Chapter Text
11:01 PM, FRIDAY.
The party isn’t so bad, Megumi thinks to himself, that this party, it might be alright.
The observations of the night go something like this: Nobara is already three drinks in, in her hand is something swirling in a see-through cup, its glass, he isn’t sure where she got it from. That this house party is large, it's held in the campus frat house for bodybuilders, builders of bodies - crack addicts, not really, but they eat chicken breast as if it's the good good. addiction misplaced - Megumi doesn't judge. How Nobara has sneaked them in, he isn't sure, but he doesn't feel guilty about it - if only because half the campus has already settled into an alcove or a couch, and the house has the scent of bodies, lots of them, melding and moving. So he doesn’t think they'll be noticed, cared for, seen. The last observation would be the lighting, it is a hazy blue limbo, fading into what a color chart might call cyan, baby blue, #66BB2F. Small flasher lights, probably from a Walmart near campus. they make shifting motions, illuminating faces for a split second before skipping to the next.
Megumi, contrary to the belief of Nobara, his sister, and everyone else, doesn’t hate parties.
He, maybe, even, enjoys them.
It’s not school, and it’s not his hands stuck in clay, or paint, or between someone’s emotions, rudding around as you do when looking for a sock in a ball pit. Parties offer cover, enough collective drunk people that whatever you say, think, do, will either be forgotten about or cheered on by someone else. They offer a counterbalance to the opinions and thoughts of everyone in the outside world. if Twitter was shucked of its online space - stuck into a house party with a collection of 200 high, drunk, blitzed twenty-somethings. There would be world peace, or something similar. In this house, Megumi is an observer, he is a thinker, an artist. - D'Angelo in the making. All the art on his phone is fantastic, everyone here looks at him and goes, Woah, that's reallllly good, they sway, and fawn. - which Nobara says is good for his psyche, self-confidence, whatever - it also helps that Megumi is slightly, maybe terribly, drunk.
which all in all, is sort of why he likes parties.
Nobara stalks over from somewhere, not really important where, it's more significant is that she's coming. floating through a haze of people like a divinity from heaven, elbows jutting out, hitting someone in the stomach. She doesn’t apologize, but she places her drink in the man’s hands, and it's as good as an actual, 'i'm sorry.'
realistically, it’s not like the man would care, nobody does.
the flashers shine directly into his eye, he blinks.
“I don’t know where you find this shit.” She’s touching his crewneck, how she materialized hereafter bumping into three other people he doesn't know. She's picking at the loose threads poking out of his left sleeve. It isn’t loving or joking. She’s actively disappointed in his wardrobe. His shirt isn’t that bad, but her familiar aggression is almost as good as conversation, sibling, she loves him but she wants him to be better, Fushiguro, try harder, she says. If he had a tape recorder on his body, he would have a million of these moments in his pocket. She is capable of far worse, better insults. A genuine breakdown of how his skin tone isn't suited for the colors he wears. Megumi knows because her major is fashion, her minor is debate, and her favorite person to harass is him.
“Mm.” He says, in response, knowing from practice that this answer will, maybe, dodge the discussion into the quality and brand of his clothing, something Megumi has heard in plenty.
But right now, neither of them care about the shirt, or its quality. The fact that he’s worn this specific shirt to every party this year. Neither of them are sober enough to care. She’s on her fourth glass of something clear-ish and similar to the color of the sky, a cosmo within a glass, heavily diluted with tequila, where she produced it from - he doesn't know. He’s on his third. And chances are, it isn’t going to stop because this is kind of their deal, parties - matching drinks. A pinky promise as anxious freshmen that lasted until junior year.
