Archive of Our Own ^beta

The apartment felt borrowed in a way Megumi could not explain without sounding ungrateful.

It was not just the unfamiliar layout or the way the windows let in too much light during the afternoon. It was the absence of weight, the sense that nothing here had settled long enough to claim the space as its own. Even the air felt temporary, like it had been holding its breath since they arrived.

Megumi kept his shoes on.

Tsumiki had already started unpacking, folding clothes into drawers with careful precision, as if order itself might convince the world to stay kind. She moved gently through the rooms, humming under her breath, touching the walls like she was learning the shape of something fragile.

Megumi stayed near the doorway.

He did not like thresholds. They implied choice, and choices implied consequences.

When the door slid open without warning and Gojo’s voice filled the apartment, Megumi flinched despite himself. The sound was too loud, too confident, too comfortable for a place that still did not feel earned.

“I knew it,” Gojo said cheerfully. “You haven’t unpacked everything yet. That is a crime, you know.”

He stepped inside like he belonged there, balancing a small cake in one hand and a plastic bag in the other. The cake leaned slightly, the frosting uneven, the candles already pressed into the top without much care for symmetry.

Megumi’s eyes went immediately to the candles. He counted them before he could stop himself.

Tsumiki turned, surprise softening her expression before it warmed into something hopeful. “Oh,” she said. “You knew it was his birthday?.”

Gojo beamed, clearly pleased with himself. “Ofcourse! What kind of person would I be?"

Megumi felt his jaw tighten.

“You didn’t have to,” he said.

Gojo shrugged, setting the cake down on the table as if this were the most natural thing in the world. “Of course I did. Birthdays matter.”

“They don’t,” Megumi replied, sharper than he meant to be.

Gojo paused, glancing at him. “That is a depressing thing to say.”

“It’s realistic.”

The room grew. Tsumiki hovered near the table, her fingers brushing the edge as if grounding herself.

Gojo lit the candles anyway, shielding the flame with his hand, the small act of care irritating Megumi more than indifference would have. The candlelight flickered softly, casting shadows that made the apartment feel even less real.

“Make a wish,” Gojo said lightly.

Megumi stared at the flames. Wishes required intent, and intent required hope, and hope was an irresponsible thing to carry when everything could be taken without warning.

“I don’t want anything,” he said.

“That’s not how it works,” Gojo replied.

“That’s exactly how it works,” Megumi shot back, the words spilling out faster than he could control. “You don’t get to decide what matters to me.”

Gojo straightened, his smile fading into something quieter and more attentive. “Is that what this is about?”

Megumi felt something hot rise in his chest, anger tangled with something dangerously close to fear. “You’re doing this because you think it makes you part of our lives,” he said. “But you’re not. You’re just here until you decide you’re not.”

Tsumiki inhaled sharply. “Megumi.”

Gojo did not interrupt him.

“You’re like him,” Megumi continued, his voice shaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “You come and go whenever you want. You make it look easy. You don’t stay.”

The words echoed louder than the room could hold.

Gojo’s expression softened in a way that felt unbearable. He crouched down so they were eye level, the distance between them suddenly too small. “I am not your father,” he said quietly.

Megumi laughed, a short, bitter sound. “That’s worse. At least he never pretended this was permanent.”

For a moment, no one spoke.

The candles burned steadily, wax beginning to drip down their sides, time made visible in slow motion. Megumi felt Tsumiki’s hand slide into his, warm and grounding.

“He’s trying,” she whispered.

That was what broke something open inside him.

Trying meant caring, and caring meant attachment, and attachment meant loss.

Megumi leaned forward abruptly and blew out the candles in one breath. Smoke curled upward, thin and gray, dissolving into the unfamiliar air.

“There,” he said, his voice flat. “It’s over.”

Gojo stood slowly. He did not argue. He did not apologize. He only said, very quietly, “Happy birthday, Megumi.”

