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Megumi had just finished his homework when the sound of a key in the front door alerted him to Gojo being home, finally. He had been gone a lot the past several days, and although that was not unusual given that Gojo was called into the field often, the pantry was beginning to get a bit too sparse. Megumi was hungry for something aside from the rice, Spam, and shrimp chips they had lying around, since he’d cooked all the real food already.
Gojo locked the door behind him, leaving his shoes in the genkan and trudging into the living room where Megumi sat on the couch, a textbook, paper and pen atop a throw pillow on his lap. Megumi was about to say something when he realized that Gojo was being quiet for once in his life, which Megumi knew to be an immediate indication that something was wrong.
“What’s with you?” Megumi asked as Gojo sat down on the couch beside him, discarding his blindfold onto the coffee table, his snowy hair falling down over his forehead. There was a defeated slump in his shoulders as he sat forward with his elbows propped against his knees, wringing his hands together. Gojo wasn’t one to fidget nervously, either. When even speaking directly to his loquacious guardian didn’t garner a response, Megumi’s heart started to pound. Something terrible must have happened.
Tension hung in the air like static. Possibilities flooded through his mind, and he ventured a guess. “Did any of the students die?”
Gojo shook his head no.
“Teachers?”
Gojo once again shook his head.
Megumi closed his book on his pen and paper and shifted it out of his lap, waiting, still not sure whether to be annoyed at the building suspense or take the situation seriously. It was hard to know exactly when to take Gojo seriously, because he was so rarely serious, even in dire straits. But if this was some kind of sick joke, Gojo was going to get an earful.
Suddenly, Gojo shook his head and started laughing: the joyless, harsh, clanging laughter of a person about to lose it. Megumi stared at him, growing more alarmed by the second. And then, slowly, the laughter dissolved into choked sobs, Gojo’s uncannily angelic face crumpling in anguish, until he finally dropped his head to his hands and broke down completely.
Megumi had never seen Gojo cry. It was unsettling, unthinkable, as if someone had clipped a stitch on the sweater that was the universe and everything was about to unravel. Gojo was a nuisance, a clown, and, in his best moments, a formidable sorcerer and enviable—if unconventional—mentor. Gojo was The Strongest. He laughed in the face of anything that came at him and regularly put his life on the line on behalf of his students. Megumi couldn’t think of anything that would reduce him to tears, even though the man was certainly not a stoic.
Megumi also did not have a lot of experience in comforting people. The person he was around the most was Gojo—rarely upset. Megumi himself expressed most of his emotions through irritability and acceptance, so how could he empathize with someone else when they were overwhelmed by theirs? He had spent his entire life preparing for battle, but had foolishly neglected to prepare for the aftermath.
Gojo, on the other hand, had comforted him every time he had cried since he was a little kid with scraped up knees. Gojo had always known what to say, what to do, how to make the pain stop, how to squeeze a laugh out of him. Had Megumi learned anything from that?
He certainly couldn’t say anything. He didn’t know what had happened, so he wasn’t going to coo empty comforts—it felt disingenuous. Gojo would have gone to his room or wandered the city if he had wanted to be alone, so leaving wasn’t an option, even though it would have been the easiest response.
Tentatively, Megumi wrapped his arms around his guardian. Gojo didn’t so much as flinch, quiet sobs shaking his shoulders. Megumi wasn’t going to budge until Gojo stopped crying. He didn’t budge for a long time.
Eventually, Gojo shook his head, leaning back into the couch cushions and wiping his eyes with the heels of his hands, huffing out a sigh of defeat. Megumi took in the sight of the man’s porcelain complexion mottled with splotches of red, the shade of his brilliant blue irises when his eyes were swollen and still glossed with tears. It made him feel almost ill, the way his heart clenched at the sight.
“What happened?” he tried again, his voice coming out gentler than he knew it could.
Gojo considered elaborating for a moment, but then gave a sheepish laugh. “I’ll tell you later.”
He wasn’t ready yet. Megumi nodded. They sat in silence for a few moments.
“What I can say,” Gojo offered unexpectedly, his tone taking on something much closer to its normal tone, “is that being me really fucking sucks sometimes.” He leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling.
“I’m sorry,” Megumi said, feeling absolutely useless.
