Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tokyo | Late August, 2013

The balcony door was cracked open, letting in the cool sweep of summer air. From the couch, Satoru could see Suguru leaning against the railing, a cigarette burning low between his fingers, one arm braced casually on the post.

Inside, their fluffy black-and-white cat, Misa, was curled on Satoru’s stomach, purring in rhythmic pulses. Near the door, their scrappy tabby, Mochi, had declared war on a shoelace.

It was a good night. Peaceful. Domestic. Stable.

Satoru scratched behind Misa’s ears and felt her paws flex in lazy contentment.

Then his phone rang.

He frowned, gently shifted the cat, and answered.

“Hello?”

“Is this Satoru Gojo-san?”

His posture straightened instinctively. “Yeah. Who’s calling?”

“This is Tokyo Child Welfare Services. I apologize for the hour, but you were listed as an emergency contact for a minor currently in our care—Fushiguro Megumi.”

Satoru sat up so fast Misa let out a startled hiss and leapt from the couch.

“I—what?” he said, already standing. “Did you say Fushiguro?”

Out on the balcony, Suguru turned, eyebrows raised. The cigarette between his fingers burned forgotten.

“Yes. His mother passed away earlier this week. His father is... unlocatable. The school listed this number as an emergency contact. The boy is currently in temporary custody, but we’re required to reach out to anyone connected, for placement or at least some background.”

Satoru’s mind went blank. Then it raced—memories sparking like flickers of static.

“I—I think I met his mom once?” he said, stunned. “Years ago. She worked cleaning the university I went to. We talked, like... twice?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

“She must’ve remembered you. You’re the only contact she left.”

Minutes later, Suguru stubbed out his cigarette on the balcony ashtray and stepped back inside. He paused in the doorway to the living room. Satoru was still standing there—pale, motionless, the phone hanging loose in his hand like he’d forgotten how to use it.

“What is it?”

Satoru blinked, like he’d only just remembered Suguru existed. His voice was quieter than usual, dazed. “There’s a kid,” he said. “Fushiguro. His mom... she put my name down. I don’t—I don’t think she had anybody else.”

Suguru’s expression shifted. A quiet heaviness settled across his face, into the tense set of his shoulders. He crossed the room slowly, the floor creaking under his socked feet.

He didn’t ask why or how. He just asked, gently, “Do you want to go see him?”

They didn’t talk much on the subway ride over the next morning. Satoru stood rigidly, one hand clenched around the metal pole, the other gripping a rolled-up hoodie Suguru had thrown him before they left—in case the kid didn’t have anything warm. 

Suguru stood close. Their shoulders brushed now and then as the train jostled. He didn’t ask questions. Just stayed there.

When they arrived, the hospital was too quiet. The kind of silence that echoed in the wrong places—sterile and tense, like something pressing against your chest. A nurse led them down the corridor without saying much, clipboard in hand. She pointed them toward a plain room near the end of the hall.

Inside, a boy sat perched on the edge of a hospital bed. His feet didn’t quite touch the ground. His shirt was wrinkled and stained, thin arms hanging slack at his sides. He looked like he hadn’t slept. Maybe hadn’t eaten, either.

He looked up when the door opened. His eyes were a deep, vivid green—but cautious. Like a stray animal watching to see if your hand had food or a trap in it. He didn’t say a word.

Satoru crouched a few feet away.

“Hey,” he said, voice softer than usual. “I’m Gojo. Your mom... she wrote my name down. I’m really sorry about what happened.”

Suguru stepped in behind Satoru, quiet as a shadow. His coat was still zipped halfway up. Hands in his pockets. He didn’t speak, just stayed nearby—present but unobtrusive.

Satoru rubbed a hand through his hair. “We’re not here to take you anywhere you don’t want to go, okay? I just... We just wanted to check on you. Make sure you were alright.”

The boy’s shoulders tensed. Barely. His hands were in his lap, knuckles raw, nails chewed down to pink. A long, quiet pause passed before he spoke.

His voice was hoarse, low. “Are you really Gojo ?”

Satoru blinked. “Uh—yeah?”

The boy’s lips twitched. Dry. Almost bitter.

“She said you were smart,” he muttered. “And had stupid glasses.”

Behind Satoru, Suguru made a soft sound—half-breath, half-chuckle. Something close to relief. Satoru smiled faintly. “She wasn’t wrong on either count.”

The boy didn’t answer. Just stared at his own feet, heels dangling inches above the tile.

Satoru held out the rolled hoodie. Not touching—just offering. “This is for you. If you want it. Might get cold.”

The boy didn’t take it. But he looked up. Really looked, just for a second. Maybe this would be alright. 

They didn’t take him home that night.

There were steps. Paperwork. Background checks. Meetings with caseworkers. Psych evaluations.

But the process began.

And Megumi? He didn’t say much. Not when the forms were filled. Not when the social worker told him who had shown up. Not when he was moved to a temporary foster home to wait for placement. He just nodded when spoken to. Watched everything through flat, unreadable eyes.

One Week Later.

The office-turned-guest-room was ready by the time Megumi arrived.

Suguru had cleared his books, stacked them neatly in the living room under a low shelf. The wardrobe was emptied. A futon lay folded out on the floor, dressed in fresh navy sheets and a soft gray blanket. The bookshelf held a few volumes of Hunter x Hunter and One Piece , cracked spines and all. A secondhand desk sat against the wall, newly painted pale green—Suguru’s handiwork.

Mochi was camped by the door, tail twitching like a warning. Misa stayed curled on the couch, eyes half-lidded, unimpressed.

Satoru stood in the entryway with a worn duffel in his hands—Megumi’s clothes from the foster home. He shifted, awkward, then offered a lopsided smile.

“Uh… welcome,” he said, voice gentle, low. “Hope you’re not allergic to cats. Misa’s the one on the couch looking offended by everything. Mochi’s the one trying to attack your shoelaces.”

Megumi didn’t say anything. He crouched, barely brushing his fingers over Mochi’s head. The cat froze, then bumped into the touch. Then Megumi stood again and started down the hall.

“Third door on the left,” Satoru called.

No answer. Just the soft sound of the bedroom door closing behind him.

Suguru stepped out of the kitchen and reached wordlessly for Satoru’s hand. Their fingers laced together, easy.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

Satoru’s throat tightened. “I think I just became a dad at twenty-three.”

Suguru leaned in, pressed a kiss to his temple—warm, steady.

“Guess we both did.”

Dinner was quiet.

Megumi sat at the table, back straight, hands resting in his lap between bites. He barely touched the food—picked at the plain rice, ignored the salmon completely.

Satoru didn’t push. Just made soft, aimless conversation. Something dumb he saw on the train. Suguru added little comments, gentle rhythm. No questions. No pressure. No past.

Later, Suguru stepped out onto the balcony again. The sliding door was left cracked open. Night air drifted in, cool with the scent of tobacco and distant rain. Satoru stayed behind to do dishes. Clink, rinse, clink. Familiar motions. Clean edges.

When Megumi padded back down the hall and disappeared into his room, the door clicked softly shut.

Locked again.

Satoru ended up on the couch, one leg tucked under him. Misa hopped into his lap, curled into a warm, purring weight. Mochi followed a moment later, claiming the crook of his knee like a throne.

Suguru came in, smelling like wind and smoke, and leaned over the couch. He ruffled Satoru’s hair slightly before leaning down closer to his ear. 

Satoru didn’t look up. “Do you think he’ll ever feel safe here?”

Suguru’s voice was quiet, sure. “Give it time.”

Chapter Text

Tokyo | Late August, 2013

Misa was fast asleep on the windowsill, tail flicking now and then with some dream only she knew. Mochi had wedged herself into a shoebox that had long since given up holding her weight—her paw dangled over the edge, claws twitching in her sleep.

The apartment was quiet. Just the low hum of the fridge, the soft buzz of a streetlight outside, and the distant sounds of Tokyo—cars, voices, the occasional train rolling by. The balcony door was cracked open to let in the late summer air, thick with humidity and city noise.

Satoru sat cross-legged on the couch, barefoot, in pajama bottoms and one of Suguru’s oversized old hoodies that still smelled vaguely like laundry soap and cigarettes. His reading glasses were sliding down his nose as he scrolled through a list of local elementary schools on his tablet. He hadn’t absorbed a single thing in the last ten minutes.

Suguru was on the floor beside the coffee table, his back propped against it, legs stretched out in front of him. A cigarette burned low between his fingers, smoke drifting lazily out the open window. His other hand was halfway to his mouth, chewing absently on the corner of his thumbnail. The ashtray was full. A stack of clipped papers—caseworker notes, appointment slips, legal forms—rested on the table in front of him, some edges creased from being handled too much.

Neither of them said anything for a long while.

Until finally—

“So…” Satoru sighed, adjusting his glasses and letting the tablet rest on his knees. “We’re the grown-ups now.”

Suguru took a slow drag, exhaled out the window.

“I know,” he said quietly.

“He’s eleven,” Satoru added, looking over the top of his glasses. “We’re twenty-three.”

“He’ll be in high school before we turn thirty.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Satoru groaned. “I’ll have a crisis.”

Suguru huffed a laugh, barely there. The smoke curled upward and dissolved into the thick night air.

Satoru nudged his glasses back into place with one knuckle, eyes suddenly softer. “Do you think we’re doing the right thing?”

Suguru didn’t answer immediately. His thumb hovered over a healing scab on his knuckle—an old anxiety habit, one he was trying to break. He stopped himself, lowered his hand.

“I think we’re trying.”

Satoru nodded once, slow. “I don’t know anything about eleven-year-olds. He barely talks to us. He does his homework, cleans up without being asked. He’s polite. Like, weirdly polite. Like he’s trying not to take up space.”

“He’s scared,” Suguru said gently.

“I know,” Satoru murmured.

Across the room, the soft glow of a hallway light pooled beneath Megumi’s bedroom door. He’d asked—mumbled, really—on the first night, “Can I close the door? It helps me sleep.” They hadn’t questioned it. Hadn’t touched it since.

Satoru tucked the blanket tighter around his legs, thumb tracing the edge of the tablet absently. “We’ve gotta pick a school. He can’t just sit here drawing wolves and avoiding us forever.”

“He’s really good at it,” Suguru said, lips twitching.

“I know,” Satoru replied. Then, more serious, “But I mean it. He needs structure. Normalcy.”

Suguru nodded and reached for a manila folder on the table—Fushiguro, Megumi – Case File stamped across the front in thick black ink. He flipped it open to the school placement section. “There’s a public elementary ten minutes from here. Walkable. Decent trauma resources. Small classes. Routine-based. Could be good for him.”

“Can we tour it together?” Satoru asked, adjusting the tablet’s brightness down.

“You and me?”

Satoru gave him a look. “No, with Megumi. I want him to feel like he has some say. Not just... being dropped somewhere again.”

Suguru’s features softened. He closed the file gently and leaned back against the couch, letting his fingers brush against Satoru’s knee.

They sat in the quiet for a long moment.

“We’re raising a kid.”

Satoru looked at him. “Yeah.”

“He might live here until he’s eighteen.”

“Or longer,” Satoru added. “Depending on college.”

Suguru groaned and dropped his head back onto the couch cushion. “I haven’t even done the dishes today.”

“You deep-cleaned the bathroom at eight a.m. while muttering about mold.”

“Because I was stressed,” Suguru said flatly.

Satoru smiled, pulling the blanket higher. “You’re gonna be a good parental figure.”

Suguru didn’t say anything right away, but his fingers squeezed lightly at Satoru’s knee. “I think we’ll be okay. Even if it takes a while.”

They both glanced again at the hallway, where the bedroom door still glowed.

Suguru’s voice was softer this time. “We should paint his room.”

Satoru tilted his head. “Yeah?”

“Beige is depressing for an eleven-year-old.”

Satoru grinned. “We’ll let him pick the color. Even if it’s ugly.”

Chapter Text

Tokyo | Weekday Morning, Late August, 2013

The school looked like every other school Megumi had ever been in—concrete walls painted the color of dishwater, sun-faded posters peeling inside the entryway, and bushes out front trimmed into sad little lumps. The air smelled like old erasers, mildew, and overcooked rice from the lunchroom.

He hated it already.

Satoru walked beside him, hands stuffed into the pockets of a long black coat, sunglasses pushed up into the mess of white hair he hadn’t bothered to brush. He’d promised to dress “normally,” but his version of that meant a navy button-up embroidered with silver constellations along the sleeves, worn-out sneakers that squeaked on the linoleum, and too much nervous energy. He kept glancing at Megumi like he wasn’t sure whether to crack a joke or stay serious.

They were led down a quiet hallway to a small office labeled:

Special Education & Student Support.

“The principal will be with you shortly,” the secretary said, tone brisk.

“Thanks,” Satoru replied, flashing her a smile that probably worked on flustered teachers, baristas, and unsuspecting tax agents. Not eleven-year-olds who didn’t trust anyone.

Megumi didn’t respond. He made a beeline to the chair furthest from the door, sat with his arms crossed and his backpack wedged between his feet. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t ask questions. Just stared straight ahead like this was something to be endured.

Satoru plopped down in the chair next to him. Too tall for it. Knees sticking out, back hunched awkwardly. He slouched low like he was waiting for a dentist.

After a moment, he leaned toward Megumi, voice pitched low.

“You know,” he said, “I hated school too.”

Megumi didn’t move. Not amused.

“Except for lunch,” Satoru went on. “And art. And the one science class where the teacher let me sleep if I didn’t talk.”

No response.

“But this place doesn’t seem bad. They’ve got one-on-one support, flexible work, mental health staff...”

“I guess.”

Satoru rested his chin in his hand, still angled toward him. “You can say if you hate it.”

Megumi looked down at the floor. “I don’t like people.”

“Fair.”

“And I don’t wanna talk in front of a class.”

“You don’t have to.”

“.. And if someone picks on me, I’m not gonna be polite about it.”

Satoru gave a quiet chuckle. “Also fair. I’ll back you up.”

“You don’t even know me,” Megumi said a bit harshly, his eyes flickering up to Satoru, it was a fact.

Satoru leaned back, eyes serious for once.

“I know,” Satoru said. This time softer. “I’m not here to play house. I just wanna make sure you’ve got a desk to sit at and roof over your head. If you hate it after a few weeks, we’ll figure something else out. No pressure.”

Megumi didn’t answer. He just went back to staring at his shoes.

The meeting with the principal was stiff but professional. Satoru asked most of the questions: about smaller class sizes, academic accommodations, options for art or reading enrichment. Megumi sat next to him the whole time, barely speaking, thumb pressed against the zipper of his hoodie.

Afterward, while Satoru stayed behind to fill out paperwork, Megumi was allowed to walk the hall alone.

He moved slowly. Past bulletin boards pinned with glitter glue welcome signs. Past laminated posters about kindness and handwashing. Past classrooms with shelves of rainboots and tiny rows of indoor shoes. He didn’t look inside the doors.

Nothing felt familiar.

Nothing felt like it was for him.

Outside, they stood near the bike racks. The sun had burned off the morning chill, and traffic rumbled in the distance.

Satoru glanced down at him. “You hungry?”

Megumi shrugged.

“There’s a soba shop a few blocks from here,” Satoru said as he kicked a rock and it tumbled down the pavement. “You eat soba?”

A small nod.

They started walking. Megumi kept a step behind.

