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On Megumi's thirteenth birthday, the resemblance becomes hard for Satoru to ignore.
Thirteen, as a number, doesn't mean much in Japan. It certainly doesn't have the same negative connotation as, say, the number four, but Satoru has been to America enough times to grow familiar with the concept of 'unlucky number thirteen'. Still, it's hard to relate to a childhood superstition one hasn't grown up hearing, so he hadn't put much thought into what age Megumi would be turning today.
Despite this detachment, he feels an irrational shiver run down his back as Megumi turns the corner and enters the kitchen, shower-damp hair hanging across his forehead. Satoru reminds himself that in twenty minutes the boy's hair will be dry as a bone and sticking up at odd angles just like always, and hopes that's enough to keep the goosebumps away.
He busies himself with continuing to cook the eggs (the most he is trusted to handle in regards to breakfast, even on days like today—he did at least try to make it special by adding in some sprinkles, although he has a sneaking suspicion Megumi won't be as appreciative of his festive idea as he should be) and tries not to let Megumi notice that he's feeling off, but it's hard not to stare.
It's just...the kid looks so much like his father, and it catches Satoru off guard sometimes. Okay, a lot of the time.
It's been especially bad since Tsumiki got sick. Nowadays, it's a rare sight to see Megumi making any face other than a scowl. When he feels particularly annoyed, often after Satoru makes an especially ill-thought out joke, the boy's mouth will tilt down on one side and he'll furrow his brow, and it's like Satoru is back in high school staring down Fushiguro Toji right before blowing a hole through his torso and he feels so sacred—
He hates to admit it, but he's a little glad Megumi doesn't smile more often. He isn't sure he'd be able to stand seeing a miniature version of that man's nearly ever-present, condescending smirk every morning. The fact that it's still etched into Satoru's psyche, a constant reminder not to let his guard down, is enough.
He jolts when he feels something push against his infinity, his fist tensing around the handle of the spatula he was using so hard that it cracks. It takes every bit of control in his body not to whip around and suffocate the person behind him with a quick burst of blue in the windpipe, but he manages. It takes a conscious effort to relax his grip and turn his head, smiling and feeling exceedingly thankful he already put his blindfold on this morning.
Megumi gives him a weird look and pulls back his hand from where it almost touches Satoru's shoulder. "Eggs'r burning."
Satoru chuckles, turning back and stirring around the scrambled and now slightly burnt eggs. "You wouldn't eat them anyway, Gumi."
Megumi is yet to hit a serious teenage growth spurt, so he still has to peer around Satoru's side to see into the pan properly, succeeding despite Satoru's best efforts to hide the atrocity he's created in his distractedness. "Are those sprinkles? What the hell?"
Acting as if Megumi is the ridiculous one, Satoru tuts at the boy and transfers the, admittedly charred, eggs to a plate. He reaches above the fridge and grabs a small candle from the miscellaneous stash of party decorations-past before sticking it in the center of the heap of eggs. Megumi rolls his eyes but allows Satoru to light the candle and sing him happy birthday before blowing on the mess with a sigh.
After divvying up the eggs and adding a few toaster waffles to both plates, he brings them to the table. As he glances over his shoulder to usher Megumi toward the kitchen, he's surprised to see that he...
Megumi is actually smiling a little bit as he looks down at his hands and grabs some napkins from the holder in the counter.
Immediately, Satoru regrets his earlier thoughts.
Because for as many ways as he looks like his father most days, today Megumi's smile looks just like Satoru's.
It's three in the morning and Megumi has been staring at himself in the mirror long enough for his eyes to start burning.
He smiles. He frowns. He pulls back his lips with his forefingers and thumbs and examines his teeth, the molars and canines. It's unclear even to him what he's really searching for as he counts his own dark eyelashes and notes how his eyebrows straighten at the end, all he knows is that there had been something. Something that, for just a moment...
Next, he inspects his irises.
Even though they sometimes flash a deep green in the right lighting, the truth is that his eyes are blue. Not that blue, of course, but blue nonetheless. Blue, with flecks of forest green near the pupil and a dark navy rim. Honestly, he'd never really taken the time to consider his own eye color. It was never something that seemed important, not when he had Tsumiki's health to worry about, or when he was learning how to control his cursed energy and she could only encourage him so much without having any tangible concept of what he was talking about, or even years before that when the two of them were busy figuring out how to keep the lights on and food on the table.
He finds it bittersweet that he has time to consider things like his real eye color now.
A quick shake of the head to get back on track and he starts scrutinizing his hair, the way it sticks up how it wants to no matter what products or tools he uses. If he does nothing to it, lets it air dry, then it hangs down over his forehead and gets in his eyes.
Slowly, he pushes his hair out of his face, using his palm to keep his bangs up while keeping his forehead and most of his eyes covered. He peeks out from beneath and looks at himself again.
Nope, that's not it.
He sighs and lets himself collapse forward, leaning his weight on the sink. It creaks ominously, but he's been doing this every night for a week and it hasn't broken yet.
A moment to catch his breath, that's all, and then he's back to making eye contact with his reflection.
He squeezes his eyes shut, hard, and opens them again. Obviously, he's acting insane. Making a big deal out of nothing. He looks the same as he always has and always will.
It's just that...he needs to see it again. Even if it's just for a heartbeat, he needs to know if it was a fluke, a trick of the light or something in his eye that had distorted his vision. Even if that's the most likely case, he needs to make sure.
Because, for just a moment during last week's mission, as he caught a glimpse of himself in a cracked storefront window, he thought he saw a bit of Gojo.
It's stupid, he knows. Gojo is—wasn't his father in any way, but especially not by birth. They never resembled one another in the least. Couldn't look further apart, in fact, what with their polar opposite hair colors and generally contrasting demeanors. Plus, Megumi is fairly certain he must look an awful lot like his birth father, considering what he now knows about his death, and considering how unnervingly spooked Gojo would look on the rare occasions Megumi caught him by surprise in those first few years together.
Still, he scans over his face once more.
It's marred now, by scars and by tears he hadn't realized were falling, but he keeps looking anyway.
Because, for a second, he'd thought he maybe looked a little bit like Gojo.
Ridiculous.