So, they’re in the midst of what most people might say is talent, god-given. They have matching tolerances - pushing back a shot and then sipping on a some form of liquidated 99% liver killer. Megumi likes whiskey, expensive, nearly impossible to find in parties like these, anything shaded amber - but he settles for anything in red solo cup. Nobara likes pink, purple, fun fruity drinks with the underlying taste of rubbing alcohol. When they drink like this they feel like true seniors, even though they're juniors. Among the lower class, freshman, maybe - mortals, better. In frat houses, in bars, in downtowns with nobody else around. this is their game, a generous name for what is really just a sort of unhealthy coping mechanism - stress relief. It’s quiet for one moment. And then Nobrara gives a click of her fingers, a snap against all the party noises, breaking her calm. and he knows that this moment of quiet is over. The cycle beats on, she will hand him something bitter, covered in lime from somewhere. Megumi will sigh, once, before knocking it back. They used to do this more often, it's a practiced motion now, his arms move without his knowledge, muscle memory, or something equally silly.
He likes parties, he tells himself, he likes hanging out with Nobara, he loves her, he loves her so, so much. He’s exhausted by the people around him. but sometimes it feels like the only thing holding him towards the ground is the stick of a floor covered in vodka and sugary chasers.
He tells himself that he isn’t bored of this, that all these images are actually new, exciting. That the person hotboxing in the bathroom is cool, sweet, that college hasn’t become something run over and strewn.
Snap. Nobara is wanting.
“You should really listen to me, I give good advice. That shirt I picked out would have worked much better.” She says, waking him from the solo discussion inside his head.
He gives a look, one of exhaustion.
“The shirt was itchy, I like this one better.” he clicks, she'll let this go eventually. Stretching his shoulders with the room he has. Parties make him tight, and loose in all the wrong ways. he doesn't hate it, but he wishes he could move his arms away from his body. Maybe a foot, maybe a couple. He watches across the room as some girl flirts with a boy, the boy places a hand on her shoulder, laughing. She smiles, and then she leans into this touch. Megumi wonders if the upstairs bedroom is open, or if they'll end up in the back of someone's car.
Nobara huffs, looks around, probably picking someone with a good outfit. Someone to compare him to, a bit meanly. And then, because she loves him, adores, puts up with, understands so deeply that they may as well be each other. - She will round her own conversation into the sweeter territory, finish with something like ‘i love you for who you are, but you could dress better. ’ instead she says, defying a teen movie script full of insults and unfounded hatred, absently, “We should get another drink.'' admiring her reflection through glossed fingernails, the tips fading into a softer white, intricate designs of roses, water lilies. The theme was flowers, she said, a hand in his face. Too close for his eyes to focus on anything other than the fuzzy color. She is the image of togetherness, or whatever an online forum would say.
“Stop ignoring me. Drink, c’mon.”
Megumi is led, dragged, pushed, bumped, and jostled on the way. He doesn't have the passion or drive to glare at the people around him, they haven't done anything. Nobara is pushing people, not in a mean way, just in the way she does when she wants to get somewhere.
In times like these, Megumi is reminded that she grew up on farmland, animals. He sometimes wonders if she mistakes the faceless people for cows, or goats, or chickens. He’s seen a student squawk before, it's not a hard mistake.
They make it towards the kitchen alcove. The place with grenadine, fruit, jungle juice. Something the internet says will turn his liver into a blended pool of decay. But it's Friday, and his brain is already mixed from an internship he doesn't want, from a life that is dragging its feet, and May, whose face is similar to the people in this party. faded. They get two glasses, her's in a blue solo cup, his, in a white one - a small sharpie marking its side with a smiley face. They walk towards the porch, her hand around his wrist, pulling him through the tangle of bodies.
