#forbidden cheetos | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nizhspo · 9 days ago

Text

forbidden fruit (miniseries).

boyish things.

m.list

synopsis: your little brother yuji's best friend, quiet and sweet and still growing into his smile-and you, the older sister who was never supposed to feel this way.

pairing: megumi fushiguro x f!reader

he’s always been a little quiet around you.

you used to think he just didn’t like you that much—megumi fushiguro, the dark-haired tagalong who hovered behind yuji like his own shadow. he was polite, always, but never eager. never loud. never sought you out. the most he ever said to you growing up was probably thanks or okay or goodnight.

he met your brother in the fourth grade, back when you were just starting sixth. freshly out of elementary school, convinced you were grown just because your homeroom was upstairs now. megumi was smaller back then, sharper around the eyes, always brooding, already quiet in a way most ten-year-olds weren’t. he’d gotten into his first fight within the first month of school and dragged your loudmouthed brother into it not long after. after that, they were inseparable.

you thought he was weird at first. too serious. kind of a jerk, honestly, never smiled, never said more than a few words to you, and always seemed to look through or over you like he was trying to forget you existed entirely. like acknowledging you would’ve cost him something. like he didn’t know what to do with you.

you weren’t close. not in any real way.

but he was always there. partly because his parents weren’t shit so much as absent, and partly because yuji wouldn’t let him be alone for too long. megumi became part of your household before any of you really noticed, sitting cross-legged on your living room floor, doing homework at your kitchen table, leaving a spare toothbrush in the cup by the sink without ever asking if it was okay.

family vacations? megumi came to every single one. yuji insisted on it, threw fits the one year your parents said no, and after that they just started booking rooms for five. made room in the backseat without thinking. learned to expect his sullen face in all the trip photos.

megumi was never talkative. never warm. but he was… thoughtful, in this strange, sideways kind of way.

he’d hand you his toothpaste at night when you forgot yours—you and yuji both always forgot, same sides of the easily distracted sibling coin. he’d press a waffle onto your plate in the hotel breakfast room when yours came out undercooked and floppy, and when yuji would pout, dramatic as ever, about not getting his swapped too, megumi would shoot him a look so sharp it could’ve sliced through the syrup packets.

he never said anything. not about the toothpaste. not about the waffles. just turned pink at the tips of his ears and went quiet, like the kindness embarrassed him. like he wished he could take it back.

but that was megumi. quiet, moody, always a little standoffish. not quite rude, but he avoided you in a way that always made you feel like you were too much. too loud, too nosy, too something.

you didn’t know what exactly to make of it, so you just assumed he didn’t like you.

then came quarantine—back when you were in eighth grade and they were in sixth. those long, stifling months where no one really knew what day it was and megumi was at your house more than he was at his own.

the air always smelled like cheetos and axe, and the background noise of your life became the sharp crackle of headset mics and the sound of gunfire from whatever game they were obsessed with that week. they stayed up until three, yelling over party chat, shoveling chips into their mouths, throwing shit over lag and kill counts. megumi was in your house so much you started seeing him in dreams.

this was back when he and yuji were in their full asshole era, unfiltered twelve-year-olds who hated everyone, including themselves. when you couldn’t even be in the kitchen for more than ten minutes without one of them judging something. your pajamas? ugly. your hair? looked like a mop. your little cake-decorating phase? “a frosting crime scene.”

you’d roll your eyes and stomp upstairs, muttering about how you were almost in high school anyway, and hop back on the phone with your friends. you told them everything, dramatic and loud, ranting about the gremlins living in your kitchen and how your brother and his emo little friend were probably plotting to steal your last fruit roll-up.

but then, one afternoon, yuji had the audacity to eat your entire doordash order. and instead of apologizing like a normal person, he made megumi knock on your door to ask if you wanted to play roblox.

because, and you found this out later, you were more likely to say yes to megumi than yuji.

so megumi, poor sixth-grade megumi, reluctantly trudged up the stairs like he was being sent to war. stood outside your door for a full ten seconds, psyching himself up, before finally knocking—twice, fast, like he didn’t want to be caught doing it.

you thought it was yuji, obviously. so you flung the door open in a sports bra and pajama shorts, half annoyed, ready to beat the shit out of your little brother.

and megumi?

he flinched like you slapped him. literally recoiled, eyes darting away so fast he nearly smacked his head on the doorframe. turned red instantly—cheeks, ears, neck, and lifted a hand over his face like that might help.

“uh,” he croaked, voice cracking once, twice, “did—did you wanna play roblox with me and yuji?”

you stared at him. completely deadpan. raised an eyebrow.

