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A ding from his phone was enough to drag Megumi out of his heatstroke stupor. The smudge of a shadow created by his graduation cap was paltry and pitiful. The girl sitting to Megumi’s right was pitched forward, head between her knees to escape the early-summer sun, and it struck him as an ingenious idea, one he would have implemented immediately—if he wasn’t aware that somewhere in the stands, Tsumiki was recording all of this.
Presently, he was roasting alive on a football field for mere formalities. Presently, Megumi wanted to die.
His phone chimed again. Besides the girl beside him—who could have been dead for all Megumi knew—the rest of his seatmates had already broken the no-phone policy and were listlessly scrolling. Desperate for a distraction from the fact that he was being slow-cooked, Megumi pulled out the phone, which had grown sticky with sweat from being pressed against his thigh. Tsumiki could edit this part out.
The first message was a five-dollar-off coupon from the local sub place that had given him food poisoning once. The second was from Jujutsu Technical College:
Dear Megumi Fushiguro,
Thank you for filling out the Jujutsu Marching Band Drumline Intent Form. Auditions will be held on June 5th (9 a.m. — 2 p.m.), and you should plan to stay for the entire audition. You are expected to bring your own music, sticks, and practice pad; instruments will be provided. Auditions will be evaluated on the following:
Megumi stopped reading. Funny how swiftly irritation swelled, like water threading through the hull of a ship. He scanned the crowd in the stands, feeling a tad silly. Hundreds of people in the stands, friends and families gathered to watch the graduation, melted together in one indistinct blob. But still, white hair stuck out like a sore thumb, and that bastard was practically bioluminescent.
The light caught there, in the middle, a little to the right. A small circle of white. Megumi could imagine the exact sort of irritating smile he was sporting, and wished a thousand years of curses on the entire Gojo lineage.
⭑ ⭑ ⭑
“No,” Megumi said by way of greeting.
The accursed graduation had finally ended, and they were released to their families to be needled and fawned over. All around him, people Megumi was happy he’d never see again were hugging and sobbing and promising to stay friends forever. No one hugged Megumi, which was exactly what he preferred.
Tsumiki, radiant, with her camera slung over her shoulder, hugged him with a force that should have been back-breaking if she weighed more than two pounds. And there, out of arm’s reach, stood Satoru Gojo, hands in his pocket.
“What am I being accused of now?” Gojo asked.
Megumi rearranged his face in a familiar scowl. “You know you can go to jail for identity fraud."
“Thank you for the warning, Mr. Do Right. By the way, have you beaten anyone up recently, or are you on a seasonal break?”
Tsumiki kept her expression friendly as she glanced between them, but Megumi saw the confusion working its way in. Before Gojo had the opportunity to twist the narrative—and he would no doubt try—Megumi said, “He signed me up for college marching band.”
Tsumiki’s confusion cleared up instantly, her smile growing wider. Megumi’s stomach dropped. That was not a good smile.
She clasped her hands together. “That’s wonderful. An activity like that would be good for you.”
No no no no.
Gojo smiled. “And I’ll be drum major this year, so I can keep an eye on him.”
Now, Megumi thought that, despite his delinquent tendencies, he was an overall agreeable sort. He had agreed not to kill Gojo plenty of times, at Tsumiki’s request. He’d agreed to join band class in his final year of high school because Tsumiki had begged him to find something, anything to occupy his time. And he’d agreed to percussion when Gojo had suggested it because Megumi had asked the only person he knew with any musical expertise. And he’d agreed to submit himself to the weird, cult-like hypersexual hivemind of band class. Agreeing was in his nature in most instances, except when he did not want to, mostly because of reasons revolving around not feeling up to it.
He had not agreed to join marching band despite repeated pleading from the band director, nor did he participate in winter percussion despite repeated, pointed hints. And he had no intention of continuing with music in college, when he knew he’d inevitably drown under the increased workload. And he certainly would not agree to spend his precious free time surrounded by overly sexual adult weirdos.
He could explain all of this to Tsumiki, but he knew she would find a kind, friendly response to each and every one of these objections. He ran his tongue over his teeth. There had to be a different approach. “I just don’t think I’ll have the time. I’ve heard biology can be pretty intense—”
“Your first year is nothing but gen ed and intro courses. You’ll be fine. Besides, there are plenty of band study groups. We don’t let anyone fail,” said Gojo, his smile all teeth.
“I—” Megumi stopped, then started again, “I don’t want to.”
Tsumiki tilted her head, consideration marring her doll-like face. Of course, Gojo swooped in to ruin his one salvation.
“I heard old man Zen’in expects you to intern at the company your freshman year.”
Megumi’s heart clicked stop, all the blood and arteries bunching like tape. “What?”
Even Tsumiki was eyeing Gojo with a less-than-friendly look. The Zen’ins, Megumi’s would-be guardians if Gojo’s family hadn’t swooped in long ago, were not a cheery topic for discussion.
“They figured you wouldn’t have much going on outside of classes. It’s a good time to bring you in. Especially since they’ve so patiently allowed you to enjoy high school.”
Megumi stared at him, or tried to; the sun was at his back, silhouetting Gojo until he was nothing more than a tall, lean shadow. “I hate you,” he said dully.
Gojo snorted. “Don’t be late to auditions. We’re big on punctuality.”
⭑ ⭑ ⭑
Megumi pressed his back into the wall, head tilted up, eyes jumping between the ceiling blocks. The tiles were arranged in exactly the type of skewed pattern that kept his mind occupied as he tried to make sense of them. Three, then seven, then three, then nine, then two, then eight, then on and on until he reached the end.
In front of him, a young man was shaking like a leaf. Behind, another young man stood ramrod stiff, like he’d been called to attention. Presently, the thirty people auditioning for the few open spots on the Jujutsu Technical College’s drumline were lined up against a wall like kindergartners. There was a palpable stench in the air, sweat soured with nerves, and Megumi wrinkled his nose.
Unlike the group audition they’d undergone an hour earlier, there were no good vibes or camaraderie to be found amongst the applicants. Now that it was down to the individual, there was a general understanding that the thirty of them were auditioning for the four snare, two tenor, and three bass drum spots available.
The double doors to the music room opened, and like they were all cut to the same string, everyone cranked their heads to look at their newest victim. A willowy woman exited with her chin held high. She didn’t glance at anyone as she strutted down the hallway and disappeared. All right. That made two out of seven who hadn’t cried.
“Next!”
The line shifted forward as the double doors swallowed their next victim. Megumi was now precisely three spots from the front. Close enough that the faint tapping of the drummer mingled with the general ambience of the hallway. They weren’t half-bad, but Megumi didn’t know if half-bad was the bar they needed to pass. He wouldn’t have even cared if the looming threat of his bio family didn’t hang over him like a rain cloud full to burst. He desperately wanted to avoid getting soaked.
In three blinks, Megumi was at the front of the line. The scared boy who’d gone before him had exited like he was made boneless, limbs gooey as he slouched down the hall.
“Next.”
Megumi went in.
It was an ordinary music room: instruments hung on the walls like decorations, dozens of plaques and awards gleaming like badges, a gaggle of music stands shoved in the back corner, racks of instruments in black cases, and a back wall that was ninety percent a giant mirror. Megumi watched himself walk in. The lines of his body did not betray any of the nervousness he felt. Good.
The older man with the short-cropped brown hair who’d led the group auditions was sitting on a stool with his legs crossed. Kusakabe, he remembered. A relaxed guy who hadn’t given Megumi any particularly strong vibes. The woman sitting in the chair beside him made him stop short.
She was young, probably only a few years older than Megumi, though the burn scars that riddled her face made it a little hard to tell. He knew her. Not well, but with the way his gut coiled swiftly in that sharp, niggling way, he understood that she could only be a Zen’in. God, were they everywhere? She squinted up at Megumi through thin square glasses, seemingly drawing a similar conclusion about him.
Kusakabe rubbed the back of his neck as he indicated for Megumi to sit on the black chair opposite him.
“This is Maki, a senior tenor and your section leader if you pass.”
Megumi acknowledged her with what he hoped was a friendly enough hello. Her lips were curling in a decidedly unfriendly way.
The audition began with a quick interview.
“What’s your name?”
“Where did you go to high school?”
“What are you studying at JTC?”
“What instrument are you hoping to get?”
Megumi dutifully answered each question. It was only the last one that tripped him up.
“Why do you want to join the JTC marching band?”
Because if I don’t, I’ll be forced to work for my evil rich relatives, did not seem like an appropriate answer. “I was told I should try out.”
Maki raised an eyebrow. “Told? By who?”
“Satoru Gojo.”
Their faces were inscrutable, and Megumi was suddenly not so sure the namedrop helped. Surely helped, right? Gojo was a major general or something.
Kusakabe asked, “So do you have any personal interest?”
No was obviously the incorrect answer, even if it was true in Megumi’s heart. Megumi sat silently as his brain worked through a series of answers. Probably for a little too long because both of them were looking at him sideways. “Seemed like something fun to do,” he said finally.
The beat of silence that followed was long, like a void had opened up and sucked away all the sound. Should he smile? Megumi thought this over and concluded that his smiling muscles were so out of practice that this could only make the situation worse.
“All right. Why don’t you start at the top of the packet? I’ll set the metronome at a slow speed, then we’ll gradually pick it up,” said Kusakabe.
