Work Text:
Megumi had been showering for at least an hour and a half by now. Gojo sat on the couch in the living room grading papers, because his TA, Yuuta, was off on some exchange program in Africa—which meant Gojo actually had to do his job for once. He glanced at the clock.
Sure, Gojo liked long, hot showers after a long day too, but something felt off. Call it parental instinct or whatever, but Gojo snapped his laptop shut and got up, heading upstairs.
He stopped outside the bathroom in the hall. The light was still on. The shower wasn’t running anymore—how long had it been off? Gojo surely hadn’t realized that, maybe Megumi was taking a bath? Gojo rapped his knuckles against the door.
“Megs? Everything good in there?”
There was a moment of silence that stretched before a faint murmur came from the other side. Gojo’s pulse quickened and he suddenly felt a wave of fear wash over him.
“Hey—Megs, open the door.” Gojo tried the handle which was locked, curse those stupid expensive locks he bought at the hardware store when the employee upsold him. “Megumi, unlock this door or I swear I will break it down. You know I will.”
Still nothing on the other side, so Gojo took a step back and slammed his shoulders against the door. He heard the lock give out (and made a mental note to never buy from that hardware store again) as the door swung open.
The sight on the inside made Satoru feel sick.
His 15-year-old son was sitting, back against the bathtub with his legs outstretched, he wore just boxers and a t-shirt, hair still damp from the shower, his eyes were half lidded. But that wasn’t the part that made Satoru nauseous.
It was the pool of blood that was slowly growing in diameter surrounding his son.
“Holy shit—Megumi—fuck, what did you—what the fuck—”
Gojo dropped to his knees, hands hovering for a second like he didn’t even know where to start. Then he saw it—wrists. Thighs.
“Shit—shit—”
He turned, yanking open the cabinet under the sink, hands shaking as he dug out the first aid kit.
“Mmh—”
Megumi groaned as Gojo turned back with the kit open and a bunch of gauze in his hand.
“Megs, I have to stop the bleeding—”
His eyes caught on something—metal, slick with red. A boxcutter, still loosely in Megumi’s grip.
Gojo reached over slowly, careful, and plucked it from him, Megumi’s grasp loose. He then kicked it across the room, hard enough that it clattered against the wall.
“I have to touch you, okay? I’m sorry—just—squeeze my shoulder.”
He pressed the gauze down against Megumi’s thigh, he let out a whimper of pain and gave a weak push against Gojo’s chest that didn’t move him at all. Gojo shook his head, jaw tight.
Hot tears were already streaming down Megumi’s face.
“M’sorry… S’toru… t’hurts…”
“I know baby, I know—deep breaths.”
Gojo gritted his teeth, he pressed down harder and counted to sixty at least ten times before he dared to lift the gauze and see what was underneath, it felt like his blood was pounding in his ears. When he saw the gashes underneath he felt his dinner threaten to make a reappearance. He quickly did the same to Megumi’s wrists and other thigh.
‘“Hold this,” he said, pressing gauze into Megumi’s hand and guiding it to his wrist. “Keep pressure—yeah, like that.”
Megumi nodded weakly.
“Don’t want you… hic… seeing me like this…”
Megumi said shakily, Gojo just didn’t say anything as he got out the alcohol wipes.
“Deep breaths, Megs”
The second it touched, Megumi broke.
His nails dug into Gojo’s shoulder, hard enough to hurt, and he let out a sharp, broken cry—twisting, trying to pull away.
“Dad—dad it hurts—please—”
Megumi wailed.
“I know—I know, I’m sorry—I have to—”
Megumi shook his head, crying harder now, whole body tensing.
Gojo tried to focus on the medical aspect of everything, which Shoko had taught him when he first took in Megumi (and at some point, his sister) for first aid. He didn’t think about where the scars came from, or why, just that he had to stop the bleeding.
“Dad—no—I can’t—I can’t—shit—it hurts—”
Gojo pulled the alcohol wipe away immediately when Megumi’s voice cracked, he didn’t know what to do, he was trying to clean it but he didn’t know what to do. He made the decision to take a moment to stand up and reassess.
