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The blood was seeping past his fingers, and the thick piece of cloth he wrapped around it—half his uniform sleeve was torn, anyways. He might as well use it.
(Reuse. Repurpose. Recycle.)
If Tsumiki could see him right now, she would be horrified at the blood and furious at how things turned out, but if she could look past all the violence, for a minute, she would be proud of him for not wasting materials and worsening the environment. Not that his ripped uniform sleeve was as bad as dumping oil or trash in the ocean, but even so.
Gojo shouted right in his ear, crisp and clipped, “Megumi!”
Megumi pressed his hand down again. He felt faint. The boy didn’t look up from what he was doing.
Gojo didn’t like this.
“Megumi,” the man lowered his voice, quite neutrally for the situation now that Megumi had stopped zoning out, “What the hell are you doing?”
“The thing you told me to do,” Megumi replied.
(Put pressure on the wound.)
“I didn’t tell you to do that,” Gojo replied, rather patiently.
“You told me to put pressure on the wound,” Megumi said, not really paying attention.
Part of his mind was slipping away. It was one of the reasons Gojo didn’t think he was ready to do any solo-missions. Megumi had a nasty habit of zoning out.
When his body got hurt, or he felt one of his shikigami take a blow that he couldn’t get them to recover from with extra cursed energy, he started fading. He would melt away. It was like his mind was the shadow realm, not the shadows next to his body, underneath his feet. Gojo knew this habit and this ability of his, and often interrupted him. These half-independent missions were Gojo’s way of compromising. For as much as Megumi and him hadn’t been getting along—at all—in the recent years—two years, just two—Gojo still attempted to meet Megumi in the middle, as lacklusterly as the strongest sorcerer ever would be.
Tsumiki, on the very rare occasion she saw Megumi begin to slip between the toaster and the kitchen counter after a long day of training, would smother him in an expert manner. She had keen eyes.
(She simply wasn’t keen enough to see cursed energy. Fuck.)
The entire alley was smashed to pieces. Megumi was sitting cross legged, a few feet away from a wall that had miraculously survived the conflict. Megumi wanted to scoot backwards and rest. Instead, he leaned forwards and tried to keep his eyes on the way darkness had begun to seep into the makeshift bandage. Wow. He should ask Ieiri to teach him more first-aid.
Please give me a refresher, Ieiri-sensei, he should say, once he didn’t feel like this and wouldn’t snap his jaws like a dog by extension. I could really use your guidance.
Gojo was a looming figure of cursed energy.
“Megumi,” said the energy. It’s mouth moved. It warped. It rippled.
Even when in Megumi’s periphery, the essence that made up his teacher's existence was too bright and too much to tune out. Perfect control, but—by everything in this bleak would—Gojo was practically fuming. His anger never looked like anger. Megumi sometimes wished it did. His memories were distorted, but he had once known angry people—Gojo should take that ticket, too.
He didn’t, though.
Megumi stared at his arm. The blood was still going. He felt lightheaded.
This was not how he wanted his night to go. It was—shameful. Gojo was going to bother him even worse in training. This was a compromise, and though sorcerers had to be left to their own devices at some point—to learn the waters and learn to swim—Gojo had always been acutely aware of Megumi’s motives. This wasn’t his way of life. Knowing jujutsu and having a technique wasn’t… special.
It wasn’t anything that Megumi couldn’t live without. It wasn’t—
Gojo’s voice was sharp, “Megumi.”
Through the haze that had begun to blanket him, Megumi raised his gaze. “Gojo?”
“Keep pressure on your wound,” Gojo crossed the threshold and grabbed Megumi’s hand—pulling it away from the wound that Megumi had acquired in the last seven minutes on this stupid fucking mission. “Out of all the directions I gave you tonight, I never once said you should throw yourself in front of the curse and let it stab you. Somehow, in between me telling you to duck and me saying watch out for the flying needles, you hear the words let the curse slice your arm from wrist to shoulder and think, yeah, that sounds like Gojo-sensei, I’ll listen.” In the time Gojo spent rattling off this stupid reply, he began putting incessant pressure on the deepest part of Megumi’s wound. His normal cheerful attitude had long since vanished—ever since Megumi was thrown through a wall, and the Divine Demon Dogs began fighting erratically, and the grade two curse decided to grow a second head midway through the battle.
“Hn,” said Megumi.
The air creaked. The concrete was cold. He was getting cold. Gojo was a normal temperature, not cold, not shuddering from blood loss or overexertion.
(Because he was the strongest.)
After a pause that felt like eternity, the man muttered several things under his breath. Then, calmly, “Megumi, are you stupid?”
That was a first.
For all of their combined issues and incapability, Gojo had never called Megumi stupid. Not in such a serious situation.
