Chapter Text
Megumi hadn’t planned to spend his rare day off sitting in Utahime’s Kyoto home, but here he was, once again roped into Gojo’s chaos.
“It’s for your own good, Megs,” Gojo had said with his trademark grin earlier that week. “You’re turning into a grump. Go visit Hime, let her remind you what smiling feels like.”
The nerve of that man. As if Gojo himself wasn’t the root cause of most of Megumi’s stress.
Now, seated at Utahime’s kitchen table, Megumi watched her flit around the room, a mix of motherly concern and exasperation etched into her face. She had a way of making everything feel warmer, even when she was scolding him.
"Did you even bother ironing this shirt?" she asked, inspecting his collar with a critical eye. Before he could respond, she tutted under her breath and fixed it herself, her fingers deftly smoothing the fabric.
“It’s just a shirt,” Megumi muttered, leaning away slightly but not enough to stop her.
“It’s not ‘just a shirt.’ You can’t walk around looking like this,” she countered, adjusting the last button. “What if someone important sees you? What if your friends see you?”
"They won’t care," he replied flatly, though the corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly.
Utahime stepped back and gave him an unimpressed look. “Well, I care,” she said, crossing her arms.
She always did.
For all her nagging, Utahime had been a constant in his life, quietly taking care of him in ways he hadn’t always noticed as a child. She’d been there with a warm meal after tough days, staying up late to make sure his assignments were finished, and smoothing over the chaos Gojo inevitably caused.
Megumi could admit, begrudgingly, that he owed her a lot.
And Gojo?
Megumi’s gaze shifted to the sunglasses resting on the counter, a telltale sign that the strongest sorcerer alive had been here recently.
Gojo was a puzzle he’d never quite figured out.
He teased Utahime endlessly—calling her “Uta” when he wanted to annoy her and “Hime” when he was being uncharacteristically sweet. He poked at her temper, leaving her flustered and fuming, yet Megumi knew it was all intentional.
Gojo never did anything without a reason, even if he never explained it.
But when it came to Utahime, Megumi could see right through him. The way Gojo’s eyes softened when she wasn’t looking. The way he’d subtly check to make sure she was okay, even while provoking her. And the way he always found excuses to visit Kyoto, despite being perpetually “too busy” for anything else.
They were in love. It was so painfully obvious that even Tsumiki, when she was younger, had caught on.
“They’re like a married couple,” she’d whispered to Megumi once, giggling as they watched the two bicker. “Do you think they’ll ever admit it?”
“No,” Megumi had replied, earning a scowl from her.
He’d been right, though.
Years later, nothing had changed. Gojo still teased Utahime relentlessly, hiding his true feelings behind smirks and sarcastic quips.
Megumi had spent years trying to understand why. Was it pride? Fear of rejection? Or was it something deeper?
Gojo wasn’t an easy person to understand. He wore his arrogance like armor, hiding the vulnerabilities he rarely let anyone see.
But Megumi had pieced enough together to realize the truth.
Gojo loved Utahime. He always had.
And because he loved her, he kept her at arm’s length.
Gojo had too many enemies, too many dangers lurking in the shadows. Megumi had seen firsthand what it meant to be close to the strongest. It meant becoming a target.
Gojo teased her because it was easier than saying what he really felt. It was his way of protecting her, even if it hurt them both.
But Megumi could also see the cracks in that logic—the way Gojo lingered just a little too long when he said goodbye or how his teasing lacked the usual bite when she seemed genuinely upset.
"You’re zoning out again," Utahime’s voice broke through his thoughts. She placed a steaming cup of tea in front of him and gave him a pointed look.
“I’m not,” Megumi lied, taking a sip to avoid further interrogation.
"Right," she said, unconvinced. “So, tell me. How’s your training going? Eating enough? Sleeping properly? You look thinner—are you even taking care of yourself?”
“Uta-san,” Megumi sighed, his tone half-exasperated, half-amused. “I’m fine.”
“You always say that,” she huffed, brushing a stray strand of his hair back into place. “You’re worse than Gojo.”
“Worse than me?” a familiar voice interrupted.
Megumi sighed as Gojo sauntered in, his grin wide and his presence as loud as ever.
“You didn’t even bother wiping your shoes,” Utahime snapped, glaring at him.
“Oh, come on, Hime. You know you missed me,” Gojo replied, plopping into the chair across from Megumi.
“Missed the mess you bring, maybe,” she shot back, crossing her arms.
Megumi couldn’t help but smirk. Despite everything, some things never changed.
"You look cozy, Megs," Gojo teased, leaning back in his chair. “Did Uta-san tuck you in yet?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Megumi replied dryly, though his lips twitched in amusement.
"You’re impossible," Utahime muttered, shaking her head. But her voice lacked heat, and the small smile tugging at her lips betrayed her fondness.
Megumi watched them banter, the familiar rhythm of their voices filling the room.
They’d never say the words, but Megumi didn’t need them to.
They were his family, in their own chaotic, unspoken way. And for now, that was enough.