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“... You don’t celebrate Christmas?”
Satoru fixates the young boy in front of him with a dumbfounded stare, watching as his shuffling grows more and more with every second. He, of course, has no right to be surprised—his family hadn’t celebrated Christmas either, much too worried with their own beliefs and hunting curses to get enough free time to buy the kids around the Clan a gift. And besides, Satoru got a new everything and whatever he wished every week. Not like holidays were a needed thing, really.
Still. Still. Satoru was sure that Fushiguro—the dad—had no interest in partaking in the Zen’in traditions, most of which included traumatizing your child at the age of three and making them feel as small and unimportant as a pebble, at least not intentionally. He must have bought them at least candy, right? Their mother, or step-mother in Fushiguro—the son—’s case, seemed like a nice woman in the reports, before she went missing, possibly ran away. So why?
Megumi mumbles something under his breath, looking down playing with the expensive sonic t-shirt Satoru the responsible guardian bought him a month ago.
“What?”
“Not enough money,” he repeats now, not loud enough for anyone else to hear. Only Satoru, who suddenly stands straighter with the new knowledge gained. Of course, of course. Megumi was living in some shit apartment in an unknown corner of Japan. Why did he even think that the kid could afford to buy gifts, specially during a time where the prices of literally anything child-appropiate went up to the sky.
Not that it was a problem to Satoru—oh.
Had Megumi second-guessed his answer so much because Satoru was crazy rich? Ughh, Megumi!!! Like sure, he sometimes made fun of people wearing cheap clothes, and never donated to any cause, and perhaps had laughed a bit too much at him that time he saw him panicking over some juice spilled onto the easily replaceable expensive carpet, but c’mon. C’mon. Megumi should know already that Satoru, The Responsible Guardian, was better than that.
Maybe he should ask Nanami advice on how to have a clean reputation, or how to get kids to like him more. Respect him, at least. Not glare him and attempt to call the police.
But first things first.
“Let’s go,” he commands to the small child that can barely keep up with his long strides, turning around to walk back inside the big shopping centre they just left.
“Why? What’re you gonna do?” and Satoru absolutely does not addresses the hopeful and sweet tone of voice that the kid has when he answers:
“We’re gonna buy the biggest Christmas tree they have,” he says so nonchalantly, posture relaxed and eyes focused on the double glass sliding doors in front of them, as he listens to the way Megumi still in place. It is then, listening to small but fast steps trying to reach his lean figure, that Satoru is rudely reminded of a past he promised to leave behind. A past he promised to forget, for memories only tend to hold one back.
—the warmth of a calloused, slim hand cradling his own, walking along with him, holding him up so he doesn’t fall because of the quick pace. His mother walks through the aisles in the small store in an unknown corner of Tokyo, casual clothes looking much too dull on her bright figure, dark hair swaying with the force of her movements. Even so, her touch on him remains careful, soft, the touch of a mother who spent her entire life ready for a fight, and the sheer amount of love she holds for him always ends up coloring his young cheeks a pinkish red, stretching his lips in a smile that hurts. He got his father’s hair, but her eyes are the ones that always look back when he glances at a mirror, her light blue tainted with the whites of the Six Eyes. The setting seems soft, bright, a moment in which Satoru was so happy, almost a dream, sugary-looking and cotton-tasting. That was the last time he felt the touch of love on his figure, the last time someone dared to hold his hand in such a way.
The memory is almost enough to make him stop, almost. Megumi catches up quickly, and when Satoru looks down at him he swears he sees himself, but Megumi’s eyes are wide and childish in a way his never were.
“We can buy a green tree, or a white one, or a blue one. You choose,” he breathes out, careful to hide his emotional tone of voice. The kid looks up, frowning.
“Trees are supposed to be green,” then, “they always are in movies. I—am sure Tsumiki wants a green one.”
Tsumiki’s favorite color is blue, he thinks and doesn’t say. She’s not his sister and he most definitely doesn’t know her better than him. “Okay,” is his answer, and they both glance around them at the vast expanse of the shopping centre in search of a Christmas-themed store that actually sells Christmas decorations.
Satoru, he… He should probably pay a visit to his mother sometime. He just doesn’t know if he wants to set foot inside Gojō territory even again, let alone their cementery. Doesn’t know if he can stomach it, so instead of thinking about himself, he focuses on others. The man passing by is about to spend Christmas by himself, his annoyed form and pulsing cursed energy letting his Six Eyes know just that; the lady standing in front of the cake store is unbelievably in love, probably buying a gift for her partner, as exposed by her calm cursed energy, floating out of herself in warm puffs of power.
Megumi, on the other hand, has almost mastered the control of his energy—by himself, Satoru should mention—but is still a long way from becoming a sorcerer. He’s trembling with hope, the dark blues surrounding his organs moving along his figure like a particularly disrupted river. Satoru doesn’t like that. Satoru thinks that a child as gifted as Megumi should already be familiarized with the concept of expending unnecessary amounts of money on holidays one doesn’t particularly find exciting, but he doesn’t even know how to celebrate holidays, to begin with.