It's quiet -er. Fewer people. The ones that are out here are high, or drunk but the slow type. the type that is socially afraid. Of being embarrassed. of naturally edging the territory of not so cool, rather than existing, - something Megumi suffered from horribly in his first year. - eyes, so many eyes, they're all looking at me, he said one night, when Nobara was throwing a ball into the sky, only for it to come back down. She says, catching the ball an inch from her face, nobody is looking at you Fushiguro, they're all looking at themselves, or me. probably me. she had laughed, and he had rolled his eyes, but some of the anxiety turned into understanding. She threw him the ball, he caught it. it was a lesson in waiting, the genuine anxiety calcified, rolled over, melted, faded. He learned that nobody was looking at him; they're all looking at themselves. So, most of the people out here are kind, less loud, more willing to vomit into the grass instead of an Ikea potted plant. He wonders why they hadn't come out here earlier. This idea dies in his throat when he sees a freshman pull out a guitar and a couple of girls around the fire pit swoon. Fire hole. A dugout that has leaves, branches, and a vague assortment of stuff in it. Maybe midterm papers, maybe a body. The freshman starts strumming, Nobara rolls her eyes, she isn't as annoyed as Megumi, they both know. It's a teen movie thing, not meant to be replicated in real life. Similar to hitting golf balls off a roof, or driving in an open field.
There are screws out there, nails. There's a building parallel, if you hit a golf ball hard enough, it will break the glass. if a teenager sings, it's almost a promise that their voice will be nasal. If they're drunk, it is a promise.
Teen extra starts singing ‘hey there Delilah.’ Megumi tunes it out best he can, and leans into the wall they've chosen. The brick is cold and hard, but it's also grounding. The world is beginning to sway pleasantly, so it's nice, not as nauseating as standing is.
“I think I wanna kiss her,” Nobara says, out of nowhere.
It doesn't need context, mostly because they both know who 'Her’ is. And they both know this has been stewing since the second year; she has Megumi's full approval. Enthusiastic approval, he wishes she had done this yesterday if only because it is tiring to watch someone you love, be in love.
“Then do it.”
“It's not that simple, Fushiguro - you gotta,” she sighs as if she is talking to a child, a drunk child - a drunk Megumi child. It doesn’t work, he has better grades than her, in most subjects she’s the one asking for help, but with people, with romantics, love - “it doesn’t work like that.” she finishes, sounding defeated. A rare glimpse into Nobara when she is less angry at the world surrounding her, and more at ease.
“It could be though, you're just chickening out.” he prods, knowing that she will fight this like she fights everything else.
“I'm not chickening out.” she huffs, twirling the shorter strands of hair around her face with a pointer finger. It’s freshly dyed, a brighter ginseng blonde. Her natural hair color is more brown, ashy. She must have had light hair as a kid. She looks away, gals at nothing or someone before the finger turns and points to him. “You haven't dated anyone since I met you, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you show interest in someone.”
He hums, non-committal.
“Are you asexual, or aromantic? One of the aces.” she asks, leaning away from the wall so her head can turn and she can tell if he’s lying.
Rolling his eyes, “No.”
“Then why,” she asks,
“People are shit,” he answers.
From afar, Megumi watches someone trip over the fire hole, pant leg catching before someone nearly throws a beer on him, to extinguish. The person must think better of it because a second later they, hand outstretched with a can yell: drop, and roll! Drop and roll! To which the fire leg kid does. The fire is out, tragedy averted, his pants are ruined, big grass stains, dirt, cigarette ash, ugly. But that's part of the fun - they're laughing about it now, joking, a story, they'll make this cute. Humans are unwise, they make tiny mistakes and kill themselves with it. He is drunk, and he is about to leave. He is drunk, and he has to make three project drafts tomorrow; a porcelain vase covered in glass, no. porcelain vases covered in gold, better.
his hands are sticky, He sighs, “I’m gonna go inside, bathroom.”
Nobara follows him with her eyes, he’s already moving. “Alright, bring me a snack when you come back through - something greasy. I saw pizza.”
“There's no pizza, you hallucinated.” he walks a little away, in three seconds she will drag him back unless he says; “But sure.”
