Work Text:
Satoru’s used to being tired.
Whether it’s the tired after special-grade missions that has him collapsing on the couch late at night, human-blood and cursed energy alike dripping from his skin. Or the *worst—*in his opinion—kind of tired that sits in his chest like a ball of lead, weighing him down and chaining him to his bed until the world stops being all empty and sad and grey.
If he were bolder he would even admit that those days come with a Suguru-shaped hole right in his heart. But he’s not, so he doesn’t. And besides, The Strongest always bounces back up in the end. Be it to go on another bullshit mission for Jujutsu Society or to wake up at 6am sharp and cook breakfast for one grumpy five-year-old and another bubbly little seven-year-old.
Right now, though, he’s tired. But it’s the nice kind. The kind of tired that seeps into his bones and buries itself there, warm and soft, body going lax because there’s no danger around for once. It’s accompanied by his heart beating softly in his ears, a little loud and a little too fast after running around the zoo all day. It’s the kind of tired a normal person gets after a normal day of living and being alive… and maybe having a little bit of fun too.
“I think my favourites were the penguins and the foxes—but the raccoons were cool too because they looked like they had funny beards,” Tsumiki says, holding onto Satoru’s hand and swinging it. If there’s anything true about ‘miki over here, it’s that she can ramble. ‘
“Penguins and foxes and raccoons?” Satoru says, raising an eyebrow. “C’mon, ‘miki, pick something more fun! Think bigger! Like tigers and lions and—huh, we saw an elephant somewhere in there, didn’t we?”
“Small animals are cuter than big ones,” Tsumiki insists, defending her ever-growing, and albeit stubborn, love for small creatures. Satoru looks at her with her pigtail braids and stubborn-puffed face, then to Megumi, who’s currently nodded off, head dolloped on Satoru’s shoulder with what he’s pretty sure is saliva leaking out his mouth. And then he thinks back to himself, who’s all six-feet and white hair and muscles. Eh, that’s true.
“Okay fine, but bigger animals are cooler. Like way cooler!” He exclaims.
Tsumiki shakes her head. “Nuh-uh, they’re not. They’re scary. And they eat all the small animals.”
“Small animals are scary too. Like rats.” He watches as Tsumiki’s face twists in disgust and then laughs, got’cha. Tsumiki was a girl that hated very little things in this world, always the type to be happy-go-lucky. It was part of why he liked her so much. Unfortunately, rats fell into that very slim list of things she hated, along with garlic and neon colors, for some reason. Which Satoru used constantly to tease her. “But since you like ‘em so much maybe we shouldn’t call the exterminator the next time I see one in the bathroom—”
“No! Don’t let rats into our house!” The girl exclaims. She tugs on Satoru’s hand and he has to steady himself quickly so as not to jostle Megumi. Because he does not want to deal with an angry Megumi who’s been ripped away from his nap. “They’re gross!”
“You said you liked them.” Satoru shrugs, grinning. No one told him having kids could be this hilarious.
They enter their apartment building. Some fancy ten-story apartment in the more expensive residential districts, with wooden accents and broad windows, and nice greenery paired with flowers and trees all around. Typically, Satoru might’ve just stayed at the school or rented a single high-rise apartment for himself. But Shoko said this neighborhood was good for kids, there was a park dolloped in the middle plus it was close to the school. So here they were.
“If Megumi was awake he’d say something like,” Tsumiki cleared her throat, mimicking her brother’s raspy voice to the best of her ability, “‘we like them enough to live with one’ and you’d say ‘what rats are you living with?’ and he’d say ‘you’ and then you’d pinch him.”
Satoru couldn’t hold back his laugh. Kids said the most out-of-pocket things because what the fuck. “I think you just wanted to insult me and blame it on your brother. Bad, Tsumiki! You’re just as mean as Megumi.” He whined.
“I’m not and you know it.”
Satoru snorts. “Yeah, you’re right. Wanna press the button?”
Little ‘miki nods as they step into the elevator. She can’t quite reach the number ten yet, so Satoru bends down to wrap his free arm around her middle before hoisting her up. It’s a challenge with Megumi fast-asleep and splayed all over his other arm. But, eh, he’s the strongest. Nothing’s ever too much for him to carry.
“Why do rats even exist?” Tsumiki says as he sets her down. “Like—what are they here for? And flies? And mosquitos? And also worms? Actually—no, I like worms. They’re cool.”
Satoru’s face curls up in disgust. “Eugh—worms are the worst. Don’t ever say that to me again.” He remembers the time he had to fight a cursed spirit made out of thousands of worms. That was not a fun day. And thus, his hatred for them blossomed henceforth. “Maybe rats and mosquitos and flies exist to hunt down little brats like you.”
He nudges her forehead playfully and she looks aghast. “I’m not a brat!”