“…absolutely not.” you said, and slammed the door in his face.

he stood there for two minutes afterward, heart beating so fast it hurt, mind short-circuiting, cheeks burning. sixth-grade megumi, still too young to know what the hell was happening in his chest, but old enough to know he was already doomed.

you felt kinda bad after that.

because after, megumi talked to you even less—barely nodded when you said hi, practically sprinted in the opposite direction when you came downstairs, refused to meet your eyes in the kitchen.

it wasn’t particularly mean, just distant in a way that settled weird in your chest. awkward and stiff and careful, like he thought even breathing too loud in your presence might offend you somehow.

but you were starting high school. ninth and tenth grade were a whirlwind of new friends, new classes, new boys, and your world grew fast, full of dance practices and hallway crushes and group chats that never stopped buzzing.

you didn’t have time to worry about your brother and his brooding little best friend still stuck in middle school. they were background noise—annoying, loud, vaguely smelly background noise. you had better things to focus on. you barely even noticed when megumi stopped saying anything to you at all.

then came junior year.

you got your license. your mom handed you the keys to the family car with a big smile and even bigger expectations. and suddenly, driving megumi and your shithead brother to school became your new full-time job.

“why can’t they just take the bus like i did?” you groaned that first week, slumping over the steering wheel like it was killing you. “i’m driving two freshmen. do you know how embarrassing that is? do you know how sad my life is right now?”

your mom just smiled. “you’re being dramatic.”

but it was sad. tragic, even. instead of picking up your girls and blasting music and getting coffee before class like a normal junior, you were stuck carting around your little brother and his emotionally constipated best friend who said maybe three words a morning, max.

you dropped them off at your neighborhood like it was community service, barely waiting until they shut the door before speeding off to the mall or starbucks or anywhere that wasn’t soaked in freshman boy stench.

your friends didn’t see it that way, though. not when megumi started looking like that.

they’d nudge you in the food court, whisper in the bleachers at football games, their eyes tracking the way he stood by the vending machines in that same damn black hoodie, silent and unreadable.

“god, i wish he was in our grade,” one of them said, practically sighing. “he looks older than half the junior guys.”

“he’s so broody. it’s kinda hot.”

you gagged. physically gagged.

“that is genuinely so disgusting,” you muttered, hand to your chest. “i’m gonna pretend you didn’t just say that to me.”

because you didn’t get it.

that was literally just megumi. yuji’s best friend.

the kid who wore the same hoodie three years in a row, who once got a nosebleed in your kitchen and bled all over the dish towel. you watched him go through his acne phase—were there the time he got a concussion playing football with yuji in the yard and your mom made him lie down with frozen peas over his head. he was always there. just there.

you drove him home sometimes with the windows down and your music too loud. he’d sit in the back, shoulder pressed to the door, barely speaking unless yuji dragged him into whatever dumb conversation was happening.

he didn’t feel older.

he felt younger. smaller. like a leftover piece of your childhood hanging around a little too long.

even when he passed your height in middle school and just kept going. even when his voice got lower and his hair got longer, and your mom started calling him handsome and gushing about how the girls were going to be all over her “two handsome young men.”

you laughed so hard that day you had tears in your eyes.

you pointed at megumi, who was pretending not to hear, earbuds jammed in like a lifeline.

“him?” you wheezed. “please. don’t gas him up like that. he’ll explode.”

it was a joke. just a throwaway line tossed into a sea of other ones—but megumi went red to the tips of his ears, and didn’t say a word. just kept his eyes on the floor, jaw tight, pretending the music in his ears was louder than you. like that could protect him from how deep the words landed.

you didn’t realize how that one stupid comment clung to him all day.

how he asked yuji later, casual as he could, if maybe they should start working out together. just for the cardio. just to keep in shape. how he went home and opened three different tabs titled “how to look more mature in high school,” and slammed his laptop shut twenty minutes later, heart hammering with shame, because it was pathetic, wasn’t it? thinking he even had a shot.

he laid in bed that night, hoodie pulled over his head, earbuds still in, music on repeat like it could drown out the echo of your voice. like it could smother the way you laughed, like he was a joke. like he wasn’t already trying so hard just to exist next to you.

he didn’t hate you for it, not really. but he couldn’t look at you for a week without flinching. because it wasn’t just a joke to him. it was proof that you weren’t looking at him the same way he was looking at you.

proof that maybe you never would.

and when megumi got his first girlfriend toward the end of freshman year—a sophomore, no less, you were honestly kind of stunned.

the girl was cute, popular, wore sparkly lip gloss and those dangly earrings that got stuck in the straps of her backpack. and she liked him. like, actually liked him. which… okay, maybe your mom had been right about him growing into his looks. you’d rolled your eyes all those years she fawned over her “two handsome young men,” but now you were starting to see what she meant.

megumi wasn’t just tall and broody anymore, he had that whole awkward, quiet confidence thing going for him, and apparently, the older girls were eating it up.

you found him in the living room one afternoon, slouched stiff on the couch like someone had poured concrete into his spine. he was in a hoodie and jeans, still too big on him in that freshman-boy way, but he was trying. a bouquet sat on the coffee table in front of him like a bomb waiting to go off.