About halfway there, Satoru said, like it had just occurred to him, “Child services told me you were living alone for a bit. That true?”

Megumi didn’t answer right away.

“My mom died,” he said flatly.

Satoru’s pace didn’t change. “Yeah.”

“My dad left, right after.”

Satoru nodded once. “I know.”

Silence. Megumi’s fists were stuffed deep into his hoodie pocket. His face was blank, but his shoulders were too still, too tight.

“You don’t have to tell me anything else,” Satoru said after a moment. “I’m not gonna push.”

They walked a few more blocks in silence.

Then, voice low—so quiet Satoru almost missed it:

“…She died. My dad left. I didn’t wanna go anywhere. I thought… maybe someone would come back.”

Satoru stopped walking.

Megumi didn’t.

So Satoru caught up, kept walking a half-step behind. Not pressing. Just there. By the time they reached the soba shop, Megumi’s hands were back at his sides, not clenched anymore.

Chapter Text

Tokyo | Late August, 2013 | Megumi's Second Week

The apartment was quiet. Misa and Mochi were curled up on the couch—two matching cat-loafs tucked into the corner where the blanket sagged. Satoru had finally fallen asleep on the other end of the couch, one arm dangling off the cushion, mouth slightly open. He’d passed out mid-sentence after trying to get Megumi to laugh with a pun about black holes and ramen bowls.

It hadn’t landed.

In the kitchen, Suguru was rinsing out a mug, sleeves pushed up past his elbows. His hoodie was loose, a little worn around the cuffs. The way he moved was careful. Deliberate. Like every gesture had been sanded down into something calm. Something manageable.

He was better at stillness now. The medication helped.

Megumi stood just outside the hallway, watching. Not quite in the room. Not quite out of it.

“Your room okay?” Suguru asked without turning around.

Megumi shrugged, then gave a small nod. Suguru glanced toward the window, catching Megumi’s reflection in the glass. “We can change it, you know. If it doesn’t feel like yours yet.”

“It’s fine.”

A beat passed.

“We’re going shopping tomorrow,” Suguru said. “You need clothes that fit.”

Megumi hesitated. “I can wear what I have.”

Suguru gave a small sigh. “You can . But you don’t have to.”

“…Okay.”

The Next Day

The train was crowded—office workers and students packed in with tired eyes and heavy bags. Suguru held the overhead rail with one hand and gripped a canvas tote in the other. His shoulder angled slightly toward Megumi in a way that offered space without distance.

Megumi stood close but not touching, hands shoved into his sleeves, eyes fixed on the floor of the train. He didn’t say much. But he didn’t seem tense.

Satoru couldn’t make it as much as he wanted too, his work had him working overtime to meet a deadline but he begged Suguru to make sure the boy made good fashion choices.

They hit three stores. Suguru didn’t steer. Just pointed him to the right section and let him choose. Black jeans. A couple of plain hoodies. Soft long-sleeves. A pack of socks. 

At a home goods shop, he lingered in front of a display of paper lantern string lights—cloud shapes, moons, stars. He stared long enough that Suguru leaned over to say, “They’re nice.”

Megumi shrugged and dropped a set in the basket.

They didn’t speak much, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable. Suguru wasn’t the kind to fill silence with noise. Megumi appreciated that.

Later, they sat on a metal bench outside the train station, sharing a box of taiyaki. The air smelled like grilled batter and car exhaust. Somewhere nearby, a cicada buzzed behind a vending machine.

Megumi spoke without looking up.

“Your hands.”

Suguru blinked. “Hm?”

Megumi gestured toward the hand holding the paper bag. Scars crisscrossed the knuckles—some faint, some deeper. Pale now. Healed over, but visible if you were someone who noticed things.

“I saw them last night too,” Megumi said quietly. “Do they hurt?”

Suguru looked down. Then shook his head. “Not anymore.”

“What happened?”

There was a pause before he answered. “I used to get bad thoughts,” Suguru said, his tone even. “Like… if I didn’t do things a certain way, something terrible would happen. My brain lied to me a lot back then.”

Megumi stared down at his own hands. Still scabbed from old scrapes—tree bark, asphalt, handlebars, gravel.

Suguru didn’t say more than that. He didn’t offer a lesson or ask a question. Just passed the bag between them so Megumi could take another pastry.

Megumi took a bite. 

That Night

The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the new paper lanterns strung across his bedframe. They cast quiet shadows on the walls—soft shapes like moons and clouds. The air smelled faintly like laundry soap and something warm. Home, maybe.

Misa was curled at his feet, a warm weight pressed against his ankle.

Megumi lay on his side, curled under his new gray hoodie, the sleeves bunched around his wrists. His chest felt tight. But not in the same way it used to when he was waiting for the front door to open and no one came.

Still, when his eyes stung and his throat burned, he turned his face into the pillow and stayed silent. The tears came anyway. Quiet. Slow. Soaking into cotton.

He didn’t like crying.

He didn’t hear the door crack open. Didn’t see Suguru peek in, standing still just past the threshold. The man didn’t enter. Just watched for a few moments, long enough to see the curve of Megumi’s back rise and fall—ragged, then steadier. When the boy’s breathing evened out, Suguru closed the door softly.

He stayed just outside it a little longer, leaning against the wall with both hands in his sleeves.

Listening.

Just in case.

Chapter Text

Tokyo | September, 2013 | Megumi’s First Week of School

The air was cooler now. Autumn had started to creep into the mornings—crisp light and long shadows underfoot, golden warmth that didn’t quite reach the bones.

Satoru leaned against the wall inside the school’s front entrance, arms crossed, one foot angled against the baseboard like he was trying not to look like someone’s legal guardian. His JAXA jacket was half-zipped, badge still clipped to the collar. He’d left a planning meeting halfway through to be here.

The fluorescent lights above him buzzed faintly. Down the hallway, classroom doors opened in uneven bursts as parents filed out with their kids—loud laughter, running footsteps, the occasional apology shouted backward.

The door to Megumi’s class creaked open.

“Fushiguro-kun’s guardian?” a soft-spoken woman called.

Satoru pushed off the wall and raised a hand. “That’s me.”

The teacher stepped aside and Megumi followed out behind her, backpack slung over one shoulder, expression set in practiced neutrality. He walked like someone keeping their balance across thin ice—measured, careful. As if any step might crack something beneath him.

“He’s been doing really well with the classwork,” the teacher said kindly. “Especially math and science. Very attentive. Very bright.” She smiled down at Megumi, but he didn’t look up. “He even met with the school social worker this week. They said it went smoothly.”

Satoru grinned, all soft edges. “Sounds like a little genius to me.”

Megumi shifted his weight slightly, eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance.

“But…” the teacher continued, her tone gentle, “he hasn’t really spoken to the other students. During lunch and recess, he mostly keeps to himself. No trouble, just…” She hesitated. “Quiet.”

Satoru’s smile didn’t fade, but the line between his brows twitched. “Thanks for letting me know.”

The car smelled faintly like vanilla air freshener and the leftover conbini coffee in Satoru’s cupholder. They sat in traffic near the river, the windows cracked just enough to let in the muffled sounds of bikes and cicadas. A pop song played low on the radio—something old, a Britney Spears track from the early 2000s, barely audible beneath the thrum of the road.

Satoru tapped the steering wheel with two fingers. His sunglasses were perched on top of his head now, hair messy from the wind.

“You’re doing great,” he said casually, eyes flicking over as they stopped at a red light. “Your teacher says you’re killing it in class.”

Megumi didn’t turn his head. Just kept staring out the window, where the sidewalk trees blurred past in flashes of green turning into orange and yellow.

“It’s just math,” he said after a pause. His voice was flat. Unbothered. But there was something too even about it.

Satoru grinned. “Still. Pretty impressive. I used to doodle in the margins and forget to hand in half my work. Don’t do that, though. You’re clearly better at school than I ever was.”

That earned him nothing but silence, though Megumi’s shoulder—just barely—relaxed.

“So, the social worker,” Satoru added. His tone was light, but careful.

“Yeah.”

“They ask anything weird? Make you feel uncomfortable?”

“No.”

“You sure? You can tell me or Geto if something was off. You don’t have to just suck it up.”

“They didn’t,” Megumi muttered. “It was fine.”

They passed under an overpass. Everything went gray for a second—sound dampened, world smaller.

“I just…” Megumi said, then stopped. He swallowed hard, his eyes locked on the sidewalk. “I don’t like questions.”

Satoru didn’t press. Just nodded like he understood. Maybe he did.

“…Fair,” he said. “I get that.”

Another long silence stretched between them, stitched with soft guitar chords on the radio and the low buzz of passing motorbikes.

Satoru spoke again when they turned onto their street.

“You know,” he said, “it’s okay if you don’t wanna talk to the other kids right now. You don’t have to rush into anything.”

Megumi didn’t answer, but his mouth twitched—just once, like he was holding something in or biting something down.

“I used to sit alone too,” Satoru continued, a little more quietly now. “First few months of school? No one sat with me at lunch except my math teacher. I thought I was genius. I think he just felt bad.”

A huff of air escaped Megumi’s nose. Barely audible.

Later That Night

He didn’t eat much dinner. Just picked at the noodles and slipped the tofu to the cats under the table when Suguru wasn’t looking. He did his homework on the floor, propped up against the couch with his earbuds in—though no music played. It was just easier that way.

When Satoru passed by and ruffled his hair on the way to the bathroom, Megumi didn’t flinch. He didn’t lean into it either.

Progress, maybe.

By the time the apartment went quiet, he was in bed, the soft paper lanterns casting muted shadows across the ceiling.

His textbooks were stacked on the nightstand. The cat was curled on his pillow. His jacket for the next morning was already laid out, zipped and neat.

Still, he couldn’t sleep.

He kept thinking about the teacher’s voice—how kind she sounded, how carefully she said “quiet” like it was both a compliment and a diagnosis. He thought about the way the other kids laughed in the schoolyard, about how they sat in circles, passed notes, shared snacks.

And how his spot was always next to the fence. Under the tree. Alone.

He wasn’t sad. Not exactly. He was just… full. In the chest. In the throat. Like he was keeping something in that didn’t have a name yet.

He turned his face into the pillow. Didn’t cry. Not this time.

Chapter Text

Tokyo | Late October, 2013 | One Month In

It was nearing 10 PM when Suguru stepped out of the bathroom, towel slung over one shoulder, hair damp and clinging to his cheeks. He wore a soft grey hoodie—frayed at the cuffs and stretched at the collar—with the sleeves pushed up over his forearms. Steam trailed behind him in lazy ribbons as the bathroom door eased shut.

The apartment was dim and warm, lit only by the floor lamp near the window and the soft glow of the TV. Misa and Mochi were tangled together in a pile of paws and purring at the edge of the couch, both lazily blinking in Suguru’s direction before curling deeper into each other.

Satoru was on the floor, back propped against the couch cushions, legs sprawled out in front of him. A Switch controller rested in his hands, thumbs moving rapidly, and his face was lit up by both the screen and his usual over-the-top grin.

Megumi sat beside him on the floor, his own controller idle in his lap, looking vaguely like he was being held hostage.

“He’s forcing me to play Smash Bros ,” Megumi muttered as Suguru walked past.

“I’m expanding his cultural education,” Satoru argued, furiously button-mashing like a man on a mission. “He didn’t even know who Kirby was. Isn’t that basically child neglect?”

Suguru paused at the kitchen threshold. “You are the state-appointed guardian,” he deadpanned, tugging open a cupboard for tea. “So if it is, it’s legally your fault.”

Satoru gasped like he was offended, eyes still glued to the screen. Megumi didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched—barely noticeable unless you were someone who watched closely.

They played another match or two. Satoru won one, Megumi the next. Suguru returned with a mug of chamomile and settled onto the couch behind them, legs tucked up beside the cats, quietly sipping and listening. 

Eventually, Megumi set his controller down on the carpet. He didn’t move, but his hands stilled in his lap.

“Do you…” he began, eyes fixed on the dark edge of the TV screen, “actually work at JAXA?”

Satoru blinked. “Yeah! You’re asking?”

Megumi shrugged one shoulder, face unreadable. “You have the badge. And the jacket. I wasn’t sure if you were just… pretending.”

Suguru snorted into his mug. Satoru, on the other hand, looked like someone had handed him a puppy and told him he was finally trusted.

“Oh, no, it’s real,” he said, practically vibrating. “JAXA’s like the Japanese version of NASA, right? So I’m in astrophysics—which is, like, the study of how the universe works using physics and math and big computers and telescopes and—” He was already pacing before he noticed, gesturing with his hands like he needed the air around him to help him explain.

Megumi didn’t interrupt. He just watched. Blank-faced, eyes alert, posture stiff but not closed.

“I work mostly with data from orbital observations,” Satoru continued, warming to the topic. “Like, satellites collecting images and spectral data—stuff we can use to figure out what stars are made of, or how fast galaxies are moving, or if there's water on distant moons—”

He paused to catch his breath, flushed and smiling.

Megumi’s voice came quiet. “So what’s the point of studying stars?”

Satoru stopped pacing. For a second, he blinked. Then he grinned again—softer this time. Not performative. Just honest.

“Because they teach us where we came from,” he said. “And maybe where we’re going.”

The room stilled.

Megumi didn’t answer right away. His hands flexed against the edge of his sleeves, tugging them down slightly. The silence didn’t feel awkward. Just thoughtful. Suguru looked down at him from the couch, quietly studying the boy’s profile.

When Suguru shifted and sat beside Satoru again, he set the mug aside and rested a hand on the back of Satoru’s neck, fingers threading into silver-white hair. Satoru leaned back slightly into the touch with a content sigh.

A moment later, Megumi stood, brushing his hands on his pants. “I’m gonna brush my teeth.”

“Night, Megumi,” Suguru said gently.

“’Night,” Satoru echoed, watching him disappear down the hallway in his oversized socks.

Later

The tea was gone. The cats had migrated to the bed. The apartment was dark, except for the faint glow of the city through the blinds.

Satoru lay on his side, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting loosely between them. Suguru had his back to him, hair still faintly damp, breathing slow and even.

“You realize we’re parents now?” Satoru whispered into the quiet.

Suguru made a soft, noncommittal sound. “…Unfortunately, yeah.”

Satoru stared at the ceiling. “I still feel like we’re just… us. Two idiots with cats and a broken rice cooker.”

“And now we’ve got an eleven-year-old who brushes his teeth without being asked and definitely thinks you’re insane.”

Satoru grinned to himself. “He’s not wrong.”

Suguru rolled over slowly. His eyes were open now, lazy in the dark. “You think we’re actually gonna do okay with this?”

Satoru thought about Megumi asking about the stars. About how he ate half his rice tonight. About the twitch of a smile during Smash Bros .

“I think we already are.”

Suguru didn’t say anything. But his hand found Satoru’s under the blankets, fingers lacing slowly, deliberately. Satoru gave a small squeeze.

It wasn’t perfect.

But maybe it didn’t need to be.

Chapter Text

Tokyo | Mid-November, 2013 | Second Month at Home

It started with the stupid family tree project.

Megumi had known something like this was bound to happen eventually—some assignment that wasn’t about numbers or facts, but about you . The kind of thing that made your ears hot just from thinking about standing in front of thirty kids and talking about family . Something you couldn’t logic or memorize your way out of.