The elevator doors ding as they open.
Satoru Gojo—the strongest jujutsu sorcerer of his time, the same man who had decimated an entire curse just yesterday and watched watched its guts splatter across the walls in lumpy, deep red—strolling down a family-friendly apartment hallway with shopping bags in both hands, a sleeping toddler tucked against his neck and drooling down his collar, and a seven-year-old rambling beside him with more energy than she really ought to have, really was the oddest fucking thing anyone who knew him could ever witness.
Yesterday: curse guts.
Today: grocery shopping, zoo stories, and someone else’s saliva soaking through his shirt.
The irony isn’t lost on him.
He fumbles for his keys as they reach the door, Tsumiki still chattering in his ear. What time is it? Ten? Eleven? Either way, Megumi and Tsumiki should go to bed. They had no school tomorrow but, eh—something, something about kids needing to have consistent schedules. Not that he insisted on any of that, but he was pretty much ready to knock himself out too.
“I think I like hamsters even if one of my friends said they’re just cuter rats,” Tsumiki says. Satoru snorts as he pushes the door open, the creamy light of the hallway spilling into their dark apartment. “They’re still cute anyway. Do they actually eat their babies, Gojo-san? Or is that one of the things adults just say but don’t actually—”
Her voice trails off as she catches sight of something within the apartment.
Well—not so much of a something as it is a someone.
What the fuck.
A cold, biting chill spills over Satoru’s body—shoving away all the tired warmth he was feeling so much of earlier.
“Gojo-san?” Tsumiki says softly. She clutches at his hand which—good, better for the kids to stay close to him. Not that—that Satoru wants to think this man would ever, in a million years, hurt them. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. (He would. He has. Maybe not them specifically, but kids like them. Like Tsumiki, who leak cursed energy out of their bodies because they don’t have the power to control it.) “Who’s that?”
Who’s that indeed. Because Satoru would know this man anywhere. Six-eyes is already picking up on the cursed energy residuals he knows so well.
“Satoru.” Suguru Geto says from his place on the couch. Their couch. The couch that he’d watched movies on with Megumi and Tsumiki just last night; and it was carrying one of the most harmful curse users of their time. Suguru’s eyes flick to the two kids in Satoru’s arms, yet Satoru can’t bring himself to look anywhere but straight ahead, right at those purple-black eyes he knows so well.
Why is he here?
Why now?
What does Satoru even fucking say?
A tug on his arm jolts him out of his thoughts. Satoru’s head whips to the side, then down, to the wide-eyed girl looking at him with furrowed brows. “Gojo-san?”
Right. Right. Megumi and Tsumiki are here too and—Satoru doesn’t know what the hell Suguru wants, but if he’s here to pick a fight he can’t, under any circumstances, let them be caught in the crossfire.
Still, though, Suguru’s brows are furrowed, body non-threatening and nowhere near any of the fighting forms they were taught in school. Even though he knows Suguru could just summon a special-grade curse to fight for him, something inside of Satoru is telling him that he isn’t here for any sort of harm. It’s a sappy thing to say but…he knows this man. And Satoru’s instincts are telling him that everything is fine for now, as unexpected as this visit might be.
Gee, Suguru. Warn a guy before you sneak into his fucking house. He doesn’t say any of that though, choosing to swallow down the chill and turn to Tsumiki with a smile. “Just a friend from the place I work at, ‘miki. Nothing to worry about!”
“Like, the special school you and Megumi talk about?” Tsumiki asks, tilting her head.
“Yep!” He exclaims cheerily, because the last thing he wants is to give her a reason to be scared too. They had a good day. It shouldn’t be ruined just because of one bad moment. He smiles at her and nudges her towards the stairs, one hand pushing insistently at her back perhaps a little more forcefully than he should. “Why don’t you brush your teeth while I talk to him? It’s super-boring adult stuff you don’t need to stick around for.”
Because he’s the adult here. Twenty years old, a guy who just turned old enough to legally drink a little over a month ago, and also a guy who has no idea what he’s doing half of the time when it comes to Megumi and Tsumiki. The irresponsible, childish, reckless god of the Jujutsu society. But he was an adult. And Tsumiki was looking at him with that quiet, unquestioning trust kids gave the adults they believed could keep them safe. Like if he said everything was fine, then everything was fine. She would be fine. Like he knew what he was doing.
He didn’t. Suguru’s gaze burned through the back of his head.
Suddenly, the weight of Megumi’s body—dozed-off and unaware—felt starkly, painfully real.
He cleared his throat and nudged her. “Go now, ‘miki-chan~ You’ll be all wrinkly and grumpy tomorrow if you don’t get enough sleep.”