Megumi nodded. Best not to think too hard as he worked through the audition material. Sometimes they stopped him and had him do a line over. They made him demonstrate matched and traditional grip, the latter something he’d only picked up in the last two weeks. It was an awkward hold, but not undoable. During his prepared solo, Maki scrunched her face, but otherwise did not comment.
In between one blink and the next, the audition was over, and Megumi stood there waiting to be dismissed. The pair scribbled on their notepads.
“Decent, but he’s boring,” Maki said. “Very utilitarian.”
Megumi jolted.
“I’d take boring. We got enough hotshots as it is. Stick height could use some improvement,” Kusakabe said with a barely stifled yawn. He checked his watch. “Good show, kid. Head back down the hall, straight through the courtyard for the last phrase.” He waved his hand in dismissal.
Megumi gathered his things, the motion made all the more difficult by the gumminess that had overtaken his limbs. Boring. Boring. Hot and sticky in his ears, rolled like taffy.
⭑ ⭑ ⭑
Megumi sat at the top of the slide, hard plastic digging into his thighs and the crisp night breeze rustling his hair. The playground was situated near the top of a long, sloping hill, giving Megumi a picture-perfect view of the neighborhood and surrounding city: the thousands of twinkling lights and cars zipping through the streets; houses with wide windows displaying TV families enjoying dinner together or crowded in their living rooms.
It was a hop and skip away from the apartment—bought by the Gojos—Megumi had lived in for over a decade, and served as his second home. It was where he returned when the air in the apartment suffocated him, choked out his thoughts. At night, every child was tucked in bed. The swings were a good place to think, to turn over his thoughts, splintered like a vase, inspecting each shard in the light until he could put them back together. A slide was a liminal space, good for discarding thought entirely.
He placed his palms flat on either side of him and gently pushed himself down the tunnel. He slowed right before the end and lay there, cocooned from the outside world. There had to be some scientific reason why the tunnel was so comforting. Some therapist the Gojos could pay for to tell him that the tunnel linked back to a swaddle or the womb or some primal human desire or whatever.
At least it provided a nice shield from ruminations. Where boring didn’t hang over his head like a lit neon sign. He didn’t have to remember how he’d nearly marched straight on top of a tiny girl when they were asked to demonstrate a basic marching block. Or the snickering. Or how the instructor had commented that Megumi marched like a baby giraffe discovering land—
Megumi opened his eyes. Nothing above him but burnt orange plastic, faintly illuminated by streetlights. Right, not thinking. Megumi did not need to think.
Not.
Think.
Thinking about thinking must count as thinking, he thought, so he tried to stop thinking about that as well. Become nothing.
Crunch…crunch…crunch.
Someone was here. The playground was obstinately Megumi’s when it got this late. No one was out at this hour.
Whatever. Eyes screwed shut, he returned to the nothingness void he’d cultivated. Or tried to.
“Do you go to bed this angry? Is that why you’re always so miserable?” The voice was loud, a firecracker in the night.
Another quieter voice answered, but it was tinny, more a crackle than anything.
The loud voice scoffed. “Make your own dinner, asshole. I’m not your maid.”
The shuffling of gravel quickened, and Megumi imagined whoever it was pacing back and forth, working a divot into the ground with scuffed shoes. Etching their anger into the earth. And they were getting closer. Megumi stared above him at the hard plastic wall, reasoning with himself that it’d be overkill to emerge from his meditative cocoon to attack this stranger, no matter how much this jackass disturbed the peace. They’ll leave soon.
“Fuck me? Fuck you!” The sharp thwack of something hitting the merry-go-round ricocheted. A respite before whoever it was swore angrily and jogged away, the steps growing faint.
Megumi sighed in relief and got comfortable again in his slide tunnel. It was short-lived.
Crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch.
A shadow sliced through the light at the end of the slide. Close enough to blot out Megumi’s warm yellow light. His breath caught in his chest as he lay in wait.
Seconds later, pop music blared from a speaker. Shitty pop music, too high energy, with nonsensical lyrics about ass. This wouldn’t do.
Trying to turn around in a slide made for five-year-olds was a challenge, but Megumi folded and twisted around until he was flat on his stomach, army crawling the rest of the way down the slide. He tentatively poked his head from his cocoon, ready to ask this guy if he’d ever heard of goddamn headphones. He stopped.
One of the streetlights was flickering again, on off on off, but Megumi saw clearly enough. A figure stood an arm’s reach from the slide. The first thing Megumi noticed was his legs—well, he precisely noticed that nothing was covering them, besides a pair of indecently short shorts. Ridiculously short. Megumi could make out the precise curve of his ass. He slowly traced a path from that ass downward, over the strong thighs, to the muscled calves.
Wait, no, he was getting distracted. Hot legs didn’t matter. This guy was an irritant, a fly flown too close. He needed to be swatted. Megumi opened his mouth to alert him that he wasn’t the main character of the playground, but the words died on his lips as he craned his neck up.
The guy was holding a rifle.
Cradling it in his right arm so that the dangerous end pointed towards the sky. It was anachronistic. His neighborhood voted for gun reform every election cycle; they ran 'see something, say something' assemblies every semester.
Yeah, Megumi didn’t think he should say anything to the guy playing with a gun at night on a playground. Despite being close enough to hear his breathing, the guy was thankfully unaware of Megumi lurking behind him. He could hide in the slide until it was safe.
Megumi began the awkward backwards shimmy up the slide.
The guy threw the rifle. Straight up, and it disappeared briefly from view. Megumi gaped. A moment later, it came back down, landing in the guy’s outstretched hands with a loud crack. He threw it again. Megumi wasn’t well-versed in gun culture, but he was positive you didn’t flip them. The flickering streetlight blared with a brighter intensity, and Megumi squinted.
The rifle was solid white all over, save for the silver bolt along the top, and a long black strap on the bottom. After the second toss, the guy grabbed the strap and swung it in a wide arc.
A prop, Megumi thought with sudden clarity. A memory dredged up to the surface of the one college football game he’d ever attended, two years ago. Tsumiki had wanted to see Gojo perform after listening to him prattle on about marching band for hours. It hadn’t at all been enjoyable—not the game they were forced to watch in the freezing cold, nor the subsequent halftime show. Megumi had stared mutely in confusion as the stadium went crazy when the band took the field. Tsumiki excitedly pointed out Gojo whenever he neared the front, his pale skin impossible to miss under the stadium floodlights.
There had been other performers on the field, he remembered, in flashy, sparkly outfits, dancing and spinning flags and things that looked like weapons. Perhaps Megumi wasn’t cultured enough to understand the performance—everything was too needlessly complex.
The smack of the rifle hitting the pebbled ground snatched him from the memory. The guy huffed and picked it up, shaking loose the dust and rocks, and continued spinning. The song changed, something a little slower tempoed, so his movements became more languid, like water, incorporating what Megumi could only assume was ballet as he glided about the playground, moving further from the slide. Megumi relaxed as he realized this was just another marching band freak and not a potential school shooter.
Just his luck, but the man spun around then. The rifle disappeared high above him. On the first revolution, their eyes locked for a millisecond. Then he stopped halfway on the second, facing Megumi with a look of confusion. Disaster struck as it made a reappearance, back from wherever it had gone above.
Megumi stared in horror as it clipped the man in the head—a brutal, resounding crack not unlike an egg against the edge of a counter. The reaction was instantaneous: the man dropped to his knees, clutching his head. Megumi scrambled out of the slide, heart in his throat.
“H-hey! Are you okay?” Megumi called out. Possibly, he had just killed a man.
A low moan answered. Okay, still alive. “That looked like it hurt. Want me to call an ambulance?” He took a chance and shuffled closer. The music was still blaring from the guy’s phone, more irritating pop music that sounded like every sound at once.
The man blinked up at him, eyes teary with pain. He wasn’t bleeding at least, but his face was all scrunched up. His cute face. Really cute face, with big brown eyes like a deer. And currently, it was looking at Megumi like he might be the devil.
“What,” the man gasped out, “were you doing over there?” He thrust a hand vaguely at the slide.
“I was here first.” This was not an appropriate answer, but it was the only answer Megumi had. “Seriously, should I call someone? You don’t look good.”
“No. Fuck,” the guy said. He looked up, took in a lungful of air, and steadied his breathing. After a minute, he shook his head. A shock of pink hair fluttered with the motion. “Not the first time that’s happened…were you really just lurking in the slide? That’s so creepy.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is.”
They stared at each other. The corner of the man’s lip twitched, and at once, whatever pain he’d experienced was forgotten, carried away on the breeze. He straightened up. “Dressed in all black and hiding in a children’s playground. That’s the definition of creepy.”
Megumi folded his arms. He didn’t see what his choice of dress had to do with anything. “What about you? You’re”—he gestured at the rifle that had skittered a ways away—“twirling a gun or something.”
The man jogged over to it. “This?” He picked it up by the tip and flipped it so he caught the butt. “It’s made of wood. Solid wood. Which hurts.” To drive his point, he rapped his knuckles against it. Heavy, like knocking against a door.
“I’m saying what it looks like.”
“Okay, as long as you accept it’s weird to be lurking in a slide.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
The guy crossed the distance between them until he was once again arm’s length away. He had a ridiculously pretty smile. A little lopsided, and the imperfection was doing strange things to Megumi’s brain—altering it so all the synapses misfired. Maybe this was a stroke.
