Maki, towing Muta behind her. “Hi! It’s been so long!”

“Hey, Kasumi.” You grin, accepting her side-hug and nodding at Muta—he’s shy, but kind, always at Kasumi’s back looking unsure of whether he should join the conversation. “Nobara says hi.”

“Oh, I love her,” Kasumi says, like she does every time. “Tell her hi back, will you? We should hang out.”

Across the court, Todo and Choso are having some kind of standoff while Yuji flits anxiously between them. Megumi has abandoned him in favor of slinking off with Ino and Hakari, and Junpei is warming up with Riko near the gate.

You love this organized chaos, the way the energy of a matchday builds up in the air until everyone’s buzzing with it. And it’s all the better when all these people are your friends, and the sun is high in the sky, and you all want the same thing: to win, and to have a good fucking time doing it.

The Kyoto Tech Invitational is a standard tournament format with three simultaneous doubles matches, but unlike actual NCAA play, the guys and girls aren’t scoring separately. Everyone plays doubles and singles, because this is a mock tournament made possible mostly by the fact that Gojo and Geto can’t stay away from each other for that long.

It’s a preseason exercise. Not that you ever take it as such. This is a competition as much as anything else, and you intend to win.

Nanami, per usual, is the one to rein everyone in and get things going. He coaches the men’s team and Geto coaches the women’s team, but they for the most part all train together, not dissimilar to the way Gojo and Shoko run things at Kaisen.

The tournament starts with doubles, three simultaneous matches. Ino and Junpei are on the far court with Hakari and Choso in the middle, but Yuji and Megumi’s match is the one you’re focused on. Because they’re up against the lethal combination of Noritoshi and Todo.

Geto’s calling their match, and it escalates fast. Yuji and Megumi are all speed, but Todo is raw strength. Coupled with Noritoshi’s impeccable technique, they’re a tough battle. By the time the other guys have wrapped up their matches, Yuji and Megumi have just won game four, tying it up 2-2.

The sun is blazing, so you’re glad when it doesn’t go all the way to a tiebreak round. Todo dives for a lowball from Yuji, and just when it looks like he’s not going to make it, somehow Noritoshi is there in his stead, slamming it back to Megumi at an insane angle.

You’re sure he doesn’t stand a chance. But he loosens his grip on his racket ever so slightly, letting it slide nearly out of his hand, to reach the ball on the right side. And then he turns his entire body with the racket to build up momentum, enough to get it back over the net, and the move was so unexpected Todo doesn’t reach for it in time.

“Shit,” you breathe, thoroughly impressed. Yuji’s all over Megumi, crowing about how amazing he is, and Megumi just shrugs nonchalantly like he doesn’t care.

You know he does. Especially when he catches Gojo’s proud dad smile from the sideline and promptly faces the other direction, ducking his head to hide the flush on his face.

You and Maki are up against Mai and Kasumi, to nobody’s surprise. Usually, you wind up feeling like an accessory to Maki’s weird, silent battle with her sister. But this time, you’re locked in. You’re matching them all hit for hit, then surpassing them—only one side of this court has been training with Olympians all summer. And it doesn’t take long for that to show.

“That was amazing,” Kasumi pants at the end, stumbling up to the net to shake your hand. “You—wow, guys, good job.”

Mai strides silently up to the net, looking you up and down, then doing the same to Maki. Maki holds her gaze, raising a brow.

They silently shake hands over the net—once, firm, like a business transaction. And then they turn away from each other.

You will never understand them.

Your match wrapped up before Riko and Kirara’s, and you tune in just in time to hear Haibara, one of the assistant coaches, call it in favor of Kyoto. Momo is a beast on the court. There’s something so biologically impossible about how high she can jump. You swear to god she’s a witch or something.

Riko’s sulking, but Kirara is already animatedly discussing strategy with Momo, ready to take the loss in stride and use it to improve their play.

At one point the Kyoto trainer, Ijichi, slinks out to supervise some of the singles matches while Utahime makes a lunch run “to get Gojo out of her face for two goddamn minutes.” It’s a whirlwind of sets and sweat, camaraderie and rivalry, shared stories and arguments.

By the end of the day, Kaisen has taken Kyoto by just a few points, and you’re dead on your feet.

samurai: how’d it go? you: killed maki’s sister in doubles. got momo for singles, she’s brutal samurai: but you won! :) you: you know what they say about assuming samurai: but i’m right

You laugh, a little dumbfounded still by Yuta’s wholehearted faith in you.

you: yes you are you: and you? how goes the slam samurai: decent so far

You already looked up the scores. Yuta is doing a lot fucking better than decent.

You send him an article from The Athletic waxing poetic about how he might just be the best tennis player of this generation.

He’s quiet for a few minutes, and then:

samurai: ah. well samurai: i was thinking you about the whole time

—

You catch Yuta and Toge on TV when you can, record them when you can’t. After all… that’s your boyfriend. Your pro tennis player boyfriend.

He wins the US Open. He’s in the Davis Cup. He’s a legend.

And in the NCAA circles, you’re becoming a legend, too.

As the season goes on, you and Maki are an unstoppable force. You feel amazing, you play amazing, and now—you’re bringing that energy into your singles play. You were always the best women’s doubles players in the conference. But now, you’re holding your own.

There are four ways to qualify for NCAA Championships, scattered throughout the fall season. Gojo and Shoko split you up accordingly, strategically, finding the best routes for each of you to give it your best shot.

You and Maki qualify in late September through the All-American Championships, pulling out a win over a pair of crazy good girls from Washington. When you walk off the court, Shoko grins at you and says, “I can’t wait to watch you kick ass like that in the Olympics, kid.”

Yuji and Megumi represent the guys, and though they’re runners-up, they still qualify for Championships by a landslide.

Yuta calls you that night and whispers to you over the phone. He wants you to come out to his place for a weekend when the season’s over.

“I know I’m not home a lot, but I want you to see that part of me,” he murmurs. “And… I want to see you in that part of my life, you know? I want to see you with messy hair looking out the window in my bedroom. I want to kiss you awake and make you coffee and make fun of your morning breath—”

“Excuse you.”

“—and,” he says, talking over you, “I want to give you a key.”

You freeze.

“What?”

“I… sorry. Is that coming on too strong? I know it’s only been a couple months, I just—”

“Yuta,” you cut in, before he can go on spiraling. “No, I—I was just surprised. I would love to. I mean, I would love to see your place, and wake up with you, and put your key on my keychain.” You’re a little bit breathless with the possibility of it. “And make fun of your morning breath, which is objectively worse than mine.”

“Excuse you!”

In October, Kirara and Riko and the twins go to regionals. Ino and Junpei win sectionals in November. Then it’s time for Conference Masters, and you and Maki go all-in just for the hell of it, Hakari and Choso on your heels. It’s a crazy season, and a mix of players from both teams qualify in doubles and singles combinations.

And through it all, you’re playing the best you ever have, somehow balancing school and tennis and the reality of having a serious relationship in the middle of it all.

And then the season is nearly over, and the Championships are on the horizon, and all of your blood and sweat and tears have been for this.

If you win this, that Accelerator spot is yours.

—

The East Coast is so different from your own—palm trees and ocean salt, sure, but Florida is more humid. The air holds the moisture blown in from the warmer ocean currents, and you feel like you’re sweating bullets the second you step off the plane.

NCAA Championships are in Orlando, as always, at the USTA National Campus. You and Maki spent the flight going over the rosters and the bracket, the standout players who have the potential to really give you some trouble.

To qualify for the Accelerator in singles, you need to get to the quarterfinals. But you know that’s not enough for you. You want to win.

There aren’t many competitors here to play both doubles and singles. Even from your team, only a handful of players have made it this far—Yuji and Megumi in doubles, along with Hakari and Choso. Kirara and Ino in singles.

And you and Maki, for both.

“At least it’s November,” she offers dryly as you make your way through the airport to the waiting bus. “Imagine being in this hellhole in July.”

“Did you just call Florida a hellhole?” Yuji squawks. “This is heaven. I want to live here.”

“You’re a moron,” Megumi says flatly.

Yuji beams.

“Head count, you obnoxious children!” Shoko calls, herding the lot of you toward the entrance while Gojo is being absolutely no help, insisting that the airport is the best place to buy donuts right now. Shoko swats him on the back of the head and shoves him toward the bus.

“Ow,” he whines.

“Alright, give me the matchups,” Kusakabe calls once you’re all on the bus. He’s pacing up and down the aisle, handing out brackets, and you scan up and down the row for the Round of 64, then 32, then 16, trying to guess the most likely opponents like you did on the plane.

You’re not worried about the first round, or even the second, although you recognize a few names. Flipping to the doubles bracket, you see that you and Maki are facing a pair of girls from Texas.

Sure enough, all of you kill the Round of 64 in singles. The next day, the doubles matches start as well, kicking off with the Round of 32 because of the smaller draw.

Nobara calls you right before your singles match.

“Saori!” she yells in lieu of a greeting, and you grimace, pulling the phone away from your ear.

“Headphone warning, my god.”

“You’re playing Saori!” she repeats, ignoring your protests. “Remember her? We grew up together!”

You groan. “Nobara! Don’t tell me that!” Maki glances at you as you walk toward the courts, and you smirk. “Now I’m gonna feel bad when I kick her ass.”

You shove your phone into Maki’s hand and grin as you walk onto the court, leaving Maki to entertain her girlfriend while you take on her childhood best friend and, hopefully, crush her.

“I hear we have a mutual friend,” you tell Saori as you shake her hand over the net. She’s pretty, short brown hair with windswept bangs and wide brown eyes, and you know for a fact that Nobara had a crush on her as a kid.

“Bara?” Saori laughs, her voice bright and airy. “Well, don’t let her make you feel too bad if you beat me.” She’s teasing, but there’s a truth in her voice that startles you. The fact that you’ve been training with Yuta isn’t a secret. You just haven’t quite realized the extent of your reputation until it’s staring you in the face, accepting loss before the match even starts.

You know you’re going to win. She knows, too. But you can tell she’s going to give it her all, anyway.

And she does, but it’s not enough.

The first game goes your way, then the next, and the next. Saori isn’t as fast as Maki or Yuta or Toge, as fast as you, and you realize halfway through the first set that you can flawlessly predict her movements. All those hours of you and Yuta analyzing film, of him drilling you on match strategy, are paying off. Never has your progress felt as tangible as it does right now.

By the time you’ve swept her in two sets, you still feel ready to play three more.

Saori smiles resignedly, panting as you approach the net to wish her a good game.

“You’re real good, you know,” she says. “Tell Bara I said hi.”

You and Maki beat the girls from Texas the same day, moving onto the Round of 16, and the next day is just as muggy and sweltering as ever. What a sad excuse for autumn. But it’s hard to even be irritated by the heat when you’re playing at your best, and Yuta’s dominating the US Open, and the rest of your team is steadily progressing through their respective matchups.

Old friends seem to be a trend. The next girl you play catches Yuji’s eye immediately, and after you beat her, he rushes up to her and practically tackles her right on the spot.

“Ozawa! Hi!” Yuji grins, pulling her into a hug. She yelps, but smiles when he pulls back. “It’s so good to see you, how have you been?”

They devolve into small talk while Megumi stands beside Yuji, reluctantly polite. To anyone else, he probably looks his stoic self. To you, he looks annoyed and territorial. You catch a few snippets of Yuji’s ramblings and figure out that the two of them went to high school together.

“She was into you,” Megumi tells Yuji flatly as you all make your way to the far courts to watch Ino’s match.

“What?”

Kirara snorts and throws her arm around Yuji, ruffling his hair like he’s her little brother. “Oh, Yuji, you sweet summer child.”

Yuji just beams. “Aw, thanks!”

—

You knew you could beat Saori.

This new girl, you’re not so sure.

Hana Kurusu stands on the other side of the net with flawless form, looking entirely at ease in a way that unsettles you. This is a girl who’s confident on the ball. This is a girl who can give you a run for your money. Her name isn’t new to you—she’s been making big waves up in New York this year.

But it’s only the quarterfinals. You’re not done yet. You’re going to win it all.

Kirara’s out for the count as of this morning, and Choso and Hakari are fighting for their spot right this second. You refuse to be the next one to fall.

“Love-love,” Hana calls, her voice unnervingly sweet, and she sends a bullet your way. You have to dive for it, but you return, and then you’re rallying and you know this won’t be easy. She’s got a lethal slice, but now, so do you.

The game goes to her, but you win your service game. 1-1.

Her facial expressions don’t change no matter what happens. She snags a point with a clever lowball, and the set of her brows doesn’t even remotely move. You get a service break to take game three, and she doesn’t even blink.

You already know what Yuji’s going to say. Do you think she’s a robot? Imagine tennis-playing robots. Should we make one?

It’s not until you win set one that you finally get her to crack. The official calls it in your favor, and you simply nod rather than breaking out in a grin, wanting to give Hana a taste of her own unnervingly non-expressive medicine.

She turns around to face the fence and takes a breath so deep you can see her shoulders move. Composing herself.

Got her.

After that, it’s easier to get under her skin, easier to tell where the flow of the game is taking you. She’s a tough opponent, but halfway into the second set, you know this is a victory you can pull off, so long as you don’t let up. She’s giving you hell, but you’re serving it right back.

Set two is yours. You advance.

When you get off the court, Yuji’s there bouncing on the balls of his feet, Megumi and Maki standing behind him with more subdued pride.

“Good job!” Yuji throws his arms around you and you laugh, hugging him back. “Choso and Hakari lost. We have to avenge them.”

That means that as far as doubles go, it’s just you, Maki, Yuji, and Megumi in the semis. In singles, you, Maki, and Ino are the last ones standing.

“She was a menace,” Maki says as she slaps you on the shoulder in congratulations.

You groan. “That girl has one facial expression.”

“Do you think she’s a robot?” Yuji gasps. You can’t explain to him why you’re laughing so hard.

In doubles semifinals, you and Maki take down a pair of sisters from the Midwest, and Yuji and Megumi shut down their opponents in three sets. Maki narrowly loses her singles match and Ino narrowly wins his. You prevail over Momo Nishimiya in a brutal three-set match that goes to the tiebreak game, not nailing her down until the last second, when you fake her out on a lowball that she was expecting to have to jump for.

Just like that, you’re in the finals.

That night, the lot of you are gathered in the hotel common space, sprawled out on the spread of couches and armchairs talking or playing cards. Maki’s phone on the coffee table lights up with a FaceTime call from Nobara, and she glances around, as if asking for permission to take it.

For all Maki’s confidence, she’s so shy about her relationship. Nobara is one of the most physically affectionate people you know, but Maki avoids PDA like the plague. She’s even hesitant to take a call in front of the team, like it’s somehow disruptive. But it’s Nobara. She might as well be an honorary tennis player—Gojo once offered to make her the mascot, much to her indignation.

In Maki’s hesitation, you reach forward and pick up the call in her stead.

“Hellooooo,” she sings as soon as the call connects. “My wife—oh, you’re not my wife. I mean, you’re also my wife, but you’re not my wife wife, you know? Hi.” She grins. She’s splayed on the floor of her dorm room, one cheek imprinted with the pattern of her rug.

Maki rolls her eyes and wrenches the phone from your grasp as a chorus of “Hi, Nobara!” and “Kugisaki!” sounds from around the room.

Nobara starts yapping immediately, and then your phone lights up with a phone call.

Suddenly, you understand Maki’s trepidation on a very deep level.

“Who’s samurai?” Ino grins, leaning over your shoulder. You swat at him, and he just wiggles his eyebrows.

“Shut up,” you grumble, sliding to accept and putting the phone to your ear. “Hi.”

“Hi.” You can hear the smile in his voice. “Heard you killed it today.”

“Are you surprised?” you tease, ignoring the heart Yuji is obnoxiously making with his hands.

Megumi kicks him in the ankle, and when Yuji looks mortally offended, he just glances pointedly down at their abandoned card game and says, “It’s your turn, dipshit.”

“Never,” Yuta says. “Who’s on the docket tomorrow?”

“Put it on speaker, coward!” Hakari yells from across the room, and Yuta snorts. You flip him off.

“Uraume. They’re... really good.” After all, they're the ones who knocked Maki out of the singles competition. And that's not something to be taken lightly.

“From Virginia? I remember the news articles about the school admin letting them choose between men’s and women’s. It was a whole thing.”

Indeed, it had been. And Uraume had chosen women’s tennis, because it’s always been the harder sport, and anyone who can’t see that is a moron. Forget five sets. Women don’t need all that wiggle room to prove their worth.

“Yep,” you say, popping the p. Yuta hums thoughtfully—he knows Uraume’s reputation as well as you do. And it’s a damn good one.

“Ah, well, you’ll kill it.”

You feel suddenly vulnerable. Because what if you don’t? What if going up against Uraume is where your luck runs out?

Reading your silence, Yuta says, softer, “Don’t sell yourself short, Ace. You deserve better than that.”