“Thanks,” Gojo said.
They sat there for a while, silently. Megumi was still wracking his brain trying to guess what had happened whilst feeling absolutely clueless, when Gojo suddenly slapped his knees, sitting up.
“Enough of this,” he declared, then looked at Megumi. “Have you eaten?”
Megumi stared at him, baffled at the sudden mood shift. “Uh. Not yet.”
Gojo spring out of his seat, suddenly invigorated with the task at hand. “Neither have I. What sounds good?”
Megumi was still wide-eyed from the emotional whiplash, watching his guardian and trying to discern if the man was about to go completely off the rails, or if he actually was feeling better. If Gojo didn’t still look like hell, Megumi would have thought he had imagined everything.
“You pick,” he said.
“Great,” Gojo chirped, heading into the kitchen at top speed. Megumi heard a drawer slide open and the swish of papers: Gojo was perusing the stack of takeout menus they kept on hand. They ordered takeout more often than anything, because although Gojo was infuriatingly good at a lot of things, he was an absolute disaster in the kitchen. But if Gojo had decided to cook that night, Megumi would have eaten whatever scorched and over-salted concoction Gojo dumped in front of him if it meant that Gojo would simply never cry again, ever, thank you. There was still a pit in Megumi’s stomach from what he’d witnessed.
Gojo’s head suddenly poked out from the kitchen doorway. “Spicy ramen?”
Megumi gave a nod of approval.
“You want the usual?”
Megumi nodded again.
“You got it.” Gojo disappeared back into the kitchen, and Megumi listened to his phone call, Gojo’s voice sounding as cheerful as ever—maybe a bit too cheerful. Cheer and charm, a clever mask—so clever Megumi had never even once suspected it could be removed. It made him rethink everything he knew of his guardian.
After Gojo was done, he returned to the living room.
“I’m going to take a shower,” he said. “There’s money on the counter for the food.”
“Okay,” Megumi said, and Gojo nodded, setting off to his next distraction.
Megumi was too shell-shocked to move until the food arrived.
By the time Gojo emerged from his room, clad in pajamas and sunglasses, hair dripping slightly, Megumi had poured the ramen into bowls and placed them on the table, along with bottles of melon soda, napkins, spoons, and chopsticks. He took a seat on the floor and Gojo joined him, flipping on the television and leaving it on whatever channel it was already on, clearly not caring what they watched so long as there was something to chase away the silence. They ate wordlessly, a game show with lots of buzzers and lively shouting providing just enough noise to cut the tension down a bit.
When they were nearly through their meal, Gojo spoke. “You remember my friend I told you about? Suguru?” His tone was casual, and he didn’t look up from his bowl.
Megumi vaguely remembered the name, but not many details. Despite his extremely extroverted personality, there was exactly one person Gojo had ever referred to as a friend. “Yeah.”
“I executed him this afternoon.”
Megumi dropped his spoon, and it clashed against the ceramic bowl harshly. He picked it back up quickly. Gojo sipped the last bit of broth from his own bowl, then sat back, leaning against the seat of the sofa. He didn’t look at Megumi when he spoke again.
“The higher-ups ordered it years ago, understandably,” he elaborated, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if it were a sky full of stars. “I’m more than happy to ignore them, but this time I knew that if I didn’t do it, someone else would.” He cleared his throat, then smirked at Megumi. “And at least I made it quick.”
Megumi stared at his guardian as the man sighed heavily, his words hanging in the air for several minutes before he chuckled to himself, shaking his head. He hopped up, taking his bowl into the kitchen, the tap turning on as he scrubbed it clean for several minutes longer than necessary, leaving Megumi to ponder what it must be like to have to kill your friend—your only friend. He ventured to imagine how he would feel in the same position, immediately shifting in discomfort before banishing the thought entirely. Guilt washed over him as he realized that Gojo probably hid his pain regularly, and he had never once noticed.
Gojo returned, stone-faced, and sat back down. Megumi slid his bowl over beside where Gojo sat, catching Gojo’s attention and prompting him to eye his protégé curiously. Megumi scooted himself over, giving the most affection he could bear. For the duration of his dinner, he sat shoulder-to-shoulder with the man who had raised him, swearing to himself that he would surpass Gojo and unburden him from such unthinkable tasks.