The guy planted the rifle down into the gravel and leaned on it. The making of a bruise was fanning across his temple, a nasty, purpling mark that still took nothing away. He was young, maybe a couple of years older at most. Megumi had certainly never seen him at school.
“I’m Yuuji.”
“Megumi,” he said after a beat.
“Megumi,” Yuuji repeated. “So, is this an irony thing?”
A car slowly rolled by the playground—a cop car, Megumi realized with a start. It came to a neat stop, and they both fell silent. And Megumi was suddenly hyper aware of the fact that, fake or not, the thing Yuuji was holding looked like a real fucking rifle. Especially from a distance.
But the cop rolled away, and they watched its taillights grow distant in the night.
When Megumi could think again, he turned over Yuuji’s question. “What?”
“You’re emo or whatever. So do you hang out at playgrounds as, like, a protest against childhood innocence or something?”
“I’m not—I’m not emo. Who even says that anymore?” Megumi huffed.
Yuuji snorted. It was unrefined and reminded Megumi of a pig. Cute. Cute, Megumi’s brain supplied. This was terrible. Megumi should have been mad at this guy. Ruining his alone time with his loud conversation and horrible music and dumb twirling.
Megumi caught a faint whiff of citrus as Yuuji leaned in. “Sorry. Is goth the politically correct term for your kind?” He squatted down to the phone that was face down and fiddled with the screen. The music stopped, and the air was filled with the thum of cicadas.
Yuuji still looked too cute, and Megumi desperately needed to take control of the situation. “Thank God. You were torturing my emo ears with your shit taste in music.”
Now it was Yuuji’s turn to gape at him. “Shit—this is Beyoncé. Are you crazy?” He sounded so offended that Megumi laughed despite himself.
“No, no, no, you’re too hot, so I’m gonna pretend you did not say that. ”
His soul took a brief loop around the earth. “You think I’m hot?”
“You know, I don’t know what to think anymore, Beyoncé-hater.” Yuuji fanned himself in faux-distress. Unaware of the real distress he caused Megumi. “Hold on, you’re not even hearing the best quality through the phone speakers.” Without another word, he took Megumi by the elbow. He was wearing black fingerless gloves that rubbed against Megumi’s gooseflesh. It was still pleasantly warm outside.
Yuuji led him over to the merry-go-round, and they both sat side-by-side, close enough that the sides of their legs were touching. Megumi stared at the contact while Yuuji rummaged around a black duffel bag before he produced a pair of earbuds. So he did have headphones.
“Here.” Yuuji handed Megumi the right earbud. The tips of their fingers touched.
Megumi moved robotically, placing the earbud in, and a flood of music blasted his eardrum. He couldn’t even hear it over the weird, staccato throbbing of blood in his ear. How could he conceptualize the song when Yuuji’s face hung in his peripheral vision, only a breath away?
He did not, as a general rule, like anyone. Sure, he jerked off to hot people on the internet like everyone else, but Megumi had never liked anyone. Not his classmates, not people on the street, or the rich snobs at the Gojo family Christmas parties. Not the handsome cashier Tsumiki swore up and down flirted with him, nor the woman at the bakery who always managed to squeeze in an extra roll with a smile and a wink. People were, on average, fairly uninteresting.
“This is an unreleased song, and I don’t know why. All the billions must have fried her brain, but—”
“Are you gay?” Megumi interrupted. The instant those three words left his tongue, he wished he could swallow them.
Yuuji cast a side-long glance. “The fuck? Why? Because I listen to Beyoncé?” He sounded defensive, shoulders drawn up, and he leaned away. Megumi mourned the lost touch.
Wait, he needed to fix this. “No, no. That came out wrong. I meant—cause, like, I might be. Or, I don’t know—” He was babbling now. His tongue had truly betrayed him.
Yuuji blinked at him. “Oh.” His shoulders relaxed. “Is that why you’re out here? Having a crisis?”
The conversation was far beyond awkward steering—Megumi had taken them off the track entirely. Crashed straight through the chainlink fence and obliterated the stands. There was shrapnel everywhere. Still, a gay crisis was a better answer than crying about marching band auditions. At least Yuuji wasn’t staring at him like Megumi might hate crime him. “Yeah. Maybe,” he said shakily.
That lopsided grin returned. “Bro, it’s fine. Be who you are and all that.” He balled his fist and punched Megumi’s shoulder. Light, nothing more than a feathery touch. The spot ached.
“I mean, I don’t know if I’m gay. I’ve never—”
“Kissed a guy?”
Was it Megumi’s imagination, or did the timbre of Yuuji’s voice take on a…sly quality? Yuuji faced him fully, and that lopsided grin was even wider, ear to ear. Suddenly, Megumi understood what it might be like to be a crustacean in the tank of a Red Lobster.
Yuuji tapped his chin. “But I bet you’ve kissed girls.”
“A couple.”
“Well then, the data’s inconclusive. You need more stats.”
“I do?”
Yuuji nodded sagely. There was no way he didn’t hear Megumi’s heart pounding louder than a timpani. “It’s okay, bro, I’m willing to submit myself to the test.”
Something brushed against his forearm. Megumi jolted—Yuuji’s fingers were warm, caterpillar-light, ticklish right where they hovered. Megumi’s hands were glued to his knees, the only movement the single paradiddle he tapped out, palm flat: right left right right, left right left left. Repeat. There was logic in the pattern, a rhythm he could believe in. Nothing like this night, which had gotten so out of control that, if pressed to explain and find the logical through line from the moment he walked briskly to the playground to now, Megumi would only convey a series of vague gestures.
Those fingers slid up his arm and paused at his neck, right over the artery. Could Yuuji feel the strange, staccato of blood flow? Yuuji cupped his chin and brought their mouths together. Soft, chaste. Late-night Disney Channel-approved, live studio audience oohing. The works.
Yuuji pulled away, leaving Megumi’s lips burning alone. Whole face hot like kindling.
“Well?” Yuuji asked. Unlike Megumi, his breathing was smooth, even. “Do you feel the gay taking root?”
“Uhh,” was Megumi’s articulate response. Their fingers were laced palm to palm. Yuuji made idle circles with his thumb over Megumi’s skin. The flesh went bone white where he pressed in.
“You’re right. You need more data.”
“Right,” said Megumi, lightning-quick. “It could be a statistical anomaly.”
“Emo and a nerd? Think you gotta pick one.” Yuuji brought their clasped hands to his lips and kissed the knuckles. Warmth unfurled like petals. “Wanna go again?”
Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes—Megumi cleared his throat. “Sure.” He gave a noncommittal shrug.
Balmy air hovered in the space between them, hot from the June summer night, from their mingling breath. The second kiss was firmer, more insistent, the flash-heat of a bubbling pot on the stove. A tongue pressed against his mouth, wet and tickling. Yuuji’s fingers left his jaw and tangled in his hair. Spark spark spark. Signals pinging. A small taste of that whip-like force that had cracked through the playground.
Megumi willed his hands to stop their drumming. He inched tentatively up Yuuji’s hip and pressed against his waist. Even through the hoodie, Megumi met a boulder. Nothing at all like a girl. This is insane, he thought. Yuuji traced a sloppy kiss to his jaw. On a playground, past midnight, making out with a guy he met five minutes ago. A guy possibly concussed, for all Megumi knew. But then he grabbed Yuuji’s face and dragged him back into a kiss, and Yuuji’s lips parted against his, a soft sound escaping, and Megumi ceased to have thoughts at all.
His chest vibrated—no, it was a lot lower, near his waist. A rhythmic pattern at odds with his own internal tempo. Bzz. Bzz. Bzz. Then off. Bzz. Bzz. Bzz.
Yuuji broke the kiss. His face was all scrunched up, dusky red on his cheeks. His stomach quickened at the sight. He was only half aware that Yuuji answered his phone.
“What?” Static crackle. “…have you tried shaking him awake?”
That drew Megumi from the filmy haze. He tilted his head.
Yuuji chewed absently on his thumb. “Okay. Okay. All right. I’m coming back. Bro, don’t yell at me when I’m trying to help,” Yuuji said exasperatedly. The conversation on the phone dissolved into needless back-and-forth as Yuuji grabbed his things. It wasn’t until Yuuji popped the earbud out of his ear that Megumi realized the sultry song had continued in the background. Silence descended. Yuuji dumped the rifle in the duffel bag, along with the fingerless gloves and earbuds.
Megumi finally found his voice. “Everything all right?”
Yuuji pulled the phone away from his ear. “Yeah. Well, no. But it’s fine,” Yuuji babbled. The person on the other end said something unintelligible. “Don’t worry about who I’m with. Why haven’t you called a damn ambulance?” To Megumi, he whispered, “Family emergency.” He gave an apologetic shrug.
Whoever was on the end was swearing—that much Megumi could make out. In the distance, a car backfired, and they both jumped.
“Sorry about…” Megumi wasn’t sure what to say. Whatever was going on on the other end of the phone sounded serious and far away. “Guess I’ll see you around?” He tried not to sound too hopeful.
Yuuji cocked his head, and whatever hope swelled inside popped abruptly at the sympathy painted on Yuuji’s face. “Probably not. I don’t live around here. Just took too many random turns…bro, I swear to God I’ll hang up if you keep acting batshit.”