He didn’t say anything when the teacher assigned it. Just wrote the due date down in neat block letters in the margin of his planner. Other kids were already murmuring and comparing ideas. One girl was sketching vines up the border of her paper. A few others were talking about how their grandma had, like, nine siblings.

Megumi felt a dull pressure behind his eyes. He lowered his head and ignored them all.

The bell had barely finished ringing by the time Satoru’s car rolled up to the curb—windows down, radio loud, sunglasses far too small for his face.

“There’s my faaaavorite kid!” he shouted out the window, drawing more than a few stares.

Megumi wanted to melt into the sidewalk.

Right as he walked toward the car, a voice called out behind him.

“Bye, Megumi!!”

The voice came from behind. Bright, Loud. Megumi paused mid-step, just enough to glance back.

Yuji Itadori stood by the school fence, one knee wrapped in a bandage, a backpack hanging off one shoulder, and a very unnecessary amount of marker on his cheek. He waved both arms in the air like Megumi was on stage and he was the only fan in the stadium.

Satoru squinted as Megumi climbed into the car. “Who's that?” he asked, amused.

“No one,” Megumi muttered, clicking the seatbelt too fast.

Later that night, the apartment was back at its usual rhythm. 

Suguru sat curled up on the couch grading lab reports, red pen tapping the corner of his lip as he squinted at bad grammar. Satoru was vacuuming, zoning out more than actually cleaning. One of the cats—Misa, probably—was clinging to the back of the couch like she was considering a leap onto Suguru’s shoulders.

At the dining table, Megumi sat with a piece of bristol board in front of him. He’d already sketched a tree in pencil—nothing dramatic, just a trunk, some branches, a few empty boxes. The space around him was neat, precise. But his hands were still.

He’d drawn a tree. Nothing fancy, just lines. Empty boxes branching out.

Mom (Tsumiki too?)

Dad (???)

Then nothing. Then…

He stared at it for a while. Then crossed it out. He started again.

Tsumiki  

Megumi

Mom

Dad

Then, branching down, in the roots, he wrote: 

Satoru Gojo – guardian

Suguru Geto – also guardian (he didn’t know what else to write)

Misa & Mochi – cats

He tapped his pencil on the table, jaw tight.

“What’cha working on, kiddo?” came Satoru’s voice suddenly, loud and close.

Megumi tensed.

Satoru leaned over the back of the chair, hair still damp from his post-vacuum shower, holding a half-eaten popsicle in his other hand.

Megumi instinctively turned the board away. “Nothing.”

Satoru raised his hands in surrender and flopped into the seat across from him, crossing one ankle over his knee. “Okay, okay. No peeking. I respect your process.”

He bit into the popsicle, then asked, “So your new friend. The loud one. What’s his deal?”

“He’s not my friend,” Megumi replied quickly.

“Sure. He just screams your name across the schoolyard like he’s your biggest fan. No big deal.”

Megumi scowled faintly. “He’s loud.”

“So are you. On the inside . Very deeply. It’s repressed, but it’s there.”

Megumi gave him a blank look. “Are you even allowed to be a guardian?”

Satoru grinned. “According to the Tokyo Family Court, yes. Somehow. ”

A pause.

Then—more serious now—Satoru leaned forward a little, resting his elbows on the table. “The tree’s hard, huh?”

Megumi didn’t say anything. But he didn’t resume tapping his pencil either.

“You don’t have to make it like anyone else’s,” Satoru said softly. “Doesn’t have to be perfect. Just has to be true .”

There was something in the way he said it—calm, without pressure—that loosened something behind Megumi’s ribs.

After a long moment, Megumi picked up the pencil again.

At the base of the tree, near the roots, he added in small, careful letters:

Home – Tokyo

Still growing

Megumi stood at the front of the classroom, holding his neon green bristol board like a shield. His arms were stiff at his sides, palms damo. He could feel every pair of eyes in the room.

His teacher, Ms. Iori, gave him a quiet thumbs up from the corner. Her smile was warm. Not pushy. Still, Megumi didn’t return it.

He stared at his paper. Then cleared his throat.

“This is my family tree,” he said, voice soft but steady.

Whispers died down.

Yuji Itadori was already watching him, elbow on the desk and chin in hand, looking fascinated for absolutely no reason. His shoelaces were untied. Again.

Megumi pointed to the top branch first. “This is my mom,” he said. No one asked anything. He moved on. “And this is my dad.” 

That space on the board was blank—no name, no photo. Suguru had helped him format it that way on the computer so it didn’t look obvious. But Megumi still felt the blankness there . Noticed.

“This is my sister,” he said quickly.

Then to the bottom of the tree—roots.

“These are my guardians. Gojo and Geto. I live with them.” He hesitated for just a second. “And these are our cats. Misa and Mochi.”

A girl in the front row blinked. “You live with cats ?”

Megumi blinked back. “Yes?”

Yuji grinned wide and gave him a double thumbs up.

Ms. Iori clapped softly. “Thank you, Megumi. That was a lovely presentation.”

He walked back to his seat with heat in his cheeks. Yuji leaned over the second Megumi sat.

“You forgot to say your cats’ full names,” he whispered. “It’s Misa the Menace and Mochi the Couch Goblin.”

Megumi rolled his eyes.

He wondered, briefly, why Yuji even tried with him.

And then wondered if he was actually kind of glad he did.

Chapter Text

Tokyo | Late November, 2013 | Friday Afternoon | Second Month at Home

“Megumi!”

Yuji’s voice echoed across the schoolyard — loud, familiar, impossible to miss. Megumi didn’t lift his head, but Satoru caught the flicker of recognition. His shoulders tensed for a beat, then eased.

They stood beside Satoru’s battered Honda Civic, the one he swore ran on “pure charm and caffeine.”

Yuji skidded to a stop beside them, out of breath and beaming. His uniform shirt was half-untucked, one knee scraped, drawstring bag slung over his shoulder like a soccer ball.

“You said maybe,” Yuji huffed. “But it’s Friday. You promised.”

“I said ‘we’ll see,’” Megumi corrected, monotone.

Satoru leaned against the car door, sunglasses perched on his head, amused. It was rare to see Megumi around another kid like this. Even if he wasn’t smiling, he wasn’t pulling away either — which said more than words.

Yuji turned to Satoru. “Hey, Gojo-san! Can Megumi come over? Wait — no, can I come over? Just for the night. I brought my stuff.”

He held up the bag like a trophy. Satoru blinked. The kid was prepared.

“You packed without knowing if I’d say yes?” Megumi asked flatly.

Yuji grinned wider. “Had a feeling.”

A motorcycle roared to a stop a few feet away. The rider swung off — pink hair flattened under a helmet, real tattoos, black piercings, and a hoodie zipped down just enough to reveal a scar at his collarbone. He looked older than Satoru but probably wasn’t. Tired eyes. Knuckles marked by old fights.

He didn’t smile, but his gaze landed on Yuji and softened.

“Oi,” he called. “Yuji. You good?”

Yuji gave a thumbs-up. “Yup! This is Megumi. And that’s Gojo-san. He’s cool.”

Sukuna gave Satoru a once-over, then nodded and walked over, extending a hand. “Sukuna. Older brother.”

“Gojo,” Satoru replied, shaking it. The grip was calloused. Controlled tension. The kind of guy who built walls around his people and guarded them hard.

“Yuji’s been going on about Megumi,” Sukuna said. “Figured I’d meet whoever he’s been begging for sleepovers with. You alright with him crashing at yours tonight?”

Satoru looked at Megumi. He wasn’t protesting. If anything, he looked like he was already resigned to it.

“Yeah,” Satoru said. “We’ve got space. It’s a Friday.”

Sukuna nodded. “Choso’ll come pick him up tomorrow. Our other brother.”

Yuji was already bouncing back to Megumi’s side. “I brought my pokemon cards! And that one movie you said you hadn’t seen. Also snacks. Is your microwave still broken?”

Megumi looked faintly alarmed. “Don’t touch the microwave.”

Sukuna scribbled a number on a crumpled receipt for the liquor store and handed it to Satoru. “In case anything comes up.”

He crouched in front of Yuji. “Don’t be an' annoyin' lit'le shit.”

“I won’t!”

“An' don’t break n'thin”

“I won’t !”

Sukuna gave him a look that clearly said don’t make me come back , ruffled his hair, and climbed back on the bike.

“Call if you need me,” he said. “Screw this up and I’m picking you up at midnight.”

Yuji saluted.

The engine roared to life, and Sukuna pulled away into traffic.

Satoru opened the car door. “Alright, wild one, hop in.”

Yuji darted for the backseat. Megumi sighed, as he followed.

As Satoru turned the key, he glanced at Yuji in the rearview mirror. “Any allergies?”

“Nope!”

“Explosive energy?”

“Always!”

Megumi pinched the bridge of his nose. Acting more like a disappointed parent than a 5th grader.

Satoru smiled. “Should be a fun night.”

Friday Night – Tokyo Apartment

Suguru lit a cigarette on the balcony.

Inside, chaos. Noise.

“Well,” he murmured, watching through the glass door, “we’ve brought home a smaller, louder version of you.”

Yuji shrieked something incomprehensible about a “cheap move” as his Kirby character fell off of the map, while Megumi calmly played as Rosalina in Smash Bros, games with Gojo made him more skilled with all those practice games. Satoru sat between them, providing obnoxiously dramatic commentary like it was the Olympic finals.

Misa the cat was curled in Suguru’s hoodie. Mochi had fled to the dining table, tail puffed in caution. Smart cat.

Suguru took a slow drag and watched Satoru — face bright, laughter loud. He hadn’t seen him like this in months. Not since before… Osaka.

His gaze shifted to the boys. Megumi wasn’t smiling, but he didn’t flinch when Yuji got loud. He let him lean in.

He let him stay .

Yeah. He could deal with some noise.

It was past ten when the console powered down.

Satoru was elbow-deep in the sink, pretending he knew how to wash dishes. Suguru sat on the floor, glasses on, flipping through an article he wouldn’t remember reading. Yuji’s voice carried down the hall from Megumi’s room in a non-stop monologue.

They’d turned Megumi’s room into a snack graveyard. Sleeping bags lined up beside the bed. Mochi had curled up between them. Misa nestled near Megumi’s legs. The nightlight glowed — dim. Megumi said he didn’t need it. But it was there.

Yuji kept talking.

“So, like… Gojo-san and Geto-san. They’re your real parents?”

Megumi blinked slowly. “…No.”

“Oh.”

Yuji paused, fiddling with the wrapper of a candy bar.

“So… who are they?”

Megumi rolled onto his back. “Guardians.”

“But not foster parents, right? I heard about those from Sukuna.”

Megumi shook his head. “They knew my mom. Knew of her. I think.”

“What about your dad?”

Megumi didn’t answer right away. “He’s not around.”

Yuji nodded. “Mine either. I don’t even know who my mom was."

Megumi looked over.

Yuji shrugged, voice more casual than his hands. “Sukuna took care of me and Choso. He's not that bad once you get to know him, even with the tattoos and stuff.”

“…He seemed okay.”

Yuji smiled. “He is. Kinda scary, but he’s nice. He taught me how to make ramen without setting the house on fire.”

Megumi made a sound that was almost a laugh.

Yuji bumped his shoulder. “Your place is cool. Gojo-san’s kinda weird. But funny. And Geto-san makes good curry.”

“Yeah,” Megumi said quietly. “They’re okay.”

Yuji grinned in the dark.

Eventually, they both drifted off — Yuji snoring softly, Megumi half-curled around the cats, fingers brushing the edge of Yuji’s blanket.

From the hall, Suguru peeked in. Satoru was leaning against the counter, halfway through a chocolate bar.

“Think we just became suburban parents?” he whispered.

Suguru exhaled smoke and set his lighter down.

“You always were,” he replied.

Satoru snorted.

Outside, Tokyo buzzed. But inside — for now — it was calm.

Saturday Morning – Tokyo Apartment

The doorbell rang just past 9 a.m.

Satoru padded over in a hoodie and sweatpants, hair an explosion of static. He peeked and opened the door with a grin.

“Hey there, you must be Choso!”

The boy standing in the hallway was tall — almost Gojo’s height — with long dark brown hair that was half up and half down, two pigtails tied. He wore a simple hoodie, cargo pants, and a dark tattoo that ran horizontally across his nose like war paint. His expression was neutral, bordering on shy.

“Yeah,” Choso said, bowing slightly. “Sorry if I’m early.”

“You’re good. My partner left early — student crisis or something,” Satoru said, stepping aside. “Come in.”

Choso kicked off his sneakers and stepped quietly inside. The smell of coffee and cats lingered in the air. The apartment was warm, a little cluttered, clearly lived in. Cozy. Homely.

“The boys are still passed out,” Satoru said, nodding toward the hallway. “They were up way past bedtime trashing Megumi’s room with snacks and Smash Bros.”

Choso smiled faintly. “Sounds like Yuji.”

Satoru gestured toward the table. “You want coffee? Tea?”

“Tea’s perfect.”

They sat at the kitchen table. Satoru fiddled with the kettle while Choso scanned the room — framed photos, old textbooks, a worn-out cat toy under a chair. A digital star map screen glowed softly from an open laptop left on the counter.

“So,” Satoru asked, “you’re the oldest?”

“I’m seventeen. Sukuna’s twenty-five.”

Satoru raised a brow. “That’s a gap.”

Choso nodded. “Our parents passed away in an accident. Sukuna was twelve. I was eight. Yuji was still in diapers.”

Satoru’s expression shifted, gentling. “That’s rough.”

“Our grandpa took us in, but he was already sick. Sukuna dropped out to work — construction, dish pits, deliveries. Whatever paid.”

Satoru stirred a sugar cube into his mug. “At twelve?”

“Yeah. He never talked about it like it was a choice.”

“Sounds like he didn’t have one.”

They drank in quiet.

“I’m glad Yuji made a friend,” Choso said after a moment. “He’s... he’s a lot. Energetic. But good. Really good. He’s always been that way.”

“Megumi’s the opposite. Keeps everyone at an arms length. But he’s softened a bit. Yuji’s good for him.”

Choso looked over, curious.

Satoru leaned back in the chair, gaze distant. “We got custody of Megumi recently. His mom... passed away. His dad bailed. He was living on his own for a while. Just an eleven-year-old with a key and a few cans of food. Child services called us.”

“You knew his mom?”

“Barely, met her twice”

Choso nodded. “Still. That’s a lot to take on.”

Satoru smiled. “Yeah, well. Life threw a fast one. We caught it.”

A soft thump sounded down the hall — probably one of the cats, or a sleepy Yuji falling off the futon.

Choso smiled quietly. “Thanks for letting him stay. He’ll talk about this forever.”

“Anytime,” Satoru said warmly. “You and Sukuna are doing a good job. It shows.”

Choso didn’t answer, but something in his face softened.

The two of them sipped their tea, quiet and comfortable, as the apartment slowly stirred awake behind them.

Chapter Text

Tokyo | December 22nd, 2013

The jellyfish tank had been his favorite.

They’d glowed in lazy blue spirals like living stars, drifting peacefully behind glass. Megumi had stood in front of the tank longer than he realized, hands in his pockets, his breath misting the pane.

Yuji, naturally, had smashed his nose right up against the glass with a delighted “WOAH,” until Satoru dragged him away by the back of his shirt, making a dramatic fuss about “face grease crimes” against marine life.

