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1: Itadori Yuuji
Okay, you have to give Yuuji a little bit of slack for his mistake, his entire life just got turned on his head in twelve hours. Not even twenty-four hours, twelve.
His grandfather died, his two best friends almost died, he was plunged head first into this new world of fucking sorcery, he jumped through the fourth-story window on purpose, met someone with very pretty eyes, the prettiest ever if you were to ask him, and, oh, yeah, he became the god damned vessel for the Jujutsu Antichrist and was supposed to be executed.
All in the span of twelve hours.
Did he mention yet that he’s only fifteen years old?
So yeah, Yuuji was just the tiniest bit disoriented to make sense of the finer details of it all. It just went by in one big terrifying, exhilarating, shocking blurr of color and sound.
He still has to blink in the bright light of the morning, so very different from the dank suffocating cellar he was stuck in hours earlier, yet the overwhelming feeling of joy to be able to feel the sun on his skin and the wind in his hair is enough to make him almost forget.
What stops him from fully reveling in the feeling of being alive is both the lack of his grandfather's urn in his hands and the man ceaselessly chattering next to him. The man is carrying his bags however and he’s the whole reason Yuuji is still alive, so he doesn’t begrudge him too much for it.
“Here’s the courtyard, ignore all the shrines, it is good for cover, both from the rain and the non-sorcerer population, but the water gets really pretty when it’s sunset. Your room faces west, you should be able to get a good view from there as well.”
“Mhm.”
“There used to be koi in the pond too. Not anymore, the last one disappeared around two years ago, probably some animal ate it, maybe it ate itself, but when it was sunset they would look like little stars splashing in the water”
Despite the chattering, despite the sun and the wind, and the miracle of him still standing on his own two feet, there is a small stone in Yuuji’s stomach, a metaphoric pebble that is in his shoe. It was easier to metaphorically shake it out than let it stay there naturally.
Yuuji clears his throat.
“Hey, Sensei?” The white-haired man turns, continuing to walk backward without a hitch, eyebrows raised enough to peak over his blindfold.
“Hm? What is it?”
“Fushiguro, your son, is he okay? Like really? I don’t see him anywhere and we’ve walked around most of the campus.”
Gojo stops walking. He stares at Yuuji like his blindfold wasn’t there at all, the teen’s skin prickling with goosebumps at the intensity of it.
He stares and he stares.
“Did I say something wrong or-?” Gojo throws back his head and laughs. It rings through the entire courtyard. Maybe that was why there weren’t any more koi.
“My son?”
It’s Yuuji’s turn to stare blankly at Gojo.
“Yeah.”
“Megs?” The man is smiling as if his birthday has come early.
Yuuji blinks at him, suddenly unsure.
“…yeah.”
The teacher’s smile widens.
“He’s alright, a little shaken up but after your postponed execution he’s much better. Sleeping now, if my guess would be right.” Gojo turns and starts to walk again, head turned back to continue speaking to Yuuji as he catches up.
“Also, small mistake. Technically, he’s not my son.”
Yuuji’s mouth falls open. He doesn’t lift one of his feet enough and tries stepping forward too fast at the same time and all too fast and suddenly, he’s tripping over a pebble in his path.
No, he doesn’t stumble. He doesn’t, not at all, nope. He’s elegant. He doesn’t scramble both physically and mentally as Gojo continues looking like he’s having the time of his life.
“He isn’t?” Yuuji eventually gets out. Gojo bites his lip as if it would hide his grin.
“Mhm.”
“But-”
“Megumi, hold this.”
“What is it?”
“Kikufuku from Kikusuian. It’s still open after six years, with the same owner! can you believe that? She didn’t recognize me, but then again last time you were there, who wouldn’t forget your face? It hasn’t changed all that much.”
“You seriously got souvenirs? Now?!”
“It was actually for me on the train home but there would have been some left for you in the fridge. There really isn’t anything like it, the cream that they use is literally one of a kind, to die for in my opinion but-
“Gojo- Gojo watch out!”
Sure his memories were muddled, half-conscious at times but he remembers some of it.
“You don’t mind… bit, do you? My s… is watching.”
“I couldn’t refuse a request from such a precious person to me.”
“Megs?”
Megs. Seriously, what else was he supposed to think?
“Wait- technically?”
“Well, I raised him. Really, you’d never think there was such an irritable kid in the world.” A different smile quirks Gojo's lips. It’s soft. Reserved for only the most intimate of things. “He has grown a lot since then. One day he’ll even be on par with me, I’m sure of it.”
“Aren’t you the strongest?”
“For now. The new generation will always outdo the old one if given the correct tools and the right guidance. That’s why we teachers are here, after all. Now, here we are.”
They turn into a new building, the dorms from the look of the plain doors lining the halls. It smells sterile but in a new wood and varnish kind of way, not a hospital sickness way, and for that, Yuuji is grateful.