The streetlight snapped off, and a dark swath fell over the playground. The second furthest streetlight hummed weakly, casting enough light that Yuuji was silhouetted against it.
“Thanks for the fun, emo boy,” Yuuji called over his shoulder. He waved once.
Megumi watched him grow smaller until he was gone. Spit dried on Megumi’s cheek. Everything was too cold despite the June heat.
Ding
He pulled out this phone without thought. Read over the notification a few times. It was hard to get the words to stick. A message from the JTC Band Portal:
Welcome to the Jujutsu Technical College Marching Band family!
After reviewing your application and audition, we’re excited to offer you a spot on Battery in this year’s marching band season. You have been assigned tenor drums. Please click the link below to review the details of your acceptance.
⭑ ⭑ ⭑
The band director looked like someone born to wear elaborate costumes while leaping from ledges and trash-talking his opponents on live TV. Not someone overseeing two hundred bleary-eyed college students.
They were packed into the auditorium at the asscrack of dawn. Megumi had arrived exactly on time, which made him the last to wander in. A non-insignificant number of heads had turned his way when he squeezed through the doors—the pro-wrestling band director was on stage, microphone to his lips. Megumi ducked low and popped himself down into the last row.
“—ain’t drum corps,” the band director was speaking. “We’re here to get fans pumped and cheer on our football team. So let’s have some fun,” he said, looking exactly like the type to outlaw fun. He clapped once, and the rest of the room, sans Megumi, answered with their own resounding, solitary clap before falling back into silence.
Megumi pulled his worn, scuffed tennis shoes up onto the chair, ignoring the scoffed huff of the man beside him. He wrapped an arm around his knees and chewed his thumb. Not quite awake, everything around him off-colored like the space between a dream and waking. He didn’t want to be here, in this hot auditorium, with these overly smiley people who sat ramrod straight. Cultish.
“Now, let’s hear a few words from your lead drum major.”
The reason for his being there took the stage—Gojo bounded up the steps two at a time, a wide smile etched in his face. His introduction was brief and more lively than the director’s, all showman-ish, like he was a pop idol, and Megumi scowled as a series of giggles popcorned around the room. Gojo echoed the director: Let’s have some fun. Megumi folded his arms, refusing to join in on the One Clap to Rule Them All.
It was a slow trickle through the rest of the band’s leadership: the other three drum majors, the instructors, who rattled off their experience and expectations for the season, and the section leaders. The only names Megumi bothered to commit to memory were those he recognized from his audition: Kusakabe, the battery instructor, and Maki, his section leader.
“We won’t waste any time today. You’ll spend three hours with your section, going over basics and the music. Then we’ll jump straight into the drill after lunch. We got eight shows to learn, folks,” the director barked.
Megumi waited for the dismissal, but to his horror, the next thing out of the director’s mouth was a two-word horror: morning workout.
The early summer morning was already frothy with heat; Megumi dripped sweat as the entire band, all two hundred of them with Gojo at the helm, was led through a grueling morning run between the campus buildings, followed by an ab workout in an itchy patch of grass that left him wheezing.
It was only the first hour.
Megumi was hot, sticky, and uncomfortable when they broke off into their sections. The drumline gathered on a blissfully shaded grassy knoll to run through warmups. Things Megumi discovered in the next three hours:
The carrier for tenors was stiff and uncomfortable; the actual tenors themselves nearly caused his spine to snap from the sheer weight. How was he expected to stand upright? But he swallowed his complaints as the rest of the battery excitedly got outfitted with their instruments. Another tenor player, a burly guy with black and white hair named Panda, grinned when he saw Megumi hunched, drums resting on his thighs.
He pointed to Megumi’s legs. “Careful. You’ll get wicked bruises.”
Time ticked by, and his posture worsened, as bruises formed where the carrier dug into his shoulder. Kusakabe took one look at Megumi's shrimped up form and ordered him to try a new carrier. This one fit slightly better, but it was a little too late.
By the time he flopped down onto the floor of the main band room for lunch, his shoulders ached like someone had shoved a knife between the muscles, and a thick ring of purple circled his thighs like bands. He prodded at them miserably.
A shadow fell over him. “How’s my favorite adoptee doing?”
Megumi didn’t have to glance up to know Gojo hovered behind him. “I’m your only adoptee.”
“Well, that’s not true. Have you forgotten about dear Tsumiki so fast? Here.”
A brown paper bag landed in his lap. Megumi rifled through the contents—applesauce, a banana, potato chips, a chocolate bar, nuts, and what smelled like potato soup in a paper cup.
Gojo dropped beside him, legs crossed, rummaging through his own paper bag, withdrawing the chocolate bar. “Color guard stayed up late last night making these for the first day. One of their new eye-candy’s a decent cook,” Gojo said between mouthfuls of chocolate.
Megumi popped the plastic lid and slurped his soup. Pretty good. “Color guard…those are the twirlers?” A vision of soft pink hair under glowy orange light fluttered in his mind’s eye.
“Yeah, but don’t let them hear you say that. They spin.” With the chocolate bar consumed, Gojo started on the second sweetest thing, the applesauce.
“Who invited the trumpet player?” a voice called. Maki paced over to them, one hand on her hip, the other wrapped around a lunch bag. Behind her trailed the rest of the battery, like dutiful lemmings. To Megumi’s horror, they formed a circle with him.
Maki squeezed in beside him. “Seriously, is this guy bothering you? Hit him, and he’ll go away.” To Gojo, she said, “Go annoy the rest of the brass. Heard they’re outside slapping each other with sticks. That's more your speed.”
Megumi liked her already.
“That’s discrimination,” Gojo said, pouting. “And I’m the drum major. I’m not supposed to favor my own section. I’m friendly with everyone.”
Maki said, “Bias is good. A friend to everyone is a friend to no one.”
From the other side of Gojo, Panda piped up, “If you’re so friendly, can I have your nuts?”
“You can have these nuts.” Gojo handed him the packet.
Toge held out his hand. “Banana,” he demanded.
Gojo handed him the banana.
“I say he stays,” Panda said.
Maki sighed noisily. “Surrounded by idiots,” she muttered. She swallowed a spoonful of soup. “Oh! This is good. I thought y’all were going to cheap out again this year on food.”
“That’s the plan for the rest of the week. I hope everyone loves gas station pizza.”
A collective groan ran through the circle. Megumi idly recalled the gas station he’d seen on the drive in yesterday—a monstrous two-story building just off the turn before you reached campus, more mall than anything. “That place serves food?”
“It should be a criminal offense, but yeah,” Maki replied.
The prospect of flavorless styrofoam cheese made his stomach quiver.
“What angel did this?” Panda pointed to his cup of soup, which he’d already slurped half up in one gulp.
“A new twink in color guard,” Satoru said in a stage whisper.
Maki’s brows kissed her forehead. “Wait, that guy?” She paused. “We’re being very liberal with the word twink. He could crush my head with his thighs.”
“I’d be okay going out that way.” Panda finished the rest of his soup.
Discussion deteriorated rapidly as the entire drumline + Satoru argued over the legal definition of a twink. This was a matter of ethics, social consciousness, and spirituality, apparently. Megumi sat hunched, nibbling on his chips. To be frank, he wasn’t sure if he had any grand thoughts on twinks and their ilk. He hadn’t unpacked the being gay thing since his first and only bout of whorism at the playground.
A quick glance around the room revealed similar circles—sections chattering happily together.
“Okay, forget the fucking twink thing. It’s not important,” Gojo huffed. “What is important is that Twink One and his brother, Twink Two, marched with Red Angels for the last three seasons.” As though he could see the question forming on Megumi’s face, he clarified, “Red Angels is a part of Drum Corps. Drum Corps is like a professional marching band league.”
A tiny girl with blonde pigtails voiced his skepticism, “You can do this professionally? How much do you make?”
“Nothing. I heard you get donuts sometimes,” Satoru said.
Maki propped her elbow on her knee and rested her head on her fist. “And they’re marching with our rinky dink school because…?”
“Anger issues. One of them threw his sabre at a poor little drum major for pointing out he hadn’t hit his spot. Cut right then and there.”
Was it Megumi’s imagination, or did Satoru sound dreamy at the mention of violence?
“The nicer one decided to quit. Our spicy guard instructor heard this through the color guard whisper network and offered them spots on our team. And now you all have nice soup.”
For a moment, no one said anything. There was only the sound of crinkled paper and chewing. Then Panda stretched out his legs with a yawn. “That seems incredibly short-sighted.”
“Brilliant, if you ask me.” Maki smiled broadly. So wide, it carried not an insignificant amount of evilness as she levelled her gaze at Satoru. “I hope you can duck.”
⭑ ⭑ ⭑
The sun cooked Megumi like an egg. Fried until the yolk was hard as a rock. Sweat in places sweat shouldn’t be. Even with the amount of sunscreen he’d reapplied, his skin dangerously approached the bright red sheen of a lobster. He swiped at the wet bangs sticking to his forehead as he squinted at the drill chart. Two steps off the forty, one step back from the front hash, eight steps outside.
He’d never tested it, but Megumi reasoned there was a finite amount of information the human brain could hold at one time, and he was dangerously approaching the limit.