At best, it was curious. At worst, worrying. That’s what Satoru thinks, at least, watching Megumi marvel at every little tree decoration they find in one of the cheap stores there. From what he gathered after the older Fushiguro got buried and his pet curse exorcised, he had all kind of expensive weapons, and his services weren’t exactly cheap either, so this was a surprise. Really, not even one Christmas?
Either he was a worse father than he thought, or Megumi just had a bad memory. Could be both but—who just forgets Christmas?
In the end, they don’t end up getting the biggest tree—per Megumi’s worries about it not fitting inside the three bedroom apartment Satoru got them, but still he bought a very expensive one behind his back. Just the best branches for his kids, yeah.
His kids.
Megumi picks up a small Santa sitting on a Coca Cola bottle, and Satoru immediately takes out his phone to take as many photos of him as he can. Cute, cute, cute. Nanami will have a cuteness overload for sure. Him and Shoko will definitely appreciate the ninety or-so pictures he’s taken.
“We should get that one and the polar bear holding a bottle of Cola, too. To match,” he proposes, and Megumi lights up with one of those thoughts children just have sometimes, you all know.
“He looks kind of like you, look,” and then proceeds to shove the ornament in Satoru’s face, who goes as rigid as a rock. “Got the white hair and everything.”
“His hair is white because he’s old, Megumin!”
The kid in question just stares at him pointedly.
“I’m not that old!” the adult complains as the child puts the decoration inside of their cart, ignoring the looks almost everyone in the store shoots them.
But, above it all—Satoru thinks that it’s... A good thing, that Megumi is buying things without checking their price ten times and then asking him how he could repay him, like he used to do the first year he became his and Tsumiki’s guardian. He acts more his age, now, although not really around Tsumiki—probably just wanting to keep looking mature in front of his sister. Megumi asks for silly gifts on his birthday, watches TV a bit more often, reads whatever book Satoru can snatch from the places he visits, plays with his toys and socializes with the street dogs that hang around their place, giving them food and water, and sometimes he even gets to hear some obscure fact about snakes the kid ‘just learned somewhere’.
All in all, life’s looking good for them. And Satoru is becoming a big ol’ sap.
“Which one do you think Tsumiki will like? Red, green, pink?” but Megumi totally ignores him, reaching up and pulling on—or trying to pull on—the light blue socks, his fingers only managing to casually brush their very bottom. Satoru helps him, snatching three for them, already making plans to have some professional sew their names on them. “This is a good color, too,” maybe Megumi remembered after all when Tsumiki pointed at Satoru’s eyes and mentioned how he should take his glasses off more often, and when she mentioned how beautiful the sky is, and when she bought five different blue dresses and skirts.
Just because he can, he grabs a couple more, already thinking names. Shoko, Kento, Ijichi, Masamichi. And an extra one, just because eyes like a clouded sky keep showing up in his head.
He wishes he could show himself to these kids more often, show them who he’s made of, all those traces the people in his life left on him—these right here are my mom’s, this is my dad’s, this is Shoko’s, this is Nanami’s. This is Suguru’s.
His chest contracts when he takes a red sock and drops it inside of their cart, and when Megumi tilts his head. “We don’t need that many socks?”
“You never know,” Satoru shrugs, smiles when Megumi doesn’t question him.
They end up spending more money than any reasonable person would when shopping for Christmas, but Satoru is neither reasonable nor a person, and Megumi is steadily growing into an uncaring kid, not asking him for receipts anymore—Satoru doesn’t doubt that his rebellious teenage phase will bring nothing but trouble. He’ll have to come back later to buy gifts for his kids, and will drag a hungover Shoko and an annoyed Nanami. Life will be happy and they will both raise their eyebrows and then glare at him when he decides to buy gifts for them, and everyone he knows, too.
As they walk back towards Satoru’s car, he glances down at Megumi Fushiguro, the kid who inherited the Ten Shadows Technique, the kid who was sold by Fushiguro, the father. They really do look alike, after all—the few differences being that Megumi’s hair sticks up in every direction, while Tōji Fushiguro’s fell down like a curtain, covering almost every detail of his face except for the scar on his upper lip. He hadn’t really been able to check the corpse at that time, but he was sure that his eyes were green, too, but where the Killer’s were probably cold and unforgiving, Megumi’s were bright and brimming with emotion.
A huff, and he looks to the sky as Megumi enters the car, then thinks a bit better and looks down. He thinks of dark hair swaying as peaceful blue eyes curiously moved up and down every aisle; thinks of a soft hand roughly dragging him down the school’s halls; a slim leg repeatedly colliding against his Limitless; clammy hands on the steering wheel; I don’t know why this happened either, Satoru; and finally, warm lips kissing him awake, the taste of toothpaste and mint.
I’ll make him happy, stupid assasin.
“Hurry up! Tsumiki’s waiting!” Megumi orders, and Satoru obeys, climbing onto the car with a small chuckle.
“Is that how you treat your overworked old man, Megumi? I’m hurt!”
And for a second, a very small second, Satoru worries about having crossed a boundary. But then Megumi turns his head with a pout, and everything’s fine.
Yeah.
Everything’s fine.