The words lingered long after the smoke disappeared.

Megumi turned away, retreating back toward the doorway where he felt safest, his heart heavy with something he did not have the language for yet.

He hated birthdays.

They demanded that he believe in staying, when all he had ever learned was how to endure leaving.

The smell of blood never lingered as long as Megumi expected it to.

That was the first thing that unsettled him.

They had returned to the school just before dusk, uniforms torn and shoes tracking dirt across the stone floors, and yet the air felt clean. Too clean. Someone had already opened the windows. Someone else had already started talking about dinner.

The world did not pause.

Megumi stood near the edge of the courtyard while the others dispersed, his hands still faintly trembling, though he kept them clenched tightly enough that no one would notice. He could still see it when he closed his eyes. The way the ground had collapsed beneath the curse’s weight. The way the building had shuddered. The way the small girl had been standing too close, curiosity winning over caution, right up until the moment it did not matter anymore.

No one had screamed for long.

That, too, felt wrong.

“Unavoidable,” one of the sorcerers said nearby, voice casual, already distant. “She shouldn’t have been there in the first place.”

Megumi’s jaw tightened. Another laughed softly. “At least it was quick.”

Quick did not mean merciful. Quick did not mean acceptable. Quick did not erase the look in the little girl's eyes when she realized help was not coming.

Megumi turned away before anyone could see his expression. He focused on the feel of the stone beneath his palms as he leaned against the wall, grounding himself in something solid. The mission report would reduce it to a line or two. Civilian casualty. Collateral damage. Necessary loss.

Necessary for who?

The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the courtyard, and Megumi became painfully aware of the date. He had checked it that morning without meaning to, his eyes catching on the numbers before he could look away.

His birthday.

The thought made his stomach twist.

Gojo arrived like he always did, with no sense of timing and even less concern for the mood. He clapped his hands together loudly, drawing attention without asking for it.

“Good work out there,” he said, grinning. “Everyone still alive. That is what we like to see.”

Megumi turned sharply. “Someone died.”

The words cut through the space between them, sharp and unyielding. Gojo blinked, surprised, then nodded. “Yes. I know.”

“You’re acting like it doesn’t matter.”

“I’m acting like it already happened,” Gojo replied calmly. “We acknowledge it and we move forward.”

Megumi felt something snap.

“Moving forward doesn’t mean pretending it was fine,” he said, his voice rising despite himself. “She wasn't even a sorcerer. She didn’t choose this.”

A few people glanced over, uncomfortable. Someone muttered that Megumi was taking it too personally. That was the problem. No one took it personally enough.

Gojo stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Megumi. You did everything you could.”

“That doesn’t bring her back.”

“No,” Gojo agreed. “But freezing here won’t either.”

Megumi’s hands curled into fists. “So what. We just accept it?"

“We accept that we cannot save everyone,” Gojo said gently. “If you don’t, these missions will destroy you.”

Megumi laughed, a harsh sound that surprised even him. “It already does.”

Silence followed, thick and uneasy.

Gojo studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “You’re exhausted,” he said finally. “And it doesn’t help that today is your birthday.”

Megumi stiffened.

“I didn’t tell you.”

“I know,” Gojo said. “I remembered.”

Of course he did.

The word birthday felt obscene in his mouth, heavy with a cheerfulness that did not belong anywhere near the memory still lodged behind Megumi’s eyes. He imagined candles. Cake. Wishes. All of it layered over the image of a body lying still where it should not have been.

“I don’t want to celebrate,” Megumi said flatly.

“That’s fine,” Gojo replied. “No one is forcing you to.”

“That’s a lie.”

Gojo sighed softly. “Megumi.”

“You’re doing it again,” Megumi said. “You’re smoothing it over. Like if we don’t talk about it long enough, it’ll stop mattering.”

“That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it,” Megumi demanded. “Because from where I’m standing, someone is dead, and everyone else is already thinking about dinner.”