“Okay—okay let’s take a break—I’m just gonna grab something real quick”
Gojo said, his voice sounded strained. He plucked the boxcutter off of the floor and stepped out of the bathroom. As soon as he crossed the threshold he threw the boxcutter so hard that it stuck to the wall, wedged in. He took a breath and then turned back to the washroom.
After wrapping the wounds and finishing cleaning them up—and realizing, with a sinking feeling, that old scars littered Megumi’s body—Gojo brought him a glass of water and a granola bar. His clothes were soaked through with Megumi’s blood. His hands were stained with it. Too much of it.
He shakily cleaned up as Megumi slumped silently against the bathtub, head tipped to the side like he was struggling to stay awake.
Gojo reached out and lightly poked his cheek when his eyes slipped shut.
“Sorry ‘gumibear, no sleep for you yet”
Megumi groaned, pulling his legs in toward his chest.
Gojo tossed the last of the blood-soaked paper towels and went to wash his hands, watching the water run pink down the drain. He stared at it for a second too long.
He had to say something.
Figure out what the hell to say.
Megumi beat him to it.
“Thank you,” he muttered. “I think I’m okay now.”
Gojo blinked, turning.
“…what?”
“You can go,” Megumi said, like it was nothing. “Thanks. I’m fine.”
Megumi started to push himself up and Gojo moved on instinct, grabbing his arm to steady him, disbelief written all over his face.
Megumi swatted him off immediately.
“M’just gonna sleep,” he muttered. “I’m tired.”
Gojo stared at him.
“…I don’t know if you noticed, Megs,” he said slowly, “but I just walked in on my kid bleeding out in my bathroom.”
“I’m sorry I bothered you- I didn’t mean for you to come find-”
“Don’t you dare say you’re sorry that I walked in on you- fuck Megumi- do you- what do I even do?”
“Nothing, I didn’t ask for anything from you.”
Gojo let out a short, disbelieving laugh.
“Oh so I’m just supposed to leave and let you slit your throat as well as I finish grading my papers downstairs?”
This entire situation was fucked. Of course, he takes in two kids and one ends up half-dead in a coma and the other is tearing his own flesh apart.
“I wasn’t—” Megumi cut himself off, biting down hard. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself.”
Gojo ran a hand through his hair.
“Then what the hell was that Megumi? Because right now it’s looking like I can’t leave you alone.”
“Gojo you’re being—”
“I’m not being anything except your dad right now”
“Fuck Gojo can you just leave me alone?”
Gojo knew he shouldn’t snap, but it was already there, crawling under his skin. Not just anger—something else. How the hell did he miss this? His own kid?
“Like hell I will,” he shot back. “If I hadn’t come up here then what, Megs?”
“I wasn’t trying to kill myself, Gojo—”
“No—no, don’t do that,” Gojo cut in, shaking his head. “You don’t get to act like I’m crazy for thinking that. Do you know what that looked like? Opening that door and seeing you like that—”
His voice caught for half a second, then hardened again.
“—what was I supposed to think?”
Megumi curled in on himself, burying his face in his knees, shoulders shaking.
“You weren’t supposed to find out,” he choked. “Not you—just—please, just leave me alone, I can’t—”
Gojo dragged both hands down his face, exhaling hard.
He felt useless. Completely, fucking useless.
“Megumi… I don’t know what to do,” he admitted, voice tighter now. “I don’t know if I should take you to the hospital, call Shoko, lock everything up—fuck, did you take anything?”
His head snapped toward the cabinet. He crossed the room fast and yanked it open—bottles shoved around, some tipped over.
“Gojo,” Megumi said, sharper now, “I didn’t take any pills—this is why I don’t tell you anything, you take it and blow it way out of proportion—”
“Out of proportion?” Gojo repeated, raising his voice. “You were bleeding out in front of me! I think I can react a bit!”
“I wasn’t—”
“You don’t get to decide that!”
Megumi pushed himself to his feet, unsteady but stubborn, and started toward the hallway.
“Where are you going Megs— I’m just gonna call Shoko, she’ll know what to do”
“She’s not a fucking psychiatrist, Gojo,” Megumi shot back without stopping. “All she’s gonna do is tell you to lock me up in an institution."
Gojo stopped dead for half a second, something sharp flashing across his face before he moved again, faster this time.
“Don’t,” Gojo snapped, voice low but dangerous. “Don’t twist this into something it’s not.”
