Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

. . .

I know I’m no sweet prince of love  

. . .  

“Be nice to Gojo-san today,” Tsumiki says, as sternly as a seven-year-old can, clumsily styling her hair. Mother used to do it, before. Before Gojo, before this new house and its shiny appliances, before this new school and new life and new everything .   

Megumi just grunts, toothbrush hanging out of his mouth as he reaches past his sister for his uniform jacket; the toothbrush is a threadbare excuse, given that he wouldn’t have said much else without it.  

Interpreting his non-sentence correctly like the bother she is, Tsumiki frowns at him, brown hair spilling out of the small fist she’s resting against the back of her head. It doesn’t look like much of a ponytail, certainly not the neat one Mother would fashion each morning. “Megumi.”  

He spits out his toothpaste, rinses his mouth. “You’re not a grown-up.”  

“ You’re not a baby.”  

Megumi swerves around her, slipping his arms through the sleeves of his uniform and fastening the buttons. He doesn’t deign to respond, especially given that she’s done what only she is capable of doing—matching him in his grouchiness.   

“Breakfast!” Comes the call from the kitchen.  

Tsumiki gives up on perfecting her lumpy ponytail, shoving past Megumi to clamber down the hall obediently. Megumi stands still for a few seconds before following, just to be difficult.  

Gojo isn’t especially gifted in the kitchen. They’ve only lived with him for two weeks, after that first ill-fated meeting two days before that, and though that isn’t long, it’s long enough to discover the older boy’s incompetence in anything beyond instant ramen.  

Generally, they order takeout when Tsumiki doesn’t cheerfully volunteer to make (read: burn) something they all end up choking down, but it seems this morning Gojo has gone the extra mile. It’s tamago kake gohan that he’s chosen, and although Megumi’s never been fond of raw eggs, it’s enough of a classic that even he can’t complain.   

“Good morning!” Gojo grins at them as they enter the kitchen. Tsumiki takes a seat immediately; Megumi pauses to observe.  

The kitchen is a bona fide disaster. The slick Western feel, with its sharp lines and metallic-neutral tones, is utterly destroyed by scorch marks (???) on the ceiling above the stove, several dozen more eggshells than there should be given the number of people Gojo was making breakfast for piled in the sink, and a tipped-over pan on the counter that is filled with a blackened, tar-like substance that may once have been congee.   

“Megumi-chan,” Gojo sighs at him, seeing where his eyes are wandering. “Come eat! I got up extra early to perfect my cooking skills, I promise breakfast is edible.”  

With that, the man flashes his usual blinding smile, though it seems somewhat dimmed this morning. Perhaps he’ll miss them when they’re at school? First day back, and all.  

Nonsense. He doesn’t like them to begin with.  

Despite his reservations, Megumi does as asked and seats himself beside his sister. They say a quick thanks before Tsumiki takes a hearty mouthful and Megumi, once again, observes before he does anything else.  

Interestingly, her ears go pale first. Then, of course, her face goes green, and she manages to swallow before seemingly taking a break to breathe through what was surely an awful taste.   

“How is it?” Gojo asks, tone betraying his anxiety and badly masked hope. “It’s my third try—this time I remembered to use soy sauce and not unagi.”  

“It’s,” Tsumiki stifles her gasping for air. “It’s very good, Gojo-san, thank you for making breakfast!”  

Having looked somewhat like a wilted flower or kicked puppy before, Gojo positively glows at the compliment. Even in his pajama pants and beat-up old T-shirt with letters that just barely still say Don’t talk to me until I’ve eaten this shirt , he looks like the happiest man in the world for a few seconds.  

Then his gaze jumps to Megumi, and he inwardly sighs. At least he’s wearing his sunglasses—sometimes he forgoes them, and it’s all Megumi can do not to jump out of his skin when Gojo looks at him then.  

“Megumi-chan? Well?”  

He outwardly sighs, dutifully picking up a reasonable amount with his chopsticks and pausing to say a quick prayer before putting it in his mouth. The taste is terrible —something is burnt, something else is raw (not the egg), and all of it is most definitely soaked in unagi sauce. He inhales on instinct, then starts coughing and gagging. Out, out , out , he needs the taste out of his mouth and off his tongue.   

When he finally manages to get it all out, and stops coughing long enough to breathe regularly again, Gojo is still leaned against the counter like he was before. His sunglasses are pushed up on his nose, so they hide his eyes completely, his T-shirt is showing one skinny collarbone, and his eyebrows are raised comically.   

“So, Tsumiki-chan is a liar, I see,” he says lightly. Tsumiki giggles through a denial but stops trying to defend herself when he affectionately ruffles her hair. “It’s all right—I'll practice more. You don’t have to eat it just to spare my feelings!”  

“How,” Megumi croaks when he’s recovered enough to find his voice, “how did you mess up that badly?”  

Tsumiki kicks him in the shin; Gojo just laughs. “I can’t be perfect at everything . I have to leave a few talents for the plebians to excel at.”  

“Ugh,” he mutters under his breath as he leaves to retrieve his backpack.   

Then it comes time to catch the bus—something Gojo protested, as he insisted he could drive them, but both Megumi and Tsumiki put their foot down—and Gojo trails them to wait for it with them. The morning air is crisp, sharp as a thistle and sweet as an apple, just how Megumi likes it. He’s missed school somewhat, but less the place and more the space away from Gojo. Plus, he gets to be with his sister on his own again, and that he has definitely missed.  

The bus comes, happy as a beetle and as slow as one too. Gojo pats their heads once, twice, before they climb onto it.   

“Have fun at school! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” He chirps behind them.  

“I’m so ready to get away from him,” Megumi says to Tsumiki, uncaring that Gojo is still within earshot.  

The bus is just as he remembers: crowded, loud, and unpleasant to sit in if one is easily carsick. He sits by the window with his sister beside him, and, by accident, he happens to see Gojo’s expression just before he turns to go back inside.   

“I told you not to be rude,” Tsumiki scolds in his periphery, but Megumi is too distracted by his new discovery to care.  

Gojo looks... hurt.  

. . .  

Those times that we got drunk  

. . .  

“It’s time,” Gojo crows proudly, stupid hot pink apron reflecting the truth of his cooking that his deceptively scrubbed-clean face and arms do not; it’s stained and splotchy and greasy as all get out, and Megumi’s getting concerned for the state of the kitchen. “Family dinner!”  

Gojo has an odd fixation on Western dishes, perhaps because Japanese sweets simply aren’t made for a monster sweet tooth like his, and so it’s no surprise when Megumi glances at the table and finds a pot of pale noodles and a saucepan of red sauce. Spaghetti , he knows, and not just because Gojo cheers it happily behind him as he begins dishing up.  

He and Tsumiki had arrived home from school two hours before, to find Gojo knee-deep in some game on his DS, sprawled on the carpeted floor with his back against the couch. Tsumiki had watched him over his shoulder, gasping at stressful moments and giggling at his victories; Megumi had gone to his room. It all felt too much like a routine, like something Gojo wants them to get used to , when Megumi knows he’s better off never getting used to anything ever again.  

I’m making dinner tonight , Gojo had said. No more takeout!  

It’s a nice thought, admittedly, as even Megumi’s neutral palette had been starting to get sick of the same old soba place and knock-off Chinese food. It still isn’t enough to stop him from saying, carelessly, thoughtlessly, “We’re not a family.”  

One of Gojo’s eyebrows twitches, eyes just barely visible behind his sunglasses; his jaw ticks.  

Tsumiki aims a kick at his shin under the table. “Thank you for dinner, Gojo-san!”  

“Anything for my precious Fushiguros,” he coos, but it’s missing his usual silly inflection. Perhaps he senses how it was the wrong thing to say—mentioning their family name, which most certainly does not include him, just after Megumi’s callous statement—because he winces slightly at his own words. Megumi almost feels bad for ruining the mood so entirely.  

He finishes serving the spaghetti, giving Tsumiki her sauce on the side because she doesn’t like it on her noodles and refraining from adding sauce to Megumi’s plate at all, according to his preference. They all say a quick thanks; the silence hangs in the air, only broken by quiet sounds of chewing and silverware—because Gojo insists on the full Western experience —clinking against plates.  

“This is so good, Gojo-san!” Tsumiki says brightly.  

“I don’t like spaghetti,” Megumi mumbles, just to be difficult, unable to help himself.  

There’s a beat of silence, tense and filled with hairline fractures. Tsumiki’s foot is bruising his shin again.  

Sunglasses slipping down his nose, Gojo glances at him. His eyes are the bluest blue Megumi’s ever seen, blue like the sky, the ocean, the pool Tsumiki always begs to go to, the yarn Mother used to knit with, the ribbons Tsumiki likes in her hair, every single blueberry on the planet, the TV when it shows the ERROR: NO SIGNAL screen. Megumi feels seen through, like a pane of glass or maybe a tiny bug, unimportant and stupid.  

Wordlessly, Gojo passes the parmesan.  

. . .  

Maybe Jamaica rum  

. . .  

“So,” Gojo begins, driving with one hand and fixing the rearview mirror so he can look at them in the backseat with the other. “How was school?”  

They may have convinced him to let them take the bus for the first week, but soon thereafter Gojo became insistent on at least picking them up after school. It was, in his words, important that they spent mundane time together. Megumi just thinks he needs something to do. Like a dog.  

Tsumiki launches into a delighted review of her day, starting with waking up as if Gojo wasn’t the very one who—as gently as humanly possible—dragged her out of bed and roused her from the nightly coma she seems to fall into. Yeah, Megumi doesn’t envy him for that one.   

“And then what?” Gojo encourages happily, eyes fixed on her face through the mirror. Megumi wonders vaguely if they’re going to crash.  

As she prattles on, Megumi sighs quietly and leans his head against the car door. Soon they will be home, or the closest thing to it that now exists, and he can escape to his room until Gojo forces him out again for dinner. What does Gojo do all day, he wonders. Wait for them to get back?   

Mother used to knit. Not to say that her entire day revolved around them coming home from school, but—she would knit. Her favorite chair was just opposite the genkan, and she’d look up from her stitching when they’d arrive home, and she’d smile like her face was splitting in half. How was your day, Megumi? Technically, she wasn’t Megumi’s mother, not biologically anyway. But he doesn’t remember the woman who gave birth to him, and genetics don’t really matter when he finds himself tearing up in the backseat realizing he doesn’t know where the blanket Mother knitted for him is.  

It’s stupid; even at six years old, he knows that it doesn’t really matter. Then the image of the blanket comes to mind—five feet of plush green, left in a pile somewhere abandoned. Blankets can’t speak, as a rule, but he imagines it speaking to him anyway; where are you, ‘Gumi? I’m so cold.  

Maybe his blanket is sad he left it behind. How did he forget it when they moved in with Gojo? He thought he’d been careful, but apparently not. What else is he going to forget?  

Scrunching his eyes shut, Megumi imagines Mother’s voice, greeting him and Tsumiki when they open the door to her in her chair. He repeats facts about her to himself like a mantra, so he won’t forget. Brown hair, brown eyes, jaw like Tsumiki, nose like that one idol Tsumiki loves, voice deep for a woman, hands dry and gentle, birthday on February ninth, smile wide and bright. He used to wish she was his biological mother—it wasn’t fair that Tsumiki got to be her twin and Megumi had to stick out like one of those imposter birds that lay their eggs in normal birds’ nests.   

Megumi, you don’t have to look like Tsumiki and I to be family . She had said that once, tucking him in. He doesn’t remember confiding in her about the issue, but maybe she just knew. She had her ways.  

“Megumi-chan,” Gojo intones presently, car coming to a stop as he pulls into the driveway; he hadn't realized they were already home. “How was your day?”  

The tears from before thankfully dried before they could fall, yet he still feels strangely vulnerable.  

 “Fine,” he bites out, as if the older boy has any right to his life or his words. He can’t even knit. He probably wouldn’t even want to learn.  

“Aw, don’t I get more than that?” He wheedles, smiling as he shuts the car off and leans back to look him in the eye, sunglasses pushed up into his hair for once. “I did just drive you home, you know!”  

He and Tsumiki both answer: “We didn’t ask for that!”  

Gojo laughs as they get out of the car, carries both of their backpacks towards the door without a word. “Well! I can’t win with you two, can I?”  

“No!” Tsumiki giggles along.  