Serious in the sense that Megumi was starting to feel the pain of his injury, and his heart was thundering, and the blood was pulsing violently and it wasn’t exactly getting better. He was breathing through his teeth. He looked up some more and forced himself to focus on the man’s face. Mostly covered. All he could see was Gojo’s stupid fucking blindfold.
Megumi felt—bad, again, violently angry and ill, “Are you serious?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?” Gojo asked, and he pressed down as hard as he could on Megumi’s arm. The pain ricocheted, swarming all his nerves.
Megumi wanted to go home.
He was very tired. There was a lot of blood everywhere. He should probably crawl back to Ieiri’s medbay. She would patch him up with her technique and let him sleep any lingering side-effects off in a bed that smelled vaguely of nicotine and mostly of antiseptic. Or lemon clawing spray, which she used religiously before and after lighting a cigarette.
Everything was stupid. He wanted to go back home. Crawl into bed. He could—let Tsumiki talk to him. She always wanted to talk to him, regardless of if they were getting along or—being mean—or disagreeing about something, like Gojo—or anything. When he was younger, he apparently had gotten so sick at one point that Tsumiki had considered calling the police to help them—which was a big thing for Tsumiki, who, by the way, leans even further away from authority figures than Megumi did. Tsumiki had always been the one to avoid the teachers and their concerned talks. She had been the one to make sure Megumi and herself were primed and prepped and proper-looking in their bad living conditions. Becoming Gojo’s wards hadn’t exactly changed the habit. When Megumi had been terribly ill, right on the cusp of what a young ten year old Tsumiki thought was death, she had crawled onto the makeshift bed and cradled Megumi’s head in her hands and combed his hair. She had sung a lullaby.
Right now, in this decrepit and disgustingly damaged alley, Megumi wished he could slide onto his side and have her do that exact thing.
“Megumi,” said Gojo, “Say something.”
He barely even remembered it. She always told him about it, whispering, confessing—I knew you didn’t like touch, but I had been scared, and I thought maybe—just maybe, I could help, if I just stayed with you and tried—and whenever she told Megumi this story, in bits and pieces, he got flustered and sickens. Tsumiki had always taken care of him. Even with Gojo in the picture, she still tried to take care of him.
“Something,” said Megumi, who didn’t care at all.
Gojo pressed down harder. Megumi’s shoulders tensed, and raised, and then he yelled something—like whining, like crying—and he wasn’t a little kid anymore, but every now and then he felt so annoyed at everyone always doing things that he couldn’t replicate or—endure—he didn’t want to endure anything.
His breaths rattled, “That hurts.”
“Sorry,” came the reply, and it wasn’t any softer than before, but Gojo would t be hurting him on purpose—he didn’t—his anger didn’t result in broken bones or dead people—or broken dishes or unpaid bills or food into the trash—Gojo, of he was displeased, had yet to show such feelings in a normal way. “Megumi,” he said, “Take a deep breath.”
Megumi took a deep breath and then hitched and seethed and sputtered and gasped—dying—this wasn’t death, this was dramatic—and he actually kicked a foot from underneath himself, with how he was sitting. How do you handle pain without wanting to kill yourself? The pain was sharp and atrocious and he leaned forward violently—a wild motion.
Gojo made a sound, “Hey, don’t bash your head open on my account. You’re the one who decided to jump into the curse’s line of fire.”
“That hurts,” Megumi choked again.
“I’m tightening the cloth real quick,” said Gojo, “I’m almost done. One second.”
And it was not one second. It was many.
Megumi’s leg spasmed again and then his free hand, the one that was bruised and scraped but not bleeding or broken, thrashed. Instinctively—even though Gojo’s Infinity would certainly block his attack—Megumi lashed out at the source of his pain, and his fist crashed into Gojo’s shoulder. The boy made such a wounded sound when Gojo tied the cloth, pressing further down—but this whole deal had barely lasted a few minutes—it felt like forever.
But Gojo wouldn’t let him bleed out.
This was a lesson learned.
(This is too much work. I wanna die first. Don’t even bother next time. It’s my fault. You know that. It’s too much work and I don’t like pain and I don’t like this. You know this. I don’t want to do this again.)
“Done,” said Gojo, assuredly, and he didn’t react at all to Megumi trying and failing to suppress his cries or thrashes. The jujutsu sorcerer smoothed his hand up and down Megumi’s good arm, like that would make him feel better, and started talking. “Okay,” said Gojo, “Let’s go. Come on, up and at ‘em. I’m going to help you up, and then I’ll take you back to Jujutsu Tech. It’ll be a cute little epilogue to tonight’s mission. I’ll get you coffee jelly from the vending machine in the hall. Shouko will be ecstatic, because I’ll get her something too. She’s going to patch you up better than what we just did.”
