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The autumn came and the foliage was beautiful, but Toji Zenin did not give a shit.
In one universe, Toji Zenin went out of his way to meet the Six Eyes, curious what the fuss was all about for a brat that had yet to do something more interesting than eating everything off his plate and shitting at the right consistency.
Gojo Satoru, age five or six in his estimation, saw Zenin Toji then turned away, walking with his attendant. After being stunned at being seen, the first time it happened in his life, It sparked resentment in the heart of the adult, the pinnacle of sorcery observing him with those unnerving eyes. The one who had it all. It was the moment Toji swore he’d somehow fight and destroy his antithesis; it was the demonstration in flesh and blood of what he could never be, what alienated him from his clan.
In another universe, Gojo Satoru did not turn back. Or rather, he remained turned back and came up to Toji, who found the sudden interest quite unnerving.
“What is thy name, stranger?”
Toji looked down at the cocky brat, arms hidden in his sleeves.
“Zenin Toji,” he answered shortly, years of education drilled into him making him briefly nod his head in acknowledgment.
The brat didn’t blink, his brilliant blue eyes trained on him like some eldritch horror’s interest.
“I am Gojo Satoru,” he replied, also barely tilting his head.
Toji watched how the minder waited two steps away, looking on demurely, ready to interfere if things got bad for the brat.
“As you are close to the Gojo estate,” the brat started, his high-pitched, bratty voice echoing loudly into the silent air, “I will invite our guest.”
That really wasn’t how things went, Toji thought warily. Was the kid stupid?
“Are you stupid?” He asked. Just to make sure.
The brat gave him a condescending look that he was pretty sure he could change immediately into a crying, snot running and snivelling one.
The brat was undeterred. “As the heir of the Gojo clan I hereby invite my guest of the Zenin clan, to a Digimon pop-up cafe to foster relations between our clans.”
Toji gaped at the kid, while his brain tried to process the words. He scoffed at the idea that The Six Eyes was some kind of genius, but what the brat just said, surely had to be some sort of code. What the fuck was Digimon?
“What the fuck is Digimon?” He asked.
The brat gave him a pitiful look, swiftly replaced by shining bright enthusiasm. Toji almost recoiled. The eyes sparkled. Sparkling eyes was supposed to be a metaphor, not literal.
“I shall tell you all about it,” Gojo Satoru replied generously. He clutched Toji’s sleeve. “C’mon.”
“Master Satoru,” the attendant interfered. “It is dangerous to go into town now.”
Master Satoru turned to her, confident. “He’s strong, he can protect me.”
“I’m strong, I can protect the brat,” Toji confirmed, feeling a weird churn in his stomach. Huh, maybe he should lay off eating a whole bottle of mayonnaise with his salad.
“I’m fostering relations,” the brat insisted, turning that eerie stare upon the attendant.
“He’s fostering relations,” Toji agreed, now morbidly curious to see where this would end.
It ended with him in a fucking kiddie cafe with all sorts of big, colourful plushies of weird animals, rainbow coloured food, and so many screaming children it put him off having his own forever.
The cafe was an assault to the senses of the highest order. Colourful patterns in bright colours everywhere, screens showing animations of said monsters together with kids, transforming, fighting in ridiculous scenarios. Peppy music was blasting from the speakers, figurines were on sale, t-shirts, sneakers, and many more. And the screaming children.
Now. Toji was from an old clan. He knew from first hand experience how one was educated there. The Gojo brat, no doubt, had been educated well himself. And he had shown it in their earlier interaction.
Toji realised it was all a fucking scam. The brat screamed louder than everybody else, as he flitted from merch to merch, loudly singing along, avidly watching the screens while doing some sort of weird dance and shouting random phrases; then came the inevitable moment he found something he liked, raised his voice a good fifty decibels more, then deposited it in Toji’s arms.
Currently, Toji had ten t-shirts, five plushies, a stack of 100 cards, and fifteen new digimon virtual pets, and the brat showed no signs of stopping.
“It would be easier if you just took one or two of each,” Toji remarked.
The brat, cheeks red from all the excitement, suddenly stopped and watched him fixedly, pinning him with his gaze. Toji’s eyes narrowed slightly, feeling the crushing weight of the Six Eyes.
Then the brat flashed him a blinding grin. “That’s awesome! Toji-jijii, you’re the best!”
Toji felt his eye twitch. “I’m not that old, brat!”