Switching the backpacks to one hand, Gojo reaches out to her and spins her around and around when she accepts his grip. She’s laughing, face bright and sloppy ponytail slipping out as she whirls; Gojo is laughing too, stopped on the sidewalk outside the front door to focus on making Tsumiki lose balance.  

Mother used to tickle Tsumiki. She sounded like this then, too.  

Tsumiki starts to fall. Gojo pulls her up with the hand that’s spinning her before she can hit the ground. Their laughter reaches a fever pitch, Tsukimi's mouth open in breathless glee and Gojo’s sunglasses slipping down his face until they dangle from his nose.   

“Gotta practice that!” Gojo grins, eyes shining even more than usual. “You’ll never make it through a school dance like this. Everybody dances like that, you know!”  

“No, they don’t!” Chuckles Tsumiki, slowly but surely regaining the ability to breathe.  

Megumi watches them laugh, hands opening and closing at his sides. His jaw is aching from how hard he’s clenching it.  

As if he can sense his growing anger, Gojo pauses and looks over his shoulder at him. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, grin fading into a smaller smile, before he releases Tsumiki to open the door for the both of them.   

“Come on in, my poor, hardworking academics,” he says, and Megumi doesn’t miss the way he’s eyeing him.   

Tsumiki is chattering about something else—it doesn’t matter. Once Megumi’s shoes are off, he’s running down the hall into the sparsely decorated bedroom he calls his own. He barely makes it before the tears come, face pressed into his pillow on a bed he doesn’t think he made this morning but is carefully put together now.   

There’s no blanket to clutch to his chest, and that sole fact is enough to coax out the first sob.  

. . .  

Maybe some Jonnie Dub  

. . .  

“Miki-chan, we’re going to be late~” Gojo singsongs, casual tone masking the concern in the set of his brows. Megumi stands next to him, backpack donned and expression bored; what’s taking her so long?  

“Just—just go without me! I’m... sick!” Comes Tsumiki’s voice through the bathroom door, doing a terrible job of both lying and hiding the tears in her voice.   

Pausing, Gojo glances down at Megumi through his blindfold for a moment, who merely blinks back, before he strides towards the door and knocks gently. He speaks softly, enough so that Megumi almost can’t hear him from his vantage point. “Open the door, Miki-chan.”  

A beat. Then, the door opens reluctantly, revealing a Tsumiki with bloodshot eyes, quivering lips, tearstained cheeks, and—the cherry on top—absolutely horrible , freshly-cut bangs. Gojo audibly sucks in a breath at the sight, before he crouches down to her level.   

“Did you cut your bangs?” He asks despite the obvious, voice tight as if to stop himself from laughing.   

Tsumiki nods, another tear slipping down her cheek.   

“And... you don’t like how they turned out?”  

She promptly bursts into tears. “They l—look awful ! Gojo-s—san, please don’t m—make me go to school!”   

“Neesan,” Megumi blurts, “I like it.”  

Tsumiki and Gojo both stop in their tracks to send him bewildered looks; he shrinks into his backpack straps somewhat.   

“Well, there’s no need to lie,” Gojo says, half-smiling. “Tsumiki, I’m not sure if you have a future in hairdressing.”  

She cries louder at that, fat tears rolling down her face as she tries to hide the wreckage of her bangs with two small hands. “I’m s—sorry, Gojo-san! Please , d—don't make me go!”  

Tutting, Gojo pulls her hands away from her forehead and holds her arms at her sides to arrest her attention. “School’s useless anyway at this age; all you’re learning are shapes and animal noises. I tell you what: I’ll call the school and say you’re on the brink of death with fever, and when you go to school tomorrow with a fresh haircut, you’ll have the decency to act like you were just deathly ill, okay?”  

Tsumiki launches herself into his arms, seemingly freezing for a second before she’s able to touch him as if there’s some invisible barrier. Then she collides into him, clutching to his neck and shoulders like a crazed red panda, and he coos and chuckles as he returns the gesture.   

“ Thank you,” she weeps. “ Thank you .”  

You’d think somebody had died.  

“Can I go to school?”  

“Megumi-chan,” Gojo sighs, hefting his sister onto his hip as he stands up. She wipes quietly at her face, now aware of the absolute mess she was before. “Your sister is dying of a fever. I’m not risking you spreading it to the rest of the school.”  

Megumi looks up at the ceiling, wondering if there’s any kind of deity who is currently laughing at him.  

“And I’ll buy you takoyaki if you complain less than usual,” he adds quickly.  

“...Fine.”  

As they walk out the door, Tsumiki holding one of Gojo’s hands and Megumi reluctantly holding the other, Tsumiki asks seriously, “Gojo-san, do you even know what we learn in second year of elementary?”  

. . .  

Maybe you still think of us  

. . .  

Gojo prefers Tsumiki. It’s not really a verbalized thing, but Megumi knows; he sees it in the way they play with each other, Tsumiki paralyzed in hapless giggles, Gojo grinning and grinning like an overly smug cat; sees it in the way Tsumiki is always so helpful and cheerful and pleasant to be around, the way she always has the right words for adults and knows the right thing to do to ease tense situations. Who wouldn’t prefer Tsumiki, is the question Megumi often wonders, more than any self-critical query like why am I not good enough or what did I do wrong . Even he prefers Tsumiki to himself, if he’s honest, and so it makes sense that their new guardian would feel much the same, even if the rest of the time Gojo isn’t known for his common sense.  

“And then,” Tsumiki continues her story over ‘family dinner’, a tale Megumi is only half-listening to that seems to involve every single one of her classmates and an overabundance of grand gestures on the part of the storyteller. He’s starting to think she’s taking after Gojo in the drama department. “And then, Kumiko-chan told Saori-chan that she doesn’t even know anyone in Kato-sensei's class, but we know that’s a lie because Rie-chan told me that they were going to hang out after school. So— ”  

Gojo’s hand flies up.  

She points at him as if calling on a student.  

“When did Rie-chan tell you this? Because if it’s before Kumiko-chan told Saori-chan that, then that’s really in bad taste,” Gojo says, laser focused on what is sure to be a mind-numbing topic to him.  

“She told me before !”  

Gojo covers his mouth, eyes sparkling behind his sunglasses. “Oh, my.”  

Grinning through a mouthful of lasagna—homemade, Megumi actually can’t believe Gojo managed to make a dish this complicated taste fairly good—Tsumiki preens under the attention. She’s never been a self-centered girl, but she’s taken to Gojo rather well, and delights in sharing her schoolyard gossip with him. “I know. And even Sukushi-sensei has been snapping at Kumiko-chan lately—I guess she can tell all the drama is her fault.”  

“Teachers are smart like that,” Gojo agrees, palm covering his smile.  

“I guess so,” Tsumiki nods. Then, taking a break from her story, she digs into her meal,; her eyes widen at how good it is. “Wow, this is so good, Gojo-san!”  

He chuckles then, reaching out a hand to ruffle her—now freshly cut and distinctly not monstrous-looking—bangs despite her laughing protests. “I’m glad you think so, Tsumiki!”  

His gaze cuts to Megumi, mid-chew in a mouth of lasagna, who has been silent in regard to the edibleness of the meal.  

“At least someone around here appreciates me.”  

It’s a joke, but stupidly, Megumi finds that the flippant words hurt . No wonder Gojo prefers Tsumiki. The thought comes again: who wouldn’t ?  

“I don’t like Western food,” Megumi declares suddenly, flinging his fork onto his plate and pushing himself back from the table. He’s had enough. He’s had more than enough.  

Gojo stands quickly, hands raised placatingly. “Hey, hey! Megumi, wait a minute.”  

He eyes him, pausing in hopping down from his chair.  

“Don’t go to bed hungry,” Gojo says, tone pleading. “What do you want to eat? I’ll make it for you.”  

Megumi looks from him to Tsumiki, watching in frowning silence, and back again. Dinner was going so well—Tsumiki was happy, crowing about her day and the food, and even Gojo was less irritating than usual when he was indulging her. They are two silver fish, scales glinting as they dance through the water; Megumi is a rusty anchor, embedded in the coral reef, dragging them down from the glittering surface.  

It feels only natural, then, with Tsumiki’s worried gaze on him and Gojo’s upraised hands, to let the anchor keep sinking, and let his tongue do what it will.  

“You’re not my mom,” Megumi glares at him, thinks he sees that usual eyebrow twitch beneath the blindfold. “Don’t pretend you’re family.”  

They call out behind him, but he doesn’t stop; he stomps to his room and slams the door.  

. . .  

Phone buzz, and still I jump  

. . .  

“You’re coming with me to the store,” Gojo had said imperiously, standing at the threshold of Megumi’s room and leaving no room for argument. Tsumiki had hollered from her room, something like, I’ll come too, Gojo-san! but Gojo had insisted on only Megumi accompanying him.  

From there, it was a blur of car seats, whining about lack of parking spaces (Gojo), whining about having to be there at all (Megumi), whining about how Megumi-chan should hold my hand, what if you get lost? (Gojo again), and fluffy snowflakes dotting their heads as they dashed into the store. 

That’s how Megumi finds himself currently in the toy aisle at the supermarket, watching Gojo frown and critique different dolls and styles of doll clothes. Tsumiki’s birthday is next week, and it seems the older boy is determined to buy her a worthy present—hence Megumi’s presence and Tsumiki’s absence. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to be doing to help. He’s not much of a gift-giver, and he’s unobservant of his sister’s habits to boot. Gojo would have better luck dragging a rock along.  

“How about this one? ‘ Real diaper change function’ ?”   

Megumi glances at the proffered package, bright pink and shiny plastic, containing a smiling baby doll with a cloth diaper secured around its bottom half. At Gojo’s words, Megumi makes a disgusted face.   

“Yeah, I know,” Gojo sighs, putting the package back. “I don’t know why they make weird shi—uh, crap like this.”  

“Babies are gross.”  

The older boy blows out a breath, rubbing at his eyes beneath the blindfold. “Hey, man, I'm not arguing. I prefer my company fully toothed and potty trained.”  

Megumi considers for a moment before finding that he actually agrees with Gojo for once.  

“I’m really grasping at straws here,” Gojo continues. “What would she like? She has plenty of dolls back at the house already, maybe she doesn’t need any more...”  

Try as he might, Megumi is genuinely drawing a blank as he tries to picture his sister’s room and what she might have in it. He could have sworn he’s seen a doll or two before, and maybe a few stuffed animals. What do girls like? Tsumiki is too little for makeup, even Megumi knows that, and she’s not much of a fashionista, so that rules out clothes too. Maybe girls don’t all like the same things?   

He scowls. No, that can’t be right.  

Beside him, Gojo grunts to himself as he continues sorting through dolls that apparently don’t meet his standards. Megumi tunes him out, the ongoing commentary of not long enough hair, hair too long, body too perfect—what if she gets a complex?!, too much makeup, weird-looking face, doesn’t look fun... and so on, instead turning to observe their surroundings. He hasn’t been to this supermarket before—a huge, cavernous place, filled with just about everything under the sun; he can feel the chill from the freezer section, despite it being around the corner, and regrets his choice of a long-sleeved t-shirt and shorts.   

The chill grows stronger all of a sudden. Before he can open his mouth to complain to Gojo, a man—a boy, really, in his late teens—comes into the aisle and, seeing them, pauses. His hair is black, long, tied half-up in a bun, the rest of it allowed to hang down the back of his baggy white shirt. The addition of his bontan pants and waraji andals only serve to give him a slightly ridiculous air, as if he’s trying very hard to be something he isn’t.   

The older boy’s eyes are violet; not the softness one might expect from the color of a flower, but a sharp, angry color, like there’s a storm in his mind or rot seeping out of his heart. Despite the ice that leaks into the air from his presence and violence in his eyes, his lips quirk into a smile. It’s flat, somewhat fake, yet amused all the same, perhaps slightly pained.  

Unnerved, Megumi takes a step back and hides behind Gojo’s legs; the blindfolded man still has his back turned, but he glances at Megumi when he reaches up to hold his hand.   

“What’s up, bud?” Gojo murmurs, lowering to a crouch, not removing his hand from Megumi’s grip. Perhaps he would have eventually been able to ignore the stranger’s oppressive aura enough to respond, but Gojo seems to sense him now that his attention isn’t occupied by dolls.   

His jaw twitches, eyebrows furrowing beneath the blindfold before he twists, keeping himself between Megumi and the stranger.   

