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It starts out as a deceptively nice day for this. Gojo had awoken to the cheerful staccato of birds chirping just beyond his cracked-open window, chasing each other in playful dances as they flit about then flew off into the dawn. Rays of mid-morning light kiss the dew off the grass with a gentle warmth that makes Gojo wish the school uniforms weren’t black, just so he might drink in a little more of the late-summer sun. He’d eaten breakfast lazy and slow -- even if it made him an extra five minutes late, on top of his usual ten.
The Kyoto exchange event is over and a collective sigh has passed through the school, a deep breath none of them even realized they were holding. With Yuuji back from the dead, things are much more lively, even for the second-years who hadn’t known him in the first place; and he gets along with them perfectly, of course. Even Toge, and Gojo can never decide if he’s the easiest or hardest to get along with.
As for Nobara, her partner-in-dumbass’ return brought back her usual spunk, along with a newfound spring in her step; and as for Megumi, he stays attached to Yuuji as if tethered by a rope, ready to tug him back if he ever strays too far away from his side. Gojo had tried teasing Megumi about it once; yeah, that went over poorly. For now, Gojo is content just lounging languidly on the temple steps like a cat as he watches his students train, his hair rustled by a cool breeze still smelling of asphalt and pine, not yet tainted with teenage sweat.
The call comes in just before lunchtime. It’s enough to ruin everyones’ appetites, except maybe Panda’s.
Nobara picks up her phone with a bubbly, ‘Hello?’ then visibly cringes just before the screaming starts on the other end of the line. Her volume matches it almost immediately, footsteps thundering in earthquakes as she marches off the field and into the wooden halls of the temple. Everyone outside is frozen to their spots until she emerges, about fifteen minutes later, lines of inky-black mascara trailing down her face like tire tracks. Her words stay a few steps ahead of her breaths as she explains through angry tears that her father had somehow heard about the attack on the school by the Special Grades, and is now demanding that she drop out immediately and come home.
This is the trouble with non-sorcerer parents, Gojo thinks with a frown. They’d admitted when he first met them that the whole concept of jujutsu is taking a while to adjust to; that the demons and phantoms their daughter always spoke of in her youth are real , that she hadn’t just been trying to give them nightmares whenever she’d set the dinner table with an extra plate back when she was a kid. Gojo had laughed it off and assured them that he understood, even if he didn’t, not really -- this world has been his home for longer than he can try to remember, so to him, curses are more natural and common than pigeons.
Gojo tries his best to placate her, starting off with a few words about mutual overreactions, but that must’ve been the wrong thing to say because she takes one final betrayed glance at Gojo, next at her phone, then chucks the device clear across the whole field. Gojo is equal parts concerned and impressed.
She storms away after that, and Gojo catches Yuuji and Megumi exchange a single glance charged with emotion before Yuuji pads off after her, presumably to comfort her after that screaming match with her father Gojo is sure they both lost. Which leaves Gojo to where he is now: his afternoon lessons have a class size of one, and Megumi’s looking like he desperately wishes it were a class size of zero. An easy smile slips across Gojo’s features, and he gestures leisurely towards the door. Perhaps he’ll take pity on Megumi today.
“Why don’t you go join your classmates?” he suggests.
“Itadori is much better at that sort of thing than I am,” Megumi huffs, and he’s probably right. Sukuna must’ve somehow restored Yuuji’s heart to be even bigger than it was before. Gojo can hear the muffled voices of his two other students from a few doors down; though he can’t quite make out their words, Yuuji’s tone is soft with calm and understanding, and whatever he’s saying must be working because he can feel her anger shift from a boil to a simmer almost tangibly. Then Megumi adds, “at least I didn’t make it worse.”
“Rude!” Gojo chirps, not offended in the slightest. By now, Megumi’s jabs have about the same effect as cotton balls thrown at a brick wall. “You could at least try to show a little compassion. Who raised you and forgot to teach that?”
Megumi could turn an ocean into a desert with that glare. Gojo’s had it leveled at him more than his fair share of times over the years, but here he is, still standing. Shriveled, but only a little bit. He cackles loudly and openly, because that was exactly the reaction he was going for.
“I don’t get why her father is so upset,” Megumi scoffs, not deigning himself to answer Gojo’s mocking question. Like usual. “He knew exactly what he was getting into when he sent her here.”
“Well, knowing something might happen versus something actually happening are two entirely different things,” Gojo says sagely, and Megumi rolls his eyes. “He’s just worried about losing her. A child is a precious thing to a father.”