Megumi didn’t want coffee jelly, or fruit jelly, or anything. He wanted to go home. He wanted to go back to the apartment that Gojo provided for Tsumiki and him. He wanted to crawl into bed and cry and he wanted to run laps in the Jujutsu Tech gym and he wanted to bury his face in Shiro’s fur and he wanted Kuro to guard his bedroom door and his bed and him.
He made another odd sound. Gojo ran his hand up and down Megumi’s arm again. Cajoling, like Megumi was some little kid, “Come on, it’s okay. I’m going to lift you up now.”
“Don’t fucking—l-lift me,” Megumi said, before Gojo could start dragging him up and onto his feet.
Too late.
“I’m lifting you,” said the man, with that false cheer.
And he slid his hands under Megumi’s arms, grabbing, and then with minimal effort the two of them were both standing. Upon being forced to balance, somewhat, Megumi had approximately three seconds before his knees buckled and he fell right into Gojo. He tried very hard to steady himself, but before he could—his legs went weak. He was made of pins and needles.
Gojo was right there, of course, still steadying Megumi.
“Don’t collapse on me now,” Gojo murmured, “I don’t like teleporting you when you’re unconscious; it raises the chances of you throwing up and asphyxiating. Stay awake, Megumi.”
His stupid blindfold was still on, and if Megumi went home like this and told his sister what happened tonight, she would probably do something bad—probably—this was so fucking—just—Megumi squeezed his eyes shut.
“I’m not going to throw up,” the kid rattled.
“It’s okay if you do,” Gojo said neutrally, “It’d be gross and wet, but all things considered, fairly normal.”
Normal enough. Because the last time Megumi was sick, Tsumiki took care of him and they stayed wrapped up in a starry blanket—constellations galore, because Tsumiki was in an astronomy phase that Gojo encouraged—basically quiet for two days because every sound made Megumi feel sicker. And Gojo had been on a mission to who knew where, he had shown up with trinkets from some European country, only to see Tsumiki placing a cold rag on Megumi’s head and Megumi lolling to the side and gripping Kuro’s fur as tightly as he could.
And Gojo hadn’t—taken care of him—gone for missions and more missions. But Megumi remembered the man sitting down next to him, forcing him to drink hot tea. Because Tsumiki was still attending school while Megumi was ill and she needed to sleep and so—go to bed, Tsumiki, I’ll watch him, don’t worry, I’m back for now. And Gojo wasn’t good at taking care of people, I but he could fight and he kept people safe by doing his whole sorcery thing. Megumi had fallen asleep on the couch after drinking the chamomile tea—overstepped—and everything was blurry but he remembered Gojo drawing the blanket over his body, as much as possible. Megumi hadn’t thrown up that night, but he had threatened it several times whenever Gojo jostled him.
“I want to go home,” Megumi said, and his voice was tight, and his hand scrabbled uselessly at Gojo’s uniform, and he choked on spit that was pooling in his mouth. “Gojo—”
“Shouko first,” the man said, just as neutrally as before. And he placed his hand on Megumi’s shoulder, closer to his neck, and he was firm. “Keep your eyes shut. It’ll take a second. Just a second.”
And—
(Tell Tsumiki. I want my sister. I want to go home. Gojo, get Tsumiki—)
Megumi didn’t get a chance to say anything else. His arm throbbed and the world warped and all the cursed energy went sideways—sliding, slipping—Gojo could teleport and move through the world in ways that Megumi couldn’t—but you can’t crawl in shadows, can you?—and the alley disappeared and the dark sky was gone and the dim lights had shifted and Megumi tumbled into a sterile room, just like that. The cursed energy that erupted and fluctuated and bent in a million—infinite—directions had been tied up in a neat little bow. Megumi sucked in air. It was stupidity, so stupid, but he felt Gojo’s hand—no Infinity, no blockade—on his shoulder, and the other on his injured arm, applying pressure again.
There was a hum of air conditioning. It was fucking frigid, here, in Ieiri’s place at the campus. Medical wards had to be cold—and she always said she liked winter—but Megumi hated it.
—Megumi’s legs were weak, and Gojo had already dragged him gracefully onto a small chair that was as decrepit as it was sad looking. Megumi sat down in it heavily—messily—and Gojo squatted next to him and cupped both hands over the wound. Part of it. Because it went all the way up to his shoulder, and he couldn’t move that arm at all. Kuro had barked so violently at the sight of his blood.
Gojo hadn’t made a sound at all, when it happened, when the blood first got everywhere.
Like firecrackers, Tsumiki had said, once, when they watched a gory zombie show and blood went everywhere when a zombie’s head got smashed. See how it just—yeah—it’s everywhere, yeesh, are we sure we want to watch this?
“You need to learn Reverse Cursed Technique,” Gojo commented, idly.