“Shopping, Satoru? And here I thought you’d grown out of playing with dolls.” The stranger cocks his hip, slipping the handle of his shopping basket Megumi hadn’t noticed into the crook of his elbow. It holds a rather eclectic collection of things—several packages of mochi, fish food, a packet of soba, chocolate milk, a cheese grater, cigarettes, and a very ugly stuffed frog—and Megumi honestly cannot guess what he plans on doing with any of it.  

Gojo’s hand is sweaty in Megumi’s, but he doesn’t dare let go, mute with fear at this seemingly harmless stranger with a presence like an oily black stain.  

“Suguru,” Gojo says, almost a croon but more like a sigh. He sounds tired. Serious. He’s never sounded like this before.  

“You can come out, you know,” the stranger—Suguru, apparently—calls to Megumi. “I don’t bite.”  

Gojo stands, still positioned protectively in front of Megumi. “What do you want, Suguru?”  

“I’m just shopping,” he says. “Grocery run, you know. It certainly makes more sense than whatever it is you think y ou’re doing, playing house with Toji’s... progenies .”  

“I’m not arguing with you here,” Gojo answers tightly. “Of all places.”  

Suguru’s smile turns somewhat more genuine then, stepping towards them. “Would you like me to call you later with a time and place?”  

The air is even colder the closer he gets, Megumi’s arms covered goosebumps and spine prickling. There’s something not quite right about him—despite the stupid outfit, weird shopping choices, and the cringey asymmetrical bang-situation he’s got going on, he manages to steal all the oxygen from Megumi’s lungs, leaving him with his feet stuck to the floor in terror. All he can do is wrap his arms around Gojo’s leg, press his face into his pant leg with his eyes screwed shut, and try not to cry in public.  

 Gojo’s hand finds his hair, large palm cupping the back of his head in a silent kind of reassurance. “I thought I told you not to call me anymore.”  

“Well, yes,” Suguru admits, and Megumi hears him come even nearer. There’s a rustle of clothing, as if Suguru has taken a fistful of Gojo’s stupid Digimon hoodie. “But you don’t always say what you mean .”  

Silence, save for what seems to be Gojo swallowing thickly.  

“I’ll talk to you later, then,” he promises. “Satoru.”  

As suddenly as he’d come, the older boy is gone, leaving Megumi still shaking against Gojo’s leg in the middle of the doll aisle. He can breathe easier, the atmosphere no longer icy cold and crushing, but he keeps his face jammed into Gojo’s knee for a few seconds more.  

“He’s gone, Megumi,” Gojo murmurs. He’s dropped the cutesy honorific. “He left.”  

“Will he come back?” Megumi finally removes his face from his pant leg, arms still locked around him.  

Gojo’s hand is still in his hair, thumb brushing comfortingly across his forehead.  

“No,” he answers. He sounds like he’s talking to himself. “No, he’s never coming back.”  

He doesn’t sound happy about it.  

. . .  

Why don’t I say it then?  

. . .  

It’s a rare instance now for Gojo to not pick them up from school, with all his stupid car games and incessant questions and surprisingly safe driving, yet Megumi still finds himself waiting with Tsumiki on the sidewalk for the driver Gojo had promised would bring them home. Ijichi is great at driving, Gojo had assured, in response to Tsumiki’s mildly concerned reaction to being informed that he wouldn’t be picking them up; and not much else!  

“Fushiguro...?”  

Tsumiki grabs his hand, stepping forward to a sleek black car with the passenger window rolled down. The person who spoke is leaning over the center consol to see them—he's maybe sixteen years old, so younger than Gojo, but his eyes look like they’ve seen enough.  

“That’s us,” Tsumiki confirms. “What’s the password?”  

You need a password , Gojo had said lazily, leaned against the counter as he watched them dutifully eat their breakfast that morning. I’m not having my kids think that they can ride with whatever stranger shows up with a car .  

Ijichi, or at least Megumi assumes, sighs. “Gojo Satoru is the greatest sorcerer in history.”  

What? Gojo had grinned. It’s the truth .  

“ And ?” Tsumiki prods.  

He sighs again, longer. Megumi’s starting to like him. “ And Gojo- sama should have been a child model.”  

With that, Tsumiki pulls open the door to the backseat, climbing in after Megumi. “Okay. Hi Ijichi-san!”  

“Hi. Tsumiki-chan, right?”  

“Yes!”  

They have a polite conversation on the way home, Megumi preferring to let Tsumiki do the talking and simply stare at the houses and trees as they drive past. He wonders what’s for dinner—last week was a disastrous attempt at the real American burger, or whatever as Gojo had so elegantly put it—and hopes it’s something a little more traditional. For all his terrible faults in the kitchen, Gojo makes a mean zaru soba when he puts the effort in.  

It’s nice to not have Gojo’s constant questioning marring the pleasant undertones of the engine for once. At least, that’s what Megumi tells himself when he keeps glancing at the rearview mirror and expecting to be met with impossibly blue eyes. That’s what he gets, he thinks, for getting used to something. Nothing ever lasts.  

The house is still empty when Ijichi drops them off, and though he offers to stay, neither he nor Tsumiki are eager to accept. The house is their place; theirs and Gojo’s, and it feels wrong to let someone in without the older boy there. So up the sidewalk and front steps they go, hand in hand like it’ll chase away the emptiness of the house, and enter with the key Gojo gave Tsumiki to put in her backpack this morning.  

“Terrible,” Tsumiki murmurs once the door shuts behind them. It’s too modern a house for the door to creak, but he almost wishes it would; the silence only serves to unnerve Megumi.  

“What is?”  

She sets down her backpack next to her shoes in the genkan, socked feet making hushed noises as she continues on to the kitchen. “The quiet.”  

And it is. Megumi never noticed how much space Gojo took up until he was gone; this house, with its vaulted ceilings and open layout and spacious rooms, feels almost like an endless cavern without him. There’s no wheedling voice calling him around the corner, or sound effects from a video game blaring off the walls, or food sizzling on the stove, or muttered curses when said food begins burning on the stove. There is just Megumi, and Tsumiki, and it feels eerily similar to how it had been before .  

“Sit with me,” Tsumiki calls him, once he’s changed out of his school uniform and into the comfy loungewear Gojo bought him, back in that first week; black sweatpants and a red crewneck that proclaims You caught me at a bad time: I’m AWAKE . Gojo had laughed and laughed when he’d seen it, cooing and crowing over Megumi when he relented and agreed to try it on.  

He obeys, hopping up on the couch cushion beside her in the living room. Her arm comes round his shoulders, and despite his anti-hug stance he takes most of the time, he finds that just this once, it’s all right to allow the comfort. Tsumiki’s own loungewear is soft against his face when he leans his head against her, and her skinny arms chase away the oppressive silence of the too-big house, at least a bit.  

And there they sit, entwined in each other, unwilling to call this activity what it truly is— waiting —but aware nevertheless. The sun goes down behind them, the floor to ceiling window hiding nothing, yet still they wait, thinking perhaps this is the time history repeats itself and they’ll go from Tsumiki and Megumi to Tsumiki-and-Megumi once again. Homework remains untouched, after-school snacks uneaten; there is only the couch, each other, and the deep yawning cavern of the house all around them.  

I’ll be home for dinner , Gojo had promised. His blindfold wasn’t fastened yet. Can’t miss family dinner .  

Megumi doesn’t recall dozing off, but he wakes anyway to the sound of the front door clicking shut, shoes being tiredly shucked off, and a bitten-off, exhausted sigh. The living room is dark now, a testament to just how late it is, and he finds that he’s absolutely famished .  

Beside him, Tsumiki stirs, then stills as Gojo appears in the hall. His uniform is ripped in several places, white hair ruffled and sticking to his sweaty forehead, and his shoulders are slumped in a bone-deep exhaustion that doesn’t fit Megumi’s mental image of him. When he focuses on them, he sags against the wall and rubs at his covered eyes.  

“You missed family dinner,” Megumi says at last. Strangely, his voice is nowhere near the cutting tone he’d intended; instead, he sounds vulnerable, laid bare, tone trembling.  

“Were you,” Gojo starts. He clears his throat, tries again. “Were you waiting for me?”  

Tsumiki sits up, releasing Megumi after who knows how many hours; he sits up grudgingly after her. “You came back for us?”  

He pauses for long, long time.  

Slowly, achingly, like it pains him to even move, Gojo unwraps his blindfold and pads towards them. He drops to his knees in front of the couch, propping his chin on one hand.  

“I said I’d come home, didn’t I?” Gojo asks, hushed.  

At the same volume, despite there being no need for keeping quiet, Megumi replies. “People say things they don’t mean.”  

Gojo falls silent again. His eyes seem to have their own light, glowing even in the darkened living room and illuminating their faces; they see everything , Megumi knows. He wonders what they see that he doesn’t want them to.  

“You’re my kids,” Gojo says finally. He puts a hand on each of their heads, shaking gently. “You’re my family. I’m always going to come back.”  

“Promise?” Tsumiki asks wetly, welling tears shining blue in the light of Gojo’s eyes.  

This time he doesn’t hesitate; he gathers both of them in his arms, squeezing them tight enough to finally ward away for good the creeping emptiness the house had instilled in them. Megumi decides it’s far enough past his bedtime that he can be excused for being clingy; he fists his hand in the fabric of Gojo’s torn uniform, and holds on until he’s sure he won’t leave.  

“I promise.”  

. . .  

I want you all the time.  

. . .  

Megumi seldom sleeps well.  

In his dreams, two dogs follow him; one is black and one is white. They nip at his heels, urging him to walk faster and faster down a shadowy, unfamiliar hallway. The black one grows impatient, runs ahead into the darkness. Megumi’s voice fails him as he tries to warn the dog not to wander away; the white one cries at his counterpart’s absence—dreadful, heartbroken howls interspersed with angry barking. They find the black dog again after a time.   

Sometimes the dream changes this part. Sometimes the dog is waiting for them, tail wagging and tongue lolling; sometimes the dog is aloof, indifferent to their relief at finding him; sometimes the dog snarls at the white one, snaps at his throat when his counterpart tries to lick his face. Sometimes they find the dog dead; the white one is beside itself, leaping to and fro madly as if to wake him, howling and yipping and screaming. Sometimes the black one kills the white one; sometimes the white one kills the black one. Regardless of who dies, no one is saved.  

Megumi is helpless in all versions.   

He’s taken to fixing himself a cup of orange juice when the sleepless nights get long, socked feet making the journey to the kitchen at the brave hour of 3:00 AM to rot until morning comes to soothe the unease. He’s used to how the cold wood feels through his socks, how the huge house has a nip to its air in the early morning hours, how the fridge floods the space with light when he opens it.  

He is decidedly not used to somebody else being in the kitchen, much less Gojo . Aside from family dinners, Gojo avoids the space; he isn’t a cook, and he’s even less of a dishwasher.  

But there he is, despite himself; his Hello Kitty pajama bottoms are riding up one of his calves, his sleepshirt freshly rumpled. Megumi can just barely make out the words God gives the tastiest toddlers to His hungriest pitbulls embroidered in an obnoxious pink font on the wrinkled shirt, and before he has time to ponder what that is supposed to mean, Gojo speaks.  

“I still don’t understand ,” he says, and Megumi thinks he’s talking to him until he spots his phone in his hand. Gojo chews on his lip anxiously, expression uncharacteristically serious. “Explain it to me.”  

A tinny voice is just barely audible, saying something that sounds like, “Satoru.”  

“Explain it to me again.” His voice sounds like a bark, or a howl. Megumi’s head hurts as he hides behind the doorframe.  

“You’re just going to get upset all over again,” the voice responds, both placating and condescending.  

Gojo says nothing, exhaling harshly.   

The voice laughs quietly, but it’s a sad noise. “Satoru. Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”   

“I can’t,” Gojo blurts, tone halfway between a sob and a snarl. “I can’t sleep because of you.”  

There’s a sound like a clack , as if Gojo had set his phone down with too much force. Megumi imagines, from his hiding place, that the older boy is pulling at his hair.   

“It was your choice,” the voice answers. Cruel. “I never told you how to live your life—just how I was going to live mine.”  

Gojo huffs, disbelieving. “You knew what I believe. You knew what your decision would mean for us.”  

A pause.  

“I thought you wanted this to be a nice call. Like back then...”   

“I was being stupid. It isn’t back then, and it never will be again. Because of you .”  

