Chapter Text
One thing Itadori learned about himself after tearing his ACL was that his body didn't always care whether the hands on him were supposed to be clinical or not.
The training facility he’d familiarized himself with smelled like it always did; sweat, rubber mats, and the faint citrus bite of antiseptic spray that Itadori’s coach insisted on spraying. Itadori limped through the side entrance, gym bag slung over one awkward shoulder, trying not to wince every time his right knee twinged. The ACL tear had happened almost 13 weeks ago during a sprint drill he’d done a thousand times before. One wrong pivot and his season was in pieces before Itadori had anything to say about it.
The surgery, once the swelling finally went down, had been eight weeks, and was another thing Itadori didn’t particularly enjoy. However; mostly, the post-surgery recovery was the worst part. Itadori hated sitting around, but luckily his healing process was almost complete despite his constant bad mood.
And Itadori’s coach, Gojo Satoru, wasn’t letting him wallow.
“Yuuji! There’s my favorite disaster,” A familiar, obnoxiously cheerful voice called across the physiotherapy wing, waving his hand slowly as greeting.
Gojo was leaning against the doorway of the treatment room, strong arms crossed against his defined chest. His white hair was pushed back with a headband, a black compression shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, lining his muscles and what seemed to be every part of him. Gojo was wearing that signature shit-eating grin plastered on his face, teeth white and flashy. Even in workout clothes, Itadori wasn’t afraid to admit that Gojo looked like a model who’d accidentally wandered into a gym.
Itadori smiled softly back despite the ache in his leg, “Hey, Gojo. Sorry I’m late. My train was late, and traffic was—”
“Excuses, excuses,” Gojo interrupted, pushing off the wall and closing the distance between them in two long strides. His large hands quickly settled on Itadori’s waist like they belonged there, steadying him as he shifted weight off the injured knee, Itadori feeling the warmth of Gojo’s splayed hands as they squeezed impatiently. “How’s my star athlete feeling today? Still pretending you don’t need help walking?”
Gojo’s thumbs pressed lightly into the dip above Itadori’s hips, and Itadori felt that familiar flutter in his stomach. Gojo had always been handsy; always claiming it to be a part of his training. Ever since the injury; however, the touching had gotten, well, more. To Itadori, it felt lingering, almost intentional. Like a part of Gojo needed to be holding or grabbing him constantly.
“I can walk just fine,” Itadori protested, ears heating embarrassingly. He was convinced Gojo could feel his pulse jumping under his skin.
“Mhm. Sure you can, Yuuji,” Gojo’s voice dropped as he said Itadori’s first name, leaning close to his ear, tone teasing. “Is that why you’re grimacing? C’mon, let’s get you on the table before you collapse and make me carry you. Again.”
Itadori laughed at that, letting Gojo guide him into the bright treatment room, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead the two of them. The memory of Gojo literally princess-carrying him to the car after the initial injury still made him want to die of embarrassment even as pain shot through his leg. But what had stuck with Itadori most was the lingering touch of Gojo’s hand on his thick thigh, the light squeeze he kept supplying for him, the heat that was shared between the two. Gojo had found a way to bring it up every interaction since. Like he couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Gojo helped Itadori up onto the padded table, hands sliding down Itadori's athletic thigh as he swung the injured leg up. The touch was seemingly clinical on the surface, with Gojo checking alignment, gently rotating the joint; but the way Gojo’s fingers lingered just above his knee, then higher, felt anything but. His thumb seemed to absentmindedly rub Itadori’s sensitive inner thigh.
“Still swollen,” Gojo murmured, almost to himself. His blue eyes were focused intently on Itadori’s legs, tracing the muscles with his gaze. “But better than last week. You’ve been doing the exercises I gave you?”
“Every day,” Itadori said proudly, and he had been taking pride in the progress of his knee. He wanted to be ready to run again; to get on the track and sprint until he couldn't breathe.