“I’m twelve,” Megumi snapped, but he sounded like he was going to throw up.
Gojo ignored him and raised his voice while using an overwhelmingly saccharine tone, “Shouko! It’s Megumi! He’s bleeding out in your little lobby! Come help!”
A blip and a twist and—
“Gojo,” said Megumi again. He was really dizzy. “G—”
Footsteps, heels, a buzz.
“Hold on,” Gojo said to him. “Hey, Shouko, thank you, I owe you, but it’s your job.”
Something, something, something. And the air conditioner was loud. And Megumi’s heart was louder. Everyone always said he was a moody and gloomy kid but Gojo said—other things—and Tsumiki had always believed he was good underneath his snark—and he felt ill, now, he had never been this injured—that curse wouldn’t have ever given me an opening to exorcise it if I kept playing defense so I lowered its guard and it thought I would die and so when it struck me Kuro and Shiro struck harder—twice, better—I’m not dead and I did what you asked and this is what it means to be a sorcerer—everyone keeps fucking telling me to make my choice and I’m making it; let me make it. Shouko didn’t talk to him about sorcery. She just… helped. Somewhat. Tips and tricks. She didn’t do life or combat advice. She didn’t give him advice on Gojo, either, but—
(He’s raising you, isn’t he?)
—Megumi was damaged goods, like that. A torn cloth. Like the one on his arm. Reuse. Repurpose. Recycle. He wasn’t from the Gojo Clan. He wasn’t even really from the Zen’in Clan. He was someone else’s kid and someone’s poorly-done investment and now—
“Fushiguro?” Ieiri asked, and somehow she was there.
The sterile environment suddenly reeked of nicotine. Maybe faintly of something sweeter. Not lemons, though. Not the cleaner. Shouko was right next to him, now. Megumi barely saw her. His vision doubled and spotted. Everything was pixelated. Made of stupid fucking polka dots. Fucking Dalmatian livelihood.
“Hey,” Ieiri said, and Megumi’s head was underwater, and Gojo grabbed an edge of the cot—a blanket—and dragged it over Megumi’s lap and said something about the wound, and Ieiri whistled, and she smelled like nicotine again.
(Normal—the chuff and snuff and smoke and the trace of exhaustion and the warping of her energy, mending—it looked like crochet, sometimes-or barbed wire, or a chain link fence—Megumi didn’t know how to describe it because he rarely saw it and even then, he couldn’t place it—he didn’t study enough—didn’t do practical plays or internships or observation periods. You always smoke, he thought. I think.)
“In the morgue doing dissections?” Gojo asked.
Dryly, as always, Ieiri said, “I have no corpses to dissect right now.”
“Well, better help my student before he ends up as a permanent guest,” Gojo said, and Megumi stopped listening—it was around this point in any serious situation where he stopped.
If Tsumiki were here, she would try to hold his hand, and he would grumble and mutter and look away from her. She might even—try—to yell at Gojo. Sometimes it was on her face, the complicated expression. Be nicer to Gojo-San, he’s doing a lot for us, she would say. But then she would see Megumi bruised or angry or even scraped up and her tone would change. Why you? Why now? Why does it matter what—technique—think—you have? But Tsumiki was back home, or at a friend’s house. Gojo always tried to plan these stupid fucking half-missions when Tsumiki was with other non-sorcerers, safe, and attended to, and probably entertained.
Megumi’s mind slipped. Right through his hands. He stared emptily at the blanket Gojo had deposited over his lap. He felt something trace his shoulder, cup the cloth—and then—pull—there was movement and touch and Megumi didn’t lift his arms at all. He winced.
He said something like, “Ow.”
“Sorry,” said Ieiri, who had poor bedside manners but didn’t like causing pain, because she wasn’t a sadist, she just didn’t really care.
“One sec,” Gojo assured.
And Infinity was back, probably, because Megumi couldn’t feel him pat his good shoulder, but the energy had changed barely again, and that meant Gojo was interacting with Megumi—cursed energy—the barrier was annoying but normal.
Damaged, thought Megumi, Wow.
