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Gojo hates drinking but likes the atmosphere of bars, and Shoko is a borderline functional alcoholic who doesn’t mind anywhere that will let her also smoke and relax. So they’re at an izakaya in downtown Tokyo, letting the sounds of the evening wash over them. She’s digging around in her pocket for her last cigarette, rolling her lighter impatiently in her other hand. He has a tall glass of lemonade which is suffused with sugar and might as well be just syrup. It's also his sixth.
Shoko draws on her cigarette and exhales. “You’re looking tired.”
“You’re one to say.”
Shoko pretends not to hear. Instead she flags a waiter down and asks for shots. She puts it on Gojo’s tab. He pretends not to notice.
Lately their relationship seems to consist of late-night meals where they trade friendly barbs and life updates in equal measure. The last time they’d met, they’d discussed a gamut of topics including his non-existent love life (“Too small,” she’d said, glancing down meaningfully) and her inability to stop chain-smoking (“Too weak,“ he’d gloated). They’ve been around each other so long the stings barely register.
It’s also easier than dwelling on the events of the past year. That they’ve already done in debriefs and interrogations (When did you notice a change in him? Can you tell me exactly what happened at Shinjuku? And simply, why?) They’re also sick of the phrase ‘Community of Inquiry’; the memories of cold rooms and exhausting hours it inspires. There are answers if anyone cares to dig, and the evidence surfaces itself readily: an abandoned badge, a hundred and twelve bodies, an unshakable conviction. After all, Geto was not trying to hide.
The official — and therefore true — account has arranged itself in a neat arc, each incident in the narrative following a causal chain. Bad childhood, traumatic event, unspeakable atrocity. It also creates an inherent contradiction: that it could have happened to anyone, but it's also entirely his fault.
Amidst the see-sawing between structure and agency, recommendations are made, a bounty is set, and their lives go on. They escape most of the public fault-finding; after all, as Yaga had argued, they were still so young.
This doesn’t mean that their classmate’s absence is unfelt. Private blame is another matter. Post-Geto, they’re still limping along unbalanced, trying to find a new center of gravity. Still, one of the more light-hearted — Gojo chooses to see it that way, in any case — side-effects of evolving from a trio to a pair is that whenever they go out people keep thinking they’re together, which disgusts Shoko and amuses Gojo.
“You’d be a lucky girl,” he says, “if that were true.”
“I’d kill myself,” she says. She gives him a disdainful look that makes him wonder, just a little, if there really is something anatomically wrong with him.
Today they’ve worked their way through plates of sashimi and kushiyaki as well as the usual pleasantries (“Are you ever going to be a real doctor?” he asks when he saunters in and spots her in her crumpled lab coat. “Are you ever going to be on time?” she shoots back).
She’s more energised than usual and he’s strangely lightheaded. Shoko peels the single fine string off the back of her edamame. The green pods disappear into her mouth. She chews noisily, reaching for her drink to wash it down. Gojo watches her in a bored, desultory way, idly stirring his lemonade.
“How’s the child-rearing?” she knocks one glass back and stares at him, dark eyes suddenly intense.
He considers this. “Not in my ten year plan. But…” he smirks, “a lot of mum friends. I’ve got the hot single dad thing going for me, so.”
She makes a face. He’s definitely lying about that. Best he can do is dumb big brother, maybe. “No, idiot. The kid. Has he manifested?”
Gojo’s shoulders slump. That front is less encouraging. “Mm. Just the dog. It ran all over and made a mess. It doesn’t work if I tame it.”
She scoffs. “Of course. That would be too easy.”
“I told him we — he —could have a proper dog if you know. He could summon it properly. Wasn’t interested. Still,” Gojo pauses. “Still. He’s six. He’s got a long time more to figure shit out. I’m not going to make him do anything he doesn’t want to.” He folds himself up, suddenly serious.
“Mmhm.” She taps her cigarette, watching the ash crumble into the dusty dish. Maybe it’s a side-effect of Geto but lately they’ve been feeling dislocated. More and more it feels like they are just passing through the places they had grown up in. They were privy to a world that the people around them could not see and would never know. That changed things. That changed you.
