Chapter Text
“Happy birthday, Megumi!”
Megumi mutters something into his pillow.
Satoru clears his throat. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MEGUMI!” he bellows louder, and the dark-haired boy finally startles upright in his bed.
“Oh my god,” he mutters. “It’s way too early for this.”
“Never too early to celebrate a birthday, Megumi!” Satoru trills. “You should be grateful I didn’t wake you up at midnight exactly.”
“Thanks,” Megumi says, not sounding very thankful at all.
“You’re welcome,” Satoru hums back anyway, pulling a reluctant Megumi out of his bed.
“Happy birthday, Megumi!” another voice cheers quietly, and at that, Megumi cracks a smile.
“Thanks, Tsumiki,” he murmurs when he spots his sister by the doorframe.
Satoru ruffles Megumi’s hair. “So her birthday wish is appreciated and mine isn’t?” he complains, and Megumi bats his hand away, his scowl returning with a vengeance.
“Yeah, because she didn’t scream bloody murder into my ear first thing in the morning.”
Satoru pouts. “You’re no fun, Megumi.”
“Not when it comes to my sleep, I’m not.”
“Always so grumpy,” Satoru says with a click of his tongue. “But it’s your birthday, so I’ll let it pass for today.”
“So generous,” Megumi mutters dryly.
“I know,” Satoru says proudly. “Aren’t I?” At Megumi’s subsequent unimpressed stare, he grins. “Come on, cheer up. Today’s gonna be a great day.”
Today’s gonna be a fucking terrible day, Satoru thinks miserably, staring at the haphazard stack of papers covering every visible surface of the dining table.
He picks one of the offending papers up, squinting at the numbers that quickly blur into unintelligible nonsense before his eyes. With an exasperated huff, he throws it back onto the table where it immediately disappears among documents that all look identical to Satoru. He leans back in his chair, shifting his glasses up so he can press the heels of his hands against his eyes, but even that doesn’t make the hazy numbers floating in his vision disappear.
“Gojo?”
The sudden voice nearly startles him out of his chair. When he finally pulls his hands away from his eyes, he finds Tsumiki staring at him with barely disguised worry.
“Are you alright?”
He gratefully accepts the cup of tea she offers to him before pushing his glasses up further on his nose.
“Fine,” he tries to say cheerily, but the word falls dull when his eyes drag back to the spread of crumpled papers on the table. “Taxes. You know how it is.” He shakes his head. “Anyway. Aren’t you going to work today?”
“No, I called the school to take a day off for Megumi’s birthday,” she reminds him, and Satoru hums.
“Speaking of,” he starts. “Where’s the birthday boy?”
“I saw him leave early in the morning. I think he went to pick someone up? He should be back soon.”
“To pick someone up?” Satoru repeats. Before he can say anything more, the doorbell to their tiny apartment screeches. “That must be him. I’ll get it.”
He spares one last disdainful glance at the dining table before downing the entire cup of tea he’d been given in one fell swoop.
“Megumi,” he greets with a grin after throwing the door open. His smile stretches thin when he notices the person standing next to him. “Itadori-kun.”
“Hi, Gojo-san!” Itadori greets excitedly. “It’s nice to see you again!”
Satoru’s grin turns into something resembling a grimace. “Right.” He turns to Megumi, who watches the interaction with wary eyes. “I only cooked enough food for three people,” he mutters under his breath, careful not to let his plastic smile falter. “Now I have to cook more.”
Megumi ignores him entirely to push past him inside. Satoru’s forced to pull his eyes back to Itadori. “Please, come inside,” he says through gritted teeth.
Satoru finds Tsumiki enthusiastically talking with Megumi when he goes back inside, and she only becomes more animated when she spots Itadori. With a barely concealed roll of his eyes, Satoru moves back into the kitchen, turning on the tap to wash the cup he still grips abnormally tight.
"So," Satoru murmurs when Megumi happens to wander beside the sink. "Is she staying?"
"Who's she?"
Satoru's head nods back imperceptibly. "Itadori."
"Yuuji's not a she."
Satoru scrubs at the rim of the cup a little harder than necessary. “If only.”