Through the fog, Gojo’s friend who was Megumi’s unofficial doctor whistled. She should be dealing with bodies and real injuries—ah—her touch was cold. “Wow, that’s ugly,” said Ieiri, over the swarm of sounds in Megumi’s ears. She must be seeing the wound. It might be weeping slowly. Her cold glove touched his shoulder, and his shirt had been pried to the left—off?—and she was saying, “Okay, I know it stings, sorry. I’m fixing it. Yeah.” A pause. “Yeah. It’ll mend.” Another pause. “He’s not dead.” Another pause—drenched—Megumi’s teeth had begun to chatter. “Fuck off,” she laughed, dryly, “You can’t use RCT like I can, anyways. The first-aid is fine.” Gojo said something else, and Megumi barely heard it. Another pause—the shift—like rain pelting along his body, trembling—energy tugged at his veins and his arm was on fire for an entire second before he went dizzily numb, propped up against a cold sheet, and the voices in the room crackled and popped like sparklers on New Years. Ieiri cleared her throat, quiet, and this time her bare hand touched Megumi’s wrist, and his heart thrummed—energy lapped at his wounds again, spiritual or whatever—Reverse Cursed Technique was endless and miraculous and too fucking much—but she muttered, “Gojo.” I want to go home. I want to go home. “You did fine,” said Ieiri, to the blindfolded sorcerer. “He did fine too, I guess. As good as a kid can do.” He didn’t throw up, but he wanted to, and there was a sound of plastic scraping over tile. “Fushiguro,” finally said the woman, “Hey, blink once for me?” Megmui blinked. He wanted to throw up. “Okay, good,” said Ieiri. “Lay down. You’re all good. I’m going to get you set up for intravenous therapy.”
“IV,” Gojo said, helpfully. “Fluids. She’s gonna stick you in the arm.”
“I can jus’ drink,” said Megumi. Water would be good. “Water.”
“I’ll get you some in a minute,” said Gojo, who did something else and took Megumi by his bare shoulder—healed—knotted together like bad thread, cheap clothes, a lazy hand and needle—and guided him onto the cot fully so he could lay down like Ieiri had instructed. “Great,” said the man, “Rest for another second, okay? Don’t move too much. You never do well with RCT.”
No, because he didn’t get it, and his stomach always churned.
“When you were younger, you didn’t like it when I poked at your systems either,” Ieiri’s voice carried itself across the room, faint and airy. “Fwah and fwoo and hyuh. Always fighting me. You got angsty.”
“No, that must’ve been someone else,” Gojo laughed.
“It was definitely you,” Ieiri said. Metal moved and there was a soft clatter. “Always bitching and manning about the prickles.”
“Nah,” Gojo laughed some more.
Megumi stopped paying attention again. Infinity wasn’t near him. His dogs wouldn’t—couldn’t—get summoned. He breathed. History, he thought. Because they knew each other and stuff and Megumi didn’t, really, exactly. He kinda just existed and sometimes remembered odd details about people. Gojo liked sweets and traveled everywhere. Maybe he didn’t like to travel. He liked to lounge on the couch. Ieiri smoked. She said she would quit but then never didn’t. She used lemon cleaner. Tsumiki liked math. Tsumiki didn’t like English. Tsumiki thought dogs were cute but didn’t want to hear about Megumi’s Divine Demon Dogs because she thought he looked sick or sad anytime he had to try and explain them, so she always just said not to worry about it. Odd. Just—small things. He tried not to get mad about noticing any of it.
And—
Thirty minutes later, or so he was told, he was lying on the cot half-curled on his side and with half of a thin blanket draped over him. He was in a tank top, probably something Gojo dug out from a closet back home—teleported back and forth—and was no longer in excruciating agony. His arm could flex without issue, and he didn’t feel overly faint. He blinked leisurely. His eyes were gritty.
“Feeling better?” Gojo asked him, and he was sitting in a rather nice-looking chair across from the cot. When Megumi stared for too long, Gojo smiled a little. “Shouko let me borrow her chair. Don’t think it’s staying in here…”
“You’re here,” Megumi muttered.
“Yeah,” Gojo said, and he tilted his head and then stretched his neck. He popped his shoulders next, arms extending. He didn’t do much during the mission—but maybe he did, when Megumi stopped listening or seeing or really being there. “I was waiting for you, silly.” When Megumi didn’t reply, not even with a grunt, Gojo exhaled. He could be silent at times. His energy was always perfectly controlled—intentional. Megumi wasn’t like that at all. Megumi didn’t pick up those traits in any way, shape, or form. “I was thinking of donburi for dinner. Maybe miso soup, too. You should get protein, though, and iron to replenish the blood you lost. The IV helps, but you’d rather not pass out or throw up, right? I’ll get you pork cutlets… hmmm… from that one place, by that other place.” Was he being vague on purpose? “Tsumiki will probably want black sesame ice cream again. Would you like ginger tea?”
“I thought… you were mad,” mumbled Megumi. “About earlier.”
Gojo paused, considering. Then he shrugged. “Answer my question first, then I’ll answer yours.”
“I don’t really want anything,” Megumi answered, flatly.
“Lots of ginger tea for you,” Gojo decided, without taking issue with Megumi's useless reply. “I’m not mad. I’m actually very upset with you. Don’t you know you’re meant to do better than that at your age?”
Megumi stared at him.
Gojo—stared back, probably—even with his stupid fuckingblidnfold covering his face. Megumi bet he wasn’t even blinking.