“This one is yours.” Gojo pushes open one of the doors, presenting it with all the exuberance of an auctioneer. The room is simple, plain really with its blank walls and minimal furniture but-
“It’s huge! Is it really all or me? I don’t have a roommate, do I? Isn’t that what people normally have?”
“Nope, it’s all yours. The second and third years are out right now but you’ll meet them soon.”
“I’m alone right now?”
“Not exactly-” The sound of another door opening makes them both turn. Megumi, eyes still puffy from sleep, stands by the door with his arms crossed, stone-faced and staring.
“You’re next door?”
“Speak of the devil!”
“Fushiguro!” The teen pointedly ignores Yuuji’s call, instead focusing his displeased attention on Gojo.
“There were plenty of other empty rooms, weren’t there?”
“But isn’t livelier better?” Megumi steps back to escape his teacher’s energetic movements.
“No, classes and missions are already enough.”
“Don’t be like that, Megumi, this is the time in your life when you’re supposed to get out there. I thought that-”
“The thought was unwelcome. As if this will end well for people like us.”
“You’re so organized, Fushiguro!” Megumi’s attention snaps to Yuuji again.
The teen has slipped past the pair somehow and is sticking his head in the other’s room. Megumi walks- doesn’t stomp- over to where the other is, reaching for the open door with a near-white knuckled hand.
“I just said you’re unwelcome!” To Yuuji’s credit, he only cries out a little when the door is slammed closed on his shoulder. His winces aren’t enough to soothe a silently seething Megumi, his fists balled by his sides.
Out of the three of them, it’s only Gojo whose face splits in a wide smile
Aha .
He claps his hands together.
“Well, that’s all good! Hey Yuuji, why don’t you get unpacked fully before Megumi carries out the elder's sentence early?”
Megumi whirls around to glare at him, mouth already half open to berate the sorcerer but beside him, Yuuji laughs. It makes his mouth snap shut again.
“Alright, alright.” They both watch as he disappears back into his own room, the door closing behind him with a soft click, thick wood and space enough of a reassurance for Megumi’s fists to unclench at his sides.
Gojo pinches his cheek. It’s pink.
“So it’s like that hm~” Megumi bats him away but he doesn’t look him in the eye. His cheeks are still pink, and his ears too.
“Not a word.” He mutters through gritted teeth.
“Naturally.” Gojo purrs.
Megumi glares at him but doesn’t say another word, instead resolving to slam his own door shut as hard as he can because they both know exactly how this had gone the last time.
...
2: Ieiri Shoko
When Gojo Satoru calls you, there are only a few things it could be about, but considering it was two in the morning, Shoko is pretty sure it doesn’t mean anything good. She was right, kind of. It was interesting at least.
“What do you want, Gojo?” Her voice is groggy, from sleep once and not cigarettes. Damn did she want one right now, she hadn’t had one for days. Four days and twenty-two hours, exactly.
“How do you bring down a fever?” Gojo sounds almost hysterical, sleep-deprived at the very least. Shoko blinks, more awake.
“What?”
“Fever, fever Shoko! You know what that is right?”
“Of course, I know, why the fuck are you freaking out about a fever? Aren’t you on a mission right now?” The pieces aren’t fitting together, even when she closes her eyes and tries to make them.
“No, I’m with the kids.” Shoko’s eyes fly open again.
“Kids?”
“They both have fevers, a hundred two and and a hundred three. What am I supposed to do? The reducers are doing nothing and they don’t want to eat or even drink-”
“Back it up, kids? What kids?”
“The kids, Shoko!”
“Your kids?” Gojo grits his teeth around what sounds like a stressed scream.
“No- yes- I don’t know, how do I fix this?!”
“You had kids?!”
“Shoko!” He sounds like he is about to start begging.
“Fine! Fine! Where are you?”
“I’ll send you the address!”
Shoko, technically, doesn’t have her license. No one checks however if you boost yourself up high enough in the driver's seat with books and have large enough eyebags.
The drive to the house on the outskirts of Tokyo goes off without a hitch, even the parking in only a slightly curse-infested alley. Thankfully there are lights going up to the front door and the presence of the Six Eyes keeps everything too far out of reach to be a true threat.
She only gets to the second knock before the door swings open. Gojo has eyebags that rival hers but his face is too pale for her to even try and crack a joke. A little curl of guilt unfurls in her stomach, unable to be swallowed by her normal apathy for not getting over here faster.
She wants a cigarette, that’ll drown it.
“Where are they?” She can already feel the sickness from here. He can feel it in her bones.
“In.” He steps out of the way for her to enter. It’s really a testament to his stress that he doesn’t even remind her to take off her shoes. She does so anyway, quickly.
“When did it start?”
“A day and a half ago, but it was mild then. I tried following the advice from the internet but then Tsumiki got so much worse, Megumi isn’t doing much better, sleeping but he cries sometimes.”
“And that’s not normal?”
How old were these kids?
“I’ve never seen him cry before.”
How long had this been going on without her knowing?
“Where, Gojo.” Her level voice seemed to pierce through the jittery haze he was in. He points to the staircase leading up to the second floor.
