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Fushiguro Megumi is tired of this.
Sitting on a busted up asshole’s back, pressing his heel into the guy’s shoulder blades.
“Stop being an asshole,” he says.
The boy doesn’t answer. They never do, either beaten unconscious or too out of it to even hear his words.
He’s tired of stumbling in on bullies. Forcing a kid into a locker. Pushing a girl’s head into the toilet bowl. Putting a boy into a headlock that’s too tight.
Sometimes he wishes they could just be good, like Tsumiki, but that also annoys him. Good people like her annoy him, but bad people like this guy make him angry.
Most of the time, Megumi doesn’t dwell on it. No matter how much he wishes, he isn’t God. He can’t make people turn into angels, only beat them up after the act of evil has been done.
x
Sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair, waiting for his guardian to arrive with the Principal’s eyes boring into his back, he remembers.
He tries his hardest not to, but it’s difficult to ignore when the door swivels open, and a tall, white haired man with an amused grin walks in. Megumi hates that smile.
“What seems to be the problem?”
The Principal is gaping a little bit, mouth open. That’s expected, too. Who expects a man like Gojo Satoru, in his expensive, creased clothes and a face pretty enough to be a celebrity, be the parent of a delinquent?
They don’t look the least bit alike. Gojo has white hair and Megumi has inky black; the man’s easy, angular face and his supposed son’s too-sharp frown are complete opposites. Worst of all, despite the seven or so odd years Megumi has known him, Gojo has barely changed in physical terms. He could probably pass for young college student, if he wanted to.
He can already see the Principal’s tiny brain working, trying to figure out if Gojo had a child in his teen years. He hates it. It’s embarrassing to have an embarrassing man as a pretend-father figure. It embarrassed in him in elementary, when his supposed friend’s mothers got too close to Gojo. When his usually strict teacher invited Gojo to be a chaperone on a field trip, eyes hungry.
Gross. Disgusting. Can Gojo not find another, normal looking woman or man to be Megumi and Tsumiki’s parent? His face flushes despite (because of) his anger, and he prays that Gojo does not notice.
“Er, well, Fushiguro-kun here has had multiple infractions of school rules, particularly the one on fighting. We’ve contacted your number several times, is there a problem at home?”
Gojo’s face immediately morphs into the picture of concern, bending down to look at the checks next to Megumi’s name.
“Ah, I’m so sorry about that,” he says bashfully. “My job requires I travel around frequently, sometimes out of the country. I was in Europe this past week, the call must not have gone through. I apologize.”
The Principal is immediately mollified.
“Ahem, that’s quite alright,” he coughs. “There’s just the matter of Fushiguro-kun’s behaviour.”
“Oh, that,” Gojo frowns. “I . . . haven’t been at home often, lately. I’m very busy, and I do put in effort to see my son, but the company’s just got boosted recently. I can’t take any time off right now, and I missed a bit just to attend this meeting. It could be a cry for attention, perhaps?”
“Of course,” the Principal exclaims. He looks extremely relieved. Megumi wants to smack Gojo. “Is that true, Fushiguro?”
Gojo looks at him expectantly, bright eyes boring into him. He can just tell that the man is making fun of him, but this charade will collapse the moment Megumi disagrees, and he doesn’t want to spend any more time with this greedy, sweaty man of a Principal.
“Yes,” he grits out. “I’m sorry.”
“Then, that’s settled,” Gojo clapping his hands together and standing up. “Shall we go, Megumi?”
x
The moment they get outside, Megumi hits Gojo’s arm as hard as he can.
“Stupid. I hate you.”
“Why?” Gojo laughs, putting his hands up in defense. It only annoys him more, the knowledge that Gojo is letting Megumi hit him making his lips twist. “I got you out of there scot-free, didn’t I?”
“You didn’t have to- do it like that,” he growls. “Die.”
“Now, now. Show some respect to your elders! You’re still what, thirteen? Too young to be cursing people.”