The inside of the house is still covered in people, swarming like flies around citronella - gently consuming in the same breath that has been exhaled by everyone else. Nobody pays him any mind, Megumi likes it like that. He taps someone on the shoulder and mouths the word ‘bathroom’ knowing that speech in this environment is a useless endeavor. The girl smiles and points towards dark halfway, people shoved in there, people making out, internally, he grimaces. Thinks of the germs and dirt festering between and throughout the slew of bodies. He nods, a thank you, and walks towards the hallway.
The bathroom is filled with people, instability reeks from each and every person. Megumi waits for the couple to leave. The smell of smoke and fire, aftershave, and body left circulating.
He’s left with his reflection.
Megumi in general likes his face. He’s been told he has a good structure, high cheekbones. Soft eyes, dark lashes.
He looks like his dad. And this doesn't take up much thought, not really. But it lives in his mind, a back corner. He doesn't even like his dad, hates him If he’s generous. - but the reflection doesn't lie, the photographs on Facebook don't either - he is unequivocally attached to his father's reflection. The last name is changed, Megumi knows he isn't anything like his dad; he’s changed each integral part of himself in preparation for this. Every feeling that is even slightly like his father is shut away. pressed into a box made for things that shouldn't be thought about. His body is one of those things, his face is another.
He sighs. The face in the mirror mimics.
And that's the center of the pit. When chewed up, spat out - he is still a child of a deadbeat dad who cared so much more about power, preparation, women - maybe. Rather than his kids, it's fine, if only because Megumi is unattached, it's fine, if only because his sister is too kind for her height. And it's fine, because Megumi is 20. And at 20, you're supposed to have your shit together, something he’s been telling himself since he was 15.
Sometimes though; in moments like these. Megumi wonders, traces. His fingers dance along his skin, and for a moment he is out of his body - the idea of being wrong, bad, neutral, erasing each and every self-imposed rule; fucking shit up in a very bad way. Could hook his fingers underneath his skin, pull off this face like something from phantom of the opera - what would be underneath. ghost in the shell. Is this how she felt, he’s staring at a mirrored version; dark, angry - brooding, maybe. Good. neither. He breathes out and washes his hands.
Megumi is about to walk out of the bathroom, a corner towards the halfway point. Something simple, a few steps, except. Life is a pinball machine. Megumi, unwilling is a cog. The next movement goes something like this;
there is motion and a body. Megumi turns around, finds a boy, a man, a pink-haired dude with a hoodie, two hoodies - layered. leaning against the tub.
sitting there, how long has he been sitting there, he watched Megumi internally monologue, watched Megumi stare into a mirror and touch his face; embarrassing. useless thought. his brain reboots.
Megumi, accidentally, sort of says, out of surprise; “ohmygod an orphan.” It's a joke - it's a quote from a vine, underground, deleted, really fucking old, meant to be a shitty half twist on were you were raised by animals. like, oh haha - do you not know boundaries? - were you raised in a bar, a cat in a box; oh my god an orphan. like a shitty shooting star - Something he teases Nobara with, endlessly. She hits him whenever he says it, thinks it’s rude, but she also snorts, so the jury is out on her moral compasses. But, she says, for the record, that it’s 'fucking insensitive' - also, “What if you meet an actual fucking, yanno, certified orphan?” she looks at him over a menu, he snorts. “Nope - it’s a funny joke, and I only say it drunk. What are the odds.”
Good, apparently.
“Yeah, actually.” pink hair says. Megumi does a double-take to see if he's hallucinating, because, quietly, in a non-mean - I actually think orphans are great- (is an orphan hate crime a thing, isn't the whole Annie movie an orphan hate crime?) - sort of way, he asks himself; what the fuck. before turning away, looks back, nope. boy's still here - leaning over a bathtub - there’s a retching noise that immediately makes Megumi want to vomit, a reflex. He fast walks, crawls, towards the toilet in a pseudo attempt to skip cleaning some random frat guy’s flooring.
he’s not great with other people puking; mostly the noise. The smell makes him nauseous even if he should be fine. it’s not scientific, it bothers him. but fuck. he leans against the toilet.