At times this knowledge is exhausting. She leans against him, resting her head on his shoulder.
He clicks his tongue but doesn’t move away. Gojo always becomes oddly sharp when talking about anything that might skirt Geto’s departure. He’s also persnickety about childhood. She supposes he, of all people, has every reason to.
“A sea change, one person at a time,” she says. This makes his plan sound profound. “Do you really think…”
“Yes.” His voice is terse. He pushes his glasses right up the bridge of his nose, dark lenses obscuring his eyes. “Anyway. The point is, allies. And I don’t want to make the same mis—”
She puts up a hand. “I get it. No need to be sanctimonious.”
Perhaps it’s a product of cowardice - weakness - or a simply a firm view of self-interest, but she doesn’t want to take sides. Never has. Gojo, on the other hand, is exclusively partisan. Not that it’s any surprise; people of his calibre usually are. Geto is a primary example of this.
She reaches for another shot.
“I miss him sometimes,” Shoko says quietly. She slouches further against Gojo.
They both are guilty of inserting Geto into their conversations, because he would have otherwise been in them himself. Gojo sometimes expects him to walk through the door. Shoko wishes he still bummed cigarettes off her. It’s reflexive work in every sense. They have learned to let the these moments — of forgetting, of wanting — wash over them, waiting for the feeling to pass even as his absence lingers. (“It will get better,” Yaga had said. “I’m hoping it will.”)
Gojo shuts his eyes. Lets her hair brush over his eyelids. “Me too.”
When he opens them he is resolute.
“Megumi’s a good kid,” he says, determined to prove a point. He’s slurped his drink dry and is now squishing a lemon slice thoughtfully. “Hates me, though.”
Shoko is happy to play along. She shifts to look at him. “He’s just got that…” she waves a limp wrist about her flushed cheeks, “…face.”
He offers her a wry look. “He never smiles. It’s a bit creepy.”
“Not everyone is sunshine and roses,” she deadpans. “I’m sure it’s not personal. And you’re doing a halfway decent job. Better than that clan would.”
He rocks back in his chair. “That’s a low bar.”
“Which you’ve surpassed, anyway —”
“—hey—”
“Because believe it or not, he looks up to you.”
“What?”
She rolls her eyes. “For someone with Six Eyes you’re practically blind. Or you have the emotional intelligence of a hamster. Why else would he put up with you? Besides, he follows you like a little puppy. And he actually pays attention when you go on about society bullshit.”
“It’s relevant for him. Also,” Gojo pierces the slice with his straw and holds it up, jabbing emphatically. “Also. I can’t read minds. Especially six-year-old ones.”
She huffs out a dry laugh. “I think you’re refusing to see. And not saying it’s your fault—but,” she raises an eyebrow, and Gojo sighs in return, “You and his sister. You’re kinda all he’s got left, right?”
Gojo pushes his chair back and sags into his seat. “Yeah,” he says into his hands.
Shoko kicks the leg of his chair. “Don’t pretend. You like it when people idolise you.”
Gojo smiles. “A little,” he admits.
—
Megumi is six years old and he does not hold anyone’s hand, not even Tsumiki’s. Gojo doesn’t know that, so when he comes to collect him after school he goes straight for his small, sticky hand and simultaneously tries to throw him in the air.
“Hi!” he says, beaming. “How has your day been?”
“You’re late,” Megumi says crossly.
Gojo pauses mid-twirl, peering at his small, serious face. He sets Megumi down. “I was on a trip—”
Megumi is unmoved. Gojo takes in his unimpressed pout and produces a paper bag. He waves it at him like he is a misbehaving pet, like he can be coaxed into good behavior with the right treat. Inside there are packets of individually wrapped mochi, which Gojo hopes will least buy off some discontent. “But I got these—”
“—you’re always late—”
“But you like these!”
Megumi looks grudgingly at him, uninterested in his peace offering. His lip had wobbled for the briefest of seconds before it had smoothed itself into a thin, flat line. The look he gives Gojo says: I am disappointed in your behaviour. I am now censuring you by depriving you of my affection.