Suguru had doubled back quietly and bought Megumi a souvenir keychain — a tiny jellyfish sealed in glass. He handed it over without fanfare. Megumi mumbled a thanks and stuffed it into his pocket. But he kept a hand on it the whole train ride home.

Back at the apartment, the lights were warm, low. The velvet cake looked store-bought, but Suguru had written Happy Birthday, Megumi in neat cursive with a shaky icing pen. Eleven candles flickered, golden and quiet.

Yuji’s off-key singing made Satoru laugh until he nearly dropped the lighter. Suguru hummed along, just enough to carry the tune. Megumi sat still, eyes half-lidded but not annoyed — more like he didn’t know what to do with any of it.

Birthdays hadn’t mattered in a long time. Some years, they barely existed. Just another calendar page in an empty apartment, a quietly expired box of crackers on the counter. This one… this one was different.

He blew out the candles. He didn’t make a wish.

He didn’t need to. He already had everything.

Tokyo | December 22nd, 2017

The apartment was cleaner now.

Not like a showroom, but lived-in. Organized. Comfortable. The guest room was long gone. In its place stood Megumi’s space — posters tacked up with pins, a desk cluttered with pens, textbooks, a beat-up mechanical pencil he refused to replace, and a black plush cat with button eyes gifted from Yuji on his twelfth birthday. He’d named it “Misery” after a manga joke Yuji didn’t get but still laughed at anyway.

The living room smelled faintly of curry and honey candles. Satoru had burnt the first batch of rice. Suguru had remade it without comment.

Megumi sat cross-legged on the couch, scrolling through his phone, the sleeves of his hoodie stretched over his palms. It wasn’t like he was waiting — just… anticipating.

Yuji came in like a small explosion, cheeks red from the cold, gift bag swinging wildly from one wrist.

“Happy birthday, Megumi!” he called, plopping the bag on the table. “I got those pens you like — the ones that don’t smudge! And snacks. The weird american ones you won’t admit you like.”

He kicked off his shoes and shrugged out of his jacket, hair even messier than usual. His scarf trailed behind like a cape.

Satoru, now 28 and a little more tired under the eyes, ruffled Megumi’s hair before passing him a slice of cake. “Fifteen, huh? Next thing you know, you’ll be taller than me.”

Megumi gave him a look. “I already am.”

“Blasphemy,” Satoru gasped, dramatically hurt. “Suguru, our kid’s turned against us!”

“I warned you he’d grow into the quiet, judgmental phase,” Suguru replied dryly, sliding into the seat across from Megumi. His hair was tied back, sleeves rolled to his elbows from cooking. His eyes lingered a beat too long on Megumi — not pitying, just quietly observing. He knew today might be hard.

No one said anything about his diagnosis. They didn’t need to. The meds were tucked behind the cereal. The therapy appointments quietly scheduled around school. The depressive spells came and went like bad weather. But the three of them — Suguru, Satoru, and Yuji — remained. Constant.

“I didn’t get you anything flashy,” Satoru added, setting down a small wrapped box. “Just something for your desk. You know, to remind you how loved you are every time you study math and want to throw yourself out the window.” Satoru batted his white lashes playfully. 

Megumi unwrapped it slowly. It was a photo frame. Inside, a candid shot of the four of them — Satoru with his mouth mid-laugh, Suguru’s arm around his shoulder, Yuji throwing bunny ears behind Megumi’s head. The cats were in the background, curled together on the windowsill. Megumi was staring straight at the camera with that squinty almost-annoyed expression he always made when caught off-guard.

It shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did.

He stared longer than he meant to. And when he spoke, his voice was quieter than usual.

“Thanks.”

Suguru reached over, brushing some stray icing off Megumi’s plate.

“You’re part of this family,” he said, low enough not to draw Yuji’s attention. “Always have been.”

Megumi nodded, ignoring the stinging in the corner of his eyes.

He didn’t call them dad . Never had. But that didn’t make them less family.

Later, when they moved to the floor to play a card game (Yuji’s idea, Megumi’s reluctant participation), Satoru poured hot cocoa and Suguru cleaned the dishes without being asked. The window steamed up with the heater on full blast. Outside, the Tokyo skyline blinked in the winter haze.

Suguru walked in with a small red velvet cupcake on a plate, a singular candle. He placed it in front of Megumi as they all sang happy birthday. Megumi took a deep breath and blew out the candle, the flame flickering out and a thin stream of smoke wisping into the air. 

Megumi didn’t wish for anything.

He already had what he needed. 

Chapter Text

Tokyo | Mid-January, 2018 | Friday, 10:42pm

The night was quiet in the apartment—unusual. No Gojo singing off-key in the kitchen. No Suguru padding around in socks, sighing at the state of the living room. Just the distant hum of the city outside and the occasional shifting weight of the cats curled into the couch cushions.

He sat on the balcony, hunched forward with a thick blanket pulled around his shoulders. A half-smoked cigarette dangled loosely between his fingers — awkward, like a foreign language in his hand. Yuji sat beside him, legs stretched out and a can of beer balanced between his knees. His sleeves were pushed up, knuckles red from the cold, cheeks flushed a deeper pink than usual.

It was cold, but the alcohol was warm. And Megumi… well, Megumi felt a little like he was floating. Not in a bad way. Just in the kind of way where your limbs felt slightly too far away and your thoughts were moving too slow to catch.

“Can’t believe we’re actually doing this,” Yuji said, breath fogging in front of his lips. His voice was low — not whispering, just naturally soft in the way people talk when the world feels smaller at night.

Megumi handed him the cigarette. “Only if Suguru doesn’t kill us first... Don't forget to throw out the receipt."

Yuji snorted, took a drag, and immediately choked on it. He doubled over, coughing violently, one hand flailing as if that might help somehow. Megumi tried — and failed — not to smile.

Yuji wheezed between coughs, “That tastes like burnt paper and carbon dioxide.”

Megumi exhaled smoke and muttered, “That’s because it is .”

A beat passed. Then Yuji laughed — a sharp, wheezy thing that escaped before he could stop it, making his whole body shudder. His shoulder knocked gently into Megumi’s.

Their knees bumped sometimes, too, when the wind shifted or one of them shifted weight. It was casual. Unremarkable. But Megumi noticed each time. And when the wind swept past them, sharp and cold against his cheek, the alcohol in his bloodstream was slow and warm and made the world feel heavy in a bearable way.

Yuji tilted his head. “Hey.”

Megumi blinked, eyes still on the skyline. “Hm?”

“I’m glad you let me stay over tonight. You’ve been kinda... quiet lately.”

“I’m always quiet,” Megumi muttered, eyes on the skyline.

“You know what I mean.”

He did. He didn’t answer.

He pulled the blanket tighter around himself instead and took a small sip from the beer can balanced beside him. It tasted flat, slightly metallic, but familiar in a way that made his stomach feel less hollow. The buzz dulled his brain just enough to stop the usual spiraling.

Yuji bumped his shoulder lightly. “You okay?”

Megumi blinked, then looked at him. The city lights reflected in Yuji’s eyes—bright, open, dumbly kind. The same boy who punched a guy for pushing Megumi in gym class. The same boy who invited him to every hangout even when Megumi never showed. The same boy who, even with a hundred friends, always saved a seat for Megumi like it was never even a question.

“I’m okay,” Megumi replied.

Yuji’s grin widened. “Good.”

They were quiet again. The city stretched before them — lights glowing like static stars, buildings outlined in sharp winter black. Somewhere below, a siren echoed faintly. The wind tugged at the edge of the blanket on Megumi’s shoulder, but he didn’t move. Neither of them did.

Then Yuji spoke, quieter this time.

“Hey… can I ask something kinda personal?”

Megumi felt his stomach tighten. “Sure.”

Yuji was fiddling with the tab of his cheap beer can now, eyes on his hands. “Do you ever think about the future?”

Megumi blinked. “What kind of future?”

“Like… what we’re gonna be doing. In five years. Ten. If we’ll still be friends. If we’ll live in the same place. Stuff like that.”

Megumi didn’t answer right away. He didn’t trust himself too.

Because the answer was yes . Yes, he thought about it all the time. He thought about Yuji showing up at his apartment even when they were both older. He thought about Yuji still laughing at his own dumb jokes and dragging Megumi into conversations he didn’t want to have. He thought about the possibility that maybe, maybe if they were lucky, they’d still be sitting side-by-side years from now like nothing had changed.

“I think about it,” he said finally, voice quiet.

Yuji smiled. “I think we’ll still be friends. Even when we’re, like, forty or whatever.”

Megumi didn’t look at him. He couldn’t. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Me too.”

Eventually the cold drove them back inside. Megumi shut the balcony door while Yuji gathered the cats and grabbed two extra blankets from the hall closet. They made a makeshift bed on Megumi’s floor with old pillows and the futon mattress Suguru had lent them once. The heater clicked on in the corner. It smelled faintly of dust and cinnamon.

They lay side by side, shoulders close, the room dim and quiet except for the cats loafing at the foot of the bed.

It was too dark to see much — just the outline of Yuji’s face in the shadows, his hair a soft blur against the pillow.

Then Yuji spoke again, voice a little too casual.

“You ever kissed someone?”

Megumi froze.

“What?” he said, tone sharper than he meant.

Yuji shrugged in the dark. “Just wondering.”

Megumi hesitated. He had no clue where Yuji was going with this one. “No.”

“Huh. Me neither.”

Silence again. But this time, it buzzed like a wire.

Then — after a beat too long:

“Would it be weird if I asked to try?”

Megumi’s throat closed up. He turned to look at Yuji—barely a silhouette in the dark.

“Like just to… practice,” Yuji said quickly. “Not in a weird way, just… I’ve never kissed anyone before and I figure I should know what I’m doing, right? Like for when I actually kiss a girl.”

When I actually kiss a girl.

Megumi’s stomach dropped and twisted at the same time. But Yuji sounded sincere. Nervous, but sincere. Not mocking. Not teasing. Just honest in the way Yuji always was — his heart somehow always hanging off of his sleeve.

“You want to?” Megumi asked, voice hoarse.

Yuji shifted closer. “I think so.”

Megumi rolled onto his side. Slowly. Carefully. The blanket rustled between them.

“Okay,” he whispered. “But just… just once. To practice.”

Yuji nodded. “Yeah. Just once.”

Their faces were inches apart now. Megumi could smell the faint beer on Yuji’s breath. The sweet-salty residue of the snacks they’d eaten. The lingering smoke from the balcony.

Yuji hesitated. “You don’t have to if you don’t—”

The kiss was soft. Tentative. Just a brush of lips, barely anything at first — dry and clumsy and unsure. But they didn’t pull away right away. It lingered. Slowed. Megumi tilted his head slightly, barely breathing, and felt Yuji’s mouth part just a little in return.

It was… gentle. Warm.

Yuji’s hand brushed Megumi’s wrist, and for a second, they just breathed each other in.

When they finally parted, it was slow — like a dream being let go.

Yuji blinked. His cheeks were slightly red, or maybe it was Megumi's eyes playing tricks on him. 

“…Okay,” he said, voice quieter now. “That wasn’t so bad.”

Megumi stared up at the ceiling and tried to remember how to breathe.

“No,” he said, still barely audible. “It wasn’t.”

Yuji turned on his side to face away, maybe flustered. Maybe overthinking it. Megumi couldn’t tell.

“Just practice,” Yuji mumbled. “Y’know… for when we kiss girls or whatever.”

“Right,” Megumi echoed, his voice small.

Neither of them said anything else. The silence returned, heavier than before, but not bad. Just full.

Eventually Yuji fell asleep — breath deep and slow, one arm curled close, his knuckles just brushing Megumi’s blanket.

Megumi didn’t sleep right away.
He just lay there, staring at the ceiling, heart heavy with something tender and bright and terrifying.

And when he finally closed his eyes, he thought about the future.

And wondered if maybe — just maybe — this was part of it.

Chapter Text

Tokyo | Mid-January, 2018 | Saturday Morning

Yuji left with a grin and a sleepy wave, bounding down the apartment stairs with the same scuffed-up sneakers, scraped knees, and untied shoelaces he'd arrived with. The morning air was cold—knife-sharp against flushed cheeks—but he didn’t seem to notice. He never did. Choso waited in the car parked out front, sipping from a tall black coffee, his eyes half-lidded as he nodded at Satoru.

Satoru leaned in the lobby doorway, arms crossed over his chest, hoodie zipped up, pajama pants dragging a little over the heels of his slippers. His hair was sticking up in every direction. Still waking up.

Suguru had already left earlier that morning for his private tutoring session, muttering something about second-year students being entirely helpless without structure—even on weekends. He’d kissed Satoru’s cheek before slipping out, eyes still lined with sleep, dark hair tied up in a loose bun.

Behind Satoru now stood Megumi, silent and stiff in the hallway. His hoodie was up, pulled low over his face, hands shoved deep into the kangaroo pocket, arms crossed like he was trying to hold himself together from the inside out.

“Thanks for having me!” Yuji called from the sidewalk before ducking into the car.

Satoru waved. “Later, kid!”

The door shut. Peace fell again.

Megumi exhaled, slow and shallow. His shoulders dropped just barely—but the tension hadn’t left.

“You good, ‘Gumi?” Satoru asked, twisting a little to glance back at him.

“Fine,” Megumi said flatly, voice barely above a whisper.

Satoru tilted his head. “You’re always fine.”

Megumi didn’t respond. He just turned and walked stiffly down the hall, disappearing into his room without looking back.

Satoru watched the empty space he left behind for a beat too long.

Later

Megumi sat on his bed, phone in hand. The soft blue glow of the screen lit the shadows under his eyes. His lock screen blinked.

1 new message – Yuji Itadori 🧃:

“hiiii gumi”

He locked the phone again. Let it drop beside him on the comforter.

His chest felt tight. Not painful. Just... wrong. Too full of something he couldn’t name. Too loud. Every breath scraped the inside of his ribs.

He thought about last night.

The wind on the balcony. The cold of the railing under his hands. The faint taste of beer and tobacco on his tongue. The way Yuji had looked at him when he said “Would it be weird if I asked to try?”

He kissed me.

No. I kissed him back.

It didn’t mean anything. Probably.

It was just a stupid, impulsive, late-night experiment. That’s all. Drunk kids did dumb things. Everyone said that. Everyone.

But..

It hadn’t felt stupid. Not in the moment. It had felt—

Megumi buried his face in his hands, teeth clenched tight.

He remembered how warm Yuji had been. The shape of his laugh vibrating in his shoulder. The soft, fumbling press of their mouths. How Yuji’s breath had hitched—just slightly—before they broke apart.

And he remembered how Yuji had smiled after. Easy. Unbothered. Like it hadn’t cracked something open in Megumi’s chest that still hadn’t stopped leaking since.

He groaned and rolled over, pressing his face into the pillow.

Satoru stood in the kitchen, chewing absently on a strawberry Pocky stick, posture hunched like he was balancing something on his spine. He didn’t notice Suguru come in until the kettle clicked off.

“He’s being weird,” Satoru said.

Suguru raised an eyebrow. “Megumi?”

“Mm. He hasn’t said more than, like, three words all morning. He didn’t even complain about the coffee being too sweet.”

Suguru raised an eyebrow and poured himself a mug of tea. “I noticed. His room was spotless when I walked past. Desk cleaned. Clothes folded. And he was scrubbing the balcony railing.”

Satoru looked over, mouth full of Pocky. “Shit. You think they fought?”