On the front sideline, right at the fifty, a silver podium that appeared to be made from scratched metal bars and feverish hope glinted bright sunbeams that burned his retinas. He had to look at it sideways to make out the figures atop it: Gojo stood, shielded from the sun’s powerful rays by a large-brimmed hat, long sleeves, and his signature black sunglasses; the band director, Yaga, sat at the edge, big and bullish.
Yaga clapped his hand, and the band quieted. “All right, that was set four.”
Megumi’s heart sank so low that it would be impossible to retrieve. Set four…of eighty.
“Let’s run it from the top, folks,” Yaga yelled.
Gojo raised his palms. “Don’t disappoint me,” he said with not an insignificant amount of cheer. Something from the left caught his attention. “The guard has finally decided to grace us with their magnificence.”
Megumi paid no mind to this arrival of new bodies. Kusakabe paced the battery, adjusting their positions and smoothing the arc they were supposed to form. He was a whole step and a half off. I miss my dog, he thought dully, for the tenth time that day.
“You’re chillingly behind. We’ve already made it to set four,” Gojo said to a redhead leaning against the podium. Nobara something or other, Megumi recalled.
She grinned. There was a smattering of star stickers arranged on her cheek like Orion’s Belt. “We started practice a week ago. We’ve already run through thirty sets.” She nodded to the gaggle of people behind her. “Get set up, girls.”
It was disastrous. The sudden addition of new bodies on the field took what little synergy they possessed and placed it neatly in the trash can. Up on the podium, Yaga ran a tired hand down his face.
Gojo lowered his hands, and they relaxed. “Is guard supposed to be on top of battery?” He sent a considering look in their direction.
A streak of dark blue fabric waffled at the edge of Megumi’s vision. With a jolt, he realized someone was within spitting distance behind him. He squinted against the sun in his eye to commit this newcomer to memory. His stomach flipped. Full-on cartwheeled, throwing the remains of lunch into disarray.
Two things: ridiculously tiny black shorts, and only the shorts (Megumi was pretty sure Yaga had stressed they needed to be clothed for practice), and pink hair. It was the playground guy. His playground guy. The one he might have had one or two or five jerkoff sessions about. That he’d resigned himself to a future fond memory on his deathbed. His name came to Megumi with frightening clarity—Yuuji.
But evidently, whatever had transpired over the last month had demonstrably had a more intense effect on Yuuji. A short trip to hell could have been the only explanation for the thick, inky black tattoos wrapping around his body, printed straight on his cute face.
Yuuji leaned against the flag sandwiched between his thighs, studying a rumpled copy of the drill, sparkling. Quite literally. Someone had dumped glitter in his hair, and when the wind picked up, Megumi saw the shimmers carried away.
The intensity of Megumi’s gaze must have signalled something was amiss. He lifted his head. “The fuck are you looking at?” And his voice was low, mocking, not at all the cheery, syrupy goodness Megumi remembered. Memory was a fickle thing.
Megumi was not wholly unfamiliar with personality shifts. Tsumiki had, after a bad breakup in her senior year of high school, tried to make the best of the situation by completely changing her entire sense of being. She was a bad girl who did bad girl things, which involved short skirts and smoking and skipping school. This had lasted for exactly sixteen days.
But this. This was an Olympic-level crashout.
“Sukuna,” came an exasperated sigh from Megumi’s left. “Be nice.”
Megumi chanced another, much riskier look, his heart beating a lot faster than the show’s tempo.
It was Yuuji. Yuuji prime. His Yuuji. Smiling, equally devoid of clothes besides his itty-bitty shorts clinging to his ass. A little more tan, and the rest of his skin looked like he’d taken a roll on the floor of a Hobby Lobby—rainbow glitter and stickers featuring stars, rainbows, and unicorns glued on. A scoop of pink hair was gathered into a lopsided ponytail. The line of color guard girls behind him revealed that, while the rest of the band had been dying, they’d had a craft party with their faces.
“I am being nice,” Evil Yuuji—Sukuna?—said, not sounding very nice at all. “I’m kindly letting porcupine know that this gaze is annoying.”
That was a little unfair. This dude’s hair was equally spiky. Megumi palmed the top of his head.
“Ignore him,” said Yuuji. “Just pretend he’s not there. It’s better for your health.”
“There’s no greater medicine than the sense of joy and whimsy I carry wherever I go, jackass.”
Yuuji rolled his eyes, then smiled. At Megumi. There was a spark. The vaguest hint of recognition, and Megumi’s heart swelled. Do you remember me like how I remember you? It was a good thing he was already sunburnt because he could feel the flush coming on. Sunburnt, sweaty, and, apparently, he bore a strong resemblance to a porcupine.
A pointed cough from Yaga had them all quieting, even Sukuna, who maintained his scowl. Yaga pointed at him. “Show me what you’re supposed to do there.”
Megumi, having been thoroughly warned, didn’t look, but the rays of Sukuna’s anger surpassed the heat of the sun. Seconds ticked by until a light breeze tickled his back, and the whoosh of fabric brushed his ear. Light and shadow bent and twisted over the grass.
When it was over, Satoru cocked his head. “One breeze and we’ll be dragging a tenor off the field. And what’s with the huge gap between the guard and the woodwinds?”
Nobara chimed in, “It looks fucked. What if we pulled the guard back—snaked them through the center of the circle. It’ll be peachy!”
Kusakabe’s face twitched—he’d claimed responsibility for most of their drill. “It’d look more like the Pepsi logo.”
And then they devolved into an argument. Megumi saw everyone relax, and several bodies crouched, including his own section. Given that astroturf was hot as shit, most people awkwardly knelt or used bits of clothing or their drill sheets as a protective barrier. Some of the color guard sat on their flags. Megumi desperately wanted to sit, but he wasn’t sure his noodly legs had the strength to get back up.
“Oi, Emo Boy.”
His stomach’s gymnastic routine infected his heart. Slowly, he faced Yuuji. His smile was the same goofy, lopsided one. “It’s Megumi,” he said.
“I know,” Yuuji replied.
Megumi had never heard a better sentence in his life. Two words, all short and sweet. I know.
Yuuji clasped his hands behind his head, his pecs flexing upward, beads of sweat sliding through crevices of muscle. Megumi tried not to stare. He really did. He had hoped suspected Yuuji might be jacked when he’d felt him up on the playground. But being confronted with the reality was something else. He should put those things away, Megumi thought. A few yards away, he glimpsed a gaggle of woodwinds whispering and giggling in their direction.
“So,” said Yuuji.
“So.”
Yuuji tilted his head. “Never thought you’d be into marching band. Doesn’t seem like your style.”
Megumi was inclined to agree with him, but that would mean capitulating to Yuuji’s earlier assessment of his emo status. “I try new things sometimes.” Like kissing strangers on playgrounds. “It’s my first year.” I was blackmailed.
“Really, now?” Yuuji dropped his hand to his waist and leaned forward, close enough that Megumi caught his scent. It wasn’t the alluring citrus—he was grossly sweaty. But Megumi wasn’t one to talk. Yuuji stared at him like he was utterly precious in the way a teddy bear was, and not like he wanted to ravish him, much to Megumi’s disappointment. “How are you liking it so far?”
Megumi became keenly aware that the rest of battery had ceased their chatter. Both Panda and Toge squatted down, torsos twisted in their direction. Even Maki had traded studying her drill for studying the distance between Megumi and Yuuji. A remarkably short distance.
He opened his mouth, still working through a way to explain in a non-whiny manner that he’d never been more miserable, sweaty, or sore, and that he missed his dog, but a loud clap saved him. A hush fell over the band.
Gojo smiled at them. Especially at them. “Alright, queers, get in formation.”
From below the podium, Yaga elbowed Gojo harshly in the calf. Gojo seemed unaffected.
Gojo and Nobara won in the end. Megumi faced forward as the guard, and thus Yuuji (and his evil twin) moved further back. Only when they were ordered to look around and mark this change in their sheets did Megumi sneak a glance.
The twins were now side by side in the curved line, splitting the fifty. Even with the tattoos, they were creepily similar, like their genes had simply gone copy>paste: same hair color, same face, same height, same smattering of freckles on their left shoulders. Even the same lack of clothing and propensity for indecent shorts.
The difference in their demeanor was the difference between the north and south poles. Sukuna had his arms crossed in front of him, face marred by utter disdain, while Yuuji was beaming bright enough to take out the sun and held his flag lightly in his hand. Megumi swore the tiny girl beside him on the snare whistled when Yuuji turned around to chatter with a guard member behind him, and they were all treated to his ass on full display.
This view was brutally cut short as Nobara marched past. She stopped in front of the twins. “Yaga told me to tell you to ‘put some goddamn clothes on,’” Nobara said airily. She handed each of them a folded t-shirt Megumi recognized as the free band shirts they’d received earlier that morning. His was shoved in the back of his cubby.
“Is he slut-shaming us?” Sukuna asked. He unfolded the shirt and held it up, nose wrinkled in distaste.
Nobara arched a brow. “Are you sluts?”
“I don’t think that’s our word to reclaim,” said Yuuji.
“I am,” said Sukuna.
There was a near collective sigh of disappointment as they pulled on the t-shirts. The shirt was longer than their shorts.