Gojo did not answer. Megumi simply turned away.

He did not attend dinner. He did not respond when someone knocked on his door later. He sat on his bed in the dim light of his dorm room, back against the wall, knees drawn up, counting his breaths.

The room smelled faintly of detergent and something metallic that lingered in his memory. He stared at the calendar pinned near his desk, the date circled in red without his consent.

Another year.

He thought of the little girl's face, the brief flicker of recognition that help was there and then the devastating realization that it was not enough. He wondered if anyone would remember her birthday. He wondered if anyone would pretend it did not matter.

The thought hollowed him out.

When the lights in the hallway dimmed and the school settled into quiet, Megumi lay back and closed his eyes, though he did not sleep. His mind replayed the mission in fragments, refusing to arrange them into something orderly.

Birthdays were supposed to mark survival.

All his marked was the growing list of people who did not get another year.

And he hated that the world expected him to celebrate anyway.

The hospital smelled like disinfectant and stillness.

Megumi noticed it every time he walked through the automatic doors, the way the scent clung to his clothes afterward, following him back to the dorms like a reminder that some places did not let you leave cleanly. The lights were always too bright, even at night, reflecting off white floors that never seemed to scuff no matter how many people passed through them.

Time moved differently here.

He sat beside Tsumiki’s bed with his hands folded in his lap, careful not to touch anything unless he had to. Machines hummed quietly around her, their steady rhythm filling the spaces where her voice should have been. The rise and fall of her chest felt mechanical, assisted, wrong.

She looked peaceful. That frightened him more than if she had looked in pain.

Megumi had memorized the pattern of her breathing. He counted it when his thoughts became too loud. Inhale. Pause. Exhale. The machine did not falter. It did not hesitate. It did not grieve.

Outside the window, the sky shifted slowly from gray to darker gray, evening creeping in without ceremony. Megumi glanced at the clock on the wall, then away again.

He knew what day it was.

He had tried not to.

Gojo arrived with coffee and quiet footsteps, which somehow made his presence feel heavier. The behaviour quite strikingly unnatural. He stood near the door for a moment, watching Megumi without speaking, as if measuring how fragile the room already was.

“You’ve been here all day,” Gojo said finally.

Megumi did not look up. “She’s still here.”

Gojo nodded. “She will be tomorrow too.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

Megumi’s fingers tightened in his sleeves. “You don’t know that.”

Gojo sighed softly, setting the coffee down on the small table. "Megumi. I meant that you should rest.”

“I can rest later.”

“You’ve been saying that for weeks.”

“And she’s still like this,” Megumi replied, his voice low. “So clearly resting doesn’t help.”

The hum of the machines filled the silence between them. Gojo rubbed a hand over his face, exhaustion creeping into his posture in a way Megumi rarely saw.

“You can’t stay here forever,” Gojo said. “You still have to live.”

Megumi finally looked at him, something sharp and brittle in his eyes. “You make it sound easy.”

“I never said it was easy.”

“You’re acting like this is temporary,” Megumi snapped. “Like she’s just sleeping and everything will go back to normal.”

Gojo stiffened. “That’s not what I-.”

“Then why do you keep telling me to move on,” Megumi demanded. “Why do you keep talking about tomorrow like it’s guaranteed.”

“Because if you stop believing in tomorrow, you will break,” Gojo said quietly. “And I can’t let that happen.” He couldn't loose them both.

Megumi laughed under his breath, hollow and humorless. “You can’t stop it.”

Gojo took a step closer. “I can try.”

Trying. Again.

Megumi looked back at Tsumiki, at the way her hand lay limp against the sheets, fingers relaxed in a way they had never been when she was awake. She had always been doing something. Cooking. Cleaning. Studying. Taking care of him.

Now she did nothing at all.

“It’s your birthday,” Gojo said softly.

“I didn’t want to remind you,” Megumi continued. “Because I knew you’d do this.”