“But Megumi—”
“I’ll take Megumi to bed, ‘kay?” Please just go. Go to your room. Maybe even lock the door. If anyone was in trouble here, it was Tsumiki. Sweet, tiny, non-sorcerer Tsumiki.
She cast one more curious gaze at Suguru, then, to his relief, jogged on up the stairs.
He let out a breath. One down.
“Who’s kids did you nab off the street?” Satoru hears the man behind him say. Light-hearted. Joking. Or at least trying to. But nothing about this was funny. Suguru being here—he didn’t even fucking know how to feel about it, seeing his best friend, his one and only, standing in the middle of Satoru’s new home jabbed at pieces in his heart he didn’t even know were hurting anymore.
“You know me. Always being impulsive.” Satoru dead-panned, still turned away from him; because he couldn’t find it in himself to be all cheery and teasing like he always was. Not now. “You’re interrupting Megumi’s nap.”
“Megumi, huh? That’s the kid’s name?”
Enough of this small-talk bullshit.
“Before you do whatever the hell you came here for,” Satoru says tersely, “at least let me put the kid down first.”
A beat of silence. Then; “...of course.”
—------
When Satoru comes back, there’s tea brewing on the kitchen stove and two cups left out on the counter. Okay…so he probably took longer than he should have. After putting Megumi down and tucking the covers over him, then blessing both Tsumiki and Megumi’s rooms with Jujutsu chants and barriers strong enough to keep grade ones out, he just stood there in his room, staring at the door. Like all of this would be some bad dream and Suguru would go away—do you really want him to go away?—from the sheer willpower of his stare.
He blinked and thirty minutes went by. Fuck.
Suguru must’ve gotten antsy too and decided to get up and make tea. There are labels for where everything is in the kitchen—tea, cups, plates, vegetables, fruits—because Satoru lives with two kids that constantly put things in random places. (If you ask Megumi, it’s Satoru that forgets where everything is. But he’s five and five-year-olds are liars, so don’t go believing that little brat). Suguru must’ve worked his way through everything pretty quickly.
“Yo,” Satoru waves. Because what the fuck does he even say? Hey Suguru! Really, really glad you’re back! Can you like…not kill the two kids sleeping upstairs or make me hollow-purple you into oblivion? Because I think doing either one of those things would make me want to kill myself later on! Haha! Funny, right?
Yo. He settles for yo.
“Satoru,” Suguru nods, and it—it feels good, hearing his name in Suguru’s voice. He hides his hands behind his back and clenches them until his palms sting and his nails feel sticky with blood. “You’re—ah…I didn’t realize you lived with anyone. Actually I…up until a few months ago I thought you were still living at the school.”
Satoru shrugs. “Nothing for me there anymore. Except Shoko, I guess, but she has her own stuff going on.”
“And…Shoko’s doing good?” Suguru asks awkwardly. It would be funny if the situation was literally anything else other than this.
“Why don’t you ask her that yourself?” Satoru says. He can’t. They both know that. But Satoru’s in a pretty petty mood so Suguru just has to suck it up and deal with it.
His face sours. “Satoru I—”
“Why’d you come here anyway? Jujutsu sorcerers are a dangerous bunch, y’know. Especially for curse users.”
And…silence.
Really fucking awkward silence.
Suguru’s hair is longer, half of it tied up into a bun by a—is that a pink hair tie? Now that Satoru’s taking a good look at him he…well, he doesn’t look completely okay. He honestly thinks nothing will make him look like he used to; that seventeen-year-old boy, with the soft smile and the crinkled eyes and the carefree, buoyant, infectious way he used to laugh. The way they both used to laugh before everything went to shit. Suguru looks older, and his face is harder, and his eyes are more dark than they are purple, and there’s just about a million other tiny things that make him so different.
But he looks better than who he was before he left.
No dark eyebags. No empty, hollow gaze. He’s eating more, clearly.
Yourfaultyourfaultyourfault; something screams inside him. He left and he’s happier now; all because you never noticed he was suffering.
Too late. The strongest is always too late.
Too strong.
Too weak.
Too arrogant.
Too much.
Satoru gets blinked out of his stupor once he feels Suguru’s fingers brush over his hands. He hadn’t even—when had he released infinity?
Move. All his training tells him to move. Back away. Dodge and snarl and say don’t touch me. Because Suguru is an enemy now. For all he knows, Suguru’s come here to try his hand at killing Satoru like so many others have done—Toji Fushiguro, all the curses he fights, bounty hunters, some people from the Zenin clan after he took Megumi; it seems like everyone’s out for him these days.
But this—this is Suguru. His best friend. His one and only. His other half. And Satoru hasn’t felt his touch in so long. He hasn’t not been lonely in a long time.
He swallows a breath as Suguru holds his hands and delicately brings them forward, under the kitchen light. There are nail marks from where he’d been digging his fingers in—blood trickling out the sides.