“No parents, no extended family." the boy hiccups, "Very alone, but - yanno, ” the stranger continues. Megumi actually doesn't know, he doesn't - well, he half knows. But not fully, and anyway, Orphan is a strong word. he could use abandoned, maybe. daddy issues, definitely. He wonders vaguely if as an orphan you have daddy issues and mommy issues, or if you have a negative charge from the lack of parents altogether, or does that only count when you've never met your parents, has bath boy met his parents?
"I'm like Annie," bath boy says, a little quieter, but with a snort - a falsified attempt at something funny, humorous. a joke. He's a joking drunk. Megumi hates joking drunks.
“Yeah - sorry,” he breathes out, steadying, it’s sour - “I didn’t mean to. say - if it makes you feel better. Everyone here is either unwanted - or their parents want them too much so you’ll fit right in with the -“ he waves his hands a bit - a habit from Nobara- “parental issues.” nailed it.
Megumi, if asked, preferably when he doesn’t have three tequila lines down his throat and two-ish Jell-O shots in his stomach, would say he’s a mean drunk. In all reality he’s just a sloppier less insecure more I’m fucking Megumi Fushiguro, mess with me and I’ll spit on you - version of himself when sober.
which, really, he isn't all that mean - grumpy, yeah. but mean, eh.
When he lifts his head from the toilet bowl, the boy is sitting inside the bathtub, when he moved Megumi isn’t sure - if he thinks about it too much, he might vomit - so he watches, doesn’t think, just watches. The boy’s head is tilted against the tile drawing small shapes in the sliding glass, the type that attaches to the wall, swings out. He's making what looks like a cat with his forefinger and pointer. Then he starts spelling something out that Megumi's brain prevents him from even trying to decipher, his head is foggy and the feeling of alcohol in his stomach is so, so nice, or nauseating. The line between these concepts is thinning. He just needs to sit for a moment, and then he'll get up - Nobara will have to wait. It's her fault for giving him the jungle juice. He's not even that drunk.
The writing is; simple. it’s a, it’s a. the room spins and his head goes back into the toilet.
“Why’re you here then - if your parents are.” he finishes the sentence. A period. You don’t ask people how their parents died, you don’t ask people at house parties why they’re drunk within the first hour, why they have paint in their hair, why everyone in this school smells like fucking dirt - you don’t ask these things. Megumi, drunk, does.
first, pinky hums, it reverberates in the bath stall - distantly, Megumi might say it’s a nice noise.
“I'm here with my pseudo uncle. He's sort of the closest thing I have to family. Social worker. I'm here until the end of the year and then.” another period. sentences with no endings because lives are unfurled balls or yarn. And it's not Megumi's business whether or not a boy who likes to sit in bathtubs will be staying for the foreseeable future, so he doesn't ask, and instead makes himself busy looking at absolutely nothing, while simultaneously trying to will himself into getting up and away from the cool tile. it's so cold though, feels good on his hand. internally, later, when Megumi is sober, not so drunk, more aware, he will be angry that he laid his hand against a tile, dirty, touched by a bunch of drunk, gross, sticky people. but at the moment it just feels good.
it's quiet, a blessed moment, and then -
“So, what’s your damage?” the boy asks, exchanging trauma now, voice bouncing a little against the porcelain and tile.
“Don’t-" he starts, too much passion - tone it down Megumi - "don't quote heathers at me and think I won’t notice.” better.
the boy perks up, “You know heathers?” he leans against the tub, body left half in half out. He looks childish, a kid so excited.
Megumi traces the cabinet opposed to him, hand catching at the knob. It's a Victorian style, the type with king Arthur font and weird jutting edges. “Everyone knows heathers. It's an art school.” The school itself is actually Arts and Sciences’ but most of the students here are in the film area, writers stacked upon writers stacked upon more writers. A form of poly-sci, a couple thousand undecided. It’s an art school with the prose of academic excellence, highly rated - best in the country.