They don’t climb the steps two at a time, but it’s a near thing as the feeling and the unique stench of sickness grow thicker in the air. Shoko has to swallow to keep the visceral human reaction to it under control. She has dealt with worse, far worse, but kids, not even teenagers, were always different.
On a queen-sized bed, there are two kids, a boy, and a girl, both their faces pale and sweat-dotted, eyes glazed as they turn towards the commotion of the two adults coming in through the door.
Gojo falters, barely getting a foot over the threshold before he freezes, eyes fixed on the kids again, silent panic back in full force once more.
Without meaning to startle, Shoko slowly kneels down, shuffling closer until she can peel the thick blankets off one of the bodies. The girl shivers, reaching again for the comforter, not lucid enough to form words but as gently as she can, Shoko catches her hands. She holds them, so small in her own in comparison, and with as much delicacy as she can, pushes her technique forward through the young body.
Healing is a blunt weapon with one use, it can be painful if wielded incorrectly or carelessly, but Shoko had had enough practice to be good enough at it.
It’s like an overtightened screw finally moving, loosening, the rocky sea under a storm smoothing over into a glassy lake as it was defused by a divine-like hand.
There is no god here, though, only Shoko who needs a booster seat to drive and a man too afraid to even touch flesh for fear of making it worse.
The shivers slowly stopped, very, very slowly as Shoko reached in inch by careful inch with her technique, carving out sickness and knitting together the damage that remained. The girl’s eyes fluttered open, groggy and slightly lost but the glaze over them was gone.
“Gojo?” One word and the trance the sorcerer had been in is broken.
“Tsumiki.” Gojo sighed the name in relief, passing through the doorway into the makeshift sick ward, kneeling down decide Shoko and reaching, brushing some of the hair off her still sweat tacky brow. “Back with us?”
“Who’s that?” If Shoko was anyone else, she would be insulted by the bluntness.
She wants a cigarette.
“A friend.” Gojo forced himself to crack a smile. It is wavering on his very lips. “You’re still out of it, aren’t you? Otherwise, you wouldn’t be talking like Megumi.”
“Megumi?”
“Right beside you.”
“Mmm.”
Shoko let go of the child’s hand, fever diminished to spare fumes, her body still catching up to the rapid change.
“You can put the blanket up again.” She helps roll it back over Tsumiki. “Next time a fever gets that high, you shouldn’t feed it.”
“Okay.” Gojo stands. He reaches over Tsumiki, her eyes already closed again and breathing even, her body still too exhausted to do anything but sleep, and pulls the blankets from the other, smaller form back. The sorcerer lifts the small body like it weighs nothing.
“Here.” He places the boy -Megumi if Shoko remembers right- in in front of her.
As he pulls back, he doesn’t let go completely one of his hands, callused and strong with training finds one of the child’s hands, cradling it like one would crystal glass. He reaches for Tsumiki, his hand taking hers as it sticks above the covers. He holds onto them with the softest grip anyone has ever held a lifeline.
Now is not the time.
Shoko forces herself to focus.
Megumi is in worse shape, not by leaps and bounds, but worse. Gojo had underestimated her condition.
His face is pale, his fingers cold but his forehead blazing under her palm as Shoko checks. His eyes are ringed with red, tear stains that are old yet inflamed enough to look like burns. Like Tsumiki, his eyes themselves are glazed, but they’re looking past them completely rather than at nothing.
They’re moving, little flits of dark blue irises as if he is following an invisible object, his lips moving in minuscule soundless murmurs in tandem.
Shoko takes his clammy hand in hers and just like before, she begins to carve out the sickness, more surgeon than butcher as she cuts away with her technique.
“Has he been having hallucinations?”
Silence. She tilts her head dangerously.
“Gojo.”
“Yes.”
“Gojo.” Her voice is stone cold. He shrinks away from it, as much as he can without letting go of both the children. “Next time this happens, you call me earlier or you take them to the hospital. What the fuck were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t.”
“They could have died.” He flinches like she slapped him. This time she doesn’t feel guilt.
“I thought I could do it.” He squeezes their small hands as reassurance, not for them but for him. “I thought I could get them better.”
“That mentality is going to be the end of you one day.” The fever has lightened, slower than it had been lifted with Tsumiki. The little girl had taken more out of her than it should have. Nicotine withdrawal is serving Shoko no favors for her technique either it seemed.
“Where did you even pick up these kids anyway?”
It’s a rhetorical question, one that she is obliged to ask because there is no way in hell Gojo had a kid when he himself was a kid despite the similarities the three had. Although she asked it, Shoko didn’t really expect an answer, she almost expected a flippant badly timed joke that Gojo always had a knack for but-
The sorcerer pursed his lips. He takes a deep shuddering breath.
“You remember the Zenin? The one who went after me and… him?”
Shoko freezes. She feels the fever quell to embers under her control. Slowly, controlled, she lets go of Megumi’s hand, job complete
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
She wants a cigarette. Her skin is itching. Her fingers too because they’re empty.