“You’ve changed just as much.” The voice is suddenly much nastier, every word chosen with the intention of hurting. “Toji’s son, really? And even worse, the little monkey g—”  

Gojo inhales sharply. “Don’t you dare . I can’t believe...”  

Megumi frowns at his trailing off; if there’s one thing he knows about Gojo, it’s that he is never speechless.   

“I have to go.”  

“You really aren’t going to say it?”  

“Eat shit,” he snaps, and his phone clicks shut. There’s a long sigh, and then Gojo pads right over to Megumi’s hiding place and glares down at him. It’s not his usual put-upon cheeriness, and the absence of his glasses makes his glowing blue glower all the more terrifying.  

Megumi gulps.  

He keeps up the glare for another few seconds before sighing heavily again, shoulders slumping. Gojo rubs at the bridge of his nose as if the sight of Megumi is giving him a headache. “What are you doing up?”  

“...Can’t sleep.”  

Squinting down at him, Gojo frowns. “Nightmare?”  

The chill in this house is seeping through his thin pajamas; Megumi shivers and rubs at his arms. It doesn’t go unnoticed. “It felt real.”  

Gojo purses his lips. “I get that.”  

He wonders if he does.  

“Let’s watch a movie,” Gojo says suddenly. “A really terrible one.”  

Maybe he’s just too tired to think straight, or he’s still afraid Gojo and his famed six eyes are going to smite him, or maybe he wants to sit down and forget about this whole awful night— whatever it is, Megumi finds himself agreeing.  

From there it’s a simple affair of Gojo picking something brainless out of his endless DVD collection and tucking Megumi into a threadbare knit blanket. The movie begins with something probably meant to be deep—a real headscratcher, like all oceans are deeper than roses , which is objectively true and therefore must have some incomprehensible second meaning that no one outside of a nursing home will be able to derive—and then devolves from there into a nihilistic portrayal of the stereotypical high school experience.  

“Psychobabble always puts me right to sleep,” Gojo says, yawning as if on cue. Somehow his hand has ended up in Megumi’s hair, massaging with all the delicacy of a claw machine and yet still managing to soothe.  

Megumi’s eyes start to droop; Gojo’s sleepshirt smells nice when his chubby cheek collides with his shoulder, too tired to defend his dignity and right himself.  

“I wonder which dream this is,” he says. His voice sounds distant, like a far-off cloud or a faint scent.   

Will the dogs kill each other again?  

There’s a faint vibration beneath his cheek, like a responding voice. The words are lost on him as he falls asleep.  

. . .  

Why can’t we laugh now like we did then?  

. . .  

School is stupid, Megumi has decided. He’s by no means an unintelligent student, but the way the teachers teach sometimes feels like they’re speaking another language, like he’s underwater and they’re shouting the instructions for putting together an IKEA couch backwards at him. It’s pretty unfortunate he already hates school, since he has quite a few years left of it—he's six, for God’s sake—but there’s really nothing to be done.  

It might be more bearable, however, if Sato Haruki was wiped off the face of the planet.  

He’s a great beast of a six-year-old, towering above the other children in their class and relishing in it too; he’s got meaty fists and cruel, ever-squinting eyes because his mother won’t get him glasses (he’s ‘too young’, apparently). Supposedly, Haruki only moved to this part of Tokyo recently, and his parents have just divorced. As such, it makes sense he’s been acting out.  

At least, that’s what Tsumiki says, and the few teachers Megumi has accidentally overheard gossiping. Personally, he couldn’t care less what Haruki’s motivations are for being such an asshole. He just wants him to stop.  

“Sensei, Megumi-chan is still stuck,” Haruki says cheerfully for the third time this morning, in front of the entire class. “Can you explain it again?”  

Muffled snickers erupt around him. Megumi’s knuckles whiten around his pencil.   

“Haruki-chan, please focus on your own work,” the teacher—Hagino-sensei—gently reprimands. Still, she listens to Haruki, discretely sweeping over to Megumi’s desk and surveying his wreckage of a worksheet. Hagino-sensei is usually very reasonable, at least for an adult, and pleasant; she has sensible brown hair, tucked back in a bun, and happy, bright skirts.   

“I can do it,” Megumi says stubbornly as she crouches and watches him try and try again. Subtraction is hard, especially when it’s with numbers like nineteen and eleven.   

He erases his last attempt, anger making him too rough and causing the paper to tear.  

“Megumi-chan,” Hagino-sensei says softly, taking his hand and making him release the pencil. When he looks up at her, she looks concerned, and her voice is quiet so only he can hear. “This isn’t like you. Are you having a hard morning?”  

Strangely, he thinks of Mother, and how she used to ask how his and Tsumiki’s days were.   

She’s gone now. And Gojo can never be her.  

Nodding, Megumi can only hope she misses the tears starting to well up in his eyes as he ducks his head.   

“I see,” she sits back on her heels, pondering for a moment. “We’ll set up a little meeting with your guardian, how does that sound?”  

“Okay,” he manages.  

Hagino-sensei looks at him, eyes searching, before she nods to herself and leaves him to it. She begins explaining subtraction again in a different way, slipping him an intact worksheet when she passes by his desk as she teaches.  

It doesn’t make sense even the third time. Maybe that’s just the way math is.  

. . .  

How come I see you and ache instead?  

. . .  

“Gojo-san, have you seen my pencil case?” Megumi calls from his room, frowning to himself as he upends his backpack for the umpteenth time in search of it.  

“Did you check your backpack?” Comes the reply, hollered from the kitchen.  

Annoying. He’s not stupid, of course he checked the one place it usually is. “Yes.”  

“What about the front pocket with the zipper?”  

“I checked the whole backpack!”  

Gojo sighs loud enough for him to hear. “C’mere, bring the backpack.”  

Begrudgingly, Megumi obeys, trudging out of his room with backpack in tow. He finds Gojo sitting at the kitchen table, Tsumiki seated on the floor between his legs, his eyes uncovered for once and instead intensely focused on a YouTube video that she’s showing him. His hands are full of Tsumiki’s thick brown hair, moving to copy the plait in the video and pausing every now and again to watch raptly as the video shows a sped-up process of french braiding.  

“Pause it, Miki-chan,” Gojo says, moving all her hair to one hand and holding it in place before moving his attention to Megumi. “Well, let’s see.”  

He digs around blindly in the backpack that Megumi himself just thoroughly went through for a few seconds before muttering a small aha! and pulling out the missing pencil case.  

“Here it is!” Gojo beams, grin almost as blinding as his eyes. He holds out the pencil case, which Megumi just mutely stares at.  

“Megumi, take it and go away! Gojo-san is braiding my hair right now,” Tsumiki whines, poking Gojo’s calf to get his attention again.  

Megumi does so hesitantly, standing before the two of them still even as Tsumiki unpauses the video and Gojo goes back to patiently braiding. He’s never seen Gojo do Tsumiki’s hair before, and the video is likely evidence that this is a first, yet the braid is neat and uniform, snaking down one side of his sister’s head. The other half of her hair is collected into a small bun, likely set aside to be braided later; the part separating the two halves is genuinely a perfect line bisecting her scalp.  

Eventually the video ends, Gojo murmuring quietly that he’s got the hang of it now. He continues in silence, Tsumiki humming to herself and Megumi just watching, as always.  

“How did you find my pencil case?” He blurts finally, frowning at the older boy. “You didn’t even look inside my backpack.”  

“He doesn’t have to,” Tsumiki butts in. “He has the Six Eyes, remember?”  

Gojo’s lips quirk up in a smile, aforementioned eyes still trained on the back of her head as he finishes one braid and starts the other. “I’m good at finding things.”  

“Remember, Megumi, how Mother could always find our things even when we thought we’d looked everywhere?” His sister reminds him. “Gojo-san can too!”  

“Gojo-san isn’t Mother,” Megumi says without thinking.  

“No, I’m not,” he agrees easily. Finishing the second braid, Gojo pats Tsumiki’s shoulders and helps her to her feet again before turning her around. He takes her chin, shaking her around playfully. “Aww, so pretty! Miki-chan looks so cute!”  

Tsumiki smiles, somewhat inhibited by Gojo’s hand squeezing her cheeks, and plays along, striking a ridiculous pose. “Gojo-san, I should model!”  

He laughs. “When you’re old enough to count to ten, sure. Go look in the mirror and see if you like it.”  

She goes, laughingly protesting as she does so, “Gojo-san, just how little do you think I am?!”  

“Your hair next,” Gojo teases when it’s just them, reaching out a hand to Megumi’s hair. He dodges, disgruntled when the hand lands anyway, ruffling his hair and messing it up even further.  

“Hey!” Megumi complains, though it sounds half-hearted even to him. “I’m not a girl.”  

Gojo huffs another laugh. “So? Plenty of boys do their hair.”  

Megumi pauses, thinking a moment. “Like Suguru?”  

The hand in his hair tenses before forcibly relaxing. Gojo’s eyes, uncovered as they are, can’t hide the way he winces. Ridiculously, Megumi wishes he could take the thoughtless question back, though he doesn’t understand why it seems to grate Gojo so.  

“Who is he?” He presses after the silence drags on for long enough. “Or, was?”  

He forgets to pretend like he doesn’t care about the answer, staring as Gojo looks anywhere but him, long fingers twisting in his lap.  

“He’s really hurting,” Gojo says eventually, always one to indulge. “He’s a hurt person.”  

Throat working, Megumi tries to find something to say; Tsumiki comes running back to them, face bright from her findings in the mirror, and breaks the tense atmosphere by exclaiming, “Gojo-san, I’m so pretty!”  

When Megumi looks at Gojo again, his smile is fixed securely to his face like it never left. “Of course you are,” he says.  

“Megumi,” Tsumiki says, frowning when he flinches at being addressed. “Do you like my hair?”  

“Yes, Neesan.” He sees Gojo out of the corner of his eye, wonders if he had felt the same icy cold when Suguru had approached them in that supermarket, or if he had felt something else. “You look very pretty.”  

Tsumiki beams at him, and looks like Mother so much his heart aches.  

. . .  

How come you only look pleased in bed?  

. . .  

Sato Haruki should have been thrown into a river at birth.  

“Y’know, Megumi is a girly name. Are you girly ?” There’s scattered laughter. “Oh, I know. Your mom wanted a girl, but instead she got saddled with you . Is that it?”  

Megumi glares at Haruki, mouth full of the bento Gojo had packed him that morning, mind full of plans of violence. It’s been like this all day ; the taunting, the teasing, the endless stupid jokes Megumi’s heard a million times. So what people hear Fushiguro Tsumiki and Megumi and assume they’re sisters? Megumi is not a girl; how can Megumi be a girl’s name when it’s his name, and he’s a boy? It’s just the same stupid line, over and over again; how Haruki can have even a modicum of popularity is beyond him.  

Instead of responding, Megumi plucks another mini hotdog cut like an octopus— badly , he should mention; Gojo needs to work on his scissor abilities—with his chopsticks and shoves it in his mouth.  

Haruki isn’t deterred, the small gaggle of their classmates standing round to watch the show quietly expectant behind him. He sets his hands on his hips, blocking out the sun as he continues ruining Megumi’s lunch. “I guess the girl name explains why you’re so bad at math. You really were meant to be a girl!”  

There’s even more giggling to that; oddly enough the girls are laughing too.  

Despite himself, some heat rushes into his cheeks; it’s true that math has still be going badly, and it’s all made worse by the fact that Hagino-sensei called on him today in front of everyone and he didn’t know the answer. Everyone else seems to get subtraction. It’s not his fault it makes no sense to him.  

“My sister is smart, and she’s a girl,” Megumi rebuts, somewhat half-heartedly.  

“That’s even worse,” Haruki laughs in his face. “So, she got all the smartness, and you just got a girly name? Your mom definitely has a favorite.”  

Gojo isn’t his mother, but he does prefer Tsumiki. And then comes the old question: who wouldn’t ?  

“Megumi-chan doesn’t have a mom,” one of their classmates chimes in. “She left.”  

Face splitting into a delighted grin, Haruki chuckles and shakes his head. “No way. I guess you can’t blame her, but then—who made that adorable bento?”  

The bento is admittedly hideous. The food within is edible, but not pretty; the furoshiki wrap Digimon themed; some of the mini hotdogs are burnt. But Gojo made it for him , even though he had to get up extra early to do so after getting back from a mission late the night before, and Megumi is nothing if not thankful for those who do him favors.  