“so,” you said, flopping down beside him, thigh bumping his as you stretched your legs out in front of you, “you’re really taking her to spring formal?”

he nodded once, eyes glued to the floor. tight grip on the hem of his hoodie. jaw set.

what you didn’t know—couldn’t know, was that asking this girl had been part of his desperate, humiliating, twenty-step plan to get over you. step twelve, to be exact.

he’d made the list at 2am two weeks ago. it was supposed to help. it wasn’t helping. not when you were this close to him, perfume soft and sharp in the air, your bare knee brushing against his jeans like it was nothing.

“you need help.”

his head snapped up, alarmed. “what?”

“with the date, megumi,” you snorted, rolling your eyes like he was the dense one here. “relax. you’re gonna look like a deer in headlights if you don’t know what to do. i’m trying to save you from complete humiliation.”

you grinned like it was a favor. like the idea of him with another girl didn’t shake something loose in your chest.

he stared at you for a second too long, trying to figure out if this was torture or a sign from the gods. you’d never sat this close to him before. never offered to help him impress someone else.

and all he could think was: you’re not making this easier. you’re not helping. you’re killing me.

he opened his mouth, probably to argue, but you were already halfway through your lecture. how to hold a girl’s waist when you danced—not like she’s diseased, please. where to walk if you’re walking her home—outside edge of the sidewalk, always. how to kiss her—light at first, don’t go full face vacuum, you’re not in a rom-com.

he didn’t say anything. didn’t even look at you. just kept his eyes on the armrest like it owed him money. his ears were red. so were his cheeks. his hands were clenched in his lap like he wasn’t sure if he was going to punch something or bolt.

from downstairs, yuji’s voice echoed up through the vents.

“oh my god, y/n—” a crash. a grunt. “will you please stop harassing my friend?!”

“he’s not gonna get good advice from you, ugly,” you shouted back. “someone’s gotta help him!”

you didn’t hear the rest of yuji’s response because he barreled up the stairs like a linebacker and tackled you off the couch. the next ten minutes were chaos, cushions flying, limbs flailing, the two of you locked in some deathmatch that ended with him pinned to the carpet, your arm around his neck as you rubbed your knuckles into his scalp.

“say you surrender!” you laughed, grinning wide.

“never!”

megumi sat on the couch the whole time, quiet.

but when you looked up, his face was pink, and his lips were twitching, like he was biting back the smile of someone who didn’t know how to show you what it meant.

but that’s just how things were. you were yuji’s older sister. and megumi was his best friend.

that was all it was.

but then came the aftermath.

the whispers in the hallway. the girls trailing behind him after practice, passing him folded notes during class. the same sophomore he took to spring formal stopped texting him two weeks after, and the rumor was that megumi fushiguro was just too nonchalant.

“emotionally unavailable,” someone had said in the girl’s bathroom once.

“he’s hot, but like… what’s the point if he doesn’t wanna do anything?”

it was kind of hilarious. so funny that you’d brought it up once, casually, like you weren’t poking at a beehive, on the way home from school. the windows were cracked, the music was up, and yuji had his crusty-ass sneakers kicked up on your dash like he paid the car note.

“feet down,” you snapped, swatting at him as you merged into traffic. “you’re not cute and this is not your car.”

he rolled his eyes and leaned back, fake pouting. megumi was in the backseat, as always, hoodie strings pulled tight, watching the strip malls blur past.

“so, mr. nonchalant,” you said, dragging the words with a little grin, peeking at megumi through the rearview mirror.

you reached over and pinched yuji’s cheek just to annoy him, and he slapped your hand away with a dramatic yelp.

“why don’t you teach yuji how to be more like that, huh? your boy’s been in love with yuko since before and after her glow-up and still hasn’t said a word.”

“shut up!” yuji cried, going red instantly.

megumi snorted.