You look around the room at your team. At some point, Choso and Hakari started arm wrestling. Kirara is debating the merits of some metal band with Ino next to where Megumi and Yuji play cards—you’re pretty sure Megumi’s letting him win just to see if he notices—and Maki is trying not to blush as Nobara loudly talks about how hot it is when she serves.

You love your team, and you love your sport. You didn’t think you needed anything more. But Yuta is a quiet, steady reassurance in your ear that you can’t help but lean into.

“Thanks,” you whisper, smiling softly. “Y’know, you’re not half bad at the pep talk thing.”

“Yeah, I practiced that one in the mirror all morning.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you laugh.

There’s a silence in which you can just see Yuta’s smirk. “Wish you could make me.”

—

The finals.

Today is all or nothing, and it won’t be easy for you in particular—you have your doubles match in the morning and your final head-to-head against Uraume just hours later. It’s almost unheard of for a player to take home national singles and doubles titles in the same year, let alone on the same day. Even the thought of it makes your muscles burn.

Your phone’s been silent this morning. Yuta’s been in Spain this week for the Davis Cup, and the finals are—were—today. Time differences, and all that. Italy always wins, it seems, but the U.S. put up a good fight. You figure he’s out enjoying Málaga while it lasts.

It’s clear a half-second into the match that you’re going to have to fight for this one. The girl serving—Remi—has deceitfully innocent-looking bubble braids, and she’s lithe but so fast you nearly miss the return. Her partner, Takako, seems to move through the air like it’s a part of her, and it’s a constant struggle to keep up with the way she takes space.

But it’s you and Maki. You’ve taken this title before, and you know damn well you can do it again.

These girls don’t make it easy. You stretch it to three sets, and then a piercing whistle draws your attention to the stands after a game point.

At first you think you’re hallucinating. The heat’s gotten to you. You’re just making shit up.

But no, there he is. Yuta Okkotsu, an Olympian at an NCAA women’s tennis match, looking jet-lagged as all hell, and grinning proudly at you from the bottom of the bleachers.

“Oh my god,” Maki hisses in your ear as you swap sides. “You know what that means, right? That he skipped out on the Italy match to fly his ass back here.”

“Simp,” you say, grinning.

Your heart swells.

And you and Maki kick absolute ass.

—

“I can’t believe you came all the way here.” You lean into Yuta’s side, the gorgeous Floridian sunset stretched out before you.

The curb of a local gas station isn’t inherently the most romantic place in the world. But you wanted ice cream, and the clouds are lit up with purples and oranges, and Yuta is at your side, and it all feels a little bit surreal.

“You should be enjoying Spain!” you go on, nudging him with your elbow.

Yuta just smiles softly, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “I wanted to be here.”

He’s not lying, but there’s something you can’t quite parse in his expression. His eyes are a little… sad? There’s something heavy about him.

“You played well, you know,” you say, knocking your knee against his.

“I know.” He sighs. “It’s not that. Sorry. I do want to be here. And I know it’s a huge privilege to just be able to go to Spain, and come back, and—just…”

You don’t push. This is a familiar dance for you, now. He talks when he’s ready to talk.

For a while, the only sounds are softly chirping crickets and the rumble of passing cars, laughter floating from down the block, birds flitting between the trees. And then Yuta says, “It’s, uh—it’s Rika’s birthday.”

You sit up, turning to face him fully. “Oh, Yuta. I…”

“I don’t want you to feel bad, or anything,” he rushes, backpedaling the way he always does when he’s nervous. “I just didn’t want you to think I was being weird because of you, or something, I don’t know. I just… sorry.”

You reach out and lace your fingers through Yuta’s, resting your joined hands on his knee. “Hey.” You wait until he looks at you, his wide, dark eyes reflecting the floodlights of the gas station parking lot. “Nothing to be sorry for. Nothing at all.” You squeeze his hand. “I… how are you doing? That feels like such a stupid question. But is there anything I can… I don’t know, do? To help?”

Yuta softens a little, shakes his head gently. “You’re helping,” he murmurs. “I came back early to see you play. To see you win. But also just to… see you. I thought it would help.”

On one of the hardest days of Yuta’s year, he thought seeing you would help. Enough that he flew back here from Spain to find out.

“I love you, y’know,” you murmur. Something about the situation seems to call for hushed words, quiet affections.

“I love you too.” He seems to deflate in relief, having gotten this off his chest now. “You just felt safer, somehow. Than all my teammates. They have good intentions, they just don’t know. Which is my fault, too, obviously. I could have told them. I just—she would have really liked you, you know? And you made me fall back in love with the game, Ace. No, I mean it,” he doubles down when you open your mouth. “You did. And I think she would have been grateful for that. So it just—felt right, to be here. With you.”

Yuta’s cheeks are a little flushed, partially with heat and partially with something sheepish and shy. You lean in and kiss him. Short, sweet. Easy. You want this to be easy for him.

“I didn’t know Rika,” you say, not breaking eye contact. “But I think she’d be really goddamn proud of you, Yuta.”

He swallows once, hard, and swipes the back of his hand across his eyes with a wet laugh. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You scoot closer to Yuta on the curb and turn back to the sun, now almost hidden behind the horizon, and lean your head on his shoulder. “And I’m proud of you, too.”

—

Uraume is a walking contradiction.

They can’t be taller than 5’4” or so, and their thin build is covered by the baggiest tennis clothes you’ve ever seen. Still, you know they have one of the strongest backhands in the country. They have the worst resting bitch face you’ve ever seen, but as you shake hands at the net, they crack a little smile and say, “I’m excited to play you. I’ve watched you, you know.”

“Oh?” You’ve watched Uraume, too, of course. Nobody gets to this stage of the competition without studying up.

“You trying to take home both titles?” Uraume says, and doesn’t wait for your response. “That’s ballsy. I respect it.” They don’t say good luck. Neither do you. Despite their words being sparse and stiff, you somehow take a liking to them immediately—they’re honest, and they’re not here to play any mental games. Just the one you both love.

It’s one of the hardest matches of your life.

Uraume doesn’t pull any punches, and in the first set, they run you all over the court. But there’s no malice in it, just calculated moves that prove their undeniable skill.

The second set is yours. As you pull back on a brutal slice that gets you the winning point, they look up through a shock of white hair and grin. That’s more like it, they seem to say. And then it’s their serve.

Sweat is pouring in a river down your back, and your breathing is fast and shallow, but you feel alive with it, the love of this sport. You have no idea who’s winning this match. It’s their game, your game, their game, your game—you’re even alternating every other point, you’re so well-matched. They’re making you fight for this.

Somebody hollers from the stands—Yuji! He and Megumi must be done with their doubles final now, and have made their way over to your match. You sneak a glance out of the corner of your eye and find Megumi looking properly satisfied beside him. They won, then. Kaisen swept doubles. Ino lost his singles match earlier, which means as far as individual play goes, you’re the sole survivor. He’s there too, next to Choso and Hakari, and beside them is Maki, looking entirely unconcerned. Like she knows you can do this.

And beside her is Yuta. He waves, a little shy, and you suddenly feel lighter on your feet.

By the time you reach the tiebreak game, you’re running purely on adrenaline. Uraume came into this match fresh and rested. You came into it right after one of the toughest doubles matches of your life.

It’s match point.

And it’s Uraume’s serve.

You have the disadvantage here and everybody knows it. It’s like the bleachers are holding their collective breath. But you force yourself to breathe long and deep, not giving in to the urge to look back at Yuta, at Maki, at all your friends hanging onto your every move.

This one’s yours.

Uraume raises their racket, and you realize with a jolt exactly where the ball is headed. It feels, somehow, like everything has led up to this moment. Every grueling training session with Yuta, every tournament at Maki’s side, every moment watching film in Gojo’s office. It was all for this, right here, right now.

It’s headed to no man’s land.

And you’re ready.

It’s a bullet of a ball, and you can tell Uraume meant for it to throw you off balance, but—how could they know? This isn’t your weak spot anymore. No man’s land isn’t no man’s land to you, not after Yuta. It’s yours.

You send it sailing back, and Uraume backpedals to return it to you. In their hesitation, they send it higher than they should’ve. It sets you up perfectly.

You stretch out your arm, leap into the air, and slam that shit right back into Uraume’s no man’s land.

It lands just inside the line.

This isn’t your first rodeo, though. You know in your bones that was in, but it’s all down to the official now, and you’ve had shit luck with umps in the past. There was this one back in sophomore year, Shiu Kong, and you swear to god he was getting paid off.

Across the court, Uraume is staring at you steadily, their head ever so slightly inclined. They know they’ve lost.

And Higuruma steps up to the line and calls, “IN!”

Just like that, it’s over. You let out a whoop, jumping into the air one more time just for the hell of it, and the stands erupt, your team clamoring right up against the fence.

You’ve won.

The second you’re out of the gate, your team is on you, full dog-pile, and even Maki is screaming, and Megumi mutters good fucking job in your ear and Gojo lifts you up and twirls you in the air and then Yuta pushes back your visor and kisses you in front of everybody, and this, this is everything.

Life is so, so good.

—

With your dual title—singles and doubles in the same year—you become a national sensation, qualify for the WTA College Accelerator, and segue smoothly into WTA play postgrad. And you and Yuta are doing life together, and it feels… right.

He takes you to his place up the coast, and soon it becomes as much your home as it is his. Your schedules are demanding, and the both of you are constantly traveling, sometimes together, sometimes not, but every time you come back to his little house on the waterline, and it feels perfect.

You and Maki have both proved yourself enough in singles, gravitated back to each other like binary stars. You’re meant to play this game at each other’s sides and you both know it, and soon you’re dominating the circuits as a unit, the way it always should have been.

And one day, you get a phone call from Gojo.

“What’s up?” you ask, yawning and accepting the smoothie Maki pushes into your hand. It's been years since you graduated, but Gojo simply never stopped being your coach. You never know if his calls are you going to be real business or something stupid.

“Are you with Zenin right now?”

Maki picks up on his question and raises a brow, sitting down on the couch and motioning for you to join her. Toge is being obnoxious in Yuta’s kitchen and saying something about how if he puts every flavor of Gatorade into a blender, it’ll give him superpowers.

You scoff at Gojo’s question. “Duh?”

The call turns into a FaceTime, and Gojo’s face fills the screen as you settle beside Maki. He’s leaning back in his office chair, phone propped up on the desk, with his hair all messy after practice.

“What do you want?” Maki says, but there’s no heat in it, a smile playing at the corners of her lips.

“You love me,” Gojo says. “Listen. Ooh, Ieiri, c’mere!”

Shoko must have been passing by in the hallway, because soon she appears beside him in the frame. “Oh! Hey, you.”

“You didn’t look that excited to see me,” Gojo mutters.

“I see you every day, dipshit. Have you told them yet?”

“Oh my god,” you cut in, wishing you could reach through the screen and grab Gojo by the shoulders. “Told us what? Cut to the chase, old man.”

The old man in question sticks his tongue out at you. “Listen, I got a very important phone call earlier today,” he says, and your heart starts thundering in your chest. Could it…?

“Yuta! Thing Two!” Maki hollers, like she too can sense what’s about to happen, knows that you want Yuta to hear it too. Toge makes an offended squeak and stumbles out of the kitchen, Yuta on his heels, head tilted inquisitively.

When you’re all crowded around the phone, hanging onto Gojo’s every word, he finally tells you.

“You, my friends,” he says slowly, breaking out into a genuine grin, “are going to the Olympics.”

—

JULY 28, 2028.

“Me!” you holler as you dive for the ball that’s coming right to the center, twisting just in time to get it back over the net and nearly scraping your knee on the court in the process. You scramble back, panting as Maki returns the next hit.

She catches your eye ever so briefly, and you know exactly what she wants you to do.

With an imperceptible nod, you shift back into position. On the next rally, Maki returns it long, forcing the opponent all the way back to the line.

And when they send it sailing to the far end of your box, you’re right there waiting with your racket in the air.

Your strike is decisive, swift, a bullet on an unstoppable trajectory. It’s high, and then it’s low, and it’s too shallow for the women on the other side of the court to get there in time.

The ball lands, uncontested, in no man’s land.

And the whole world erupts.

“Holy shit!” Maki’s screaming in your ear, and you’re grinning and sweating and laughing out loud, and then your gaze lands on a very familiar pair of eyes sparkling in the stands.

“Go, you stupid lovebird!” Maki shouts, shoving you toward him. And you go to leap right over the barrier, right into Yuta’s waiting arms, and kiss him in front of all the cameras and the tabloids and the fans.

“You did it!” he calls over the din, smile splitting his face as he pulls back. “You won the fucking Olympics!”

Nobara is on you then, nearly tackling you back over the barrier, and then she’s kissing Maki on the lips in public, which Maki would never allow under any other circumstances in the entire world. But you’re gold medalists—for that matter, so is Nobara, fresh off her first Olympic victory the day before—and right now anything is possible.

The whole celebration is a haze, and everyone is here—Gojo, Shoko, Akari, Kusakabe. Yuji and Megumi. Riko, the twins. Even Mai is there, and you swear to god you see her and Maki hug.

“I am so goddamn proud of you,” Gojo says in your ear, and then he’s stepping back, letting you get swept away by the press. In front of the sponsored Olympic backdrop, cameras glowing in your faces, you and Maki recount the best moment of your lives.

“I knew she had it,” Maki says, arm around your shoulder. “They don’t call her Ace for nothing.”

“She set me up perfectly,” you say, elbowing her for trying to give you all the credit. It’s hard to focus on the interviewers talking to you when the whole of Carson Courts is bursting with celebration, but you manage to get through a series of questions before another news outlet pulls Maki away.

Seizing the opportunity, the reporter on your right catches sight of Yuta and hauls him into frame. He stumbles into you, caught off guard, but the guy’s already talking.

“The famous couple, fresh off a pair of golds! Tell me, how does it feel? And Mr. Okkotsu, why back to doubles?”

“It feels amazing,” you say breathlessly, hand on Yuta’s back. He still gets shy in front of the press, even after all this time. “I mean, winning the Olympics at home? Right in Cali? I couldn’t ask for anything more. And doing it in tandem, it makes it even better.”

“Yeah,” Yuta says, latching onto your words. “It really does. And doubles—you know, if it weren’t for her, I don’t know if I ever would have realized how much I love playing this sport as a pair.”

“You don’t mind sharing the glory?” another reporter presses, shoving a mic closer to Yuta.

“No,” he shrugs honestly, briefly scanning the crowd—for Toge, probably, but you know he’s got to be wreaking havoc elsewhere by now. “I mean, learning to stand on your own is important. Great, even. In the end, though, on that podium… god, it’s better to be half of a whole.”

He glances at you, smiling. “Glory’s not meant to be a solo endeavor.”

“A double endeavor,” you grin, leaning into his side.

“Would you ever consider mixed doubles? Playing together?” someone else calls.

“We play together all the time,” you say. “And love it. But Maki and I are gonna ride this wave as far as it’ll take us.”

Yuta laughs. “Same here.” He and Toge are a well-oiled machine. Yesterday, they took the gold by beating down a total asshole from Japan named Mahito and that blond-haired ponytail guy from the Cincinnati Open, who’s apparently become a doubles player as well.

You finally ditch the reporters and catch the end of another interview of Maki’s, where she’s politely declining to comment on her cousin’s incredible downfall. She can’t entirely hide the smug look on her face, though, and you can’t blame her. Watching Naoya do horribly this year has been a source of immense joy.

It’s been a long road to get here. Years and years of training, long bouts of competition, the lowest of lows and the highest of highs. But you have never been alone. Maki’s always been at your side. Yuta’s always been your biggest supporter. Gojo even managed to keep coaching you and Maki independently after you graduated, giving up the head coaching job to Kusakabe and staying on as an assistant.

“You don’t have to,” you’d said, sitting in his office when he told you and Maki the news.

“I know,” he said. “But you guys are something special. And I want to see this all the way through, if you’ll let me.”

Gojo has so much pride in his students, and he has so much pride in you. Between him and Shoko, you have all the support you could ever ask for, plus all of their many professional connections and several of your college teammates, who have gone on to have incredible careers.

And watching Gojo guide you through your career has sparked something in Yuta, too.

“I think I want to be a coach,” he tells you later, when you’re back in your hotel room, sprawled out on the bed with women’s swimming coverage on in the background. “When this is all over, I mean.”

You prop yourself up on an elbow, raising a brow. “When this is all over?”

He grins sheepishly. “Like, when I retire.”

“So next year?”

He swats at you as you devolve into laughter, insisting, “I am not that much older than you!”

You stick your tongue out, very maturely, and he starts tickling you, which is a cheap move that guarantees his victory.

“Yuta!”

“Yes, Ace?”

“Stop th—hey!”

You have only one card left to play. You squirm your way out of his grasp and then launch yourself at him, pushing him back down on the bed by the shoulders, and kiss him.

All tickling efforts immediately cease.

The court is your first love. You never anticipated you’d have the space in your heart for anything more, and even if you did… it scared you more than you’d have liked to admit. Your own personal no man’s land.