If Megumi hears him, he doesn’t make any indication. After one final rinse, Satoru tosses the cup on the drying rack. A harsh buzzer rings through the apartment, and Satoru gladly takes the excuse to leave.
“Customers,” he explains blandly to the audience of three that watch him with varying levels of apprehension. He makes for the stairs that lead to the laundromat, but it’s not long before he hears a cautious patter of feet behind him. He doesn’t need to turn to recognize who it is.
“I know you haven’t always liked Yuuji, but—”
Satoru cuts Megumi off. “I’ve never said that. He’s a good kid, I like him well enough.” He makes a beeline for the counter, snatching the ticket the customer hands him without a word. He spins on his heel to rummage through the bags of dry cleaned clothes that clump above the laundry machines. Megumi’s footsteps continue following a few steps behind. “I just think you two are awfully close, is all.”
Satoru finally spots and grabs the bag with the correct tag with one hand and quickly walks back towards the counter to push the bag of clothes to the customer. “Five hundred yen,” he drawls to them, even as he hears Megumi’s feet still behind him.
“Awfully close,” Megumi repeats slowly. “Because we’ve been dating for three years.”
Satoru snatches the bills from the customer with a smarmy grin. “Do come again,” he simpers, before finally turning to face Megumi. “Three years?” he asks, and he doesn’t put much effort into hiding the disdain that runs through his tone. “What a nice and long friendship.”
Megumi’s eyebrow twitches. “We’re dating.”
“I’m sure,” Satoru dismisses. He pauses to throw open one of the many laundry machines lined up in a row. After fishing out a pair of shoes, he unceremoniously chucks them at the nearest customer. “No shoes in the machine.”
“I’ve told this to you at least twenty times—” Megumi starts to say, but Satoru’s already pacing to the next machine. It makes an odd gurgling noise as he passes, so he pauses to aggressively slap it on the side. It quiets after that, but Satoru makes a mental note to add it to the ever-growing list of machines that needed repair.
“You know,” Satoru interrupts. “Our auditor put a lien on our laundromat. Can you believe that?”
“Stop changing the subject,” Megumi mutters quietly.
Satoru ignores him entirely. “A LIEN,” he repeats, waving a hand wildly in the air. “I had to search up what that fucking even means. Can’t believe that guy’s audacity. And even worse—” He cuts himself off as he throws open another washing machine, only for the door to slam back closed with a loud thud. “Tsumiki still insists on giving him cookies. COOKIES.”
He pries open the laundry machine again, his fingers digging into the metal rim long enough for him to fish out a 100 yen bill stuck in the corner.
“Nice,” he mutters, flattening it out on a nearby table before pocketing it. He turns, somewhat unsurprised to see Megumi’s absence, but his attention’s quickly caught by a soaring instrumental arrangement blaring from the tiny television above the washers.
There’s a couple dancing on screen. The lady wears traditional Indian garb, the man outfitted in military-esque clothing. They sway in a large ballroom in tune to the invisible orchestra, a hand in a hand, a hand on a waist, leaning in and pulling back like the tides in time to the swelling of the music. Satoru thinks maybe he remembers something like this—thinks maybe he remembers a hand resting against his waist, thinks maybe he remembers slow dancing to a tune only they could hear in a room that felt made just for them, thinks maybe he remembers a forehead leaning in to bump against his gently, thinks maybe—
“I don’t know how many more times I’m supposed to tell him.” His distracted thoughts quickly disperse when he overhears Megumi muttering. He frowns when he pulls his gaze away from the television to see him sitting on a nearby laundry machine, leaning his head down to rest against Itadori’s cupped hands. “He’s insufferable like this.”
“Maybe he just doesn’t understand,” Itadori offers, and Megumi shakes his head.
“Impossible,” he murmurs. “He can’t be that stupid.”
Satoru coughs loudly and obnoxiously. Megumi sends an exhausted glance at him. Itadori’s wide eyes dart between the two of them, before his hands reluctantly drop from Megumi’s face.
“Dinner’ll be ready in an hour,” Satoru says, pointedly staring only at Megumi. “Don’t be late.”
Megumi mutters something under his breath that Satoru decides to take as acknowledgement.