“I played Martha.” the boy says, a little offhanded, there is a smile attached to this voice. if that's even possible, but in the bathroom, with absolutely zero ambiance - Megumi thinks it is.
he scoffs, mostly because it feels right, not so mean, “Did you kiss the pig?” he plays with the knob a little more, twisting it out of the socket, cheap screws.
“No.” says the boy, and then, “I did hit Heather with a bat though, swinging when I wasn't supposed to.” he laughs, and in the same moment, Megumi pulls the knob from the socket entirely. Flipping it in his palm, the edges are smooth, circular - worn out and touched by a thousand other people. He looks back towards the tub.
he thinks, vaguely, that the boy looks weird in this lighting. hazy. Head propped against the lid of a toilet, a hand with a knob in it he has the startling, so so startling, realization that the words the boy had written before spell cat. Simplistic, elementary. He laughs, not because it’s funny no, maybe because he’s in the bathroom of bodybuilders, and the cabinet is probably filled with steroids and cocoa butter for stretch marks, mouthwash, and very little toothpaste - and maybe because he insulted someone’s dead parents. maybe dead parents, the jury is still out on that - he might just be drunk. It’s a laugh that throws his head back too quickly - another habit from Nobara. His skull hits the porcelain. he groans, loudly.
the boy in the tub jolts upright with the noise, clambers a bit, says “You ok?” and then, sort of, kinda, he must have missed the sheen, mistaken it for the haze that comes when not so sober, bordering on the edge of hazed - he rams his face into the glass door, nose meeting where the whiskers he had drawn not two minutes earlier are - he looks dumb, and hurt, and stupidly pink. Megumi had been betting on being drunk before, but with the soft stupidity, memory loss, he’s starting to think high.
Maybe both.
and this is how Megumi learns about the bathroom boy's tragedy, how he's been thrown into a pinball machine, unwilling. At some point he grabs the half there, slightly torn, weirdly damp roll of toilet paper from the counter, and launches it towards the bathtub, sort of yells into the hall for ice, still sitting, a poor decision, someone tall and broad leaking with anabolic steroids comes in, says something about “I’ll take care of it!” loudly, Megumi figures he’s done enough and begins his shakey up up up. Halfway down the hall, he hears “brother, your nose!” and fast walks away, sways, sort of walk - half slides against the wall to leave the scene. He finds a slice of pizza from some void in an alternate universe, apparently, it wasn't a hallucination and returns to Nobara bearing pizza, and a slightly sore head.
part 1/ An undefined list of what Megumi is worried about. Not at all in order:
Sometimes he is so angry, it makes him shake, and grind his teeth. It is not violent, but it is coiled so tightly inside his chest that he worries he, himself, will break. There is no name for this feeling, the internet tells him he’s anxious, in chronic pain, depressed. Daddy issues; all angry men have daddy issues. It says, see a therapist, call a helpline. Megumi does none of these things, he exits the tabs. He knows better; if it gets worse, he’ll do something about it. He will not, but lying is as good as healing, and a therapist is unfortunately not covered under his student insurance.
The way this boy looks at him, with something like wonder, and thinly veiled interest, like Megumi, himself, is interesting. the way he had sprung up from a tub to ask if Megumi was alright, the way he looked underneath shitty overhead lighting -
Nobara. Just her, she is wrapping herself into work as though it is her skin, and her confidence is terrifying, inspiring, yielding. He worries not for her but because of her. There are a million men who would want her gone, subordinate - she will not break. But glass does flux, it is sometimes better to shatter, and Nobara’s spine will not.
His project is due, and the internship is tiring. Megumi wishes for more, but he cannot get it: why?
Reflection.
6:57 PM, MONDAY.
“Can I sit here?”