But with Yuta, it’s not a challenge. It’s not an obstacle. He taught you to navigate no man’s land, and apparently that wasn’t only true on the court.

This? This is easy.

The next day, there’s a headline from The Athletic in your inbox, forwarded from Gojo. You sidle up to Yuta’s side with your computer open in your lap, clicking into the new tab.

“A double endeavor,” he reads out loud, chuckling. “You sure are quotable.” Your names are just below the bold lettering, detailing your pair of gold medals and then launching into a history of your tennis career with Maki, then Yuta’s journey from doubles player to singles and back to doubles at Toge’s side.

“In many ways, it’s been a parallel journey for this pair of standouts,” you read, scrolling down the page. “But in others, it’s been a map of crossed paths and opportunities, ups and downs.”

It’s true—so many things had to happen to get you to this point. All the people you met, beat, lost to. Every grueling hour on the court. Thousands and thousands of hours, choices, steps, hits, all to get you right here, right now.

“One thing is for sure: Former Olympian and renowned coach Satoru Gojo was right when he told us, ‘You haven’t seen the last of these guys.’ For all four of them, whether in singles or doubles play, the stars of this generation of tennis players are just getting started.”

“Aw,” Yuta hums. “Gojo said that?”

You don’t miss a beat. “Yeah, I paid him to.”

“Oh, shut up.”

You close the computer, sliding it onto the bedside table, and look up at Yuta. “Oh? Make me.”

Yuta’s grin is slow and lazy, rays of sunlight slipping through the blinds and lighting him up in gold.

“Well,” he says, one hand on your jaw. “I do like a challenge.”

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@shutuppeter @mikikkoo @reactwithjan @theclassbookworm @lilactaro @bisforbuse @risararelywrites @idkidk32 @gojodickbig @stargazing-with-choso @anonymity-222 @honeyyhuggs @yinyqngg @dazaisfavgf @falsedivide @alebrasil0101 @r39s @sofiaiswifeofmegumi @mememe127 @cookiesandcream000 @cutiestawberries @princess-okkotsu @z0mbi3slut @chuuya-san a/n: NOTHING MAKES ME MORE PATRIOTIC THAN THE OLYMPICS i hate this country but also RAHHHH you know what i mean

PART I // BATMAN & ROBIN

IT’S TEN O’CLOCK and dark when Batman decides to cause problems.

Batman, of course, being your three-year-old German shepherd mix, the one currently whining and staring up at you with big, dark puppy eyes while he holds one paw up limply.

“Oh, little buddy,” you sigh as you squat down in front of him, despite the fact that he hasn’t been little in a very long time. He’s been restless all night, so you caved and took him on a late night walk, and it’s so dark you can’t tell what’s wrong with his paw even in the glow of the phone flashlight.

God, fuck. Where’s the closest vet? The one in the city is definitely closed. You’re fairly certain there’s a smaller one somewhere on the outskirts of the JU campus, though, one that the pre-vet students use for clinicals.

“C’mon, champ,” you murmur, tugging gently on Batman’s leash. “Let’s go get you checked out, huh?”

The early September air is chilly, a little bit of a bite to it. You’re glad the temperatures haven’t yet dropped below freezing, so you don’t need to let your car defrost before going. “Up,” you say, patting the passenger seat with the door held open for Batman.

You punch the clinic into maps and pull out of your suburban street into the busier roads. It’s not far, thankfully, and you make a beeline for the door with Batman on your heels, not noticing until you’re right in front of it that the massive sign hanging on the door is flipped to CLOSED.

“No,” you groan, leaning forward and pressing your forehead to the cool glass of the closed door. You close your eyes, wondering what the fuck you’re gonna do, and then—thump.

You nearly jump out of your skin, eyes flying open and gaze raising to meet the amused eyes of a guy on the other side of the door, who’s trying and failing to suppress a smile that feels a little teasing. Oops.

You step back and wave sheepishly, and the boy unlocks the door and swings it open, taking in the sight of you and your limping dog.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt. “I know you’re closed and it’s some ungodly hour on a Tuesday, I just didn’t know what else to do—”

“It's fine,” he says, waving it off. “I’m just cleaning up, it’s not a hassle. Come on.” Batman has no qualms about following the guy through the open door, so you follow, glancing around the small clinic. It’s pretty sparse, save for the bulletin board overflowing with pet photos on one wall.

“Fushiguro,” the guy says in introduction, glancing back over his shoulder at you. He’s got deep blue eyes that match his dark scrubs, and his hair sticks out every which way in a manner that feels intentional. He must be around your age. It takes you a beat to remember yourself and give him your own name, stuttered out as you pass into the back exam room.

There’s a white coat tossed haphazardly over a spinning chair, and the guy—Fushiguro—picks Batman up like he weighs nothing and situates him on the metal table.

“Hey, bud. What’s your name?” he asks, scratching behind Batman’s ears. Your dog is usually weary of vets, but today his tail pounds on the metal of the table as he raises his head to sniff at Fushiguro’s face.

“Batman.”

Fushiguro’s gaze snaps to you and he blinks, evidently thinking you’re joking. “No.”

“Yes.” You hold your index fingers up above your head to imitate your dog’s pointy ears. “Batman.”

“Oh. My god,” he says. “And what, you’re Robin?”

“I am not the sidekick in this situation.”

“Batman dragged you out here at eleven on a school night. You absolutely are the sidekick.”

You scoff, moving up to the table and stroking Batman’s fur. “Am I just a sidekick to you, little guy?” you coo. “You wanna be a hero so bad?” He noses happily at your palm.

Fushiguro side-eyes you, half-grimacing as he grabs Batman’s paw to look at it. He doesn’t seem to mind, which is honestly a shock. He hates people touching his paws, even you. “You baby talk your dog?”

“You judge your patients?”

“Course not,” Fushiguro says, smirking as he looks back at you. “Just their owners.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the huff of laughter, and his dark eyes reflect the fluorescent overhead light as he turns away. He’s undeniably attractive—you don’t remember seeing him around campus.

“You go to JU?” you ask, and he nods.

“Sophomore. Pre-vet. D’you?”

“Nah, Kaisen.” Your school is a lot smaller than the neighboring Jujutsu University. They’ve got something of an athletic rivalry with Kaisen College, but you really don’t care. “Environmental science.”

“You know everything there is to know about trees, or what?” His tone is teasing, and you know he doesn’t mean anything by it. The fact is you do know more about trees than normal college students probably should. Doesn’t mean you can keep plants alive for shit, though.

You’d guess there’s actually a fair bit of crossover between your course of study and a pre-vet student’s bio track, but you say, “I specialize in rare long grasses, actually.” It comes out so deadpan that he glances at you, brows knit together, trying to gauge if you’re being serious. You only last a second before you crack under his scrutiny, and he shakes his head and huffs as he turns back to Batman, who is now trying to lick Fushiguro’s nose.

“Excuse me,” he says. This only seems to encourage the dog kisses, but Fushiguro decides to just ignore them. He hums, grabbing a pair of tweezers and squinting as he moves to pull something out of Batman’s paw. “Just a splinter. The pad of a dog’s paw is one of the most sensitive parts of their body, so it’s not surprising he was so worked up about it.” You watch as he pulls out a thin sliver of wood, probably from stepping on some splintering twig, and drops it into a tray on the table.

You watch as your dog drops his paw back to the table and stands up, tail wagging at lightning speed, like nothing was ever wrong. He jumps off the table before Fushiguro can grab him and bounds over to you, rubbing himself along the outside of your leg like a giant cat.

“How much do I owe you?” you ask, pulling out your card, but he waves you off.

“It was literally a splinter.”

“But—”

“Honestly, it’d be more work to boot up the payment system again anyway. Don’t worry about it.” He holds your gaze, and you can’t tell if he’s lying about the payment system or not, but you slide your card back into your wallet without complaint.

Something passes between you, some weird spark of recognition—not that you’ve met before. You know you haven’t. But you don’t typically have this kind of easy banter with strangers. Something about this guy intrigues you, and you don’t particularly want to stop talking to him.

But you’ve already kept him past close, and you need to get home.

The moment breaks when Fushiguro clears his throat, leaning over to grab something off the counter. “Right. Well, give me a call if he starts limping again, but he should be alright.” He holds out a hand and you realize he’s offering you a business card, weirdly professional for a student.

M. FUSHIGURO Veterinary Technician Trainee, JU

His number and email are printed beneath it in small sans serif lettering.

“Oh, you’re fancy.” You raise a brow at him, tucking the card into your jacket pocket. “Thank you. Seriously.”

“Well, who am I to refuse Batman?” he says wryly. He walks you to the door, and you try not to think too much of it—he just needs to lock up behind you, probably.

Before you slip out, he leans down and pats Batman on the head, earning a happy little tail-wag in response.

“Drive safe, Robin,” he calls, and you groan at the nickname as you unlock your car.

At home, you key his number into your phone and save the contact as fushiguro (cute vet). You sit there for way too long debating over whether you should text him—Batman’s fine, and it’s late, and he gave you a business card. Not exactly an invitation to flirt, tempting as that might be.

But you really want to.

“Should I text him?” you ask your dog, who’s decided to curl up right beside your bed and look up at you, waiting for an invitation. Your twin bed is not big enough for this and he knows it, but he always seems to think he’s a smaller dog than he really is.

Batman, unhelpfully, tilts his head at you, his perky ears flapping with the motion.

Maybe it’s because it’s past eleven and it’s dark out and you’re exhausted and you don’t have the best sense of judgment right now. Maybe it’s because Fushiguro’s just really cute.

“You’re right,” you say, nudging Batman with a socked foot. “No use waiting. Say cheese.”

you: [1 Image Attachment] you: gotham city’s savior says thank you

It’s kind of embarrassing how you sit and stare at the screen for two minutes, waiting for him to answer. Batman snorts, like he’s making fun of you, and you lock your phone and toss it on the bedside table. “Oh, don’t start.”

Your roommate and best friend, Setsuko Sasaki, is studying abroad in Japan for the semester. It’s been lonely, strange without her occupying the second bedroom of your little rented townhouse. You’d like to say this is why you’ve resorted to talking to your dog, but that would very much be a lie, because you’ve always done this. Sometimes, when she’s home, Suko adopts a gruff, low voice and answers for him.

You jump when your phone buzzes and make yourself count to three before checking the screen.

fushiguro (cute vet): don’t mention it. always had a soft spot for batman, anyway. fushiguro (cute vet): his sidekick’s alright too.

“Oh, he likes you,” you tell Batman. “Wingman. Thanks, little buddy.”

you: well, send a bat signal if you’re ever in mortal peril and i might show up

After that, you try to push Fushiguro to the back of your mind. He doesn’t go to Kaisen, so it’s not like you can stalk him in the university directory. You have no reason to run into him around town. As the semester ramps up and you fall back into your routine of classes and exams and friends, you don’t think too much about the cute vet tech who happened to be around that one night.

Or, you don’t for a grand total of six days.

You’re on a jog with Batman, afternoon sun making up for the fall chill in the air that’s hung around since it stormed last night. You don’t intend to stop, but Batman abruptly sticks his nose in the dirt about halfway through your run and refuses to move.

“Dude.” You backtrack and see that he’s discovered a couple pairs of dog prints, pressed faintly into the damp earth. “Oh, you smell friends, huh?” He tugs you forward, following the scent of these other dogs. “Hey!”

The thing about having a massive German shepherd mix, even one as docile as Batman, is that he is inarguably a lot stronger than you. So you don’t really have much of a choice but to stumble along after him as he bounds across the grass and comes out on the other side of the path—you don’t normally come this way, because there’s a dog park over here and he gets way too excited.

But today he’s on a mission, and you only see two other dogs in the fenced-in park—two huge balls of fluff, one white and one black. “Fine,” you say begrudgingly, undoing the gate and letting Batman off his leash. “Go play. But we aren’t staying long.”

He bounds off toward the other dogs while you latch the gate behind you, and then a familiar voice has you spinning around with your eyes wide. “Bat signal wasn’t me,” Fushiguro says, raising both hands in a gesture of innocence. “They did it.” He points at the other dogs, who are now engaged in a butt-sniffing circle with yours.

“Fushiguro!” You grin, making your way over to him. Once the other two dogs have deemed Batman a worthy playmate, they move on to you, sniffing at your palms and circling around you until the black one jumps up and nearly knocks you over with the force of it. “Oh, hello!”

“Kuro,” Fushiguro chides, rushing forward to tug at his collar. “Hey. Down.”

“It’s okay,” you promise through a fit of giggles as Kuro tries to basically hug you. “Oh, you’re cute, aren’t you? Hi, Kuro.”

Fushiguro huffs out a breath of relief when Kuro finally gets down. “That’s Shiro,” he says, gesturing to the white dog, who is now chasing Batman around the park. “Think she’s found a friend.”

“He dragged me all the way here,” you tell Fushiguro. “Guess he missed you or something.”

“Just him?”

You grin. “What, you think I was out here pining after you?” He only smirks in response. “I don’t even know your name, M. Fushiguro. What good is a business card without your first name on it?”

He hums, shoving his hands into his pockets, considering. “Guess.”

“Guess,” you echo. “Okay. Um. Michael.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Max.”

“Nope.”

“Um, Maverick.”

“What the hell?” He looks at you with furrowed brows. “Who in their right mind would name their kid—”

“Okay, hey,” you interrupt, holding up your hands. “I just watched Top Gun, okay? What do you want from me?”

“M—”

“Nope, out of tries for today. Three strikes, you’re out.” He shrugs, wholly unaffected, like this is just how the world works and he’s got no say it in whatsoever.

You gape at him, planting your hands on your hips in affront. “I hope you know I will be insufferable every single day until I’m right.”

Batman trots back over, prancing between you and Fushiguro until he crouches down to pet him. “You come here a lot?” you ask, glancing around the empty park. “I’ve never seen you here. Or your dogs. I think I’d remember giant balls of fluff like that.”

“Yeah, not often,” Fushiguro says, pushing back to his feet. “But Kuro’s been so restless all day. Had to let him run his energy down somehow.” The dog in question is chasing his own tail in circles while Shiro looks at him, unimpressed. “You live over here?”

“Few blocks out, yeah.” Your place is between the two campuses, an easy walk to both places because Suko takes Japanese classes at JU. Apparently Fushiguro doesn’t live too far away, either, just on the other side of the skate park where you know your friend Hajime hangs out all the time.

By “hangs out,” you mean he probably (definitely) buys weed there, but that’s not your business. Maybe he and Fushiguro know each other—they both go to JU. But Hajime’s a senior, so probably not.

You don’t get the chance to ask because Fushiguro’s phone rings, and he sighs and answers it with a glance at you that might be apologetic or might be mildly irritated. Hard to tell with him.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” he says gruffly. “Okay. See you.” He hangs up and tucks his phone back into his pocket, then whistles for the dogs. “Time to go.”

“Good to see you,” you blurt before he can turn away. He seems a little taken aback, but you don’t break eye contact, and you think he might be on the brink of a smile.

“You too, sidekick.”

—

After that, the two of you start texting more often, gradually moving from photos of your dogs to real conversation. And you keep your promise to be insufferable about finding out his name. You send him new M-names every day, never seeming to get any closer to the truth. For his part, he refuses to call you anything but Robin, cementing your existence as a superhero sidekick and nothing more.

you: new theory you: the M stands for mr you: monsieur you: m’lord

He dislikes the messages in response, and you send him a teary-eyed emoji and hope the guilt is enough to get him to tell you.

It is not.

You and Fushiguro are in some sort of convoluted orbit around one another, sometimes colliding, sometimes drifting away. There’s really no reason you should keep stumbling across him, considering you go to different schools, live in different places, study different things.

But after that first day at the dog park, you might take Batman there a little bit more often.

Every time you talk, Fushiguro starts to take up more and more headspace. You find yourself searching for his flash of ink-dark hair, spiky and disheveled, in every crowd. Every set of fading prints in the grass or mud might be his, might be Shiro’s or Kuro’s. It’s stupid, how much you’re thinking about this boy.

At some point you start dragging your friends out to the coffee shops between your two campuses to do work, rather than the one in the student center. You justify it to yourself with the half-assed excuse that if you run into your friends less, you’ll get more work done, but really you’re just hoping he’ll be there. And your friends are happy to oblige, especially Riko, if it means she’ll get a glimpse of this mystery vet man you don’t shut up about.

Riko’s a year below you at Kaisen, but you know her from back home. She’s a frenetic ball of energy and indignation, and she’s fully prepared to go to every coffee shop in a ten-mile radius for the purposes of what she calls “the mission.”

But the coffee at the second place you try is actually god-tier, and you wind up there regularly after that, hunkering down to grind out your assignments in your spare time. It’s there that he finds you, sliding into the seat right across from yours so abruptly that you nearly fall out of your chair—your noise-canceling headphones really block out the entire world. He smirks as you sheepishly tug them down around your neck, glaring.