“Happy birthday to youuuu, happy birthday to youuuuuuuuuuuu,” Satoru croons horribly off-pitch. “Happy BIRTHDAAAY, dear Megumiiiiiiiiii,” he continues warbling. “Happy birthday to YOUUUUU.”
He receives three blank stares with varying levels of horror for his efforts.
Tsumiki is the first to break the awkward silence. “Wow, that was…” Her words trail off. “Really something!”
Before Satoru can snatch the ambiguous compliment, Megumi scoffs. “That was horrendous,” he says bluntly, and Satoru gasps dramatically.
“You wound me, Megumi,” he says with a hand over his heart, but he only gets a roll of eyes as a response. “Well, make a wish already then!” He eagerly gestures at the extravagant cake Tsumiki had just finished baking. “I’d like to be eating this already.”
Megumi huffs, but finally blows out the few candles on the cake. Satoru and Tsumiki cheer, and Itadori, who Satoru noticed had been vibrating in the chair next to Megumi, finally leans in to place a quick kiss on Megumi’s cheek.
“Happy birthday, Megumi,” he says quietly, and Satoru doesn’t miss the way Megumi’s eyes curve into a soft smile.
Satoru’s eye twitches.
“You two are such awfully good friends to each other,” he can’t help but say, and the words land heavy like bricks on the table surface, instantly suffocating any festive atmosphere. Tsumiki can’t hide her wince, Itadori simply blinks at him, but it’s the way Megumi’s eyes narrow that draw Satoru’s attention.
“Yeah,” Megumi says slowly. There’s something tense in his voice. There’s something tense in his face. There’s something tense lingering in the entire space around them. “Because we’re dating.”
Satoru, for once, can’t bite his tongue. “Dating,” he repeats in a derisive mutter under his breath. “Haven’t you done this for long enough?”
“Gojo,” Tsumiki interrupts quietly. “I don’t think—”
Megumi, for maybe the first time Satoru’s seen, interrupts Tsumiki. “Done what for long enough.”
“This whole…” Satoru gestures at Megumi and Itadori. “Thing that you two have. Isn’t it time to move on?”
Megumi’s eyes narrow into thinner slits. “It’s been three years.”
“Exactly,” Satoru says with a nod. “Plenty of time to experiment.”
“Experiment?” This time, it’s Itadori who speaks up. Satoru doesn’t think he’s ever seen the other look so distraught. “I don’t think we’re—”
Megumi stops him with a hand on his arm. His pointed stare hasn’t left Satoru’s face. “This isn’t a fucking experiment,” he says carefully. “This is my life. This—” he lifts up their entwined hands, “is who I am.”
Satoru barely manages to resist rolling his eyes. “You say that now,” he mutters, though he’s loud enough for everyone sitting in the tense silence to hear. “But you know, it’s just a phase.”
Megumi chokes out a strangled laugh. “A phase?”
Satoru tilts his head. “I had one too,” he admits. “Had a little period where I thought I might be—“ He cuts himself off. “You know.”
“Gay?” Megumi finishes dryly.
“That.” At the succeeding stupefied silence, he clarifies. “But I moved on. I was just like you then—confused. But I’m not, anymore.” Satoru’s gaze drifts to the joined hands proudly presented on the table and almost remembers a hand like that wrapped around his—
—almost.
“So really, Megumi, I think you’ve let this go on for long enough.” He pulls his eyes back to Megumi’s hooded ones. “Don’t you agree?”
“I don’t agree to shit,” he responds immediately, uncharacteristically bitter. “Just because your love life is a failure doesn’t mean you have to make mine one, too.”
Satoru laughs harshly. “Love?” he repeats incredulously. “What do you know about love?”
“A lot fucking more than you do.”
Satoru can’t help his scoff. “This coming from someone who claims to be dating a boy for three years. How much longer are you going to delude yourself?” His voice turns a shade more bitter. “At some point, you have to come back to the real world, Megumi.”
There’s an utter and fragile silence after he speaks. It’s broken only by the light rustling of paper in the draft that comes from the barely cracked open window.
There’s a horrible screech. It takes Satoru a few moments to register the source as Megumi’s chair being forcefully pushed back.
