Chapter Text
“If you keep swinging that damn guitar around, I’ll whack you with my microphone.”
“Oh shut up, Fushiguro. What else is there to do right now?”
Megumi could think of a lot of things Maki could do instead of practicing with her guitar like it’s her very own bo staff. Instead of getting wrapped up in her sparring moves, she could be helping set up the amps, or talking to her band members about the performance they’re about to put on.
But Megumi decides not to bicker back, and lets Panda start up some playful banter with her. Megumi just rolls his eyes and faces toward the view his band has from the stage.
The sunset casts a deep orange glow on the crowded park, the trees rustling with brittle yet colorful leaves that have already floated down and decorated the greenish grass. People have started to sit on the lawn in front of the worn wooden stage, huddling close in jackets and blankets. In the distance, string lights decorate the stalls where small business owners sell their assorted trinkets. Teenagers are everywhere, either taking flash photos or playing games with their friends. There’s a chilly breeze that’s carrying the appetizing smell of a food truck’s takoyaki.
The Autumn Arts Festival is an event that everyone from Heian High goes to. You could attend for hours and never run out of things to do: stroll through the aisles upon aisles of artsy shopping stalls, try your luck at apple bobbing, get fat off the endless food trucks lining the park, maybe even get a pumpkin or two painted on your face…
…then there’s the most important part: live music, the holy grail of any festival. The name of the band performing is always the first big lettering on any Autumn Arts Festival flyer. And this time, the flyer said “Curses,” the band Megumi and his friends created back in freshman year.
The five of them are seniors now: older, wiser, definitely more skilled than they were during their voice-crack-filled debut at the freshman talent show. Now, all those sleepless nights of practicing have paid off. Inumaki is their lead singer, and his voice is known to have a way with people—a gift of swaying the audience. Maki’s the guitarist, her shredding and stage presence unparalleled. Yuta's a natural when it comes to producing and the keyboard, and Panda kills it on the drums.
That leaves Megumi, the bassist. Bass has been one of his two passions for as long as he can remember. His parents—the showstopping model Satoru Gojo and the critically-acclaimed actor Suguru Geto—are extremely supportive, so supportive that Gojo signed Megumi up for lessons as soon as he merely plucked a string at an instrument store they had popped into. He had called him a “musical genius” and hailed him like the damn Messiah.
Right now, Megumi feels anything but. He had wanted to write a song for the band to play tonight, but nothing struck him with inspiration in time. He remembers sitting on his bedroom floor, plucking the same two notes over and over, hoping they’d morph into something meaningful. He’s always preferred the grittier style of music, the stuff that comes from the soul. Life’s been too mundane lately for any sort of song he’d feel confident in playing at the Autumn Arts Festival.
So instead, Curses readies itself to perform Just like Heaven by The Cure—Megumi’s choice.
“Fushiguro, you good?” Panda asks from where he sits behind the drums, quickly popping out his earpiece to hear Megumi clearly. Panda is quite an observant friend, and Megumi’s always been grateful for him, even though he hates talking about his emotions.
“I’m fine, thank you,” Megumi replies, slinging the strap of his black-and-blue bass over his head. Megumi turns to Panda. “Are we ready?”
“Just about,” Maki says with a sigh. “Inumaki’s still checking his mic.” She motions over to where Inumaki is—beside Megumi, saying various phrases into his mic. His go-to vocabulary when mic-checking is onigiri ingredients, and no one’s ever questioned it.
“Hey,” Yuta speaks up from his seat behind his sticker-covered keyboard, eyeing Megumi with sympathy. “Don’t beat yourself up about the song. I’m sure that with more time, you would’ve written something incredible.”
“Thanks, Yuta,” Megumi murmurs, his eyes focusing on the worn wooden planks of the stage floor.
Inumaki turns to everyone and sticks his thumb up, checking with his bandmates if they’re ready to begin. Everyone nods.
The crowd starts to hush when the string lights above the stage dim slightly, and the colored stage lights—Yuta picked pink and blue for tonight’s colors—flicker to life, casting on the band members. Megumi’s eyes are fixed on his bass, noticing how his entire form has now been basked in the colored beams.
Inumaki leans into the mic. “Mic check: Tuna mayo.”
The audience titters. Some cheer, his odd ritual already growing on them. Megumi grips his bass a little tighter. He hears Yuta tap out a few soft, melodic notes on his keyboard, and Panda clicks his drumsticks together to count them in.