Drill practice carried on its brutal, unrelenting pace, with the only fun to be had in the brief breaks in which Yuuji naturally drifted over to Megumi like a fruit fly to an orange peel. And while Megumi should have conserved his brain power to memorize the sets, eyes forward to catch the down swing of Gojo’s hands, he was a bit too preoccupied with the elegant lines of Yuuji’s body as he pranced around the football field.
Megumi did not miss his dog that much.
⭑ ⭑ ⭑
They were herded and prodded into that same auditorium like sweaty, exhausted cattle. The entire marching band was then sentenced to mandatory team-building exercises. Length of time served: one hour. The exact amount of time they had left for practice.
Coincidentally, all the instructors vanished when Gojo decreed this verdict. Kusakabe slinked away through the double doors without another word. Nobara was the last to make her escape. She blew kisses at the guard and wiggled her fingers goodbye. Maki, followed by Sukuna, trailed after her, but at the last second, with a great burst of speed, she surged forward. They gave chase, but the distance between them was too great—she slammed the doors shut behind her, the click of the lock sliding into place louder than a gunshot in the eerily muted auditorium.
Everyone faced the stage. Gojo stood like a scarecrow, smile wide and full of evil. He brought the microphone to his lips. “Shall we begin?”
The team-building exercises were meant to mix the sections. Megumi took one half-hearted step in Yuuji’s direction, but the poor guy was swarmed. He could only make out the top of his pink head in the crowd.
One by one, everyone paired off until Megumi was forced to relive middle school gym class as one of the last of the unchosen. Gojo beelined for him, clasping long fingers around Megumi’s wrist. “You! Over here. Come on, don’t be shy.” Gojo motioned for someone behind Megumi like one would a cat, all coaxing and soothing.
To his great horror, that someone was Sukuna. He eyed Gojo’s beckoning finger like he was two seconds away from taking a chomp. That murderous glint in his eye was probably why he was all alone. He was just standing there…menacingly.
Sukuna could not be summoned, so, with an exaggerated sigh, Gojo prodded Megumi until he was within terrifying reach.
The first exercise was as dumb as Megumi anticipated: they had fifteen seconds to share ten things they’re good at that are not related to marching band or music. Gojo motioned for the person on the right to go first.
Megumi breathed. “I’m good with anim—”
“I don’t care.”
“Right. Sorry.” He ducked his head and stared at a particularly interesting bit of carpet. The nerve of Yuuji to think Megumi looked out of place when his own twin looked the type to use band kids as target practice.
A signal to switch partners came, and Megumi sighed in relief as Sukuna skittered back, melting into the crowd like a shadow. He suffered through three more exercises.
On the fourth, Gojo appeared again, grinning like Santa as he delivered the best present Megumi could have ever asked for: Yuuji. Maybe he was wrong about Gojo after all.
Yuuji dabbed at his eye with his shirt collar, and a pitter of glitter shook loose. He smiled at Megumi. “Finally.”
Megumi’s heart skipped. It really needed to stop doing that because this was getting dangerous. But really, what did he mean by finally? He inspected the word over, attacked it like a calculus equation, and he got so absorbed with expanding on particularities that he nearly missed Gojo’s explanation for the next exercise.
Win/Lose: share something bad that happened to you, then listen as the other person puts a positive spin on your tale. Megumi stewed over what story he could tell as they were made to sit back-to-back on the auditorium floor. Despite the early August heat, Megumi shivered at the contact.
Focus. Story to share…Maybe that time his dog died? But what the hell were the positives in that?
Yuuji, thankfully, volunteered to go first. His bright voice sliced through the brief lull. “My parents died in a murder-suicide when I was seven.”
What the fuck?
Yuuji spoke in the same tone someone would use to describe the weather. “Most people assume my dad killed her, but it was actually my mom. She shot him after dinner, when we were all in the living room watching TV. I think we were watching something with a blue dog. Anyway, I was so shocked, I don’t even think it really registered. Just blood everywhere. My brother kinda looked at me, then covered my eyes, so I didn’t see what happened next, but I heard the second shot and her body hitting the floor. I only found out later through my grandpa that she’d turned the gun on us, but apparently chickened out and shot herself.”
Megumi couldn’t chew on this. This was impossible to digest. This was bone and gristle and all the worst parts of a bloated carcass. Gojo cheerfully ordered them to face their partner and discuss the story through a positive lens.
Yuuji looked at him expectantly. His face was so wonderfully warm and open and sincere and, God, Megumi wanted to die. If only someone could wave a magic wand and turn him into another piece of gum stuck to the bottom of an auditorium chair.
Hands found his knees and he tapped out a rhythm: right left left right. Left right right left. “Um…I’ll be honest. I don’t know what to say to that.”
“Don’t worry! I won’t be offended. Give it your best shot.” Yuuji smiled encouragingly.
The tops of Megumi’s knuckles whitened as he made a fist in his lap. A flash of pink in his peripheral—Sukuna leaning away in alarm as Gojo got dangerously close to his face. Every sensible brain cell left screamed for him to stop, but the words tumbled out: “An event like that…must have made you and your brother close?”
Yuuji tilted his head. He didn’t look mortally offended, at least. He even laughed, a light chuckle that washed over Megumi like rainwater. “You think we’re close? That guy hates me.” He thumbed a finger in Sukuna’s direction. “One time, when we were eleven, we were playing in the woods, and I fell down a random well. Bro just peered over the edge to stare at me, then walked away. I stayed there for, like, a whole twenty-four hours before Gramps noticed I was missing. And even then, he had to beat the shit out of him before he revealed where I was. This morning, he tried to stab me with a knife because my alarm went off before his….I don’t know why I told you all of that."
Megumi wasn’t sure either. What the hell even was this? What was this conversation? But dusky pink fanned across Yuuji’s cheek, contrasting the glitter, and the urge to speak was suddenly overwhelming. “Okay, so at some point, he cared enough about you to protect you. Which means he still could again. Some day.” A day far far far into the future. Perhaps from the safety of a padded cell.
Yuuji’s eyes widened. Megumi’s stomach flopped as Yuuji’s sunny smile shone down on him. “I never thought of it that way. Thanks.”
No, because no one not completely deranged would ever think that. Of course, there had to be something; he’d thought Yuuji had appeared like a wish rubbed from a genie's bottle. This was more like a Monkey’s Paw scenario. You meet a cute guy, but he has a few screws loose…
They were ordered to switch. Megumi sweated uncomfortably everywhere. There was nothing he could say that was even remotely comparable to witnessing your parents’ murder-suicide.
But Yuuji was staring at him with those ridiculous puppy eyes that were growing more akin to moth-light. He swallowed. “When I was six, my father sold me to my relatives so he could keep up gambling. They always wanted more heirs, and my dad was too much of a fuck up to fulfill that.”
Yuuji cupped his chin. “Think, if your father hadn’t abandoned you, you would have turned out just like him. I like you fine just the way you are, fatherless and all."
Megumi’s brain stuttered over ‘I like you’ like a toy robot that had fallen over, legs kicking uselessly in the air. Hopelessly ensnared in whatever trap this was. He coughed to cover up the long pause. “Sorry. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone with your mindset before.”
“I’m one of a kind,” Yuuji said with a wink. “By the way, what are you doing after this?” His knee bounced.
Megumi zeroed in on the motion. The burst of butterflies in his stomach fluttered at the same tempo. “Nothing. Why?”
Yuuji’s knee stilled. He chewed on the corner of his lip. “Want to write a rifle routine with me?”
Yeah, definitely trapped.
⭑ ⭑ ⭑
Megumi wasn’t sure if “write a rifle routine with me” was a euphemism for gay sex, so he spent an extra ten minutes in the shower scrubbing every inch of skin until he looked faintly pink and harassed like a plucked chicken. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, tried to press down the spiky black ends, but even with the added weight of water, they sprang up easily, like bunnies from snow. He sighed and toweled it dry. It would have to do.
They agreed to meet at sundown, when the air cooled a little, heavy with the humidity from the sprinklers. Megumi left a little early, so that he wouldn’t have to stumble around in the dark. He had no idea where to find Tengen Courtyard. Yuuji’s proclamation that it was near the big ass tree was a bit useless when the campus was comprised of towering buildings and a pleasant variety of big trees.
Despite being lost, the walk wasn’t unpleasant. Summer meant the campus was mostly empty, save for the marching band and a few summer camps staying the week. It was a nice kind of quiet, the only sounds the chittering of insects and flapping from swallows.
Megumi took a left at a fork along the path and—damn. That was a big ass tree. Its trunk was the length of two sedans, bark all twisted and gnarled as it reached up, looming a good deal taller than the closest building. A crick pulsed painfully in his neck when he tried to find the top.
And there was Yuuji, leaning one hip against the trunk, long legs giving the tree some competition. His head was pitched down as he fiddled with a rifle. He was unwinding a roll of white electrical tape methodically, wrapping neat lines around the butt. His tongue poked out in concentration. The picture of cuteness. Megumi was so enamored with this image that he failed to say anything for a solid minute; he stood there staring, until a glance up revealed him.
Discovered far too soon, Megumi gave an awkward wave and shuffled down the path. A nearby sprinkler cracked on, white water shooting out in a wide arc. “Hey,” he said, then cringed.
Like Megumi, Yuuji looked remarkably scrubbed clean. Gone were the plethora of stickers, his hair free from the accursed ponytail, and only a faint smattering of glitter clung to his skin stubbornly. He shimmered a little in the final rays of sunlight, like a vision from a dream.