“Warn a girl, Jesus!”

“I did,” he drawls, taking a sip of his coffee. “Twice.”

“Boo.” You kind of forgot about your own drink because you were so into your work, and you pick it back up now, mostly for something to do with your hands. “Well, hi. What’re you up to?”

“Same as you, I think.” He nods at your laptop. “Mind if I hang out here?”

“You certainly can, but you’ve just stolen someone’s seat and you might have to fight for your life when she gets back from the bathroom.” His eyes widen almost imperceptibly, and as if on cue, Riko is beelining toward the table from across the room.

“Well hello, Mr. Seat Thief. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Fushiguro seems to be gauging Riko, and you realize this is kind of the first look he’s gotten into your private life outside of your dog, and you’re irrationally nervous about it. But he scoots over and grabs a chair from the next table over, giving Riko a mocking bow in response.

“Better?”

Riko nods, and then grabs his coffee and takes a long drag out of it. He doesn’t object, and that should have been your warning—you can see when the bitterness of it hits her all at once, her face twisting in some combination of shock and despair and mild outrage.

“Oh my god,” you say as Riko grabs her water bottle and chugs to get the taste out of her mouth, aggressively shoving Fushiguro's coffee back toward him. “Of course you drink coffee black, you fucking loser.”

“What, you dump six cups of sugar in yours? That’s not coffee.” You flip him off instead of justifying this with a real response.

“I was gonna use that as payment for your crimes,” Riko gasps dramatically, leaning over the table, “but I was instead punished. You’re in my debt now.” She glares at him fiercely, turning up her nose, before abruptly abandoning the bit and grinning at him. “I’m Riko, by the way.”

He snorts, but a very small hint of a smile appears in a corner of his mouth. “Fushiguro.”

Riko nods and glances from him to you, as if to say really? This guy? You can already hear the analysis she’ll be giving you on the way home. Easy on the eyes, I get it, but does he like, have a personality?

“I did research,” you tell Fushiguro, nudging Riko’s shin under the table in warning. “On you.”

“You stalked me online, is what you’re saying.” You’re learning that he’s not a very expressive person. He treats laughs and smiles like rare currency, and everything you need to know about what he’s thinking is in the tiniest shifts—a downturned brow, a blink, a tilt of the head. You’re still learning, but you like to think you’ve got it down enough to know that this doesn’t actually bother him, despite the resting angry face.

“Yes,” you say, shameless. “Except when I typed in Fushiguro and your school, I got all these results for the editor of your campus paper. You have a sister?”

If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. “Tsumiki, yeah.”

He doesn’t offer more, so you push. “Older?” You already know the answer, but best let him believe the depth of your internet stalking is shallower than it really was.

“Two years. She’s a senior.”

“Cool. I don’t know a ton of siblings that go to the same school.”

“You’d be surprised,” he sighs. “My cousin and her twin sister both go there, too. And one of my roommates’ half-brothers.”

“Convenient, I guess,” you concede. “Sibling discount or something?”

“Nah, but it was easier this way,” he says, pulling a textbook out of his bag. “Go—uh, our legal guardian works around here anyway.”

Riko raises a brow but doesn’t ask, which is a remarkable show of restraint for her.

Legal guardian. Parents aren’t in the picture, then. You want to ask but you don’t, not yet.

The three of you buckle down and get some work done, casually exchanging conversation over the next few hours, and eventually Fushiguro has to head out. “Rehearsal,” he says.

“Rehearsal?” Riko asks, glancing at you as if you know what he’s talking about. You don’t, but you have some absolutely ridiculous mental image of Fushiguro in choir and you almost laugh out loud.

But he just says, as if it’s nothing at all, “Oh, yeah, I’m in a band.”

“What?” you nearly shout, jumping out of your chair so fast it pushes across the floor with a scrrcck. “You’re in a band? You didn’t think to tell me this before? What’s it called? Can I listen—”

“Nope.”

“But—”

“Nice to meet you, Riko,” he says loudly, cutting you off as he slings his bag over one shoulder. He mock-salutes you, two fingers to his brow as he turns to go. “Robin.”

You sink back into your seat and watch him leave, only turning back to Riko when the door swings closed. She opens her mouth and you hold out a hand. “Don’t start.”

—

At some point you start calling, letting yourself fill the silence of your little townhouse with idle chatter as he listens. He’s not one for small talk, you learn, and he’s a good listener. And he pays attention. He remembers the stupid little details you give him, the names of classmates and professors you can’t stand.

“Katie from Ohio?” he asks when you’re ranting one day about the partner you’ve been assigned in enviro. “We don’t like her, correct?” We.

“We do not.” Katie from Ohio does not pull her weight in group projects, and it’s driving you up the wall.

“You tell your prof about it? Isn’t this your favorite one?”

“Yeah, he is,” you groan. Haibara teaches your conservation bio class, and he also taught ecology your freshman year, and he’s the best teacher you’ve ever had. “But no. I don’t want to bother him about it. It’s whatever.”

He hums, unimpressed. “Is it?”

You groan, feeling like you’re getting lectured by your parents. You hate when other people are right. “You want me to talk to him.”

“I’m just saying, if you get a shit grade and it’s Katie’s fault, don’t come crying to me.”

“I will, though,” you say, putting your phone on speaker and setting it on the counter while you pour dog food into Batman’s bowl. “It’ll be super dramatic. I’ll sob in your arms and everything.”

He snorts. “Talk to your prof, Robin.” You stick your tongue out like he can see you.

But you do talk to your prof, and Haibara is your favorite for a reason. Katie gets a shit grade. You do not. Fushiguro does, in fact, say “I told you so.”

By mid-September, you still have no idea what Fushiguro’s first name is. You’re at the end of your rope.

you: GOOD MORNING MASON fushiguro (cute vet): no. you: MORT fushiguro (cute vet): no. you: why don’t you want me to know. is it crazy you: melvin fushiguro (cute vet): NO. you: marie you: meghan fushiguro (cute vet): … you: well, that’s it you: i’m calling you maleficent until you tell me you: i’m gonna do it in public too you: so loud

INCOMING CALL: FUSHIGURO (CUTE VET)

You don’t greet each other when you pick up—you never have. Instead, Fushiguro just says, “You could’ve picked like, ten other Disney characters and you went with Maleficent?”

“Don’t hate. You’d rather be Mufasa? Boy’s dead.”

“Oh my god.” Everything Fushiguro says sounds long-suffering. You wonder what it sounds like when he laughs, really laughs, if those walls ever break down and he lets himself actually outwardly express his emotions.

“I can call you Mickey Mouse if you really want—” Batman starts barking from his spot at the window, and you groan, waving your hand at him pointlessly as you try to get him to stop. “Hey! No! There is nothing outside, what are you on about?”

“He probably just thinks you’re barking with him,” Fushiguro says unhelpfully.

“Oh, and yours don’t bark out of turn?”

“Not really.”

Now that you think about it, you actually aren’t sure you’ve ever heard Shiro and Kuro bark aside from excited greetings at the dog park. “What the fuck, dude? Do they teach you the secrets of the trade in vet school?”

“Nah, I’m just a natural.” He says it so deadpan you aren’t sure if he’s joking or actually being cocky.

“Come over and help, then,” you say, before you can think it through. It’s a Saturday night, and clearly neither of you have anything better to do.

You aren’t sure what exactly you’re expecting him to say, but for some reason you’re surprised when he just responds, “Okay.”

“Bring the dogs.” You text him your address, and half an hour later he shows up with the dogs in tow. Meeting him at the door, you see his car parked along the curb. It’s small, black, as unreadable and practical as everything else about him.

“That,” he says, pointing to the long-deceased cactus in the pot on your front stoop, “is dead.” Probably because it’s been there since August and you forgot it was there after one week.

“Yes, thank you, very astute.”

“Isn’t keeping plants alive your whole thing? What are they teaching you?”

“Okay.” You start to close the door, but Shiro bounces forward and noses between it excitedly, and you laugh, opening it to let her and Kuro in. “Be nice,” you warn Fushiguro, letting him step inside. He rolls his eyes as he passes, and Batman nearly knocks him over with how excitedly he leaps up to greet him.

He’s also barking, and you raise a brow at Fushiguro expectantly. “Okay, Dog Whisperer. Do your thing.” You close the door behind him, and in the two seconds that you’re turned away, Batman fucking stops barking.

You whirl around, planting your hands on your hips, and find Fushiguro kneeling in front of your very silent, very happy dog.

“What the fuck.”

He looks up at you with the most smug expression on his face, and you throw up your hands in exasperation.

“Hey, don’t pout about it,” he teases, standing and following you into the living room. “That’s what you wanted.”

“I wanted you to teach me how to make him stop, but apparently you just slipped him treats behind my back.”

“Insult to my talents,” he says, hesitating when Kuro leaps onto your couch. “Are they allowed—”

“Ah, yeah, it’s fine.” Batman follows suit. “Got enough dog hair on that couch to make another couch, probably.”

You suddenly find you don’t really know what to say. Because Fushiguro is here, in your house, on a Saturday, your dog is not barking, and you’re alone. Alone with a guy you are very much attracted to. Suddenly you just don’t know any of the words in the English language.

But Fushiguro seems entirely at ease. He always does, really. There’s a quiet sort of confidence about him, and you aren’t sure if it’s fabricated or not. He just looks like he belongs wherever he is, nonchalant about everything.

“Done any more stalking?” he asks, sitting next to Shiro on the floor. You flush a little, feeling weirdly caught out when you aren’t the one bringing it up.

“No, but I might if you don’t tell me more about this band of yours.”

He shakes his head, absently playing with Shiro’s fur. “Just a crazy idea my housemates had. We just practice in the basement. Probably not very good.”

You opt to sit on Shiro’s other side on the ground, and Batman uses the opportunity to lick you directly in the face, since he’s on the couch and you’re now eye-level. “Thank you,” you tell him dryly, shoving his snout away.

“Don’t get humble now,” you tell Fushiguro. “What do you play? Or do you sing?” You really can’t imagine him singing. Everything about this guy screams quiet bass player.

Apparently you’re right. He won’t tell you the name of his band, and allegedly he doesn’t have any gigs this month, so you let it drop—but only for now. “Cagey,” you accuse him, but you’re smiling.

You talk about your courseloads for the semester—his is pretty bio and anatomy-heavy this semester where yours is mostly ecology and conservation-focused, but there’s a bit of overlap in your curriculum, and you find that it’s easy to make conversation about your respective career paths, even though he won’t stop bringing up the fact that you managed to kill a cactus.

“They’re notoriously hard to kill,” he drawls. “Did you try to?”

“No!” You cross your arms over your chest indignantly. “Mean.”

“Honest and mean aren’t the same thing.”

You don’t really notice the sun going down until the living room is swathed in shadow and you have to flip on the floor lamp. It’s been hours by now, but it’s felt like minutes. Every thing you learn about Fushiguro opens up ten new lines of questioning, and you want to know so much more about him. But he shrouds himself in this mystery you can’t seem to get around.

Eventually you stand up to grab snacks from the kitchen, and when you return you find Batman practically on top of Fushiguro, licking his face while Fushiguro just takes it. Cute, you think uselessly.

Batman. But also Fushiguro. And also just the sight of Fushiguro playing with your dog and looking entirely at home on your shaggy living room floor. Fuck, he’s really cute.

“Have you always had dogs?”

He shakes his head as he sits up and nudges Batman off of him, gaze going just a little distant. “Not ‘til I was a teenager.” There’s more there.

“Your idea? Tsumiki’s?”

He shrugs it off, picking at loose threads on his sleeve that don’t exist, some nervous tic he’s developed that seems to only show up when you try to talk about him. Hence, shroud of mystery.

Like you gathered at the coffee shop, his parents aren’t in the picture—dead or absent, though, you’re not sure. He does tell you a little bit about his legal guardian. His name’s Gojo, and according to Fushiguro he is certifiably insane. He says this enough that you know he means it fondly—if he didn’t, he just wouldn’t bring Gojo up at all.

It shouldn’t be possible to talk so much and learn so little, but the hours keep slipping by and finally neither of you can hide the yawns punctuating your conversation. “I should go,” he says, and you reluctantly lead him to the door, crouching to say bye to Shiro and Kuro before you open the door.

“Drive safe, Fushiguro.”

You don’t expect him to respond, but he pauses halfway down your drive, turning to look at you over his shoulder. The moon is out now, and it casts him and his dark clothes in silver. You suddenly find you can’t look away.

Not that you really want to.

“Megumi,” he says.

“What?”

“My name.” He swallows, looking away quickly before looking back. “You can call me Megumi. If you want.”

Chill. Be chill, you tell yourself, trying to school your features into that same neutral expression Fushiguro—Megumi—always has, but you know it’s not working. You can’t help but smile. You feel, weirdly, like you’ve earned something.

“Okay,” you say, leaning on the doorjamb. “Megumi.”

Megumi.

You do one last little bit of internet stalking that night, because you just want to know.

His name means blessing.

—

Everything about Megumi’s house speaks to the collision of three wildly different college-aged boys tempered by the saving grace of one girl.

Remotes for a range of gaming consoles are sprawled across the floor, there are way too many half-empty bags of Doritos, and you’re pretty sure there’s just a single half of a drumstick stuck between two of the couch cushions. But there are also nice, dark tapestries pinned to the walls, string lights bordering the room, a couple plants that are better-kept than any of yours have been.

You know very little about Megumi’s three housemates except that one is a golden retriever in human form, one is a skater boy, and one is a senior named Kirara who somehow keeps them all in check.

“Sorry for the mess,” he says, gesturing at the controllers and chip bags that honestly don’t constitute a mess in your book. Not after all the boys’ dorms you’ve seen, including Hajime’s.

“I like it,” you say honestly. “Also, it smells good in here. I’m proud. Kirara?”

“Kirara.” He nods and leads you to the couch, where you confirm that yes, that’s a broken drumstick.

“I don’t even—Jesus,” Megumi says, pulling it out of the gap between the cushions and tossing it onto the low coffee table. “He breaks more of these than I think is normal.”

“He being skater boy or golden retriever?” you ask as you tug your legs onto the couch to sit cross-legged, facing him. You dragged Batman with you—Megumi said his dogs would appreciate the company—and he’s taken it upon himself to sniff every corner of the house before deeming it suitable for playtime.

“Golden retriever. His name’s Yuji. Skater boy is Ino.” None of his housemates are here—it’s a random Thursday afternoon and the two of you happened to not have classes after two thirty.

“How’d you meet them?”

“Kirara went to my high school, so I knew her before coming here. I knew Ino too, actually. Yuji—I don’t know that anyone really meets him so much as gets forcibly adopted by him?” He somehow manages to make his scoff sound affectionate. “Him and our friend Kugisaki. They’re crazy, but we were all in the same orientation group freshman year.”

“Your friends sound fun.” You like the idea of two outgoing freshmen just deciding Megumi had to be their friend. “How’d you know Ino?”

He tugs at the sleeve of his black henley, picking at a nonexistent string. There’s a bit of a pause before he says, “His—I don’t know, his mentor? Nanami, he knows Gojo. So he was around sometimes.”

You don’t really know what to ask, simply because there’s so much to ask. It doesn’t take a detective to know there’s a lot to unpack in Megumi’s past. “How long have you been…” What’s the proper term for this? “Has Gojo been around, like… since you were a kid, or...?”

Despite your attempt to catch his gaze, Megumi’s eyes are trained on the far wall. “Kind of. Yeah.”

When he doesn’t elaborate, you fight to keep your lips sealed, to not push. You don’t have a right to his past. He can tell you if he wants to. But you’ve always been impatient.

And it’s starting to become a pattern, this strange caginess about his own life. His family, his friends. Every so often he lets something slip, and then it’s like you can see the doors in his mind slam shut—six deadbolts holding you out.

You know a little bit about Gojo, but that’s where the information stops. You drop hints that you want to meet Tsumiki, and whether he’s protective or just too oblivious to pick up on them, you can’t tell.

Maybe, then, the issue is that you haven’t given him much either. He’s met your dog and Riko, but maybe you need to offer him more of yourself before he’s comfortable reciprocating.

So you do. You tell him about your family, sitting on his couch with Shiro at his feet and Batman between you, Kuro unable to sit still. He listens while you talk, unsettlingly attentive eyes intent on you. You live about a half-hour drive away from your parents' place, you tell him, though you don’t go home often.

“It’s not that I don’t like my family,” you sigh, leaning back into the couch cushions and stroking Batman’s fur. “It’s more just that they’re never there, always on business, wrapped up in their own shit. So there’s just… no reason for me to stick around, except a couple times a year on holidays.” You shrug. “At least here it’s not an empty house. Or it’s not usually. When my roommate’s not in fucking Japan.”

“At least Japan’s cool,” he says, shrugging.

You sit up, leaning toward him. “You’ve been?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, once. Gojo said Tsumiki and I weren’t allowed to hit sixteen without having been on a stupid-long flight somewhere. Which sounds insane, but that’s pretty standard Gojo logic for you, I guess.”