Right, Gojo thinks. It's entirely within character for Megumi to be too dignified for a tantrum.
He sighs.
—
They walk home side by side. Gojo has his hands tucked into his pockets. The paper bag with its untouched mochi hangs loosely off his wrist, slapping the side of his leg with each step. Megumi is holding the straps of his tiny school bag tightly, fixing the backpack to his squared shoulders. He’d squirmed out of Gojo’s grip once his feet had touched the ground. He’d also looked offended that he’d tried to pick him up in front of everyone, tucking himself away like a little turtle.
Gojo had been briefly mortified. God, had he become old enough to be embarrassing? He couldn’t possibly be embarrassing to children.
Still, as they make their way through the neighbourhood Gojo perseveres. He makes glib talk about what he imagines primary schoolers are occupied with: homework? Friends?
Megumi doesn’t attempt to continue the conversation, but he makes little affirmative noises (homework), or shakes his spiky head (friends). He has bedhead so eternal that Gojo is tempted to think he came out of the womb with a fully-formed crown of cowlicks.
Having exhausted his admittedly brief list of topics, they lapse into silence. Gojo resists the urge to stride ahead. He is careful to keep his steps small so Megumi’s short legs can keep up. For his part, Megumi stays close enough to be in his shadow.
At the junction Gojo — undeterred — reaches again for Megumi’s hand. Everyone else with a uniformed child is doing it and it seems appropriate, if not doubly sensible because he would also have the added protection of Infinity. Despite the glare that Megumi is giving him, it would be a terrible shame to have him ironed out on the asphalt. It also would be an administrative nightmare and personal disaster, because Gojo both hates paperwork and is fond of this child.
He explains all this to him in a little speech while they wait for the light to turn.
Megumi is adamant. “No,” he says, and tucks his fist into his own pocket.
“Come on. I really don’t want you to run across the road and get hit by a car,” Gojo says pleadingly. “I’m being responsible, remember?”
The boy considers this. “Fine,” he mumbles as the green man begins flashing. He proffers his hand like a dead fish and gives Gojo a look that says don't try anything funny or overly familiar. Gojo gives him a bright smile in return and seizes his little victory. He'll take whatever scraps of affection he can get for now. Megumi's hand is surprisingly unsticky, and small, curled up in Gojo's larger one.
This domestic portrait, this hard-brokered compromise, lasts for approximately ten seconds — just long enough for the numbers on the traffic light to tick down. Once they cross Megumi slithers his hand out of Gojo's grasp. It disappears back into his coat.
“Oh,” Gojo says. He tries not to sound disappointed.
They're on the main street now, joining the masses. The pavement is beginning to be filled with other people flooding their way home. Gojo looks upon Megumi’s dark head bobbing about and considers steering him by his shoulder as they weave through the crowd.
A woman walking her dogs passes them. Megumi is not interested. Gojo searches for inspiration.
“Any luck with the doggy shikigami?”
Megumi frowns. “No.”
“If you summon it we could play with it.”
“I can’t.”
“You can. Remember last week—”
“I don’t want to. You tame it.”
“I totally would. But you know I can’t do it for you.”
Megumi grunts then falls silent. He’s staring to drag his feet. Gojo guesses he has about fifty words left before the boy shuts up for the rest of the day.
“Mm. What do you want for dinner?” They’re almost home now. He jangles the keys in his pocket expectantly. He could cook, but he could just as easily order in. They could eat the snacks while they waited.
Megumi shrugs. He’s genuinely not a fussy eater, even if he quietly disapproves of all the sugar Gojo constantly puts into his own body. For someone who is barely in primary school he seems to have very old man tastes.
“Nothing?” Gojo is fiddling with the apartment gate, desperately trying to recall the passcode, when there’s a tug at his shirt. He glances down distractedly.
The boy is staring at him. “I don’t like it when you’re late.”
Gojo gives up trying to punch in the numbers and looks at him defeatedly.
“I don’t like it when you’re late,” Megumi repeats slowly, as if Gojo is someone very small and very stupid.
“But I came, right? And I told you I was—hey, are you crying?”