“When I was your age,” Gojo said, stiffly, that fake voice back—always so ragged—like it was a different era—however many years ago, about a decade, maybe more—but he had that plain face, and that open body language that didn’t match the biting force of his words. “I wouldn’t have done anything like you. I wouldn’t have gotten hurt, or bloodied, or tired. I wouldn’t have taken thirty minutes to exorcise a curse of that rank.” He breathed out and leaned forward. Less sharply, he murmured, “I wouldn’t have taken damage in order to end the fight.”
Megumi stared at him.
He was—
“You were bleeding a lot,” Gojo said, quietly. “I don’t get like that.”
Vile, absolutely fucking wrong. Megumi yelled at him, rasping. His voice creaked and groaned like a door hinge that needed oil. He wanted to cry all of a sudden, or yell. Both. He snapped, “So you’re pissed at me because I’m not you?”
“I’m pissed,” Gojo was never this immature and volatile and—and—shit. He finally snapped back—voice raising—head tilting—body leaning—that neat package of energy twisting into something ugly. Wow, that’s ugly. Like a bug or a worm or a tomato caterpillar or vomit-colored couch cushions or a scrape that no twelve year old should have—ten going on eleven going on twelve—coughing dust, living in an attic and then a shitty place and a shittier one—wow, that’s ugly. Megumi was mad, now. Absolutely mad. But then—Gojo reached out and jabbed a finger into Megumi’s forehead, and said with venom, “I’m pissed that you’re not like me. You’re going to get hurt. You aren’t a sorcerer yet—you weren’t raised as one. You bleed easy. Maybe you want to bleed easily. You aren’t like me at all—how the hell am I going to teach you? I’m angry that you aren’t like me. You have the mind of a desperate nonshaman. You want to sleep on the couch next to Tsumiki like you’re still little, but then you go off and do stupid shit like letting a curse tear a ravine in your arm.”
Gojo lifted his blindfold then, and his eyes were revealed, and Megumi just kept staring emptily at him. Infinity had been let down—slipped—a towel dropped off someone’s shoulders.
He wished Kuro was here to bark and bare teeth—the shadows prickled, and Megumi’s nervy sluggishly shifted inside of his head.
“I’m angry that I can’t teach you the way I was taught,” the man said. And that didn’t sound accurate. Megumi could—tell. Tsumiki would be able to tell, too. Gojo was a good teacher, even when he was infuriatingly annoying or too cheerful. It felt mocking. It felt fake. But Gojo was never mad like this, never waspish or mean. Did death scare the strongest? The strongest sorcerer in history was barely a decade older than Megumi. Thirteen years—only a little older—just a bit. “I’m angry,” he drew in a breath. “Because when you get hurt, you don’t care. You barely react.”
“You,” said Megumi, in that blank, stupid voice. Fucker. Fuck.
“You’re not me,” repeated Gojo.
And his eyes were striking. And he cared—he did care—Tsumiki always said it, and Megumi always ignored or denied it—angry—sick—but he knew Gojo cared.
Megumi was his future student. Megumi was his current ward. Megumi was, at least in some way, important to the future of the jujutsu world. Megumi was, in other ways, important to Gojo.
(I’m not you; I’m not like you at all, I scrape my knees and assassins never came after me and I didn’t know my technique from birth, I just kept my dogs near me and they helped and Tsumiki and I starved four times a week before you showed up, obviously we aren’t the same.)
But what came out of his mouth was:
“Obviously not,” Megumi snapped, still angry—like his wound never closed, like someone squeezed a lemon into it. His voice was tight, and he curled his hands into fists. There was an IV stuck in his left arm and he was laying on his side and he was going to—to—to—throw up. He was choking, angry—he was going to ignore Gojo for weeks after this, he wasn’t going to talk to the man at all. “If I were you, I wouldn’t ever get hurt or want to die or anything else that you j-just said! I’d be strong and knowledgeable and better than everyone else who’s twelve, right, because—”
You should be nicer to Gojo-san, Tsumiki would say. She would peel an orange for Megumi and smile at him tenderly, because she cared. He does a lot for us. He hated oranges; he hated Gojo in recent years; he hadn’t ever really liked Gojo from the start.
No one does a lot for us, Megumi would mutter. No one ever has. This isn’t different.
(Breaking a leg, a rib, a heart, a head, his neck—)
Gojo got up from his over-the-top chair, took the singular step required to reach Megumi’s cot, and grabbed Megumi’s shoulder. Heavily, and he leaned close and he lifted half his body onto the cot—sitting on the mattress next to Megumi, ignoring the shitty fence thing that kept Megumi from rolling right off the edge. He ignored every curse and hiccup that tumbled from Megumi’s mouth. He squeezed the boy’s shoulder. His voice was heavier than himself, or the way the bed dipped, or how Megumi’s heart sank to his stomach.