“That’s so cool,” you sigh, part of you wishing you could be on a stupid-long flight right now. On the way to somewhere warm, preferably. Fall is starting to give way to an early winter, and you’re not looking forward to running Batman in the cold.

Travel, at least, seems to be a safe topic, and the two of you trade stories about road trips and flights and different cities. You challenge Megumi to Mario Kart at some point and immediately regret it, because why is he so good?

After he thoroughly kicks your ass, you sink back into conversation, walk the dogs, and eventually part ways so you can get some work done.

megumi (cute vet): you know when somebody says they’ll text you when they get home megumi (cute vet): and they don’t? you: SHIT SORRY megumi (cute vet): you’re not dead. you: NOPE you: sorry i got back and then batman knocked over a lamp megumi (cute vet): you don’t have to cover for his vigilantism, sidekick. i already know.

You do feel bad for forgetting to text him, but part of you is a little warmed by the fact that he was worried. Not that he’d ever admit to being worried about anyone, except maybe a dog.

you: okay fine he was stopping a robbery you: happy? megumi (cute vet): depends on what they were trying to steal

The work on your desk says you should stop texting and buckle down on your assignments, but he starts teasing, and you start feeding into it, and then you’re on the phone again, and by the time you finally hang up it’s too late to reasonably get anything done.

You can’t say you’re particularly upset about it.

—

The semester ramps up quickly, and you’re drowning in work. That’s your excuse when your basil plant by the kitchen sink dies a week after you bring it home—you’re just busy.

Megumi notices, and the next time he’s over a rosemary plant mysteriously appears in its place. He denies any involvement.

When you aren’t with Riko or Hajime, on the phone with Suko, or hanging out with friends from class, you’re with Megumi. His place, your place, the dog park, the coffee shop. It hasn’t reached a point where your friends comment on how much time you spend together (except Riko, who has a loud opinion on everything and does not care if other people don’t want to hear it), but you like the hours you steal during the week just walking around or drinking coffee or trading idle conversation.

You even visit him at work one Sunday when the clinic is slow, watching him handle the few dogs and single cat that come through. He’s easygoing with the clients and has that same calming effect on every animal—like he speaks some secret language, understands them in a way other people don’t. You love watching him like this.

You like this guy. It’s not rocket science—you put him in your contacts as “cute vet” the day you met him. The hard part is that Megumi is too difficult to read. If he has feelings for you, you have no idea. You don’t think he’d go out of his way to spend time with someone he didn’t genuinely like, but whether it’s platonic or not is so fucking over your head.

Until you finally meet one of his friends.

It’s Riko’s doing, really. The two of you are at the coffee shop when she strikes up a conversation with a redhead in line, and it doesn’t take long for her to make the connection, probably because they’re both talking ten miles a minute and not holding anything back.

“Oh my god!” Riko screeches, turning to you after you place your order. “Hey! This is Nobara. She’s friends with Fushiguro.”

She beams at you. “How do you guys know Fushiguro?”

Riko answers for you. “The vet. She has a dog, the clinic was closed, he was there. It was probably super romantic.” You groan.

Nobara’s mouth forms a small O and then she says, “Ah, you must be the sidekick.”

You can’t stifle your laugh. “He even calls me that when he’s talking to other people?”

She laughs, shaking her head. “No, he doesn’t tell anyone anything. Ever. But that’s what you’re in his phone as, and I saw his screen before he could hide it.” She leans in conspiratorially. “He won’t tell us who you are, which means he’s into you, y’know that, right?”

“Um. Is he? I don’t really—”

“Girl,” Nobara says flatly. “He doesn’t talk to people. Yuji and I have to force that guy out of the house half the time. If he’s hanging out with you, it’s because he likes you. Not that he knows that, probably. He’s horrible at feelings. I offered to give him a free therapy session and he said he’d rather become a monk.”

Riko mutters something about how that wouldn’t be too far off from whatever aesthetic he has going on right now, but you’re hung up on something else—Yuji and I.

“Oh my god,” you say, realizing something. “You’re Kugisaki.”

Her entire face lights up and she bounces on the balls of her feet. “He told you about me?” she squeals. “Ooh, he does love me! I’m gonna give him so much shit! What did he say? Was it good?”

The three of you end up talking for half an hour, after you all get your coffee and find an empty table. Nobara talks a mile a minute, but you can’t help hanging on to every word she says—she has a lot to say about Fushiguro, and you feel like you might be learning more about him this way than from the numerous conversations you’ve had with him.

She lives down the street from his place. She knows Gojo, who is apparently exactly the way Megumi described him—loud and eccentric and kind of stupid, but a guy who obviously loves his kids. She and Yuji, true to Megumi’s recollection, basically forced their friendship upon him on the first day of school, and they’ve been a trio ever since.

“He doesn’t tell anyone shit,” Nobara says, echoing her own words from earlier. “I feel like I probably know more about him from Gojo than anything. Or reading his notifications over his shoulder.” She smirks. “But he’s a good guy. I wouldn’t put up with his shit if I didn’t mean that.”

“About—what you said earlier, about him… maybe having feelings for me,” you start.

“Definitely having feelings for you,” she corrects. “Whether he knows or not? Undetermined.”

“Right. Uh.” You don’t get the idea that Nobara is a person you ever want to argue with. “Could you not… mention anything about that? To him?”

She sighs. “Course I won’t. Y’know, the guys always say I can’t keep my nose out of things, but two of my roommates have been in love for years and haven’t done anything and I haven’t said a word. Even though it sucks out part of my soul every time they’re in a room together and they just stare longingly when the other one isn’t looking. They’re so stupid.”

“You and Fushiguro are also stupid,” Riko says helpfully. You glare at her, and she throws her hands up in exasperation. “What? You like him, right? You can’t look me in the eyes and say you don’t like him.”

“He is a good friend,” you say, feeling the burn in your cheeks give you away even before Riko starts cackling.

“I like you,” Nobara tells her, sizing her up. “I might regret saying this, but I think I need you to meet one of my housemates. You could be chaos goblins together. I feel it in my bones.”

Riko rubs her hands together like she’s plotting something, and you think you should probably keep her as far away from said housemate as possible.

Eventually, Nobara pushes to her feet, draining the rest of her coffee and slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I gotta go, but I’m so glad I ran into you. I feel like a spy, knowing Fushiguro’s secret girlfriend.” She wiggles her brows at you, and you don’t bother denying it, just burying your head in your hands instead. “You guys should give me your numbers. I can give you Fushiguro intel.”

Riko immediately accepts Nobara’s phone. You wonder how Fushiguro will feel about all this—fond exasperation seems like the default emotion when it comes to his friends. But you give her your number, waving goodbye as she skips out the door, and lean back, thinking as Riko immediately starts to tease you about your boyfriend-not-boyfriend and how at least he has cool friends, even if he doesn’t have a personality.

You just keep looking out the window, trading snarky comments with Riko as it gets dark—earlier now, at the end of September.

“Are you ever gonna tell him?” Riko presses. “I don’t wanna watch you pine for the next six months.”

“We haven’t even known each other that long,” you insist, tracing patterns aimlessly on the tabletop. “And I don’t… I don’t know. I kind of want him to be the one to say something. Because if Nobara’s wrong and he isn’t actually into me, I could fuck everything up—”

“Isn’t actually into you?” Riko exclaims. “Oh. My god.” She waves a hand in front of your eyes. “Can you see? Do you need to get your vision checked? Do you—”

“Okay!” you laugh, swatting her hands away. “Message received, Jesus. Chaos goblin was right.”

“I wear that as a badge of honor,” Riko says solemnly.

Yeah. She can never meet Nobara’s housemate.

—

It’s a Wednesday, and you and Megumi are walking back to your place from the dog park. His car’s at your house, and the dogs have just had a very high-energy playdate that’ll hopefully knock them out for the night. The air is chilly and the sky dimming, and everything about it feels immaculately fall.

That’s where your conversation has ended up—the upcoming fall break, which is really just a Friday where neither of your campuses have classes. A three-day weekend really shouldn’t be called a break, you think. It’s misleading.

“You’re not going home?” he asks, and you sigh, shaking your head.

“Parents won’t be home. Not really much of a point.”

“We could—” He clears his throat. “We can hang out that weekend if you want. If you need the company.”

“You’re not going home either?” You glance over at him, a little puzzled. “Like—to Gojo’s?” His lips become a thin, tight line, and you wonder if you’ve somehow crossed some invisible boundary. You’re about to tell him he doesn’t have to talk about it if he doesn’t want to, despite being on the brink of insanity because he doesn’t tell you anything, ever.

But then he says, “He’s a bartender. Not around weekends, usually.”

“Ah.” Nobara mentioned that.

You did tell Megumi about running into Nobara in the coffee shop, and he immediately looked like you told him that you hung out with Gojo and saw all his baby pictures.

“She’s nice!” you insisted, and he sighed, raking a hand through his hair.

“She has no filter.”

“She’s fun.”

“She’s Kugisaki.” He shrugged. “Learn anything interesting?”

You told him about your conversation, minus the whole feelings thing, and he agreed that Riko and Toge Inumaki should never, ever meet. “For the good of the entire world,” he said solemnly. “People would die, Robin.”

Now, as the two of you turn onto your street, he glances at you like he’s trying to find something. And maybe it’s how tired you are, maybe it’s the way his eyes look so bright even though they’re so dark, maybe it’s that weird streetlight-night aura that makes everything feel a little bit not real, but you find yourself studying him right back, meeting his gaze without shame.

You want to know him, to be a part of his life in the way he’s become a fixture in yours. You want to meet his housemates. You want to meet his sister, his family. You want him to open the door and stop acting like you’re going to rob him or something the second you get inside. He knows you better than that, right?

He blinks, and you smirk. “I win.”

“Wh—that was not a staring contest.”

“It’s okay,” you tell him sympathetically. “You can’t be good at everything.”

His laugh—his real laugh—isn’t anything like you thought it’d be, but somehow it’s even better. It transforms his whole face, some blink-of-an-eye shift that lights up his eyes and makes everything about him brighter, louder.

You want to make him laugh like that again. As often as you can, really. Always.

“What?” he asks, staring at you, the light lingering in his eyes, some sort of afterimage of his joy.

“I just—I like your laugh.”

He stops, and you realize you’ve reached the end of your driveway. You drop Batman’s leash and let him run around the yard, and Megumi’s dogs follow suit, knowing better than to go far.

“I like your laugh, too,” he says, a crooked smile spreading across his face. And somehow that feels more like a confession than anything he’s ever said to you.

You’re very close.

He’s leaning in and you’re almost subconsciously reaching up to meet him, heels leaving the ground, and he’s still got the slightest curve of a smile lingering on his lips, and—

“Oh!” Shiro jumps on you from the side, tail wagging excitedly.

When you look back up at Megumi, laughter on your lips, his smile is gone, and he’s looking away, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Megumi—”

“That’s my cue,” he says, a forced-sounding chuckle punctuating the sentence. “I should, um. Get back.”

“Oh. Um, right. Yeah. Totally.” You’re kicking yourself now, feeling stupid, foolish. Did you just mess this whole thing up? Was it too soon? Did you read it wrong?

Megumi opens the back door of the car and lets the dogs hop in before circling around to the driver’s seat. “Robin…”

You look at him, trying to squash the hope adamant in your chest. And he looks like he doesn’t know what to say, for a moment, his lips parting and then closing and his eyes darting around before they finally land on you again. “Night,” he says quietly.

“Night, Megumi.” You lift a hand in a half-wave. “See you.”

Batman stares at the street long after the car has disappeared around the corner, and so do you.

“Fuck,” you murmur, and then again, louder, “fuck.”

—

Megumi’s texts over the next week are less frequent and more distant—at least, you think so. Maybe you’re getting too in your own head about it.

From then on, he’s pretty quiet. You wonder if you fucked up. You haven’t talked about it, the kiss. Almost-kiss. Your texts start getting fewer and far between, and in the chaos leading up to midterms you almost don’t notice. Almost.

Lots of almosts, lately.

you: still on for break?

Part of you expects him to go back on his word, say something came up. Especially when he takes a half hour to respond. He’s just busy, you tell yourself. Stop being dramatic.

megumi (cute vet): your place at 5, right?

“Oh,” you say aloud to nobody but Batman, smiling a little. Well, that’s good. You can ask him what’s been on his mind lately. He just seems… preoccupied.

When break rolls around, you spend Friday out with friends and Saturday catching up on schoolwork until Megumi comes over. You’ve hung out so often—you don’t know why you’re nervous.

And it seems contagious. He still shows up at your door and immediately picks up a conversation you left off on the last time you texted him, but he just seems slightly out of reach, somehow. You let it slide for about twenty minutes before you sit him down on the couch and ask.

“Okay. What’s going on with you?”

“What?” You don’t know if he’s playing dumb or just actually doesn’t realize he’s been acting strange.

“You’ve been… look. You’re acting weird. And I feel like we need to talk about whatever happened last week.”

The ensuing silence makes you want to take it back, or say something else, or do anything to create sound in the little bubble of waiting that's formed around the both of you. But you make yourself wait. Give him the space to find words.

“I guess… there is something I wanted to talk to you about,” he says suddenly, flatly, without looking at you. Your mouth slams shut and you find yourself drawing back a little, the remoteness of his voice almost physically distancing.

“Uh,” you say, like the eloquent person you are. “Okay?”

He swallows once, hard, and he looks at you with so much reluctance you almost wish he’d just look away. Your heart is twisting itself into knots.

“I think we should… take a step back.”

“What?” you whisper. “What do you mean?”

He sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “I mean—this is going… do you want a relationship?”

The question feels so abrupt you’re momentarily shocked into silence. But you know where he’s going.

He doesn’t want this. Doesn’t want—you. And it hurts more than you thought it would. It’s not so much a sharp stabbing sensation as a thousand needles worming their way into the crevices of your heart, slow and numerous and deadly.

Because you do want this. You want him.

“Yes,” you admit, quiet.

And he says, “I don’t.”

In general, you want to ask, or with me? But the words stall in your mouth, all blocked up and sticky, and you don’t say anything at all.

“You shouldn’t,” he murmurs, looking down. “Want that. With me, I mean. It’s…”

“It’s what?” you ask, hesitant. Another long, horrible silence.

“It’s never going to work,” he says, detached. Almost cold. “Us. This.” He’s still not looking at you.

“Let me ask you something, then,” you say, hating the unsteadiness of your voice. “Do you want it to?” Do you have feelings for me? You want to know if this is something he’s denying himself or if he really just doesn’t like you.

You know your own intelligence, though. You haven’t made up whatever this feeling is between you.

He doesn’t answer your question. Just murmurs, “You don’t know me.” And somehow it sounds like an accusation.

“You won’t let me!” you burst out, your voice louder than you intended. But all this caginess, this dancing around everything real, it’s got you at the end of your fuse. Shiro looks up and whines, Kuro leaping off the couch to stand in front of the both of you, curious. “I told you everything! I told you about my family and my friends and my classes and my hometown and my car problems and fucking Katie from Ohio, and you don’t say anything, Megumi, you won’t talk about your family, you won’t introduce me to your roommates. You won’t tell me about your band or your childhood, you took weeks just to give me your first name! What—are you just embarrassed of me? Do you think I’ll judge you? Do you not trust me? Is that it?”

“No,” he practically growls. “God, it’s just—you don’t understand—”

“You’re right, I don’t!” you exclaim, throwing your hands up. Batman paws at your leg, wondering why you’re shouting. “So help me understand. I know I’m not patient, but if you have shit you’re not ready to talk about, that’s fine. But just say that. Tell me to wait and I’ll wait. Just—give me something.”

He looks at you and he’s utterly unreadable, doors slammed shut.

“If you don’t want me in your life, just fucking say so,” you spit, but your voice is wavering now, uncomposed and only loud so it doesn’t shatter. If he really said it, said I don’t want you, you don’t know what you would do. It would be too sharp, too painful, too much.

“You don’t want this,” he says instead, averting his gaze. His tone is measured and even and emotionless.

“Don’t tell me what I want,” you seethe, but your words come out quiet. “If you really think I don’t want this, it’s because you won’t let me.” You’re whispering now, worried that if your voice raises any more, it’ll crack the paper-thin walls holding back your tears. “Megumi…”

“S’better this way.” He rubs the heel of his hand over his eyes, a messy movement that seems so at odds with the evenness of his tone. “I… I have to go, Robin.”

And the strange, unstable feelings of betrayal and confusion and hurt morph abruptly back into something hotter, something angrier. Because how dare he come here, spend fall break at your house, listen to you spill your heart onto the carpeted floor? How dare he run away, say he doesn’t want this, and then still call you that stupid, endearing fucking nickname?

“Yeah,” you say icily, glancing away with your arms crossed over your chest. “You do.”

You count to five, silently, before he moves, and you don’t look when he does. You blink tears out of your eyes when Kuro hesitates, nosing at your hip before following Megumi out the door.

