Chapter Text
It was the day of Megumi’s 7th birthday. December 22nd, 3 days before Christmas. Ever since Gojo had appeared in his and Tsumiki’s lives eight months ago, they had been celebrating both. Megumi still didn’t quite understand this, though. For the first six years of his life, he and his sister didn’t even celebrate their birthdays, much less a silly holiday that involved decorating a silly little tree to celebrate some random god. If there was one thing that Megumi knew, it was that there were no gods or Buddha or any higher power. Poverty had held a tight grip on Megumi, tighter than any god ever could, and only Gojo had the power to break it. And Gojo’s power was not the gift of any god. He was a sorcerer, with eyes so piercing blue they could have belonged to a foreigner if not for Gojo’s distinctly Japanese features.
If Megumi thought about it hard enough, though, Gojo was the closest thing to a god he had ever met. His otherworldly appearance and gangly limbs, his oddly pale hair and blue eyes, his seemingly endless wealth, and, above all else, his creepy presence. There was something about his energy that made him seem almost inhuman. If he stood next to any other adult, Megumi could almost see how different they were. Gojo was strong and seemingly impervious, and not even Megumi’s most annoying teachers seemed to be able to get through to him. It would have been awe-inspiring if not for one thing.
Gojo was annoying.
He was very, very annoying.
He was arrogant and never shut up, and didn’t know how to cook, and would vanish for days at a time, leaving Megumi and Tsumiki to fend for themselves. His jokes were terrible, and he had an odd habit of sitting silently in the dark for hours, just thinking. Worst of all, in Megumi’s opinion, was his insitence of celebrating birthdays and holidays.
One of the first things Gojo did when he met Megumi and Tsumiki was ask when their birthdays were. Tsumiki was glad to share this information, and Gojo grinned at her when she told him her birthday was June 22nd.
“A summer baby! It suits you perfectly, Tsumiki-chan!” he cried. Tsumiki beamed and then told Gojo Megumi’s birthday, as the little boy was still keeping his guard up around Gojo.
“And little Megumi is a winter baby!” Gojo gushed, reaching forward and pinching Megumi’s cheek. Megumi scowled and shoved Gojo away, but the man (more like a teenager at this point) just laughed. “Yep, that suits you, too! Always so cold!”
“It’s just a birthday,” Megumi retorted, rubbing at his cheek in annoyance; why did Gojo have to grab him so hard? “It’s not like we do anything special for it.”
This had Gojo pause for a moment, and Megumi could feel him staring even behind his darkly tinted sunglasses.
“What?” he asked, dumbfounded. “What do you mean? You don’t celebrate your birthdays?”
Tsumiki blushed, toeing the dirt on the road with her shoes.
“I try to make Megumi a cake every year, but—”
“I tell her not to because we don’t have the money for it!” Megumi interrupted, not looking away from Gojo. It wasn’t his sister’s fault, after all, and she did her best every year to do something special for Megumi, even if it was as simple as making a pack of origami dogs. The cake was just unnecessary, though, as it was a waste of money they could use to buy more practical food items.
Gojo looked stricken. His eyes slid from Megumi to Tsumiki, who had dropped her head.
“Your sister has been trying to give you a good birthday, Megumi,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “You shouldn’t yell at her.”
Megumi’s chest puffed indignantly.
“If I’m yelling, it’s your fault!” he cried, pointing at Gojo. “Tsumiki does her best! It’s none of your business, anyway!”
“Hmm, I’d have to disagree with that,” Gojo responded, and his stupid, annoying grin reappeared like he hadn’t just been yelled at. (Although being yelled at by a six-year-old probably wasn’t that intimidating.) He spoke to Tsumiki. “Tsumiki, what’s your favorite kind of cake?”
Tsumiki finally looked up, startled.
“Huh?”
“Your favorite cake! You know, your favorite flavor.”
“Oh, um, I don’t know. Vanilla, I guess?”
Gojo nodded, as if this were a wise answer.
“A classic!” He turned to Megumi. “And you, Megumi-chan?”
“How would I know?” Megumi retorted hotly. “And don’t call me Megumi-chan, I don’t like it!”
“All right, all right.” Gojo held up his hands in front of him. “Since your birthday isn’t for seven months, we still have time to figure it out.” Somehow his smile widened. “Tsumiki-chan’s birthday is next month, though!”
He dropped to his haunches, crouching so that he was at the children’s eye level. He laid a hand on top of Tsumiki’s head, offering her a gentle smile.
“What presents would you like for your birthday?” he asked her.
Tsumiki’s brown eyes widened in her small face, and her lips parted in shock.
“P-Presents?” she echoed.
“Yep, presents! It’s your birthday, after all — you should get at least one present!”
Tsumiki tore her eyes from Gojo’s face to look at her little brother, who was staring at her in naked surprise. She squeezed his hand in her own before turning back to Gojo.
“I-I don’t really want anything, Gojo-san,” she said, avoiding his eyes; she found his gaze disconcerting. “We can’t really afford presents.”
“Well, lucky for you, you don’t need to afford anything. I have plenty of money to spare.”
Megumi snorted.
“How is that possible? You’re like 16.”
Gojo looked mock-offended, laying a hand over his chest.
“Excuse you, Megumi, I’m 18. And, to be more precise, my family is loaded. I just happen to reap the benefits.” He winked. “So, Tsumiki, what would you like?”