“You’re dressed like an old man,” a snot nosed brat he did not know, informed him wholly unasked.
The Gojo brat had, of course, ditched his own yukata at a lightning fast pace, at the first clothes’ shop they’ve come across.
The two million yen he had received as spending money for “Master Satoru” no longer seemed to be an astronomical sum.
Finally, one hour later, they got to their place at a table, where the brat enthusiastically rattled off items on the menu, with the supreme confidence of one who never had to face consequences. Toji kinda wanted to sock one such consequence right in the kid’s animated mug, but refrained and suffered in silence as the Gojo brat ingested disgusting glitter and radioactive coloured food with the enthusiasm of a famished pig. Toji declined at first any and all invitations to eat whatever he wished, but in the end relented for some curry. It was mediocre.
And after that, the brat did not even have the decency to fold over, exhausted, but instead insisted they go to a bouncy castle (where Toji would forever deny he actually had fun), and a gaming arcade where it became a competition to see who can smash more records (Toji learned a lot that day)and win more prizes from the claw machines. After the twentieth big prize win they were politely, with many bows and apologies, firmly escorted out.
“I’m not your pack mule, brat. I’m not carrying all that.”
He did, in fact, carry all that. The brat also carried his share, looking like a street vendor from the Edo Period. There was a mountain of boxes and bags, and somewhere inside, there was the brat.
Toji did not sympathise because he was carrying five times as much of that crap.
“It’s seven already, Isn’t it time for brats like you to go to sleep?” Toji asked, when the Gojo brat showed absolutely no signs of stopping. On the reverse, he seemed to be revving up to go faster.
The mound of plushes and boxes swung wildly and from its depths, the clear gaze of the Six Eyes cut through to his soul. “Whaddya think I’m five?” The brat asked, offended.
“Yes,” Toji replied honestly.
“I’m eleven!” The brat shouted. “Check your eyes, old man!”
“Check your height, twerp,” Toji retorted smugly, finally finding something humorous. The brat was a midget. That in and of itself seemed a victory of a sort for him.
The six eyes glared at him. “Imma be taller than you,” the brat threatened.
Toji snorted. “Whatever makes you sleep easier at night, runt.”
The Gojo brat scoffed.
Toji cocked his head. “Three assassins following you,” he said casually.
The brat sniffed, sounding unimpressed. “Second time this week. Just take care of the merch. I’ll lose them or beat them or whatever.”
Toji eagerly dropped his burden next to the brat. “Why don’t you take care of your stuff, brat? Stay right here.”
Something about the brat’s reaction to being threatened was pissing him off. So he purposefully chose the plushies the Gojo brat had seemed the most entranced by, and went to work. Never let it be said that Toji could not beat up three curse users with a pair of Digimon plushies.
“Hey!” The brat shouted indignantly when he saw the carnage. “Those were limited edition!”
Toji smirked. “Tough luck, brat.”
When the car from the Gojo estate came to take the brat home, the Brat insisted they pile all the merch inside the car and take the bus instead.
He spewed some pretentious sounding bullshit while wheedling this concession from the chauffeur and the handler then turned to Toji bright eyed and bushy tailed and convinced him to go eat curry at a fast-food restaurant.
“Help me train,” the brat told him suddenly, as they were close to the gates of his home.
“Hell no,” Toji replied succinctly.
The Six Eyes narrowed at him. “We’ll have Digimon watch parties each week. And play the game.”
“That’s not the enticement you think it is, brat. Rather the opposite.”
The brat looked upset. Oh well. He fished out the money he had left. “One million yen. Don’t drop them on the way to your room.”
The brat watched him, unblinking. “Keep them.”
Toji’s hand spasmed. One fucking million? Was the kid retarded? Most probably, but he was, unfortunately, the adult there.
“For today,” the brat said, before Toji could. The 1000watts smile reappeared. “It was fun.”
“Ya think I’m your whore?” Toji asked, amused.
The brat frowned. “What’s a whore?”
“Why don’t you ask your grandpa?” Toji replied sweetly. “I’m taking ten grand, you can keep the rest.”
“And we’ll keep meeting until we spend the million,” the brat insisted.
Toji rolled his eyes. “Sure brat, whatever. But next time, I am the one choosing the place.”
The brat grinned. “Sounds fun! Bye.”
“Good riddance,” Toji muttered. Stupid brat.
He already had a headache.