Megumi looks up from his work, the clay is soft beneath his nails. getting stuck in all the smaller places where soap will never be able to wash away. It is unpleasant, it’s messy, but it’s a part of this work.
it is the stranger, the stranger with pink hair and bruises under his eyes, the stranger with no parents, stuck in a bathtub - the one that drew a cat, his wrist has a bracelet on it - the shitty type that summer camps make kids create, braided, twined and twisted. This boy is the one that made him laugh. The bruises on his face are due to a broken nose, maybe bruised, Megumi knows because once his father came home with them around his own eyes. Megumi looked the patterns up in the laptop in their living room, small face, buggy eyes, lit up by a big screen, curious as to why his father was suddenly broken while seeming so fine. bar fights, his sister had said, closing the laptop and deleting the history.
“If you want -.” Megumi says, leaving this up to strangers, pink hair. bracelets. he could try and start a conversation, but he's working, clay work - the harder stuff from this year that he doesn't want to mess up, the projects. a pot covered in gold, bad. he needs this time.
“Cool cool. Do we -“ the boy pauses as if waiting for a response, to fill in the gaps.
Megumi raises a brow, he isn’t going to give one.
sensing, “Does the teacher just come in. Or do we start projects on our own?” the boy asks, picking at the collar of his crew neck. Pulling it away, it slaps back. Cheap fabric is often elastic, polyester. The environment's worst enemy. faintly, he realizes Nobara has gotten through to him, crawled inside his head, and taught him fabric theory, god.
Megumi sighs, “You can grab a tray from over there, canvases are in the corner. Paints are in the bin. Don’t take more than five at a time, and don’t take all the white. We only have two left.” his own hands are covered.
the stranger smiles, half stranger - whatever you call someone like this, it reaches his eyes and curls like ivy. A crescent moon around his brow, flowing down towards his mouth. A softer line there, more light. A commercial would say; radiance. youth. the blessing of this facet. Megumi thinks; he has good skin. and the thought ends there.
there are a couple of questions floating around in Megumi's head, none of which have any based answer; the boy has never once attended an art class that Megumi has been in, and he's been in a lot. The boy isn't wearing a smock, or any art clothing really, he's wearing a sweater, one with sheep on it. he's materialized here, then. Not the weirdest thing, Megumi thinks - but he's curious, and curiosity isn't always the best. he's broken a bone that way, curiosity, seeing how high you can go on a swing, and then, wondering if you can loop - Megumi didn't know much about physics back then, whatever sensory system he uses now wasn't developed. Childhood has a way of kick-starting understanding, consequences, that burns sometimes scar, and people are sometimes mean. Megumi arched that day, his hair flew away from his forehead; the sunset was level with his eyes, a bird flew by. And Megumi was weightless for a good three seconds until he dropped. it was his wrist, and it didn't really hurt that much. but it was a learning thing, one of many. An answer might be; it's Tuesday, free days - this room is open to any student working on a project, tub boy came with nothing, asked where to go - ie. no project. so; why?
Megumi doesn't glean an answer, but the boy says thank you along with his smile.
He walks away to gain three bottles of paint. Purple pink blue. Megumi is sensing a subtle theme. He stops next at the canvases, a 6x13 weird build. no tray. The stranger sits close, Megumi can smell aftershave, bubblegum. and sweat. not even the gross kind, just the type that lives on a body left running. Megumi's art is coming together now, the push pedal moves against the tension. spinning the table in a quick, short, burst. he starts in the middle, creating the base to be turned into his fifth pot of the day. The professor believes in completion, practice until you hate it, and once you grow into hate. learn love. It sounds easy, but Megumi's calf hurts from the constant press, and his fingers are wrinkled. The clay is soft, overworked. and the boy next to him begins to hum.
It's a soft noise, matched by the birds and nature outside. a window left open in hope of erasing the smell of acrylic and glue. ultraviolet light, UV exposure. his professor says; sunshine. Megumi attempts to stay in the shadow of a curtain.