“I wish I hadn’t come here for this,” Megumi says dully. “I’m going back to my apartment. Thanks for a great fucking birthday.”
Tsumiki half-rises in her chair. “Megumi—”
Megumi’s halfway out the door when he pauses. He doesn’t turn around, but Satoru gets the distinct feeling he’s waiting for something. Satoru gets the distinct feeling he’s waiting for Satoru to say something.
Words bubble up at the tip of his tongue. He doesn’t know what Megumi wants to hear. He can’t understand why Megumi’s so unfathomably upset. He doesn’t know why it feels like he’s so horribly misstepped somewhere. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say—so he stares at Megumi’s hand on the door and says nothing at all.
“Wait,” he finally blurts out. “Wait.”
He’s not sure what he wants Megumi to wait for.
After a beat of hesitation, Megumi actually turns back to face him. For the first time since Satoru adopted Megumi, he looks like an utter stranger.
Satoru is struck with the realization that he has absolutely no idea what to say. Has no idea what Megumi wants him to say. From the almost pleading way Megumi looks at him, Satoru thinks maybe he should know—
—but he doesn’t.
So he swallows dryly. He blinks. He takes a step back.
“Don’t take the car,” he says dumbly. “I need it for tomorrow.”
Satoru didn’t know it was possible for Megumi’s expression to shutter down further.
“Yeah,” Megumi mutters. He turns away. “Don’t worry about it.” His hand slips from the door, and a few moments later, he’s gone.
Satoru gets the distinct feeling that he’s fucked up.
Tsumiki’s disappointed stare from the other end of the table doesn’t exactly help, either.
Itadori’s eyes dart from Satoru to Tsumiki to the closed door. “I think I’ll go too,” he murmurs, and quietly slips out of his chair towards the door. “Thanks for having me, Gojo-san.”
God, he even sounds sincere. Satoru thinks maybe he should be feeling bad.
But for what exactly—the reason continues to slip from Satoru’s grasp.
Satoru doesn’t exactly enjoy trips to the local NTA office, but he thinks he’d really rather prefer making the ride than them coming over to knock at his front door. So he casts one last derisive look at the papers that now lay haphazard on the floor, one last conflicted look at the door to Megumi’s room that remains half-ajar, and snatches the keys to the run-down car in the parking lot before padding down the steps to leave through the laundromat’s main door.
When he arrives, he’s pleasantly surprised to find a parking spot right near the front. It’s a good sign, he decides, and an even better sign when he walks inside to find the elevator working for a change. He feels exhausted, for some reason, his limbs thick with fatigue, and although Satoru can’t think of any true cause for it, he finds his mind keeps drifting to the events of the night before.
He shakes his head. It wasn’t the first time Megumi had stormed out of the tiny apartment, and it definitely wouldn’t be the last.
He’s once again pleased to find the elevator empty when it finally dings open, and he quickly scurries inside to aggressively jam the close doors button as soon as he passes the threshold.
“Come on, come on, come on,” he murmurs, his finger jabbing against the button in vain. It closes, but not before another man slips inside, and Satoru has to bite the inside of his cheek to prevent a groan from slipping out. He’d been looking forward to sulking in the corner of the elevator alone.
He glances from the corner of his eye at the man who stands silently in the opposite corner of the elevator from Satoru. He taps a hand erratically against his thigh, but calms down when the other doesn’t even spare him a glance. In fact, he doesn’t move at all, not even to press another button for whichever floor he wants to get down on. Satoru assumes it’s because he’s to get off at the same floor as Satoru, but when he glances at the pad, he realizes he hasn’t even pressed his own floor. He does, quickly jabbing at the third floor, and it’s only when the elevator starts moving that Satoru lets his eyes drift back to the mystery man.
He’s tall, but still shorter than Satoru. He’s wearing a black face mask, something mildly irregular but not too oddly so, but it stops Satoru from recognizing him entirely. There’s something oddly familiar about him, though, especially as Satoru’s eyes keep darting to the man’s dark hair, tied in a bun even as most of it spills over across his shoulders, along with a chunk that hangs down as odd bangs. Satoru’s memory bristles with recognition, but with the lower half of his face entirely covered, Satoru can’t seem to place him in his memory at all.