“I don’t want you to get hurt,” Gojo said, deliberately slow. “I don’t want you to die. Do you understand?”
“Fuck—you,” Megumi snapped, but his words came out stuttered, and his chest heaved, and he didn’t want to talk about this at all.
“I don’t want you to die,” Gojo repeated. “Tell me you understand.”
Megumi didn’t reply to that.
Gojo pressed his hand against Megumi’s shoulder,and he leaned closer, and then—like he couldn’t decide what to do—he draped his arm over Megumi’s side like this, careful not to disturb the IV or the neatly wrapped bandage that kept the needle in place.
Drip, drip, drip, said the IV.
I don’t wanna die, said Megumi, to no one.
The silence came back.
Megumi didn’t shove Gojo away, and he didn’t throw up, and he didn’t start to cry or throw a—fit. Gojo’s weight was unfamiliar. The man lingered and touched and laughed and popped into Megumi’s personal space all the time, but he didn’t do this kind of thing. Getting gravely injured didn’t happen often for Megumi. Don’t make it a habit. But the sorcerer sat there, in an awkward position, and leaned half his body to press against Megumi’s—because he knew—he knew that was what Tsumiki did, for Megumi, when Megumi was younger. Because Tsumiki had slipped and told him that before. Snitch, just—careless and trusting and soft and waiting—longing—and now Gojo knew, and Megumi was sick to his stomach, and he croaked, “Fuck you.”
“Don’t do it again,” Gojo told him. “Do you get it?”
(Throwing yourself into the line of fire. Sorry that it hurts, it’ll only take a second. Sorry. What are you thinking? Did you think? Did you even try?)
Before the twelve year old could even try to yell again, or even whisper the crack of an emotional whip, there was a long creak from across the room. “Hey,” Ieiri interrupted, from the doorway of the connecting room, “Keep it down. I need to focus on what my new corpse is saying.”
“Corpses don’t talk, Shouko,” Gojo said, from where he half-layed, unashamed. Like he didn’t just—yell—scold—talk like that, to Megumi.
“This one does,” said Ieiri, “The energy is singing a symphony: hwa, hwa, hwa.” She snapped her fingers. The sound echoed in Megumi’s ears. She might be staring at Megumi’s crumpled form, uncaring of anything he said two seconds ago. “Fushiguro, just kick him out normally—no need to swear. Gojo’s a handful. We all knew that.”
“Hey, rude,” came the reply from the guy in question, fakely offended.
Megumi squeezed his eyes shut, not bothering to look over his shoulder to see the shape of her—looming—she wasn’t as tall as Gojo, but she was taller than Megumi, and her existence was a giant white flag on any battlefield. Bringing people back from the brink is my thing, she’d muse, not that the corpses would agree. He didn’t like arguing with Ieiri. He didn’t know what her wrath looked like.
Maybe she didn’t have any.
Gojo certainly did.
“Did you call Tsumiki?” Megumi mumbled, and he was strung to become aware of his arm, which was numb feeling—it didn’t hurt, and it wasn’t the wound he previously had that was causing him issues—because Ieiri had healed him alreafy—but the IV felt… pokey.
“Nah, not yet,” said Gojo. He patted Megumi’s good shoulder, draping himself closer—it was a bold move from the guy that Megumi didn’t even like sharing room space with. “I texted her, though, that we’d be home late, with dinner of course. You can tell her about today.” A soft breath. “Up to you.”
“Wow,” said Ieiri from the doorway, before she went back to her job dissecting corpses.
The boy, very distantly, wondered what sorcerer or civilian had died in such a way that she needed to sort through their organs. The room was cold. The blanket was thin. He didn’t feet great.
(You aren’t me.)
The air conditioner kicked on again, humming.
(Obviously not. I’m a kid. I bleed. I don’t have the world bearing down on me.)
“Get off of me,” Megumi said, so quietly—he was a ghost, he was a shell. Gojo was twenty-five and acted childishly sometimes, a lot of the time, more childishly than Megumi or Tsumiki. He leaned his weight against Megumi’s side, and the angle was awkward, but this was a hug in a way—Tsumiki was the only one who hugged Megumi—because Gojo normally just ruffled his hair or grinned at him or brought him food or plain drinks or random toys or puzzles—blah, blah, blah—because he knew that Megumi didn’t like being touched, or touching. Because Gojo took one look at him and knew not to push too many buttons at once. But—selfishly—he was selfish, he was human, as much as he liked to—imply—say—otherwise.
“No, it’s squishing-Gumi time,” Gojo said, lightly. “Indulge this future teacher for two seconds, please.”
“I’m gonna croak,” threatened Megumi, who breathed like a rattlesnake shaking its tail.