It slams, hard, and Batman stays perched at the entry, tracking him as he walks out of your house, your life.

You don’t move for a very long time.

INTERMISSION // A REAL GOOD START

MEGUMI FUSHIGURO IS in deep, deep shit.

That is to say, he’s lost control of the situation, which is the one thing he does not allow to happen. Ever.

He can’t stop thinking about you.

Sleep is hard to come by in the days after he fucks everything up. He keeps thinking about how it could have gone if he’d just—if he’d done anything else. If he hadn’t run off after he almost kissed you, traitorous heart thumping in his chest even while his brain screamed danger!

You became part of his life so fast and so naturally he didn’t know it was too late until the damage had already been done. If he let himself kiss you, he would drown.

But he didn’t. He shut you down instead, on a Saturday night that could have been different.

He makes excuses when Gojo invites him over Sunday afternoon, going into work early just to avoid him. Even if Megumi’s perfected his poker face, nothing gets past Gojo. It’s like he has some sixth sense for when his pseudo-kids are in emotional turmoil. He’ll force Megumi into a talk therapy session (run by the most unqualified bartender of all time) and he’ll die of embarrassment on the couch.

So instead of talking to someone, anyone, he throws himself into his work, into rehearsals, into school. He goes to the clinic early and leaves late. His fingers are sore from plucking the same lines out on his bass until his housemates go to sleep. His eyes are dry from staring at his laptop until three in the morning. But it doesn’t matter what he does. He can’t. Stop. Thinking. About. You.

The thing about being in a band with all of his housemates is that there’s really no world in which they don’t notice something’s off. They’re spending even more time together lately than usual with the Battle of the Bands going on, and his only relief is that none of them say anything—at least not aloud. There are a number of raised brows and the occasional questioning shoulder nudge, but it seems Yuji, Ino, and Kirara know him well enough by now not to push. That, at least, he’s grateful for.

Nobara Kugisaki is a different story.

It’s a Monday when she storms into his living room—she didn’t even bother knocking on the front door. Shiro and Kuro run happily around her legs, and normally she’d be fawning over them, but today she looks furious. He can almost see smoke coming right out of her ears, eyes narrowed to dark slits as she stares him down.

“Fushiguro.”

“You,” he points out, “do not live here.”

“And you,” she seethes, “have one minute to explain to me what the fuck you did.” Before he can say anything, she waves her phone around in the air and says, “Hi, Nobara, I was just wondering if Fushiguro seems okay to you? Things kind of fell off and I would feel weird reaching out but I’m just a little worried.”

She’s quoting you.

Texts from you.

Shit.

Megumi knows that you and Kugisaki have met, but for some reason it just did not cross his mind that you might have exchanged contact information.

Control the situation.

He clears his throat, refusing to break eye contact. “Well, she said it,” he huffs, his usual toneless expression. “Things fell off.”

You still wanted to check on him. He treated you like that and you still…

“You broke up with her.”

“We weren’t together—”

“You broke up with her. Are you a fucking moron? This girl—” She jabs her finger into her phone screen so hard he’s surprised it doesn’t hurt— “is so fucking cool. And she puts up with you. And you like her. And now you’re acting all weird. So what, you go over there and tell her you can’t be together? What the fuck, dude? Why?”

What a loaded question that is.

“Because,” he grits out. “It wouldn’t have worked.”

“It wouldn’t have worked,” Kugisaki repeats flatly, walking over to the couch and making herself at home way too close to him, staring him down. He turns his head away. God, she is so persistent. She is so annoying.

“Yeah, congrats, your hearing works. Can you leave me alone?”

“Tell me you don’t have feelings for her and I will.”

“I—”

“Look at me and say it,” she snaps.

Megumi looks at her. “I don’t,” he mutters.

Kugisaki rolls her eyes so hard Megumi can’t believe they stay in her skull. “Okay, sure,” she says skeptically. He doesn’t like this tone, where it’s going. “So if I set her up with Toge, you wouldn’t mind?”

“I—” He clamps his mouth shut, hands curled into fists. “Kugisaki, that’s not—”

“That’s what I thought.” Normally she’d look smug, victorious after pulling one over on him, but this is worse. She just looks… concerned. He hates it.

“Look,” she sighs. “You’re not going to talk to me, so I’m not going to waste my time. But when you figure this out—and you will figure it out, or I might kill somebody, and it will be you—I’ll be all ears.” Her gaze might as well be pinning him to the wall with how fierce it is. Sometimes he lets himself forget how much of a force Kugisaki can be, and right now, she’s got that glint in her eyes that he hates, the one that makes him feel like she knows something he doesn’t. “Understood?”

“If I say understood, will you get out of my house?” he grumbles. She says nothing, just looking at him, and he thinks maybe she could win a staring contest with a fish. For a long, tense minute, he doesn’t say anything, and neither does she.

Whatever. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She’ll forget about it eventually.

He sighs, tipping his head back against the wall.

“Understood.”

—

Things seem to happen around Megumi, to him, not because of him. The last conscious decision he made was to end things with you, and now he’s just a passive witness to his own life. Ino has something going on with Nobara’s housemate, Yuji’s scrambling to pass his midterms, Kirara bounces between their house and Hakari’s place faster than he can keep track of, and Megumi… he just exists in the periphery, goes through the motions.

He keeps finding his thumb hovering over your contact name. A dog with a silly name comes into the clinic and he wants to text you about it. He hears a song that reminds him of you (every song reminds him of you) and he wants to play it for you.

He wonders if Riko has him on a hit list yet.

A voice in the back of his head that sounds an awful lot like Kugisaki keeps repeating, Why?

Why did he end things? Why did he bite the bullet so fucking hard?

Because you deserve better than him, honestly.

You don’t know me, he told you. What he didn’t say, though—because you wouldn’t want me if you did.

Part of him knows that’s probably unfair to you—your words keep playing back in his mind and not even his music can drown them out. You won’t let me! But there are things he can’t imagine saying out loud. Explaining the way his dad disappeared, not even showing his face again when his mom died—eighteen-year-old Gojo from across the street on their doorstep, promising he and Tsumiki wouldn’t go into foster care. Bloody knuckles from fighting middle school bullies. Gojo and Geto trying to raise a bunch of kids when they were still kids themselves.

Gojo didn’t leave, but he should have. Megumi knows he threw away so much of his life for him, for Tsumiki. He could have done so much more. He could have done anything he wanted. But Megumi held him back.

Maybe he’s holding him back even now. He knows Gojo would deny it.

The point is, Megumi has shit to figure out for himself, and you shouldn’t have to sit by and watch him deal with it. That’s not fair to you. Yeah, he went about it wrong, but—but this is for the best. You can find someone who actually gives you everything you deserve, and he can… whatever.

Megumi’s band, Shibuya Incident, doesn’t perform this Friday at The Fix—Shoko and Geto’s bar. They’ve already made finals. Tonight will just decide who their opponents are. But even if he’s not up there playing, the Battle of the Bands is a welcome distraction. Even if Ino’s just making lovesick puppy eyes at the stage the whole time and Yuji won’t shut up about wanting Taco Bell. Megumi lets himself get a little lost in the music, and Kugisaki’s band is good, really. He votes for them as soon as the digital form opens and then vows to never tell her.

They should win, but Black Flash takes it again. Kasumi Miwa and Maki’s sister and their friends. They won the whole thing last year. Great, Megumi thinks.

The night comes and goes, and he dodges Gojo on his way out of the bar despite knowing he’ll get a text about it later. And then they’re all piled into Yuji’s car on the way to get his beloved Taco Bell, and he’s just about convinced he’s done with feeling anything at all when Kirara screams.

For a second, there’s nothing at all.

And then the world comes back to life around him in a shock of colors and sounds and a lot of cuss words, mostly coming out of his own mouth.

“Holy shit!” Yuji shouts, yanking the wheel hard to the right, and Megumi can barely process the sight of the white car barreling toward them before there’s crunching metal and shattering glass, and it’s like he feels the collision as an aftershock, shaking all his bones back into place. The airbags go off and he’s blind, wind knocked clean from his lungs, and then he’s moving—no, he moves. No more passivity. This is real.

“Everybody out,” he demands, wrenching the passenger door open and taking in the sight of the crash. Smoke is billowing from the hood of Yuji’s car, the vacant passenger side of the other one entirely smashed in. “Everyone okay?”

Yuji circles around the back of the car and Megumi clocks immediately that he’s holding his wrist weird, wrong. “Yuji—”

“Ino, come on—hey. Hey. Ino.”

Kirara’s got one knee on the edge of the backseat and one hand braced on the roof of the car, and Ino is not making any move to get out.

Sirens. Who called the cops?

“Kirara?” Yuji asks, moving to help her, but she holds up a hand and looks back over her shoulder.

“Don’t. I got it. We’re fine. Just—bad memories, I think.”

Megumi knows Ino hates driving. He doesn’t know why, but he can guess. So he doesn’t push it. Kirara’s the psych major, after all. And probably the one with the most emotional intelligence and any semblance of tact. She’s got him.

He’s about to turn to Yuji when somebody stumbles out of the other car. The car that had been driving in the wrong lane,directly toward them. If Yuji hadn’t reacted so quickly, they’d all be dead.

“What the fuck,” he hisses.

It’s his cousin.

“What,” he says, louder, “the fuck? Naoya!” He storms over and grabs Naoya by the front of his shirt—his breath reeks of alcohol, and he’s laughing, like he didn’t just almost commit vehicular manslaughter. “What the hell, man? What’s wrong with you? Are you—”

He hears… screaming?

But not from here. Not in person. It’s…

Megumi looks at the cracked phone on the ground, having been flung straight through Naoya's shattered windshield. He looks at his shitbag cousin, who’s half tipping-over, legs like jelly under him.

“Naoya,” he growls. “Who. Is. That?”

“Hah,” he slurs. “Mm. My ex! My ex. She is… she is.”

He’s not making sense, but Megumi might get back into Yuji’s car and drive it into his cousin on purpose. Naoya was dating this girl—Megumi knows her. She's friends with Yuji. Some brand of art major, he’s pretty sure, and she's nice, way too good for him. And then what, she finally gets away and he still torments her? By drunk calling her from the car, letting her listen as he crashes? The blood in Megumi’s veins might as well be venom.

He shoves Naoya back with a scoff, letting him stumble over himself, and grabs the broken phone off the ground. “Hey,” he says, and she’s still screaming, this poor fucking girl— “Hey! Hey. Calm down. It’s—hello?”

“Naoya? What the fuck, Naoya—”

She’s definitely talking through tears, maybe angry, maybe scared.

“Not Naoya,” Megumi sighs. “Uh, this is Fushiguro.” She’s quieting a little on the other end, and he hears a guy’s voice trying to talk her down. “Listen. Naoya’s fine. Just… drunk. And an asshole. Are you okay?”

After that, the entire night is a blur.

He talks down Naoya’s traumatized ex-girlfriend on the phone, Ino’s girlfriend shows up and calms him down, and then Gojo and Nanami and Shoko are there and Hakari shows up and Gojo’s dragging Megumi to the ER with Yuji to get his wrist checked out and it’s sprained and Tsumiki is running into the waiting room and hugging the life out of him and Maki calls and Naoya’s got a DUI and then finally, finally they’re home. Megumi can barely keep his eyes open. He doesn't know what time it is.

He sleeps harder than he has in months.

—

Megumi is so fucking exhausted that when his phone starts buzzing the next morning at the kitchen table, he doesn’t actually think it’s real for a second.

INCOMING CALL: SIDEKICK

He’s hallucinating. Sleep deprivation, or something. Or maybe he actually got a concussion in that car crash and now he’s seeing things that aren’t real. That’s the only explanation.

That or you butt-dialed.

He doesn’t bother explaining himself to the others as he stands up and retreats to the hallway, almost letting the phone ring out before steeling himself and swiping to accept the call.

“Hey?”

He’s never greeted you like that before. It sounds so fake. He usually picks up the phone and just starts talking about whatever you texted him, or whatever weird thing he saw that he has to tell you about. Not hey. Hey is for people he doesn’t know. Doesn’t care about.

“Um. Hey.” It is stupid, what just the sound of your voice over the phone does to him. “I just saw this article about a car crash? Are you—”

“I’m fine,” he says, too fast, too sharp. Stop it. “Sorry. I’m—yeah. We’re all fine.”

You clear your throat on the other end of the phone. “Okay. That’s—that’s good. I just… wanted to make sure.”

He pushed you out, and you texted Kugisaki to ask if he was alright.

He pushed you out, and you’re calling to make sure he’s okay.

I’m not, he wants to say. I fucked up. I fucked this up.

I miss you.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “I… appreciate that.”

Maybe he can still salvage this. Still be friends with you, at least. But that’s a slippery slope, isn’t it? He’ll just hurt you again. But…

“It was my cousin,” he offers, not really knowing why he’s saying it. Maybe as a peace offering. He didn’t tell you things before, important things. Maybe he can start now. “Drunk. On the phone with his ex.”

“Oh,” you say. You sound surprised, but Megumi isn’t sure if you’re more shocked about his words or the fact that he gave them to you. “That’s… awful.”

“Yeah,” Megumi breathes. “Um. Yeah, he’s taken care of now.”

“Good. That’s good.” A dog starts barking, and Megumi feels his lips twitch up into an almost-smile.

“There he goes,” he murmurs. You laugh, and he’s actually smiling, now.

“There he goes,” you say fondly. “I should… go calm him down. I’ll…”

“Yeah, yeah, go,” he says, not sure how to end this. “Um, good… luck.” Stupid. That was so fucking stupid.

“Thanks. Bye, Fushiguro.”

“Bye, Robin,” he says, but the line’s already gone dead.

—

Megumi sees you three times in the month of November, and every time he feels ten times closer to a train wreck.

It snows in November, because it’s stupid and cold and winter comes early here, and there are prints leading toward the dog park. Imprints of dog paws and boots, side by side, and he’s a vet student. He knows what size dog those prints mean. He knows exactly who it is.

He lets Shiro and Kuro tug him all the way to the dog park, and he doesn’t even remember letting himself through the gate. He just knows that you see him right after Kuro starts panting excitedly, and you freeze.

He half-waves in the most pathetic, lame response ever known to mankind.

“Robin,” he says, the nickname falling off his tongue like nothing ever changed.

“Fushiguro.” You smile, hesitant, and he wishes it didn’t feel like a needle that you used his last name. He walks over to you—just following the dogs, he tells himself, that’s natural. Batman almost knocks him over in his excitement.

Megumi can’t not smile at a dog. That would just make him a bad vet, wouldn’t it?

“Hey, bud,” he says, crouching down to pet him. “Yeah, I missed you too.” When he looks back up, your gaze is a little distant, and he closes his eyes for a second, collecting himself. He pushes back to his feet and turns to you.

“Did you know I’d be…” You don’t finish the sentence, but he knows what you mean.

“I… snowprints,” he says, shrugging. It seems to be enough of an answer for you.

“Snowprints,” you echo. “We found you with tracks too, the first time. Didn’t we, Batman?” Like he understands, Batman slaps his tail against the ground and flicks his ears forward and back. Yep. Sure did.

He scrambles for something to say in the silence—small talk is the bane of his existence, but is it ever small talk when it’s you?

Small talk doesn’t matter.

Everything you say matters.

“So. They teach you how to keep plants alive yet?” he asks, and has to fight not to physically cringe after he says it. God, it’s like he never learned how to talk. But you laugh, which he counts as a win.

“No, but someone is significantly less barky, so thank you for that.”

He has you for five minutes before your phone rings, and you chuckle, showing him the screen.

“Ah,” he says. Riko. He doesn’t object when you go, slipping out through the gate with your phone pressed to your ear, because he doesn’t have the right.

But you text first, later.

sidekick: it was good to see you sidekick: and the dogs. obviously

“Look at that,” he mutters to Kuro, whose nose is nearly touching his phone screen. “You’re my good luck charm.”

megumi: you too, sidekick. megumi: and batman. obviously.

The second time, you’re crossing paths in the coffee shop, both of you on your way to other places. It’s brief and stilted and still leaves him feeling like a mess.

“Black?” you ask, nodding at his coffee. You’ve got a hat tugged haphazardly over your head to ward off the persistent snowflakes outside, and it’s—you’re cute. Fuck.

He huffs a laugh, looking down at the sleet-stained floor just to avoid staring at you and your cold-flushed cheeks. “What else?”

“Vanilla latte,” he says, glancing at your cup, because he wants you to know he remembers. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but he thinks you look pleasantly surprised.

The third time, you don’t see him.

He knew you had friends at JU, but he’s never seen you around campus before. You’re with the guy with the blue hair, always pulled up into two knots on the top of his head—Hajime, maybe?

You throw your head back and laugh at something he says, and it’s like—fuck. Laughter shouldn’t sound that poetic.

And he knows he can’t lie to himself anymore.

It’s time to talk.

