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Megumi’s brow crinkles as he stares in the mirror. His eyes travel over the person that stares back at him. Jet black hair that falls in his eyes, a jaw that’s started to sharpen far too much for a nine year old, pursed lips that fall into a scowl.
It’s too familiar, too similar.
He adjusts the plastic gloves on his hands - they weren’t made for children - and he shakes the translucent bottle. Viscous white fluid sloshes around inside. Megumi stares into the mirror again and brings the bottle up to his hairline. The long, tapered nozzle makes it easy to target the black strands, coating them in the matte solution.
This is all Tsumiki’s fault.
He wouldn’t be thinking about this if she hadn’t shown him the photo she found, if she hadn’t pointed to the image of her mother, poised and beautiful, and noted the family resemblance.
“I think I have her lips.” Tsumiki had puckered them, trying to emulate her mother’s full, pump lips. “And I definitely have her hair.” She’d flipped a hand through her silky ponytail, letting it swoosh behind her back. Megumi had only grumbled. What did he care if she looked like her mom? The woman had left them behind, she was as good as dead to him.
“And what about you?” Tsumiki’s eyes had glittered with recognition, sizing Megumi up as if it were the first time she really got a look at him. Her dainty finger pointed to the man her mother grasped in her arms, an embrace over his shoulder while they sat together. He didn’t look as happy as she did, his arms crossed, his eyes stormy.
Megumi doesn’t have memories of his father. It’s more like blurs, bits and pieces that his mind sometimes supplies at moments that blow off the dust unexpectedly. A rough, callused hand that itched his skin. A peak of forest green eyes that looked at him like they expected to see someone else. A sharp bark of a laugh that barely ever escaped him. It’s not like he has a full image, like being pushed on the swing or going out for ice cream. They likely never did stuff like that, Megumi has always assumed that he never wanted to.
“Wow, you really look like your dad!” Tsumiki had said it cheerfully, a compliment in her eyes as she gazed at the man in the photo, but it felt like a slap in the face.
Megumi’s eyes concentrate on his reflection.
He’s nothing like him.
Except the jet black hair that falls in his eyes, a jaw that’s started to sharpen far too much for a nine year old, pursed lips that fall into a scowl.
Megumi pushes his bangs back. They hold their place, hovering above his head, stiff with product. His father’s hair lay flat against his head, choppy and lifeless. His jaw was chiseled, void of baby fat and smooth skin. He had a scar on his left lip, Megumi has a flash of memory that it moved when he spoke.
They aren’t alike.
They are different.
He’s not like him.
But that photo. The green eyes, the void expression, the tensed muscles from being forced to do something he obviously didn’t want to.
Megumi swallows back the urge to shout. His teeth grit together so hard that he feels like they might crack. His mouth feels like sand.
That isn’t me.
We aren’t the same.
He’s finished with his roots now, so he doesn’t have to be so careful with the placement. He squirts a blob of the mix in his hand. It’s starting to get thicker the longer time goes on, he should really be making quicker work of this if he wants it to turn out right. Megumi runs the hand through his hair, making it stick out more than it normally does. He shampoos the gunk in, smearing it over every inch of unsoiled black. The model on the box stares at him, smiling at the finished result she’s sporting, unaware that the user of her product is a little boy.
Gojo had said it himself when they first met. He’d recoiled at the sight of him, a stupid gasp on his face when his sparkling blue eyes first set themselves on Megumi.
“What’s with that weird face?” He’d muttered, giving Gojo a sour expression that the sorcerer would soon become accustomed to.
“You just look like him, is all.” Gojo had responded airly, adding that it was his own issue. Megumi didn’t understand it back then, but he gets it now.
The spitting image of his father.
Damn that photo.
Damn any proof that they are related.
Damn the fact that that man is his father.
Gojo never talks about how or why he knows what his dad looked like. Megumi doesn’t particularly care, but Gojo at least has the decency to never bring it up. He’s never made a mention of the resemblance, though a couple of times Megumi has seen the older man stiffen when Megumi is fresh from the shower. With his hair plastered to his head, he can see what Gojo is thinking behind those dark, reflective sunglasses.