“Good boy,” Gojo’s smile sharpened as he noticed how Itadori blushed at the praise. He squeezed Itadori’s thigh once; possessive, appreciative, before stepping back and seemingly adjusting himself subtly. “We’ve got a new physical therapist for you starting today. Specialist in sports rehab. I hand-picked him myself, so don’t go falling in love and replacing me.”
Itadori snorted, feeling heat rise to his face once again, “Like that’s possible, Gojo. And this one better not quit randomly like the other one did.”
Gojo’s grin somehow widened even further in a way that said, don’t worry, he won’t, but before he could reply, the door opened again.
An unfamiliar man to Itadori stepped inside the quiet room, carrying a tablet and a slim folder. He was dressed in professional wear, with a light blue, long-sleeve button down tucked into fitted pants, hair spiky in a way that looked intentional. Sharp green eyes swept the room, landing first on Gojo, then on Itadori, then on Itadori’s exposed legs for far too long.
Itadori felt the shift in the air immediately.
“Fushiguro Megumi,” the newcomer introduced himself, voice calm and low, “I’ll be handling Itadori’s rehab protocol.”
The second Itadori offered Fushiguro a polite smile, Fushiguro knew he needed to act more professional than he had been expecting. He was already memorizing the way Itadori’s body looked so trained, so developed, so plush in certain areas and strong in others. He knew he shouldn’t have been watching Itadori’s full lips as he threw his head back in a laugh from something Gojo whispered in his ear before Gojo stepped back to give the two minimal space. He shouldn’t have noticed that Itadori’s whole body got involved in the laugh, his shoulders shaking, one hand slapping against his own knee before he remembered, mid-motion, that the knee was the problem.
“Ah—shit,” Itadori hissed, the laughter cutting off into a wince.
“Don’t,” Fushiguro said, sharper than he intended, the pain on Itadori’s face waiting to be something he could control. “Don’t slap your knee when it’s swollen to twice its normal size.”
Itadori looked up at him with slightly widened eyes; honey-brown, unfairly warm, crinkled at the corners with residual amusement, “Sorry, it’s a weird reflex. It’s nice to meet you, Fushigu—”
“You can back up,” Gojo’s voice came from the opposite side of the room where he had migrated to, lazy and drawling and shifted into something carrying approximately six times more charm than the situation warranted from his earlier tone. Fushiguro turned, already knowing what to expect, because he’d done his research before taking this position. He’d read the files. He knew exactly who Gojo Satoru was.
Fushiguro had expected Gojo to be charismatic, charming. What he hadn't expected was the sheer force of his presence, the way he took up a room. He noticed how Gojo’s joggers sat low on his hips, and how he was looking at Itadori with an expression that could only be described as hungry.
“Gojo,” Itadori breathed, and the warmth in his voice shifted somehow, becoming something else. Not warmer; exactly, but easier. More familiar. “He’s not even standing that close...”
“He isn’t?” Gojo drifted closer to Fushiguro, moving with the kind of loose-limbed grace that suggested he knew exactly how much space he occupied and enjoyed every inch of it. “I’m glad to finally meet you in person. I’m Gojo Satoru. I handle Yuuji’s training.”
He said training in a way that made it sound like a euphemism. Fushiguro watched with the kind of sinking clarity that came from recognizing a disaster in real-time as Gojo crossed the room and dropped a firm hand onto Itadori’s shoulder, much less intimate than where he had been touching just moments before Fushiguro walked in. It wasn’t a professional touch. It was too heavy, too present, thumb brushing the curve of Itadori’s collarbone in a way that made the athlete’s breath hitch.
“I was just going over your file,” Fushiguro said, forcing his voice to remain level.
“Oh, right,” Itadori moved to sit up, and Gojo’s hand slid down his back; slow, deliberate, tracking the line of his spine, before dropping away entirely. Itadori didn’t seem to notice. Or if he noticed, he didn’t seem to mind. “Sorry, Gojo’s usually more professional than this. I think he’s testing you or something like that.”