“Maybe,” Suguru said mildly. “Or maybe Megumi said something dumb- or Yuji did.”

Satoru made a noise of agreement. “You don’t think it’s, like… serious?”

“No. I think it’s Megumi.” Suguru stirred his tea. “Maybe he’s just overwhelmed. He’s got a lot going on.”

“Yeah…” Satoru leaned on the counter. “I mean, it is midterms next week. Plus therapy’s been heavy lately. And he’s been staying up late—again.”

“Exactly,” Suguru said. “Could be anything. Doesn’t have to mean the end of the world.”

“But I still hate not knowing,” Satoru muttered.

“You’ll survive,” Suguru said, sipping his tea.

Another message.

Yuji Itadori 🧃:

“u good?”

His thumb hovered over the notification.

Then he locked the phone again and shoved it under a pillow.

No. He wasn’t good.

He wasn’t anything right now. Not really. Just buzzing static. Confused and raw and stupidly— so stupidly —hoping for something he knew he couldn’t ask for.

He stood up suddenly. His body ached like he’d been running. He hadn’t slept. Not really. His head felt thick and slow. He needed to move .

Out in the kitchen, Satoru and Suguru looked up as he walked in. His hair stuck up in odd places, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, face pale.

“You alive?” Satoru asked gently.

Megumi shrugged.

Suguru studied him. “Want tea?”

“No.”

“Want pancakes?” Satoru offered.

“Why would you offer pancakes at three in the afternoon,” Suguru muttered.

“I just wanna connect with our child.”

Megumi stared at them both like they were speaking a different language. Then he turned and walked to the balcony, sliding the door open. Cold air rushed in. Neither adult stopped him.

He gripped the railing, knuckles white.

Tokyo sprawled below. Messy and bright. People shouting on sidewalks. Cars gliding through intersections. And somewhere out there, Yuji. Laughing, probably. Texting someone else. Talking to his other friends about girls and track meets and normal things .

And here Megumi was, holding onto metal so tight it hurt because he couldn’t stop thinking about how Yuji’s mouth had felt on his. How it hadn’t felt like practice. Not to him.

Not even for a second.

Behind him, Suguru closed his book.

“I’m not pushing him,” he said softly. “He’ll come to us if he needs to.”

Satoru leaned back against the couch, arms folded behind his head.

“You think it’s just a friend fight?” he asked.

Suguru nodded. “Probably"

Satoru was quiet for a moment. “I wish he’d talk to us.”

“He will. When he’s ready.”

Satoru looked toward the balcony, where Megumi still stood, frozen and far away.

“…Teenagers are hard,” he muttered.

Suguru smiled faintly. “And we signed up for it.”

“No we didn’t,” Satoru shot back. “We got ambushed.”

“Same thing,” Suguru said, standing. “Now go make pancakes or whatever. I’m having one.”

Chapter Text

Tokyo | Mid-January, 2018 | Monday Evening

Satoru found out entirely by accident.

He wasn’t snooping. He was just digging through the kitchen junk drawer—the one everyone pretended didn’t exist—for the scissors so he could open the new bag of cat treats. Misa was suffering, apparently, because Mochi had figured out how to open the treat jar and had eaten most of the last batch. Suguru said she was being dramatic. Misa disagreed.

Satoru was elbow-deep in soy sauce packets and rubber bands when something fluttered between his fingers—a thin, crumpled piece of paper, wedged between a takeout menu and the ancient lighter Suguru refused to throw out “because it still technically works.”

Out of chaos-driven curiosity, Satoru unfolded it.

Not a note.

A receipt.

7-Eleven. Shibuya district.

Timestamp: Saturday, 9:33 PM.

Two items: one pack of cigarettes, one six-pack of cheap beer.

“Oh jeez,” he said aloud.

A chill crawled up his neck, slow and cold. Not anger. Not even surprise, really. Just... a quiet alarm.

He didn’t storm into Megumi’s room.

He thought about it. Thought about kicking the door open and launching into some lecture about health and safety and good decisions. But that wasn’t going to help. That wasn’t how Megumi worked. And when he was Megumi’s age he was probably doing worse with Suguru. 

He was annoying, but he wasn’t cruel.

Instead, he walked down the hall and stopped outside the boy’s room. The door was closed. A thin strip of warm light spilled out from beneath it.

Satoru knocked. Twice. Light. Careful.

No answer.

“Megumi?” he called, quieter than usual.

Still nothing.

So he opened the door anyway.

Megumi was sitting on the floor with his back against the side of the bed, knees up, chemistry textbook open on his lap but clearly forgotten. His fingers were tangled in his hair. His leg bounced restlessly.

The room smelled like clean laundry and tension.

Satoru stepped in and closed the door behind him. He didn’t speak right away. Just leaned against the wall, receipt still in his hand.

“Wanna talk about why I found this behind the soy sauce packets?” he asked softly, holding it up between two fingers.

Megumi stiffened.

He looked at the receipt before he looked away cursing under his breath.

“I told Yuji to throw that out,” he muttered.

“Mm,” Satoru said. “Well. He didn’t. Or you didn’t. Either way, here we are.”

Silence again.

Then:

“I bought it,” Megumi said, eyes still fixed on the same spot on the floor. “It was my idea.”

Satoru let that hang in the air for a second. Then he stepped forward and crouched beside him.

“That explains the cigarette butts I found in the balcony planter yesterday morning?” he asked, voice even. “They weren't my lovely smoker boyfriend’s brand.”

Megumi winced.

“We only had, like, one each,” he muttered.

“So that was the mystery smell. Got it.”

Megumi pressed his hands over his face. His shoulders hunched. “We didn’t get drunk. Not really. I just… I wanted to try it. Just once. We were being stupid.”

“You weren’t stupid,” Satoru said quietly. “You guys are fifteen. And curious.”

Megumi didn’t say anything. His throat moved as he swallowed. He still wouldn’t meet Satoru’s eyes.

“I’m not mad,” Satoru added. “Okay, I’m a little mad, because you smoked on my balcony. But mostly I’m just worried. This isn’t like you, Gumi. You don’t act out unless something’s eating you alive.”

That finally cracked something.

Megumi’s hands dropped into his lap.

His voice was rough. “I just wanted something to stop my head from spinning.”

Satoru didn’t speak.

“I haven’t been sleeping,” Megumi admitted, barely above a whisper. “And my stomach’s been all fucked up. And school’s been—everything’s just been too much.”

Satoru nodded slowly.

He wanted to ask if this was about Yuji, but the words didn’t come out. Maybe he didn’t want the answer. Or maybe he didn’t know what to ask, exactly.

“I’m sorry,” Megumi said quietly.

“You don’t have to be,” Satoru said. “But I need you to talk to me. Or Suguru. Or someone. You can’t keep bottling this up.”

“I’m not—”

“You are ,” Satoru said, gently but firmly. “You’ve been chewing the inside of your cheek all week. Suguru said you reorganized your closet twice. You haven’t touched dinner the last two nights. And now this?”

Megumi rubbed his eyes. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is when you’re doing things you normally wouldn’t. Drinking. Smoking. Hiding it. That’s a red flag, Megumi.”

He finally looked at Satoru. His expression was tired. Worn thin.

“You’re not in trouble,” Satoru repeated. “But this isn’t nothing.”

Megumi nodded once. He didn’t speak again.

Satoru stood, running a hand through his own hair. “Just… don’t do it again. Not like this. If you’re spiraling, I’d rather you slam a door and scream at me than sneak off to smoke on the roof.”

Megumi gave the faintest, almost invisible smile.

Satoru reached down, ruffled his hair once. “I’m not your cop. I’m not gonna lecture you. But I am your idiot adult. So let me help next time.”

“...Okay.”

Satoru walked to the door. “Sleep tonight, yeah? Try. Suguru made miso soup. It’s still warm.”

Megumi didn’t move. But after a few seconds, he nodded again.

Chapter Text

Tokyo | Early February, 2018 | Thursday Evening

Megumi's been struggling lately, and Yuji—his only real friend—hasn’t been over in weeks.

It had started with a text from Satoru in the family GC.

Gojo: dinner. no arguments. get your coat.
Gojo: dragon rolls or death 🔥🐉

Megumi ignored it.

Then Suguru knocked on his bedroom door five minutes later, not really waiting before cracking it open.

"You coming, or do I have to bribe you with egg tarts again?"

Megumi didn’t look up from where he sat on the edge of his bed, hoodie sleeves curled into his fists. His laptop was open beside him, a blank chemistry worksheet glowing faintly on the screen.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re fifteen,” Suguru replied. “That’s biologically impossible.”

Megumi didn’t respond. 

Suguru sighed. “We’ll be back by nine. No lectures, just food. You can even glare at Satoru the whole time, if that helps.”

It didn’t.

But twenty minutes later, Megumi was in the backseat of the car, face turned toward the window.

The sign above the place flickered. A barely-working neon dragon curling around kanji that read “紅火飯店”—Red Flame Kitchen.  It was wedged between a laundromat and a secondhand bookstore, the windows fogged from years of oil and steam. The kind of place you’d miss unless someone dragged you there on a cold Thursday night.

Satoru called it “the best gyoza in Tokyo,” which he insisted was an objective fact. “The broth is magical. Like. Healing properties. Probably cursed. Definitely blessed. Ancient dragon grandmas in the back, I’m telling you.”

Inside, the lighting was too bright, and the booths were worn down to the stuffing in some places. A stack of mismatched menus sat near the entrance. The waitress didn’t ask for their order. Satoru just grinned and told her to bring everything that could burn a hole in someone’s soul. Suguru gave a strained smile and mouthed sorry behind him.

Megumi slid into the booth last. He sat across from Suguru, diagonally from Satoru, who immediately tried to ruffle his hair. Megumi leaned away without a word.

Suguru didn’t miss the movement. He didn’t miss anything.

Megumi was coiled too tightly. Shoulders up. Eyes flat. Hands hidden in his sleeves. He hadn’t smiled in days—not really. Not even the twitch of one. He hadn’t gone out for a walk in a week, hadn’t opened his laptop unless it was for school. His sketchbook was untouched on the shelf.

And he hadn’t said Yuji’s name once.

Not in nearly three weeks.

Dinner came fast. The table filled with plates—steaming bowls of ramen, glossy gyoza, stir-fried greens, towers of crispy tempura. Satoru immediately cracked open the yuzu soda and made a show of tasting it.

“Mmm. That’s the stuff. Alright, team. Let’s talk about the obvious.”

Megumi didn’t look up. “Which obvious.”

“The one where you’ve been ignoring your best friend and stealing Suguru’s cigarettes but also not even pretending to take your meds.”

Megumi froze.

Suguru’s eyes shifted toward him.

The chopsticks in Megumi’s hand trembled slightly before he set them down, perfectly straight on the edge of his napkin.

“We’re not mad,” Suguru said, voice quiet, careful. “No one’s punishing you. We’re just worried.”

Megumi shrugged. It wasn’t even a real shrug. More of a shoulder twitch.

Satoru tilted his head, eyes softer now. “You’ve been off lately. We’ve been giving you space, but it’s not getting better. And I don’t care if it’s your friends, your grades, your brain chemistry, or the phases of the moon. I just want to know if you’re drowning and pretending not to be.”

Still, Megumi didn’t speak.

The sounds of the restaurant filled the silence—chopsticks clinking, low conversation, laughter from another booth.

Suguru nudged the plate of duck chow mein closer to him. “Just give us something. Doesn’t have to be a full confession. A clue would be nice.”

Megumi’s eyes dropped to the steam rising from the ramen bowl. He rubbed at his eyes with the edge of his hoodie sleeve. Quiet. Raw.

And then, like a fault line giving out beneath the weight:

“I think I ruined it.”

Suguru blinked. “Ruined what?”

Megumi hesitated. Then exhaled sharply through his nose. “Yuji.”

Satoru and Suguru exchanged a look.

“You didn’t ruin Yuji,” Satoru said gently. “Pretty sure that boy is emotionally indestructible.”

“I haven’t talked to him since,” Megumi muttered. “It was stupid. We were being stupid. And now it’s—he hasn’t texted, and I haven’t texted, and it’s just stuck.”

Satoru leaned forward, arms on the table. “Did something happen?”

Megumi hesitated.

His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “It was just… a mistake.”

Suguru looked at him carefully. “Did he say that?”

“No,” Megumi said. “But he didn’t say anything else either.”

A pause.

“Was it a fight?”

Megumi shook his head.

Suguru’s brows pulled slightly together. “Then what—?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Megumi said quickly. Too quickly.

Satoru backed off, lifting both hands. “Okay. You don’t have to.”

Suguru didn’t press.

Instead, he passed the chili oil across the table and refilled Megumi’s tea. “Eat. At least a little. Your stomach doesn’t work on heartbreak.”

Megumi blinked at him, startled. “I didn’t say it was—”

“You didn’t have to.”

That silenced him.

He picked up his chopsticks again. Nibbled at a spring roll, then poked half-heartedly at the noodles. His hands were shaking, just a little. Enough to notice if you were looking.

Satoru watched him from across the table.

Suguru leaned back, resting an arm along the back of the booth. “Whatever happened,” he said, voice quiet but certain, “you’re still you. And we’re still here. You don’t have to tell us. But you don’t have to carry it alone, either.”

Megumi didn’t answer. 

Later That Night – 10:13 PM

The apartment was dark. Suguru had already gone to bed, and Satoru was finishing a bowl of cereal over the sink like some kind of midnight gremlin.

Megumi sat on his bed in the hoodie he’d worn to dinner, phone glowing in his hand. His sketchbook was still untouched on the floor. The air smelled faintly of chili oil and laundry detergent.

He stared at the empty text thread.

The last message was from Yuji.

January 11th.

ramen this week?
i’ll bring the sour gummies 😤🍜

That felt like a lifetime ago.

His thumbs hovered.

Deleted. Rewrote. Deleted again.

Then finally:

Megumi:
hey
i miss u
can we talk soon?

He hit send before he could talk himself out of it.

Then turned the phone face-down.

He didn’t expect an answer tonight.

He just needed to know the line was still open

Chapter Text

Tokyo | Early-February, 2017 | Thursday Night

The leftovers were packed away, the sink half-full with water, and the silence between Satoru and Suguru had turned thick and restless. Outside, the city was quiet in that winter way—snow crusting on the windowsills, traffic muffled, neon signs flickering through the thin slats of the blinds.

Suguru stood at the sink, slowly rinsing out mugs from dinner, hands moving with methodical rhythm. His sleeves were pushed up, forearms bare, skin pale under the kitchen lights. Satoru leaned against the counter beside him, watching him like he might shatter. Satoru leaned against the kitchen counter nearby, arms folded, watching him. His sunglasses were tucked into the collar of his sweatshirt. He looked tired—his posture slack, hair messier than usual.

“He texted him,” Satoru said, voice low. “Yuji. I peeked.”

Suguru didn’t look up. His hands didn’t stop moving. “I figured.”

Satoru hesitated. “You okay?”

Suguru’s shoulders shifted in a vague shrug. “I’m not sure yet.”

The water kept running. Suguru rinsed a mug twice, then turned it over onto the drying rack with a soft clink. His jaw worked silently for a moment—tense and twitching.

“There’s something else going on,” he said finally. “It’s not just school stress or winter burnout. He’s been skipping his meds. You noticed that too, right?”

“Yeah,” Satoru admitted. “Last week I found some under his pillow.”