“My guardian,” he replies sullenly.  

“Not even your dad?” Haruki laughs harder. “Who’s your guardian ? Is your sister mad that you ruined her life by chasing away both your parents with that stupid personality?”  

Bento forgotten, Megumi rises to his feet. The winter midday sun is beaming down on them, providing little warmth as Megumi’s fingernails dig into his palms.  

“Isn’t your guardian that weird sunglasses guy, Megumi-chan?” A girl pipes up.  

Haruki pauses before snorting. “With the white hair? Oh, man —it's bad enough with no real family, but to not even look like you’re family? That’s gotta be—”  

Megumi’s fist connects beautifully with Haruki’s jaw. He thinks, as his blood rushes in his ears and classmates erupt into chaos around him, that subtraction makes sense for once; Haruki has two less teeth in his mouth.  

.  

“Well, shit, I came as soon as I heard,” comes the familiar drawl, interrupting Megumi’s impressive hour-long vow of silence as he sat in the principal’s office and iced his knuckles. “Looks like I didn’t have to worry about you being the loser of the fight.”  

“Gojo-san, really,” Principal Kato protests. “That is hardly an appropriate response.”  

Gojo removes his sunglasses, tucking them into the pocket of his—clearly hastily donned—button-up shirt. He plops into a seat next to Megumi, across from Kato, and leans forward on his knees. “Huh, I could’ve sworn I was the guardian. Didn’t you call me to figure out how I planned to move forward?”  

He turns his attention to Megumi, eyes flicking down to bloody knuckles, and gives him that stupid, dazzling grin.  

“How come the other brat isn’t here? Pretty sure you can’t have a fight with only one participant.”  

“Haruki-chan has been picked up by his mother and taken to the emergency room,” Kato says stiffly, hands folded in front of her. “Megumi-chan here knocked out two of his teeth.”  

Blinking for a moment, Gojo’s grin only increases in size. His eyes, always bluer than bluer than blue, flash with something incredibly pleased. “Nice job, Megumi. Did you punch with your thumb outside your fingers?”  

Megumi nods hesitantly.  

“Even better. That way you don’t risk breaking your thumb.” Gojo smiles at him for a second longer before looking again to the principal, who is visibly seething at this point. “My Megumi doesn’t punch people for no reason. Sorry to say, but Haruki-chan had it coming.”  

“Perhaps you’re not hearing me ,” Principal Kato grits out, pushing herself to her feet and towering over them behind her desk. “He knocked out two of his teeth .”  

Undeterred, Gojo shrugs. “Is this your first time hearing about baby teeth? They come out sooner or later, you know.”  

“Gojo-san—”  

“Nah,” Gojo waves at her flippantly, getting to his feet and holding out an expectant hand to Megumi. He takes it slowly, with the hand lacking split knuckles. “We’re out. I’m not gonna sit here and listen to you tell me Megumi’s a bad kid. That’s fucking bullshit.”  

Gojo pulls him along behind him a moment before noticing his injured hand carrying the ice pack the nurse gave him; he pauses, just for a second, then scoops him up with one arm and props him on his hip.  

It gives Megumi a great vantage point to see Principal Kato turn a very interesting shade of purple as Gojo carries him away.  

“Were you on a mission when she called you?” Megumi asks in a tiny voice, once they’re out of the school and walking to the car.  

Gojo adjusts him in his arms, but doesn’t complain about carrying him. “Yeah.”  

That means Gojo either had to leave a mission unfinished to come get him, or he had to maybe risk himself more than usual to finish it quicker. Both options make something heavy and unhappy roil in Megumi’s stomach.  

He shrinks against him, hiding his face in Gojo’s neck as he feels frustrated tears start to build up. “’M sorry,” he manages tightly.  

“I know,” Gojo says. He opens the door to the backseat, gently sets him on his feet again. Once he’s situated, Gojo just looks at him for a long moment. His face is serious for once, uncovered eyes scanning his face for—something, Megumi doesn’t know what.  

Then, Gojo smiles again. It’s a tiny thing, barely a quirk of the lips, but his eyes light up with it regardless.  

“I’m just glad I’m here with you,” he says.  

Megumi says nothing, even on the drive home and beyond, utterly mystified by those few simple words. They aren’t family, no matter what Gojo says, and Gojo must prefer Tsumiki—but.  

Maybe...  

. . .  

Let’s climb the cliff edge and jump again.  

. . .  

“ I know what I’m gonna do,” Gojo grins maniacally, staring down at his fistful of fake money through his blindfold. “I’m gonna buy Marvin Gardens.”  

“Just finish your turn already,” Tsumiki complains.  

They’ve been playing Monopoly for the last two and a half hours, sitting cross-legged in the living room around the board and trying and maybe failing to understand the rules. It’s a beautiful snowy Saturday outside, but none of them were really gung-ho on enjoying the weather, so Monopoly it is; all clothed in their comfy sweatpants, or, in Gojo’s case, pajama pants, and sweaters or crewnecks.  

Maybe the only thing worse than math class was Monopoly, Megumi decided after about fifteen minutes of pure torture. Gojo delighted in board games, especially ones that took forever, but even his smile is looking a little strained two and a half hours later; Tsumiki is much the same, having already mentally checked out and started to try and help Gojo win so the game will end faster. For Megumi’s part, he’d quit an hour in, instead electing to lie spread eagle on the carpet, one socked foot resting against Gojo’s thigh and the other carelessly covering the FREE PARKING tile on the board as he listened to the other two squabble and sigh over the stupid game.  

“I don’t know where this money is even coming from,” Gojo says after a while of squinting at the rule pamphlet. “I think we’ve been playing wrong.”  

Tsumiki snatches the pamphlet out of his hands, uncharacteristically grumpy after hours of losing to an overgrown child. “No, we haven’t. It’s too late now anyway.”  

“I guess,” he shrugs. He starts to shake the dice in his hand. “All right, here goes nothing.”  

Before he can roll the dice and Tsumiki can start crying over a bad roll, Gojo stills. He opens and closes his mouth, and then, an instant later, a muffled knock comes from the front door.  

Megumi lifts his head up from the floor to look at Gojo inquiringly; Tsumiki is doing much the same from where she’s seated beside the older boy. “Expecting someone, Gojo-san?”  

He lifts himself to his feet, expression unreadable beneath the blindfold. “Stay here,” he says, serious tone enough to melt any lightness from the atmosphere.  

The children look at each other as he leaves to answer the door; in silent understanding, they together rise after him, peeking around the corner to watch the genkan.  

Gojo’s opened the door, blindfold missing, to reveal a familiar-looking boy—man?—who has blood splattered all the way up his kesa. Ah, Megumi remembers him.  

Suguru slumps against the doorway, panting as snowflakes land lazily in his hair and eyelashes, one arm holding his middle as he’s in great pain. “I’m sorry,” comes the murmur. “I didn’t know where else to go.”  

He starts to fall forward—quick as a dart, Gojo is there, catching him, never letting him fall. Both he and Tsumiki know Gojo can see them, even with his back turned, yet he still doesn’t bother to school his face when he turns round and half-carries Suguru past the genkan and down the hall; the door slips shut behind them.  

Tsumiki clears her throat. “Gojo-san, who is that?”  

Blood is dripping down one of Suguru’s arms, little rivulets that merge at his wrist and fall to the floor from the tip of his forefinger. Drip . Gojo adjusts him in his arms so his limp head is resting against his collarbone. Drip . Megumi thinks of that day, in the supermarket; mocking words and ice that reached to his very core. Drip . That night, on the phone— Satoru. Shouldn't you be sleeping? —and the way that call had ended. Drip . Ever farther Gojo brings him into their house, leaving a trail of blood and questions.  

Drip .  

Gojo spares them a glance, face harried, lower face hidden by Suguru’s inky hair. The ends are matted with blood, too, Megumi notices as he looks closer.  

“An old friend,” Gojo settles on. “I’m sorry, kids. I need to take care of Suguru for a little while.”  

“What about us ?”  

Tsumiki startles at his voice, sending him a baffled look at the question. In front of them, Gojo’s expression turns pale.  

“I’m trying. Okay? I’m trying . Just—give me a minute.”  

His tone isn’t right. It almost sounds like Gojo’s going to cry.  

.  

Geto Suguru—Megumi finally knows his family name—is, according to Gojo, going to be staying with them for a few days. He’s a sorcerer, like Gojo—and one day, Megumi—and he used to go to the tech school. He’s the same age as Gojo, just about two months younger, and no , Tsumiki, you don’t have to give up your room for him.  

Other than the basics, Gojo is tight-lipped about their surprise houseguest. Other than looking exceptionally pained whenever questioned about him, Gojo says nothing about how Geto happened to turn up on their front step, looking like he’d fought a train and lost. And for all Megumi knows, maybe he did.  

Geto himself isn’t very forthcoming with information either, though the only time either of the children had worked up the nerve to speak to him was when Tsumiki inquired as to whether they should call someone and let them know where he was. He’d simply looked at her, face caught somewhere between surprise and repulsion, hair freshly washed and dripping down his borrowed t-shirt, and shaken his head.  

“That says enough,” Tsumiki whispers to Megumi later. “Poor thing. He doesn’t have any family to care for him.”  

Neither do we , Megumi thinks but doesn’t say. Such words have lost their bite, especially in light of how Gojo puts them to bed each night with a kiss on the forehead and a ridiculous story about something called a tickle monster .  

“Lie down. You need to rest,” they hear Gojo say softly from the living room. There’s a rustle of clothing, like maybe Geto grabbed his arm.  

A long, long pause.  

“...Satoru. Stay.”  

From the kitchen, it’s hard to hear what they’re saying; Tsumiki and Megumi both give it their best.  

“Okay,” Gojo whispers, just barely audible. The couch creaks. “Okay. I’ll stay.”  

Megumi holds the hem of Tsumiki’s sweater as they shuffle quietly across the kitchen until they’re able to see into the living room; there, huddled on the couch, wrapped around each other like they do this daily, are Gojo and Geto. Geto’s hair is spilling across Gojo’s chest, looking at first glance almost like a pool of dark blood, hopelessly black against Gojo’s light blue hoodie; Gojo has the other in his arms, one winding round his waist and the other cradling his head, hand buried in black locks.  

Sharing a look, they leave the two of them be; Tsumiki murmurs later Maybe Gojo-san is everybody’s family when they need one .  

Oddly enough, Megumi doesn’t like the thought. He feels strangely jilted.  

Chapter Text

. . .  

Somewhere in Southend when you were fun,  

. . .  

“Geto-san.”  

The morning is bright and cold, hardwood floors freezing through Megumi’s socks as he stands beside a half-asleep Gojo and watches him make breakfast. It’s become a new habit—it's too awkward to sit at the table and wait with Geto, and he’s already done preparing for the day, so he follows Gojo like a shadow, one hand fisted in his pajama pantleg.  

Geto stirs at the address, turning to face Tsumiki. She has a brush and a hair tie in her hands, and a hopeful expression to boot; Gojo is eyeing the two of them cautiously.  

“Will you please help me tie my hair up?”  

He doesn’t answer right away, instead glancing to Gojo as if for permission. When Megumi looks up, he finds Gojo’s face hard as stone and decidedly not approving.  

“Sorry,” Geto rasps. “Can’t.”  

Her face falls.  

“I’ll help you in a second, Tsumiki. C’mere, you can help flip the crepes!” Gojo beckons, early morning cheer clearly somewhat forced.  

Hesitantly, Tsumiki obeys, hurt still evident in the lines of her eyes. But she loves crepes, she loves mornings, and most of all, she loves Gojo , so she helps him with only the slightest bit of unhappiness still clinging to her movements.  

It hits Megumi then: huh , Tsumiki loves Gojo. She really does love him, and not like a friend. She loves him like an older brother—no, a father , a parent that she trusts and desperately desires to have the approval of. She looks up at Gojo, several teeth missing in her smile, and her eyes sparkle when he reaches down and pats her head.  

“Nice job,” Gojo hums after she successfully flips a crepe; he very diplomatically chooses to ignore the deformed corpses of decidedly less victorious attempts piled on the side of the stove. “What a professional! Give me a high five!”  

