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The strongest does not know grief. He didn't think the concept of grief and loss fit him, either.
Megumi has known the man for a long time - far too long - and he'd known such a thing from the moment he met him. Fickle, flippant, frivolous. One look at the strongest sorcerer before he'd even known what sorcerers were and he could just tell.
Before he entered the college, Gojo had been an intermittent, unexpected and unpredictable presence in his life. The times he showed up in his and Tsumiki's overly spacious apartment, all the man did was give him a nasty headache. Since, to a degree, Megumi was aware of what kept him occupied so often, of what had most likely kept him occupied hours before he came to see them, the teen was boggled as to how that manchild always faced them with such boundless energy, easy smiles and carefree laughter.
Once, he'd asked what the sorcerer had been doing for the past half a year, since they last met.
Tsumiki had glared at him, the heat in her gaze horribly similar to the one she unabashedly displayed after he got in fights with other students. But Gojo had merely blinked a few times and shrugged, casually stating how he'd exorcised a couple hundred curses and how a few people had died, countenance as airy as ever.
Whatever feeble interest Megumi had subconsciously entertained when it came to the strongest sorcerer's personal and work life had, at that moment, been dully squashed.
How could one be so callous towards death? The strongest, no less? It left a bitter taste in his mouth. The way he treated death and exorcisms and jujutsu. He'd never been through an actual mission (just the occasional extremely low level exorcism when the annoying teacher wannabe - who would ever give him a god damn teaching license, anyway? no one, probably - took him on one of his impromptu trips around Shinjuku) but he was well aware that Gojo's attitude was just off. How could he, of all people, look at and speak of death with such nonchalance?
It was all wrong. It made his skin crawl.
Megumi had been 15 for but a measly three weeks when he was taken on a tour of the college. He met the plushie sewing principle, the "doctor" who looked as though she painted the bags under her eyes with the darkest shade of eyeshadow she could find (if that wasn't the case, he was seriously worried for her health) and a couple of senpai - a panda with more of a human demeanor than some people he'd met and an agreeable Zen'in (he's still not sure which had surprised him most) - that the annoying beanpole insisted on dragging along for the entirety of the small but overly extensive tour. Gojo was as peppy as ever, his dramatic flair making the Zen'in audibly grit her teeth in a fashion he was very familiar with - he felt like he'd be able to get along with her, to an extent -, over the course of an entire day. It was the longest he'd spent with Gojo in years. And he hadn't missed it in the slightest.
His behaviour was as irritating as ever. Megumi's first impression still seemed to ring true, undeniably so.
As the conversation he was barely listening to sped along, one of the senpai - the panda - brought something up that caught the soon to be high schooler's attention. For less than half a second, Megumi wondered if the Night Parade of a Hundred Demons would shake him up minutely, having been the biggest event in jujutsu history since Gojo's own birth. He didn't have any actual hopes on that front, but maybe even the special grade couldn't act dismissive when addressing such a - recent - near calamity? But that idiotic musing was quickly shut down. The idiot's tone and attitude barely changed. Megumi grimaced. As if something like that would affect him.
A mere few hundred curses exorcised, a mere few dead.
Regardless, in stark contrast, the students recounted their efforts against the curse user who'd almost slaughtered them with bitter contempt. Exasperatingly explained how said curse user had been taken down by another senpai who was apparently currently overseas. The 28 year old accompanying them acted like a child the whole time, happily adding his own memories of the Parade itself, and butting in excitedly to add his own bits when the Zen'in explained how things had settled around the college after the death of Geto Suguru. The brief discussion died off just before meal time.
After an unarguably rowdy dinner at what he assumed was the school's dining hall, the bandage wearing weirdo grabbed his wrist, grip so tight it was cutting off his circulation. Megumi immediately shot him a venomous look. Could the asshole even see it below his toilet paper looking bandages? Even if he could, Megumi doubted he wouldn't be ignored.
Seconds in menial conversation passed. The grip on his wrist did not relent. The teen's frown only worsened, a tinge of curiousity beginning to taint his display of annoyance.
Still, the teacher's gung-ho attitude and voice remained pristine, almost giving him whiplash. As the second years retreated to their rooms - was Gojo... hurrying them away? -, he showed him to his future one. The man's hand finally came loose from his wrist as they arrived at the door. Megumi grunted belligerently, glaring for a second before deciding wasting his attention on him was just that: a waste. Stepping out after a quick appraisal of what would soon be his new room, - spacious enough, not bad - they walked to the car Ijichi had called for them with not another word between them. The soon to be high schooler tuned the presence of the owner of the Six Eyes out as easily as he breathed, barely dully noting as the menace popped a third - fourth? fifth? he wasn't really counting - piece of candy in his mouth. The curiousity born from Gojo's extremely minor deviation from his normal behaviour still refused to leave his brain, though.
Megumi sighed as he leaned his head on the window glass, utterly exhausted. His head ached, unrelenting. Who cared about whatever mood swings his annoying guardian had or didn't have? If only his head let him sleep, or willed his headache away. Just the latter would be more than enough, actually. The unsettling quiet only seemed to intensify it, however.
...quiet?
Blue eyes slowly widened. He blinked, reeling brain coming to a halt. It took him a few conscious breaths, the dull and repetitive hum of the car's engine grounding him, for his mind to register it. Quiet...
Not moving his cheek from where it was plastered to the slippery window, he sneaked a tentative glance towards the sorcerer beside him in the back seat.
Tense shoulders, right hand so flexed it looked as though his veins would pop, face slightly turned opposite of him. A stance that didn't quite hide his rigid lips, or the way his fingers twitched.
Megumi didn't know the person sitting next to him, he acknowledged. Never had, still didn't. He'd never cared enough to find out.
He'd never had any misgivings about that. He had always seen nothing except what Gojo had shown, what Gojo wanted seen. Nothing more, nothing less. He'd never been privy to who the man who'd rescued him was, but only to who he wanted to be. He couldn't note the difference between grins, couldn't make out their nuance, couldn't decode when and why he whipped out sugary treats, couldn't read the words in his silence.
But Megumi could see it, then and there. Managed to hear it, in the deafening silence. Megumi could feel it. A sensation so visceral that it halted his breath, had him nearly clutching his gut. His heart clenched. His head pounded more relentlessly than ever.
The strongest didn't know grief. Couldn't afford to. And yet, there was no doubt in his mind, in that moment.
Gojo Satoru was being eaten alive by loss.
A brief sense of catharsis, clashing against the iron fist coiled around his heart, made his shoulders drop as he let out a shuddering breath. Bile was coming up his throat. He bit his lip so hard it drew blood.
Megumi had been wrong. They did fit him.