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He was five, not understanding the feeling in his chest whenever someone called him she. He didn’t understand why he hated it so much, why it clawed at the inside of his ribs, tearing them apart and making a nest for itself in his heart. It was dreadful, horrible. He hated it, hated people that called him she with no indication as to why.
He was six, and Gojo had made himself a figure in their lives some time ago. He’d call them things, his girls, his princesses, and for Megumi specifically when Tsukimi wasn’t listening, Little Shit.
For some reason, the last one made him feel better than any of the other two. The other two made him want to vomit. He never spoke it aloud though for fear of Gojo deciding that if he wasn’t going to be appreciated that he may as well just leave— as much as he annoyed Megumi, Tsumiki was already attached to him, and he didn’t want to cause her more pain. As much as he loathed to admit it, he would also be sad to see him go.
He was seven when Tsumiki first put makeup on him, now that they could afford it. She’d wanted to “Glam him up” and make him “a pretty princess.” He agreed because it was Tsumiki, and when Tsumiki was happy, he was happy.
He washed it off the second she was done and had taken her pictures. He watched with the sort of numb detachment one has for something they don’t allow themselves to indulge their hatred in.
He was eight the first and last time he chopped off his hair by himself in the bathroom. It’d gotten too long, and he didn’t like it anymore.
I don’t like the way it feels against my neck.
It makes me sweaty.
It’s hard to brush.
I use less product like this.
All reasons he gave to Gojo when he’d walked in on the massacre and made a sound of absolute horror.
I do what I want, you don’t tell me what to do was another, though it died behind his teeth as he braced for anger, for yelling, for cold rejection, for him to turn away and never come back—
“If you wanted your hair cut you could have just told me, I could’ve taken you to the salon.” Is what he said, eyes still wide with disbelief. Megumi glanced at the mirror and yeah, it was pretty uneven. One side was higher than the other by a solid inch, and he’d cut way too much on the sides.
“The salon always leaves it too long, they say I look better with longer hair. More like a girl.” He spat the last words with such revulsion he was sure that Satoru picked up on it.
“I can cut it for you then? Just don’t do… this again.”
Satoru cut his hair from then on. Megumi had asked him where he got so good at trimming hair, just to make conversation, and Satoru donned this distantly fond look in his eyes as he spoke.
“I used to help trim my friend’s hair. He was scared of getting it uneven if he did it himself.”
He was nine when he was required to wear a dress for a certain event. He barely even remembered what it was about, just that it was school related and he hated everything to do with it. He wouldn’t have even gone if it wasn’t required, but the school insisted that all girls wear a dress.
He nearly tore it apart in the bathroom putting it on. He wanted to hurl. Maybe if he were to drop it in the toilet and chalk it up to an accident he’d be allowed to wear pants.
He sighed defeatedly, knowing damn well that if he did Gojo would just tell him to wear one of Tsumiki’s many dresses.
He slipped on the offending piece of fabric and blinked back the traitorous tears stinging the back of his eyelids. It was just one night, and then he could throw it away and never have to lay eyes on the putrid thing again. If Gojo noticed how uncomfortable he was the whole night, how he was fiddling with the fabric and tugging it down, how he would tense whenever it billowed in the wind, he said nothing.
After the event, he stuffed it in the dumpster outside their apartment, glad to finally be rid of it.
He was ten when someone called him a boy. They had been talking to Satoru, Megumi and Tsumiki waiting for them to get done with their chit-chat to continue their outing.
“Your kids are so cute,” She’d commented, “your son especially!”
He was hit with this wave of emotion. This unnamable, untameable force that filled his heart, pumping to every corner and crevice in his body. This force, this feeling, it was ecstasy, it was exhilarating. It was all the things good and right in the world and—
Satoru had laughed nervously, correcting her gently. “No, Megumi’s a girl. You’re right though, she is adorable, isn’t she?”
—and it was gone. Stomped to the ground, beaten to a pulp, minced to a paste.