“Nope.” Gojo pops the P at the end of the word but it doesn’t make it sound any more cheery. Shoko shakes her head.
“And you thought you would be a good parent?” He glances at her.
“I’m trying.”
“You’re literally eighteen. You can’t even drink yet.”
“I know that.” She sighs.
“This isn’t healthy.”
“I know.” Shoko shakes her head again.
“For you, I mean.” Gojo looks away from her. He looks at the hands he is holding, the bodies they are attached to. Never had she seen him look so lost and so worried before over normal people.
“What else can I do, Shoko?”
She shrugs. It isn’t her problem to figure that out, but by watching the way he holds their hands, she thinks eventually he will.
She wants a cigarette so badly.
In the alley beside the car, she smokes one, never mind she got it out of the trashcan nearby. It burns her lungs as she breathes it in with the relish of knowing this is going to be her last for another few days.
Back to square one, she goes. Over and over and over again. Attempt thirteen at getting clean goes down the drain like all the others before it.
…
3: Nanami Kento
Nanami Kento doesn’t like Gojo Satoru.
The sky is blue, sorcerers die, and Nanami doesn’t like Gojo. It’s a simple fact.
He doesn’t think there has been a time when he has liked him, but even if he had, Nanami hasn’t talked to him since the man graduated. He hadn’t really seen him in even longer, they both had retreated into themselves after that one fateful summer.
So it’s both a surprise and not a surprise for it was only a matter of time before he saw the man in the flesh again, but all the same, he freezes. They were going to run into each other eventually, that’s not surprising but the child in his arms is.
It’s the mixture of the two things that never, never ever should be able to go together that makes him freeze like a deer in the headlights.
Gojo is scanning the shelves, basket hooked in the crook of his arm as he slowly peruses the items in front of him, the basket swinging softly with his movements as he reaches for some while passing others.
His arms don’t even strain from the double task of reaching for items and holding the basket as on his other side, his other arm is busy holding a child close to his body, a boy.
The child has his arms around Gojo’s neck, his chin tucked over his shoulder as he plays on a DS behind the man’s back, his small body easily being held aloft by Gojo’s one arm and the angle of his hip. He’s relaxed, at ease like this is a normal Thursday evening.
Nanami stares.
Gojo is here, right in front of him but for once, the sorcerer doesn’t notice his presence, too focused on the cereal in front of him, finger running from one box to another. His brow is creased as if in deep thought and the child stuck to him remains completely unphased, if not a bit bored by the slow decision.
“Which do you want, Megs?”
“I don’t care.”
“You didn’t even look at them.” Gojo’s hand lingers against one of the boxes, a nail brushing the cardboard as his lips tug up in an ever-familiar teasing smile. “What about the wheat germ-”
“No.”
Gojo doesn’t look back but he laughs, unrestrained, like he can see the child’s nose scrunch clearly. Gently, he tilts his head, knocking the child’s temple with his own.
“I wouldn’t torture you like that, don’t worry. How about cinnamon? Tsumiki would like that.”
“Sure.”
Gojo has a child with him. A child that is familiar enough to be carried like that, spoken and teased like that. How old is the boy even? Six? Seven? He looks scrawny for a kid, but maybe that was just genetics. His hair sticks up everywhere like a black pincushion.
It looks oddly familiar if not the wrong color. A horrifying thought strikes through Nanami like a lightning bolt. Holy shit-
“When the fuck did you have a kid?” His voice rings through the aisle. Gojo sharply turns, free hand coming up to stabilize the boy’s body as the basket swings wildly. He peers through his glasses at the stranger who had spoken to him. Well, supposed stranger.
His whole face lights up like he has seen someone he has deeply missed for too many years.
“Nanami!”
Cereal forgotten, Gojo walks towards the man, still smiling, unconsciously hiking the kid on his hip a little higher as the boy turns to look at who caused such a commotion, involuntarily pulled away from his game. Nanami absentmindedly wishes he had his sorcery glasses with him so that he could avoid the glare. It’s sharp for a seven-year-old.
“I haven’t seen you in forever.”
“Well, I joined the workforce.”
“Really?” Gojo’s eyes sweep over the man’s suit before he shrugs. It occurs to Nanami that he isn’t wearing his blacked-out glasses like usual, they’re lighter, still very dark in terms of sunglasses, but more civilian-like. Normal. As normal as he can get with his brilliant eyes that overshadow everything else.
“Well, you always had potential in other places.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” He can’t help but feel a bit insulted.
“Our Nanami always succeeded in what he put his mind to. Sorcery, analytics, paperwork…” With only a soft huff, Gojo puts down the grocery basket, instead using both hands to switch the child from one arm to the other.
The child’s eyes narrow. They’re blue, a darker blue but still brilliantly so. The child turns that sharp montone gaze to Gojo. The man ignores it with practiced ease.
“It’s still funny seeing you here.” He glances into Nanami’s own basket. “I remember your fondness for bakeries to buy bread.”
“It shut down.”