“1... 2... 3... 4.”
Then, the opening riff of Just like Heaven rings out, Maki sharp and fluid on her guitar. Yuta builds behind her, his synth keyboard atmospheric and dreamy. Panda holds down the rhythm like it's second nature.
Megumi—head down, bangs hiding most of his face, calloused fingers gliding effortlessly over the strings—lets the music pull him under. Rock is definitely his favorite genre to play because of how meaningful it is; you can really tell when it’s written with love. That’s the reason why Megumi chose this specific song; it’s fun, expressive, and a topic that everyone can relate to.
Well, everyone except for him. He’s never been in love and doesn’t plan on it.
Panda crashes the cymbals, and Inumaki’s part begins. Megumi glances up at the audience. As always, the crowd responds instantly to Inumaki’s voice, some swaying and some singing along.
“Show me, show me, show me how you do that trick,
The one that makes me scream, she said…”
Then Megumi sees Yuji Itadori’s amazed brown eyes in the crowd, and it’s like the entire band goes quiet.
⭑♪⊹ ࣪ ˖
“I’m just saying,” Nobara says loudly as she yanks Yuji through the crowd, “We should at least look at the outfits I worked my ass off to design. Yuji, the drummer’s literally wearing the studded denim vest.”
“You were proud of that vest,” Yuji laughs as Nobara drags him through the people: adults standing around with drinks, teenagers taking photos on their digicams, kids jumping and dancing to the music.
Nobara had brought Yuji with her because she was so excited to show him the outfits she had put together for Curses to wear; Maki’s her best friend, and when Maki asked for Nobara to dress the band up, Nobara delivered. She would wake Yuji up in class to show him her sketches, call him and ask to go thrifting together after his weekend shifts…Nobara’s the type of person that always outdoes herself, especially when it comes to fashion.
Secretly, Yuji was dreading this night, even if it meant he got to skip track practice. Live music’s been iffy for him for a while.
The two finally stop when they get to the front of the crowd; people have started standing up and singing along, so it was difficult to get there.
“Look, Yuji!” Nobara yells, pointing at the band members excitedly. “Don’t they look good!?”
Yuji looks up, his eyes adjusting to the gradient pink and blue spotlights, and smiles proudly when he sees that the band looks damn good. Nobara went for a rockstar theme to match The Cure’s music: Maki’s wearing a fitted band tee with low-rise leopard flare jeans, her green hair in a messy ponytail; the drummer rocks a studded denim vest with an open flowy collared shirt and skinny black pants; the singer and keyboardist have matching pink leather jackets and enough gel in their hair to double as crash helmets; and the bassist…
…wow.
The bassist is wearing a studded black leather jacket layered over a dark blue shirt, paired with ripped jeans, chains, and a spiked choker. The aesthetic fits him so naturally, his black hair spiky in a fluffy way, his gaze so fixed on his bass, his hands playing with such passion…
Yuji’s breath catches a little. His eyes widen. “…who’s that?”
Nobara blinks. “That’s Fushiguro. He’s the one I told you about; you know, Mr. Broody who gets into fights and doesn't talk to anyone.”
Yuji tilts his head, fascinated. “He’s…really into it.”
“Into what?” Nobara says over the music.
Yuji doesn’t answer right away. He’s too busy watching how Fushiguro’s fingers move…so precise, so confident. Fushiguro lifts his head just slightly then, brushing his hair out of his eyes—and their eyes meet.
Just for a second.
Yuji freezes. Fushiguro’s green gaze—lined with black eyeliner and impossibly long eyelashes—is piercing but calm, like he’s seen something in Yuji too and isn’t sure how to react. But then he looks away, back down to his bass.
Yuji’s heart does this stupid little flip.
Nobara smirks, clearly noticing. “Uh oh.”
“What?”
“You’ve got that look.”
Yuji shrugs, trying to act normal, but his ears are turning pink. “He just…looks really cool up there. That’s all.”
Nobara rolls her eyes amusedly and pulls out her phone to record the band. “Yeeep. I bet.”
Yuji turns all his attention back to the stage.
He grew up loving music.
Music was played all the time when he was a kid. His parents had this big 80s boombox in the living room that they would blast cassette tapes on, then move all the furniture around so the five of them could dance in the open space. His grandpa played guitar and would strum Yuji to sleep. The radio was always on in the car, and his dad was very particular about the stations. “We’re making sure you two grow up on the classics,” his mom would say whenever his brother Choso complained.