“don’t laugh,” yuji shot back, voice rising. “last time i checked, you’ve been in love with the same girl since middle school.”

everything in the car went still for a second, and you blinked, glancing in the mirror.

megumi’s face had dropped. his shoulders went tense. eyes narrowed. and he turned toward yuji with this look—sharp, murderous, pure betrayal.

“wow, megumi,” you teased, laughing, “a secret admirer for four years without making a move? never took you for the type—”

but before you could finish, megumi lunged forward between the seats, wrapping an arm around yuji’s neck and dragging him back into a headlock.

“you’re dead,” he muttered, voice low.

“i’m sorry! i’m sorry! i’m so sorry!” yuji wheezed, laughing so hard he was nearly crying, face red and scrunched as he thrashed in the seat.

you were laughing too, harder than you had in weeks, one hand on the wheel and the other smacking your thigh as the two of them wrestled like kids in the back of your beat-up sedan.

and megumi, even while choking out your brother, looked up at you once, cheeks flushed, eyes flicking away the second yours caught his in the mirror.

he said nothing.

but you didn’t miss the way he sat back a little quieter than before. the way he kept his head down. the way yuji kept snickering under his breath and mouthing my bad when megumi wasn’t looking.

you didn’t know what to make of that, either.

and then came june.

the summer heat hit like punishment, thick, wet, and clinging to every surface like it was mad at you. the a.c. gave out right as the first real heatwave rolled in, and it felt like your house was actively trying to kill you. fans buzzed uselessly in every room, the upstairs windows were propped open with textbooks, and the air was so heavy you started sleeping in nothing but your lightest pajama shorts and a worn-in tank top that barely clung to your shoulders.

megumi, of course, was still around. always was. especially that summer, since school was out, and there was nothing else to do, yuji gaming late into the night and megumi silently tagging along, half-asleep on the couch or rummaging through your fridge like he lived there too.

and you… well.

you’d come downstairs, bleary-eyed and annoyed, already sweating before noon, legs bare and hair up, muttering about how you were gonna sue the electric company for emotional distress.

and megumi would always look away.

not in a creepy way. not gross or weird, either. just fast—too fast. like he was guilty. like he wasn’t supposed to see. his face would flush, neck too, and he’d suddenly become deeply invested in the texture of the couch cushions or the contents of the pantry, like eye contact might burn him alive.

yuji, naturally, had no shame.

“put some damn clothes on,” he’d groan, tossing a pillow at your head. “you’re gonna give my boy a heart attack.”

you’d roll your eyes, duck the pillow, stretch your arms over your head just to be annoying.

“this is my house,” you’d sing, smug, “he can literally leave if he wants.”

then, tossing a smirk over your shoulder—

“besides, megumi’s respectful. unlike the rest of your nasty little friends.”

you didn’t know. you didn’t see how megumi would go upstairs after that, quiet and red and visibly flustered, and lock himself in the bathroom for twenty whole minutes. how he’d run the sink the entire time, pressing cold water to the back of his neck, muttering curses under his breath, frantically tapping through his phone trying to find some obnoxiously loud fart app just to throw yuji off if he came knocking.

you didn’t know his hands shook a little. didn’t know how fast his heart was beating. didn’t know how long he’d been trying not to look at you like that.

because you were yuji’s sister. and he was just megumi. and that’s all it was supposed to be.

and then came senior year.

yuji and megumi weren’t any less them—still loud, still annoying, still always wrestling in the living room like puppies, but somewhere between freshman year and now, they got… easier. more tolerable. less stupid.

yuji started lying for you when you snuck out of the house, sneaking down at 1 a.m. to unlock the door without asking questions. megumi, if you batted your lashes just right, would do your math homework with a quiet sigh and a half-hearted, “this is the last time.” (it never was.)

they weren’t just your little brother and his weird, moody friend anymore. they were people. they were growing up.

you took them to the mall in the spring. said it was a makeover day. said it was part of your final act of charity before you left for college and couldn’t help them with girls anymore. yuji was all for it, trying on ridiculous sunglasses and posing like he was auditioning for a boy band. megumi sulked his way through three stores before finally letting you drag him into a fitting room at h&m.

and when he came out—

he looked good.

not just good in the way people look clean after a haircut. but good in the way that made you blink once, then again, like your brain had to recalibrate.

his hair was a little neater, pushed back from his face. the dark crewneck you picked out clung to his shoulders a little too well. and the jeans actually fit. like, fit fit.

he didn’t look like a kid anymore. not really.

and for the first time, you saw what people meant. what the girls at school whispered about in the halls, what your friends kept elbowing you over when you dropped him off.

you weren’t blind. he was tall now. sharper in the jaw. still quiet, still closed-off, but there was something behind his eyes now. something steadier.