“Do what?”

“Act like it’s just another thing I should get through,” Megumi said. “Like it’s fine that the day keeps coming when she can’t even open her eyes.”

Gojo’s shoulders slumped slightly. “Megumi.”

“I shouldn’t be allowed another year,” Megumi said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “Not when she’s stuck here. Not when nothing has changed.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“That’s exactly how it should work,” Megumi shot back. “It’s not fair.”

“No,” Gojo agreed softly. “It isn’t.”

The admission stole some of the anger from Megumi’s chest, leaving only exhaustion behind. He leaned back in his chair, suddenly aware of how long it had been since he slept properly.

Gojo crouched beside him, lowering his voice as if Tsumiki might hear. “You are allowed to exist,” he said. “Even like this.”

Megumi shook his head. “You’re trying to make it smaller.”

“I’m trying to keep you alive.”

Megumi did not answer.

The clock ticked quietly on the wall, each second an accusation. Midnight passed without ceremony. The date changed, unnoticed by everyone but them.

His birthday came and went in the hum of machines and the slow drip of time.

When Gojo finally left to let him rest, Megumi stayed where he was, his hand hovering just above Tsumiki’s before finally, carefully, taking it.

Her skin was warm.

He closed his eyes, counting her breaths again, and hated himself for still being able to feel them when she could not feel his.

He woke up to find a photo frame of the three of them beside Tsumiki's bed. Gojo holding Tsumiki on his shoulder, while the other hand messed with Megumi's hair.

Megumi let a smile slip. Shoko had clicked this, few years back.

A small note caught his eye.

I’m bad at saying the right thing. But you two mean the world to me. I'll always stay, Megumi. For both of you. You’re doing better than you think. Tsumiki would say so too. Eat and rest.

Megumi did not realize what was happening until it was already too late to stop it.

He stepped into the common room expecting quiet, maybe an empty couch and the faint hum of someone else existing at a distance. Instead, the lights were on too bright, the curtains pulled open, and Yuji was standing on a chair for reasons that became immediately obvious when confetti fell directly onto Megumi’s head.

“Surprise! Yuji shouted, grinning like this was the best idea anyone had ever had.

Nobara smirked from where she sat on the table, arms crossed, clearly pleased with herself. “You’re welcome.”

Megumi stood frozen in the doorway, instinctively reaching for the frame as if he might need the support. Noise pressed in from all sides. Laughter. Music from someone’s phone. The smell of food that was too rich for his empty stomach.

“I told you not to,” Megumi said.

Yuji hopped down from the chair, completely unbothered. “You told us not to last year too.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“It kind of does,” Yuji replied. “Consistency is important.”

Nobara rolled her eyes. “We didn’t go all out. Relax. This is toned down.”

There were balloons. That was not toned down.

Megumi opened his mouth to protest again, then stopped. Something unfamiliar was spreading through his chest, warm and unwelcome, loosening knots he had grown used to carrying. Yuji was watching him carefully now, grin softer, less reckless.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Yuji said. “Just stay.”

Megumi stayed.

He told himself it was because leaving would be rude. He told himself it was easier to endure it than to fight. He did not tell himself the truth, which was that part of him wanted this more than he was willing to admit.

They talked about random things. About a movie Yuji wanted to see. About a mission Nobara was already complaining about despite it not having happened yet. Someone handed him a drink, sweet and cold, and he drank it without thinking.

He laughed once. Quietly. It startled him enough that he looked down at his hands as if they were responsible.

The guilt hit immediately after.

Tsumiki was still in the hospital. Nothing had changed. She had not woken up just because Megumi had smiled.

The noise began to feel unbearable.

Megumi stood abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. Yuji looked up at him, concern replacing excitement. “Hey. You okay.”

“I need air,” Megumi said, already moving toward the door.