“You think, Yuuji?” Gojo’s grin widened. He leaned against the examination table, folding his arms across his chest, the motion pulling his shirt tight across his shoulders in a way Fushiguro tried to ignore. “I’m just being friendly. Megumi looks quite—” Gojo’s head tilted, that eerie, beautiful face studying Fushiguro with too much intensity. “—tense, doesn’t he?”
Fushiguro met his gaze, and held it with impossible patience after Gojo referred to him by his first name, “It’s Fushiguro. And I’m focused, Gojo. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” Gojo’s smile didn’t falter, but something in his eyes sharpened, as if he were assessing. Fushiguro had the distinct, uncomfortable sensation of being catalogued, filed away under some internal category Gojo kept for people who presented obstacles. Or opportunities. “Well. Let’s focus together, then. On Yuuji’s poor, injured knee.”
This time, he said Yuuji like he was tasting it, like it was private, like Fushiguro was interrupting something.
Which, Fushiguro realized with a sinking stomach, he was.
He’d read the file, the entirety of it. He’d seen the notes from the previous physical therapist who’d quit suddenly three weeks prior, citing personal reasons in a resignation email that had been three lines long. He’d seen the training logs Gojo had submitted, the ones that included comments akin to the fact that Itadori showed excellent flexibility and that his lower body strength required hands-on assessment. Fushiguro had thought, at the time, that he was being paranoid. That he was reading into things.
Now, watching the way Gojo positioned himself between Itadori and the rest of the room, a casual stance that nonetheless blocked the door which kept Itadori in his orbit, that made the space feel smaller, hotter, more intense; Fushiguro knew he hadn’t been paranoid at all.
Gojo Satoru was sleeping with his athlete.
Or, at least, he wanted to be. Or maybe he was in the process of making it happen, slow and deliberate and inevitable as gravity.
And Itadori—
Fushiguro forced himself to look at Itadori, look past the small smile and the loose shoulders and the easy posture. Itadori was watching Gojo with an expression that could have been fondness, maybe even trust. Could have been frustration. Could have been want, carefully disguised as tolerance. It was hard for Fushiguro to tell exactly. Itadori, as Fushiguro was beginning to understand, was very good at being looked at. He wore attention like a second skin, comfortable in it, unbothered by the heat of Gojo’s stare.
But, then, Itadori was watching Fushiguro. He had been, Fushiguro realized, since he’d entered the room. Little glances, quick and curious, that darted away whenever Fushiguro caught them. Itadori was interested, Fushiguro decided for himself. Not just in his recovery, in Fushiguro. The new variable in his equation that he seemed to be dancing around.
“Your file says ACL tear, grade two,” Fushiguro said, breaking the tension, forcing his attention back to the professional, to the clinical. He pulled up Itadori’s imaging on the tablet, turned it so they could both see. “Your surgery was eight weeks ago, if I’m correct. You’ve been cleared for light training, but the previous physical therapist noted you were pushing too hard, too fast.”
“I wasn’t pushing too hard,” Itadori protested, voice catching a tiny whine. He leaned forward to look at the scan, and his tank top gaped slightly at the collar, revealing the defined pectoral muscles, the glimpse of nipple. Fushiguro looked at the wall. Gojo did not. “I was just—bored. Sitting around is boring. I need to run, or move, or something.”
“You need to heal,” Fushiguro corrected, not ignoring how Gojo’s possessive glance fell onto himself once again. “Running puts four to six times your body weight on the knee joint. You’re not ready.”
“He’s not ready,” Gojo agreed, and his voice had dropped, gone softer, almost gentle. He was looking at Itadori’s knee now, at the brace that disappeared under the hem of his athletic shorts. “But he’s been very good about his exercises. Haven’t you, Yuuji?”
Itadori’s ears turned pink instantly, “Gojo...”
“He’s so dedicated,” Gojo continued, and his hand found Itadori’s knee once again, but this time not the injured one, the left one, resting on his thigh, thumb tracing a slow circle over the fabric of his shorts, the touch gentle, intimate. “Very responsive to hands-on instruction.”