Kirara would probably kick his ass the second he told her anything. Ino’s busy with his new girlfriend, Yuji’s an idiot, Kugisaki is… well, she’s Kugisaki, and he can’t handle that lecture right now. And he sure as hell isn’t gonna talk to Gojo.

Which means he only has one option.

When he knocks on the door of Tsumiki’s apartment, she takes one look at him and sighs, long-suffering.

“You finally ready to talk?”

This was probably a grave miscalculation. If Kirara would kick his ass for the way he treated you, Tsumiki might actually hang him from his ankles out the window and leave him to die. But not before he apologizes to you. So at least he’s got time.

He walks in without responding and ignores her invitation to sit, pacing the kitchen instead in an uncharacteristic show of nerves. “I fucked up.”

“Yeah, I gathered,” Tsumiki says dryly, but she hops up onto the counter and looks at him, patient as ever. Tell me, she doesn’t say, but Megumi hears it anyway.

“I think I might be in love.”

—

To her credit, Tsumiki is dead silent for the entirety of Megumi’s rambling explanation. He’s a little hoarse by the end of it—honestly, he never talks like this. He feels like he just dumped his heart onto his sister’s kitchen floor and is awaiting some sort of judgement.

“Also, I think she hates me,” he finishes, finally sinking into a chair at the kitchen table. He tilts his head back and stares at the popcorn ceiling. “And I deserve it.”

For a beat, Tsumiki is silent. And then she says, “You wrote a song about her.”

He snaps his gaze to her so aggressively it hurts his neck. “What?”

She rolls her eyes and pulls something up on her phone, sliding up the volume and pressing play. She scrolls to some random point in the song, and Ino’s voice sings, “She’s got me up late starin’ at my phone, waitin’ for a text, feelin’ all alone.”

“Tsumiki—”

She turns it up, and Megumi looks anywhere but at his sister. There are plants everywhere, warm light filtering in through the windows onto herbs on the kitchen windowsill and succulents in the living room and god, everything reminds him of you.

“And she don’t even know what she’s doin’ to me, all my hopes are high-strung and she’s just gonna leave, no!”

“Okay! Okay, stop, I get it,” he huffs, dragging the heel of his palm down his face and trying to ignore her smug smile. “How did you even know?” he mumbles. “I’m not on the credits.”

“I know you,” she says dryly. “I also know Ino, and his lyrics are not that… I don’t know, poetically nihilistic.”

“I really can’t tell if you’re trying to insult or compliment me right now,” he says, sighing.

“Also,” Tsumiki says pointedly, “because this is what you do, Gumi.” He gives her a quizzical look in lieu of a response. “When people get close to you, you lash out and then you run away.” She hops off the counter and crosses the room to the table, pulling out a chair across from Megumi.

“No, I don’t,” he grumbles, tilting his chair away on its back legs and inadvertently proving her point.

She just looks at him until he relents, burying his face in his hands.

“I don’t think it’s unprecedented,” Tsumiki says gently, “considering the way we grew up. But you can’t keep shutting down good things, Gumi. You wouldn’t even be friends with Itadori and Kugisaki if they hadn’t forced their way past your bullshit. And you love them, right? They’re great. You know they’re not gonna hurt you.”

“Nobody knows that,” he huffs. “College will end and we’ll all go our separate ways and I’ll never hear from—”

“Nope,” Tsumiki says loudly, cutting him off. “Okay. My turn to talk. Shut up.” She glares at him, planting her elbows on the table. He feels stripped raw. “The whole pushing-people-away-before-I-get-hurt thing? You need to stop. You cannot look me in the eyes right now and tell me you don’t have people who would die for you, Gumi.”

He opens his mouth to object, but she swipes a hand through the air, silencing him. “I’m not done.” Megumi has only seen his sister like this a few times in his life, and he is fairly certain that if he tries to interrupt her again he might not leave this apartment alive.

“You have me. You have Gojo. You have Geto and Shoko and Nanami. You have all of your housemates, and Kugisaki, and probably all of her housemates too,” she says. “And none of us are going anywhere, okay? No walking out on the kids, no betrayal, no kicking you to the curb. So you need to get your head out of your ass, Megumi.”

Well.

“Look. It’s a defense mechanism. I get that,” she says, a little gentler now. “But you are not doing yourself any favors. And this girl? You’re in love with her, Gumi. That means she’s pretty special, okay? Because I don’t think I’ve ever even seen you look twice at a girl in your whole life. And I know she doesn’t deserve this, just as much as you know. So you have two choices.”

Megumi doesn’t think he’s going to like either of the two choices.

Tsumiki leans back in her chair, shrugging. “You can let her move on without you and keep screwing yourself over, or you can go tell her you fucked up and ask her to forgive you.”

He’s never liked asking for things. Tries to avoid it, actually. But he’s finding there are a lot of rules he’s willing to break when it comes to you.

“But if you’re going to ask this girl to step back into your life, you need to make sure you’re ready for it,” his sister says firmly. “You need to have your shit together. You need to know how you feel.” She pauses, catching his gaze, and once she has it she might as well be holding his face in her hands. He can’t look away, not when she’s looking at him this intently, like she’s waiting for an answer she already knows. “So. How do you feel?”

When he doesn’t answer right away, Tsumiki knocks on the table, like a dismissal. “Okay. You think about that, and when you know—you know.” She looks at him for a long moment after he stands up, those eternal curled locks of hair falling into her face, and he’s suddenly hit with a wave of affection, of gratitude, so strong he can barely stand it. Yeah, so he doesn’t have a mom. And fuck his dad. But Tsumiki—thank god he has his sister.

“Miki,” he says, before he can stop himself. “Uh—thank you. I…” He swallows once, hard. “Love you.”

Her smile is slow but wide, the kind that makes her eyes narrow just a little. “I love you too,” she says softly, and then she winks. “Hey, those words? That’s a real good start.”

—

When Megumi sees you next, he’s going to be ready. Just like Tsumiki said. He needs to know how he feels. So he thinks, and he thinks, and he thinks.

There’s a notebook in the bottom drawer of his desk, scrawled song lyrics he’ll never let anyone see. He fills page after page after page trying to figure out what’s going on in his head, in his heart, how he can make it make sense. Fit together like two hands, two sets of prints in the snow. He tries to imagine what he’ll say to you, how you’ll react, but every word he thinks of falls short, everything just sounds stupid in the face of how much you deserve and how little he can give.

He keeps thinking.

It’s December 19, Kugisaki’s Christmas party before everyone parts ways for break.

Megumi won’t admit it, but he’s having a good time. He brought the dogs, and he and Yuji have been bouncing around talking to their friends. Tsumiki’s here too, and when he loses track of Yuji he makes his way over to her, leaning silently against the wall.

“They’re cute,” she says fondly, and he follows her gaze to the hall—Ino is standing there with his girlfriend, Skipper, and there’s mistletoe hanging right above them. No doubt Kugisaki’s doing. Skipper laughs and pecks Ino on the lips before he says something and drags her down the hall, and then Maki and Yuta glance up at the mistletoe, look at each other in mutual horror, and pointedly do not walk beneath it. They’re finally together, but they wouldn’t be caught dead kissing in front of other people.

And he wonders what you’d do, if you were here standing under it with him.

He doesn’t have to say anything. Tsumiki reads him like a book.

It’s like this:

Megumi is very well-acquainted with loss. But he’s not sure he can handle this one.

He let his own insecurities ruin a good thing, a bright thing. He shut it down before it could start. He struck first and he fucking regrets it.

That’s it, then. Pity party over. Delusions down the drain. It’s time to get over himself, to get real.

Because the truth of it is that he doesn’t give a shit about his birthday, about Christmas, about the trees and the lights and the stupid fucking carols, if you’re not there with him.

Oh, he thinks. His sister has the audacity to smirk.

He stays, because this is Kugisaki’s party and despite everything, he does love her. He’s getting better about that, about acknowledging it—he has people who care about him, and he has people he cares about.

But when he heads out just a little bit early, after whispering your name in Kugisaki’s ear, she nearly slaps him for not going sooner.

“Shiro, Kuro,” he calls, heading for the door. “C’mon. We’ve got somewhere to be.”

PART II // TO TRYING

FOR A WEEK after Megumi walks out your front door, you drown in self-pity like the flower you killed in September with too much water. 

And then you open your computer and type his name into the search engine with jujutsu university and band. It’s not hard to find—one of the first results is some Instagram advertisement about a Battle of the Bands at JU, from a couple of weeks ago. One of them’s got to be his. You could just ask Nobara, but—it feels weird, somehow. Wrong. Like you’re encroaching on part of his life that he so clearly doesn’t want you to be a part of.

You can’t helping asking her to check on him, though. You just—it’s probably stupid, but you want him to be okay. Not that you think him pseudo-dumping you would tear him up or anything. But there’s a not insignificant part of you that doesn’t believe what he said that day. Part of you that knows a defense mechanism when you see one.

The thing is, you could’ve asked your friends about him. Hajime goes to JU. He might know Megumi, and if not he could’ve found out. But you wanted this for yourself, this mystery of earning his first name and his history and his heart, except you thought you’d gotten two of the three and it turns out he’ll only ever give you one.

You start typing in the bands one by one, figuring eventually one of them has to be his. A search for Black Flash turns up an artist image of a group of people surrounding a grinning girl with bright blue hair. No Megumi, though.

Shibuya Incident, then. You key it into Spotify and rub your eyes when the artist profile comes up, like you’re maybe seeing it wrong. No. It’s him.

There’s a dark-haired girl who must be Kirara leaning on a familiar-looking guy with pink hair, face split open in a smile. Front and center is a brown-eyed boy with a beanie tugged lopsided over his hair. And in the back, standing, looking characteristically bored, is Megumi Fushiguro.

Why are you doing this? You shouldn’t be doing this.

But you’re scrolling before you know it. Most popular songs. They have an EP called Over Duress. And they have a single—released recently, it looks like.

Strike First.

You only allow yourself one second of hesitation before you press play.

“Catch feels real quick,” a voice sings—Ino, must be. “And they go real deep.” You can’t help paying attention to the bassline. It’s steady, constant, holding the rest of the band together as Ino sings. The lyrics almost sink into the background until the chorus snags your attention, and you have to go back and replay it.

“I can hear the heartbreak saying, ooh, I’m on my way. So you strike first, strike first ‘cause she’s not gonna stay.”

Oh.

You understand, then, even if his name isn’t listed in the writing credits, even if you have no proof. Megumi wrote this song. You can hear him in the unfamiliar voice of the lead singer. You can feel him in the pattern of the words. It’s his.

He didn’t want you to leave, so he left first. Is that it?

You understand, but it’s not enough. Abruptly, you’re just—you’re angry. What a stupid reason to let something fall apart. You don’t owe him patience. If he’s not ready to commit, that’s not your problem, it’s his. He needs to figure himself out, learn to let people in, and you can’t just sit here and wait for him to do it. It’s not your responsibility.

It’s not.

There’s some sort of grim satisfaction in knowing that there’s nothing else you could have done.

“Forget that,” you mutter, closing out of Spotify and intending to just toss your laptop on the bed. Case closed. Moving on.

But something in your search results catches your eye first.

JU senior issued DUI after crash on 34th and Olson Blvd Friday night

Okay. So. Nothing to do with Megumi, right? Except it’s showing up in your search of his name. You click on the article, heart suddenly pounding.

Jujutsu University Campus Police responded to an emergency call at 11:41 last night after an automobile collision on 34th Street and Olson Boulevard, four blocks from the popular campus live music bar, The Fix.

“No,” you breathe. “What the fuck?” You keep skimming, everything in you loosening up when it says nobody was seriously hurt, but it just—whose car is that, Yuji’s? It’s bright red. Not Megumi’s.

You’re not really thinking when you make the call. It rings for so long, and right as you’re about to give up, he’s there on the other end of the line, and you realize you have no idea what you’re supposed to say.

“Hey?”

“Um. Hey.” You sound more breathless than you should, just sitting here on your bed with your laptop open to a student news publication. You don’t wait for him to ask why the hell you’re calling, barreling on before you lose your nerve. “I just saw this article about a car crash? Are you o—”

“I’m fine,” he says quickly. Defensively. Oh.

Right. This is overstepping, probably. He doesn’t need you checking up on him. You should’ve just texted Nobara. You should’ve just not read the article, actually, shouldn’t have typed his name into your search engine. He probably thinks you’re a creep who put Google alerts on for his name or something. You don’t have any real excuse for how you stumbled across this fucking article.

But then he says, “Sorry. I’m—yeah. We’re all fine.”

Thank god, you think. But you just clear your throat a little and say, “Okay. That’s—that’s good. I just… wanted to make sure.”

The silence is so long you think for a moment that he’s hung up on you. But then, very quietly, he says, “Thank you. I… appreciate that.”

You don’t really know where to go from here. He’s fine. Of course he’s fine. Why the hell did you call him in the first place? It’s not like he’s going to offer you any information. Because he doesn’t tell you anything, which was the whole problem in the first place—

“It was my cousin.”

You blink.

“Drunk. On the phone with his ex.”

“Oh,” you say, more of a surprised noise slipping out before you can bite it down. It’s less shock at the actual words than the fact that he’s giving you something, that he’s offering you this. You scroll down in the article. Naoya Zenin. The senior in the headline who got a DUI. “That’s… awful.”

“Yeah,” Megumi breathes. “Um. Yeah, he’s taken care of now.”

“Good. That’s good.”

Batman chooses this moment to start barking at absolutely nothing out the window. He actually has been a lot better about that recently, but it’s like it’s his mission today to embarrass you on the phone with the guy who dumped-not-dumped you.

“There he goes,” Megumi says lightly, and you laugh a little, because he sounds almost fond when he says it.

“There he goes,” you echo. “I should… go calm him down. I’ll…” What? You’ll what? See you around? No you won’t. Talk to you later? Unlikely.

“Yeah, yeah, go,” he says. “Um, good… luck.” With what? Batman? Life?

“Thanks. Bye, Fushiguro.”

You slam your finger down on the red button before he can reply.

You don’t want to know what he says. Your name, or sidekick, or Robin, or nothing at all.

—

You try to forget about him, but it’s hard.

Every time your phone buzzes with a message from your friends, classmates, family, your heart jumps, foolishly thinking it might be him. You follow Batman to the dog park without making the conscious decision to, and berate yourself when you realize, lead him off in another direction. Your rosemary plant dies and you hear him in your head, teasing you—isn’t the environment your whole career? Better shape up, sidekick.

Riko prepares a half-hour long PowerPoint presentation about all the reasons he didn’t deserve you in the first place. She must’ve told your roommate, too, because Suko calls you in the middle of the night, Japan time, just to check in.

A week into November, it’s dulled a little bit, the hurt. You’re still startled when he shows up at the dog park, but… not unpleasantly so.

“Snowprints,” he says when you ask if he knew you were here. One word, but it means more to you. Snowprints means he knew what he was walking into, and he came anyway. Snowprints means he saw a chance and followed it to you on purpose.

That’s progress, isn’t it?

You see him at the coffee shop and he remembers your order. It shouldn’t mean anything, but it does. Snowprints and a vanilla latte.

He said he didn’t want this, but you just… don’t believe him.

But you’re not waiting for him. If the cute guy from ecology asked you out tomorrow, you’d say yes. This boy isn’t dictating your life while he figures himself out.

You hope he does figure himself out. But you won’t hold on to scraps.

And you do start to forget, a little. The cute guy in your ecology class does not ask you out, but your friends and your studies and your needy dog are enough of a distraction that Megumi isn’t in the front of your mind all the time. The semester is flying by, and you make an effort to keep in touch with Nobara despite everything—she really is fun.

It’s approaching break before you know it, and you’re going home for the holidays soon, though you’ll probably be back before the new year because Setsuko needs a ride. Man, you’re excited to have a roommate again.

Your suitcase is half-packed, poorly folded clothes covering the whole of your bedspread in some futile attempt at organization. Christmas is in six days—well, five, you think idly, glancing at the clock. Half past midnight. You should go to sleep, but your bed is covered in clothes and you need to finish packing for your drive home in two days.

“Hey, no,” you lecture as Batman sniffs at a shirtsleeve dangling over the side of the bed. You can tell he’s considering making the leap and taking a nap on top of all your freshly laundered clothes. “No. Stay down.”

You push to your feet, yawning, and then Batman freezes in place, his ears perking up and forward like he hears something.

“What’s up?” you mutter, and then his head snaps toward the door. “Dude, what? It’s past midnight—”

The doorbell rings.

“The shit,” you mutter, trudging to the front door. Irrationally you wonder if your roommate’s home early, but that’s stupid—she’d have needed a ride from the airport, and she has a key.

You don’t know what you expect when you nudge Batman aside and open the door into the cold night, barely holding him back from the cracked door with your leg.

Oh.

You’re face to face with Megumi Fushiguro, and your heart does a diving, spinning leap into the bottom of your stomach.