but it didn’t like… do anything.

because he was still megumi, yuji’s best friend. the kid who used to avoid eye contact with you for months. the one who once asked if you wanted to play roblox with his face burning and his voice cracking.

and you? you were leaving. college boys. frat parties. new people, new everything.

but still, when you looked at him that day, standing by the mirror, hands shoved in his pockets, face unreadable except for the slight twitch of his mouth when you told him he looked nice—you saw him a little differently.

not in the oh my god i’m in love kind of way. just… like you’d missed something. like maybe he’d been changing this whole time. and you were only just starting to notice.

but you left for college anyway.

partied with guys who were actually older. kissed boys who knew how to flirt, who knew how to talk, who knew how to make you feel like the sun the second you walked into a room. you danced under dim lights, made out on balconies, cried in bathrooms over boys whose names you sometimes forgot. it was a blur in the way first semesters always are—new, fast, messy, addicting.

and megumi became one of those people you only saw on breaks. someone who hovered at the edges of your life again, taller now, quieter, a little harder to read. he’d pile into your backseat with yuji and a few of their friends when you were home, legs too long for the space, shoulders hunched as he looked out the window. said thank you when you dropped them off. never more than that.

christmas break came, and with it came sukuna.

your friend from college. the one who looked scarily like yuji—same eyes, same grin, same stupid laugh, but louder, sharper around the edges, mean in the way that made people laugh before they realized it stung. you called him your brother away from home; he called your mom a goddess every time she so much as handed him a plate.

“your mom is so fucking hot,” he mouthed one afternoon while she was stirring the soup, eyes wide like he couldn’t believe it.

you smacked him. he just laughed.

his family wasn’t… really a thing. and you had plenty to go around. so you brought him home. stayed up too late smoking on the porch with him. drove around the suburbs listening to bad remixes and yelling out the windows like you were sixteen again. it was fun. loud and light and easy.

until yuji knocked on your door one afternoon, pouty and dramatic.

“you never hang out with your real little brother anymore.”

you rolled your eyes but melted anyway. patted his head and dragged all the board games out of the hallway closet like it was 2012 again.

you, yuji, megumi, and sukuna played in the living room all night. yelling, arguing, laughing until your sides hurt. sukuna was the worst loser you’d ever met. foul-mouthed, spiteful, ruthless in uno. he called yuji a “slippery little worm” and tried to flip the board twice. megumi sat with his arms crossed, amused, occasionally offering dry commentary that made you snort into your sleeve.

halfway through risk, everyone was too tired to keep arguing about army placement.

you padded upstairs, cheeks sore from smiling. sukuna flopped down on the air mattress beside your bed like he owned the place. the lights were off, just the blue glow from your charger lighting the room faintly.

he turned onto his side.

“bro,” he whispered, voice slurred with sleep, “the emo one is literally in love with you.”

you blinked at the ceiling. furrowed your brows.

“megumi?”

“obviously.” he yawned. “you didn’t see it? he was staring the whole time. dude was purposely losing risk just to give you more territory. it was pathetic.”

you snorted. tossed your pillow at him.

“just because you think everyone is in love with you doesn’t mean I do.”

he groaned dramatically, buried his face in the blanket. “okay, fine. die oblivious.”

you laughed.

but the thought… stuck. and for the rest of break, you couldn’t not notice it. the way megumi’s eyes would flick up when you walked in the room. how he’d hover near the edge of conversations, always listening, always there. the way he always remembered your order when yuji forgot it. the way he smiled at your jokes like he didn’t want to. how he didn’t meet your eyes when you caught him looking.

maybe he was just like that. maybe he always had been.

but for the first time, you wondered if sukuna had a point.

then one day, the fall of your sophomore year, megumi asked how you liked your school.

it was casual. quiet. you were back home for a long weekend, still shaking off the hangover from the night before, curled into the couch with a mug of your mom’s chamomile tea. he stood in the kitchen like he didn’t know whether to sit down or keep leaning against the counter.

“how’s college?” he asked.

you blinked over the rim of your mug. “good. why?”

he shrugged. looked away. “thinking about applying.”

you didn’t think much of it. didn’t catch the way he said your school. didn’t realize his voice was a little steadier than usual, like maybe he’d been planning to ask.

you just smiled, stood, ruffled his hair on your way to the sink. he ducked out from under your touch, cheeks pink.