It died right before his eyes, leaving him confused, a bit scared, and more than angry.
He cried himself to sleep that night, and he couldn’t understand why.
He was eleven when he heard the T.V. talking about something Satoru said he wasn’t supposed to listen to.
“Boring politics stuff,” he’d drawled, “a waste of time, honestly. I hate this stuff.”
“Why do you watch it then?”
His eyes were trained on the screen, a scowl growing as the old man on the screen spoke with an intensity that could put Satoru himself to shame.
“Because it’s important.”
If it was important, then why was Megumi not supposed to watch it? So he listened in on what the old man was saying. He couldn’t catch all of it, but he heard enough to leave him with eyes the size of saucers and more confused than ever.
Boys pretending to be girls…? Sneaking into girls’ bathrooms and assaulting them? What the hell was that guy on about? Boys pretending to be girls…
His hands curled into fists as he slumped over to the kitchen, an odd burning feeling behind his eyes that couldn’t be tears, because there was nothing to cry about.
Boys pretending to be girls… what a stupid notion. You couldn’t change what you were born as. You were just stuck with whatever you got.
The burning behind his eyes was not tears. There was nothing to cry about.
He was still eleven when he saw it, a blue, pink, and white flag hanging in a shop. He was walking with Gojo to the movies when he saw it, and he stopped to get a good look at it, letting Gojo continue to walk forward until he noticed Megumi wasn’t following him and turned to see what he was doing.
There were whisperings of passersby that Megumi tuned into, curious as any eleven year old should be. Murmurings of those freaks and I wouldn’t let them two hundred feet near a school and bunch of predators filtered through the passerby, though most were silent, barely paying it any mind.
What did the flag mean? Were those people talking about the flag and what it represented?
Gojo came to stand next to him, hand on his shoulder. His jaw was clenched, his cursed energy flaring in annoyance.
“What’cha doin’?” He asked, eyes where Megumi’s were— the flag, its soft colors pleasing to the boy’s eyes. They weren’t obnoxiously bright, weren’t too muted, and weren’t too uniform and monotone either.
Gojo’s energy was still annoyed though. Did he also not like the people the flag represented?
“Nothing, just liked the colors.”
He looked it up later that night, the blue, pink, and white flag, long after he was supposed to be asleep.
He learned what transgender meant that night. When someone was assigned one gender based on their privates at birth, but felt like another. It was supported by science— theories about brain development coming to surface the further he looked.
He learned what Gender Dysphoria was— a feeling that clawed at the inside of peoples’ ribs, tearing them apart and bleeding through their entire being, the revulsion that came with being called a gender they didn’t identify as.
He learned what Gender Euphoria was— a feeling of giddy ecstasy that spread throughout the entire body at being called the right things, this feeling of excitement at being called the right pronouns, the right name.
He read further, spending hours scrolling through posts— coming out stories that went well, with accepting friends and families who supported them and got them hormones, which he learned altered the body to be more like the gender they felt, depending on whether one took estrogen or testosterone.
But more than the good stories were the horror stories of people who’d come out to people who were supposed to love them and were met with nothing but hatred. People who got vitriol spouted at them, who got sent to conversion therapy, who got thrown to the streets, who ended up homeless, who ended up dead—
The sun rose, and Megumi hadn’t slept a wink.
Everything made sense now, every feeling he didn't have a name for, the repulsion to dresses and anything feminine. He was pushing away from it as much as he could because it wasn’t him.
He wasn’t her.
He wasn’t a girl.
The loss of his perceived girlhood wasn’t something he mourned as he stared up at the ceiling, sunlight slowly filtering in through the blinds. He’d never been fond of it anyways.
What did this mean, the fact he was this thing so many people seemed to hate?
What was he to do now?
He walked out of his room with one weight lifted and another, heavier one, thrust upon his back. Satoru was cooking breakfast with Tsumiki. They were singing to some song from some musical he hadn’t cared to listen to as they moved around the kitchen as if everything was normal.