Suguru paused.

Satoru ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t wanna say anything at dinner. He was already…” He trailed off. “He looked like he was trying not to shatter.”

“I think we need to book with Nanami-san again. Even if he refuses to talk.”

They both looked at each other before continuing with what they were doing. They don’t check Megumi’s room and notice how the window creaked open, the cold winter breeze fluttering the curtains. The room is empty. 

Local Park, 11:09 PM

Three weeks.

Megumi hadn’t seen Yuji in three whole weeks.

The last time had been in the haze of a early February night—warm breath, cold balcony, a conversation that barely happened and the ache of something unspoken hanging thick between them. After that, silence. Texts left unread. Phone calls ignored. Lunch tables sat at opposite ends. Avoid, avoid, avoid.

Now, he sat on a cracked bench by the playground, sleeves tugged over his knuckles, hood drawn tight. His body curled inward like something fragile and ashamed.

The cigarette between his fingers had gone out five minutes ago. He didn’t light another.

He didn’t really smoke. Not until recently.

Yuji jogged up, stopping a few feet away, red-faced from the cold, dressed in a worn track jacket and fingerless gloves. 

He didn’t look up when Yuji spoke.

“Three weeks,” Yuji said quietly. “You disappear for three weeks , and then text me like nothing happened.”

Megumi didn’t answer right away. Yuji’s breath came in shallow puffs. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I almost didn’t.” Yuji replied as he kicked some snow with his boot.

Yuji looked different, he wasn’t beaming like usual. All that remained was the hurt. The confusion.

“I didn’t know who else to call,” Megumi said.

Yuji’s jaw clenched. “That’s not fair.”

“I know.”

Yuji stepped closer. “You left me hanging. After everything… after that night. After you kissed me.”

“You asked me to,” Megumi snapped, voice sharp in the cold.

Yuji’s mouth opened slightly. “What?”

“You said—” Megumi’s throat worked, like the words were stuck. “You said it was just practice. That we’d never done it before and you didn’t want to be bad at it. So you asked. And I said fine. And then you looked at me like it mattered, and I didn’t know what to do with that.”

Yuji was frozen in place.

“I didn’t think it would mean anything,” Megumi continued. “You said it wouldn’t. And then it did. For me.”

The snow fell heavier now.

Yuji’s voice, when it came, was low. Wrecked. “It meant something to me, too.”

Megumi barked out a short, bitter laugh. “Then why did you pretend it didn’t?”

“Because I was scared!” Yuji stepped forward, hands clenched at his sides. “Because I didn’t know how to tell you I wasn’t joking anymore! That it stopped being a game the second you actually kissed me back!”

Megumi shook his head. “I’ve spent the last three weeks trying to breathe around the thought that I ruined everything.”

“You didn’t—”

“Yes, I did. I avoided you, I shut you out, I—”

He stopped, shoulders trembling. “I felt like I was falling apart, and I couldn’t let you see it. Not when I already felt like too much.”

Yuji was in front of him now, close enough to touch, but not reaching.

“I waited,” he said softly. “I waited for you to say something. To even look at me again. And every day you didn’t, I kept thinking I’d made it up. That I imagined how you looked at me.”

Megumi’s voice was barely audible. “I missed you so much it made me sick.”

Yuji stepped even closer. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because wanting you scared me.”

Yuji's breath caught.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Yuji,” Megumi said, voice cracked and raw. “I don’t know if I like boys or girls or anyone at all. I’ve never wanted anything this badly and it makes me feel like I’m going to drown.”

Then he said, softly, “Let me drown with you.”

And before Megumi could move, Yuji leaned in and kissed him again.

It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t practice.

It was cold and aching and full of weeks of silence and unsent texts and all the words they hadn’t known how to say.

Megumi’s eyes fluttered shut. Just for a second.

Then he jerked back like he’d been burned.

“Don’t,” he whispered, breathing hard. “Please don’t.”

Yuji froze. “Why not?”

“Because I wanted that. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

“You don’t have to do anything yet.”

Megumi backed up a step, then another.

“You kissed me once and called it practice,” he said. “And I believed you. I believed it didn’t matter.”

Yuji’s face crumpled. “I’m sorry—”

“I can’t do this,” Megumi choked. “Not now. Not like this.”

And then, before Yuji could stop him—

He ran.

12:22 AM — Apartment

The window slid open with a quiet groan, letting in a gust of sharp winter air. Snow clung to the hem of Megumi’s hoodie and the cuffs of his jeans, already melting onto the floor as he crept barefoot across the hardwood.

The living room was dim, lit only by the glow of the lamp beside the couch. Suguru was still awake, a closed book in his lap, hands resting lightly over the cover like he hadn’t turned a page in hours. He looked up when the window shut.

He didn’t smile.

Megumi froze, halfway out of his shoes. His hoodie reeked of cold smoke and something bitter beneath it—like fear steeped too long in silence. His hair was damp from snow. His hands were trembling. He gave a small, barely-there nod and turned to go.

But the door didn’t click shut fast enough

Soft footsteps followed him down the hall.

“Megumi.”

His name wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even loud. But it stopped him cold.

He stood still in his room, back to the door, heart thudding painfully against his ribs. The overhead light in the hallway spilled across the floor in a long, soft line. Suguru stepped into the room quietly and shut the door behind him, muffling the apartment to stillness.

Megumi didn’t turn around. His hands were buried deep in the sleeves of his hoodie, shoulders high and tight like a string pulled too hard.

“You snuck out,” Suguru said gently. “And you’ve been crying.”

Megumi inhaled shakily. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

From down the hall, a floorboard creaked.

And then: “He’s not,” came Satoru’s voice, groggy but clear, from the hallway.

Megumi flinched. “You’re awake?”

The bedroom door opened all the way, and Satoru walked in, his hair wild from sleep, dressed in a T-shirt and plaid pajama pants. His eyes, though puffy and rimmed red with exhaustion, were sharp the moment they landed on Megumi.

“Of course I’m awake. You think I sleep when you vanish out a goddamn window?”

“Satoru,” Suguru said softly, warningly.

But Megumi had already curled inward at the voice, arms wrapped across his chest like armor. “I’m sorry.”

The words were immediate. Mechanical.

Satoru stared at him, at the crumpled, soaked hoodie, the pale skin, the redness around his eyes. His voice, when it came again, was quieter.

“You smell like cigarettes.”

Megumi nodded mutely.

“Did you smoke?”

Another nod. Barely perceptible.

Satoru sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face, pacing slowly across the room like a caged thing. “I don’t care about that right now, but Jesus, Megumi…”

Suguru touched his arm. “Don’t overwhelm him.”

“I’m not—” Satoru cut himself off, then tried again, voice trembling now. “I just… we were worried.”

Megumi looked up. “I know.”

Satoru softened a little. His voice cracked. “You were gone for almost two hours. You weren’t answering your phone. We didn’t know if—”

He swallowed. “You’re not okay, Megumi. You think we don’t notice, but we do.”

“I didn’t mean to make you worry,” Megumi said hoarsely.

“You didn’t mean to leave ?” Satoru asked. “Or didn’t mean to vanish for three weeks before this ?”

Suguru stepped in, calm and measured. “We’re not here to corner you.”

Megumi looked between them, eyes too wide, too tired. “Then why are you both here?”

“Because you’re hurting,” Suguru said.

“Because I don’t know how to help anymore,” Satoru admitted.

“Because I kissed Yuji,” Megumi blurted.

Silence.

Suguru blinked. Satoru’s mouth opened slightly before his jaw snapped shut.

“I kissed him,” Megumi repeated, as if he couldn’t take it back now. “It was—three weeks ago. On the balcony. I didn’t even think, I just—he was saying something about not wanting to suck at it the first time and—he asked. He asked me if I wanted to practice and I said yes and it was just supposed to be a joke but it wasn’t.”

He ran a hand through his damp hair, pulling hard at the roots. “And then I avoided him. For weeks. I ignored his texts, I skipped lunch, I just—completely shut down. I made it a thing when it didn’t have to be. I ruined it.”

“Hey,” Suguru said quickly. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

Satoru had gone still. His voice came slow, like he was trying to measure it. “Did he pressure you Megumi?"

“No,” Megumi said quickly. “No. It wasn’t like that. He was—he was kind. Confused. I think I hurt him more than anything.”

Satoru sat down on the edge of the bed, hands laced together. “Do you like him?”

“I don’t know ,” Megumi said, voice catching. “That’s the worst part. I don’t even know what I am. I don’t think I like girls. I don’t know if I like anyone, really. But I think—I think I liked that it was him . That it felt okay when it shouldn’t have.”

He was breathing hard now, chest tight. “And then tonight he said it meant something. That it wasn’t just a joke to him. And I ran. I ran away from him like he’d hit me.”

Suguru crossed the room and sat in the desk chair, calm and close but not crowding.

“Megumi,” he said gently. “You’re fifteen. You’re allowed to be confused. You’re allowed to change. You’re allowed to not know.”

Megumi shook his head. “What if I never figure it out?”

“You will,” Suguru said. “On your own time.”

Satoru leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “We don’t care who you like. We care that you’re hurting.”

“I don’t want either of you to see me like this,” Megumi whispered.

“But we do,” Satoru said. “We see you like this every day. And we’re still here.”

Another silence stretched.

Then: “Please don’t make me go to therapy this week.”

Suguru gave a soft, sad smile. “We’re not canceling. But I’ll come with you. We’ll tell Nanami-san what you’re ready to share. You set the pace. Okay?”

Megumi gave a small nod, barely lifting his head.

“I don’t want you guys to think less of me,” he added.

Satoru blinked, startled. “Megumi. Kiddo. I’ve thought you were the coolest little shit on Earth since you were seven and tried to bite my hand off for touching your Lego set.”

Megumi managed a breathy laugh.

“You could kiss boys, girls, frogs—wouldn’t change it.”

“Please don’t kiss frogs,” Suguru muttered.

Megumi rolled his eyes, wiping his face with his sleeve. But the corners of his mouth tugged, just barely, upward.

Satoru stood up and ruffled his hair. “We love you, Megs. No matter who you are. No matter how long it takes to figure it out.”

Suguru stood too. “You’re safe. And you’re not alone.”

The room was quiet for a few seconds more.

Then Megumi said, softly, “Can you leave the door open a little?”

“Of course,” Suguru said.

Satoru clicked off the light, and they stepped out together, the hallway warm behind them.

The door stayed cracked. Just enough.

Just in case.

Local Park — Late February, Evening

This time Megumi got permission from Satoru and Suguru to go out and see Yuji, he promised to be home at a reasonable time and text updates as he took the bus. 

The bench was cold and hard beneath them, but the quiet was something Megumi hadn’t realized he’d been craving. Snowflakes drifted lazily, melting on Yuji’s jacket, and the faint buzz of the city felt distant, almost peaceful.

They sat side by side, a careful space between them.

Yuji cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “Hey.”

Megumi glanced over, eyes tired but steady. “Hey.”

Yuji kicked at a patch of snow on the ground. “I’m sorry I didn’t push harder. I thought maybe you needed space, but… three weeks was a lot.”

Megumi shrugged. “I wasn’t good at talking. I’m sorry.”

Yuji nodded. “I get it. I really do. I just missed hanging out with you, you know? It wasn’t the same without you.”

Megumi stared at the frozen ground. “I missed it too.”

“Look,” Yuji said quietly, “I don’t wanna make this weird. I don’t wanna lose what we have. We’re friends. That’s important to me.”

Megumi’s lips twitched in a faint, tired smile. “Friends.”

Yuji grinned, relief flooding his face. “Yeah. No expectations, no drama. Just us being us.”

Megumi looked up, meeting Yuji’s gaze. “Thanks for waiting.”

“Always,” Yuji said. “So… ramen Friday? Same place?”

Megumi nodded, more genuinely this time. “Yeah. I’ll bring the notes for studying.”

Yuji laughed. “Deal.”

They sat a moment longer, the warmth of their friendship slowly thawing the chill around them. No words about kisses, no explanations—just two friends.

Megumi tried to ignore the way Yuji's gaze kept trailing to his own lips. 

Chapter Text

Tokyo | Late-October, 2017 | Thursday Evening

"Please, Geto-san, I'm begging you."

Yuji clasped his hands together like he was praying to a god—or at least a somewhat reasonable adult—eyes wide with cartoonish desperation. Suguru, seated at the kitchen table in his sleep pants and hoodie, raised a single unimpressed eyebrow over the rim of his tea mug.

Satoru, half-bent into the fridge in search of snacks, was already snickering.

Megumi stood a few feet behind Yuji, arms folded across his chest, face vaguely mortified. He looked like he was seriously debating whether crawling under the table might be a viable escape route.

"It's not even a real party," Yuji rushed on. "Just a chill Halloween thing. Some people from track, a few upperclassmen, maybe a little music, some very casual, extremely supervised sketchy behavior—"

"That’s not comforting," Suguru said flatly, setting his mug down with a gentle clink.

"The word ‘sketchy’ should never be paired with ‘casual,’" Satoru added, emerging from the fridge with a half-full Tupperware of fried rice and a bag of grapes.

Yuji grinned. “But that’s what makes it fun.”

"And this chill party starts at...?" Suguru continues. 

Yuji shifted his weight. “Ten. But like, fashionably late is eleven, right?”

Suguru gave a stern look, his eyes staring directly into Yuji’s.

Satoru popped up from the fridge with a tupperware of leftover fried rice, already grinning. “Let them live a little, Suguru. Megumi’s fifteen, not five.”

“You got kicked out of your middle school Halloween party for making vodka punch,” Suguru reminded him.

"Allegedly."

Megumi cleared his throat. “I don’t even want to go.”

Yuji turned to him with theatrical betrayal. “Megumi—”

“You tricked me into some weird matching costumes”

“Brokeback Mountain is cool,” Yuji insisted, eyes wide with sincerity. 

Megumi’s expression twitched. “I haven’t even seen the movie.”

"Then we’ll watch it! Later! But first—this party! We have hats and flannel already."

Suguru rubbed his temple slowly. “Matching costumes. A party that starts at ten. Probable underage drinking.”

“Definitely,” Satoru muttered with a mouthful of rice.

“—and Megumi hasn’t left his room in days unless it’s school.”

The kitchen fell quiet. A beat too long.

Megumi didn’t lift his head. Yuji’s grin faltered.

Suguru’s tone shifted. Softer now, lower. He leaned forward onto the table, hands clasped.

“I’m not trying to be cruel,” he said, eyes on Megumi. “But when you disappear into yourself for two weeks and then suddenly want to go to a party—well, Yuji wants you to go—it makes me wonder if you’re going for you or for someone else.”

Yuji took a step back and frowned. “I didn’t mean to force him—”

“I know you didn’t,” Suguru said gently. “And I know you care about him.”

Megumi stared at the floor. “I just…” He rubbed his sleeve with his thumb. “I thought maybe it would be better than staying home.”

Suguru watched him for a moment longer, something flickering in his expression. Then he nodded.

“Okay,” he said with finality. “But conditions.”

Yuji perked up like a dog hearing the treat bag.

“1 a.m. curfew. No drinking. I’ll be texting you, ‘Gumi. You both stick together. And if I find out one of you snuck off to make out with a girl behind a shed—”

“Suguru,” Satoru groaned. “They’re fifteen.”

Yuji turned red. Megumi looked like he wanted to fall through the floor.