The room felt smaller. Fushiguro’s mouth went dry as Gojo’s large hand cradled the knee, how it squeezed and prodded at the soft skin. He watched Itadori’s reaction; the way his breath caught, the way his thighs tensed, the way he didn’t pull away, and felt something hot and uncomfortable curl in his stomach.
It couldn’t have been jealousy. So, Fushiguro categorized it as attraction. Unwanted, inconvenient, and, judging by the sharp, knowing glance Gojo shot at him, completely obvious.
“You’re my Yuuji’s new physical therapist,” Gojo said, and it wasn’t a question. His hand was still on Itadori's thigh, casual as ownership. “Which means you’ll be spending a lot of time with him. Hands-on time. Stretching, massage, strength training. Very intimate work.”
“Gojo is my coach,” Itadori explained it like Fushiguro didn’t already know, looking up at him with those wide, earnest eyes, as if that explained everything. As if that made the hand on his thigh professional. “He’s been working with me since before the injury. Since I went pro. He knows my—my limits.”
“Do I?” Gojo’s smile was all teeth, the tease in his words seemingly obvious to Fushiguro, but not to Itadori. “I think I’m still discovering them.”
Fushiguro set the tablet down; the sound of it hitting the desk sharp, final, “Gojo, If you’re going to be present for these sessions, I need you to understand that my approach is different from whatever—” He gestured vaguely at Gojo’s hand, still resting on Itadori’s thigh, “—methods you’ve been using.”
“Different how?” Gojo’s head tilted, birdlike, curious. Dangerous.
“I’m not interested in pushing limits,” Fushiguro said, and he was proud of how steady his voice was. “I’m interested in sustainable recovery. That means rest days. That means not training through pain. That means—” he looked pointedly at Gojo’s hand, “—not distracting the patient during assessment.”
Itadori blinked, and looked down at Gojo’s hand as if just noticing it, “Oh! Oh, sorry, is that—should I—”
“No,” Gojo and Fushiguro said at the same time, with the same sternness.
They looked at each other. Gojo’s smile had slipped, just slightly, into something more genuine. More assessing. He removed his hand from Itadori’s plush thigh, but slowly dragged his palm down the muscle in a way that made Itadori shiver visibly. That reaction was not ignored by either of the other two men in the room.
“You’re protective already,” Gojo observed, tone almost challenging, and the phone in his pocket began to buzz, filling the quietness of the room. “That’s good. Yuuji needs someone protective,” He pushed off the examination table, unfolding to his full, unfair height, and stepped close enough to Fushiguro that he could smell his cologne; expensive and sharp, like ice and citrus. “But be careful, Megumi. Protectiveness can look a lot like other things. Possessiveness, for example. Desire.”
Fushiguro didn’t step back, and he refused to step back. He was not going to let Gojo win, “I’m professional, Gojo. I suggest you remember what that word means.”
Gojo’s eyes dropped to Fushiguro’s mouth, just for a second. Just long enough to be obvious. “Oh, I know exactly what it means. I just don’t see the fun in it, really,” He turned, moving back toward Itadori, and dropped a hand onto his shoulder again as the phone continued to buzz. “Yuuji. Once I finish this call, I’m going to come back here, and I better see something I like. Then, I’ll see you tomorrow for flexibility work. Wear something that fits well. And stretches.”
“Gojo,” Itadori groaned, exasperated but smiling, “That’s literally all athletic clothes.”
“Then I guess I’ll enjoy all of them,” Gojo’s hand squeezed once, then released. He moved toward the door, pausing just long enough to look back at Fushiguro, long fingers wrapped around the door handle as the other reached for his still buzzing phone. “It was nice meeting you, Megumi. I think we’re going to get along very well. We have so much in common.”
He left before Fushiguro could ask what, exactly, they had in common. The door clicked shut behind him, and the room suddenly felt larger, colder, too quiet.
Itadori let out a breath, slumping slightly against the wall, “Wow, sorry about him. He’s—he’s a lot. But he’s good at his job. Really good. I wouldn’t be walking without him.”