“Still have the habit of digging your nails into your palm, huh?” Suguru says softly. He reaches out for the tissue box on the counter and starts dabbing the blood away. Gentle. Always gentle. “You really should stop doing that, you know. You have enough scars from fighting curses as it is.”
The scolding tone in Suguru’s voice is familiar. Suddenly Satoru is sixteen, arrogant and young and prideful. And he’s standing in the kitchen of Jujutsu High with Suguru right in front of him. The moonlight melts in from the window, Satoru has a migraine and is insisting he’s fine, but Suguru makes him sit down anyway, and it’s the first time anyone has ever done that to him; scold him over trying to be too strong despite being the strongest. They stay there—munching on random sweets and snacks, laughing under their breaths, whispering in the kitchen—until Satoru is feeling better. Then they sleep the morning away and wake up in the afternoon.
Suguru stayed then. But Suguru won’t stay now. He knows. They both know. But here, in the dim puddle of kitchen light, he can at least pretend.
“Eh, ’s a habit.” He murmurs.
Why are you here? He wants to ask. But doing so feels like putting an end to the little illusion Satoru’s built up in his mind. Of kitchens and laughter and times where his best friend was always just a door down the hall.
“Still, I don’t exactly like seeing you hurt.”
Do you? Because I’ve been hurting for so long.
And it all goes back to the day you left.
That’s not quite true. He’s been hurting for longer than that. The day Riko died, maybe. When he kept going on missions alone because he’d become the strongest, he missed the presence of his best friend fighting right beside him. Maybe he started hurting when he turned around after a fight was done, wanna go get some food? right on the tip of his tongue, only to find empty, stale air instead of that familiar smile.
It went from ten to a thousand the day Suguru turned his back on everything, though.
“I rarely get hurt. What are you talking about?” Satoru says with a forced grin. “You just worry too much, Su-gu-ru.”
Suguru snorts out a laugh. “Uh-huh. You mean you rarely admit to being hurt because you’re an idiot.”
Satoru pouts. “So mean.”
It’s so familiar. It’s so much like before. When they were just two kids with awesome techniques, and hunting down cursed spirits was more of a game than anything else.
Suguru’s hands dab at his wounds. The fingernail marks Satoru created himself still bleeding.
He’s so gentle. His touch is maddening, even just this is making Satoru want to melt into him and forget the world away.
Goddammit. He hadn’t—he hadn’t realized how much he’d needed Suguru. Or missed him. Or he did realize but shoved it all down to the ugliest corners of his heart, where those feelings would never see the light of day. But Suguru was like the sun, shining his light onto all those feelings right now, ripping them out and tearing away at the hastily done stitches.
As the six-eyes, Satoru is used to being aware of everything; despite how oblivious he pretends to be. So when his eyes start to burn and the back of his throat feels like it’s constricting against itself, he’s aware of what’s coming. He’s aware of the tears falling; one, then two, and before he knew it whatever dam he’d built up over the past years crumbled as they all flooded out, like soft trickles of rainwater slowly giving way to some violent rainstorm.
Fucking hell he’d missed Suguru so much.
Satoru makes a sound, rubbing at his eyes with panicked hands as he swipes the tears away, even when he knows it’ll just make his face blotchier. “Fuck—sorry I—sorry—”
“Don’t be.” Is all that’s whispered from the other man before hands are reaching up to cup Satoru’s face, tilting it up till Satoru can see those purple eyes swimming in concern. Warm, warm, warm, warm—he’s so unbelievably warm. Suguru Geto cradles Satoru’s face like something precious, he holds him with hands that have been irrevocably stained with the blood of innocents, that have taken lives who will never be returned, and uses those very hands to wipe the tears away.
It hurts. It hurts so much.
When was the last time Satoru was cradled like this?
“Satoru I—” Suguru says, he looks like he’s in pain too, which isn’t fair because he’s the one who left in the first place (your fault, Satoru, it’s your fault—). “...come here.”
As if things couldn’t get any more painful he’s being tugged closer, until Suguru Geto envelops him completely. Until his entire world is full of Suguru, Suguru, Suguru; until he finds himself fisting his own hands in Suguru’s shirt and burrowing deeper, as if they weren’t already entwined with each other enough. There are hands wrapping around him, and it feels so good Satoru could sob.
It’s so warm.
It’s so wrong.
But he’s so tired.
“Breathe for me a little bit, please? I didn’t come here to make you cry, Satoru, c’mon.” He whispers gently, carding a hand through Satoru’s hair that leaves him shivering, “But I guess I should’ve known, huh? I'm...Im sorry. Not for leaving. I still—I still had to go. But I’m sorry you had to miss me for so long."
That does it.
Satoru's breath breaks completely. Sob, sob, sob; how pathetic. How weak.