“it’s a great place,” you said. “i’ll give you a tour if you ever come visit.”

and then he did.

he came in late winter with his dad toji, still all rough edges and too-wide smirks, who smiled at your mom like they’d been neighbors for years. he looked at you like you were someone reliable, someone important to his kid, and you smiled back because you knew better than to let him see otherwise.

you picked them up in your roommate’s beat-up corolla, music low and windows down. gave them the tour—pointed out the dining halls, the quiet library floor, the rec center where you maybe worked out twice a month, the big oak tree that turned bright gold every spring and blew up your instagram feed like clockwork.

megumi stayed quiet the whole time, nodding now and then, hands in his pockets. looking, but not talking. soaking it in.

when you met up with your roommate later that day before a party, megumi stood in the hall, talking to yuji on the phone.

your roommate raised a brow. “is that your boyfriend?”

you almost choked on your gum. “what? no. that’s megumi. he’s my little brother’s best friend.”

“he wishes he was, though,” sukuna said from beside you, smirking.

you elbowed him in the stomach so hard he wheezed.

but you did offer to take megumi to a party. just a small one. nothing wild. off-campus, backyard string lights and thumping bass and too many people packed onto the porch. you held his wrist as you led him through the crowd, his pulse fluttering under your fingers. handed him one of your drinks and told him, “don’t chug. sip. there’s more.”

he nodded. listened. did exactly what you said.

he followed you through the haze of it all, watched the way you laughed with your friends, danced under the colored lights, worked the room like you’d built it. he played cup pong on your team, tried not to stare when you leaned into him, grinned when you talked trash to the other team.

and when he made the winning shot, your drink in one hand and a curl falling into your eyes, you ran to him without thinking.

hugged him.

tight. arms around his neck. warm and laughing and saying we’re so good, oh my god.

he barely breathed.

you didn’t see his face when you dropped him off. didn’t notice how quiet he got when you pulled away in your tank top and cutoff shorts, the car packed with friends, the windows down, your laughter still echoing as you turned the corner.

but he remembered. he remembered all of it. so when decision day came, when the acceptance letter landed and yuji was still deadset on a different campus, loud and excited about new cities and fresh starts—

megumi chose yours.

not just for you. but…

he couldn’t stop thinking about the way your voice had sounded when you said i’ll give you a tour. the way your eyes lit up when you talked about the quad in spring. the way your laugh sounded in a backyard full of strangers. the way you didn’t even realize you’d reached for his hand during cup pong, how you never noticed him looking.

he said yes to your school because maybe, he just wanted to keep being near you. even if you’d never see him the same way. even if you never noticed. but maybe someday, you would.

now it’s spring semester of your junior year. the air feels swollen, hot, damp, clinging to your skin like breath. campus is blooming with that pre-summer haze where everything smells like cut grass, cheap beer, and someone’s lingering perfume.

megumi’s more than adjusted by now. he’s no longer the shadow trailing behind yuji anymore, he’s carved out his own orbit, and people notice him when he walks into a room. you’ve heard plenty about him since the year started. especially during halloweekend.

you’d never known megumi was like that. not the boy you used to tease for hiding behind his bangs. not the boy who wouldn’t even meet your eyes when you asked him a question.

you tried not to think about it.

but now there’s this rooftop lounge party. music loud, sky soft and purple overhead, string lights tangled above and below like constellations too drunk to hold shape. you’re in the kitchen, half-leaning against the counter with a solo cup in your hand, laughing at something sukuna said that probably shouldn’t be funny.

and then your eyes drift.

megumi’s on the couch across the room, sprawled out between two guys you vaguely recognize from intramural soccer. dark jeans, a plain black t-shirt that’s snug across his shoulders, solo cup lazily dangling in one hand. head tilted back, smile lazy and faint, like he’s only half-listening to whatever’s being said.

he looks good. confident. like he belongs.

he looks… older.

you blink and look away. shake your head. maybe it’s the beer. maybe it’s the heat. maybe it’s the way your shirt keeps sticking to your spine and you can’t tell if your heart’s racing from the music or the fact that you’ve looked at him twice now.

“never took you as the cougar type,” sukuna mutters next to you, sipping from his cup with a shit-eating grin.

you whip around. glare. “kuna—oh my god, i don’t even know, okay? i swear he didn’t look like that before.”

sukuna shrugs, leans against the fridge. “well, he does now. and you know he’d go for it.”

“okay, but like—i feel like that’s morally wrong on some level. he’s literally my little brother’s best friend.”

“and last time i checked, you’re both consenting adults. the brat doesn’t have to know.”

you groan, pressing your cold cup to your cheek. “you’re an ass.”