“Then what is it?” Megumi snapped, not even turning around. “Because from where I’m standing you’re about two seconds away from deciding I’m insane and shipping me off somewhere.”
“That is not what I said.”
Gojo grabbed his wrist—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to stop him. Enough to make him look at him. Megumi winced at the pain.
“Look at you right now,” Gojo said, anger bleeding into every word. “You’re barely standing, you’re covered in your own blood, and you’re telling me I’m overreacting?”
Megumi yanked his arm back immediately, stumbling slightly but catching himself on the wall.
“I said I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” he bit out. “You just don’t listen.”
“Oh, I’m listening,” Gojo snapped. “I’m listening to you downplay the fact that you were five minutes away from passing out in a locked bathroom with nobody knowing what the hell was going on.”
“I had it handled.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.”
Megumi’s expression twisted, something defensive and furious all at once.
“You don’t get it,” he said, voice shaking now—but not backing down. “You don’t get to come in here now and act like you’ve been paying attention this whole time.”
Gojo’s face went still.
“…what’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means this isn’t new,” Megumi shot back, gesturing vaguely toward himself. “You just finally walked in on it.”
Something in Gojo’s chest tightened, but it came out as anger.
“Yeah?” he said coldly. “And whose fault is that? You don’t exactly let people in, Megumi.”
“Maybe because this is what happens when I do!” Megumi snapped, voice cracking as he gestured between them. “You freak out, you yell, you make it about you—”
“About me?” Gojo laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “You think this is about me?”
“I didn’t ask you to come in!” Megumi shouted. “I didn’t ask for help—I didn’t ask you to fix anything—”
“Well excuse me for not leaving my kid bleeding on the bathroom floor!”
“I wasn’t bleeding out!”
“You don’t get to decide that!”
Silence hit like a wall after that.
Both of them breathing hard. Both of them too keyed up to stop now.
Megumi’s hands were shaking—not just from blood loss anymore.
“You’re making it worse,” he said, quieter now, but the words cut deeper than the shouting. “You always make it worse.”
Gojo flinched—barely noticeable, but it was there.
“…yeah?” he said after a second, voice dropping, colder now. “Sorry I didn’t react calmly to finding out my son’s been carving himself up behind my back.”
Megumi’s face hardened.
“At least I wasn’t pretending everything was fine, it wasn’t like I was pretending I was doing perfect.”
That one hit.
Hard.
Gojo’s expression snapped, something defensive and hurt turning sharp again.
“Oh, so now I’m the problem,” he said. “That’s convenient.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to, sorry I didn’t notice your cryptic signs.”
Megumi let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his damp hair, leaving faint smears of red behind.
“This is exactly why I didn’t tell you,” he muttered. “You don’t hear anything. You just react.”
“And you don’t say anything,” Gojo fired back immediately. “So yeah, I’m a little late to the party, Megumi. Sorry I didn’t magically figure out you were doing this in secret.”
“I wasn’t asking you to.”
“No, you weren’t asking for anything,” Gojo said sharply. “That’s kind of the problem.”
Megumi looked away, jaw tight.
“Then leave it alone,” he said. “If it’s such a problem, just ignore it. That’s what you’ve been doing anyway.”
Gojo stared at him like he’d just said something unforgivable.
“…you really think that?” he asked, quieter now—but not softer.
Megumi didn’t answer.
Didn’t take it back.
Gojo let out a hollow laugh, running a hand through his hair.
“Wow,” he muttered. “Okay. That’s—good to know.”
“Gojo—”
“No, no,” Gojo cut in, holding up a hand. “You’ve made your point.”
There was a pause. Heavy. Wrong.
Then, more controlled—but colder—
“I’m calling Shoko.”
Megumi’s head snapped up immediately. “Don’t.”
“I’m not asking.”
“She’s going to tell you the same thing I just did.”
“Yeah?” Gojo said, already reaching for his phone. “Then we’ll hear it from someone who actually knows what they’re talking about.”
“Gojo—”
“And until then,” Gojo continued over him, voice firm, “you’re not going anywhere alone. Not your room, not the bathroom, nowhere. You can hate me for it, I don’t care.”
Megumi’s hands curled into fists at his sides.
“This is exactly what I meant,” he said, voice low and tight. “You don’t trust me at all.”
