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1
Around the fifth time his teacher calls home asking that he “please leave” for the rest of the day due to his “disruptive behavior”, Gojo brings him to Jujutsu Tech to wait out his punishment.
“Seriously, think of your sister,” his guardian reprimands. “She shouldn’t have to be dragged out of school and bear the consequences of your delinquency. If I could be around all the time, I would, but you know it’s not like that–” and he almost sounds like an adult until kaleidoscope blue peeks over round shades, “But you won, right?”
Megumi huffs, dragging his feet, bad enough to stumble on his own rubber soles.
Before them, just a few yards away, stands a boy in a light lilac kimono, ashy curls haphazardly tussling with the wind, cut not unlike his guardian’s. He can’t be that much younger than Megumi, but he looks it, the stark smallness of his body juxtaposing the roundness of his cheeks, on which sat lines drawing up into circles on his skin.
Megumi certainly had never seen a child with tattoos before. Especially on grounds so stiff and traditional as these.
He’s not as surprised as he should be when Gojo waves his too-long arms in the air to draw the boy’s attention. “Toge! Hey! This is my ward, Megumi! Hey, Megs, that’s Toge Inumaki, say hi.”
Megumi’s mouth twists sourly, “What’s with his face?”
He can already see the dot of sweat pooling on Gojo’s brow, no doubt praying that Inumaki hadn’t heard him. “Right, you know next to nothing about Jujutsu society.”
“And whose fault is that.”
“So blunt…” he sighs, his confidence recouping from the blow of middle school snark. “Toge here comes from a super powerful sorcerer family, just like us. The Inumaki clan is gifted with a special cursed technique embedded in their speech.” Gojo lowers his tone, cupping a hand towards Megumi, “Jujutsu society had most of ‘em outlawed because of how crazy scary their power is, so there’s not many of them left. But sometimes… someone like Toge is born, and it’s a total free-for-all on who gets to control such a promising weapon.”
Megumi narrows his eyes at the boy, unruly hair tossing every which way, pale enough in the sun that staring at him for too long hurts. “How much did you pay for him?”
Gojo’s obscured gaze snaps back at him, “What? No, don’t be ridiculous, I have enough trouble taking care of you and your sister. I know his parents, that’s all.” He glances at the sapphire shine of his De Bethune watch, “Shit– uh, sit tight, kiddo, I just gotta– It’s Yaga, you know?”
Megumi shrugs, “Go. If I pick a fight with one of your precious students, I’ll just die, I guess.”
“C’mon, Megs,” Gojo pinches his cheek lightly enough to have it slapped away, “You’d at least get a few hits in. Remember who raised you.”
“Whatever.”
Gojo’s pursed lips look about five seconds away from promising to make it up to him with grilled chicken with ginger before he remembers why exactly they’re there. “I’ll be quick,” he promises, teleporting away in a distortion of air.
Megumi huffs, glancing as discreetly as he can manage over at the Inumaki boy. His gaze snaps forward as he makes contact with big, off-putting, uncannily brown eyes staring back at him. This kid is weird. Jujutsu sorcerers are weird. Gojo is proof enough of that.
Shit, he’s walking up to him.
Inumaki looks shy up close, quiet, not in an unnerving way, just… uncertain. His voice squeaks against warped syllables, like he's scared of his own voice, “Mayonnaise… tuna mayo?”
Megumi stares at him as if he had just watched a second head grotesquely shoot out from his neck.
Inumaki sighs frustratedly, like he expected him to understand the garble of groceries that came out of his mouth. He wrestles with the sleeve of his kimono, conjuring a small pad of paper and a pen. He jabs harshly onto the paper before shoving the notepad in his face.
Want to ditch him? is written in deep, yet neat, scribbles into the paper, followed by a crude caricature of stupid designer sunglasses and spiky white hair.
His chest soars in the simplicity of being understood. “Thought you’d never ask.”
It’s at age nine that Megumi meets ten-year-old Toge, who leads him to a secret garden tucked away, overlooking campus grounds. Toge’s sanctuary, now his.
He doesn’t say much, not that he’d understand him if he did, but Toge’s the first person that doesn’t push him, allows him to exist in the same space as him.
Megumi dislikes being around most people most of the time, but he likes this.
2
He starts getting into real fights at twelve.
It becomes a sort of routine. He picks a fight with some asshole at school, beats some manners into him, gets suspended, and Gojo dumps him at Jujutsu Tech and into the unfortunate hands of distraught and under-qualified third-year, Akari Nitta.
He doesn’t count on the ninth grader he blindsided hitting back.
His lip stings around the whipping wind of Gojo’s teleportation, grabbed by the back of his jacket. His head spins and throbs through black spots drifting into his line of sight.
A hiss strains through grit teeth as Toge haphazardly pours rubbing alcohol over his scraped knuckles.