“I missed you,” Suguru whispers, and there’s something almost unbearably fragile in his voice now. His fingers keep moving through Satoru’s hair, slow and absent-minded, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling of having him here again. “God, Satoru… I missed you so much.” His arms draw tighter around him, and when Satoru makes another small, broken sound, Suguru presses his face into his hair. “You can cry. You can cry as much as you need to. You don’t have to give me anything right now—not an explanation, not a smile, nothing. Just… stay here. Let me hold you for a little while.” His voice cracks softly. “I’ve got you. You can rest. Neither of us have anywhere to go for now."
For now.
He’ll take it.
He can pretend. He’s good at that. He can pretend this embrace, this moment, will last forever; that they won’t have to pull away and say their goodbyes at the end. That he’ll get to sink into his sun for more than just one night; that he isn’t the six eyes, and Suguru isn’t a curse user. That they’re just…them. Satoru and Suguru; two stars orbiting each other forever with no end in sight. That they were in the universe of how things should be rather than how they are.
It takes awhile for them to stop. If it were up to Satoru, they wouldn’t stop at all, but since when have things like this ever been up to him? Suguru’s grip is as desperate as it is warm, his arms wrapped tightly around Satoru, and Satoru’s tears just don’t stop till he’s exhausted himself out. They don’t say anything, content to slip themselves into comfortable, familiar silence.
There are hands in his hair, combing through the tangles. Satoru melts.
Suddenly he's sixteen again. Sitting in that kitchen with Suguru, not a care in the world, not a single ounce of fear at the fact that the sun rising would mean his sun leaving.
It ends.
It always does.
“You’re probably wondering why I’m here,” Suguru says gently, as if coaxing Satoru into it so that he doesn't get jostled. No, no, Something in Satoru chokes, not yet. Let me hold onto this for a little longer. Please. “I wanted to—I don’t know. I was going to ask if you would join me.”
Satoru blinks. He can't quite make anything out right now—mind all hazy, putty under Suguru's deft hands playing with his hair. It's been a long while since he's been touched like this.
Huh?
“Join you?” He echoes. Suguru pulls away a little, just enough that they're looking at each other, and Satoru honestly wishes he hadn't because the befuddled expression on his face probably looks stupid, “Why would I—you’re asking me to..?
“Yeah.” Suguru interrupts with a pained smile, “I am.
“Suguru—”
“Aren’t you tired of fighting, Satoru?” Suguru sighs. There’s something desperate there; grief, anger, sadness. This cacophony of mixed emotions that Satoru and his emotionally-stunted brain can’t make out. “You’re exhausted. I could tell even before you started—you know. If you broke down that badly then you're not okay. I know you. And I can tell that you haven't slept in days.”
That’s…true. Megumi had pneumonia last week. Shoko would watch him when Satoru had missions—which was every day, because the higher-ups always worked him to the bone with double the missions of a normal sorcerer—and Satoru would take over once he got home.
He couldn’t exactly sleep, exhausted as he was from fighting curses, after watching Megumi throw up like that as his temp increased to dangerous levels. Tsumiki tried helping (“Go take a nap, Gojo-san!”) but he just waved her off with a smile and a joke.
“Don’t give me that crap. I’m fine.” The words slip out of his tongue naturally.
“No, you’re not.” Suguru presses.
“So you want me to—what?—commit mass murder with you because I’m tired?”
“What I want is for people like you and me and everyone else we know to live in a world where we don’t have to be tired.” Suguru retorts. He finally pulls away completely; leaving Satoru’s skin feeling all empty and cold. “Where curses don’t exist and we don’t have to die fighting them. How many more funerals are you willing to attend, Satoru? Who else has to die for you to want what I want too? Shoko? Nanami? That—that kid you have here? Which I have so many questions about but that’s besides the point—”
“So you just want to go batshit crazy and kill everyone?” Satoru presses.
Here we go.
The illusion is shattered and the argument has started.
“Not everyone. Them. Those monkeys that make these curses in the first place. Why do they get to just walk around oblivious while our friends suffer? How is that okay?”
He glares at Suguru. “I thought Jujutsu existed to protect non-sorcerers.”
Suguru pauses, then his face hardens at the words he’d said only a little over a year ago. Please, Satoru finds himself pleading, please just come back. Get rid of your anger and come back.
“I was young,” Suguru says pensively. “I was foolish and stupid. I didn’t understand how the world worked.”
“Yeah?” Satoru replies, “So was I.”
They both mean different things.
Satoru was young and dumb. Maybe he still is egotistical, a lot arrogant, but he knows what Suguru meant when he said the weak should be protected. He didn’t get it then. Always valued strength. Always thought anyone weak wasn’t really worth the effort. Sorcerers could tell themselves noble bullshit like protecting society and whatever, but they really only did it because winning was fun.