Fushiguro picked up his tablet, focusing on the screen so he wouldn’t have to look at the pink still lingering in Itadori's cheeks, at the way his hand was absently rubbing the spot on his thigh where Gojo had touched him before humming and murmuring, “He’s unprofessional.”
“He’s—” Itadori hesitated, eyebrows furrowed in a slightly pained expression, like he couldn’t choose one thought. “Yeah. Yeah, he is. But he cares. In his way.”
“And you?” Fushiguro asked, before he could stop himself. He looked up, meeting Itadori’s eyes. “Do you enjoy his unprofessionalism?”
Itadori’s mouth opened, then closed. The pink in his cheeks darkened to red, and he looked away, suddenly interested in the pattern of tiles on the floor, “I—I don’t really know what you mean.”
“You know exactly what I mean,” Fushiguro said, and his voice was softer than he intended, almost gentle. “Itadori, I’m going to be honest with you, because I think you need someone to be honest. My job is to get you back on that track. Running. Competing. Winning. That’s my only priority. But in order to do that, I need you to be honest with me about your training. About your recovery. About—” he paused, choosing his words carefully, “—the distractions in your environment.”
Itadori was quiet for a long moment. When he looked up, his expression was different; less performative, less bright. More real, “Gojo isn’t a distraction. He’s—he’s been there since I started. Before the injury. He’s the reason I got this far.”
“And after the injury?” Fushiguro pressed. “Has he been helping?”
Itadori's hand tightened on his own knee, the injured one, fingers pressing into the brace. “I don’t know,” he admitted, quietly. “I don’t know anymore. He’s—he touches me a lot. Say things. And I used to think it was just how he is, you know? Just Gojo being Gojo. But lately…”
“Lately?” Fushiguro prompted, when Itadori trailed off.
“It just feels different? I really don’t know,” Itadori complained, stuffing his face in his hands to hide his embarrassment. Then, louder, rushing: “But I want to run again more. I want to compete. That’s why I’m here. That’s why he brought you in. Because I was pushing too hard, and Gojo was letting me, and someone needed to—”
“Stop you,” Fushiguro finished for him. “Stop both of you.”
Itadori nodded, looking miserable and relieved at the same time, “Yeah. Yeah, exactly.”
Fushiguro looked at Itadori, and this time he really looked. At the desperation in his eyes, the want that he was trying so hard to tamp down, the fear that he’d ruined his chance at recovery before it even started. And he thought of Gojo, of that predatory smile and that proprietary hand, of the way he’d looked at Fushiguro like he knew exactly what he was feeling and was already planning how to use it.
We have so much in common.
Fushiguro understood, suddenly, exactly what Gojo had meant. They were both looking at Itadori Yuuji and wanting things they shouldn’t. The difference was that Gojo had given himself permission to take. And Fushiguro—
Fushiguro was still trying to remember why he couldn’t.
“Alright,” Fushiguro cleared his throat, setting the tablet down and rolling up his sleeves, “Let’s start over. Tell me about the pain. Not what Gojo thinks, not what the charts say. You. Where does it hurt?”
Itadori looked at him, surprised, then, slowly, smiled. It was smaller than the laugh from before, more tentative, but somehow more genuine. “Here,” he said, touching his knee. “And sometimes—here.” His hand moved to his hip, then his lower back, biting his lip slightly. “When I try to stretch, it pulls. Gojo says I’m not flexible enough, but—”
“You’re flexible enough,” Fushiguro interrupted, because he was already moving forward, already reaching out, already breaking his own rules before he’d even established them. “You’re just protecting the injury. Your body knows what it’s doing, even when you don’t.”
He knelt in front of the padded table, bringing himself eye-level with the brace, with the knee, with the problem. He could feel Itadori watching him, could feel the heat of him, could smell the sweat and soap and something uniquely Itadori that made his head spin.
Professional, Fushiguro reminded himself. He was a professional.
But when he placed his hands on Itadori’s knee; careful, clinical, just enough pressure to assess, and he heard Itadori's breath catch in his throat, Fushiguro knew, with horrible certainty, that he was already lost.