As if Megumi wasn’t standing there, newfound revelation shattering everything he thought he knew, everything he thought he could trust.
How would they react? Would he be met with acceptance or scorn?
A stray memory made its way through the brainfog of a night spent awake, a memory of Gojo scowling at the T.V. when it mentioned transwomen, of him looking annoyed at the flag the day before.
Perhaps he should just keep quiet.
So he did. Two months later, he hadn't told either of them. He went about his day, enduring the misgendering, enduring the dysphoria and the revulsion, the disgust whenever he saw himself in the mirror.
It had gotten worse now that he had a name for them, for what this was, for what he was.
There were nights when he imagined telling them. Imagined the best scenarios, imagined the worst. Satoru’s disgusted face, him deciding that he wouldn’t want to care for someone like him. Satoru calling him the disgusting words Megumi had learned over his time spent researching, of him leaving and never coming back. He saw Tsumiki’s cries once she learned of the reason he left, of the pain she’d experience, of the blame he’d receive.
His breath came in quick gasps as he buried his face into his pillow, his tears wetting his cheeks as he struggled to not make any sound.
He barely slept those nights.
He was terrified. Terrified of Satoru leaving, of losing the stability he’d been granted thanks to him, the love and care he was given with no expectations simply because he was a kid. Simply because, even though he would never admit it out loud, he was Satoru’s kid.
No. He was Satoru’s daughter. The thought sent a wave of revulsion down his throat and into his stomach, settling deep within him.
Would Satoru ever accept him as a son? As a boy in general? Would he stop seeing him as anything at all?
He was crying himself to sleep more often than not now, arms wrapped around himself in a pitiful imitation of a hug as he wept into his sheets.
God he wanted a hug.
He was still eleven. The months seemed to stretch infinitely now, each day layered with a fear and anxiety he hadn’t had before. Every feminine nickname sent disgust down his spine, every time someone called him a girl made him want to weep, every glance in a mirror a reminder of what he was, every time he showered a reminder of what he never would be.
He knew now that gender and sex were different things, that just because he wasn’t born with male genitalia didn’t make him any less of a boy.
Somehow, the knowledge he should be more accepting of himself made everything worse.
He’d cried himself to sleep the night before, just like he had for the past week. Just like he had for the past month, and the month before that, and the one before that as well. He stumbled out of his room, oversized shirt stolen from Gojo to hide his recently developing chest, baggy shorts because that’s how he had always liked them.
Gojo had once compared his at home fashion to that of Adam Sandler. He’d been giddy about it for a good hour.
Being compared to a boy.
Being compared to a man.
He stood in the entry to the kitchen, watching as Satoru flipped pancakes expertly, humming some stupid song. The man turned to him, smiling widely as he placed the pan back on the stove.
“Good morning princess! Pancakes today, hope you’re hungry, I’m making a shit ton.”
He couldn’t fucking do this.
Tears stung the back of his eyes as he stalked over to the table, slumping in his chair, eyes trained on a dark spot on the wood of the table.
“Megumi? What’s wrong girl? Are you okay?”
He grit his teeth, willing the tears to go fuck off. He needed to act normal damn it, why couldn’t he pull himself together?
He hadn’t noticed Satoru approaching, and flinched when he brushed away the strands of hair that’d fallen over his eyes.
God, don’t do this. Don’t ruin everything. Don’t be a stupid, selfish, naive idiot. Everything falls apart eventually, don’t speed it up.
“What’s wrong hun?” A soft touch under his eye wiping away a tear he hadn’t realized had slipped out. Megumi stifled the whimper that tried to force its way out of his throat.
His. He. He was a he and that would ruin everything, but it was the truth, and it kept getting worse every day he grew more accustomed to the label because the more he grew to accept he was trans the more everything he was called felt wrong wrong wrong—
“Nothing.” A whisper, barely audible even to his own ears, and Satoru sighed.
