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Megumi has a thing for dozing off on his shoulder, Satoru’s learned. It’s the one and only time he’ll be affectionate; usually, he’s all for swatting away Satoru’s hands, keeping him at arms’ length, but once they’re out in public and he’s gotten sick of walking, Megumi will come right up, tug on his pants, and soundlessly wait to be lifted.
Satoru never says no, either, which is a rarity for him. Even though he winds up with sore arms and a drool soaked shoulder, he’ll haul Megumi up and around without complaints, all tame steps and gentle hands, shushing sleepy green eyes if they blink open at him.
It’s an unspoken agreement. Megumi knows that on Satoru’s shoulder, he won’t have to face any people, won’t have to dip into any of his waning social battery, and Satoru knows this is the closest he’ll get to any paternal activity—so it works for the both of them.
Today, they’re walking through the streets of Tokyo, dimly lit and flushed with people, and Satoru has Megumi on one arm and Tsumiki on the other. She’s walking on her own, at least, because Tsumiki has far too much energy not to, and everywhere she goes she pulls Satoru with her, squeals and points and waits for his approval.
“Look, Gojo-san, this dress is so sparkly!”
Satoru’s never paid much mind to picking clothes out—not with how many he owns—but the way Tsumiki lights up now has him bending, squinting, really staring at the shiny blue dress she’s pointing at in a shop’s window.
“You want that one?” He coos. “Let’s get it!”
And Satoru turns to enter the store, but Tsumiki pulls his hand, hard, and is flushing when he looks back down at her.
“No, no, Gojo-san, it’s okay! Let’s keep going.”
As they walk on, this becomes a pattern: Tsumiki spotting, yearning, praising, then Satoru offering and Tsumiki, turning pink in the cheeks, refusing, always saying—insisting—no, that she doesn’t need it, and pulling Satoru forward. Megumi hardly stirs throughout. Beyond sluggish blinks and his little fists clenching around Satoru’s collar, he’s still. Tsumiki, however, has enough energy for the three of them, and she bounds along giddily.
“Hey, ‘miki.” Satoru says, after they’ve rounded their fourth—or fifth—block, peeking in each store they pass along the way. He could’ve gone for another, but there’s less people out now, less activity around them, so maybe they should wind down. They’re kids, after all.
All of them.
Tsumiki peels her face away from a tall glass window and stares up at him.
“Yes, Gojo-san?”
“Let’s grab dinner. I’m hungry.”
He isn’t, but he figures with the way the crowds have thinned and the air has chilled, it’s an appropriate suggestion. He shifts Megumi to his other arm and pokes his cheek, his nose, his temple, ignoring the angry grumbles and the huffing and puffing.
“Guuuumi, you want food?”
Megumi glares at him and, like the brat he is, says nothing—just turns and faces the other way.
Tsumiki giggles.
“I’m hungry, Gojo-san! We can eat.”
It isn’t hard to find a spot to eat in; initially, Satoru left it to Tsumiki, but she had sheepishly declined and insisted he should be the one to pick, so he’d chosen at random, guided them to a place serving ramen down the street.
Balancing Megumi on his hip, he opens the door to the quaint, likely overpriced restaurant, allowing Tsumiki to go first and then following behind her. It has a nice atmosphere, admittedly, with sleek, modern decor and only a handful of people dining inside, so it’s quiet, good for Megumi’s nap. Plus, Satoru is glad to be out of the cold, so he isn’t all that picky.
He sits within a vacant booth—Tsumiki next to him, Megumi in his lap, propped up by his hand—and skims over a paper menu. Megumi has stirred again now; he’s shifting around, pulling Satoru’s open coat around himself, and Satoru knows he’s awake, but he’s pretending not to be, likely so he won’t have to order anything. Typical. Satoru says nothing, however, just pats his back a couple times, and Tsumiki, clueless to her brother’s manipulation, points and whispers what she knows Megumi will and won’t eat to Satoru.
Tsumiki orders for herself, then Megumi, and Satoru last. He isn’t too bothered with his meal—his mind has wandered already to dessert, after all—but Tsumiki is chewing on a piece of edamame beside him, babbling about how good it is, so he dips into it, for her sake. True to his act, Megumi sits up and rubs at his eyes, scans the dining room to ensure nobody is around before he, too, grabs for the plate of edamame.
“Woah, sleepyhead, you finally alive?”
And Megumi glares at him—a comical sight, despite the hostility—before settling back down. Fully alert now, he hides himself back in Satoru’s side and watches Tsumiki color in her paper menu.
“You try, Megumi!” Tsumiki encourages, but he merely blinks, engulfed by Satoru’s coat, so Satoru reaches out instead.
“Here, I’ll help him.”
Satoru feels Megumi’s glare from that and jeez, this kid can pack some serious anger when he wants to, but as Satoru’s pen meets paper, it begins to die down. He first draws himself—a slim, tall figure, clad with sunglasses and a shit-eating grin; then Tsumiki, on his right, wearing a dress he tries to model after the one she liked earlier; and finally, Megumi, on his left, with scribbled locks of hair half the size of his body.
Tsumiki howls.
Megumi huffs.
“Can I color it in, Gojo-san? I’ll take it home.”
Home.
Satoru smiles, slides the piece of paper forward, and tells Tsumiki with sincerity that he’d be offended if she didn’t.