He’s still watching the other when he quickly pulls out a floral umbrella, seemingly out of nowhere, opens it to its full size, twirling it above the two of them as he suddenly presses into Satoru. Satoru lets out a surprised squawk, but it’s quickly muffled by a hand against his mouth.
“Don’t freak out,” the mystery man murmurs, and Satoru is once again swept with a wave of something that feels vaguely like nostalgia at the sound of his voice.
“Don’t freak out?” he hisses back when the hand over his mouth is finally removed. “Who even are you?” His eyes dart to the umbrella above them. “What’s that for?”
“The umbrella’s to hide us from the security camera,” the other explains, and Satoru vaguely remembers seeing a camera in the corner of the elevator that is now utterly blocked by the umbrella. “As for who I am…” His eyes glance away. “That’s not important right now.”
Satoru thinks it’s actually rather fucking important, and he opens his mouth to say just that, when the other man interrupts again.
“There’s no time to explain.” He shoves the umbrella handle into Satoru’s hands. With no other choice, Satoru clutches it with both hands. “Pay attention,” he murmurs, pulling out two odd-looking earpieces from his pocket. “When you leave this elevator, you can either turn left towards your scheduled audit appointment or you can turn right and go into the janitor’s closet.” Even as the earpieces are gently tucked against Satoru’s ears, he feels the sensation of a screening sort of light passing across his face and he can’t help his instinctive frown.
“The janitor’s closet?” Satoru parrots, even as his hand goes to brush against the foreign technology against his ears. “Why would I—”
The man puts a finger to his lips. Satoru’s mouth snaps closed.
He watches, stupefied, as the other pulls out a piece of paper, scribbling so rapidly that Satoru can barely follow his hands.
“Breathe in,” the other says, and Satoru’s eyes snap back to his face. “You’re going to feel a slight pressure in your head.”
Satoru laughs. “What are you even talking abou—”
The breath is entirely kicked out of him just a moment later. He thinks, for a moment, that he might be about to die, and it doesn’t particularly relieve him to have his entire life quite literally flash before his eyes.
He remembers cold marble floors, an empty foyer, a sprawling staircase; he remembers missing teeth, hopeful slumbers, disappointed mornings; he remembers books and books of all shapes and sizes, a brief venture into a grandiose library, a brutal reproach that sends him nearly to the point of tears; he remembers dark hallways, silent students, stoic professors with a perpetually watchful stare; he remembers nights alone poring over textbooks, mindless scrolling through his phone, a bare dorm room; but then—
—but then, he remembers a single extended lollipop, a shy grin and greeting, late nights with Netflix on the couch; he remembers slinging an arm through another, lingering touches that always last a moment too long, late and later nights sprawled across the same bed; he remembers unspoken promises and whispers and secrets; he remembers a single street in Shinjuku, an outstretched hand, a sense of something precious slipping through his fingers; he remembers returning to an ice-frosted house, echoing steps, false sympathy; he remembers “you’re alright now, Satoru,” and “it’s better this way, Satoru,” and “at some point, you have to come back to the real world, Satoru;” but then—
—but then, he remembers an argument, three suitcases, a dingy car; he remembers driving past an abandoned laundromat, pulling over, peeking inside; he remembers a signature, a stack of bills, a single rusty key; he remembers ominous flickering, miscellaneous stains, stray droplets of water; he remembers months and bills and yen and regret; but then—
—but then, he remembers another signature, another pair of suitcases, another set of keys; he remembers chasing a tiny Megumi around rows of washers, Tsumiki’s laughter tinkling across the room, Satoru unable to hide his growing grin; he remembers celebrating acceptance letters, Megumi’s emo phase, a box of tissues quickly used up after Tsumiki leaves; he remembers another acceptance letter, a celebration, a temporary farewell; he remembers a new boy with pink hair and a wide grin, something that tastes sour against his tongue, a forced smile; he remembers a growing distance, missed calls, a final invitation; he remembers a birthday party, an untouched cake, glistening eyes; he remembers a monumental stack of bills, a volley of miscellaneous numbers flying through his head, a final appointment created at a time he knows he can’t make; he remembers an elevator that refuses to close, an open umbrella, a strange set of earbuds; but then—
—but then, he remembers an uncannily familiar stranger, his face inches from Satoru’s.