It’s just like him.
Megumi sets the timer on his phone. Fifteen minutes, and he can check how it's coming along. His scalp tingles, but he just assumes that it’s part of the process. He strips off the gloves and inspects his reflection once again. His hair is flattened against his head, caked down and foaming white. A small ghost of a smirk curls Megumi’s lips.
Gojo had given him an open invitation back then. He could ask about his father whenever he wanted, but Megumi had never had the interest. While Tsumiki likes to hold onto the memory of her mother, but Megumi only wishes to forget. He chases away the spotty memories when they come up, ordering himself to forget the way his father smelt musky and masculine - a little salty, but a little woody. He’ll catch a whiff of it sometimes when he least expects it and he can almost see the burly man bending down to his level.
”Megumi.”
His voice is deep, burly, and his chest rumbles when he speaks, Megumi can feel the vibration as he’s held. It makes him want to fall asleep, safe and protected. A small stretch of time when things were peaceful.
When did it change?
When did he stop caring about him?
The timer goes off and Megumi leans towards the mirror, moving the product around on a strip of his hair. It’s coming along nicely, maybe it’s because it’s his first time doing something like this, but he doesn’t think it needs more time to process. His scalp is starting to burn anyways, so either way he’s rinsing it out. Bending his head into the sink, he turns the nob, sending a rush of cold water over his neck. He immediately soaks the back of his shirt, and he has to adjust his position beneath the faucet, but his hair is starting to wash out. His fingers guide the spray, rubbing at patches that have yet to be reached.
“Megumi?” Tsumiki knocks on the door, her voice ebbed with concern. “Are you ok?”
He can barely hear her over the flush of water, but he can tell she’s been waiting outside the door for a while. He’s momentarily grateful he had the foresight to lock it.
“You’ve been in there for a long time, bud…” It’s Gojo’s voice, void of the usual glint and humor. Did Tsumiki call him? And he actually came over just because she was concerned that he’d been holed up in the bathroom for thirty minutes?
In the holes of memories that one would have a father, there had been Gojo. Gojo, who pushed him on the swing, Gojo who took them out for ice cream. They didn’t call him dad, but he was the one they went to when they got sick or hurt, and he was always there. Sure, he was always saying something stupid, or acting like it was a big deal he looked after his wards, but he was there nonetheless.
Sometimes, when Megumi has the flashes of memory of his father, the face attached to it is Gojo’s.
Gojo gently rubbing his back as he falls asleep. Gojo picking him up when he scrapes his knee. Gojo pinching his cheek and calling him his blessing.
These aren’t real memories. Gojo was never there for any of that, back when Megumi was truly small and helpless, but at this point it all blends together. The person who’s here for him now feels like the person who always has been.
Megumi shuts the water off and grabs a towel, fluffing it through his hair. His scalp is still sensitive, he thinks maybe he gave himself a chemical burn around the nape of his neck. His green eyes find himself in the mirror. He’s different now, at least on the outside. The connection is less obvious, someone could look at that photo and not immediately recognize that Megumi is his son. Maybe he can even wear his hair down and be his own person.
“Are you sick, Megs?” Gojo calls through the door, rattling the doorknob.
Megumi tries to dry his shirt with Tsumiki’s hair drier, the warm air tickling his skin. His skin is tender where the mixture had been sitting, he can tell in the mirror that his scalp sits pink beneath his hair. He assumes that’s something that will go away with time.
“If you don’t answer me, I’ll have to get through the door by some other means. I really don’t want to use red in the apartment, Megs.” Gojo is pleading, rattling the doorknob a little more aggressively as he seems to be progressively more panicked.
Megumi has rarely seen Gojo panicked, but the few instances he has, it’s been because he’s scared of losing one of them. The time Tsumiki had to get her tonsils out and Gojo was pacing around like a madman until her surgery was over. The time Megumi was called into the school office for fighting and his principal threatened to get social services involved. The meets and phone calls Gojo occasionally took that left him angry and rattled: The Zenin threatening to override his claim over Megumi, to take him for their own before Gojo could do anything about it.