“Do you remember me?” Pinky asks, halfway between a hum. He should have a name by now. But he doesn’t, so he gets an adjective.
“Should I?” he should. The party ended with a very drunk trip to a campus nurse, and a very tired Megumi who watched from the sidelines - along with the added dose of accidental insults, and trauma dumping. college, baby. There’s probably still some dried blood on that bathroom floor from a nose out of place, from when he thought about rushing over, before deciding it was; not his area, nor his problem, and yelling to get someone else.
“I sort of surprised you, and then bled on you. I think, drunk. You were drunk, sorry about that - by the way.” the boy begins to paint a sunset, making tiny dots of paint directly onto the canvas, it’s typical. Megumi rolls his eyes at the movements, unprepared canvas. The strokes are long and thin, a weaving of color rather than a blend, and Megumi recognizes failure. He recognizes this.
“Which part? the blood or the scare.” he sticks a finger into the midst of the mud, mud. Not clay. it’s dissolved so severely that it’s more goop than a product, a press of a foot - the spinner breaks to life, the tension is familiar; welcoming. The hole has been formed, two fingers. Four. Another bowl. Megumi presses harder.
Willing.
“Can I say both without sounding insecure?” a stroke of pink underneath the purple blends. The boy gets up for something, and Megumi's hand goes tight. The bowl goes lopsided.
“You can try.” Megumi exhales, “this isn’t working.” frustration.
“What isn’t working?” the boy asks, hand halfway into the paint bin. white in his palm, thief.
“The bowl. it’s, look.” he waves a dirty hand, some of the earlier layers of clay have dried to his cuticles. cracking in little microplates. If asked, he would say the universe, torn up, would look exactly like his hands. “None of it is working. They gave us shit clay.”
the boy hums, another repetition. “It does sort of look like shit, yeah.”
Megumi sighs and watches his clay melt into itself, the plate is still spinning.
“Oh,” the boy says, somewhere in the room.
Megumi stares at his failed project a second longer before looking up.
“Rain.” the boy says, materialized in front of the open window. He’s pressing his cheek against the screen, eyes wide and staring.
Megumi is vaguely reminded of kids at a zoo. Faces pressed against the glass, hands spread like Tarzan. A desperate attempt at a connection to something that will never be understood. animals and museums, collections of things to be seen, touched, spoken to - the issue is they can’t talk back, no matter how many times you bang on that glass; Bambi doesn't like people, and you shouldn't fucking bang on the glass.
“Come out with me,” Pinky says, out of the blue, looking back for one moment, grinning, before facing around towards the pattering of rain. Water wells fill up as Megumi sits, the small bridge might become flooded, he should move his car out of the ditch he likes to park in; shade isn't worth killing your car.
“I don’t really know you -.”
“Yuuji Idatori,” the boy says, turning away from the window and jogging ten feet. Up close he’s still the weirdo from the party, the dark bruising around his eyes going a little iridescent from the cracks of leftover sun, soon to be covered with rain clouds, nose a little crooked. He looks more aware, less drunk - blitzed, red eyes replaced with dark brown. The color of a cracked open walnut. He sticks out a hand, a shake.
Megumi stares for a moment, the hand is a linear, a foreign concept. Weird, this is weird. His own hands have clay on them, he's dirty, sort of gross.
eventually, he rolls his eyes, places his hand out - shakes. “Megumi Fushiguro.”
Yuuji smiles, grins. “So,” he says, hand still in hand, a slight tug - “Rain, with me. Wanna go?”
Megumi stares at the sad lump of mud, looks at the four blended strokes of a broken-up sunset, the absent professor, teacher aid, whatever - and classmates who stayed home. And decides, yes. He would like to get out of here, he would like to avoid this internship, avoid this big dumb, huge, muddy project.
And, if this matters, Yuuji is still holding his hand.