His hands rip out of Toge’s grasp like a wounded animal, muscles tightening against searing pain.
Toge’s hands are firm as they pull him back, under the warmth of running water, thumbs smoothing over scrapes and cuts to work blood and sand out from open skin. Megumi sinks his teeth into the flesh of his bottom lip, tasting metal.
A damp hand smacks him upside the head.
Megumi startles back, brows pinching, annoyed by the gesture and the water creeping down his collar, up tan sleeves.
A head jerk, then, “Bonito flakes.”
Gojo had wanted him to see Ieiri, but Toge had been closer and he was still a little intimidated by her. So he hops back onto the sink, gritting his teeth hard enough to chip as Toge presses an alcohol-soaked cotton ball to his split lip, feet slamming back into the porcelain.
Toge’s hand is different than he’s used to. Tsumiki’s is nurturing, persistent and firm when needed. Her voice steadies him with softness as she soothes splinters from his fingers.
Gojo’s hand has always been easy with affection, but shied behind a magnetic distance when it came to being real with him, like he’s afraid his touch could shatter him.
Dad had been the opposite. Gruff, inconsiderate, just trying to get the job done for both of their sakes. He knew the process objectively and well, used to wrapping his own wounds after a job. He had treated Megumi’s aches no differently.
Toge’s harsh on him, like he’s scolding him for being stupid, before soothing over the pain with a patient touch.
He smoothes antibiotic over the split, and Megumi grumbles, “Trying to play the good senpai now? Can’t fool me anymore, idiot. I know you too well.”
“Mustard leaf,” and it’s the faintest bit muffled against the discrete black mask tucked behind his ears, Toge’s newest fashion statement to hide his fangs.
“Whatever.” Megumi tracks the movement of Toge’s hands rifling through his first aid kit, setting everything back, having half the sense to mutter a begrudging, “...thanks.”
3
He’s surprised, to say the least, when Toge asks to see his school.
Megumi doesn’t consider Saitama Urami to be that interesting, but caves when Toge somewhat bashfully admits that he’s never been to a public school before.
He supposes living as though a single word could cause devastation doesn’t breed many opportunities to be around others one’s age.
It’s a first for him too. They almost never see each other under normal circumstances, and never without Megumi’s suspension.
He takes him up to the roof after class, a little sanctuary of his own, free from buzzing classmates and administration hot on his heel.
The breeze is nice today, tame. It’s just the right amount of warmth shining in from amongst the clouds, perfect and serene.
He likes this about Toge, how peaceful everything feels when they sit there, just the two of them. Ever since that first day, hiding away from Gojo. He loves Tsumiki, and never dares to admit the same to Gojo, but it fills him with a sense of contentness to simply co-exist with another person that doesn’t impose on his every waking thought.
Megumi braces against the concrete, pushing himself off the ground, towards the ledge. He really shouldn’t be up here as often as he is. It’s unsafe to most standards, most of the schools he knows of at least having a bit of a chained fence sat atop the roof. But the ledge here is exposed, more of a step than a climb, shallow enough to access easily.
He glances down at the ground below with a morbid fascination. He’s not exactly afraid of heights. It makes him a little queasy sometimes – not enough to stop him from jumping onto any ledge in his line of sight, but enough.
The fall would be far. Nothing for someone like Gojo. He’s halfway certain he’d land on his feet like a cat, standing proud as limitless cushions him without shattering a single bone under the velocity of the fall.
Satoru Gojo is a nightmare to the law of physics and every science teacher he’s had since his earliest memory, not just because of parent-teacher conferences.
He wonders what would happen if he takes a step forward. Gojo tells him that he’s special, that he has the potential to be one of the strongest if he just applies himself.
But he’s only summoned Shiro and Kuro a handful of times, and mostly by accident, and he thinks the bunny that spawned in his drawer last week wasn’t just a coincidence.
And being a jujutsu sorcerer is dumb anyways.
Still, he remembers Gojo speaking of a friend who summoned dragons and all sorts of beasts, some he was able to tame, to ride atop of, and he can’t help but wonder what it takes to do that. What are the other eight creatures the shadows can summon? How innate does his command of them go? Shiro and Kuro are fairly obedient and independent, but they’re also dogs.
He wonders if he were to step off the edge right now, if something would kick in to save him.
Limitless power.
Fingers circle his wrist, jerking him back into the moment.
Toge’s eyes, lavender, as he discovered a few years ago, not brown, look disappointed. He slaps his arm lightly.
“I wasn’t gonna,” he tries, dubiously.
Toge’s look is flat, unconvinced.
He’ll be officially enrolled in Jujutsu Tech come autumn, along with a relative of Megumi’s he had only met a handful of times. How will Toge and his cursed gift stand against his classmates? A son of a infamous clan, born with his ancestors’ fated technique. The star child of the Inumaki clan.