Gojo didn’t even hesitate.
“No,” he said flatly. “Not right now, I don’t.”
Megumi was standing in his bedroom, peeling off his bloody t-shirt and boxers, replacing them with pajama pants that were fluffy and had little batman symbols all over it and an oversized white t-shirt that hung off of his body, it used to belong to Gojo.
Gojo was leaning against the doorway, phone in hand.
“…I’m calling Shoko,” he said, like that settled something. Megumi didn’t answer. He just sat down on the edge of his bed, slow, stiff, like everything hurt.
Gojo stepped into the hallway and hit call, still in view of Megumi’s bedroom. He left the door open so he could see his kid who was staring at the wall now and picking at his bandages.
“…Satoru?” Shoko’s voice came through after a few rings, groggy. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Yeah,” Gojo said, already pacing. “I need you.”
That got her attention.
“…what happened?”
Gojo dragged a hand through his hair, glancing back into the room. Megumi hadn’t moved.
“He—Megumi—” he cut himself off, jaw tightening. “He hurt himself. Bad enough there was blood everywhere. I patched it up but I don’t— I don’t know if I did it right, I don’t know if he needs stitches, I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do right now—”
There was a pause on the other end.
“…is he conscious?”
“Yes.”
“Did he take anything?”
“I don’t think so,” Gojo said quickly. “I checked, nothing’s obviously missing but I don’t— I don’t know.”
Another pause.
“…okay,” Shoko said, more awake now. “If the bleeding’s controlled and he’s alert, he should be stable.”
That did nothing to settle him.
“I’m coming in the morning,” she continued. “First thing. I’ll take a look at him properly then.”
“Morning?” Gojo repeated, sharper than he meant to. “Shoko, it’s midnight—”
“I know what time it is,” she cut in. “And I know you. You’ll sit there and panic all night anyway even if I did show up right now.”
Gojo huffed out a breath, running a hand down his face.
“…so what do I do until then?”
Another pause.
“Don’t leave him alone, keep sharps out of reach and I’ll assess his injuries in the morning but Gojo—I’m only trained in physical health—”
“I know”
“He’s going to need a professional—”
“I know.”
Gojo didn’t mean to snap at Shoko but he was stressed, he knew that her coming at midnight wouldn’t help anybody except Gojo’s conscience. They were all tired and Megumi needed some rest, coming in the morning was best, but the idea of waiting made his stomach twist.
“Sorry Shoko I’m just- fuck I’m tired..”
“Try and get some rest Gojo, I’ll be there soon.”
The line went dead.
Gojo stood there for a second, staring at his phone like it might give him something else.
It didn’t.
He shoved it in his pocket and went back into the room.
Megumi hadn’t moved much. He’d pulled his legs up slightly, hunched in on himself, eyes fixed somewhere on the floor.
Gojo leaned against the doorframe for a second, watching him.
“…she’s coming in the morning,” he said finally.
No response.
Gojo exhaled through his nose.
“Until then,” he went on, “you should rest, try and get some sleep.”
The next morning Megumi woke up to voices downstairs. His legs were tangled in the sheets, fabric twisted tight around his thighs. When he shifted, pain flared—sharp enough to make him suck in a breath. Everything felt stiff. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, head still foggy, and strained to listen.
He could barely make out what they were saying. He swung his legs over the side of the bed anyway and stood, slower than usual, one hand braced on the wall for a second before he moved.
Each step down the stairs pulled at his legs.
He stopped a few steps up from the bottom, out of sight, and sat. Leaned forward just enough to hear.
“I don’t know, Shoko, I— I just found him like that.”
Gojo’s voice.
“Well, he didn’t say he was trying to kill himself, right?”
“He said it,” Gojo muttered. “I just… don’t know if I believe him.”
Megumi’s jaw tightened.
“I think…” Shoko started, slower now, “you should take him to the hospital. Once I see the wounds I can tell if he needs stitches, but there— they can actually assess him. Make sure he’s not a risk.”
Silence stretched.
“He’s going to hate me,” Gojo said finally. Quieter. “Hell, he already does.”
Something in Megumi’s chest twisted—annoying, unwanted.
He shifted down one step to hear better.
The stair creaked.
He froze.