“mmhm.” he pinches the bridge of his nose, already half-bored with you. “i don’t even know why i’m standing here entertaining this when i could be getting laid right now.”

he gives you a firm pat on the back. “good luck repressing that, though.”

he disappears out of the kitchen, and you are left standing there, very much not repressing it.

you swear you’re not going to fuck your brother’s best friend. you are not going to fuck your brother’s best friend. you are—god, he’s looking this way again.

later, on the back patio, it’s quieter. the bass thuds inside but out here it’s more breath than beat. megumi’s leaning against the railing, solo cup in one hand, the other shoved in his pocket. cheeks pink. not drunk, but soft. relaxed in a way you’re not used to seeing.

you sidle up beside him, the heat making your skin stick to the wood railing. you can smell the beer on him. the fabric softener. he’s still wearing that cologne that’s barely there until you’re close enough for it to matter.

“damn,” you say, shoulder bumping his. “you’re drinking like you’ve been here for years.”

he huffs a laugh. “maybe i’m catching up.”

“you’re still a baby,” you tease, voice light, fingers curling to reach up, instinctive, like muscle memory.

but he catches your wrist before you can tap his nose, firm and warm fingers wrapping around your skin, thumb brushing the inside of your wrist.

your breath stutters, just a little as his eyes meet yours.

“i’m not a kid,” he says. and his voice is low. not joking. not teasing. something else curling beneath it.

you blink. laugh, maybe to cover the flip in your stomach. “oh yeah?”

his grip doesn’t tighten, but he doesn’t let go either. “you really don’t see it, do you?”

his voice is soft, but not gentle. it lands like a stone dropped in still water, controlled, but full of weight.

you blink, shift your cup from one hand to the other.

“see what, fushiguro?” you say, trying to laugh a little, make it into a joke. because the look in his eyes right now is not a joke.

he watches you. his thumb taps once against the plastic of his solo cup. then he says—

“that you’ve had me wrapped around your finger since i was thirteen.”

you still.

the silence hangs between you, electric and close, and something in your throat tightens. but you raise your eyebrows, scoffing like you’re not suddenly very, very aware of how warm your skin feels. “oh, please—”

but megumi cuts you off, sharp and low.

“i literally cried back in middle school when you got your first boyfriend.”

you freeze.

he huffs a bitter laugh and shakes his head, not looking at you anymore, but looking out over the railing, like he can’t believe he’s actually saying it.

“eighth grade. you kissed him behind the gym. yuji told me, thought he was being funny.” he scoffs again, quieter. “i locked myself in the bathroom for an hour. told him it was allergies.”

you’re staring now. heart loud. ears hot.

“you think i offered to do your math homework out of the kindness of my heart?” he goes on, voice a little hoarse now, a little less steady. “you smiled at me once in the kitchen, called me smart, said please, and i would’ve rewritten the whole textbook for you.”

he runs a hand through his hair. swallows hard.

“or you remember when my dad was being a dick every other week? and i’d stay over for days at a time?”

your stomach flips.

“you used to take me and yuji out for ice cream. you’d sneak extra blankets into the guest room without saying anything. you’d say dumb shit like ‘our house has better cereal anyway’ just to make me feel like—like i wasn’t some fucked-up kid with nowhere to go.”

he’s looking at the ground now, voice low.

“you made it feel like your house was mine too. like i belonged there. like i mattered.”

his fingers flex around the cup.

“and i don’t think you ever realized how much that meant. how much you meant.”

you don’t say anything. you can’t. your mouth’s gone dry and your chest is so tight it aches.

and megumi finally looks at you again.

his eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them, open, exposed, steady in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“so yeah,” he says, jaw tense. “and now i’m eighteen. in college. not some kid anymore.” his gaze doesn’t falter. “and you’re still talking to me like i’m your little brother’s friend. like i’m still that quiet kid on your couch.”

your breath hitches.

your cup is sweating in your hand. or maybe you are. maybe it’s the heat. the beer. the way the air between you suddenly feels thick enough to choke on.

megumi takes one step closer—not close enough to touch, but enough that you feel it. that shift. that pull.

“i’m not him anymore,” he says, quieter now. “and i think you know that.”

he’s just standing there, waiting, eyes dark, unreadable. sure. he’s waiting for you to do something about it.

your heart’s hammering in your ears.

everything in you says this is a little wrong—morally questionable at best. yuji’s best friend. two years younger. you’ve seen this boy sneeze milk out his nose.

but he’s also not a boy anymore.

he’s standing there in the warm dark, the string lights casting soft shadows across his face. hair messy like he’s run his hands through it too many times tonight. jaw sharp, lips slightly parted, collar of his black t-shirt just a little stretched. his arms look stronger now, veins along his forearms catching the light as he flexes his fingers around his cup.

his eyes don’t waver. not like they used to, and you tilt your head, breath catching just behind your tongue.

