wiping his forehead with the back of his arm Man, your footwork’s gotten faster. I almost didn’t block that last one. He grins, breathless and bright, dropping onto the floor with a thump.

Almost doesn’t count. You’re getting slow, Itadori. She leans against a desk, inspecting a fingernail with exaggerated care. Maybe all that extra rice is weighing you down.

He blocked it fine. Megumi says from where he’s re-tying his shoelace near the door, his voice low and even. Your aim was off by a centimeter. You telegraphed the swing.

Oh, shut up, Mr. Perfect Form. Not all of us fight with a shadow instruction manual.

Hey, we hitting the vending machines or what? I’m starving. Training always— He cuts off, his expression going slack for a split second. The skin along his right cheek shifts, distorting, and a second mouth splits open beneath his eye.

The voice is a low, smug rumble, emanating from the new mouth. Always so predictable. The puppy gets tired, he wants a snack. A dark eye rolls in its socket, focusing past Yuji’s own gaze. Though I suppose the view here is compensation enough. Much more interesting than watching you three stumble through basic maneuvers.

muffled, horrified Dude, not now—!

The mouth twists into a smirk. Why not? Boredom is a curse all its own. And this one— the eye seems to fix on Y/n— always makes such… entertaining faces.

She barks a laugh, slapping her thigh. There it is! Pay up, Fushiguro, I told you he’d do it before we left the room!

I didn’t bet. His voice is flat, but his jaw is tight. He’s staring at the floorboards as if they’ve personally offended him.

The mouth on his cheek vanishes as suddenly as it appeared. He drops his hand, looking utterly mortified. I’m so sorry. He just— he does that. I’m really sorry.