Megumi’s spine stiffens at that, accompanied by a tense silence that strings on a few seconds too long. “Not every father,” he mumbles under his breath.
Gojo heard him as if the words were loud and clear, but he still says, “What?”
Turning up his nose, Megumi huffs, “Nothing.”
Gojo almost lets him get away with it -- almost. “No, not nothing.”
Megumi’s got on that flat expression he wears whenever Gojo is being a real pest, which is most of the time. “If you heard me, then why do I need to repeat it?” he snaps. Always so practical. Instead, he continues, “I think I would know firsthand about a father whose child meant nothing to him.”
“You don’t know that for sure,” Gojo tries.
“Don’t I?” Megumi bites back. He sets his jaw and glues his eyes to the floor, holding them there for a few long, contemplative moments before looking back up. “Back then, you told me to ask you if I was ever curious about my father.”
A beast of dread gnaws teeth-marks into Gojo’s ribcage. “You’re asking? Now?”
Megumi nods once. “I’m asking. Now.”
Gojo’s mouth goes totally dry. After Megumi didn’t ask after his first year, or his second, or his third, in Gojo’s care, he resigned himself to the notion that it just wasn’t going to happen; how foolish. What a selfish comfort.
He never should’ve hidden it in the first place.
The silence speaks the words Gojo can’t bring himself to say. Megumi breaks it first.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?”
Gojo gulps. “Yeah.”
Megumi’s posture hardly changes, but Gojo can almost sense the way his body goes numb, eyes unconnected. He lets out the faintest hint of a shaky sigh, and it makes Gojo’s insides twist like a wrung towel. “Did you know him?”
“I--I did.”
“What was he like?”
“He was--strong.”
“He wasn’t a good person, was he?”
“I...I’m not sure if he was a good person. I don’t think so,” Gojo answers carefully. If he lies now, Megumi will see right through him. Besides, the way Megumi asked the question as if he already knew the answer is a little heartbreaking. He shakes his head, then chuckles under his breath. “But — c’mon, kid. Am I?”
Megumi ponders for a moment before responding. “I don’t think you’re a bad person.”
The answer is surprising enough that it gives Gojo pause. If this were their normal, easy banter, Megumi would’ve shot back a terse ‘no’ then swiveled around and left the room in a heartbeat, leaving Gojo to bellows of laughter that shook his whole chest. So Megumi is serious right now, then. This conversation is actually happening. Gojo’s stomach drops through the bottom of his foot.
“And what makes you say that?” Gojo asks.
Scowling, Megumi looks very much like he’d rather not answer that, but humors Gojo anyway. “Because with your strength, you could do anything you wanted, but you chose to be a teacher and fix the corruption in this twisted world. You chose to save and protect Itadori, and you took care of Tsumiki and me. You’re nowhere close to a hero--” come on, that’s a little harsh, “--but I don’t think the bad outweighs the good.”
You’re not going to think that for much longer, if this conversation is going where I think it is. He can still hear Nobara crying faintly in a nearby room.
He’ll ignore the half-compliments, for now. There’ll be plenty of time to gloat later. “Do you want to know your father’s name?” Gojo asks.
Megumi shrugs. “Not really.”
Gojo supposes he can accept that. “You’re starting to look like him,” he says, and that’s the understatement of the century. It struck him the moment they met on that day eight years ago. When he first saw how much Megumi looked like Toji, he almost spun around on his heels and walked away right then and there.
A single blink. “Is that a bad thing?”
It shouldn’t be, but the resemblance is just enough for his nightmares to replace Toji’s face with Megumi’s as he delivers the final blow. “A little.”
Megumi hums in acknowledgment. Gojo has no idea what Megumi thinks he’s accepting. Megumi shifts uncomfortably, then sharply inhales a steely breath.
“His death,” Megumi starts. “How did it happen?”
God, this is it. Gojo tugs off his blindfold and watches it flutter pathetically to the floor like a dying butterfly. He’d rather swim in a sea of curses than do this, but Megumi deserves to know.
“Me.”
Megumi’s breath hitches. A thousand microexpressions that Gojo’s learned to read over the years flicker across his features like the pages of a flipbook. “...what?”
“It was me. I killed him,” Gojo confirms. “I killed your father, Megumi.”
Time stops; the cosmos tilt. Megumi’s eyes search for something in him Gojo’s not sure that he has, ripping him apart like torn stitches from a raw wound.