“I—”
“She just said she didn’t want anything!” Megumi responded for his sister. “Stop bothering her!”
Gojo hummed and cocked his head to the side, looking for all the world like some type of curious monkey.
“Hmm,” he said, “if you don’t want anything, Tsumiki, what do you need?”
Tsumiki paused at this, and Megumi could see the wheels in her mind turning. There were lots of things both she and Megumi needed — an apartment with running heat and A/C, groceries that weren’t rotten or from the 7/11 down the street, socks and shoes that didn’t have holes — and those were just some of the things they needed. But Megumi knew his sister; she was too kind, and if she were to answer Gojo’s question, she would say she didn’t need anything but to give Megumi something instead.
So Megumi answered before she had a chance.
“Ribbons,” he said to Gojo, daring the man and his sister to argue. “She needs hair ribbons. The kids at school make fun of her.”
“Well, that’s not very nice now, is it?” Gojo said. He smiled gently at Tsumiki, patting her head. “I’ll just have to give you some new hair ribbons, then!”
And, much to Megumi’s surprise, Gojo was as good as his word and then some. On Tsumiki’s birthday, he appeared at their apartment with a fancy vanilla cake and three boxes of presents. The cake was decorated beautifully, with Happy Birthday Tsumiki! written across the top in pink frosting. It wasn’t even stale, and Megumi had three pieces before he was full. When they had finished the cake, Gojo had given Tsumiki her presents, making Megumi sit next to him as she opened the boxes, careful of tearing the bright wrapping paper.
In the first box, as Gojo had promised, was a set of hair ribbons in different colors, some patterned and probably more expensive than the apartment they lived in. In the second box was a teddy bear, which Gojo explained was picked out by one of his friends, someone named Shoko. And in the third box, the smallest, was a key.
Tsumiki frowned as she held it up.
“What is this to?” she asked.
Megumi had asked if it was a car, and Gojo laughed.
“How could it be for a car?” he asked, clutching his sides. “You’re 8 and 6. How are you going to be driving a car?”
Megumi puffed his chest, outraged, when Gojo ruffled his hair.
“No, it’s the key to your new apartment!” he said.
Tsumiki and Megumi just gaped at Gojo, slack-jawed, eyes wide. Tsumiki was the first to find her voice.
“What?!” she cried, hopping out of her chair and shoving the key at Gojo’s chest. “We can’t accept that!”
“Why not?” Gojo said, easily returning the key to Tsumiki and curling her small fingers over it. He smiled at her. “It’s my present to you and Megumi.”
“But—!”
“You can’t keep living here,” Gojo interrupted, and the smile was replaced by a frown. “The A/C and heating don’t work, there are cracks in the ceiling, and I’m pretty sure there’s asbestos in this place somewhere.” He wrinkled his nose. “It can’t be up to code.”
“But, Gojo—”
“No more arguments! You’ll live somewhere nicer than this. It’s the least I can do for you two.”
“But we can’t afford it!”
Gojo cocked his head.
“You don’t have to afford it, Tsumiki-chan,” he said. “It’s all taken care of. All you need to worry about is being a kid.” He turned to Megumi with a smile. “The same goes for you, Megumi.” There was something in his blue eyes then, something sad, that made the words of argument die on both children’s lips. “You haven’t really had the chance to be kids yet, have you?”
Megumi bristled.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded, but Gojo just ignored him. As per usual.
“Anyway, Tsumiki-chan, happy birthday!” He patted her head again. “Should I sing for you?”
“Ew, no!” Megumi yelled, but Tsumiki just blushed and nodded shyly, which was all the approval Gojo needed to begin belting out “Happy Birthday” in a god-awful voice, only stopping when Megumi stomped on his foot to shut him up. Gojo yelped and hopped about the room, holding his foot, while Megumi stood there with his arms crossed, rolling his eyes at the theatrics.
Six months later, it was Megumi’s seventh birthday. He and his sister had been in their new apartment for a while now, and it was nicer than Megumi wanted to admit. The floors were clean, the walls were sturdy and soundproof, and the ceiling wasn’t leaking. There were no rats to be seen, and it was even big enough for both Megumi and Tsumiki to each have their own bedrooms. Gojo showed up at least once a week, if not more, usually bringing some takeout for them to share since he was a terrible cook. He could barely boil water, if Megumi were being honest. He usually crashed on the couch, then took them to school the next day before going to “work.” When Megumi inquired as to what kind of employer would want to hire an 18-year-old weirdo, Gojo had just laughed.
“I work for a school, Megumi,” he said. “I do the odd clean-up job here and there.”
Which, to little Megumi, meant that Gojo was a janitor.
Megumi didn’t really understand why Gojo would want to do that, given that he was a literal sorcerer, but he knew better than to pry. Prying was rude, Tsumiki had said so.
So he didn’t pry, either, when Gojo showed up to pick him up from school on his birthday (even though it was embarrassing), didn’t pry when he noticed how pale Gojo looked, didn’t pry when Gojo didn’t even bother to try loudly singing “Happy Birthday.”
Maybe he should have pried.
Maybe then Gojo wouldn’t be lying on the floor, collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut, a large, jagged cut on his temple from where his head had smashed against the corner of the table.
Megumi stared helplessly at the blood seeping into the tatami mats, frozen in place, even as his sister ran for the phone.
This was why he didn’t celebrate birthdays. Something always happened.
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