The next twenty minutes were a blur of assessments. Fushiguro’s hands were different from Gojo’s; they were careful, precise, almost reverent as they mapped the damage. He tested range of motion, strength, stability. Every press of his fingers against Itadori’s thigh or calf sent little sparks up Itadori’s spine, making him audibly react. Fushiguro’s face stayed professionally blank, but Itadori caught the way his jaw tightened when Itadori hissed at a particularly sore spot.
At some point, Gojo had wandered back into the room after finishing his call and proceeded to watch Fushiguro’s movement like a hawk, leaning against the counter with his long legs stretched out. His eyes tracked every place Fushiguro touched.
“Easy,” Fushiguro whispered quietly when Itadori flinched. His palm rested warm and steady just above Itadori's knee, the soft flesh begging him to squeeze, “You’re healing well, but we’re not rushing this anymore. Ice, elevation, these specific glute and quad activations daily. No cutting or pivoting for at least another four weeks.”
Itadori groaned, “Four weeks? Gojo has me doing sprints in his dreams already.”
“Don’t worry, Yuuji. I've got plans for you that'll make sprints look like a warm-up,” Gojo chuckled to himself.
Fushiguro cleared his throat, standing up slightly, “We’ll work on your range of motion next session.”
His voice was steady, but Itadori noticed how his fingers flexed slightly against his soft skin before pulling away.
Gojo pushed off the counter and sauntered over, crowding the table, “You’re in good hands, Yuuji. Megumi here comes highly recommended. Though I’ll be supervising closely, no more interrupting phone calls this time.” He reached out and ruffled Itadori’s pink hair, then let his hand slide down to rest on the back of Itadori’s neck. “Can’t have anyone neglecting my star player.”
Fushiguro’s eyes narrowed fractionally at the contact, “I don’t neglect patients.”
“Never said you did,” Gojo replied lightly, but his smile had teeth. “Just making sure we’re on the same page. Yuuji’s recovery is priority one. Everything else—” His thumb brushed the nape of Itadori’s neck, slow and deliberate. “—comes second.”
Itadori shivered. The tension between the two men was thick enough to taste, but he couldn’t tell if they hated each other or if this was some weird coach-physical therapist pissing contest. Either way, having both of them focused on him at once felt intense. In a way that made his shorts feel a little tighter.
Fushiguro stood, wiping his hands on a towel. “I’ll write up the full plan tonight and send it over. We’ll meet three times a week. Gojo can sit in if he wants, but I expect full compliance with the protocol.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Gojo said cheerfully. Too cheerfully.
As Fushiguro turned to leave, Gojo’s eyes followed him, sharp and calculating. Once the door clicked shut, Gojo let out a low whistle, one that Itadori was seemingly supposed to interpret for himself.
Gojo leaned in closer, voice dropping into that flirtatious register that always made Itadori’s brain short-circuit, “You handled that exam like a champ. Those little sounds you make when it hurts… really motivating for your coaches, you know?”
“Gojo—” Itadori started, flustered.
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head off, Yuuji. We’re gonna get you better. And when you are…” His gaze dropped meaningfully to Itadori’s mouth as his fingers traced the shell of Itadori’s ear. “We’re celebrating properly.”
Itadori’s heart hammered. He was used to Gojo’s casual, playful flirting, but lately it felt heavier. More real.
A soft knock interrupted them and the door quietly opened. Fushiguro had returned, tablet in hand.
“I forgot to show you the initial mobility exercises for today,” His eyes flicked to Gojo’s hand still resting on Itadori’s neck, then away. “If now’s a good time.”
Gojo’s grin returned, slow and predatory, “Perfect timing. Let’s see how well we work together, Megumi.”
Itadori swallowed, suddenly very aware of the two men on either side of him. Fushiguro's careful professionalism and Gojo's shameless hunger. The heat of Gojo's palm on his neck. The cool precision of Fushiguro's gaze tracking the pulse in his throat.
The air felt charged, heavy, and Itadori didn't entirely mind being the current between them.
He had no idea what he was in for.