“...why?”
‘He attacked me first’ sounds cowardly, almost childish, like he’s trying to justify himself for hitting back a bully that pushed him down on the playground. Instead he thinks of Amanai, her smiling face, her cheerful laughter. A final declaration. Her limp body in Suguru’s arms.
“He killed a little girl.”
“Oh,” Megumi grits out, his voice scraping against the tension in the air like the flat edge of a knife. He looks stunned, or maybe ashamed. “Why?”
“It was his job.”
Megumi screws his eyes shut, grinds his teeth, squeezes his fists so hard his knuckles blanch bone-white, and Gojo can tell he’s trying his hardest not to react. Gojo almost wishes he would scream, or cry, because it would be better than trying to read the twitches in his face that cage his emotions behind a cracking composure.
He’s only seen Megumi cry thrice; one, when he lost his first fight when he was twelve; two, when Tsumiki was cursed; and three, when Gojo arrived at the location of the cursed wombs and Megumi was carrying Yuuji’s lifeless, heartless body in his arms. He’d buried his face in Yuuji’s bent neck and didn’t even try to pretend he wasn’t crying, tracks of his tears cutting tiny clean creeks in the blood drenching Yuuji’s chest. His upper lip trembled, fingers quivered weakly, and he’d cradled Yuuji’s limp figue in quiet desperation like the warmth from his own body might stop Yuuji’s from rapidly growing cold; his hope dying slowly, the truth a broken, mangled thing before him. He clutched him as if he’d rather die than let go, as if he’d been ready to make a Binding Vow with any curse that would listen to trade his own life to restore Yuuji’s.
Gojo knows that feeling. He felt it on the night Suguru died. He didn’t want them to have that in common.
When they arrived at the school and Megumi refused to let go, Gojo felt like his own heart had been ripped out of his chest, prying Yuuji’s body away from him. With his arms empty, the light left his eyes all at once, and everything was hollow.
“If you killed him,” Megumi starts, jolting Gojo out of his reverie. His eyes are narrowed into panther-like slits, as if he’s still deciding whether he’s been betrayed or not. “How did I end up with you?”
At first it seemed less a final act of desperation, and more that Toji only remembered at the very end that he had a kid he was going to leave behind. But Gojo has a feeling it was a lot more complicated than that. “His last words,” Gojo tells him. “You were his last words, Megumi.”
Something flashes across Megumi’s expression. Whether it’s hatred or hope, Gojo can’t quite tell. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
‘In two or three years, my kid will get sold to the Zen’in clan. Do whatever you want.’
“Before he died, he told me he’d planned to sell you to the Zen’in clan,” Gojo begins, and Megumi doesn’t even try to suppress a scowl at the reminder. “He told me to do...whatever I thought was best for you.”
Gojo hadn’t even known what he wanted, back then, but distantly he knew being part of the clan would be hell for Megumi. A happy Zen’in was an oxymoron. The words only went together if ‘not’ was in front of them.
“I think your father decided he didn’t want that life for you.”
Megumi grinds his teeth, confliction stamped across his face like an iron-hot brand. “So he cared about me?”
“I really don’t know,” Gojo replies, and he can’t decide if it would be better or worse if he did. “I think so. I don’t think you should hate him, Megumi.”
“He was crazy,” Megumi wavers. Muscles tug at his face in involuntary twitches. “Trusting his only child with the teenager who killed him.”
“You might be right. I don’t think he was totally sane,” Gojo replies. “But then again, I don’t think I’m much better.”
Megumi shrugs, like he might agree with that. Little traitor.
“So that’s why you took care of me all these years? To honor his last words?” Megumi looks dubious about that, at best. Gojo should probably feel more insulted than he does. “You’ve never cared much about honor.”
“You got me there,” Gojo quips. For now, it’s best if he just feeds Megumi the same lie he’s been telling him for years. “Well, you already know I got financial aid from the school to support us both--”
“Bullshit,” Megumi snaps. His voice is rough, like he needs to clear it but refuses to do so. “The school didn’t even want you to take me in the first place. So why did you really do it?”
Gojo gulps, wondering when Megumi learned the truth and neglected to tell him about it. Because Megumi is right; he was barely of age, nowhere near ready to be a parent then, a teenage god that adopted a child god-to-be. The higher-ups threw a fit about Megumi and Tsumiki staying at the school, and the whole situation in general. After all, if Gojo was busy playing house, how could they tug on his strings like the puppet they wanted him to be? But still, it wasn’t like they could stop him. That was the bright side of the double-edged sword of being The Strongest; no one could stop him.