Suguru sipped his tea again. “Just making sure we’re clear.”

“We’ll behave,” Yuji said quickly.

Megumi nodded once.

Suguru looked at them both, then sighed. “Fine. You can go.”

Yuji immediately fist-pumped like he’d won Olympic gold. “YES—thank you, Geto-san, I owe you my life—”

“You owe me honesty,” Suguru corrected.

Yuji gave a scout’s honor salute.

Megumi just mumbled, “Thanks,” and avoided eye contact with everyone in the room.

Satoru clapped him on the back. “Can’t wait to see you in a cowboy hat, kid.”

“Please don’t talk.”

That night, after the boys retreated to Megumi’s room to scroll through TikToks and plan logistics—Yuji talking at lightning speed and Megumi responding with the occasional grunt or nod—Suguru settled onto the couch beside Satoru.

Satoru draped a leg over Suguru’s lap and flipped the TV on low. Some cooking show played in the background.

"You’re not really worried?" Satoru asked, draping a leg across Suguru’s lap.

“I’m always worried,” Suguru replied, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

"Yeah, but—" Satoru glanced down the hallway. "—you let him go."

Suguru leaned his head back. “Because he wants to try. That matters more than anything right now.”

Satoru nodded, quiet for a moment. “He still isn’t eating right. Barely sleeps.”

“I know.”

“I hate that he thinks this kind of party is how he’s supposed to fix himself.”

“He’s not trying to fix himself,” Suguru said softly. “He’s just trying to remember what it felt like to be normal. Or at least pretend to be.”

They both looked at the muted TV.

“Besides,” Suguru added dryly, “Yuji’s going to wear chaps. There’s nothing scarier than that.”

Satory snorted.

Chapter Text

Tokyo | October 31st, 2017 | Friday Night 

Megumi tugged down the brim of his cowboy hat in the mirror, lips pressed tight, expression unreadable. He looked grim, annoyed, and faintly humiliated.

"You look like you hate joy," Satoru commented from the doorway, already leaning against the frame with his phone in hand, camera aimed.

"I hate this cowboy hat," Megumi muttered flatly, still not looking away from the mirror.

Yuji appeared behind him, beaming with chaotic pride. He was already dressed to match—plaid flannel, dark jeans, a bolo tie slightly askew. The hat perched on his head at a confident tilt.

“You look so good, dude,” Yuji said, tugging at Megumi’s sleeve. “We’re gonna be the hottest couple at that party.”

“We’re not a couple,” Megumi mumbled.

Yuji’s smile faltered for a second before bouncing back like a rubber ball. “Okay, we’ll be the hottest friend duo.”

Satoru snapped a picture.

“That’s going on the fridge,” he announced cheerfully.

“Please don’t,” Megumi said, deadpan.

Satoru zoomed in dramatically. “Too late. You’re adorable.”

Yuji spun in a circle like a fashion model. “Do you think we should tuck in our shirts?”

“I think you both look like you’re about to slow dance at a barn wedding,” Satoru offered helpfully. “Like, tragically repressed cowboys. Real yeehaw yearning.”

“Stop talking,” Megumi said.

Yuji grabbed his phone and snapped a quick selfie of them both in the mirror, leaning in close. Megumi blinked at the flash, frowning.

“I want to remember this,” Yuji said, quieter now. He didn’t say why, but Megumi didn’t ask. He just nodded once and reached for his coat.

Down the hall, Suguru appeared with a small paper bag in hand. He raised an eyebrow at the hats.

“I see we’ve fully committed,” he said.

Yuji beamed. “You said we could go!”

“I did,” Suguru replied, handing the bag to Megumi. “Snacks. In case you get overwhelmed and don’t feel like eating junk. There’s protein bars and those little sour gummies you like.”

Megumi blinked, Suguru always thought of everything. “Thanks.”

Suguru fixed the collar of Megumi’s flannel gently. “Call me if you want to leave early.”

“I won’t,” Megumi said under his breath.

“I know,” Suguru replied, not letting go. “But you can.”

They left five minutes later, cowboy hats tilted low, matching boots clicking down the hallway of their building. Suguru stood in the doorway with Satoru beside him, both watching until the elevator doors slid closed.

Satoru wiped fake tears from his dry eyes. “We have a teenager”

Suguru exhaled. “God help us.”

They didn’t speak for a long moment.

“Do you think he’ll have fun?”

“Maybe not,” Suguru said. “But I think he wants to try. And that’s more than he had last week.”

Satoru nodded. “And if it goes bad?”

“I’ll pick him up at midnight in sweatpants and glare at some drunk teenagers.”

“Hot.”

Suguru snorted and let Satoru lean his head against his shoulder. 

The party was already loud by the time they arrived. Bass thumped through the walls of the too-small house, orange lights blinking erratically, and some kid in a skeleton suit was throwing up in a plastic pumpkin by the porch.

“This early?” Yuji said brightly, half-laughing as he pulled Megumi toward the door.

Megumi hesitated on the threshold, a wall of noise and heat spilling out into the street. He could already feel his chest tightening.

Inside, the smell of weed and sugary alcohol was thick. People were yelling across rooms, laughing too loud, and Megumi immediately regretted everything. Someone in a pirate costume slid past them with a tray of jello shots; a girl with fake vampire blood smeared across her mouth shrieked with laughter in the corner.

He didn’t let go of Yuji’s sleeve.

Yuji moved with ease, calling out to people, giving hugs and fist bumps, dragging Megumi along like a very grumpy balloon. He made introductions—"This is Fushiguro"—but Megumi barely responded. Every light felt too bright. Every sound grated. His breath felt shallow in his chest, and the longer he stayed, the more he wanted to just vanish.

Someone offered him a red Solo cup. He took it without thinking, sipping the sweet, vaguely chemical-tasting liquid. His face twisted. Cheap vodka. Fruit punch. Something sticky.

Someone passed him a joint. He hit it just to feel something quieter in his head.

They ended up on a battered old couch in a back room, Yuji chatting with a couple kids from track while Megumi tried to hold it together. He sat rigid, eyes scanning the crowd, knee bouncing. His skin felt wrong. His teeth felt too large. Everything too loud. Too much.

Yuji leaned in, his voice soft against the music. “You good?”

Megumi didn’t answer. Just nodded once, a small jerk of his chin.

Yuji frowned and shifted closer. His hand settled lightly over Megumi’s, grounding. “We can go. Seriously. Just say the word.”

Megumi shook his head. “You’re having fun.”

“Not if you’re not.”

The alcohol was creeping up slowly, humming low in Megumi’s bloodstream. The joint made his thoughts throb less, made the din around him slow to a dull roar. Yuji was laughing at something someone said, cheeks pink, eyes glassy.

Someone handed Yuji a half-empty bottle of something, and he took a swig, coughing hard. “Oh god. What the hell is this?”

“Victory,” the girl next to him replied, raising her own bottle.

Yuji laughed again, his smile wide and loose. He offered it to Megumi, who blinked slowly before taking a sip. Bitter. Sharp. Burned all the way down.

The music vibrated in his bones. People were dancing now. Some grinding. Some just swaying like seaweed in a storm.

“Want to dance?” Yuji asked suddenly, cheeks flushed.

“No,” Megumi said.

“Okay,” Yuji grinned, “Just checking. I don’t either.”

They sat together for a while longer, Yuji leaning into Megumi’s side now, warm and relaxed. Megumi let it happen. He was warm too, maybe too warm. Someone turned off the lights and flipped on a strobe. Shadows cut across the walls.

Megumi rubbed at his eyes. The room swayed.

He took another sip of the shitty drink in his cup. 

They were in a random upstairs bathroom when Megumi’s back hit the wall and Yuji’s mouth was on his.

The door had slammed behind them, locked with a shaky twist. The lights were dim and yellow, flickering slightly like a cheap motel horror scene. It smelled like someone’s expired cologne and bleach, but neither of them cared. Not with how hard they were breathing. Not with how fast Megumi’s heart was beating.

Yuji’s hat had fallen off somewhere in the chaos. Their belts clinked and boots scuffed against peeling linoleum. One of the towel racks rattled against the wall as Yuji pressed in, his mouth frantic, greedy. Megumi’s hands were tangled in his pink hair, fingers tight like he was afraid Yuji might disappear if he let go.

Yuji’s hands were hot beneath Megumi’s shirt, rough with calluses from the gym and track, dragging up warm skin and making Megumi gasp. He arched forward, involuntary, drunk on heat and movement and the way Yuji’s lips didn’t leave his skin for a second—trailing from his mouth to his throat, down his neck, kissing like a man starved.

“God, I’ve wanted to do this since forever,” Yuji muttered hoarsely, voice shaking as he kissed over Megumi’s jaw, nipped behind his ear.

Megumi made a soft, choked sound, something between a gasp and a plea. His legs were barely holding him upright. Their hips ground together. Heat sparked like static, sharp and dizzying.

Yuji’s hand slid under the waistband of Megumi’s jeans, enough to make Megumi hiss and let out a stifled moan, he clung tighter. His head fell back against the tiled wall with a dull thud.

“Yuji,” he breathed, somewhere between a warning and a prayer.

Yuji paused just long enough to rest his forehead against Megumi’s. “I love you,” he whispered suddenly, breath hot against the shell of Megumi’s ear. “Please—please say it back.”

Megumi blinked, dazed. His lips parted, then closed again. His eyes darted away. He swallowed hard, throat clicking.

Silence.

Yuji froze, still holding him, still so close. Their bodies were flush, but the silence that fell between them was a blade.

“You’re kidding,” Yuji said, stepping back just an inch—enough to break contact. It tooks everything in Megumi not to whine at the loss of warmth from Yuji.

Yuji's voice cracked, chest heaving. “You’re kidding, right?”

Megumi didn’t answer. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t move.

“Megumi—are you seriously still pretending like none of this means anything?”

“I’m not pretending—” Megumi began, but his voice wavered, raw.

“Yes, you are!” Yuji’s voice rose, frustration spilling out like a flood. “You kiss me, you follow me around like you’re glued to my hip, you look at me like I fucking hung the stars—then you act like I’m insane for wanting something real.”

“I didn’t ask you to love me,” Megumi said, quieter than a whisper.

Yuji flinched like he’d been slapped. “You didn’t have to,” he snapped. “But you could at least not act like it’s disgusting.”

“It’s not—!”

“You can’t even say it,” Yuji said, his voice breaking now. “You can’t even say you’re gay.”

Megumi felt like the wind was knocked out of him.

His hands had curled into fists. His breathing was uneven. “I’m sorry,” he said, choked. “I’m trying.”

Yuji shook his head, stepping away fully this time. The distance between them felt like a cracked ravine.

“No,” he said. “You’re not. You’re scared. You’re ashamed. And I can’t keep doing this—this thing where I’m always the one who says it first. Who wants it more.”

“I do want you,” Megumi said, almost a sob.

Yuji’s eyes were wet. “Then prove it. Say it.”

Megumi’s jaw clenched. His whole body trembled like a wire pulled tight. But the words wouldn’t come. They sat on the back of his tongue like a curse.

Yuji stared at him for a long moment. Something in his face broke.

“Just go,” he said.

Megumi didn’t move.

“Please,” Yuji added, voice wrecked.

And so Megumi did. He unlocked the door with shaking hands and stepped back into the dark, sticky hallway. Music thumped distantly through the walls.

Behind him, Yuji didn’t follow.

It was 3:08 a.m. when the front door to the apartment creaked open.

The hallway light flickered on, casting long shadows down the narrow corridor.

Suguru stood framed in the doorway, his hair a tangled mess from sleep, dressed in worn sweatpants and a faded T-shirt. His face tightened immediately at the sight before him.

Behind him, Satoru shuffled out in one of his oversized sleep shirts, blinking blearily, rubbing his eyes as if waking from a dream.

Megumi stood frozen in the threshold, halfway inside, swaying slightly, trying desperately not to collapse.

“Megumi Fushiguro,” Suguru’s voice cut sharp through the silence. “Do you have any idea—”

Then his words caught in his throat.

Megumi’s eyes were bloodshot and glassy, rimmed with red like a storm about to break. His lip quivered uncontrollably. His pale skin looked almost translucent under the sickly yellow glow of the streetlight seeping through the glass door.

Something raw and shattered echoed in his posture—like a fragile thing barely holding itself together.

“Wait—” Satoru’s voice was immediate, alarmed, softer this time, as he noticed too.

Then Megumi doubled over abruptly, retching violently onto the cold tile floor.

“Shit,” Suguru muttered, stepping forward with urgent care, catching Megumi before he crumpled entirely.

Megumi’s body shook uncontrollably, dry heaves wracking his chest.

Satoru hurried off to grab a bucket and damp towels, voice low and steady as he tried to calm the chaos.

Suguru’s hand was firm yet gentle, cradling the back of Megumi’s neck, rubbing slow circles as he murmured, “Okay. Okay, hey, breathe. You’re okay, Megumi. We’ve got you.”

Megumi whimpered something incoherent, too lost in the storm of his own body and mind.

He clung weakly, trembling with sobs breaking free, gasping for breath between shaky inhales.

Tears mingled with sweat and sickness, trailing silent rivers down his cheeks.

Suguru’s gaze softened but remained steady—anchored, unwavering.

“Let it out, Megumi. We’re here,” Suguru whispered.

Satoru returned, kneeling down, pressing the cool towel to Megumi’s damp forehead.

The apartment felt impossibly small and vast all at once—filled with worry and unspoken fears.

Megumi’s sobs turned ragged, each one a quiet surrender.

Suguru’s fingers tightened lightly around his shoulder, grounding him.

“You’re not alone. Not now. Not ever.”

Megumi’s breathing slowed in fits, eyelids fluttering shut.

Suguru and Satoru exchanged a glance.

Chapter Text

Tokyo | November 1st, 2017 | Apartment | 4:22 AM

The tea cup rattled gently as Suguru knelt in front of the couch, holding it steady in both hands. Megumi hadn’t moved in ten minutes—not since the vomiting, not since his body caved in like something brittle. He sat hunched under a soft blanket, still trembling faintly, his shirt damp with sweat and tears. His eyes were dull, rimmed in red, staring at nothing.

“Megumi,” Suguru said gently, not too loud, not too soft, voice like a safety net. “Can you hear me?”

Megumi mumbled something into the blanket. His mouth barely moved.

Satoru hovered nearby, pacing more than he wanted to admit, hair sticking up in every direction. He looked wired, exhausted, helpless. He didn’t even try a joke. Just knelt behind the couch with one hand on Megumi’s shoulder, thumb rubbing slow circles into the fabric of the blanket.

Suguru moved a little closer. “Did you take anything tonight? Can you remember?”

Megumi’s mouth twitched. He didn’t meet Suguru’s eyes. “Just weed. And some drinks. I don’t know what was in them.”

Suguru’s jaw twitched. He pressed the tea closer to Megumi’s hands. “Okay. That’s okay. Just sip this for me, alright? Slow.”

Megumi blinked down at the mug. Took it like it was made of lead. He didn’t drink, just stared at the steam and sniffled. His fingers twitched against the ceramic.

Satoru leaned in. “You’re okay now, kid. You’re home.”

“I think I ruined everything,” Megumi slurred, voice wet and cracked and barely above a whisper. “I—I fuckin’—Yuji—he said—” He broke off, hiccuping. “He said it, and I laughed. I didn’t mean to. It just—my brain broke.”