Megumi’s mouth was remarkably dry.
Yuuji brought a long strip of tape to his teeth and ripped it, pasting it to the end. “You found it!” He tilted his head and cracked a wide smile. The edges of a bruise fanned up along his jawline. At Megumi’s questioning look, Yuuji shrugged. “Kinda deserved it for putting glitter in his hair.”
Ah. There was no need to clarify. “Big fan of glitter, are you?”
Yuuji snorted. “Hell no. But when twenty-seven girls turn to you and say it’s tradition, you don’t object. Trying to fight them makes it hurt more.” With one hand, he flipped the rifle above him. Two rotations before he caught it.
Megumi was pulled over to a soft patch of grass and made to sit. Blades tickled the underside of his thighs. ‘Write a rifle routine,’ was not, in fact, a euphemism for gay sex. Yuuji hunted the courtyard for two decent sticks with heft, and these were unceremoniously shoved in Megumi’s stickless hands.
“You know the music for the start of the ballad?” At Megumi’s nod, he continued. “Okay, start, hmm, oh, the seventh measure.”
Wordless, Megumi began tapping out the rhythm. Yuuji listened, chin cupped between his thumb and forefinger. “Alright, I have an idea. Start again, but give me eight counts.”
And then he started to dance.
Calling the rifle a prop had, in hindsight, been a mistake. It was more of an extension, some secret third limb that Yuuji was able to detach and manipulate with ease. He tossed it up, slicing through the air like a windmill, his outstretched hands flexed. Megumi traced the veins in his forearm. It returned a second later with an aggressive thwack that rattled between Megumi’s ribs. Yuuji grinned ear to ear, and his entire chest tightened.
They continued like this for some time—Yuuji ordering Megumi to start and stop periodically as he worked out something in his head, muttering to himself. Occasionally, he'd turn to Megumi after finishing a trick, eyebrow raised expectantly.
“Uh, good?” he’d try.
“Could be better,” Yuuji would say. And then he’d begin again.
The sun had long dipped, and the streetlamps in the courtyard buzzed on with apprehension. Yuuji cast an exquisitely strange shadow. The verdict was out on whether or not Megumi thought color guard was a beautiful activity—ballet in some parts, jazzercise in others—but Yuuji sure looked damn good doing it.
This is better, he thought. Yuuji experimented with catching the rifle in a split. Arched toward his back leg to bring his head to his calf. Better than gay sex.
A little after the hour mark, when a cramp settled in between his palms, Yuuji finally signalled for him to stop. “I made some headway.” He stuck the rifle nose down into the grass and bent forward to lean it. “You never answered my question. How was your first day of marching band?”
Megumi flexed his hands to soothe the overworked muscles. “It’s… probably better if I don’t answer that.”
Yuuji chuckled. “Don’t worry. I hated it when I first started in middle school. Band camp regret is universal.”
“Really? And you stuck with it this long?” It occurred to Megumi that he had no idea how old Yuuji really was.
“Sure. I only joined because my brother did, and he only joined because it pissed off our grandpa. The old man wanted us to do something manly, which meant Sukuna had to find the gayest activity to send him into an early grave. I would have been happier doing a sport, I think. But I didn’t want to join without him, and he’s a little…strong-willed. The first few months were miserable. After that, it was just something to do. It probably took a whole year to enjoy it.” He coughed into his sleeve. “Sorry, I’m oversharing again. I don’t usually do that, um.”
Megumi liked the oversharing. A little crazy was kinda cute. “No, it’s fine. I only joined because Gojo blackmailed me.”
“Gojo is…?”
“The albino freak on the podium.”
Yuuji released a sharp bark of laughter. “I wasn’t going to say that, but it’s certainly descriptive! What, is he your boyfriend?” Despite Yuuji’s smiling face, there was an odd edge to his voice as he finished the sentence. Megumi couldn’t decipher it, but his pulse picked up.
“God, no. He’s more like a—a benefactor, I guess. Family politics are weird between us. But he supports me financially, so he has a lot of control over the things I do. It was either this or dealing with my blood relatives. Gojo’s actually the lesser of two evils.”
The tenseness in his shoulders dropped. “Didn’t talk to him much. I think he was trying to flirt with my brother by annoying him to death.”
Megumi raised his eyebrows. That sounded like Gojo. “Was it working?”
Yuuji shook his head. “My brother doesn’t like anyone.”
Well, that hardly mattered; Gojo probably got off on the hate.
“A benefactor?” Yuuji tapped his chin. Leaned forward some more, and gravity pulled his shirt away from his chest—Megumi stared down the tunnel created by his collar. Too dark to see anything, but the implication bit at him like an annoying gnat. “Could it be, Megumi, that you’re a rich kid?”
This was not at all true….Okay, partially true, but Megumi really didn’t see the point in getting into his complicated family history. Technically, Megumi hadn’t wanted for anything since he was seven. He shifted uncomfortably. “Not really. What about you?”
“Trailer trash.” He tossed the rifle again, and this time, Megumi watched it make six full revolutions before it slammed back into Yuuji’s hands with a satisfying thunk. “Except I can’t really even say that since they seized Grandpa’s trailer after he died to settle his debt.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. That was a month ago. Remember, I got that call? Totally over it.”
A lot of crazy’s kinda cute. Megumi repeated this fervently, held it close like a prayer. Megumi did not believe in much, but he believed that Yuuji was exactly his type.
Yuuji yawned. “Alright, I’m calling it. Tomorrow morning is gonna suck ass.”
With a jolt, Megumi checked his phone. Nearly eleven.
Yuuji offered a hand to help him to his feet. Megumi masked a wince—the bottoms of his feet were beat to hell. The pain rose upward through his calf. He must have done a poor job of hiding it because Yuuji eyed him with concern.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, a little sore.” Megumi straightened up. His feet were on fire. And Yuuji hadn’t let go of his hand. He was letting Megumi lean on him as they slowly moved down the path.
An odd light glinted in Yuuji’s eye. Megumi almost missed it, but a chance look sideways revealed brown eyes fastened to him like buttons.
“Don’t worry, I got you, bro. Come back to my room. I have something that can help.”
⭑ ⭑ ⭑
Megumi did not put up a fight. He didn’t even put up a strongly worded protest or a stern talking to or a mildly displeased quirk of his lips. He allowed Yuuji to haul him back to the music dorm like a loaf of bread.
Yuuji’s room was on the first floor—a small relief as he wasn’t ready for the third-floor hike up to his own room. That relief was squashed by the realization that he was 1) in Yuuji’s room, and 2) in Yuuji’s room alone. Alone with him.
He stood awkwardly in the center, eyes roaming as Yuuji for something in one of the many open boxes littering the floor. It was a mirror of Megumi’s room in layout only, right down to the sink and mirror shoved in the corner like an afterthought. An array of props was shoved into a corner—swords, another rifle, various flags. There was a blue twist of plastic, long and arcing, that looked like a Klingon weapon. Megumi had only brought a couple of drumsticks with him to college.
The walls of one side were covered in movie posters from gory movie franchises he vaguely recognized from movie nights with Tsumiki. She had a thing for slashers and often cheered on the final girls.
The other side was devoid of all decorations beyond a Hello Kitty alarm clock and a raggedy teddy bear clinging to life. One of its eyes dropped, hanging on by the thinnest piece of thread.
“Aha!” Yuuji straightened and spun around. He held a glass jar with a glinting silver lid. “Mother Nature’s solution for everything.
Megumi reached for the bottle, but Yuuji sidestepped Megumi and walked over to the bed under the gory movie posters and sat on the edge. He patted the spot beside him. “Come on. Take off your pants.”
A fuse blew in his wiring. The entire brain mainframe was down. “Huh?” he croaked.
“Pants. Off.”
And when Megumi didn’t move because there simply weren’t enough brain cells left to pilot his fleshsuit, Yuuji leaned forward, snagged an arm around his waist, and yanked him forward. Megumi was forcibly dumped on the stiff mattress.
Yuuji slid to a kneeling crouch. Without asking, he pulled off Megumi’s shoes. “I go to this massage therapist twice a month. Complete asshole. You’d think I shit in his oats or something, but God does he know how to work a nerve,” this last part was half a mutter to himself.
Megumi could not give two shits about a massage therapist right now when Yuuji’s hands were hooked under the band of his sweatpants and sliding them down, and those thickly calloused hands were, by consequence, leaving rough trails along his thighs. Breath caged in his chest. The edge of the bed pressed into his ass as he sat there, shivering in his boxers.
Yuuji’s head popped up between his legs. His wide smile was anything but benign. Quite wicked, he would have thought, if Megumi could even scrounge up the brain processing power to think.
Yuuji popped the lid of the jar, twirled his index finger around, and pulled out a chunk. It was red. He massaged it between his fingers. “Fair warning, this does stain.”
And then he touched Megumi’s calf. Gentle, at first, but soon his grip tightened, the movements firm as he kneaded into the muscle.
His hands were hot.
Megumi was burning. Face a lit torch. A searing settled into his lower belly.
Yuuji’s long fingers eased up the back of his thighs. Curved around the muscles. The spots where his finger pressed in and rubbed left red streaks—the balm, but it could have easily been the blood rushing to the surface.