She, smiling, does, and for the next few moments the morning is as bright and happy as the rest of them have been since Gojo took them in; sunlight is dancing off the cupboards, Gojo and Tsumiki are poking playfully at each about something or another, and Megumi feels undeniably warm somewhere deep inside. The good mood carries on even through breakfast, where Geto sits like a black hole, silently crushing everything that gets caught up in his gravity. Just why did Gojo choose to keep him here, bloodied and broken and knocking on the front door like he had any right to Gojo’s generosity?  

“Off we go,” Gojo helps Tsumiki with her backpack, herding the children towards the door. “Bus’ll be here soon.”  

Clearing his throat, Geto asks from where he hasn’t moved at the kitchen table, “School?”  

Having moved on from the awkward misstep earlier, Tsumiki nods vigorously. If there’s one thing about her, it’s that she’s never satisfied until she’s made friends with every single person in her vicinity. “Yes! I’m in my second year of elementary!”  

“I see.” Geto’s dark gaze flicks uninterestedly from Tsumiki to Gojo, then to Megumi, as if he wishes one of them had answered instead. He says nothing else, the sounds of Megumi jamming his feet into his school shoes unbearably loud in the following silence.  

When they leave the house for the bus stop, Gojo waving from the front door and holding each other’s hand, Tsumiki chokes back what looks like a bewildered sob. Tears are glittering in her brown eyes when Megumi looks at her, and his grip tightens on her mitten unthinkingly.  

“What am I doing wrong?” She asks wetly. She wipes her running nose on her coat sleeve. “He hates me.”  

Never much of a comforter, Megumi sits in silent support beside her after they board the bus, and holds her hand all the way to school. Who cares if Haruki glances pointedly at their joined hands when he gets on a few minutes after them.  

Megumi hates Geto Suguru. He's decided.  

. . .  

You took my hand and you made me run  

. . .  

look at this stupid dog bruh im crying  

[Attached image]  

Delivered 6 months ago  

i HATE this stupid mission ohmygod. how could the intel b this bad  

Delivered 6 months ago  

>how bad  

Delivered 6 months ago  

SO BAD. supposed 2 be one third grade and two fourth grades but instead its a semi first. How stupid can these old geezers get  

Delivered 6 months ago  

>haha  

Delivered 6 months ago  

wtv tho. Wyd?  

Delivered 6 months ago  

When i get back we shuld go 4 soba.  

Delivered 6 months ago  

if youre back at the same time that is  

Delivered 6 months ago  

i hope ur mission is going good tho i guess if its not that just means im the strongest and ur not >_<  

Delivered 6 months ago  

>you’re stupid.  

Delivered 6 months ago  

Ohhhh so u CAN reply  

Delivered 6 months ago  

>stfu  

Delivered 6 months ago  

lol 😛  

Delivered 6 months ago  

DAMN im sorry i missed karaoke night yesterday  

Delivered 5 months ago  

stupid fucking geezers had me turn right around the second i got back to campus  

Delivered 5 months ago  

>i didnt go.  

Delivered 5 months ago  

Oh. how come?   

Delivered 5 months ago  

Haha shoko told me u got curse goo all over u MAN i wish i had pictures  

Delivered 5 months ago  

I mean i still wouldnt change my lockscreen from when u got electrocuted but still  

Delivered 5 months ago  

we shuld do something, i get back satuday!!  

Delivered 5 months ago  

**saturday  

Delivered 5 months ago  

r u busy ? Im back.  

Delivered 5 months ago  

huh ok sure just ghost me wtv  

Delivered 5 months ago  

Dude i actually hate the geezers.  

Delivered 5 months ago  

>me too  

Delivered 5 months ago  

>so much.  

Delivered 5 months ago  

Yeah they suck. r u doing ok?  

Delivered 5 months ago  

I miss you.  

Delivered 4 months ago  

>i miss you too satoru.  

Delivered 4 months ago  

im so fucking mad at you.  

Delivered 2 months ago  

Chapter Text

. . .  

Up past the prison to the seafront  

. . .  

“Thank you for joining us today, Gojo-san,” Hagino-sensei smiles from across her desk. Her brown hair is in its usual neat bun, hands folded in front of her like she’s ready to make an important business deal.  

Gojo shifts in his seat next to Megumi, blowing his bangs out of his face lackadaisically. As is typical, he doesn’t waste time on small talk.  

“So, Megumi isn’t doing well.”  

The words are like heavy stones, dropped into Megumi’s pockets just before he’s thrown into a river. He’s sinking to the bottom, the same way he’s sinking in his chair, burning ears level with his shoulders. It’s one thing to know it, to feel it as he struggles over sums and differences—it's entirely another to have Gojo say it.  

Hagino-sensei rushes to correct him, sending Megumi a concerned look. “No, no; Megumi-chan is a very smart boy. I’m concerned that his home life is impacting his academic performance... Sometimes when children aren’t sleeping well, or, um, have a somewhat unorthodox living situation, concentrating in class can be very difficult.”  

Gojo is stock still beside him, hands clenching and then unclenching rhythmically. One eyebrow is twitching over his sunglasses.  

“The point of this meeting is to discuss what the issue is,” she continues, oblivious or perhaps unwilling to make a fuss out of Gojo’s distress, “and make a plan on where to go from here.”  

Sometimes, when Gojo is especially upset—which isn’t often, or at least Megumi seldom notices—he stiffens, just so , before he forces himself into his usual easygoing self, only cranked up to an obnoxious degree. Overcompensation, something like that; Megumi wonders if he even knows he does it. He’s so obvious sometimes.  

He stiffens now, fingers clutching each other painfully in his lap and tongue darting out to wet his lips. Then—he forcibly relaxes, and Megumi sighs at what’s coming.  

“Living situation,” Gojo echoes, voice cold. “Home life. What, are you losing sleep over this?”  

Unused to his sometimes-acerbic personality, Hagino-sensei frowns before she composes herself again. “All I’m trying to do is discover what is causing Megumi-chan to have a more difficult time with math than the other children.” 

So, I’m worse than the other kids. Stupid .  

“He’s not stupid,” Gojo scoffs. “Are you even licensed to teach? Maybe I should be tossing and turning about his classroom life .”  

“Gojo-san, please.”  

Gojo slips his glasses down his nose, levelling her with a truly bone-chilling glower . The Six Eyes are all-seeing; he doesn’t need his eyes open to catch the ceramic plates Tsumiki is always knocking off the table, or to scold Megumi for scuffing his shoes when he walks behind him. He sees all . Megumi wonders what a non-sorcerer like Hagino-sensei makes of having that frightening gaze directed at her.  

“What? Please, what? Both Fushiguros are in my care, I’m doing my best , and we’re all perfectly fucking happy,” He snaps. “They’ve had a rough time lately, okay— I know that . Family can fucking suck sometimes. But they’re good kids, and smart, too. Megumi is strong.”  

Megumi looks at him then, to find him already looking back. A hand finds its usual place in his hair, eternally gentle despite Gojo still being upset.  

He prefers Tsumiki, though. Who told Megumi that, again?  

“That may be,” Hagino-sensei interrupts carefully, “and I applaud you for the wonderful job you’ve been doing so far. But you’re right, family can be very difficult... and sometimes that means they can leave wounds we can’t see. Can’t heal . I mean, really—how old are you, Gojo-san? Nineteen? Twenty? You’re far too young to be raising children.”  

Silence. Gojo’s hand is limp, frozen in Megumi’s hair; he’s chewing his lip hard enough to draw blood. Ice is creeping down Megumi’s spine.  

“It’s time to face reality.” Her voice is soft. It doesn’t fit the way Megumi’s entire chest is on fire, heart racing in his chest and yet completely still, the room suffocating in stillness. In fear . “You can’t do this, Gojo-san.”  

Megumi is gathered into Gojo’s arms and propped on his hip in an instant, the older boy faintly trembling with rage as he removes his glasses entirely and, unnoticing, crushes them in his fist. Megumi tucks his face into his neck, fisting the fabric of his button-up shirt and trying to fight frightened tears.  

“ You face reality,” Gojo snarls. “I’ll teach him math my own damn self. We’re switching schools.”  

With that, Gojo turns and leaves, strides long and confident. Megumi doesn’t start sobbing until they’re outside the school, just in front of the parking lot where the car waits to take him home .  

But home isn’t real. Home is a nebulous concept made for children with two parents, a mom and dad, who are tucked into the same bed every night and go to sleep dreaming of congee breakfasts, not nightmares of empty fridges and hastily packed suitcases. Home is for children people love , not for Megumi. Home is for stupid children who are just waiting to be abandoned all over again.  

Someone could take him away from Gojo. Maybe well-meaning, like Hagino-sensei, or ill-intentioned, like a curse or curse user. Or Gojo could die. Or Gojo could leave . Megumi’s been stupid, thinking he could get used to new sweatpants and homemade lasagna and horrible Monopoly games. Home is for babies. Home is not for Megumi.  

“Put me down,” he says through tears, first quietly, and then again: “put me down !”  

He drums little fists against Gojo’s chest until he finally sets him on his feet, glancing at him in mild surprise and confusion. “At least hold my hand in the parking lot, Megum—”  

“ No !”  

Gojo sets his hands on his hips. Megumi feels like he’s drowning. “Why?”  

He can’t speak through hiccupping sobs, hands smearing at his eyes to try and stop the tears dribbling down his cheeks. His chest is caving in. Home is the spot under Gojo’s arm, the bedroom next to Tsumiki’s, a huge, cavernous house, and a sickening, bone-shattering lie .  

“C’mon,” he sighs. “Let’s just go home already.”  

The dam breaks.  

“That’s not my home ! You’re not my family !” Megumi shouts. Family exists to be broken. “Nobody is! Nobody .”  

Not even Tsumiki, with her mother’s face and even-temper, and no shared DNA. Not even anybody , not one single person in the entire world. Megumi has no one.  

“Just leave already,” he’s raging, but his voice is thin and reedy, shaking. His hands are weak when he tries to push Gojo away. “I kn—know you’re going to, so just go—go now .”  

“Get in the car,” Gojo says steadily.  

The older boy snatches his hand, drags him towards the car kicking and screaming. The pavement is slick with snow as he slips and slides, held up only by Gojo’s firm grip; snow is getting into his sneakers, leaving his socks wet and frigid. Up, far above them, the sky is gray and unyielding, promising another heavy dose of snow before the week is over; one lone, confused birds sings in the background, perhaps having forgotten entirely to migrate for the bitter winter. None of it even matters.  

He’s sobbing hysterically as Gojo flings open the door to the backseat and hauls him in, crouching beside the open door as he fixes Megumi’s seatbelt across his wriggling body.  

“We’re going to go home , Megumi,” Gojo says once he’s finished with the seatbelt, sitting back on his heels. “The one you and I and your sister share. I told you we’re family. I told you you’re my kids . Do you understand that?!”  

He can’t accept the words. People lie all the time. People are always lying, parents and grown-ups especially. It’s cruel, he realizes, how Gojo can dangle everything he wants right in front of his face and yet mean none of it.  

His tears have stopped, though his face isn’t dry, when he dares to look at Gojo again. He sets his jaw, clenches his fists, holds his breath, and—  

“I,” his voice is steady, “ hate you .”  

—dives.  

. . .  

You climbed the cliff edge and took the plunge  

. . .  

The house is always somewhat silent when Geto is there. After he’d recovered from whatever mysterious injury that had brought him crashing into their lives in the first place, he’d continued to share the space off and on. Geto would tumble in through the front door, waraji sandals discarded carelessly, and the house seemed to choke on its breath.  

The door clicks shut in the genkan—Tsumiki stops her playing with her dolls, face becoming drawn and lips pinching. Soft murmurs come from the kitchen, Gojo half-way through making dinner; immediately, the clinking of silverware becomes muffled, as if underwater.  

“Karaage, huh?” Geto hums, then says something else that Megumi doesn’t catch.  

“As if ,” Gojo guffaws suddenly, breaking the quiet with his usual way of breaking what’s expected. “You always sucked at cooking.”  

“Well, there’s certainly always been something about you making meals for me.” These words are said lowly, like they aren’t meant for anybody but Gojo to hear.  

A long pause, interrupted only by Gojo’s stuttered chopping of green onions. He huffs, finally, as if he’s shaking his head.  

Megumi turns back to his homework, forehead crinkling at the mathematic displayed there. The living room floor is no kind of place for this brain-melting work, but he doesn’t dare use the kitchen table with Geto so near, and his own desk in his room is too far from everyone else.  