Just like us.
Toge’s existence was one in a million, just like Gojo’s. Just like his. He isn’t just strong by nature, he’s cautious, considerate.
If Toge can make it, so can he.
4
He’s annoyed, to say the least, when Gojo ushers half of Jujutsu Tech into their home following the events of the Night Parade.
He apologizes, almost genuinely, though his eyes weigh heavily with exhaustion Megumi hasn’t seen on him in ages, swearing he wouldn’t do this if the campus wasn’t half demolished by unexpected violence, and promising to cook his favorite to make it up to him.
He peers over the staircase, idly watching the students and staff filtering into his home.
Hakari – whose locs are fuller now – butts heads with Hoshi, vibrant purple hair curling over a collection of shimmering ear piercings.
Megumi cranes his neck for a glimpse of the new student, Maki’s arm looped over his shoulder as they limp through the door frame. Okkotsu is smaller than he expected, but carries an air of humility that doesn’t exactly spell ‘related to Satoru Gojo’ however distantly. After them, stumbles in a banged-up Panda, Toge slipping in after them.
…Oh.
Toge got… hot.
It had, admittedly, been a while since Megumi had seen him. Might be the longest they’ve ever gone without seeing each other, one way or another. Tsumiki’s coma had put a halt to his frequent suspensions, hanging up his delinquency in the stead of becoming an upstanding student.
Toge’s jawline is sharper now, cheeks liberated of remaining baby fat, thick lashes curling alluringly. His spiked hair frames his face nicely compared to the crude imitation of his sensei's haircut.
Megumi peeks through the bars of the railing as Ieiri sits Toge down in their chaise. His gaze tracks the movement of the crimson-stained tongue lolling out of his mouth and into the glare of her flashlight, cursed mark almost glowing against the blood.
Ieiri moves aside, violet eyes finding him, like he already sensed his stare, searing through him under dark lashes, beckoning him.
His stomach does somersaults, unable to stop his body from moving forward, sitting beside him.
Toge is as quiet and unimposing as ever beside him, bringing a familiar ease over him despite the way his heart thumps in his chest.
Tingling shoots through his nerves as Toge’s pinkie lightly grazes his own, bleeding throat cracking over syllables that vaguely sound like “ginger.”
Warmth floods down his neck until his ears sear, barely restraining the twitch in his hand. He's never heard it from Toge before, doesn't comprehend the nuances of meaning, but knows Toge's as happy to see him as he is. “Finally learned some new ingredients, huh? About time.”
It’s only slightly mean, and Toge smiles like it holds a confession.
Before Megumi’s racing mind can even conjure anything further, Okkotsu floats away from Maki’s side, rushing to Toge. He seems unabashedly kind, a rare, truly decent person amongst humans and sorcerers alike. It’s refreshing, how his gentle eyes and warm smile reach not only Toge, a dear friend and classmate, but Megumi, who can’t help but feel like more of a stranger.
It’s so strange, how that tender heart feels like a mirage of Tsumiki.
It’s admirable, but his chest bubbles with something unfamiliar as Toge's marks crease with a glowing fondness.
Megumi rises abruptly, “Don’t let him fool you, Okkotsu-san. He plays the good senpai, but he’s a total joke.”
Toge laughs at his own expense despite his crackling throat.
He means to storm off into his room, but the savory smell of ginger over chicken lures him into the kitchen, eager to reap the benefits of his guardian’s apology.
5
“I heard Sukuna’s vessel has him wrapped around his finger.”
“The Gojo clan has wanted us gone for centuries. He’s just their pawn to finally do it.”
“No – it’s the Inumaki clan you should be worried about. You’ve seen the way that boy clings to him like a parasite.”
“It’s Toji’s brat. What could he possibly do?”
He hates this, hates them. He hates the old geezer who croaked in Shibuya, leaving him the head of this awful family. He hates Naoya and his stupid fucking rumors.
He wasn’t made for clan life. He doesn’t know the first thing about it. The only thing he knows is that it should be Maki sitting here. Naoya wouldn’t spare her from his smear campaign – gods know it would only be worse – but she knew this life, and once more, she had the balls to stand up to those who ridiculed her and salvage the parts of this family that deserved it.
He hardly goes anywhere, or says anything, without Toge by his side. He knows how it looks, like the Inumaki clan is trying to sink their fangs into the Zen’in through him.
Naoya spreads a plethora of nasty rumors surrounding them: that Megumi has been a spy for the Inumaki and Gojo clans as a desperate grasp at slipping control, that Toge is using his cursed speech on him and Megumi’s just a flesh puppet.
That Toge seduced him.
(It’s cruel on principle, the very notion that Toge’s family would sell his body for political control – he wouldn’t put the plot past the Zen’in, but the Inumaki are tight knit and few. He doesn’t think too hard about the extra twist of blade that no matter how often his gaze lingers on Toge’s seal, on his full lips, that they’ve never even kissed.)