“You won’t,” assured Gojo. “I won’t let you.”
Which—was too serious.
Megumi slumped further into the cot. He wanted to hear Tsumiki’s soft lullabies. Because she was his family, and his sister, and the only one who stuck around even though she could have fled from the whole—fucked up debauvle that was—their childhood—before Gojo but after Dad and Tsumiki’s Mom—etcetera—and so Megumi breathed slowly and tried not to be angry, tried not to feel any worse.
Ieiri always liked to point out that he was twelve, still little, and therefore had big feelings but practically no skills to handle them. Because she had done some schooling, even though Gojo said she cheated her way through all of it—then again, Ieiri never denied the claim. You also had a bad childhood, she had said, once, over the thick stench of black coffee and freshly lit cigarettes. Normally, even if you have cursed energy, that means your head is off balance. Sorry, Fushiguro, but I don’t think you're going to transition smoothly into sorcery. Stay sharp, okay? Be a kid a while longer. Even if you’re trouble for Gojo—actually, be trouble for him, take him down a few notches. Thanks. And then she would go back to her notes or coffee or nicotine and she would pretend to babysit, and Megumi would mostly zone out or read his books or count the specks on the ceiling until his stomach stopped curdling. This was sort of like that. His teeth hurt. Was it—cavities? No. Probably not. He didn’t like sweets, and he brushed his teeth, and…
Gojo sat up after two more excruciating minutes, and his hand lingered on Megumi’s shoulder—hovering—before he squeezed reassuringly. Or maybe threateningly. It was hard to say what he meant, what he wanted.
(I didn’t tell you to do that.)
He didn’t reactivate Infinity on his hand. He tugged down his blindfold, though, covering his eyes again. Megumi watched it blankly from the corner of his vision. The man didn’t take his hand off of Megumi’s shoulder, and his head tilted. Quietly, he asked, “You wanna go home now?”
“Yes,” Megumi mumbled.
“Okay,” Gojo tilted his head the other way. His movements weren’t too sharp, too bloody. He didn’t look haunted or mad anymore. He was quiet and normal and a means to an end—he was Megumi’s future teacher, sorta-mentor now, and a guardian in the loosest possible way. “I need to stop and get dinner, you know, because I promised your sister. Want me to drop you off first? Or did you want to come with me?” Before Megumi could even grunt and sit up, Gojo had already moved onto the next topic—a stream of radio chatter from his mouth. “Actually, maybe you should just sit tight for now, and I’ll come get you once I’m done. You look squeamish.” His thumb—smoothed across the fabric of Megumi’s tank top, then at the bone of his shoulder blade, and then he said quietly, placatingly, “Take a nap, Megumi. I’ll come get you in, like, ten minutes.”
Megumi grunted. He blinked and squinted at the touch, but… Gojo came in contact with Tsumiki more than he did with Megumi—freely, softly—though Infinity rarely ever left when Tsumiki was present, which—
Gojo yelled, “Shouko! Watch Megumi, please, I have to get dinner for my lovely other dependent and him!”
Then there was a crinkle of something and some shuffling. Megumi coughed.
(You’re my responsibility. Remember that. Don’t throw yourself into a curse’s arms. Don’t you have a sister to go home to? Don’t you want to look me in my eyes and tell me to screw off? Don’t you know what living can give you? Megumi, don’t give up so quickly. You’re really complicated and that complicated personality of yours should live longer than twelve years.)
“I’m not a babysitter,” Ieiri called, but she said sure, of course, in that dry tone of hers right after, so Megumi knew he was—would be—was fine.
And then, with one pat to his shoulder and then the barest touch to his messy hair, brushed away from his face, Gojo slid off the cot and then vanished right in front of Megumi’s face.
“You good?” Ieiri asked.
“I’m good,” Megumi answered.
“Good,” the woman said, and her voice was faint so it was obvious that she was still in the other room, “I’m going to keep working. Shout really loud if you need me. Gojo will be back soon, so don’t do anything dumb.”
Megumi rolled his tongue in his mouth, pointedly ignored the IV—because it was jarringly obvious, now, and he couldn’t stop thinking about how it was prodding him—but closed his eyes against the slightly-scratchy sheets and breathed. His head still hurt. He wanted water. Ugh. But he opened his eyes, turned his head—and on the nightstand, next to his head, was a sad plastic cup filled halfway with water. He stared at it for a long while.
Once he wasn’t so dizzy—or sickened—or otherwise unwell, in that casual twelve year old sorcerer way, Megumi sat up slowly and grabbed the water cup with both hands. It was cool when he tipped it down his throat.
His stomach growled, and he winced. Long day. He wondered if Gojo would remember to get extra pickled ginger for him. Or the ginger tea for dessert. Probably.
He sipped the water a little more.