“Ah, the good places always do.” The child is still staring. Gojo is still ignoring him. “There's this place in Sendai that I went to after a mission that has really good-”
The child kicks at Gojo. It connects. Nanami blinks. Finally, Gojo looks down, supposedly noticing the boy’s plight for the first time.
“What?”
“Let go.” Gojo lets the child wriggle out of his grasp, lifting him down easily until he is safely on the floor again. Only then do his hands retreat away from him.
“Don’t wander too far, yeah? The curses might snatch you. If any person tries just punch them in the crotch.” The child rolls his eyes, huffing again as he turns and begins walking away without another word, DS still in hand. Nanami watches him go, mouth half-open.
What the fuck did he just witness.
“He doesn’t like people much,” Gojo says sheepishly, rubbing his neck. “I’m trying to work on it.”
“He tolerates you.” Some would consider that a great accomplishment.
“Some days.” The messy-haired child disappears around the corner of an aisle.
“Is that safe?”
“Maybe not, but Megumi’ll be okay. He’s got his dogs.” Dogs? “You should have seen him before, he was even more prickly then.”
“Megumi?” Nanami parrots back. “Isn’t that a girl's name?”
Why would Gojo name his child that? Why would the Gojo clan approve of that? They might be less sexist compared to the Zenin but they still had traditional beliefs. But then again, Gojo Staoru did what Gojo Satoru wanted and no one else could say no.
“Well, I wasn’t the one to choose it, was I?” Nanami just blankly stares at him. Gojo sighs as if he expected it. “He’s not my kid, Nanami. Him and his sister I… picked up a few years ago. They’re going to end up at Jujutsu Tech eventually or well, he is, his sister can’t see curses.”
“He’s not your son?”
“Jesus Christ, I didn’t have a kid at like thirteen.”
“You act like he is.” The sorcerer sighs again, hefting the basket again.
“How else is I supposed to treat him?” Nanami shrugs. Not his problem.
“Don’t be too hard on him.” Gojo gives him a look. He almost looks a little hurt under his person mask.
“I'm not them, Nanami. He’s a child, he’s going to stay like that for a long time if I have any say in it.”
“How old is he?”
“Eight.” The smile on Gojo’s face is proud. “He’s going to be too big to carry soon.”
“Some would say he’s already too big.”
“Maybe,” Gojo says but from his tone, Nanami can tell he really doesn’t care. He’s still smiling.
Nanami scoffs.
Doesn’t have a kid his ass.
…
4: Okkotsu Yuuta
In Yuuta’s defense, the Jujutsu Tech campus was huge. How was he supposed to know that another person had slipped into their ranks? He didn’t know until it was staring him in the face. Literally.
Yuuta has been waiting in the classroom, empty for the time being as Gojo got the correct mission files he had forgotten to pick up in the morning. It is taking longer than it should have but even Gojo wasn’t immune to getting chewed out by Yaga. He had been his teacher, after all.
Absentmindedly, Yuuts taps his fingers on the desk, his nails clicking against the door as he stares over his shoulder out the window, watching the trees shake in the breeze and the dark storm clouds come ever nearer. It was going to rain, hopefully, he would be far, far away when it did. He hates getting wet.
The floor creaks but Yuuta doesn’t look around. This wing is one of the oldest in the institution, of course it creaks. It doesn’t, however, naturally have dark wispy shadows that flit in the corner of his eye.
Yuuta whips around, body tense and alert, hand reflexively on his katana before he can register what is actually in front of him. He’s less than a second before drawing it before he freezes.
There is no curse, no enemy at the door, just another repair of very human eyes looking at him. They’re attached to a boy. Yuuta blinks for a moment, taking him in, confused.
He’s younger, maybe by a year or two with how his face hasn’t lost all of it’s pre-pubescent softness but the way he is peaking out from behind the doorway, he looks much younger. Yuuta can’t even see his whole face, just some black hair, a pair of blue eyes, and white fingers that are gripping the wood tightly like it would save him from getting caught.
Evidently, it had not, as Yuuta sees him fully and clearly despite the boy’s obvious shyness. A twinge of guilt shoots itself through the sorcerer’s system as he releases the handle of the katana and opens his mouth, hand raising to call out.
What should he say? Hello? I’m sorry? I thought you were a curse so that’s why I reached for my katana, it's really a me problem not you so I'm really so so sorry?
He’s cut off before he can say a word by a door opening behind him.
Gojo is humming as he enters the room from the alternate entrance of the room, file under his arm as he closes the door behind him. His eyebrows raise in question as he catches sight of Yuuta’s face and his half-raised hand.
“What is it?” Yuuta opens his mouth again but he can’t form words for a moment. He looks back but the boy is gone, not a trace of him left.
“There was someone…” He motions uselessly. “There.”
The sorcerer’s brow only creases further for a moment longer before it smoothes out and he lets his head fall back, a sudden barked laugh making Yuuta jump. Setting the file down on a desk near them to be surely forgotten, Gojo claps him on the shoulder good-naturedly, still smiling.