“No,” Megumi says, furiously wiping at his face. His cheeks are flushed and rounded to a crumpled pout. His long eyelashes are damp.
Gojo’s face softens. He squats down, tucking his glasses away so he can look Megumi in the eye. But the boy won’t let him, won’t look at him. Instead he crosses his arms and sniffs miserably. Gojo suddenly wishes he were ten years older and knew exactly what to do. He also hates that Shoko is right.
“Are you angry at me?” he says uselessly.
Megumi shakes his head. Somehow this makes Gojo feel worse.
“Do you want me to leave you alone?” he offers.
Megumi shakes his head more forcefully.
Suddenly it clicks. Gojo feels like shit. “Oh,” he says softly. “It’s that, isn’t it?”
Megumi takes a deep, shuddering breath. This time he nods. “I thought—” he swallows hard, gasping, and the words come out all at once, “I thought you weren’t coming.”
How exactly Megumi has learned to think this way hangs unspoken between them, but Gojo’s surmised enough backstory to know that Megumi hates his father the way Gojo himself does Geto, which is to say he hates that he misses him, hates that he isn’t there. In Megumi’s case this last point is arguably Gojo’s fault. Without thinking Gojo scoops him into a hug. He half-expects the boy to resist but instead he clings to him, tucking his face into his shoulder as he tries to hide his snotty nose.
After a moment Gojo holds him out and brushes the hair away from his sticky forehead.
“Sorry,” he says, and means it.
—
Gojo is waiting for him when he comes out the school gate. His glasses are slipping off his nose and he’s invested in the last bit of his bubble tea, poking around the plastic cup with his straw in an attempt to suck up the stray pearls. Other parents stand about chattering, or peering expectantly through the fence. Megumi walks up slowly to him and kicks at his shoe.
“Hi—” he begins, and immediately falls silent as Megumi puts his hand in his. His eyes go wide but he manages to push up his glasses and force his face into a neutral look.
This composure lasts for a breath, before he opens his mouth and starts blurting: “Happy birthday! I got you a present! Sorry you had to go to school! I would have whisked you off but you know how it is…”
He stops, because the Divine Dog nudges his knee with its head. It’s as big as Megumi is, bristly with dark hair and a large panting mouth. It puts its paws on Gojo’s knee and gives him a sloppy lick dripping with cursed energy.
“Oh—” Gojo starts. He’s reduced to babbling. The drink is quickly crumped and tossed into a trashcan, pearls forgotten. “Oh oh oh—you did it!” He gives a loud, yowling laugh, happy to be ambushed. Happy to be defenceless, one hand in Megumi’s, another in the Dog’s fur.
“Yes.” Megumi says, because that much is obvious. He focuses very hard on rolling a pebble under his shoe. His mouth does something that doesn’t quite curl into a smile, but he looks quietly pleased.
“When?” Gojo pushes his glasses off to the top his head, which means he is infinitely gleeful. He is animated enough for the both of them, practically vibrating with excitement. His white hair stands on end like he’s been shocked. He gives Megumi a wide-mouthed grin.
“During recess.” Megumi says primly. He abandons the pebble and kicks his shoe again. It’s almost endearing. “Can we go? People are staring.”
“Right, right.”
He’s forgotten that no one else can see the shikigami. To them he has been having his own private fit while Megumi watches calmly. He probably looks like a maniac, which is a bit embarrassing. It's also not good for the status of his non-existent relationship with the mum friends.
Gojo drops his hand from the Dog and picks up the boy’s school bag, swinging it easily over his shoulder. Because he cannot help it he gives a little wink and wave to the teacher, who has been eyeing them suspiciously. She blushes. The dog drops to all fours, trotting alongside them.
It takes Gojo till the crosswalk to realise that Megumi’s hand is still in his. Gojo has his fingers laced gingerly, as if he’s afraid he might crush him in his large hands.
“You can hold tighter,” Megumi tells him. “Just in case I run across the road and get hit by a car.”
“Really?” Gojo says, and smiles as if it’s his birthday, as if he’s been given the most thoughtful present in the world.
For the walk home it feels like he will never let go.