“prove it.”

his whole body stills. the corner of his mouth twitches, once, twice, like he doesn’t quite believe you said it. like maybe he’s giving you the chance to take it back.

but you don’t. you just stare back.

and slowly, megumi sets the solo cup down. deliberate. careful. then he steps closer.

close enough that your knees almost brush. close enough to smell the faint trace of whatever cologne he always wears now, clean, subtle, something warm that clings to the back of your throat.

“you sure?” he asks, voice low. strained, even now. he doesn’t want to fuck this up. doesn’t want to get it wrong.

your breath is shallow. your skin’s burning. you nod, and your voice is soft, almost a whisper. “i’m sure.”

he leans in, and everything else goes quiet.

his lips touch yours, soft, at first. gentle, almost tentative. but steady. sure.

and it’s not the kiss you expected.

it’s not fumbling or shy or awkward the way first touches sometimes are. it’s intentional. slow but firm, the kind of kiss that comes from someone who’s thought about it—a lot. someone who’s replayed the moment in his head a hundred times, waiting, imagining, hoping.

his hand slides up, fingers curling behind your neck, thumb brushing just beneath your ear. his other arm anchors low, warm against the curve of your waist, pulling you just a little closer as his mouth moves with yours, measured, deliberate. he kisses you like he’s memorizing it. like he’s not in a rush because he’s waited this long already.

when he pulls back, it’s only for a breath—just long enough to tilt his head, press his mouth to the corner of yours, then your jaw, then lower, slower, to the base of your neck.

you inhale sharply, knees nearly buckling when his lips drag across your pulse point, sucking with just enough pressure to make your stomach flip, to make your head tilt back on instinct, your hand curling in the fabric of his shirt.

his mouth is hot. open. he kisses your neck like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and maybe he does.

maybe you were wrong to ever think he was just some quiet, awkward boy.

because the way he pulls you into him, the way he murmurs something low against your skin, half curse, half praise, something like finally, makes you feel drunk. dizzy. wrecked in the most exquisite way.

he kisses you like he’s been waiting years. because he has.

and no one ever found out what happened when you went back to his dorm that night.

well—technically, no one.

you never said anything. if anyone asked, you’d just laugh under your breath and say, “he sure as hell wasn’t a kid. and he definitely wasn’t little.”

and if someone asked him, he’d just grin, slow and lazy, and shrug like it was nothing. “i think you could ask the people sleeping next door,” he’d say. “they probably heard most of it.”

but no, that’s not the story you and megumi ended up telling at your wedding.

the one you told in your vows was something polished, and sweet. about timing and friendship and love that grows in silence. the version where you reconnected over late-night walks and bad cafeteria coffee, where you gradually fell into each other.

and it was true, in a way.

but the rest—the real beginning? the part that didn’t happen at a party, or in a hallway, or under flickering dance lights, where megumi had you breathless, nails digging into his shoulders, voice wrecked from how many times you moaned his name like it was the only one that ever mattered?

where you were grasping at the sheets like they were the only thing tethering you to earth, eyes glassy, thighs shaking, damn near in tears from how good he was—how slow, how attentive, how intentional he was with every touch?

yeah, that was yours.

just you and him. just the two of you, in that quiet room, in that breathless moment, where his mouth was warm, his fingers coaxing sounds out of you like a secret he’d always known.

that was the real beginning. the part you still think about, when the world goes quiet. and when he looks at you now, that’s what he’s remembering too.

but there were some people who came pretty damn close to knowing what happened.

like whoever roomed next door, who definitely heard more than they meant to through thin walls and cheap drywall.

or the people who stumbled out onto the balcony when you were still making out, his hands under your shirt, your mouth on his neck, both of you too far gone to care.

or yuji, who was there before it turned into anything real, who saw the tension building year by year, who caught his best friend staring one too many times.

and sukuna, who smelled smoke before either of you even struck the match. who fanned the flames when you were too scared to light them. who leaned back in his chair during that reception toast, halfway through a glass of scotch, and nearly spilled the beans in front of both your families.

“remember the time at that party—”

“sukuna.”

he just smirked. lifted his glass.

but none of them would’ve got it right. not really. not like megumi did. not like you remembered. not like the way he looked at you that night, under the hazy porchlight, your arms draped over his shoulders, his fingers laced in your hair, eyes dark and full and sure.

like you’d always been his. and he’d just been waiting for you to notice.

358 notes · View notes