When Toji first told him about Megumi, Gojo never really intended to do anything about it. After all, why was it his problem whatever happened to some orphan? Megumi, at the time, meant nothing to him. Before Suguru left, Gojo thought that meaning itself had no meaning. He never really understood it -- when Suguru would prattle on about justice and purpose like they were guideposts, beacons to guide his shipwreck heart. Gojo, he couldn’t care less about purpose. He’d always respond that applying reasoning and responsibility to jujutsu was what weak people do.
But the truth was, he never realized how much meaning he had in his life until it murdered a whole village and left him behind. And so his thoughts ran back to the event that started it all, back to Amanai; back to one child he couldn’t save, but maybe, there was another.
So in the beginning it was out of pure selfishness -- a desperate, last-ditch attempt to find a single shred of meaning to the chain reaction of events that caused his one and only to leave him. Shoko wouldn’t stop teasing about how while most peoples' impulsive decisions involved getting a drastic haircut or buying an expensive car, Gojo adopted a fucking kid. Two of them, even. Buy one, get one free.
The money from being a sorcerer put Megumi and Tsumiki through private school. Tsumiki was a good girl, nothing like troublesome Megumi, always getting into fights; then again, maybe he would’ve fought less if Gojo stopped giving him high-fives that Megumi unenthusiastically returned after every parent-teacher meeting. Besides, the meetings themselves weren’t as much of a deterrent as Gojo using his ‘charms’ on the teachers to flirt the warnings off Megumi’s report cards.
The two of them slept in bean bag chairs in the corner of Gojo’s dorm room until Megumi hit his rebellious phase (which he’s still in, as far as Gojo’s concerned) and became independent enough to demand his own room. He insisted on one in a separate building from Gojo, as far away as possible, but Gojo wouldn’t allow it. Megumi and Tsumiki each took over a room on the left and right of Gojo, respectively. Megumi thought he did it just to spite him.
Gojo let him think that. At the time, it was way less embarrassing than admitting he didn’t want to let them out of his sight.
Growing up, Gojo was taught that caring for something was a weakness; and hell, maybe it was. But it was a weakness that made him stronger in everything else, that made him feel like whenever he overheard people talking about purpose, maybe, just maybe, he knew what that felt like to have.
“I don’t know,” Gojo exhales, in lieu of saying any of this. “I thought it might be nice.”
“Nice,” Megumi mouths silently. He doesn’t seem satisfied with that answer at all. “So was it a curse to you, then? His final words, telling you to take care of me?”
“No!” Gojo shouts, his whole body jerking in abject horror. God, he’s fucking this up so bad. “There’s no way it was a curse. Curses can’t -- curses can’t be good things.”
Something almost like hope traces across Megumi’s expression. “Good things?”
“Yeah, good things. You’re important,” Gojo begins, and christ, he must be even worse with this emotional stuff than he thought because the crucial part of that statement is, “to me.”
Just a few short words, but Megumi’s looking at him like he’s just said the meaning of life. “I see.”
“Really important to me, actually,” Gojo affirms. He had to keep up a brave face when he saw Megumi nearly dead on the rooftop that night of Sukuna’s reincarnation, blood dripping from his lashes and bones bent in the wrong direction, after he’d dawdled around shopping while his student’s life was chipped away. If Yuuji hadn’t eaten that damn finger, Megumi would’ve died.
He’s all but lost one of his children. If he lost his other, he couldn’t even live.
“You’re strong, kid. I know you can take care of yourself. But I still--I’m never gonna let anything happen to you,” he murmurs. “I’ve failed to protect a lot of important people. Your sister, Haibara, Suguru--”
“Suguru?” Megumi cuts in, looking more than a little puzzled. “As in Getou Suguru? The one who led the Night Parade of a Hundred Demons and tried to kill Okkotsu-senpai?”
“Yeah, that one,” Gojo chuckles. As if he needed the reminder. “But he was also -- my one and only.”
Megumi quirks an eyebrow. “Your one and only?”
It’s probably not appropriate, but Gojo tells Megumi about Suguru then. All of it. The words spill out of his mouth like a shattered dam, an unstoppable tide that makes him feel like he’s drowning. Megumi sits there, quietly, just listens. Gojo feels like he should be crying, or maybe Megumi should. But neither of them do.
After he’s finished, Megumi looks like he has no idea what to say. Gojo doesn’t blame him. “I’m sorry,” he exhales.