He isn’t on speaking terms with Gojo at the moment, though the older boy doesn’t seem to be aware of that, since he continues to bother Megumi at all times anyway. But he’s made up his mind—he won’t get attached, he won’t ever be stupid enough to think he can have a family, ever again .  

“Gojo-san!” Tsumiki calls. Her dolls are still placed, forlorn, in her lap. “You promised you’d come play before dinner!”  

Emerging from the kitchen obediently, the breathless house seems to bend and warp around Gojo, Geto helplessly in tow. Gojo is bright and cheerful, eyes hidden by a blindfold, while Geto is demure and bedraggled, hair sloppily fit into a bun and T-shirt baggy.    

“Dolls!” Gojo exclaims delightedly. “I love Miki-chan's dolls. What are we playing today, infidelity or assassination?”  

Before anyone can ask why a seven-year-old girl would want to play either option with her precious dolls, Tsumiki chirps, “Both!”  

Gojo settles himself, cross-legged, next to her; Geto sinks silently into the couch. His brand of sardonic humor and dark words are reserved only for Gojo’s ears and the odd eavesdropper—around the children, he is silent.  

The dolls are being stained, Megumi thinks. Tsumiki will remember the way Gojo is holding them, fingers gentle, for far longer than he’ll deign to be around to do so. He will leave, one day, and the dolls will be stained.  

7 – 19 = ?  

Megumi frowns furiously. Seven minus ten was three. Three plus nine was twelve. So, seven minus nineteen was three. No, twelve. No, three! A fist meets his forehead as he lets out a long breath. He’s always losing the numbers in his head.  

“Need any help?”  

A bright smile beneath a blindfold meet his gaze when he glances up. I’ll teach him math my own damn self .  

And when you leave? Who will teach it then? When the curse or curse user takes you, or when you leave because you realize I am unlovable, then who will teach it?  

He turns back to his homework. Gojo prefers Tsumiki anyway. He’d rather play with her than help with baby math.  

In his peripheral vision, he can see Gojo deflate ever so slightly.  

Chapter Text

. . .  

Why can’t we laugh now like we did then?  

. . .  

Ieiri Shoko smells like cigarettes and hand sanitizer. She’s not as friendly as Gojo, nor as ominous as Geto; instead, she exists in a kind of liminal space when she visits their home, smiles tight and rare yet always true, hair limp and dull, eyes wreathed in exhausted purple. But she plays with the children, adding an acerbic twist to their usual imaginary games that Gojo generally doesn’t provide. A cigarette is never far away from her, and she blows the smoke away from Megumi when he follows her outside for her smoke breaks since Gojo has set a very firm no smoking policy in the house.  

She’s a part of Gojo, certainly—something between family and limb, like she missed the mark for sister and ended up swirled into his atomic makeup. In that way, Ieiri is comfort personified. If he cannot have Gojo—and he cannot—then at least he can pretend to have Ieiri.  

“You have bags under your eyes,” Megumi says, kicking his legs to sway the porch swing they’re sharing.  

Despite the way Tsumiki would surely have reprimanded him for such a rude statement, Ieiri simply huffs on her cigarette, taking a long drag. She doesn’t say anything, hardly one to waste her breath on inconsequential things. It's odd to be the talkative one for once, but Megumi doesn’t mind it every now and again. Ieiri is a neutral ear, an immovable and eternally patient presence.  

“I hate math,” he murmurs after a while, just to see how she’ll respond. Most adults might go It gets better! or Aw, I’m sorry to hear that .  

Ieiri puts her cigarette to her mouth again, eyes sliding to look at him without turning her head. The smell of the smoke is as strong as it ever gets, seated next to her like this, but he doesn’t mind. In the cold, sitting with her as his breath comes out in clouds, it’s almost like they’re smoking together.  

She says nothing. Gojo might have said, I’ll help you . But she says nothing at all.  

Just beyond their yard stretches a quiet residential street, flecked with a weak, pathetic layer of snow that February offered last night; Megumi is cold in his thin jacket, having opted to ignore his proper coat, but the ice feels good in his bones. Gojo promised to buy them bikes for the summer, so they can ride them to school when it’s finally warm enough. I don’t know how to bike , Tsumiki had frowned. Don’t worry, Gojo had beamed. I’ll help you . I’m an expert!  

“Do you know how to ride a bike?”  

The used cigarette butt falls from her fingers, crushed beneath the toe of her kitten heel. “Been a while.”  

“Who taught you?”  

“Hmm,” a ghost of a smile dances across her lips, Ieiri’s gaze becoming distant. “My mom.”  

He clutches to this new information, scooting closer in interest. “Does she know about curses?”  

Ieiri pulls out another cigarette. “She’s dead.”  

“Mine, too.”  

“Happens,” Ieiri shrugs, instead of any kind of condolences. She fits her cigarette between her first and second fingers, lighting it with practiced movements before taking a relieved drag.  

“...How did she die?”  

He imagines all the different ways: car accident, murder, a falling piano, lightning strike, drowning, a curse or curse user. Something dramatic, to make it matter.  

Her mouth curves into a sardonic grin, upper teeth peeking out against her cigarette. “She took a bunch of pills.”  

Of all the ways he’d imagined, he hadn’t thought of that—killing oneself, and all the fallout that comes with it. Megumi is almost glad Ieiri is the one telling him this; anybody else, and he’d feel pressured to try and think of something consoling. She doesn’t need that, or want it. She’d probably pinch him if he tried.  

“Huh,” Megumi says, frowning. “Why?”  

“People get miserable sometimes.”  

Ieiri releases a long exhale of smoke, curling up and away into the late afternoon air, mixing with fluffy falling snowflakes.  

“Sometimes they’re just too far gone.”  

She crushes her cigarette between her fingers, glancing down at it in mild surprise once she notices. Sighing, she flings it into the ashtray Gojo bought just for her, instead of ignoring it to annoy him like usual.  

“Why was she miserable?” It’s getting colder, as twilight draws nearer—Megumi shivers.  

Without looking at him as she digs for another cigarette, Ieiri draws him into her warm side with one arm. “Who knows. Life sucks a whole bunch when your family is away from you—I was still going to the tech school you see, and she was alone all the time.”  

Inside, Megumi can just barely make out the tinkling bells of Tsumiki’s laughter, and Gojo’s answering chuckles. Perhaps they’re curled up on the couch, taking turns on Gojo’s DS, or making cookies that are turning into an epic fail, or watching one of those silly cartoons they love so much. Noticeable, at least to Megumi, is the fact that neither of them bothered to invite him.  

That just proves that he’s right: they prefer each other, and that’s for the best, because one day they’ll both leave and he’ll be alone again.  

“Well,” he says, working through his thoughts, “what if you don’t have any family?”  

Her gaze slides over to him again. For a long moment, she just studies him, brown eyes knowing. “Most people have a family.”  

“What about orphans?”  

She lets out a sharp bark of a laugh, sudden enough to surprise the both of them. “You really think family’s just blood?”  

. . .  

How come I see you and ache instead?  

. . .  

Kake udon is nowhere near Gojo’s usual eccentric, global tastes, but Megumi appreciates something a bit more traditional for ‘family dinner’ in the midst of everything being such a whirlwind recently. His scallions, while not exactly uniform, are at least thinly sliced, and the broth is just mild enough in taste to be perfect; there are few things Gojo attempts that don’t pan out in his favor. Megumi recalls those months ago, when Gojo could barely make breakfast without destroying the kitchen and everyone’s tastebuds—he's come a long way, and Megumi feels like it’s been years since then.  

“Gojo-san, thank you for making dinner,” Tsumiki murmurs, taking a break from inhaling her food. No longer does she cheer and giggle during family dinners, smiling and sharing drama from school. Now, it’s as if Geto’s shadow lingers still, even when the house is devoid of him, and strangles her to silence.  

“Of course!”  

Even Gojo’s usual megawatt grin is somewhat dimmed, blindfold wrinkling on top of his smiling cheeks. Yesterday he wasn’t home until late, and when he stumbled through the door, his uniform was wrinkled and smeared with blood, and his smiles were paper-thin across his face. Perhaps he will die soon, Megumi thinks mildly. Perhaps he is killing himself inside.  

Ever since Geto’s insertion into their lives, Gojo has become a sort of skeleton, like even looking at him kills him. Yet he keeps inviting him in, helpless and unable to change.  

Megumi hates Geto.  

“How was school?”  

He lets the two of them have their conversation, lets Tsumiki be comforted by Gojo’s voice and interest in her life, lets their attachment to each other pass him by like the waves of a stream. They don’t ask him to join, and he takes that as confirmation that he’s somewhat unwanted, inconvenient.  

“And what about your presentation for geography?” Gojo smiles, looking a bit more genuine now. He’s got broth on his cheeks, like an overgrown child.  

Tsumiki also seems like she’s coming out of her shell again, relieved to be speaking to Gojo as normal. “It was okay—Rie-chan was my partner, and she forgot her part, but my part went well.”  

“Let me guess: you helped her out?”  

Her answering smile is shy, yet pleased. “She’s my friend,” she says simply.  

“Poor little Tsumiki,” Gojo crows, “nobody else can possibly match her wits. Wherever shall she go to sharpen her mind?!”  

“Stop,” she laughs as he ruffles her hair proudly.  

“Why would I do that? You’re only the smartest and kindest kid in second year—”  

The front door clicks open.  

Gojo’s mouth snaps shut, Tsumiki’s smile drips off her face like tears, and Megumi turns glaring eyes to the hall as Geto enters their lives with all the grace of a lioness and all the fallout of a tsunami. How unobtrusive, in his faded, oversized band t-shirt and white socks peaking out beneath his bontan pants, hands occupied in tying his hair into a bun atop his head; he forgoes the priest get-up more these days, opting instead for clothes made for lounging and relaxing.  

“Hey,” he says casually, out of place and entirely inappropriate. The words crash as they fall through the air and shatter on the shitty linoleum tile Gojo didn’t bother replacing from the previous owners. Geto doesn’t seem to notice how Tsumiki creeps back into her shell, how Gojo’s face becomes drawn and pale.  

Gojo clears his throat, but his voice stills comes out hoarse. “Hi. Dinner’s on the stove.”  

“Sure,” the other boys says easily. He wanders over to the stove, dishing up like it costs him nothing. And maybe it doesn’t—maybe this is simple for him, maybe for him this is just dinner.  

Megumi glares at him across the table as he seats himself. Tsumiki cowers beside him.  

“How was school?” Geto asks neutrally, glancing at Megumi.  

He narrows his eyes, thinks hard on words he’s only heard Gojo say accidentally, before he sneers at him. “ Fuck you.”  

 Gojo doesn’t even scold him as he shoves away from the table and storms to his room.  

Chapter Text

. . .  

How come you only look pleased in bed?  

. . .  

One year ago  

There are hands in his hair. Really in his hair, smoothing and petting and scratching, entirely devoid of the usual tiny infinity he keeps between himself and everything else. More and more these days, he keeps the barrier up, unthinkingly, like it will fix what cannot be. But these hands, he would know anywhere; he can imagine them in perfect color even with his physical eyes closed, only able to see cursed energy. He can visualize the smooth finger nails, carefully rounded and groomed; the thin hair on his knuckles, and the bruises that are always coming and going on his fists, and calluses on his palms, from weapons and weights and impossible climbs. These hands, he knows, and for them, Infinity will always drop.  

“Taking up my bed again,” a voice purrs, only halfheartedly masking how pleased Suguru is by the   development.  

Satoru sighs, pressing his face harder into the pillow. Suguru’s cursed energy is a soothing balm on his sore eyes, gentle white in color and humming in slow, lazy waves. It has a certain smell to it—almost like ozone, or bleach, something that always stings his nostrils, leaves him unable to help noticing Suguru.  

“When did you get back?”  

Sighing again, Satoru finally turns over to face him, eyes still closed but able to grace the other boy with actually speaking towards him. The Six Eyes give him something like three hundred sixty-degree vision, but that’s only of cursed energy, and it’s a one-way street; though he can see Suguru without turning, Suguru can’t see his expression. “Last night.”  

Suguru’s cursed energy surges quietly in the way Satoru has come to attributing to frustration. Maybe irritated that Satoru’s eyes are still hurting him, because it highlights how overworked he’s becoming? “Geezers still assigning you enough missions to fill a vault daily?”  

Bingo.  

“Guess so,” he huffs a soft laugh. “I could say the same for you.”  