“You know you can come to me for anything, right?”
But could he? Could he really? Could he come to him for this?
Satoru wouldn’t throw him out for this. He wasn’t that kind of person.
But other people had thought the same of their parents and they’d ended up on the streets. How could he know? How could he know?
“I know.” He didn’t.
It had been a sunday, that day, so at least there was no school, no annoying kids to deal with, but that also meant he had to be around Gojo and Tsumiki all day after Gojo had seen him cry. Gojo kept glancing at him, obviously concerned but not wanting to pry before Megumi was comfortable telling him.
He took them to the theatre, to the park, to the mall, and some kid —some little girl in her mom’s arms— pointed in their direction and called out “Mommy look! I like that girl’s sweater! Can you get me one?”
The only one wearing a sweater was Megumi, the only thing he had at the moment to try and hide his chest.
He shrank into himself, a feeling of utter misery further ruining the day for him. Satoru glanced back, the momentary downward twitch of his lips the only indication of his confusion and concern with his eyes hidden behind his glasses.
Come nightfall, he watched Satoru from the hall as he washed the dishes from dinner. Tsumiki had already gone to bed, and Megumi was supposed to be in his room as well. It was late after all, and they had school tomorrow.
Even if he were in bed, he wouldn’t be able to sleep much.
He hadn’t been able to in a long while.
“Satoru.” He never used his first name. Never once had he used it before. He hoped Satoru would understand how serious he was about this.
The man stilled, carefully setting down the soapy plate back in the sick and rinsing his hands of the suds. When finally he turned to the boy— the shaking, scared boy, his eyes had rid themselves of any surprise they may have held. They were soft instead, something akin to hope close to the surface of them.
“Yeah? What is it?” He made his way over to the table, redirecting himself once Megumi muttered “couch” instead.
“Can I tell you something?” All the horrible scenarios he’d read started replaying in his head as he struggled to control his breathing and his trembling hands.
They sat in the middle of the couch, Satoru close enough for comfort but far enough for space.
He knew him so well. Knew what he needed without needing to ask.
He felt sick.
“Of course, anything.” His smile was soft, warm and welcoming. It was everything he was so terrified of losing.
He took a deep breath in, steeling himself as he tried to sit straighter.
“Promise you won’t hate me after I tell you?” He wrung his hands together, eyes carefully scanning Satoru’s face for any sign this could go wrong.
Something pushed against his throat from the inside, and it tasted like fear.
Satoru tried his hardest to soften his eyes, he could see that much, but the worried glint they took on was unmistakable.
“Megumi,” he said, voice gentle yet commanding his attention as he placed a hand on his shoulder, “I could never hate you, you’re my daughter.”
“I’m not.” The words escaped him without thought, his eyes widening and breath hitching once he realized what he said.
Satoru huffed, a half smile on his face that seemed more strained than before.
“I know you’re not big on the whole father-daughter thing, but—”
“No,” he interrupted, eyes falling to the floor, “I’m not a girl.”
He felt it, the way Satoru froze, his six eyes boring into the top of his head. Megumi’s hands curled into clenched fists as he felt the return of the traitorous tears blur his vision.
“What?” Satoru asked, and Megumi wanted to go bury himself alive, and why not? He’d already dug his own grave bringing this up.
“I’m not a girl. I’m a guy. I’m trans.” Salty tears streaked down his cheek and fell into his lap as he willed the ground to open up and swallow him whole.
Then Satoru took his hand off of his shoulder, and Megumi fell forward, burying his face in his hands, pathetic sobs muffled against his palm as he felt his entire world crack and break.
“I’m sorry,” he sobbed, a pitiful wail against his skin. He bit down on it, desperate to stop the weeping that would surely only speed up Satoru’s departure from his life.
Please don’t leave, he almost said, please don’t leave because of me.