“It’s fine,” Gojo replies, and now his voice is cracking. “I got over it.” Liar.
Megumi’s eyes are looking anywhere but Gojo’s. “Didn’t you kill him?”
“Yup,” Gojo croaks with an empty grin. “Guess there’s a bit of a pattern there, huh?”
An extremely ill-timed attempt at humor, but Megumi’s used to that. Instead, his eyes finally meet Gojo’s, heavy-lidded with something Gojo can’t quite put a name to. “It wasn’t your fault.”
God, bless his heart. Gojo wishes he could take credit for him turning out like this. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I do,” Megumi insists, voice a little bolder. “I’m not sure if it was the right thing to do or not, but I understand why you did it. With Getou and — and my father.”
By now, Gojo can barely stand any more of this. He scrubs his hands down his face wearily, dragging his nails over his tired features. “What are you trying to say, kid?”
“I’m trying to say that I forgive you.”
The world glitches. If a pin dropped on the opposite side of the universe, it would be deafening. “You what?”
“I forgive you,” he repeats, as if the first time wasn’t enough to wreck everything Gojo thought he knew about the world. There’s absolutely no hesitation in his voice; his words are strong and resolute, imbued with power great enough to move mountains and rewrite memories.
Gojo finds himself choking out again the words that took him eight years to find the courage to say. “I killed your father, Megumi!”
Megumi flinches. “I know. And my mind isn’t changed. I still don’t think you’re a bad person.”
It's nearly impossible to breathe. “Why?”
“Because my father wasn’t around when we had to wait outside for restaurants to close so we could rummage through their dumpsters. You were,” Megumi begins. “You came around and gave us something better than we could’ve ever imagined. If you hadn’t stopped my sale to the Zen’in clan, Tsumiki would’ve been made a servant and enslaved. Even if she never wakes up, you still gave her many good years.” And god, if that doesn’t drive a stake through the fleshy base of Gojo’s already bleeding heart. His poor, sweet girl. “You saved her. You saved...me.” Megumi pauses, his eyes dropping to the floor. “I’d have been forced into a system that pits sorcerers against one another due only to their strength and their birth. I would have been placed on a pedestal, above the rest of my family, at the top, all alone. The Gojo clan did that to you, didn’t they?”
“I didn’t want you to turn out like me." He’s always loathed when he sees himself in Megumi. The life of a prodigy is a lonely one. “I wanted to give you a better life than I had.”
“Then there’s your answer.” Megumi has on a gentle grin. “To why I forgive you. And I think…it would've been alright,” he says quietly, so quietly Gojo might’ve missed it if he’d breathed a second sooner. “If I turned out a little like you.”
The words are filled with such warmth and kindness that it sends Gojo reeling. It should make him feel better, but it doesn’t. Instead, guilt devours his stomach and retches acid into his guts, eating away at his intestines. Megumi is still innocent, still young. He’s not like Gojo, last shreds of his soul heavy with skeletons in his closet and monsters in his heart. The static in his brain roars like a television set stuck on the same channel, replaying ‘In two or three years, my kid will get sold to the Zen’in clan. Do whatever you want.’
His white bangs curtain his eyes, but not nearly enough to hide the shame clawing its way onto his features.
Do whatever you want. Dowhateveryouwantdowhateveryouwantdowhateveryouwant.
Gojo remembers getting high as a kite with Suguru and Shoko behind one of the temples in second year; it had given the air a dream-like quality, his surroundings a bit smudged and blurred around the edges like a drawing that hadn’t been shaded right, along with a floating sensation of basking in a cool summer breeze on an August evening, despite the fact it was the dead of winter. Everything moved a bit slower, duller, like the world had been plunged underwater and his brain swaddled in cotton.
It was nothing like the high he felt during his second and final fight with Toji. For the first time, calling himself a god wasn’t even close to good enough. The world was still in watercolor, but he was the one who’d painted it; any stroke of his brush went exactly where he wanted it, from crisp, sharp lines to damp colors bleeding into each other as he turned the world into his own work of art. He was thankful to Toji, then, as he blasted through a chunk of Toji’s torso with Hollow Purple and spattered the walls with gruesome crimson raindrops, staining the cracked tile a vibrant ruby. He couldn’t bring himself to feel sorry for Amanai -- not when it had given him this. Ascended him past godhood into something from the great beyond. When Toji hit the ground with a disturbingly wet smack, Gojo started laughing.