Suguru shook his head gently. “Don’t talk about that now, sweetheart. Just focus on breathing, alright?”

But Megumi wouldn’t stop. He was caught in a spiral, and the words kept tumbling out in broken pieces.

“I think he’s gone. I think I made him leave. He said he loved me and I looked at him like—like he punched me. And then I kissed him and he- he got mad. He was mad. ”

Satoru knelt next to Suguru now, reaching over to tug the blanket tighter around Megumi’s frame. “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he said, soft and firm. “Shh. You’re not making sense, and that’s alright. You’re just tired.”

“I didn’t mean to not say it,” Megumi mumbled again, voice cracking as his head dropped forward. “I’m so stupid. I’m so fucking stupid.”

Suguru shot Satoru a worried glance over the boy’s head. His eyes said what he didn’t: What the hell was in that drink?

“I’m gonna call someone in the morning,” Suguru murmured, voice low. “Maybe get him tested. He’s too out of it for weed and vodka.”

Satoru nodded grimly. “Let’s just get him to sleep first.”

Megumi was fading fast now, words slurring together, breath hitching. “I think he hates me. I’d hate me. I’m always ruining things.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Satoru murmured, brushing back the damp hair from his forehead. “And even if you did, we’ll deal with it. But not tonight, Gumi. Right now, you just need rest.”

“I should text him,” Megumi mumbled, reaching for a phone that wasn’t even in his pocket. “Say I didn’t mean to. Say it back. Even if it’s too late.”

“Tomorrow,” Suguru said gently, taking the tea before it spilled. “We’ll do everything tomorrow. Sleep first, okay?”

Megumi didn’t respond. He just curled tighter into the blanket, eyelids fluttering shut, the last of his fight slipping away.

Satoru shifted closer, resting a hand on Megumi’s shoulder. Suguru stood, quietly picking up the nearly untouched mug of tea.

They watched him sleep, shoulders rising and falling with shallow breaths, still shaking faintly.

“Think he took something?” Satoru asked softly, scared, after a minute.

Suguru nodded, face tight. “Not on purpose, probably. But someone handed him something, and he trusted them.”

They stood in silence, the city flickering through the cracked balcony door.

Flashback – 3:14 AM, Yuji Itadori

Yuji walked home with blood in his mouth and salt on his cheeks. Not real blood, but it felt like it—the taste of regret and words said too late. His cowboy boots scuffed against the sidewalk, too loud in the quiet streets.

The party had gone on without them, music still thumping upstairs when he left. Someone had offered him another drink, but he’d shaken his head, blinking fast, holding in the burn.

He left Megumi’s hat on the counter. Couldn’t bring himself to look at it. He didn’t even know where his own hat had went.

The streets were empty, fog curling in from alleyways like ghosts with nowhere to go. His phone buzzed once. A meme from Nobara in their group chat. He didn’t open it.

Yuji wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand and kept walking.

The alcohol made everything feel heavier—his limbs, his thoughts, his heart. But he knew it wasn’t just that. It was the sound Megumi made when he couldn’t speak. The way he looked away. Like Yuji’s love was a spotlight too bright.

He hated how stupid he felt. For hoping. For asking.

He’d thought—maybe this time—maybe Megumi was ready.

But some part of Yuji was always waiting to be left behind.

Tokyo | November 1st, 2017 | 8:43 a.m.

The apartment was quiet.

Morning spilled through the windows in thin strips of grey light, dust motes drifting in the still air. The smell of strong coffee lingered faintly, along with the faded remnants of lemon cleaner and last night’s mess. Somewhere down the hall, a kettle clicked off.

Megumi sat at the kitchen table, wrapped in one of Satoru’s oversized hoodies—blue and worn at the cuffs, sleeves swallowing his hands. His hair was a mess. He hadn’t looked in the mirror. There was a crust of dried sweat near his temples and the ghost of something acidic still clinging to the back of his throat. But his head was clearer now. Not perfect. But not spinning, either.

He stared down at a glass of water he hadn’t touched.

Satoru moved around the kitchen slowly, barefoot and subdued, a mug of coffee cupped between his hands. He didn’t say much—just slid a plate with toast toward Megumi like an offering, then leaned back against the counter with his own quiet exhaustion.

Suguru joined them a moment later, sleeves rolled, towel slung over one shoulder like he’d just showered. He looked better than he had at three in the morning, but only barely. His gaze found Megumi immediately.

“Hey,” Suguru said, voice low. “How’re you feeling?”

Megumi swallowed. His voice scraped when it came out. “Like I got hit by a truck.”

Suguru nodded slowly, setting a small bottle of electrolytes beside the toast. “Sounds about right.”

Satoru didn’t smile. He just sipped his coffee and kept his eyes on Megumi, worried and waiting, but not pushing. Neither of them were pushing.

They didn’t ask.

They didn’t say, What the hell happened? or Tell us everything. They didn’t corner him. They didn’t even look angry.

Just quiet. And there.

Megumi stared down at the table. Picked at a corner of the toast.

“I was stupid,” he said eventually. “I—I didn’t think. I just wanted to feel better. Like… good. Just for one night.”

Suguru nodded again, patient. “Did someone give you something, Megumi? Something you didn’t ask for?”

“I don’t know.” Megumi’s mouth twisted. “I thought it was just weed. And then this guy at the party handed me a bottle, and I didn’t… I didn’t ask. I just drank it.”

Satoru’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t speak.

“I didn’t know what was in it,” Megumi said, quieter now. “I didn’t mean to get that fucked up.”

Suguru crouched beside the table, eyes level with Megumi’s. “We believe you,” he said. “Okay? You’re not in trouble. We just want to make sure you’re safe.”

Megumi nodded slowly, but the shame clung to his face like a second skin.

“Wasn’t just the drink,” he added, voice even smaller. “It was Yuji. He… said something. Something I wasn’t ready for. And I left. I left. ”

Satoru exhaled softly. “Did he get home?”

“I don’t know. I think so. I don’t remember. I think he walked home.”

No one spoke for a moment.

Then Suguru stood and gently rested a hand on the back of Megumi’s head, fingers threading briefly through his hair. “One thing at a time,” he said. “Eat what you can. Rest if you need. We’ll figure out the rest later.”

Megumi didn’t answer. Just nodded and folded further into himself.

It was nearly noon when he finally made his way to the balcony.

The air outside was cold and dry, wind tugging at the loose strands of his hair. He had his knees pulled up to his chest, hoodie draped heavy around his frame like armor. His eyes were raw, face pale in the washed-out light.

Beside him on the chair sat the cowboy hat—Yuji’s. Left behind like it didn’t matter. Like the night didn’t happen. He found it while leaving and just grabbed it on instinct, he didn’t remember doing that.

Megumi stared at it for a long time, unmoving.

Then slowly, he pulled out his phone.

He opened the message app. Stared at Yuji’s name sitting at the top of the screen.

No new texts.

His thumbs hovered over the keyboard, then pulled back. Typed again. Deleted. Again.

you home?
Deleted.

i’m sorry
Deleted.

i didn’t mean to freak out. i just got scared. i wanted to say it back. i did. i do.
Deleted.

He closed his eyes, jaw tightening.

Finally, he typed something else. Something small.

can we talk?

He pressed send.

Chapter Text

Tokyo | November 1st, 2017 | Apartment | 11:06 PM

The knock came just past eleven.

Megumi had been pacing the kitchen in slow, exhausted circles for what felt like hours. His movements were mechanical, his mind stuck on an endless loop of questions and doubts, every few minutes flicking toward his phone as if it might suddenly light up with a message—anything—from Yuji. But the screen stayed dark.

Satoru sat slouched on the couch, his usual cocky grin replaced with a rare quiet concern. His hair, as always, looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, but his eyes were sharp and watchful.

Suguru stood by the sink, silent but alert, his calm aura filling the room like a steady heartbeat. Neither said anything—words felt too fragile for the moment. Instead, they shared a look between them, an unspoken understanding that whatever was coming, they’d face it together.

Then the knock came.

Three short, deliberate taps.

He opened the door slowly.

Megumi froze mid-step, his heart pounding so loudly he thought it might drown out the sound. He didn’t have to ask who it was.

The two men exchanged a glance, steady and protective.

Megumi’s fingers trembled slightly as he moved toward the door, the weight of uncertainty pinning him in place. He reached out and opened it slowly.

Yuji stood there, framed by the dim hallway light, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. His hoodie sleeves were pulled down over his hands, concealing the restless trembling beneath. His jeans were the same ones from last night, faint stains darkening the knees. His pink hair was tousled, wild.

When their eyes met, Yuji’s jaw clenched, a flicker of raw, unfiltered emotion flashing across his face before he masked it with silence.

“…Hey,” Megumi said, voice a whisper.

Yuji didn’t smile. “You wanted to talk?”

Megumi nodded and stepped aside. “Balcony?”

Yuji shrugged, wordless, and followed.

The apartment smelled like citrus and old panic. Yuji gave a polite nod in Suguru and Satoru’s direction as he passed. Megumi stared at his own shoes, avoiding their gaze. The balcony door creaked open and clicked shut behind them.

It was cold. November wind over concrete rooftops, thick with humidity and city ghosts. The skyline stretched endless in every direction, sky smudged with the pinkish haze of too many streetlights.

They stood in silence.

Megumi leaned on the railing, arms folded, head ducked low like he was trying to fold in on himself. Yuji stayed near the door, stiff, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to be in or out, if he wanted to leave or scream.

“This is where we got drunk for the first time,” Megumi said eventually. His voice cracked like something brittle, like it had been waiting too long to be used. “And you almost choked to death on a cigarette.”

Yuji laughed once—a dry, sharp sound with no joy in it. “You mean the night we kissed? For practice?”

“Yeah.” Megumi gave a tight smile that barely passed as real. “You were so cocky about it. Like you were teaching me something.”

“I was,” Yuji muttered. Then, quieter: “I was trying not to freak out.”

Megumi looked over at him. “Yeah. Me too.”

Silence again. Heavy.

Then—

“I was high,” Megumi said, his words cracking at the seams. “And scared. And stupid. I didn’t mean to just… stare at you like that. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I didn’t care.”

Yuji didn’t look at him, his eyes focused on the Tokyo skyline. 

“I just… froze,” Megumi went on. His hands gripped the railing tighter, his knuckles pale. “You said you loved me and I—I wanted to say it back. I did. But my throat wouldn’t move. I kept thinking if I said it out loud, you’d disappear. That it wouldn’t be real anymore.”

Yuji turned, slowly. His face was tight, jaw clenched, eyes rimmed red.

“So you said nothing,” he said flatly.

Megumi nodded, the shame thick in his throat.

“You stood there,” Yuji went on, voice trembling, louder now. “I was crying. I told you everything I felt and you just stood there. Like I was some stranger who got too close.”

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

“But you did!” Yuji snapped. “You didn’t even flinch. You didn’t even try to explain. You just let me say all that stuff and then stood there like—like I disgusted you or something!”

Megumi looked stricken. “It wasn’t like that—”

“Then what was it like?” Yuji’s voice cracked. “Because to me? It felt like rejection. Like you’d been stringing me along and I was too stupid to see it.”

“I wasn’t stringing you along.”

“Then what were you doing?”

Megumi swallowed hard. “Trying not to ruin something I wasn’t sure I deserved in the first place.”

Yuji blinked. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Megumi pushed on, breath shaking. “You looked at me like I was something good. Like I was worth loving. And it scared the shit out of me. Because I’ve never believed that about myself. Ever.”

Yuji exhaled sharply. “You could’ve just said that instead of walking out.”

“I didn’t know how .”

“You could’ve—” Yuji shook his head, backing up a step. “Fuck, Megumi. I waited for you to say something . Anything. I would’ve taken the smallest thing. Just to know I wasn’t alone in it.”

“I was with you,” Megumi said, and now his voice cracked into something raw and breaking. “I’m sorry I couldn’t say it back. I’m sorry I didn’t have the words. I’m sorry I walked out. But I never wanted to make you feel alone.”

Yuji turned away. He rubbed his face, like he was trying to stop the tears that had already started.

“I’m sorry too,” he said, thickly. “I told you to get out, but I didn’t mean it. I just— I felt like I’d been ripped open and you didn’t even blink.”

“I wanted to go back in,” Megumi said. “I sat on the curb for ten minutes thinking about it. But I thought you hated me. And I hated me too, so I didn’t fight it.”

Yuji laughed again, bitter. “Great pair, huh?”

Megumi reached out, almost touching his sleeve, then stopped. “Do you--..”

Yuji glanced at him.

“Hate me?” Megumi asked, barely audible.

Yuji stared at him, breathing uneven. “I’m so fucking mad at you, and I know I have no right to be mad but I am.”

Megumi nodded. That, at least, he could accept.

“But no,” Yuji said after a long pause. “I don’t hate you. Not even close.”

Megumi let out a breath that trembled on the way out. “Okay.”

They stood there like that for a while, the night air pressing in around them. The city lights blurred in the distance.

“Do you still love me?” Megumi asked, barely more than a whisper.

Yuji closed his eyes. “Don’t ask me that yet.”

Megumi nodded again. And then he turned away, gripping the railing like it was the only thing holding him upright.

And neither of them said anything else.

Tokyo | November 2nd, 2017 | Apartment | 3:17 AM

Megumi sat on the cold floor of his room, knees drawn up tight against his chest, wrapped in the oversized hoodie that smelled faintly like Yuji. The night was too quiet, the silence too loud. The words Yuji said kept slicing through his mind, sharper than any blade:

“You can’t even say you’re gay.”

He swallowed hard, throat raw. That wasn’t just an accusation. It was a verdict. A truth he’d been running from—and maybe still was.

He looked up at the cracked ceiling, shadows cast from the night lights outside.The thought of his dads, of Satoru and Suguru, hung heavily around him. They didn’t hide who they were. They lived it, loud and unapologetic. And yet here he was, stuck—too terrified, too confused to say what felt like the simplest truth.

Megumi clenched his fists around his knees, nails digging into his skin. Why couldn’t I be like them? He thought bitterly.

He thought about Suguru’s calm strength, how he held Satoru like a lifeline, how their love wasn’t some whispered secret. And Satoru, with his reckless smile and fierce pride—both of them his family, his dads, proof that love was possible, that love was real.

And yet, I can’t even say it.

The shame twisted inside him, a heavy, suffocating coil. Because if he couldn’t say it—if he couldn’t even admit it to himself—then maybe Yuji was right. Maybe Yuji didn’t love him anymore. Maybe that night broke something that couldn’t be fixed.

Megumi’s heart ached with a hollow emptiness. Had he ever loved Yuji? Or had he just been chasing a shadow of what he thought love should feel like? The questions clawed at him, relentless and unforgiving.

He remembered Yuji’s face—red eyes, trembling voice, the way he’d looked like he was falling apart, like Megumi was the cause of it all. And the desperate hope in Yuji’s words that maybe, somehow, he still cared.

But did he?

The thought was unbearable. It crushed him under its weight, pulling tears he’d been holding back down his cheeks. His body shook, a quiet surrender to the storm inside.

His gaze drifted to the cowboy hat abandoned beside him on the floor—from the night that felt like a lifetime ago, of a chance he might have ruined forever.

Wrapped in the hoodie and silence, Megumi let the tears fall, each one a silent apology to the boy who had every right to hate him.