Arms, strong and stable, wrapped around him, pulling him closer until he was sobbing against the man’s chest. A hand came to comb through his hair, and he leaned into the feeling, allowing himself a momentary comfort before everything would fall apart.
“You’re a boy?” Satoru asked, his voice gentle as he pulled him closer.
He nodded against his chest, words failing him. He clutched the man’s shirt in his shaking hands, a pained sound escaping his closed mouth.
Satoru shushed him, combing through his dark locks. He loosened his grip enough to be able to slip his arm between them and angle Megumi’s chin up to look him in the eyes.
“Megumi, you’re my son, I could never hate you.”
A smile, so real, no malice whatsoever. No hate, no annoyance, no disgust.
He collapsed against his guardian, sobs echoing throughout the apartment as relief flooded his system. He sniffled, snot running down his nose and onto Satoru’s shirt, though he didn’t seem to mind in the slightest.
His son.
Son.
Boy.
He was a boy.
“Thank you for telling me Megs— if that name is still okay. Do you have a name you’d prefer me use instead?”
Megumi felt right, no matter the girly origin. He was still Megumi, just a boy. So he shook his head again, mouth working as he murmured the words against his mentor’s shirt.
I thought you’d leave.
How he heard it when Megumi himself could barely hear it he had no clue, but Satoru’s hold on him tightened ever so slightly as he chastised him, face buried in his hair as he peppered kisses to the top of his head.
“Don’t be dumb, Megs. I told you I wasn’t leaving, and I meant it damn it.”
“But I remembered you looking annoyed when trans people were spoken ab— about in politics and you looked pissed at seeing the trans flag when we went to the movies a whi— while ago.” His breath hitched as the sobs quieted slowly, his eyes drooping with a newfound exhaustion.
“Megumi,” he spoke the name like a prayer, so full of love it overflowed into the very atmosphere around them, “I wasn’t pissed at the flag, I was pissed at the transphobes around us. I have nothing against trans people.”
“Oh.”
There they stayed on the couch for an undisclosed amount of time, sitting in the silence until Satoru asked him if he’d told Tsumiki yet.
“No,” he admitted, “I wanna tell her though.”
“Tomorrow,” Satoru said as he disentangled himself from Megumi, standing and stretching, “it’s late, and you need to go to bed.” Megumi heard his back pop, wincing at the same time Satoru did.
“Fuck I’m getting old.” He said, as if he wasn’t a whopping twenty four years old. Megumi leveled him with a deadpan stare as he wiped his tears and cringed at the drying snot.
“Wait, just to be clear, is it he/him, he/they…?”
“He/him please.” His gaze downcast, cheeks reddening at the acceptance. He’d thought it would go so much worse, and for what reason? He couldn’t even remember. Satoru had always been a person accepting of anything and everything, no matter what it was. Why had he thought this would be different? Paranoia?
Regardless, he was glad for the outcome he’d received.
“Alright kid, thank you for telling me. Now get your ass to bed, you have school tomorrow.”
Megumi cried himself to sleep that night, just like nights prior, though for completely different reasons. His pillows, so familiar with his sorrow, were introduced to his joy. They must have been grateful and rewarded him for it, because he slept better than he had in months that night, actually waking up well rested instead of the zombie-like trance he’d been in before.
Apparently, getting such good sleep meant that he missed his alarm, as his backup alarm was currently knocking on his door.
“Megumi! Get your ass up boy, you’re gonna be late! Tsumiki made eggs, if you’re not out in five I’m eating them myself!”
“Hey! Leave my eggs alone!” But he was wearing a dopey smile he’d never let Satoru see. A feeling, now nameable, flooded his heart and spilled to all of his veins, spread across his body in a single instant.
Euphoria.
This was the best outcome he could have hoped for. He had no doubt that Tsumiki would be as accepting as Satoru, he just had to tell her on the way to school.
“Boy??”
Or over breakfast, seeing as Satoru had shit volume control in the mornings and had screamed it loud enough the entire building had probably heard, including his sister.