Until winning stopped being fun and started feeling exhausting. Until he nabbed two little rascals out of a nasty apartment and took them under his wing. Until the people he wanted to protect, the so-called weaklings, weren’t just some abstract, no-face concept of a group but *individuals—people—*with faces and personalities and wants and hates. Kids.
It’s the exact opposite for Suguru, who grew in the completely opposite way.
“I’m going to do it regardless, you know,” Suguru says. And hearing that fucking hurts. “It’s not just because you have the six eyes that I want you, Satoru. I—when I do it, I want you to be beside me. I want us to be the strongest again. The two of us. Together.”
Satoru genuinely wants to die.
“I want that too.” He breathes, squeezing Suguru’s hand. “Suguru I—hah—I thought you and I were always going to fight together, y’know? I was an ass. Still am. But I never—I never wanted us to…be apart.
Suguru shakes his head. “But?”
But you told me to protect the weak, and I can’t just erase your words from my head.
But I don’t know how to stand beside you if it means standing against everything you once believed in.
But if I throw away everything you taught me just because you changed your mind, then what was any of it for?
But I would follow you anywhere except here.
But this isn’t us.
This isn’t what I wanted.
But I wanted you, Suguru. Not this.
And, most of all: But there are two kids sleeping upstairs right now. One of them is a non-sorcerer, and when I think about you asking me to kill them all I can think about is her.
What would that do to Megumi?
What would that do to Satoru?
“But it’s a pretty big ask, Suguru.” He settles on instead, forcing a deflective smile. “You just had to make it something I couldn’t agree with, huh?”
Suguru stares at him, mouth turned down. And he stares back. Because when else is he ever going to get to look into those purple eyes again?
When else is he ever gonna hold him again?
I’m sorry.
Suguru’s quiet for a moment. And then he sucks in a breath and pulls his hands back. “Ah,” He laughs softly, wiping at his eyes, and looking everywhere but Satoru, “Look at the time. I should—I should get going.”
No.
Satoru just nods. “Yeah, it’s—it’s late.” Don’t go.
“Might storm, too. I don’t wanna get stuck in the rain again.”
“I have an umbrella you can borrow.” Stay a little longer.
“Yeah I uh—I forgot mine at home.”
“Just take mine. I can buy more.” Just give me another minute.
“Okay mister rich-ass.”
“Umbrellas are hella cheap, what are you talking about?” Don’t leave me yet.
Satoru walks to where the umbrellas are, plucking one off the rack and tossing it to Suguru. If his hands are shaking, who cares? If his heart is coiling so painfully tight in his chest, so what? If he’s going to go to bed and wake up with red-rimmed eyes tomorrow, that’s his own fucking business.
Suguru takes it and…just stands there. Awkwardly.
“You know what’s not cheap, though?” Suguru says, embarrassed and hushed and a little on edge, “The uh—the tea. I saw the brand when I was making it. It’d be a shame to leave before at least finishing some of it. I think.”
The tea?
What—oh. Right. Right. The tea Suguru made while Satoru was hyping himself up in his room to go talk to his ex-best-friend-now-curse-user.
Satoru ignores the way his heart jumps in his chest.
“Yeah,” He breathes, a little out of relief, as a smile crawls its way onto his face, “Let’s finish the tea.”
—--
When Megumi first met Gojo, he thought he was weird.
After Megumi got to know Gojo, his belief was only solidified. Gojo Satoru is a weirdo. This wasn’t an insult. It was a fact.
But Tsumiki likes him, so Megumi’s playing nice because Gojo at least makes Tsumiki smile and buys her all the pretty things she likes (No, Gojo absolutely does not make Megumi smile even if his jokes are sometimes funny. And, yeah, he buys Megumi all the things he wants too, but Megumi absolutely does not like Gojo. Never in a million years. Nuh-uh.)
He wakes up at 8am like always and rubs his eyes. He is tired. He is also hungry. Unfortunately, being tired does not make him less hungry. And the apartment is way too quiet. Megumi doesn’t like quiet mornings because quiet usually means Gojo is still asleep, which means breakfast is late, and being hungry first thing in the morning was annoying but being hungry first thing in the morning before breakfast existed was worse. His newfound guardian says breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Megumi isn’t sure if that’s true, but Gojo makes a good breakfast, so he doesn’t argue.
It’s normal now, to wake up and just…have food there, with Gojo grinning at him and ruffling his hair. It’s not like before, where he and Tsumiki had to cook it themselves and had to be careful not to eat too much and run out of food too quickly.
So he’s hungry. And grumpy. And he’s walking down the hallway thinking of food and wondering if Gojo had bought the good cereal this time, because the cheap one tasted like cardboard and—
—and suddenly he gets yanked into the bathroom.