The hallway was cooler, quieter, and mercifully empty. He leaned against the wall, pressing his forehead into the stone, breathing slowly until the pressure in his chest eased into something manageable.

Footsteps approached. He did not have to turn to know who it was.

“You lasted longer than I thought,” Gojo said gently.

Megumi did not answer.

Gojo leaned beside him, close enough to be present without crowding. “You enjoyed it.”

Megumi’s jaw tightened. “I shouldn’t have.”

“Why not?”

“She’s still there,” Megumi said. “I don’t get to act like this matters when she’s lying in a bed and doesn’t even know what day it is.”

Gojo was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “Do you think she would want you to be miserable.?

“That’s not fair.”

“Neither is asking yourself to stop living until she wakes up.”

Megumi turned his head slightly. “You don’t understand.”

Gojo exhaled slowly. “How exactly?” Gojo knew of death. More than anyone. He knew how much it hurts to loose someone you loved. But Megumi doesn't need to be burdened with that.

Megumi swallowed. The words pressed against his throat, heavy and uncooperative. “If I enjoy this,” he said finally, “it feels like I’m leaving her behind.”

Gojo straightened. “Come with me.”

They did not announce their departure. They slipped out quietly, the noise of the common room fading behind them until it felt like it belonged to a different world. The walk to the hospital was slow, the city dim and watchful around them.

The room was exactly as Megumi had left it. The same lights. The same machines. The same frame left beside her bed. The same unbearable stillness.

Gojo placed the small cake he had brought on the table beside Tsumiki’s bed. No candles this time. Just frosting and quiet acknowledgment.

“This feels more appropriate,” Gojo said.

Megumi nodded, throat tight.

They sat together, the three of them, in a space that felt suspended outside of time. Megumi told Tsumiki about the celebration in halting fragments. About Yuji’s terrible decorations. About Nobara’s complaints. His voice shook despite his effort to keep it steady.

“I didn’t forget you,” he whispered. “I swear I didn’t.”

Gojo rested a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to apologize for surviving.”

That was when it broke.

Megumi leaned forward suddenly, pressing his face into Gojo’s chest, fingers clutching the fabric of his coat like it was the only solid thing left. The sound he made was small and raw, pulled from somewhere deep he rarely allowed himself to access.

Gojo wrapped his arms around him without hesitation, holding him firmly, grounding him in a way Megumi had not realized he needed until it was already happening.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Megumi said into the fabric. “I don’t know how to be here without her.”

“I know,” Gojo murmured. “I’m here.”

Megumi cried quietly, shoulders shaking, grief and guilt bleeding together until he could not tell where one ended and the other began. When he finally pulled back, his eyes burned and his chest ached, but the pressure had eased slightly.

They stayed until visiting hours ended.

When Megumi left the hospital that night, the date had not changed, but something inside him had shifted. The birthday no longer felt like an enemy.

It felt like a fragile thing he did not yet know how to hold.

Megumi knew the date before he opened his eyes.

It sat in his chest like a weight he had learned to recognize, heavy and unmoving, pressing down on his ribs until breathing required conscious effort. The world outside the window was gray, uncommitted to becoming anything else, and for a moment he let himself believe that if he stayed still long enough, time might forget about him.

It did not.

The room was silent. No footsteps in the hall. No voices bleeding through walls. No careless laughter to remind him that life went on without permission.

No Gojo.

Gojo was gone.

The thought came without drama, without the sharp edge it had carried in the beginning. It had dulled into something constant, like an old injury that never quite healed correctly. There was no space left for disbelief. Only absence.

Megumi sat up slowly, hands resting on his knees, staring at nothing in particular. His hands looked older. Not visibly, not in a way anyone else would notice, but he felt the years in them. The weight of what they had held. The weight of what they no longer could.

Tsumiki should have been here.

The thought was immediate and crushing. She should have complained about the weather, about the mess he never noticed, about how he never ate enough. She should have teased him gently for pretending the day did not matter while secretly hoping someone would remember.