Why are these thoughts coming to me now? Yuji wonders, stomach twisting. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t heard music this genuine since the days of his family’s boombox.
He watches Fushiguro, calm and focused, fingers gliding over a black-and-blue bass that hums deep in Yuji’s chest. The rest of the band plays above it, but it’s the bass that holds them together.
Fushiguro looks at peace. In tune with something Yuji hasn’t felt in years.
And the song...it was one of his grandpa’s favorites.
⭑♪⊹ ࣪ ˖
“I’m so proud of you guys!” Panda brings everyone in for one of his classic bear-hugs: Yuta and Inumaki squeeze him back, and Maki and Megumi grudgingly accept it, used to his open affection.
“Hey, Fushiguro,” Maki says, stretching her arm out towards Megumi. He turns to her and his eyes flicker to her extended fist, his eyes widening. “Good job,” she says as he fist-bumps her back.
“You too, Maki,” Megumi says, swearing to himself that he could see a bit of a grin on her face.
The band continues packing up their instruments and loading them into Panda’s white van, which Inumaki had written “CURSES” onto with red, blue, and black spray paint in freshman year.
When they’re all done team-efforting Panda’s drums into the back, Megumi slides the door open and hops in, leaning against the back doors and undoing his choker.
That pink-haired guy…who was that? He wonders to himself over and over again, his gaze fixating out the window as the engine roars to life and Panda and Maki argue over who gets AUX.
As always, Maki wins, and she victoriously connects her phone to the radio. Fade Into You by Mazzy Star starts playing rather loudly, thanks to the speakers in the back. Across from Megumi, Inumaki peacefully falls asleep on Yuta’s shoulder, who smiles and stays silent.
Megumi sleepily watches Tokyo, the city of endless colors, float on by out of the door window. Traffic was surprisingly not bad—well, for Tokyo, at least—since Curses had left much later than the rest of the festival-goers. He quickly checks his phone, gets jumpscared by 5+ texts from Gojo, and sees that it’s currently 12 AM.
He looks back outside, rests his chin on his palm, and suddenly a thought crosses his mind as a shop’s bright pink lights flicker by.
I hope he’s getting home safe.
He being the boy in the audience. The guy with the wild pink hair and the softest brown eyes Megumi’s ever seen. The way he was looking up at the band…in that split second Megumi made eye contact with him, he could tell he was reminiscing on something.
Megumi couldn’t help but feel curious, and it was shocking to him that he did.
He sighs and decides to open the texts from his dad. Anything to distract him from this foreign feeling.
gojo
Yesterday 10:13 PM
MEGUMI!!
I got your favorite, it'll be in the fridge for you
[Photo]
I'm expecting you to tell me everything tomorrow!
Already hearing from a little birdie that you guys CRUSHED it ;)
Megumi silently thanks the heavens—and his dad—that there is a takeout box of chicken shogayaki waiting for him at the apartment. However, he groans at the sight of that last text. It seems like Gojo’s assistants are always wherever Megumi is, some way or another. Megumi suspects it’s Ijichi this time—that guy would never decline an outing involving good food and music.
Megumi texts back a quick “thank you!” and “is that so” and turns his phone off, refocusing on the view from the window.
Geto and him rarely ever text. Gojo and Tsumiki, his sister who went off to college a few weeks ago, are the ones always blowing up his phone—Gojo with Instagram reels and Tsumiki with texts checking up on him. Geto prefers calling over texting. Megumi doesn’t mind talking to him over the phone; he actually finds that they have a bit in common.
And when Panda parks outside Megumi’s apartment building, and Megumi thanks him and makes his way up to the penthouse on the top floor, Geto is the one awake, reading in the living room with the ambient lights soft and warm.
“Welcome back,” Geto’s warm voice drifts from the sofa, where he lounges with a book open on his lap. The room is dim, lit mostly by the soft golden glow of the room’s ambient lights. The light cuts soft shadows across the living room’s pale walls and reflects faintly off the glass coffee table.
Megumi shuts the front door behind him with a quiet click, automatically locking it as he kicks off his boots. He exhales slowly, his shoulders sagging as the day’s weight finally begins to slide off. The air smells faintly of incense—100% Geto’s doing—and something woody and clean from the candle Gojo insists on lighting because it “makes the house feel expensive.”
“Hey,” Megumi murmurs, immediately beelining for the kitchen. The fridge opens with a small puff of cold air, and he practically tosses the container of chicken shogayaki into the microwave.
He leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, one hand lifting to rub at his tired eyes. The eyeliner Nobara had ordered him to apply before the show smudges even more. Geto glances over from the sofa with a soft chuckle, his book now closed and set beside him. “I’d ask how it went, but you look exhausted.”
Megumi shrugs, not quite smiling but not frowning either. “No, I’m alright.” He yawns mid-sentence, catching the microwave before it lets out a shrill beep. He pulls the hot container out, grabbing chopsticks from a drawer with a little more grace, and begins eating straight from the plastic tray. “It went great, actually. Everyone played well. Even me.”
Geto huffs a gentle laugh through his nose. “Don’t be dense. You’re a natural.”
Megumi pauses mid-bite, brows knitting as he stares at the half-stirred rice. If I really was a natural, I’d have written a damn song for the band by now, he thinks. The chopsticks twist in his fingers.
“Is Gojo asleep?” he asks, more to shift the conversation than out of actual concern.
“Oh, he tried to stay up,” Geto replies fondly, rising from the sofa with a stretch. “But he was snoring before 11. He kills me sometimes.”
Megumi bites back a smile as he imagines the scene: Gojo passed out in some overly dramatic sprawl, probably in Geto’s lap or drooling onto one of the expensive throw pillows. “I agree.”
With a quiet hum, Geto crosses the room to the massive windows that stretch from floor to ceiling, showcasing the glittering Tokyo skyline. He presses a button on the wall, and the automatic blinds begin to lower, slowly cloaking the penthouse in darkness. Only the kitchen’s recessed lighting remains, giving everything a soft, warm glow.
“I’m heading to bed,” Geto says, voice gentle as he turns back toward Megumi. “See you in the morning.”
“Night,” Megumi calls after him, watching the silhouette of his dad disappear down the hall. His fingers rake through his dark hair, ruffling it into a mess that mirrors his tired brain.
Once alone, he cleans up quietly; throws away the tray, wipes down the counter, flicks the light switches off one by one. The silence of the penthouse settles over him like a blanket. By the time he gets to his room, he’s already halfway out of his stage clothes, peeling off the dark blue shirt with its scratchy studs and throwing it into the laundry hamper like it offended him. His jeans follow, kicked off with a sigh of relief. The eyeliner gets wiped off with his bare hands.
His room is neat, bordering on sterile, completely contradicting the rockstar persona he had going on earlier. Posters are lined up with perfect symmetry, books shelved by genre and height. He always tightly makes his bed in the morning, but right now, he curses the way the covers are tucked in like it’s a military base. He grunts as he struggles to free them, finally managing to cocoon himself beneath the layers.
Lying there, phone glowing in his hand, he stares at Nobara’s Instagram profile. She knows everyone. His thumb hesitates over her story ring. Should I?
No.
Yes.
Maybe just a quick look.
The screen floods with clips—giggles, mirror selfies, snacks at one of the festival’s food trucks. Typical Nobara. Then—
There he is. Pink Hair.
It’s a selfie: he’s standing close beside her, the both of them grinning. His brown eyes are soft and crinkled at the corners. His smile is radiant, like the kind of light you don’t want to turn away from.
Megumi’s heart skips, like his brain misfired for a second. He taps the tag without thinking.
@yuji.itadori
His profile loads slowly, as if the universe is testing Megumi. The profile picture hits him like a truck. Itadori’s in a Heian High track uniform: short shorts and a tank that shows off more than Megumi’s ready for. His number is 8. He’s all lean muscle, built from sprinting and practice and maybe just good genetics. He’s caught mid-laugh in the shot, probably mid-conversation, and Megumi’s brain short-circuits imagining what it would be like to be the person he’s smiling at like that.
He scrolls. Photos of Itadori with friends, Itadori at track meets, Itadori holding up a 7-Eleven onigiri like it’s a trophy. The captions are stupid and cheerful. The comments are full of GIFs and inside jokes.
Megumi suddenly feels weirdly aware of himself. Of how much he’s smiling. And blushing.
He drops his phone face-down onto the mattress and groans, burying his face into the nearest pillow like it might smother the butterflies now attacking his stomach. He stays there for a minute. Maybe five. Then, dragging himself up like a ghost, he untangles his earbuds and pops them in.
He presses Play on his sleep playlist. The first song that starts is Drive by The Cars.