Something silky tickles his nose and then his cheek; Suguru’s bang. He fully relaxes for the first time in—in however long, honestly he doesn’t know—when Suguru finally kisses him, lips tasting vaguely of blood and vomit if he focuses too hard. But he won’t, he won’t let anything ruin this, their reunion that had been looking less and less like a given the longer they had spent apart. He’d missed Suguru, like there was nothing left of him without him. Maybe there wasn’t.  

Suguru exhales lowly, sinking onto the mattress fully and squishing his face into Satoru’s chest. His arm comes up round his back, teasing the long strands of loose hair falling down his shoulder blades.  

“Tired,” he mutters, and Satoru, strangely, wants to cry. He’s tired, too—tired of the nightmares, the ones that chase him in his sleep and the ones that live in the shadows of his footsteps, tired of missing Suguru and Shoko, tired of the endless race that is life as a sorcerer.  

The other boy feels different beneath his palms; his ribs are closer to the surface of his skin, his uniform looser, his hair greasy and falling out. Stress , he’d surely say. Satoru hopes it is.  

“Me too,” Satoru agrees.  

Suguru only hums, settling more into the warm lines of his body. Gone are the days when they fell into bed laughing and wrestling and kissing; now there is only bone-deep weariness.  

“Got a new curse,” Suguru says after a long while, cursed energy fully soothed beside him. “Grade two. Some sort of fucked-up frog thing that covers fucking everything in mucus.”  

“Nice,” Satoru smiles. “Probably looks like you.”  

He hits Satoru’s chest with minimum force, grumbling at his responding chortles. He lifts his head, probably to look at Satoru’s shut eyes. “That’s not what you said last time we were in this bed. What was it? Something like—”  

“Suguru,” he whines, pushing at him; he knows where this is going.  

“— You’re so sexy, baby, I love you so much —”  

Satoru’s cheeks are burning, the fact that the mock-quote actually sounds fairly familiar not helping in the slightest. “ Stop , you’re so annoying—”  

“— Fuck, you’re so beautiful, I want you just like this —”  

“ Suguru !”  

He pauses. “Actually yeah, you said that a lot too.”  

Pouting, Satoru tries to roll away from Suguru, stopped only by a laughing Suguru’s iron grip. “I thought you liked that I’m a talker in bed, but clearly you can’t appreciate me. I shouldn’t be surprised, I mean, who could ever handle the Strongest when it comes to my amazing prowess at fu—”  

Suguru only laughs harder, yet seems to notice when Satoru’s masked amusement begins to become actual embarrassment. At that, Suguru calms himself down, pulling a struggling Satoru closer, giving him a short, placating kiss.  

“Of course I like it, baby,” he whispers into the scant centimeters between them, husky in the way that always makes Satoru a little weak. “But let’s not forget just who’s doing the fucking between us, and who’s reduced to babbling because of it.”  

His whole face must be either pink or red at this point, and he pouts again dramatically at how mean Suguru is being. “You’re making me self-conscious.”  

“Aww,” Suguru coos sweetly, and despite himself, Satoru revels in the condescension. “I’m sorry, Satoru. You’re just so pretty when you blush.”  

Satoru forces a deep frown, even when Suguru dips down to kiss him firmly again.  

“You’re even pretty when you’re making yourself frown because you can never stay mad at me,” he murmurs, their noses brushing. “I love you, baby.”  

At that, Satoru opens his eyes, blinking rapidly at the influx of light even though the only source is place where the drawn blinds on the window don’t quite touch the wall across the room. Suguru’s face is close to his, brown eyes crinkling as he smiles, brimming with fondness.  

“There you are,” Suguru sighs against him, thumb rubbing the tender skin just beneath one of his eyes. “Bratty rich kid.”  

“You really make me mad,” Satoru mutters, avoidant in the face of such open affection yet pleased by it all the same; he pulls Suguru down and kisses him soundly, this time for longer. He still has trouble saying it aloud outside of intimacy— I love you . But it’s true, whether or not he says it. Whether or not he’s there to press it against Suguru’s mouth.  

He hopes Suguru can hear it, even without him saying it.  

.  

Two years ago  

“What, you’ve never thought maybe that’s kind of gay ?”  

Satoru glares at Shoko, color high on his cheeks. “We’re best friends...? Shoko, are you slow?”  

She looks amused. “No, we’re best friends. You and Suguru are something else .”  

The mentioned third of their little friend group is thankfully on a mission right now—his first solo one, though if Satoru had had his way, it would be yet another partner job—and Satoru makes a face at his friend, batting childishly at her cigarette. She lifts it easily out of his way, raising an eyebrow.  

“Imagine kissing me.”  

His face, already in a grimace, winds even tighter. “Eugh, why ? Nasty.”  

“Gee, thanks,” Shoko rolls her eyes. “Now imagine kissing Suguru.”  

The other boy’s hair had just recently gotten long enough to be put into a little bun atop his head, and Satoru was hopelessly enamored by it, cooing and cawing over it enough to drive everyone in their immediate vicinity completely insane. If he kissed him, would it be passionate enough to mess that cute little bun up?  

Shoko, as she usually does, interrupts him. “Judging by your face, that’s not disgust you’re reacting with.”  

“Well—”  

“What are we teasing Satoru about?”  

Their friend slaps her thighs before standing, shooting them both a lazy grin. “Just the fact that he wants to kiss you.”  

Satoru can’t see Suguru’s expression from where he is, frozen with his back turned, but he can see the way his cursed energy jumps nervously. Interestingly, it looks nothing like the disgusted shudder it gives when he practices his technique, nor the slight tremor it has when Suguru is uncomfortable.  

He turns, meeting Suguru’s wide eyes over the rims of his sunglasses.  

“Bye,” Shoko says, though neither of them is looking at her. “Thank me later.”  

Suguru’s cursed energy curls in on itself, the way it does when he’s pleased but trying not to get his hopes up. Satoru’s own nerves disappear, replaced instantly by a smug smile.  

“That’s so embarrassing, Suguru—you want to kiss me, too!”  

.  

Three years ago  

His classmates are like no one he’s ever met.  

That’s not terribly surprising, given the fact that before now, he’s mostly only ever met family members, extended and otherwise, but it’s still a shock. Ieiri Shoko is entirely deadpan, a ball of sarcasm and exhaustion, yet genuine when it truly counts. Geto Suguru, on the other hand...  

He still can’t read him. Satoru hadn’t meant to start whatever weird feud they have going on right now—he'd thought the other boy would want to be challenged by the Strongest, I mean, what an honor! But maybe he overdid it with the smack talk? Was bringing up Geto’s non-sorcerer lineage too much? Maybe the issue was calling his mother fat.  

Either way, he’s fascinated by them both. Though, right now, he’s a little irritated with Geto.  

“Come on ,” he whines, pulling at his arm. “What is that? Let me see!”  

“It’s a fucking phone , Gojo, holy shit , have you ever heard of personal space?”  

“Nope,” he replies, beaming. “Show it to me! You have something even I don’t!”  

He’d thought it was a nice compliment—after all, it wasn’t every day someone had something that Gojo Satoru, billionaire and Strongest sorcerer, didn’t. His clan elders had never deemed new technology very important for the heir to have, for whatever reason. Geto doesn’t seem to think it’s a compliment at all, pretty brown eyes narrowing in annoyance and cursed energy contracting angrily.  

“ Get off of me .”  

“Then show it to me!”  

Geto releases a long, long sigh. “If I do, will you leave me the fuck alone after?”  

“Probably not,” Satoru says honestly. “But I’ll let go of you.”  

Another sigh.  

“Fucking... Okay. This—this is the ‘on’ button, and these are all the letter keys—”  

Satoru removes his sunglasses, focusing eagerly on the foreign object before him. Suguru stutters to a stop beside him, phone shaking in his grip.  

“What?” Satoru glances at him; the second he does, Suguru’s shoulders tense.  

He hesitates. Then—  

“Your eyes,” he blurts, looking like he’s regretting speaking.  

Blinking, Satoru vaguely wonders if he’s about to hear another familiar comment. Terrifying, Satoru. So alien. Unnerving. Yikes, cover those up before I get a migraine .  

“They’re so beautiful,” Geto breathes finally, shoulders slumping with the admission.  

“Oh,” Satoru mutters, unable to come up with a quip to diffuse the tension or get the attention off of him.  

“S—sorry, I didn’t mean to be weird, I was just, um—” Geto scrambles, uncharacteristically embarrassed. It’s nice, in a way, except that Satoru wants to hear him say it again.  

He puts him out of his misery. “Thanks. It’s fine. Most people think they’re creepy, anyway. Now, the phone...?”  

It’s like Geto gets rebooted, jumping back to normalcy. “Right! So, this is the volume button...”  

It takes one comment marveling about how Geto’s family was able to afford such a work of technology with their meager savings for Geto to snap back to his usual annoyed self.  

Satoru’ll never figure him out.  

.  

Three months ago  

The voicemail comes as a surprise, truthfully—Satoru doesn’t know what to do with it, thumb hovering over the delete button. He stares down at it, face impassive through no small effort. It comes as no surprise that he can’t bring himself to delete it, lifting the phone instead to his ear, ignoring the tremor in his hands.  

“ You knew this was coming ,” is the first thing he says, of all things. It’s unnecessarily cruel; yet another thing he and Suguru thought they were on the same page on. “ You knew .”  

I didn’t know. I didn’t know .  

A shuddering breath over the line, preserved in time for Satoru to be pierced by it in the here and now.  

“ You knew, and you still... laid in my bed, kissed my face, looked at me like you loved me. Never mind that you never said it unless we were fucking .” Suguru chuckles then, hollow. “ You’re always like that. You love being loved. You love feeling wanted. I wonder—is that some left over complex from growing up in the Gojo clan? I’ve always wondered, actually, but I never asked .”  

Hearing his voice again, regardless of the content of his words, is like someone slowly ripping the heart from Satoru’s chest, whatever heart there ever was. He was practically raised in a lab, if traditional Japanese clan members had had access to a lab. It was always tests, and tests, and lofty ideals of bringing glory to the clan, to his family name. If a dojo and the endless bruises before Infinity became easier to handle had been all his clan had had going for it, he’d have known no differently.  

“ You know why I didn’t ask? I guess I didn’t want to hear the answer. It was enough, for me, to love you without being loved back. All your stupid fucking jokes, your flippant beliefs and attitude and the neediness you mask with that godawful superiority complex. I really loved you, you know? I wonder if it’s ever occurred to you to feel the same? I guess I know the answer—I’m standing here, calling you, and you’re somewhere else, not even picking up the fucking phone. I don’t think I’ve ever left you a voicemail before .”  

Satoru closes his eyes, not that it helps much, as he focuses on Suguru’s voice, focuses on the way it rends him open and flays him alive.  

“ You knew , Satoru. Didn’t you? Didn’t you see the way it was eating me alive? Or were you too busy with all your missions? Didn’t you see me ?”  

Hadn’t he? He’d asked about the weight loss, the hair falling out, but he’d let Suguru blind him with half-hearted lies and excuses. Summer stress . Liar. Liar. Liar.  

Liar.  

“ Sometimes, I thought you loved me too. I never told you this, because I was scared you’d stop if I pointed it out, but you always clench your jaw when you’re overwhelmed. When you’re angry, or excited, or... or, I thought, in love , I can almost hear your teeth grinding. I thought it was the cutest tell, I'd think—Satoru loves me, too. He just can’t say it. He shows it instead .”  

Suguru laughs again, and it’s awful. It feels like acid, sounds like falling gravel. It sounds like it hurts his throat.  

“ Well, I'm looking now, Satoru. You’re not showing anything anymore. And I fucking knew you’d choose them, too—I knew you’d let me walk away, and I still did it. I still listened to see if maybe you’d just follow anyway. I would’ve fucking done that for you, ‘cause I fucking loved you. Baby, I love you so much.”  

At the pet name, Suguru’s voice cracks; tears of all things well up in his eyes. Satoru swipes at them angrily, glaring at the wetness on his fingers like it’s personally wronged him.  

“ I let you tear me apart after—after Amanai. You just kept getting stronger, and I... hit a wall. You just kept leaving me behind. And I kept watching your back as you’d get further and further. You moved on. I’m still there. I’m still there, on that fucking beach, on that plane, lying there with my chest cut open. I’m still— shit— ”  

The line clicks.