Satoru takes in a shuddering inhale. “What the fuck,” he breathes out. “What the fuck was that.”
The other man ignores him completely. “The moment you’re situated in the meeting, follow these instructions.” He holds up the piece of paper Satoru vaguely remembers seeing him scribble on. “Don’t tell anyone, okay?”
Satoru’s still very much reeling from the intense series of flashbacks his brain spontaneously decided to send him through, so he can only nod dumbly at the other’s words.
“What—” he starts to say, but he’s once again shushed by a finger against his lips. The other’s hand trails down the side of Satoru’s face, and his touch lingers a little longer than a few moments before it drops and he pulls away his eyes. Satoru has to repress the shudder that threatens to run down his spine—from what exactly, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he wants to know.
“I’ll see you soon.”
Satoru blinks, and he’s gone.
- Switch shoes to the wrong feet.
- Close your eyes, imagining you are in the janitor's closet.
- Hold that thought and press the green button.
P.S. Don't forget to breathe.
“Gojo-san, are you listening?”
Satoru startles from where he had been staring at the paper note that had been pressed into his hand.
“I’m always listening to you, Nanami,” Satoru simpers, although the raised eyebrow he receives in return tells him he’s being everything but convincing.
“Then you can explain this,” he drones out, sliding a piece of paper across the desk that Satoru has to lean forward to see. He has no idea what he’s supposed to be looking at. He finds his name on the paper, and that’s about all Satoru can make of it.
“Yes,” Satoru says regardless. “It’s taxes.”
Nanami stares at him. “It’s a receipt.”
Satoru squints at the paper again before snapping his fingers. “Right you are. You’re so very clever, Nanami!”
Nanami looks like he wants to quit his job immediately. “It’s a receipt,” he repeats, “for a karaoke machine. You’ve listed it as a business expense.”
“Because it is,” Satoru says simply.
“What business does a laundromat owner have with a karaoke machine?”
“I’ll have you know,” Satoru starts haughtily, “I’m a very good singer as well. Would you like me to demonstrate?” He clears his throat overly loud.
“That won’t be necessary, thank you,” Nanami quickly says, and Satoru rather enjoys the twitch that forms above his eyebrow. “But you will need to file Form 1040 for each other… occupation,” he says, the final word dripping with barely concealed disdain, “you have, because according to your deductibles,” he slides over more pieces of paper that look identical to Satoru, “you’re also a novelist, a chef, a teacher, and a vocal coach.”
“I’m an incredibly versatile person with many talents,” Satoru says shamelessly. He pauses. “What's a Form 1040 again, though?”
Nanami stares at him with dead eyes. He begins explaining the Form 100 or whatever it was Satoru had asked about, but Satoru’s not paying the slightest bit of attention. Instead, he uncrinkles the small paper note still clutched in his hands under the desk and glances surreptitiously at the scribbled words again.
Why not, Satoru thinks simply.
He shuffles his feet out of his shoes under the desk as Nanami drones on, before shuffling them back on in the reverse order. He closes his eyes and visualizes the innocuous janitor’s door he had seen on his way out of the elevator just a few moments ago, before he can realize what a ridiculous endeavor he’s doing. He hears a faint beep by the side of his head, and when he cracks an eye open, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in a nearby mirror and finds the earpiece wrapped around cartilage has turned a bright green.
Go figure, Satoru thinks.
He lets his eyes slip closed again, imagines the janitor’s closet again, and hesitantly brings a hand to his ear to press the button. It clicks softly under his touch, and Satoru breathes in deeply in anticipation.
Nothing happens.
Of course nothing happened, Satoru chides himself. He wasn’t in some sort of fever dream—
—which is the last thought that passes through his mind before he’s forcefully pushed back against his chair and sent careening back at supersonic speeds and the entire office flashes past him in a blur and the chair comes to a stop and Satoru can finally breathe again and that’s when he realizes he is, in fact, in the janitor’s closet and before Satoru can think to question how the hell he managed that, he turns and finds—
“...Suguru?”