It begins to play, soft and atmospheric. The synth drifts through his earbuds like fog, carrying the song’s bittersweetness with it. The lyrics are simple, honest.
He’s always loved this song. It’s the kind of song you lie in bed and feel. The kind of song you write in your head, over and over, hoping it turns into something worth sharing.
But this one’s about love.
And Megumi’s never been in love, so he wouldn’t know how to write a song like that.
Not yet.
⭑♪⊹ ࣪ ˖
“Nobara, I swear, it’s—oh, shit.”
“‘Oh shit’ what?” Nobara’s voice on Yuji’s phone crackles on speaker. “If you’re about to get jumped, tell them to wait for me.”
Yuji kneels down on the sidewalk, focusing all his attention on the sweet ginger-colored puppy in front of him. Her brown eyes are big and sad, and her tongue lolls out of her mouth as she pants.
“Aww, you okay?” Yuji speaks softly to her, reaching out his hand so she can sniff it.
“Yuji, what’s going on?” Nobara asks, her voice tinged with a bit of worry.
“I found this sad stray dog,” Yuji explains when the puppy headbutts his hand, swishing her tail excitedly when he starts scratching her head. “What should I do? Choso’s on night shift, I don’t think he’d be pleased to come home to a dog in the house.”
“Don’t just leave her,” Nobara says sternly. “Take her to the vet in the morning and tell Choso afterwards. You don’t work till 5, right? Plenty of time.”
“Alright, I will. See ya,” Yuji replies, looking around first before picking up the puppy and carrying her home.
While walking this way, one can easily notice the shift in condition between the apartment buildings lining the street. On one end, the buildings still hold onto a sense of pride: fresh coats of paint, window boxes spilling over with petunias. The sidewalks are clean, the doorbells polished, and the residents carry themselves with security.
But as you keep moving, there’s a distinct change. The air feels heavier. Cracks creep along the facades and the paint starts peeling. But Yuji couldn’t care less about the exterior of these buildings; Choso and him have made quite the cozy home for themselves in one of them.
Yuji walks up to the very last one on the street and buzzes in—it took him a minute because the puppy kept licking his fingers. A harsh bzzzt answers him, followed by the familiar click of the lock disengaging. Choso must’ve left the auto-buzz on again. Yuji steps inside, letting the creaky metal frame swing shut behind him. The smell hits him immediately: something between mothballs and takeout. It’s familiar. Gross, yet comforting.
The lobby is dim, lit by a single flickering fluorescent tube that makes everyone look like they haven’t slept in days. The wallpaper—what’s left of it—is curling away from the walls like it’s trying to escape. Yuji barely notices anymore. He bounds up the stairs, two at a time, skipping the third step on instinct. It creaks like a dying animal and has tried to kill him at least twice.
Apartment 4B greets him with its stupid dog sticker over the peephole, warped from weather and time. He unlocks the door and steps into the hush of home. It’s dim inside, just the warm glow of the kitchen light Choso always leaves on for him. The living room is exactly as they left it this morning: blankets tangled on the couch, half a mug of tea on the windowsill, the faint smells of Choso’s cigarette smoke and lavender laundry detergent hanging in the air.
He sets the puppy down and she immediately hops onto the couch, spinning around a bit before curling up on one of their many mismatched blankets. Yuji lets her do her thing.
The vet opens at 7, he thinks as he opens the fridge. I’d better be there on time to skip the crowd.
In the fridge, there’s leftover curry with a sticky note on the container that reads: “Eat something. I love you. – Choso”
Yuji smiles and takes the sticky note off. He likes to keep Choso’s notes and sticks them onto his mirror in his room.
He heats the curry up, the old microwave humming and ticking. When it beeps, he settles on the couch with the curry and turns the TV on low.
He stares straight forward and sighs when he sees the puppy sitting up and gazing at his food. “Fine, here,” he gives in, knocking a bit of curry into her mouth. She swallows it whole.
As the puppy settles down and the TV channel reruns episodes of One Piece that Yuji has seen already, his mind drifts to the festival.
Black eyeliner, cool outfits, good music…God, that band was something. Other than seeing Nobara proud of herself, watching the band was the highlight of Yuji’s night. Which shocks him, to say the least. He thought he’d hate it.
But the song took him back. And Fushiguro was definitely easy to watch.
Yuji’s head starts filling with the memory of locking eyes with him, just for a split second. He was in the zone, in his element. He was beautiful.
For a moment, Yuji wonders what it would be like for his living room to be filled with music again.