“…is he awake?” Shoko asked.
“Is he awake?”
“Shit,” Gojo muttered. “I didn’t lock anything up yet.”
Megumi exhaled slowly through his nose, then stood and walked the rest of the way down like he hadn’t heard a thing.
Gojo’s hair was a mess and he was no longer wearing the blood soaked clothes from yesterday, he instead wore a t-shirt with a faded digimon print on it and sweatpants. Megumi squinted for half a second and swore he saw puffiness under Gojo’s eyes and red tear tracks, or maybe he was just tired.
“…morning, Megumi,” Shoko said, setting her mug down. “Can I check those bandages?”
Megumi just nodded and dragged one of the stools out, sitting on it.
Gojo glanced at him for a moment.
“What do you want for breakfast, ’gumi?” Gojo asked, already turning away.
“M’not hungry.”
“You gotta eat something,” Gojo said quickly. “I’ll make you Nutella on toast.”
Megumi rolled his eyes, looking down at his hands.
“Why bother asking,” he muttered under his breath.
Shoko definitely heard. Her mouth twitched a little, but she didn’t say anything as she started unwrapping the gauze around his wrists.
She paused halfway through.
“…did Gojo do these?” she asked flatly. “Shit. I swear I taught him better.”
Megumi didn’t respond.
The gauze peeled away, slightly stuck in places. It stung.
She reached into her pocket for some polysporin and a fresh wrap as she inspected the wounds, they were still fresh and she furrowed her eyebrows as she applied the cream onto each wound on his wrists.
Megumi’s fingers twitched.
“Hold still,” she said.
She then wrapped it up a lot neater than Gojo had.
“You want to do the ones on your leg yourself?” she asked without looking up.
Megumi nodded and Shoko handed the tube over.
“If they’ve reopened don’t apply the cream, just put pressure, spray some water then wrap it up again.”
Gojo finally turned back around, a plate in his hand. Two slices of toast. Nutella unevenly spread, like he didn’t bother smoothing it out. He set it down in front of Megumi.
“Eat,” he said.
Megumi stared at it.
“So how’s it looking, doc?” Gojo added, too casual.
Shoko didn’t answer right away, instead she frowned. She walked over to the sink instead, rinsing her hands.
“…he needs stitches,” she said finally. “Arms, at least. They’re too deep.”
Megumi’s head snapped toward her.
“What? You just— you just cleaned them.”
“Yeah,” she said. “And they still need stitches.”
“But—”
“Eat your Nutella, Megumi.”
Gojo didn’t look at him when he said it.
Megumi’s jaw clenched.
He grabbed the toast, more out of frustration than anything, and tore a piece off.
Didn’t even taste it.
His leg throbbed as he shifted on the stool.
“…we’re not going to the hospital,” he said after a second, quieter but firm.
Gojo finally looked at him.
“Yeah,” he said. “We are.”
Megumi shook his head immediately.
“No, we’re not.”
“You need stitches.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
The words came out flat. Immediate.
Megumi’s grip tightened on the toast.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
Gojo let out a short breath through his nose.
“Pretty sure I do,” he said. “I so happen to be your guardian, and I did find my kid bleeding out last night.”
Megumi’s stomach twisted.
Shoko stayed quiet, watching the both of them now.
“I told you I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” Megumi snapped, voice low.
“And I don’t believe you,” Gojo shot back just as fast.
That landed.
Hard.
Megumi went still.
“…right,” he muttered, looking back down at the plate. “Of course you don’t.”
Gojo’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t take it back.
“Get dressed,” he said instead. “We’re leaving in ten.”
“I’m not going.”
Gojo laughed—short, sharp, no humor.
“Yeah, okay.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you do,” Gojo said. “Doesn’t change anything.”
"You're acting dramatic."
“I’m acting like my kid hurt himself bad enough to need stitches,” he said. “That’s what I’m acting like.”
“And dragging me to a hospital fixes that?”
“No,” Gojo said flatly. “But it’s a start.”
Silence again.
Megumi stared at the counter, jaw tight enough it hurt.
“…you already decided,” he said finally. “So why are we even arguing?”
Gojo didn’t answer right away.
“…because you keep pretending you have a say in this,” he said.
Megumi let out a quiet, humorless huff.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Thought I might.”