“Oh, Megumi. You haven’t met him yet?”
“Megumi?” That’s an answer in of itself.
“Oh, isn’t this just great?” Gojo leads him, his sturdy grip not unkind as they exit the room and begin going down the hallway the boy had disappeared into. Gojo’s voice is loud, filling the very Megumi-free halls cheerfully, not trying to be secretive -if they even need to me- at all.
“Megumi isn’t enrolled in the school, officially that is, he still has to wait a year but he lurks around. Doesn’t really like people much, for some reason, imagine that! I’m trying to fix that still in him but he’s still as stubborn as he was when he was eight.”
They’re going into a new wing of the school, Yuuta doesn’t recognize it even though he specifically remembers spending the better part of the day simply wandering the entire campus. Although it’s freshly built, popping up as if overnight, the architecture is familiar.
“It probably doesn’t help that he is just a little bit awed by you, of course.”
“Awed?” Yuuta repeats, dumbfounded. Who would be awed by him? Gojo just smiles at him as they finally stop in front of one of the dorm rooms.
“Oh yeah, it’s almost sad.” Gojo drops the hand from Yuuta's shoulder to grab the handle of the door and, without knocking, nearly slams it open.
The boy inside- Megumi- jumps, whirrling around eyes wide as if he was caught in a horrible act. From his expression when he catches sight of Gojo’s gleeful face and the slightly confused Yuuta behind him, he might as well have been.
“Megumi! Was the conversation on proper greetings we had for nothing?” Gojo chastizes as he invites himself into the room, waving Yuuta in after him. “I taught you better than to run away from your future peers!”
Megumi just crosses his arms, shoulders hunching forward and eyes trained on the floor like he wants to fall through it.
“Hi.” He doesn’t look at Yuuta when he speaks. Petchalent. It’s so familiar that Yuuta has to mentally shake himself. He recovers, offering a hand out as he tries to smile warmly.
“Hello, I’m Yuuta Okkotsu.” Gojo laughs.
“Oh, he knows.” The tips of Megumi’s ears redden.
“You-” Megumi looks like he’s about to kick him, the color spreading to his cheeks but the teacher dances skillfully out of the way before he can reach, practiced in avoiding the consequences of his words.
“Why are you in my room!”
“Introductions, Megs,” Yuuta blinks again. Megs? “You can’t remain a hermit forever, you know. You’re going to be going here next year.”
“I could have done it next year.”
“Well our dear Okkotsu wasn’t going to be there, he’s going to be in Africa then, so that wouldn’t work out. You expressed such interest for the first time in so long, what kind of person would I be if I didn’t help you out? They so there’s no time like the present!”
Megumi looks like he wants to hit Gojo again, infinity or not, or fall through the floor in equal measure. His fists are balled at his sides as he listens to the teacher’s words with a flushed face, pointedly glaring at no one but the oblivious man.
Whether it’s the sharp stare or the increasingly awkward atmosphere, in a heartbeat Gojo is back in the doorway, smiling brightly as he waves.
“Have fun you two! Play nice!” Neither can lunge forward fast enough before Gojo closes the door, leaving the two inside of it, not trapped, but something akin to it as silence settles over them.
Yuuta fiddles with the hilt of his katana nervously, eyes looking at the undecorated walls purposefully like they were the most interesting pieces of drywall he had ever had the pleasure of seeing. A tangle of words is stuck in his throat, but he’s saved from trying to sort through them as Megumi groans, hand sliding down his face.
“Sorry about him,” Megumi speaks, hand still obscuring his face. “He’s- just like that. Wants me to meet more people, keeps saying that I can’t act like I’m a kid anymore.”
Age again, eight, kid. Something to latch onto in conversation. Yuuta can suddenly speak again.
“Did Gojo Sensei know you as a child?” Megumi nods, hand sliding slowly off his face.
“Yeah.”
“Oh.” It clicks. Well, that explained a lot. “I didn’t know Gojo Sensei had a son.”
Megumi looks at him, stunned as silence hangs heavily in the air, hand falling away from his face at last.
“Wait a second,” he raises his hands. “I think there has been some sort of mistake-”
Yuuta pays it no mind, the first year tapping his chin as he begins running everything over in his mind again, comparing and contrasting.
“I mean, you do have similar features now I’m looking at you, similar face shapes, your lips and eyebrows too, you have them from Sensei, they’re really thin. You of course have darker hair and eyes but-”
“I think you mixed something up-”
“-Sensei’s genes are more than likely recessive so that’s to be expected really. It threw me off at first but then again you’re expressions are definitely similar. You have the same look in your eyes, it’s like-”
“We’re not related!” Yuuta blinks.
“You’re not?” Megumi shakes his head furiously, face well past the rosy flush it had before, and is instead a full-on red. Yuuta narrows his eyes.
“Are you sure?” Megumi’s face crumples together, the expression so familiar to the annoyed frown of his teacher that it’s almost uncanny.
“Yes.”
“You’re not his son?” Yuuta reapers, still not believing him.