Fingers brushed the edge of his boxers. With a jolt, Megumi spotted the embarrassing, unmistakable tent underneath the thin fabric. The entirety of his brain was in his dick.
This was cursed. This was how all those post-playground fantasies started. This was nothing. This was everything. Yuuji was just giving him a massage.
As bros.
Hold up.
This guy listened to Beyoncé.
Yuuji cupped his dick.
Megumi pitched forward, feet planted on solid ground, and grabbed Yuuji’s face. Not roughly. Just squeezed his cheeks until his lips puckered slightly. He was a little squishy, like playdough. He listened to Beyoncé, and he kissed random guys on playgrounds, and he was also probably crazy.
“You don’t do this with your massage therapist,” Megumi choked out. His tongue was a fat slug in his mouth, absolutely useless.
Yuuji quirked a brow. “No, Megumi, I don’t.” He broke Megumi’s grasp with ease. Settled his cheek against his thigh. Hot air ghosted the skin. His tongue flicked out teasingly, licked a small patch. Not at all useless.
Megumi felt himself leaking. There was a stickiness in his boxers as the head rubbed against the fabric. There was an unbearable tightness in his balls—never, in his wildest dreams, did he think he’d be in some hot guy’s bed, getting felt up. And college hadn’t even started yet. Megumi had assumed the ho phase of college took time to get set up—
Yuuji was saying something, the words filtering through Megumi all distorted. “Huh?”
Yuuji tilted his head. The action reminded him a little of Kuro. “I said, do you want me to keep getting handsy, or can I just suck your dick?”
The mainframe Megumi had pitifully dabbed dry was subjected to a downpour of ice water. Completely on the fritz. “…both?”
Yuuji hummed, yanking his boxers down. He pushed Megumi back against the bed. “Is the verdict still out on the whole gay thing?”
“Maybe,” he wheezed. Yuuji kissed a trail up his inner thigh. “Wanna—”
A hand cupped his balls. Traced along the underside. Any and all coy responses rubbed away with the motion. Lightning shot through him; he curled his toes against the carpet. He moaned as Yuuji gave them a playful squeeze. Some of the balm was still on his fingertips, and an odd cooling tingle mingled with the hot pulse in his stomach.
The touch disappeared, and Megumi nearly whined at the loss of contact, until he watched Yuuji bring a hand to his face and spit on his palm. His cock throbbed. Wet, aching, wanting. The fantasies had gotten it all wrong—the way Yuuji looked at him with those big brown eyes boring into him, twin pools, deep and fathomless. What did Nietzsche say about the abyss—
Yuuji’s hand wrapped around the base of his cock. Heavy. Insistent. Unbearably warm with spit. Unfamiliar callouses twisted against the sensitive skin. Megumi inhaled sharply through his nose.
“Fuck,” he rasped. Yuuji’s palm worked methodically, excruciatingly slow as it twisted down to the tip. Better than anytime Megumi’s fucked into his own hand. Better than late-night frantic bursts in his room, biting his own fist to keep quiet.
He was unabashedly not quiet now. He swore. He moaned Yuuji’s name. Possibly, he said quite a few different things, but it was hard to tell. There was mostly static between his ears.
Yuuji thumbed the tip, got it slick with the precum beading at the crown. Everything in Megumi’s chest tightened. He was so hard, it hurt.
Then, slowly, Yuuji moved his hand back up. Brought his face lower, lower, closer than anyone had ever been—
Molten wet heat closed around the head. Megumi strangled a gasp. One hand to Yuuji’s face to—fuck, what? He settled for threading a hand through his hair. Bits of leftover glitter stained his palm and flickered in the low light. His vision blurred as Yuuji’s tongue curled around the tip. Then it snapped back with porcelain-like clarity. Yuuji, a pretty thing pulled straight from the most lurid dream: eyes closed, lashes casting thin shadows on dark red cheeks.
Yuuji’s eyes snapped open, his gaze searing, almost as hot as his mouth. Megumi dug his nails into the edge of the bed. The Yuuji sank deeper, warm and wet enveloping him whole. Megumi got one look at those lips stretched taut, and his hips bucked. Strong hands settled on his hip, steadying him. The touch was another hot pulse in the dizzying hurricane of sensations under his skin. He breathed, and Megumi felt each tickling puff.
Devouring him. Yuuji couldn’t be a real person. Part vacuum cleaner or something with the way he was attempting to suck Megumi’s entire being through his dick. The hands at Megumi’s waist slid under his thighs, and Megumi was unceremoniously pulled forward, so Yuuji could take more of him. A tongue caressed playfully along his length.
A shudder racked through Megumi.
Yuuji pulled back. The brief absence left him cold, too cold despite everything burning inside him. But that overwhelming heat returned as Yuuji swooped down, swallowed him whole again. And again. His throat clenched around Megumi’s cock, and everything became white-hot.
He trailed a trembling hand from Yuuji’s hair, restless, roaming, wanting. Yuuji’s skin was hot under his fingertips. He stuttered over the bruise on his jaw, pressed in lightly, and was rewarded with a hum from Yuuji’s mouth that vibrated up his spine. Pleasure pierced through him, sharp, skewering, peeling him open like a rind from a fruit.
He was going to come. The heat was consuming him—he was going to come straight into Yuuji’s mouth. Any attempt at forming human speech failed as his words came out in rough, ragged pants. Tried to push Yuuji’s head back, but the hands under his thighs gripped him close. Half-lidded brown eyes fastened to him.
All at once, the coiling band inside him snapped, and everything came spilling out. Yuuji’s throat tightened, convulsed around Megumi’s cock, still sucking, swallowing. A thin line of pearlescent white escaped from the side of those reddened lips.
The shaking ebbed to a syncopated throb, a dull ache, and finally, Yuuji pulled away with a wet pop. He was red all over—it clashed adorably with his pink hair—and breathing hard. A pleased grin tugged at his lips. He pulled a hand out from under Megumi’s thigh to cup his chin. Pulled till their foreheads touched, and Yuuji’s hot breath brushed his skin.
I want to kiss him. The rapidness of the thought was enough to anchor him to land. Megumi kissed him—salty. He was tasting his own cum on Yuuji’s lip. His leaking cock twitched. And like that, interest stirred again.
Yuuji patted his calf. “All better?”
“I think”—Megumi paused, sucking in shaky air—“that I might be gay.”
Yuuji’s laughter was swift and rumbling. His voice came out raspy, “It’s possible. Though, you know...there’s one way to know for sure.”
“Fuck another guy?”
Yuuji shook his head, face full of mirth. “Nah. I mean, hole is hole.” He placed his index finger on Megumi’s forehead. Prodded it a little. “Everyone knows that the true marker of being gay is being fucked.”
Megumi wasn’t going to survive the end of band camp. “Are you saying tops are straight?”
“Yes, and I think it’s gay that you even know what that is.”
He got Megumi there. He wound his hands through Yuuji’s pink hair to give him a proper shake—
The door banged open.
Several things happened at once: Megumi’s heart burst open like a pack of skittles; Yuuji went from sitting to on his feet to sitting on Megumi; the realization that Megumi was naked from the waist down only occurred when he felt the chafe of fabric from Yuuji’s shorts against his dick. Also, Yuuji’s ass was on his dick, which came with a different set of problems.
But a major problem strolled into the room, sword in hand—Sukuna. The white sword was long and thin, and didn't seem very real, but Megumi’s heart thudded all the same. Sukuna took one look at them, at Yuuji, who must have been making a half-hearted ploy of innocence, and his face twisted in disgust. “God, go be a whore somewhere else. It’s late.”
“Your shirt is on backwards,” Yuuji pointed out.
Megumi did not sneak another glance at Sukuna to confirm this. Presently, he was afraid that Sukuna might have laser vision and simply vaporize him on the spot, so he kept his eyes fixed to Yuuji’s shoulder.
He heard the thunk of shoes hitting the floor and the soft swishing of fabric. He saw only Sukuna’s bare legs as he moved in front of Yuuji, directly to the bed with the abused teddy bear.
There was a muffled, “Fuck off.”
Yuuji sighed. “It is late. And we have to be on the field by six.”
Megumi tried his best to keep the disappointment from bleeding into his voice. “Yeah. Right.” He mourned the loss of pressure as Yuuji stood.
He dressed haphazardly, not much caring if his own clothes were the right way round. His legs were wobbly and spent. Yuuji puppeteered him to the front door like a marionette.
“Want me to walk you to your room?”
Megumi wanted Yuuji to do several things to him, and only a couple of them involved walking. “No, it’s fine. I can make it.”
Yuuji kissed him. Soft and gentle. When he pulled back, his smile was all loose and crooked. “Just be careful. I heard there are trumpet players on the loose.” As if to confirm this, a distant whooo sounded in the background, followed by an abrupt crash. Yuuji snorted.
Something solid pressed into Megumi’s hand—the mysterious balm. “For your legs,” Yuuji clarified. “I have a fifty of them lying around. Oh, by the way…” He leaned his head against the doorframe, and Megumi loved the way the fluorescent lights struck his skin. He was still pink and splotchy. “I’m glad you were blackmailed into joining marching band.”
Yuuji said a soft goodnight, then closed the door.
Megumi stood in the hallway, clutching the jar, eyes lasered on the room number. 109. His legs felt remarkably better. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to start agreeing with Gojo more often.