She was gone too.

The words did not make sense no matter how many times he repeated them. They did not fit the shape of her. They did not fit the sound of her voice in his memory.

Nobara was still gone. Not dead, not alive in any way that felt reachable. Suspended somewhere Megumi could not follow.

Yuji was hurt, carrying guilt that Megumi recognized too well, the kind that hollowed you out from the inside while everyone else told you to be strong.

And Gojo.

Megumi swallowed hard, his throat tightening.

Gojo should have been unbearable today. Loud. Smiling. Pretending this was normal. He should have shown up with something ridiculous and unnecessary, made a comment that irritated Megumi on principle, ruffled his hair like it belonged to him.

Instead, there was nothing.

The silence pressed in, unchallenged.

Megumi stood and moved through the room slowly, as if any sudden motion might shatter something already fragile. His reflection in the mirror looked the same. Too calm. Too composed. Like someone who had learned how to keep the pieces inside from spilling out.

He hated that.

Birthdays were supposed to be shared. Even when he despised them, even when he rejected them, they had always involved other people. Tsumiki’s quiet smiles. Gojo’s infuriating persistence. Yuji’s sincerity. Nobara’s sharp affection disguised as annoyance.

This one had no witnesses.

The realization settled into him with unbearable clarity. This was the first birthday where everyone who had ever fought to be there for him was gone or unreachable.

They were supposed to be with him.

The thought repeated, spiraling, tightening around his chest. Supposed to be laughing. Supposed to be arguing. Supposed to be alive.

Megumi sank down onto the floor, his back against the bed, hands gripping his sleeves like they might anchor him to something solid. Memories surfaced unbidden, cruel in their timing.

Candles blown out in a borrowed apartment. A fight he had been too young to articulate properly. Gojo kneeling in front of him, promising nothing and everything at the same time.... A dorm room, late at night, anger burning hotter than exhaustion after a mission gone wrong.... A hospital room filled with machines and quiet, his birthday slipping past unnoticed while he counted Tsumiki’s breaths instead of years.... A small cake by her bedside. Gojo’s arms around him while he broke in ways he did not allow anyone else to see.

Megumi pressed his hands to his face, breath shuddering.

He wanted this to be an illusion.

The thought came suddenly, desperately. He wanted to wake up and realize he was still thirteen, still angry, still afraid of a man who tried too hard and stayed anyway. He wanted to believe that Gojo would walk through the door at any moment, voice loud and inappropriate, presence impossible to ignore.

He wanted Tsumiki to scold him gently for thinking like this.

He wanted Yuji to sit beside him and say it was okay to keep going even when it hurt.

He wanted Nobara to complain about how depressing he was being.

None of it happened.

The date did not change. The room did not fill. The silence remained intact.

Megumi’s breathing grew uneven, grief finally cracking through the restraint he had relied on for years. His shoulders shook as the weight of it collapsed inward, guilt threading through every thought.

Why am I still here?

The question had no answer that felt acceptable. He had survived when others had not. He had grown older while the people who anchored him to the world were frozen in memory.

He thought of Gojo then, not as a sorcerer, not as a teacher, but as the man who had taken them in, who had chosen to stay when Megumi had been certain he would not. The man who had been infuriating and careless and gentle in ways Megumi had not understood until it was too late.

He mourned him like a father.

The realization broke something open in his chest, grief rushing out unchecked. Megumi bowed his head, breath hitching as the truth settled fully for the first time.

Gojo was never leaving.

He was already gone.

When the worst of it passed, Megumi remained on the floor, exhausted, hollow, still breathing. The world had not ended just because he wanted it to.

Eventually, he pushed himself up and stood again.

He did not light candles. He did not make a wish. He acknowledged the day only by surviving it.

That was all he could do now.

Birthdays no longer marked celebration. The world moved forward, and Megumi carried everyone it had left behind.