His lips are slightly parted like he stopped speaking mid-word, eyes wild with urgency, and you suddenly wonder if he’s in trouble, if something’s really wrong. Snow peppers his dark hair, the porch light bouncing off the white specks and making him look like he’s sparkling.

You can’t find any words. None at all, nothing that can actually articulate the shock and confusion and barely-squashed hope. What is happening?

“Robin,” he says. And then he says your name, your real name, and—it’s like a dam breaks.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so fucking sorry. I—I’ve had some time to think and I really, really messed up and I don’t know how I’m ever going to make it up to you but I have to try to explain, I—it’s me, it was all me, all my fault, you’re amazing and I’m insecure and I let that get in the way of something really fucking good and that was stupid, so stupid, and I like being with you and I like knowing you and I want you to meet my friends and my weird messed-up family and I want you to know me, I want to let you know me, and I’m sorry I didn’t just because I got too in my own head about it, about you. You take up so much headspace it’s insane and I haven’t stopped thinking about you since—since, I don’t know, since I fucking met you, and I—”

The multi-colored Christmas lights strung between the pillars of your front step cast colors and shadows over him as he rambles, his cheeks red from the cold and maybe something else, and you can’t take it, watching him like this, desperate.

“Fushiguro.”

But he’s on a roll now, the words spilling from him like they’ve been building up in the hollow space of his throat for years, and he’s not stopping now. You’re not sure he even hears you over the rapid, panicked lilting of his own confession.

“You should turn around right now, slam the door in my face, I get it, I deserve that, and I don’t have any excuse that matters, but I realized how important you’d become and that scared me more than anything I’d ever felt because that meant I could lose you, you could leave—”

“Fushiguro.”

“And it’s—I fell in love with you months ago,” he breathes. “I’m sorry, and I love you, I’m so in love with you, and I—”

“Megumi.”

He finally stops, panting, every part of him frenzied and undone. His lips are still parted around a word he hasn’t said, freeze frame, the remote in your hands. “Will you just come inside?”

The silent second feels like ages, years, maybe, and you can see the disbelief in his irises, like he’s afraid to trust this, afraid to hope.

“No,” he breathes suddenly, and something comes dangerously close to cracking in your heart. Did he come here, say all this, only to leave you again?

“I—”

“No, because I brought the dogs and they’re sitting in the back of my car right now,” he explains, sheepish. An unbelieving, slightly hysterical laughter bubbles up out of you, warm and surprising and not at all unpleasant.

You grab Megumi by the dark fabric of his coat and yank him toward you, pressing your lips to his cold ones, hand slipping up to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck. It’s like your warmth leeches into him limb by limb, slowly unfreezing him both from the cold and the frantic fear that you’d turn him away again, and it’s below freezing but he’s melting beneath your touch, and you missed him so, so much.

You pull back, your breath fogging in the air like an echo. “You idiot,” you tell him. “Go get them, I want to see them.” You cross your arms over your chest, leaning on the doorjamb and finally processing how cold it is out here. It’s like it’s sinking right into your bones. “And then get your ass inside.”

He smiles breathlessly, standing still for a moment, and then it’s like he just snaps into action, like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind if he waits another second. The dogs run up the path before he does, and you let them barrel into you and then have their little reunion with Batman while Megumi catches up.

“Come sit down,” you tell him, shutting the door and closing out the cold air. “And tell me more.”

It’s almost like nothing ever changed.

You talk for hours in the lamp-lit living room, surrounded by three tired dogs and a record spinning in the corner. But this time, Megumi talks more than you’ve ever heard him talk. He tells you everything.

How he pushed you away and justified it to himself by saying you deserved better, when really you deserved the truth. How his dad left and his mom died young and Gojo was barely legal when he took him in. How he had a lot of issues with his self-worth growing up, and even now, and how it took him a very long time to accept that people care about him. How it was Tsumiki's idea to get the dogs, because after their mom died he couldn't stop having nightmares. How he wanted to call you every day and then he finally cracked and he went to Tsumiki and she psychoanalyzed him at the kitchen table and he sorted out all his shit so he could show up here like an absolute nuisance and beg you to give him another chance.

“That’s all I wanted, you know,” you tell him, the both of you on the floor, leaning against Shiro and Kuro as they sleep. Batman’s made himself comfortable on the couch, occasionally using his vantage point to lick you right in the face. “You, being honest. You didn’t have to tell me about your parents, y’know, if you didn’t want to. But just…”

“I know that now,” he murmurs sheepishly. “I’m sorry. Really. But I’m trying to get over the whole self-sabotage thing. Trying to… try. In general. With people.”

And he means it. Because the only time Megumi has ever lied to you was the day he told you he didn’t want this, and you knew even then that it wasn’t true. He might try to be all stoic and poker-faced, but he’s not a very good liar. You smile. “That’s a good start.”

You’re facing each other, knees touching, and you reach out, hand palm-up between you. He glances at you before he makes any move, like he’s asking—are you sure? But then he laces his fingers through yours. His hands are way bigger than yours, fingers folding over your own, warm and encompassing. Something about it feels very right.

“So I was wondering,” he starts, and this new side of him that is so hesitant but also hopeful is maybe the most endearing thing you’ve ever seen. You squeeze his hand a little, and that seems to embolden him enough to ask whatever it is waiting on the tip of his tongue. “Uh, would you… want to meet my housemates?”

—

“They’re crazy,” Megumi says, standing outside his house with you the next day. “I mean it. I don’t know how to prepare you for—”

“Megumi,” you cut him off, laughing. “No disclaimers. I’m friends with Riko, remember?” This actually seems to be an effective argument, because he smiles a little, putting his hand on the door.

“Yeah, okay. That’s fair.”

You are tackled the second you cross the threshold.

“Hi!” someone practically shouts in your ear, full-on bear-hugging you as you stumble back, laughing.

“Oh my god,” Megumi groans. “Itadori—”

“Sorry!” he yelps, pulling back and awkwardly offering a hand like he didn’t just squeeze the living daylights out of you. “I’m Yuji. Kugisaki’s told me all about you and Fushiguro said—”

“Itadori,” he says again. You immediately understand what Megumi meant. This boy is legitimately no different than the two dogs who have come to crowd around your legs. Actually, Shiro and Kuro have greeted you significantly more calmly than Yuji has. It’d be difficult not to like him, you think.

“No, you’re fine,” you laugh him off, using the handshake to pull him back in. “You’re fun. I like you.” Yuji grins victoriously at Megumi and lets you go, and you finally move out of the entryway and into the familiar living space.

“Ino,” you say, pointing at the boy in a beanie, and then shift to the girl crouched in front of the TV, rummaging through a bunch of games. “Kirara.”

The conspiratorial smirk Kirara gives you—along with the way the Wii games are scattered all around her like a personal hurricane—makes you think she might not actually be the long-suffering order in a house full of chaos. More likely, she and Ino and Yuji are only kept in check by Megumi’s neat freak tendencies and blunt nature.

“Hey.” Ino grins. “Okay, I gotta ask, is your dog actually named Batman? Because that’s awesome.”

“She’s been here for two seconds,” Megumi chides, but you nod happily. You are very proud of your dog’s stupid name.

“Well, I approve,” Ino shrugs, patting the space next to him on the couch.

And it feels natural, the way you fall into place with the rest of them. For all Megumi pretends they drive him insane, it’s obvious he loves his friends, and he seems relaxed around them even as you waste away the afternoon chatting and arguing and getting your ass kicked in Mario Kart (specifically by Kirara, whose undefeated record pisses off all the boys but makes you even fonder of her).

By the time night falls, you feel like you’ve been friends with all of them for years. You learn all about the band—Megumi didn’t tell you that they won the Battle of the Bands, which you plan to give him shit for later. They ask you about your school and friends and seem to actually, genuinely want to meet them.

You go home for Christmas, getting your annual few rare days of quality family time, but Megumi sends you photos from Gojo’s with Tsumiki and the dogs. You respond with a picture of Batman in a Santa hat.

megumi: they really want to meet you when you get back. if you want.

A smile splits across your face before you can stop it. Because this is exactly what you wanted—for Megumi to want you to meet his family, to know that part of his life.

“What are you smiling about?” your dad asks from the couch, and your blush must be answer enough, because he turns to your mom with a raised brow and mouths boy. You shove your phone in your pocket. You weren’t prepared for the interrogation, but it’s too late now.

The thing is, if your family had asked you if you were seeing anyone even last week, you’d have had nothing to say. And maybe you shouldn’t dump all this information on them when it’s still so fresh, so new.

But something tells you this is going to last. He wants you to meet Tsumiki, to meet Gojo. You won’t keep him from your family if he doesn’t keep you from his. Plus, your parents leave on another trip in two days. You’re not sure when else you’ll get the chance to tell them this in person.

“So,” you say, before they can start grilling you. “His name is Megumi.”

—

There are prints in the snow.

It feels uncannily familiar, walking your usual path with Batman and seeing the two sets of paw prints and accompanying boots. You place your own footsteps in their wake, laughing at how they dwarf your own shoe size.

You aren’t supposed to see Megumi until he picks you up to go to Gojo’s tonight, but it seems fate—or Batman—has other ideas.

You let him drag you all the way to a big, snowy clearing, where you see your boyfriend and Kuro standing in the snow. It takes you a whole five seconds longer to make out Shiro, who basically blends right into the landscape.

The dogs, per usual, see you first, and Megumi turns at their excited noises to see you. He wastes no time setting off across the field toward you, and you grin, meeting him in the middle.

“So is this a coincidence, or is someone following me?” he asks, meeting you at eye-level as you crouch to greet the dogs. Batman basically shoves his nose in Megumi’s face in response.

“Snowprints,” you say, gesturing to the trail behind you. “Seems to be a theme.” Behind the wall of Kuro’s dark fur, you plant your hands in the snow, letting a mischievous smile grow on your lips. “Anyway, I’m glad I ran into you, because—”

You throw a massive snowball right at Megumi’s face.

“Oh,” he says, swiping a gloved hand across his eyes but leaving flakes of white stuck in his brows, on his lashes. “You’ve done it now.”

“Protect me,” you whisper to Kuro, and then you run.

All-out war. The dogs are thrilled at every snowball that misses its mark, all of them leaping to catch the wayward projectiles in the air, and you and Megumi chase each other and trip over the snow and wind up in a big, snow-covered mess on the ground, staring up at a shockingly bright afternoon sky.

You can barely breathe, you’re laughing so hard. “You’re crazy,” you pant, pushing yourself up onto your elbows, then your palms. An absolute mess of snowprints—his, yours, Shiro’s, Kuro’s, Batman’s—cross over each other in the snow, revealing patches of browning grass here and there, showing the signs of your battle. “Aw, hey. It looks like a giant heart.”

“Sap,” Megumi snorts.

“Buzzkill.”

“Instigator.”

“Oh, yeah?” You grab a fistful of snow and put it right on his head, letting it melt into his tousled, snow-streaked hair. “Well, I’ll instigate, then.”

He laughs, shaking his hair out like a dog, and tackles you back into the snow. “Then I’ll instigate something else.”

You’re so cold you can barely feel half your face, but it doesn’t matter. Not when he kisses you like this.

—

The first thing you think when Satoru Gojo opens the door is damn, he’s tall.

The second is holy shit, those are the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen in my entire life.

“Gumi!” he shouts, enveloping him in a very one-sided hug.

The third thing? Yeah, you like him.

“Gojo,” Megumi grumbles, half-heartedly pushing him away, but the fondness of the interaction doesn’t escape you.

“And I’ve heard all about you,” Gojo grins, pulling you into a hug as well—you don’t hesitate to hug him back, because now you know exactly what this man has done for Megumi and Tsumiki. And he’s important to Megumi, so he’s important to you.

Megumi telling you about his childhood and Gojo was one thing, but him actually wanting you to meet his family is another. You feel warm all over as Gojo ushers you into the apartment, where Tsumiki is already busy making dinner. She nearly drops the pan in her hands at the sight of you. “Hi!”

“You all hug so much,” Megumi says flatly when she hugs you too, and she just grins and forces him into an embrace as well.

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”

“Shut up.”

“Love you too.”

“So,” Tsumiki says, turning back to the stove and insisting you sit down and make yourself at home when you offer to help. “Tell me about you.” Instead, she enlists Megumi to be her kitchen assistant, and you aren’t sure why it’s so surprising that he knows how to cook, but it is.

The four of you talk about school and the dogs (who are at home with Suko, now that she’s finally back from Japan) and your families and friends, and you can see Megumi growing more comfortable as the night goes on, once he’s sure that Gojo isn’t about to whip out a bunch of embarrassing pictures of him as a kid or tell you all his darkest secrets. Tsumiki is sweet and you take a liking to her immediately, talking all about her job running the campus paper. Gojo tells you about the bar he works at, about his college friends who founded it.

“Do you have to work tomorrow, then?” you ask between bites of the best meatballs you’ve ever had.

Gojo shrugs. “Yeah. But if I wasn’t, I’d be hanging out with all the same people I work with, anyway. Not so bad, huh?”

“We’re actually probably going to swing by the bar tomorrow,” Megumi says, avoiding Gojo’s gaze in favor of looking at you. Gojo lights up. It’s endearing, how excited he is at the prospect of seeing all of Megumi’s friends. “You coming?” Megumi asks Tsumiki.

“To the bar or the house party?”

“Both,” Megumi shrugs.

“Only if you are,” she says not to Megumi but to you, teasingly.

“Yeah, I gotta meet the rest of his friends. All of Nobara’s housemates.”

“Oh, I love them!” Tsumiki says. “Mm, you’ll get along with Yuta. I mean, everyone does. Oh god, and Toge. And S—yeah, okay, all of them, actually. Have you met our cousin Maki?”

“No, but they all sound great,” you say honestly.

“They are!” Gojo says loudly. “They can give you so much dirt on Megumi.” Megumi glares at him with a complete lack of heat.

“You and my friend Riko would get along,” you say, but as soon as you say it you’re not sure it’s true. Either they would immediately gang up on Megumi and make his life a living hell, or Riko would have the same dynamic with Gojo and they would argue until somebody threw a punch.

Megumi stares at you incredulously. “They can never meet. Ever.”

Except they do, because you bring Riko to the bar the following night. You feel like this might have been a dire miscalculation, because not only does this mean she’s meeting Gojo, but it means she’s meeting Nobara’s housemate who, in her words, is a kindred “chaos goblin.” This means that they’re both comm majors with too much time on their hands and they make it everyone else’s problem.

Toge Inumaki is the very possibly the only person you’ve ever met who can match Riko in terms of sheer chaos. It is terrifying. They’ve known each other for a grand total of five minutes before they’re planning a full-on bracketed Just Dance tournament with Rasputin as the final battle.

“You’re insane,” you tell Riko fondly, and she grins at you.

“I think we’re brushing over the fact that you think Rasputin is the hardest one on there,” Gojo says, leaning over the bar incredulously.

“What, you think your old man knees can handle it?” Riko asks shamelessly, and you excuse yourself as they launch into bickering worthy of siblings.

But nothing explodes, and you meet Shoko and Geto and Utahime and Nanami, and all of Nobara’s housemates, including Megumi’s cousin. She’s very no-nonsense in a way that you appreciate, and after you shit-talk Naoya with her, you feel like you’re probably going to be very good friends.

It’s well past eleven by the time you all get back to Megumi’s place, leaving Gojo to ring in the new year with his own friends. Someone puts the ball drop on the TV in the living room and you all scatter across the space, a swell of conversation and laughter as midnight inches closer.

It’s like this:

A living room full of your friends and his, laughing and smiling and teasing and playing Just Dance really aggressively (but that’s just Toge and Riko, really). Megumi’s knee pressed against yours as Tsumiki forces him to smile for a picture with you. Nobara throwing her arms around you, insisting you settle a debate between her and Yuta about the superior shape of pasta noodle. Sneaking off to Megumi’s room while Yuji is distracted, stealing kisses in the dark. Listening to his whispered commentary in your ear as the drinks and sleep deprivation start hitting Toge and Yuta and they get existential on the floor. Suko telling everyone all about Japan and the occult club she started at her university there. Yuji being way too into the idea of starting one between JU and Kaisen, launching animatedly into a discussion of all his favorite conspiracy theories.

Five minutes to midnight, Kirara pops open a bottle of champagne and passes you a glass, and you wave it in front of Megumi teasingly.

“What, you wanna toast to something?” he teases, leaning in toward you. “You gonna say to us? That’s pretty Hallmark movie of you.”

You hum, swirling the glass, lifting your gaze to meet his. “To trying,” you say. “And also vigilantism?”

And there’s his laugh, better than the ball drop, the streamers, the disco ball that came from god knows where in the corner. “I can get behind that,” he says, clinking his glass against yours. “To your superhero dog,” he says, leaning in closer. “And his pretty cool sidekick.” He kisses you as the countdown hits one, and you’re laughing against his lips, savoring the warmth of his hand on the back of your neck.

When he pulls away, it’s only by centimeters, just enough for him to lock eyes with you. “And,” he breathes against your lips, “to trying.”

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