Gojo looked like he was going to say something else—
—but didn’t.
Shoko pushed off the counter, grabbing her coffee again like she was done intervening.
“Finish eating,” Gojo said, quieter now but just as firm. “Then go change.”
Megumi stormed upstairs, leaving the plate behind, toast barely touched. He shut the bathroom door harder than he meant to—it banged against the frame, not even closing right anymore, crooked from where Gojo had kicked it last night.
He just stood at the sink, gripping the edges, staring at himself.
His reflection looked wrong.
Eyebags carved deep, darker than he remembered. Hair flattened to his head, still damp in places but already greasy. His face looked… hollow. Too sharp. His collarbones pressed against his shirt like they were trying to break through.
He looked sick.
Worse than that—he looked like something that had already started going.
His grip tightened on the counter.
Gojo’s face flashed in his head from earlier. Not looking at him. Talking around him. Deciding everything.
Megumi’s stomach twisted.
Of course he had snapped at Gojo. Again. Every time. Like he couldn’t stop himself even when he knew it was making it worse.
Unnecessary. Unhelpful.
Ungrateful.
Gojo was trying—wasn’t he? He’d stayed up all night. Called Shoko. Didn’t leave him alone. And Megumi just kept making it harder. Gojo didn’t sign up for this, he was 19 when he took in 5 year old Megumi and 7 year old Tsumiki, he was barely an adult himself.
His throat tightened.
Tsumiki.
Megumi squeezed his eyes shut, breath catching unevenly.
Of course Gojo didn’t trust him, of course Gojo was trying, of course Gojo was too good for Megumi.
Megumi was doomed from the start, he always was. Dead-beat father, no mother figure, half-dead sister—as far as he knew everybody carrying his last name was dead. Megumi never stood a chance.
Megumi’s vision blurred. He blinked hard, but it didn’t help. The first drop hit the sink before he even realized he was crying.
Then another.
His breathing started to hitch, shallow and uneven, like he couldn’t quite get enough air in.
He wiped at his face roughly, but it just kept coming.
Too much. Too fast.
He couldn’t go back to that kitchen. Couldn’t sit in a hospital. Couldn’t deal with the looks, the questions, Gojo deciding things like he was another problem to fix.
Something in him snapped.
He moved fast—too fast.
Cabinets yanked open one after another, hands shaking, knocking things over, bottles clattering against each other. Nothing. Nothing sharp enough. Nothing that—
Then—the medicine cabinet.
He pulled it open so hard it bounced back slightly. Bottles lined up, some half empty, some old.
His hands moved without really thinking, pushing things aside, scanning labels too quickly to actually read them.
Then—
Xanax.
He grabbed it, and the label had a name on it that Megumi didn’t recognize, Suguru. Though it was full and untouched, a few years old but Megumi didn’t care. All he knew was that xanax was a depressant and if he downed enough he’d be good.
Megumi left the bathroom quickly, bottle in hand
His steps were uneven on the way back to his room, faster than they should’ve been. The hallway felt too long. Too exposed.
He got inside and shoved the door closed, immediately dragging his desk chair over and jamming it under the handle.
He dropped down onto the floor, back hitting the side of his bed, breath coming in short, uneven bursts. His chest hurt.
Tears still wouldn’t stop.
He fumbled with the cap, nearly dropping the bottle once before he got it open.
Pills rattled inside.
Too loud.
He poured some into his hand—didn’t count, didn’t look—just raised them to his mouth and swallowed before he could change his mind.
It caught in his throat. He coughed, grabbed the water bottle off his desk with unsteady hands, drank too fast, water spilling down his chin.
Then more.
Again.
Didn’t stop to think.
Didn’t stop at all.
Take. Drink. Take. Drink.
His movements got messier the longer it went on, pills slipping from his fingers, one bouncing off the floor and rolling under his desk. He didn’t go after it.
The room blurred slightly at the edges, like it couldn’t stay still. His limbs felt heavier. Slower.
But he kept going.
Until the bottle was mostly empty.
His hands finally stilled.
The room tilted.
His grip loosened and the bottle slipped from his fingers, hitting the floor with a dull plastic sound.
He didn’t pick it up.
Didn’t move at all for a second.