“What the hell?” He snaps, whipping around.
Tsumiki shuts the door—bang!—and grips his shoulders. She literally looks like she’s about to tell him the world is ending. Which, he hopes it isn’t. He hasn’t even had breakfast yet. “Megumi! Megumi, I have to tell you something—”
“What happened to you? Why do you look so pale?” Megumi pauses, then his eyes squint in suspicion. “Did Gojo do something?”
“No! No, he didn’t, but—” Tsumiki bites on her lower lip, a nervous habit of hers. And maybe it’s illogical, but Megumi is mad at Gojo. Later he’s going to ignore him for making Tsumiki upset. “So yesterday, when we got home, there was a guy.”
Megumi’s stomach drops a little.
“A guy?” Megumi repeats.
“Yeah—you were napping, remember? And Gojo had to carry you.” Ugh, don’t remind me, “So we were going home and when we got there the guy was there. Like—in our house. And Gojo-san suddenly went all quiet.”
Megumi doesn’t understand why Tsumiki is whispering. Nobody else is awake.
He whispers anyway.
“But…Gojo’s never quiet.” He talked when Megumi wanted him to stop talking. He talked when nobody had asked him anything. He even talked to himself sometimes. Him being quiet is weird.
“Right?” Tsumiki says, wide-eyed, shaking her head, “Apparently they work together, and I wanted to ask more, but Gojo-san suddenly started pushing me up the stairs—”
“Gojo pushed you!?”
“Shhhhhh!” Tsumiki hissed, “He didn’t push me! He—like—he suddenly wanted me to go to my room really badly. And he kept insisting and insisting. I tried sneaking out of my room to listen in but the door wouldn’t open and I still don’t know who the guy is!”
That’s even weirder. Gojo doesn’t lock their doors. He says they don’t need to be locked because he’s there. They both think that’s a stupid reason but Megumi likes it, not being trapped in a room.
This is why Megumi always fights Gojo when he says he should take a nap. Things always happen when he sleeps and he ends up missing out on everything! Megumi was beginning to think naps were a conspiracy made by adults or some shit.
“But that’s not the weirdest part.” Tsumiki whispers, and he finds himself leaning in, “He’s still here.”
“He’s still here?” Megumi echoes back.
His sister nods frantically. “I woke up and went to the living room to get water and they were sleeping. On the couch. Together! Like Gojo-san was on top of him and they were hugging and sleeping!”
Gojo was on top of him?
Megumi frowns. That didn’t sound like something Gojo would do with a stranger.
Then again, he did a lot of things that didn’t make sense.
Megumi isn’t angry anymore. He thinks. Or grumpy. Or even hungry. He’s so, so confused.
Stupid Gojo.
“Can I see?” Megumi whispers, and Tsumiki nods before opening the door.
They tip-toe down the stairs into the living room, trying their best to be quiet, and *yeah—*what the hell?
Gojo’s on the couch with a blanket thrown over him—Megumi’s blanket, he realizes with a huff—and there’s no man below him, like Tsumiki said. So when they trot over there to get a closer look, it really is just Gojo dozing off, mouth hung open and snoring. He looked different when he was asleep. Younger, maybe. There are red rims around his eyes and Megumi doesn’t like it. He likes Gojo better when he’s awake and annoying.
“I thought you said that there was—” Megumi cuts himself off when he sees movement near the front door. Him and Tsumiki glance at each other in surprise, blink, and run.
When they get there, there’s the guy. Putting on his shoes. Shrugging on a jacket. He pauses with his hands in midair and blinks at them in surprise.
“Who are you?” Megumi glares. He looks suspicious. Tall people always look suspicious when Megumi has to crane his neck to see them. Partly because he doesn’t like having to look up at people.
Tsumiki whacks him on the back of the head.
“Sorry about my brother! I’m Tsumiki, nice to meet you!” She bubbles out, smiling. Megumi glares at her, because she was the one who taught him about stranger danger in the first place! And now here she was, shaking hands with a random guy in their house. What if he was a thief? What if he drugged Gojo or something?
Megumi glances at Gojo. He looks fine. Just asleep.
Still. You never know.
The mysterious man pauses for a second, looks at Tsumiki as if debating whether to return her cheerfulness or not. He better. Megumi is going to kick him if he makes Tsumiki sad. She always trusts people too easily and it never ends well. Like the time she trusted a pigeon and it stole her bread and Megumi had to whack at it with a pole.
“I’m Geto,” the mysterious-man says, apparently deciding to play nice as he bends down to shake Tsumiki’s hand. “Sorry for last night. And tell Satoru that I’m sorry for leaving without telling him, okay? Can you do that for me, Tsumiki?”
“But,” Tsumiki tilts her head, “if you’re sorry, why are you still leaving?”
