Chapter Text
“Any last words?”
“Nope.”
But the boy knows better, and waits. Toji blinks, eyelids weary. Blessed. That’s what he had called these sorcerers. But wasn’t that him, at one point? Shadows dance behind his eyelids. The touch of a baby’s finger curls around his own. His blessing. He sighs, and opens his eyes. Gojou Satoru stares at him with hollow eyes. There is no glory in his gaze, he does not revel in his victory. He just waits, fingers crossed in front of him.
“In two or three years, my kid will be sold off to the Zen’in Clan. Do as yo-” He pauses. There is a weight on his tongue. A desire, one he had set aside years ago as he sought out…what exactly was he seeking again? His hand is slick with blood and his weapon clatters to the floor. Whatever it was, it does not seem so important now.
“Can I see him again?”
••••••
Oh, he can see him. Fiery, spite-filled. With the sharp green eyes of his mother. And of him, he supposes.
A cavernous silence stretches between them, though neither rushes to fill it. They only stare, flashing green eyes meeting one another, having a silent conversation between glares to fill all the years that they have missed.
That I’ve missed, Toji thinks.
He frowns. There is so much rage stirring in that child of maybe…six years. Christ, he doesn’t even know his son’s age. Blessing? Is that what this kid was to him? Staring at his icy glare, he can’t imagine it. He feels no connection to this stranger before him. He would not remember who this child was to him, if not for the ignorant buffoon slouching on a chair beside him. He knows why he’s here. He does. So why does it feel so wrong? Was he expecting a rush of warmth, or love? Toji furrows his brow and glances at the boy on his right. His childish demeanor does so much to hide the brutality behind those glowing eyes. Gojou Satoru meets his gaze and grins.
“Cute little brat, isn’t he?” Gojo looks over at the kid and grimaces. “Blech, he looks just like you. Ahhh, that’s creepy.”
Toji scowls and looks back at his son. “So how old are you then?”
Unblinking, and stoic as ever, Megumi replies. “Four.”
Toji doesn’t reply. He just squints at his son, at this four year old stranger, and then he leaves. Turns his back and hides a wince as he walks with his broken body. He hears a snicker and a rustle of clothing as Gojo gets up to follow him. Figures.
“Well, that was a touching reunion! I’m pleased.” Toji glances over his shoulder as he walks down the stairs, and is met with the gleaming white teeth of that shit-eating grin.
“Pff, yeah. Glad someone’s pleased.” He continues walking, ignoring the writhing in his head. He blinks, but keeps them closed for a beat too long. Gojo is now blocking his path, eyes narrowed and lips pulled into that cold smile.
“You remember our deal?” Toji avoids his gaze. He tips his head forward, and those bizarre sunglasses slip down the bridge of his nose. The uneasiness garnered from those eerie blue eyes is unmatched, and Toji would sooner burst into song than continue to subject himself to that stare. He looks back and nods. Gojo grins and pushes his glasses back up, clapping his hands together. “Excellent! Just raise us a sorcerer and fighter of your skill and we won’t kill you!”
“Hah, you expect me to raise a sorcerer?”
“Well, if that’s your attitude I’d be happy to hand him over to the Zen’in Clan! I’m sure they’d be thrilled to have a boy who might develop their innate techniques. Or, if he doesn’t end up with it, they could always use more servants!” Gojo steps closer to Toji, his smile dripping with contempt. “They’re missing one, after all.”
“You’re sick.”
“Charming, you mean. I doubt anyone else could heal that lovely arm of yours. Oh, and that hole in your side. I wonder how that happened?” Toji felt his jaw tighten. His teeth might be ground into nubs if he has to speak to this insufferable teenager for another minute.
Gojo’s smile drops for a moment. “Do right by Megumi. It’s your responsibility now.”
In a flash, Gojo Satoru is gone, and Toji is left with the skin of his palms under his nails and a child to love again.
For no where near the first time, as Toji will soon learn, he is met with that unimpressed scowl and green eyes that bore into him upon just stepping into this dingy apartment. Megumi glares at him, before turning around and shutting himself in his room. If silence is okay, then Toji is content with that. He should be, at least. After all, this kid is his son by name and blood only. They won’t need more than that. He walks into the living room, falling on the couch and turning on the TV.
Twenty minutes pass, and Toji is still hunched on the brittle upholstery, remote in hand. The distant screeches of an action show echo in his head, but his eyes remain trained on that closed door. This place is no different than his other apartments. The floor is unswept, there are cobwebs in the rafters. The kitchen is hilariously understocked, and the walls are blank. It is completely devoid of life. But as Fushiguro Toji stares at the light flowing through the shoji of his son’s door, he hears the whispers and quiet sniffling of a child crying. His jaw clenches and his head swims with memories. Perhaps he prefers it empty. Maybe it would not be so hard that way.
Groaning, he hauls himself off the couch. He sinks onto the ground, crossing his legs. He winces as the weight pinches his healing side. He opens the door. And he is met with Megumi, small hands curled against his side, frowning with a quivering lip at his kneeling father.
Toji knows. He looks at those puffy red eyes and swollen cheeks and knows; he did this. If his presence did this then how can his presence ever hope to fix it? He cannot undo four years of neglect. He wasn’t there. He shouldn’t be here. He wants to run.
Run, drink, gamble, find a woman. To sweet talk her into letting him stay with her, to stumble through finances and live from hit to hit. To gamble his money away until he can make himself rich all again. To live unattached, ungrounded. Oh, how he wants to live that way.
But he doesn’t. In fact, they fall into an uncertain routine. They fumble through the everyday familiarities like “good mornings” and “good nights.” Or rather, Toji does. Megumi rarely ever speaks or acknowledges him, save for a bitter glare or the click of his tongue. Any words he speaks are short, clipped at the ends to keep them from growing. “Yes, no, okay, fine.”
Megumi goes to school. He wakes himself up, brushes his teeth, and leaves before Toji can wake up. Toji stays in the house. He lazes around, occasionally getting up to wipe a counter, or eat a cup of noodles, though he’s not quite sure what he’s doing. He figures he should keep up appearances by trying. He’ll sweep a bit. Admittedly, quite halfheartedly. He had hoped never to be doing chores again, and when a blister begins to form on his thumb from the broom, he unceremoniously snaps it in half.
He feels no more important than a scuff of dirt on the wall. Ignorable for now, but sitting in the eventuality that he will be scrubbed off. He cannot continue his work. Not with Jujutsu Tech watching his moves like a hawk. So they receive weekly checks from the school. Not a lot, but enough to live in more than squalor. If Toji was willing to clean, that is.
They live off those checks. Toji remembers how he lived off that monetary rush that rippled through his veins and dragged him out to casinos, to races. But now he can only think of the salty cabbages and cheap ramen in their cupboards and remember he cannot live only for himself.