And he can hear it in Gojo’s voice now, a bleeding fear that Megumi has done something dire, that he’s hurt or hurting and there’s nothing Gojo can do to stop it.
Megumi decides to put him out of his misery.
The bathroom door unlocks with a click and Megumi swings it open with the same blank expression he typically wears. There’s nothing apologetic in his face, he barely even looks his family members in the eye. They both stand there though - Tsumiki and Gojo - staring at him and what he’s done with wide eyes.
“Your hair-” Tsumiki squeaks, falling forward to run her fingers through the strands. Stark white, and a little brittle from chemical damage, Megumi’s damp hair sticks up in its typical fashion. He rubs the back of his neck where it’s still stinging, but it’s in part because he’s embarrassed. Because the man he was hoping to resemble now stands just a foot in front of him, dumbstruck.
“What did you do?” Gojo asks, his blue eyes searching Megumi’s face despite his downcast eyes.
It should be obvious.
Megumi had bought the box of bleach at the convenience store, down the aisle of dye kits and hair sprays. He took his time deciding, trying to figure out which one would get his dark hair as light as possible. He’d even done a little research online, about the timing and different techniques to make sure it took. When he’d gone to the register and handed them Gojo’s credit card, the cashier gave him an incredulous look, but didn’t question why a kid would be making such a purchase.
Megumi kicks at the floor in front of him, his arms crossing as if he didn’t just make a grand reveal after worrying the people most dear to him. He doesn’t want to say it, doesn’t want to admit out loud what his racing mind had come up with after Tsumiki’s off hand comment, but her voice still rings in his ear.
”Wow, you really look like your dad!”
He doesn’t want to look like that dad. The one who walked out on him, leaving him with a woman who wasn’t his mother and a sister who he’d only grown to know after a couple years. The one who sold him off to a family that now wanted him in their clutches for nefarious reasons, who still gave Gojo trouble to this day. The one who never even bothered to say goodbye the last time they saw each other, who was fine simply haunting memories instead of being there in the flesh.
That’s not the person he wants to be like.
That’s not the person he wants people to see him in.
“I just wanted to look like my dad…” Megumi mumbles, his green eyes finally flicking up to meet Gojo’s.
They stare at each other for a moment, Gojo’s mouth downturned while he processes the explanation.
Megumi suddenly feels like an idiot. This was a mistake. He should just accept the haunting image that stares back at him when he looks in the mirror, accept that his fate has been sealed since his birth. He’s Toji’s son, a forgotten child who’d never know the love of a parent. He isn’t meant to have that kind of relationship, doesn’t deserve it. He hadn’t been enough then and he isn’t enough now.
Gojo pulls him from the spiral, literally.
Reaching out, Gojo wraps him into a crushing hug. Megumi grunts under the pressure, wriggling slightly against him. It’s little use, though, Gojo has him trapped in his arms, and a wild grin is spread across his face.
“You’re the best son in the whole world!” He gushes, voice wobbling slightly. Oh god, is he going to cry? “I love you so much!”
Megumi stiffens at the words, suddenly feeling overwhelmed.
He’s not enough.
He doesn’t deserve it.
How can he accept it now?
“Let me go, please.” Megumi grumbles, but it does little to discourage the sorcerer. If he were younger, Gojo would probably lift him up, prop him on his shoulder like he did back when he was six. Instead, Gojo has to settle for picking him up and spinning him. Megumi kicks his feet, landing a blow into Gojo’s shin. The sorcerer squawks and drops him, but it follows with a hearty laugh.
“You can’t take it back now, Megs. You called me your dad!” Gojo ruffles Megumi’s dove white hair. “And now just look at us. Spitting image! Right, Miki?”
Tsumiki covers her mouth to keep from giggling and Megumi shoots her a glare.
“Wow, Megumi, you really look like your dad!”