“Jesus Christ.” Megumi hides behind his hands again. “I was raised by him, not born from him.”
“Well Gojo sensei is biologically a man so I wouldn’t expect so, but you two are really familiar.” Yuuta cocks his head at him. Megumi is red, which hasn’t faded for some reason still, but he doesn’t look shocked. More just a little embarrassed. Well, a lot embarrassed.
“Do you get this a lot? People thinking you’re his son?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know him then?”
“He picked me and my sister up when we were kids because our real parents had fucked off somewhere and left us behind. Came around a few times a week, and made sure we were not being neglected. Came to the school meetings, Tsumiki’s performances, helped us with homework and chores all that. Got me here early, now.”
Yuuta’s face suddenly breaks out into a smile.
“But so then you are his son.”
Megumi doesn’t answer, just sighs.
“Is your family name Gojo too?” Yuuta becomes more animated, stepping closer. “Is it?”
“Okkotsu, please get the fuck out of my room.”
“We would be related then-” Megumi’s eyes snap open in horror.
“Related?!”
…
5: Gojo Satoru
If you would have asked Gojo Satoru, the Six Eyes, the Honored one, at seventeen if he considered himself a father he would laugh himself sick right to your face. He laugh so hard that he would gasp for breath and then would turn to the side as if to say ‘ What the fuck is this person thinking?’ but would stop because there would only be empty air.
Gojo Satoru at twenty eight was a different person. More mature. More a flower than a person than ever before. He no longer looked to the side as if someone would be there. If asked if he considered himself a father, he would say yes to that question. However, if you followed up by asking when his perspective changed, he wouldn’t be able to tell you.
No, really, there was no epiphany, no aha moment, it had just happened like the seasons just changed from one month to the next, an unnoticeable shift that was suddenly, undeniably, there.
Maybe it had been the first night Megumi had fallen asleep in his presence. Maybe it was the early morning after Tsumiki had been cursed when they had eaten plain toast in silence. Maybe it was one of the other hundreds of times that blurred even his six eyes with their number.
Satoru had a lot of memories of Megumi. He was blessed to never forget any of them, but out of all the moments and memories, one stands out among the others.
It was night, so late at night it might as well have been early morning, yet Satoru was up. He wasn’t drinking, nor crying, it instead reading. He was reading a book he couldn’t even remember the title of anymore but he remembered that it had tasted bittersweet on his tongue as he lapped up the words.
They had touched something deep inside of him that implored him to continue, to pass the hours with it clutched in his hands as the sun would slowly come up through the open windows where the cicadas sang.
If the book had been that captivating to the end, he wouldn’t know. He never did finish it because in the new hours of the dawn, as the sky became a touch of grey in the black and blue but before the birds began to call and the cicadas song faded, the creaking of a mattress caught his attention.
The house was quiet, so quiet and without movement apart from the turning of pages that he could hear it through the thin popcorn-textured ceiling.
Satoru lifted his head, alert as there was another creak, a shifting of limbs, but the sounds didn’t stop. It took only a few minutes of moving, tossing and turning until as quickly as it had started, it had stopped.
The soft patter of socked feet made Satoru look up fully, the book forgotten in his hands, its fictional allure shattered in the face of sweet reality.
He listened. He watched. He waited. He didn’t mind waiting, it allowed Satoru to watch it all as Megumi descended the stairs, feeling around in the dark hall as he rubbed his eyes to try and free them from the last dregs of sleep.
Something warm expands in his chest as the child enters the living room, stopping in the doorway to look right back at Satoru. To anyone else, it would look like a pause of guilt, a child caught sneaking to the kitchen for sweets. However such things weren’t forbidden here and Satoru knew Megumi better than most did.
He closed the book, the page unmarked as it was placed on the table, just another stack of paper and ink and not a different world once more. Satoru reached out, hands beckoning. Megumi heeded the call without a protest or a glare, a true testament to the exhaustion that shadowed his eyes like bruises.
Megumi was ten. He was going to start middle school soon. Growth spurts were on his horizon, but for now, he was all still joints and bones, sinew and muscles strung together so tight that it made him look older than he was sometimes.
It wasn’t healthy for someone to experience such stress at such a young age, Shoko had said so, and Satoru was working on it but the situation still wasn’t perfect. There was only such much he could do between missions and getting a teaching degree, but this was one of those things.
Megumi stopped in front of the couch, his arms raising as he allowed Satoru to lift him up. Megumi was a healthy weight for a ten-year-old but to Satoru, he might as well have been seven again as he lifted him.
Megumi allowed Satoru to cradle him close to his chest, close enough that both their heartbeats were loud in the silence as his own thin arms circled the man in a loose embrace, searching for comfort that is so plentifully found in a place like this.
“Tired?” Satoru’s voice was soft in the silence, so soft it was like a breath. Against him. Megumi nodded, eyes closing. He didn’t say anything but he didn’t have to, Satoru held him close all the same.
The night is warm, it’s still summer but the edge of autumn can be felt more and more every day. It was still warm enough that they didn’t need a blanket but it was cold enough that neither had to pull away either for discomfort.
