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Itadori has a thing for Fushiguro’s hands.
He doesn’t know when it started, but seeing those long, delicate joints fold gracefully into the intricate symbols of his shikigami, curl over the pages of a book, grip the handles of his tonfa during weapons training –
He’s become fixated with them lately and can’t stop imagining what it would feel like to thumb those smooth knuckles, lace their fingers together, hold them against his face… (He can’t stop imagining less pure things too – he is a healthy young guy after all.)
It’s late and Itadori is making his way back to the first-year dorms after an intense individual training session with Gojo-sensei. He spots Fushiguro leaning against the fencing near the entrance, thumbing the book in his hand and reading in the moonlight. It’s the peak of summer and their rooms are getting too hot and humid (though it’s not that much better outside), so Fushiguro has been doing his routine bedtime reading outside lately. Itadori joins him sometimes, bringing one of his manga volumes, but they usually end up doing more talking instead of reading when that happens.
“Oi! Fushi!” Itadori calls, waving and breaking out into a jog.
Fushiguro looks up, gives a small smile, and snaps the book shut with one hand. Coming closer, Itadori’s vision zeros in on the way Fushiguro’s long fingers grip the spine of the book, curving delicately around it. His porcelain skin almost glows translucent in the moonlight. Itadori is so unaware of his surroundings that he completely forgets about the steps leading up to the dorms until he’s tripping and careening forward. He yelps and shoots out an arm frantically, and Fushiguro – bless his quick reflexes – reaches out and grabs his hand to steady him before he eats the dirt.
“Careful,” Fushiguro mutters, sounding almost exasperated.
Itadori straightens himself. “Tha-” Thanks, he tries to say, but the word gets caught in his throat as he looks down because Fushiguro’s pale fingers are gripping his hand, lithe digits solid in their strength, a stark contrast against his own tanned skin.
Itadori is mesmerized – the pearly skin accentuated by the moonlight, the graceful curves of his joints, the jut of bone, the small scratch just beneath the nail of his index finger because he stubbornly tried to open a can of pineapples without a can opener the other day, the smooth dip of shadows between his knuckles, the strength in his grip as he steadies Itadori.
Itadori realizes that he’s been holding Fushiguro’s hand for a borderline awkward amount of time and sees his eyebrows start to rise questioningly.
“Um. Sorry,” Itadori begins, letting go of his hand immediately. He scratches at his neck. Sighs, mostly to himself. He might as well come clean and say it. “It’s just – you... you have-” pretty, delicate, strong, beautiful hands, his mind helpfully supplies, but a sudden shock of nervousness makes him flounder and all he chokes out is “-hands.”
The ensuing silence is suffocating. A cicada in the distance chirps, as if taking pity.
Fushiguro stares at him, utter confusion knitting his eyebrows together. He looks down. Looks back up. Squints.
“I do…” he says slowly, carefully, unsure. “…have hands.”
He looks down again. Flexes his fingers. Relaxes them.
Realization slaps Itadori in the face, eyes growing wide and mouth opening in horror. He blinks, and then turns redder, “Oh fuck me – ” Fushiguro’s eyebrows hike up higher. “I’m sorry, I just forgot – words – forgot how to… say words.” Fushiguro stares at him, a ghost of amusement flickering across his face, lips pinched – he’s trying not to laugh.
Itadori is so flustered that he doesn’t notice, gesturing frantically in the space between them, digging his grave even deeper. “Ah, I mean – I completed the sentence… like in my head. But I didn’t actually, you know… say it – I just, uh, I didn’t – I meant to say – ”
Fushiguro starts laughing. Loudly. Eyes scrunched and slightly hunched over as his shoulders tremble, shaking his head.
Itadori jolts and clicks his mouth shut. He’s so shocked by the sound and the way that Fushiguro’s intense features soften when he smiles that for a second, he forgets that he’s the one being laughed at. His mouth curves up in a smile on its own accord, realizes, and then promptly schools his face into a scowl.
“Hey!” Itadori says indignantly. “That’s not very nice.”
Fushiguro laughs harder. Itadori pouts. Crosses his arms in front of his chest. Waits until the laughing dies down.
“Are you done?” Itadori asks, unamused.
Fushiguro wipes at his eyes. Hiccups. “Yes – hic – I’m done.” A sudden bout of courage and he’s reaching for Itadori’s hand again, pulling it out from his crossed arms. He laces their fingers together. Itadori’s scowl breaks immediately, cheeks reddening and worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.
“Itadori.” Fushiguro says quietly, wrestling his features into his signature poker face. Itadori looks at him, eyes shining. “You have – ” he pauses dramatically, feigning thought, “ – hands, too.”
Itadori lets out an undignified squawk and smacks Fushiguro across the head with his free hand. Fushiguro starts laughing harder and tugs him towards the dorms. Brings their joined hands up and brushes his lips across the back of Itadori’s hand in a chaste kiss. Itadori quiets immediately, utterly floored. He flushes impossibly deeper and lets himself be pulled into the building. Fushiguro hides his own red cheeks behind his book.
They don’t let go of each other for the rest of the night.