“No,” he spits, trying to reach Gojo’s stupidly tall neck to strangle him. “Fuck off-”
“Megumi!” Tsumiki’s voice is annoyed, which is uncharacteristic of her. She’s supposed to be the nice one, in their family of two. “I heard you got in trouble, again.”
Gojo says, “He sure did,” at the same time Megumi answers, “I did not.”
He whips his head around to glare at Gojo. The man, in the full force of a stare that made bullies tremble, just shrugs and sticks his tongue out childishly.
Tsumiki wrinkles her nose and sniffs, “Stop doing that sort of stuff. You don’t want it on your record when we graduate.”
I’m going to be a Jujutsu Sorcerer, Megumi wants to say. You might be one too, if you have a cursed technique. Records don’t matter when we defeat curses.
Instead, he turns away, folding his arms. For some reason, Tsumiki hates it when he brings up becoming a sorcerer. She doesn’t hate Jujutsu itself, laughing when Gojo shows off cheap tricks. Despite being able to see curses, she doesn’t really hate them, telling Megumi to leave the small ones alone.
Good people are strange.
Gojo, even though he isn’t good or bad, is strange as well. At least he can understand what bullies are doing when they beat weak people up. They’re looking for a power trip, revenge, stress relief, or even just for the fun of it. Good people want none of those things, and Megumi doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone so confusing as Gojo Satoru.
The man prevented the contract between his deadbeat father and the Zen’in clan, and pays for his and Tsumiki’s living costs. All for seemingly no benefit for himself. When he mentioned Megumi’s own cursed technique, he thought he’d finally figured it out. Gojo wanted the cursed technique either he or Tsumiki had; the one that was so stupidly precious that he’d been sold by his own father.
That wasn’t it, either. When Megumi’s shadows started forming shapes, animals, the man only gave him a thumbs up and told him not to try and hunt for curses yet. Jujutsu College is where he’s supposed to go two years later, but absolutely no pressure has been put on him by Gojo to be anything other than a normal kid.
So. Confusing.
x
That night, Gojo stays late.
Usually, he just checks on them once or twice a week, hanging out with them while they go to a department store, or going somewhere else unfamiliar. It’s not unusual to see him in their small apartment, but it’s also not common.
At least he brought food. The good, expensive kind that Tsumiki likes and Megumi says is fine, while eating it as fast as he can.
“Hah!” Gojo laughs loudly. “That’s hilarious. I should buy you guys better phones.”
Don’t eat with your mouth open, Megumi thinks, but Tsumiki’s laughing too, and it’s awkward for the younger brother to scold his older sister. He thinks, at least. That’s what the television shows say.
“What about you, Megumi?” Gojo peers over at him, even with the blindfold on. “D’ you want another phone? One that won’t break when you kick ass?”
“No. Don’t say ass when we’re at home.”
Gojo groans, “Downer. And you just said ass, you hypocrite.”
“I said that to tell you not to say it,” Megumi says angrily. “And you said it again. I only said it once, so-”
“Ass.”
Both Megumi and Gojo turns their head to stare (pretend to stare?) at Tsumiki. She doesn’t curse, ever, claiming it causes more cursed spirits to appear.
Her face reddens under their gazes, and then she bursts out laughing.
“There!” she giggles. “Now that we’ve all said it, there can’t be a rule!”
“That’s not how it works.”
“Sure, that’s how it works, Megumi,” Gojo says easily. “I can say ass if I want now. Ass.”
Megumi curls his lip back in disgust.
“You’re twenty six. Don’t say ass in front of kids.”
“Hey, you said it first,” he says, holding up a glowing finger as if to distract from the pure untruth of that statement.
It works every time. Tsumiki smiles even wider and asks Gojo how he does. He answers with some sort non committable, confusing explanation. Megumi ignores him until he gets annoyed, and makes small shikigami toads from the darkening shadows.
He wonders when they got so predictable.
If Megumi didn’t know better, looking at their dimly lit dinner table from an outsider’s point of view, he’d think the three of them were a family.
Ridiculous.