His blood simmers, bordering on boiling with each escalating rumor, somehow worse than the last. A conspiracy surrounding Itadori and Sukuna here, an implication behind Gojo’s ‘true’ intentions raising him there.
He looks to Toge, unsure of what else to do, knowing he hears it too. The awful, horrible things they speculate about his family, his friends, how they all are using him one way or another.
Toge turns to him, offering a small smile that holds a grace he can’t fathom how he manages.
To be criticized daily, to have lies like mud wiped across your name with no control over how you look in the eyes of others at the end of the day. He’s never cared about it before, but that was before he really had loved ones to drag down with him.
He supposes Toge has always lived like this. A special child in an outlawed clan. The exception when a rule still applied to shun the clan’s gifted, to treat them like a curse. His ancestors who were ostracized for the gift Gojo’s presence allows him to flaunt, his parents and grandparents whose prayers for Toge to be spared gone unanswered. Envious clansmen like the Zen’in, eager to erase his gifts, all his work, for a political agenda that started before any of them were born.
Megumi has never had more admiration for Toge than he does now.
When he returns home and the cracks in his exterior nearly break, Toge holds him, so tenderly, smoothing circles over his back, spelling back, I know.
He wants to apologize, for dragging him deeper into this, for everything Toge has had to endure up until now. But the words can’t squeeze past his throat.
Toge caresses his cheek, smiling up at him with kind eyes, and he doesn’t need to say anything.
He had never considered that understanding the intricacies of what Toge says and what he means went the other way.
Toge crosses his fists against his heart, and whispers a soft, “Ginger.”
And it perplexes him.
+1
It happens at Jujutsu Tech.
Yuuta’s daughter is training in the field, working hard to make her parents proud. She’s only in middle school, but she hangs out here a lot when her parents are away on missions.
And yeah, it’s only a little weird having a cousin so much younger than him, but she’s such a good kid and is twice as loved as they were growing up, it hardly even matters after a while.
Megumi doesn’t come by the school often. He lets Gojo send him on missions and lets Maki tell him what needs to be done to keep the Zen’in from falling apart beyond repair, and tries to live for himself through all of it. Someday, he’ll have to ask Nanami how he does it.
But Toge insisted he visit, so they’re in the garden they had co-opted as their own all those years ago.
Toge watches over the school, its guardian angel, and Megumi watches Toge, a firm body that used to be so much smaller than his. Toge’s still shorter, that much hadn’t changed, but he makes up for it with shoulders and chest that fill out nicely with muscle.
Toge must catch his stare, a smirk filling those plush lips, “Salmon roe with mayonnaise.”
Megumi flushes, “I do not. Don’t you dare say that around him or he’ll grow an even bigger complex about being my dad.”
Toge laughs and it’s a symphony, his ears filled with music that he never wants to live in a world without.
He loves him. His heart is so full, he’d sooner burst open than ever be without Toge again.
He’s almost told him so many times since they graduated, but the words never made it past his lips.
But the wind flies around them, carding through soft, silvery locs, seal cresting along his smile, looking like a dream in his car jacket, and he can’t not tell him. Not when he’s waited for so long.
He can’t waste another moment with Toge not being his.
His lips feel chapped as his voice breaks through the peace, a single word: “Toge.”
Toge’s lavender eyes flash against a backdrop of green. It’s the first peace they've ever broken in the garden.
Megumi doesn’t care. Toge’s lips press against the stick of his lollipop, tongue swirling around it, gaze expectant, and he can’t help himself.
“I love you.”
Toge blinks. His lips spread wide against his teeth, and he laughs.
His stomach churns and – god, he’s heard Toge laugh a million times, and he still can’t decipher whether or not it’s cruel.
His fingers brush against the back of Megumi’s hand, almost weaving their fingers together before his pointer and thumb lock around his own.
Lavender serves at kindling for the match he strikes against his body, his insides alight as Toge’s lips meld over the word, “Ginger."
He finally understands. The one word he didn’t get for so long becomes glaringly obvious right before his eyes.
Megumi loves ginger, and Toge loves him.
“Toge,” Megumi breathes, and every bit of him melts into the connection of their hands. “You– I didn’t–”
Toge pulls the candy out of his mouth with a pop against his cheek, setting it onto the wrapper before rough palms circle his neck, pulling him close until their lips just barely brush.
Megumi’s tired of waiting.
He lips collide with Toge, all the want and trust he’s harbored over the years of their friendship molding their bodies together like liquidating metal.
He doesn't care if Gojo sees, or if Rika notices and tells her parents – or worse, Panda. He doesn’t care because Toge is holding him close to his heart like he’ll never let go, and he’s finally his.
He’s tired of not living, tired of not allowing himself to be greedy.