Then slowly, uncoordinated, he let himself tip sideways onto the hardwood floor.
It felt cold against his cheek, he liked that. He let his eyes close.
Megumi fell asleep.
Gojo was halfway through his third cup of coffee when Shoko started packing up, shrugging on her coat like she couldn’t get out fast enough.
“Don’t leave me, Shoko…”
Gojo whined, half-playful, half-pleading.
She didn’t even look at him, just shook her head as she slung her bag over her shoulder.
“I have to go to work,” she told him, Gojo looked back with puppy eyes and a pout. “You’re treating him like Sug- like him all over again, you can’t act like that.”
“I know that,” he shot back, too quick, too defensive. “That’s why I need you here.”
She gave him a flat look.
“You called me emotionally constipated last week because I haven’t asked out Utahime.”
“Well, you two have been in a weird-ass situationship for like—”
Gojo cut himself off mid-sentence.
…How long had Megumi been upstairs?
The thought hit him wrong. Sharp. Sudden. He frowned, replaying it—Megumi had gone up to change. That was… what, ten minutes ago? Fifteen?
Gojo was already moving before the feeling could settle.
“Gojo?” Shoko called after him. “Gojo, what’s wrong?”
“Megumi.”
That was all he said as he took the stairs two at a time.
The bathroom door was open. Light off.
His chest tightened, he felt this sick sense of dread building in his gut and nesting there.
He turned sharply toward Megumi’s room, knocking once, too hard to be casual.
“Hey. Megumi? You okay in there?”
Nothing.
He knew something was wrong. Fuck. FUCK he should’ve never left him alone after last night fuck fuck fuck.
“Megumi— Megumi, open the door.”
His voice came out rough, already fraying. He knocked again, harder, then started pounding.
He tried for the door, not even trying to hide how frantic he was. Shoko came up behind him, tension snapping into place.
“What’s wrong?”
Gojo didn’t answer. Fuck the door was locked, Gojo knew he hadn’t bought a lock for Megumi’s door so he must’ve blocked it off.
He just stepped back, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.
“Move.”
“Step back”
Satoru then slammed his body weight into a door for the second time in 12 hours.
The wood cracked on the second hit, something scraping loudly on the other side before the door gave way with a splintering snap. The room was dark. A chair had toppled over, one leg still caught against the doorframe.
And then—
Megumi.
On the floor.
Still.
For a second, Gojo didn’t process it. His brain stalled, like it refused to catch up to what his eyes were seeing.
Shoko moved first. She always did.
She flicked the lights on and dropped to her knees beside him, fingers already at his neck, his wrist—checking, counting, grounding herself in something clinical.
Gojo stayed in the doorway, his body frozen.
Shoko grabbed a bottle from the floor, half-empty, label crinkled under her grip.
“Shit. It’s Xanax—” she muttered, scanning it quickly. “—Gojo, I need you to call an ambulance. Now.”
After snapping out of his trance he fumbled for his phone and came closer, fuck.
“Megumi?” His voice cracked. “Megumi, can you hear me?”
Gojo dialed 1-1-9. Shoko shifted, pressing fingers against Megumi’s jaw.
“I’m going to make him throw up. Gojo—help me roll him on his side.”
Gojo felt like a zombie, a puppet only listening when Shoko gave commands. He helped Shoko and then Shoko muttered what sounded like an apology before sticking two fingers down Megumi’s throat to find his gag reflex.
Gojo felt like he wasn’t in the room anymore, like he was floating away.
Suddenly, Gojo was 17 and he didn’t know why his best friend was leaving him like this.
“... he’s breathing…. Shallow…. We don’t know..”
Gojo didn’t realize Shoko had snatched the phone from him to talk to emergency responders, he felt useless as he stared at Megumi. He hadn’t even touched him yet, he looked like him like this, he looked like Tsumiki.
With his face slack and his chest barely moving—
Was he cursed?
Every person Gojo has loved has ended up like this.
Maybe- maybe he wasn’t-
His stomach twisted and his breath hitched, the smell of vomit hit his nose and he saw Megumi with his mouth half open and Shoko still on the phone.
It felt like there was 10kg pressing down on his chest and suffocating him, he wanted to claw his neck and escape his skin.
He wanted to hold Megumi.
He wanted to run as far away as he could from this place.