Mysterious-man—er, Geto—blinks. “Well…I have some things I need to do. I think I overstayed my welcome.”
“No, you can stay longer if you want.” Tsumiki insists with a smile. She smiles at everyone. Even people she just met. Megumi thinks this is a bad survival strategy. Gojo thinks it’s cute but Gojo is also bad at survival strategies.
“Gojo-san is sleeping and he hasn’t done that in a longgggg time! And we’re hungry but I feel a little bit bad ‘bout waking him up when he’s finally resting. Can you help?”
Megumi feels a little bad for the guy. Tsumiki’s face goes all sad when she wants something really bad*,* almost like a puppy, and anyone who’s subject to it has no chance at all.
“Well, I—”
“Please? Please?”
“Listen, Tsumiki, I’m sorry but—”
“It’s okay.” Tsumiki deflates, then turns to Megumi. “Megumi, go wake Gojo-san up. Maybe he can nap again late—”
“No!” Geto suddenly says. Their heads snap to him. Ugh, so loud, Megumi thinks. “Ah—uh, no need for that. I’ll cook you breakfast and leave right after, okay?”
“Okay!” Tsumiki beams. “Thank you, Geto-san!”
Okay…Megumi immediately likes him a little more.
Anyone who offers breakfast deserves at least one chance.
Geto nods. Yeah, that guy didn’t stand a chance against Tsumiki. Gojo was the one that taught her how to use “looking sad” as a weapon, and it works all the time.
He follows Geto to the kitchen. It’s hard to keep up because his legs are so long, but Geto suddenly slows down enough for Megumi to be beside him. “Why are you here? What the fuck did you want from Gojo?”
Geto blinks at him. Megumi knows he’s not supposed to say fuck in the morning. Gojo says it all the time, though, so he figures that rule is probably complicated. Or just another conspiracy. Like naps. “...how old are you?”
“Four.” Megumi says dryly. Geto looks surprised. Megumi doesn’t understand why. He’s been four and saying things like fuck and shit for awhile now. “Now answer my question.”
The guy mutters something under his breath—something, something about Of course Gojo and teaching kids to curse and stupid—
Which makes Megumi not-like him even more. Yeah, Gojo’s stupid. But this man is stupider, falling for Tsumiki’s tricks like that, so he really shouldn’t be saying bad things about Gojo. Megumi can. And Shoko-san and Tsumiki can. But not this stranger.
“I just wanted to ask him something, is all,” Geto says placidly, “He told me about you, actually.”
Megumi falters. “He did?”
“Mhm, and your…sister, too. But she’s not important.” The man shrugs. “He—”
“Don’t say that about my sister.” Tsumiki is important. Obviously. Geto is stupid if he doesn’t know that.
This dummy shouldn’t be calling Gojo stupid if he’s more knocked-out-in-the-head than he is.
Geto’s eyes widened. “Right. Sorry. It’s just that—Megumi, she’s different from us. You and her aren’t exactly the same. Satoru taught you what curse users are, right? Well, in this world there are—”
Us? Megumi doesn’t know who “us” is supposed to mean. Him and Gojo? Sorcerers? Men? Either way, Tsumiki isn’t part of it and Megumi doesn’t like that. Geto is talking about people like they’re categories and Megumi doesn’t like categories very much. Tsumiki is Tsumiki. Gojo is Gojo. Megumi is Megumi. They’re people before they’re anything else.
“Shut up.” Megumi seethes. “Why are you talking about her like that? Are you sexist or something?”
“I—what? No! How do you even know that word?”
“Whatever. She’s my sister and she’s a better person than me. So don’t talk about her like that. And…and Gojo.”
Geto looks like he’s about to say something else, but then Tsumiki comes back, smiling at the both of them. She’d apparently gone off to check on Gojo. “Let’s go cook! Thank you again, Geto-san. You’re nice. And I like your hair.”
“Don’t talk to him, Tsumiki,” Megumi deadpans, never once taking his glare off of Geto. Tsumiki can speak for herself. Megumi can also speak for her if she doesn’t. “He’s sexist.”
Geto sputters. “No, I’m not! Megumi—Tsumiki—I—”
If being a girl made someone less important, then Tsumiki wouldn’t be important. But Tsumiki is important. Therefore, Geto-san is wrong.
Megumi watches him stumble over his words.
Good.
He should be embarrassed.
“O…kay.” Tsumiki says, awkward, “Uh—let’s just go cook breakfast. C’mon, Geto-san! Megumi, be nice.”
Geto looks at both of them, Megumi stares right into his soul, and then the man sighs and reaches his hand out. “C’mon, Tsumiki. I bet you’re hungry, huh?”
“Yes! Megumi’s hungry too but he’s too grumpy to say it.”
“I am not!”