It’s perfect so they half-sit-half-lay in silence, Satoru cradling Megumi close as slowly his eyes began to drift close, his breaths lengthening and his body relaxing as sleep tugged him away to its inky velvet planes once more.
Satoru didn’t watch him, he couldn’t when the child was folded so close but he felt the process. He feels the surrender into the most vulnerable state a person can be in right in his arms.
He ran his fingers through the dark hair and counted the breaths of the boy as he slept and as the sky became lighter and lighter. Not even the birds could disturb them anymore as they began to sing their ancient songs.
Four years. It had been four years of this. Satoru was twenty-one now. He had a job, he paid taxes, he was getting a degree in teaching, and he had a kid. Two kids. One son and one daughter.
All of those things were truths, but only two of them had the weight of the world behind them because there were no other words for the things so close to him.
Son. Daughter.
His children.
Megumi and Tsumiki.
His son. His daughter.
Satoru hoped that he would be far older before he had to let this go too. He hoped, however futile he knew that hope would be, he would not have to visit another funeral until he was the one in the box.
He hoped, holding his blessing close as he watched the moon fall beneath the horizon, that fate would be kind and he would be able to keep all of this here and whole, perfect until he was the one in the box.
…
+1: Fushiguro (Gojo) Megumi
"Megs"
Carrying the corpse of the personification of everything good and right was heavy. Itadori Yuuji was heavy.
Megumi had carried him out of the rain to wait for the others to find them. Megumi had dragged him out of the rain and the mud staining the before unblemished body of someone gone far too young was enough to break the invisible damn that had kept his tears separate from the rain.
Fifteen. Yuuji had been fifteen.
He didn’t deserve that. He didn’t. Out of everyone in the history of the world, Yuuji had deserved that the least. He had deserved to live out of everyone in the history of the world, yet Megumi was the one to walk away. He was the one with blood and mud on his hands as he desperately tried to scrape it off cold skin to make it clean once again.
He wondered if tears were better than normal water to wash corpses with as he dunks his hands in a puddle to clean them. The cleanness doesn’t last long, they’re dirty with red and brown filth again. Tears had more meaning than simple clinical, recycled water that had surely touched so many other bodies. Tears were unique, from one person gifted to another.
Megumi’s tears were only for Yuuji.
Satoru was the one to find him. Of course, he was. He teleported right in front of them, and Megumi could only look up helplessly.
Fix this, he wanted to say. Fix this. Please.
He forced himself to because what he asked for, he had always received.
“Fix this.”
“I can’t.”
Two words shouldn’t be so damning.
Two words were all it took for the tears to start rolling down his cheeks anew.
Children always looked up to their parents, when they were young, they thought that they knew everything and had an answer to every question life had to offer. It was a crushing feeling when that realization crumbled like salt in the rain all around them.
“Please.”
Megumi was also fifteen. He too was a child.
“I’m sorry, Megs.”
Satoru kneeled down next to the body. He kneeled in front of Megumi.
He took his hands and ran his thumbs over rust-stained knuckles as if trying to soothe the hurt and cold away. He cradled Megumi’s hands in his like they were precious like they were made of glass and for once, Megumi didn’t pull away. He let it happen because he didn’t have the strength for anything else.
Slowly, gently, Satoru let one of his hands release Megumi’s and instead reached, cupping the back of his head. He guided Megumi’s head down, down into his shoulder where free of rain, the boy could cry in peace. Megumi allowed it to happen.
“He didn’t deserve that.”
“He didn’t.” Satoru tilted his head, resting his cheek on the damp black hair. He ran his fingers through that hair like he had so many times before. He held Megumi in the cradle of his body, shielding him the best he could from the world even as it tried to fall down from above.
Gojo Satoru was the strongest but he couldn't protect others. He would always try though. Always. He would always be there for his child.
In the nook between the shoulder and neck, Megumi’s eyes were open. They were filled with tears and he let them fall. He let himself scream and sob and beg in the silence and rain because he was just a child who lost another child before whatever potential between them had blossomed, and he should be allowed to scream and sob and beg and act his age, for being a child is not a sin. Being young was not supposed to be a punishment.
“It’s okay.” Satoru’s voice is hoarse like he had been screaming with Megumi. “You’re okay.”
Being a child in the arms of their father is something Megumi hasn’t known before. He was left behind, forgotten, and abandoned with only his sister in a shitty cramped apartment with not enough money to survive by his father. He can’t remember his face or his name but here, Megumi thinks he knows the feeling now.
Megumi is fifteen and a child and he is falling apart at the seams but his father is there to catch him and put him together one piece of broken pottery at a time with glue and gold.
All Megumi wishes is that he could do the same, as before his very eyes his father is cut in two by the hands he had raised himself. The universe is not kind, but sick and cruel because there is no glue or gold and Megumi can no longer control his hands to put his father back together as his father had done for him.
Instead, they crush the pottery shards before him to dust despite his screams.