I killed your father and I enjoyed it, Gojo seethes to himself, the guilt finally hitting him eight years too late and all at once. Megumi is so, so wrong. Gojo is a bad person -- everything he’s gained is from his own selfishness at the expense of others. It would be sickening, if Gojo could bring himself to care.
Even worse is that I don’t regret it in the slightest. He wants to hate himself for that, but he just can’t. Not when his chest swells with pride every time Megumi exorcises another curse and makes him feel like maybe, meaning means something after all.
I would kill his father over and over every day, if it meant I got to keep Megumi as my son.
Gojo feels like he shouldn’t, but he tells Megumi this, if for no other reason than to prove him wrong. When he’s finished, Megumi’s eyes widen owlishly.
“Your son?”
Oh, shit.
Gojo tries to backtrack, but the damage is already done. “I mean -- fuck, that’s not what I meant. I know I’m not your dad. I’m not trying to replace him.”
Gojo expects him to storm out, or maybe a punch in the face. He’d deserve it, he knows; even drops Limitless in preparation. But instead, Megumi’s shoulders deflate just a little, and he seems almost... sad.
“You’re not?”
Gojo barks out a single harsh laugh from utter shock. “What the hell?”
Sheepishly, Megumi looks at him. “I never realized how important you were to this world back then, but people probably died because you refused to miss any of my soccer games, didn’t they?”
Gojo manages a smile at that. “That’s right, kid. Even though you told me never to come.”
Megumi’s lips press into a thin line. “So that’s it, huh? You were really willing to sacrifice peoples’ lives just so I could -- what, have a normal childhood?”
Gojo lets his eyes wander towards the ceiling then back. What more can he even say? All that’s left is honesty, stripped down to its raw bones. “Megumi, I would’ve sacrificed nations just so you could have a normal childhood.”
Megumi scratches the back of his neck, the corners of his mouth tugging into a twitchy lopsided grin that Gojo recognizes as his best attempt to suppress a smile. “See, this is why you’re so frustrating, Gojo-sensei,” he huffs. “It doesn’t make a difference if you’re the one who killed my birth father. How can you make a claim like that and still say you’re not my dad?”
When Gojo meets his gaze, Megumi’s eyes are glassy. Something squeezes in Gojo’s chest, both unfamiliar yet nestled into the core of his being like an old friend. He outstretches his arms, body shaking and eyes stinging.
“Get over here, kid.”
Megumi pushes himself out of his seat, feet shuffling, before he wraps his arms around Gojo. Neither of them are really huggers, so it’s awkward -- there are elbows, a lot of them — and when did Megumi get so tall? It’s a hug so tight with emotion it’s painful, cutting through the guilt and sorrow and overturning his heaviest griefs. Several tears drip from Gojo’s eyes in little rivers, coating his tongue with the mild tang of saltwater.
“For what it’s worth,” Gojo whispers, “I think he would’ve been really proud--”
“Shut up,” Megumi interrupts, his fingers tensing against Gojo’s back. “He’s not the one I want to be proud of me.”
Gojo’s glad Megumi can’t see his face right now. Suguru always used to say he was an ugly crier. Runny noses, and all that. “I am proud of you.” He pulls Megumi closer to his chest. “God, I fucked up so many times. Sorry you don’t know how to comfort Nobara. That’s probably my fault.”
“That’s alright. I was probably never going to be good at it anyway,” Megumi murmurs. “I think I turned out okay.”
Gojo snorts. “Despite me, right?”
Megumi shakes his head. “No. Because of you.” He sniffles, and something wet drips onto Gojo’s shoulder. “Thank you for everything, Gojo-sensei.”
Unable to respond, Gojo can only nod. They hold each other like that for a long time, listening to the melody of silence, in quietness without loneliness, until all that remains is the thudding of Megumi’s heartbeat against the tremors of his own. Finally, Gojo pulls away, wiping his nose on Megumi’s shoulder, earning him a strangled scoff. He can’t resist the urge to ruffle Megumi’s hair, much to his student’s disdain.
Eventually, the door creaks open, and Yuuji peeks in, fingers drumming against the doorframe. “Hey, guys. Just wondering if you could--” He surveys them with blatant confusion, stares back and forth at their eyes both red and puffy, Gojo’s snot visibly smeared on Megumi’s uniform, then Yuuji’s eyes go wide as saucers. “Whoa, who died?”
There’s a single brief moment where time stands still -- a second pulled taut and spread thin, like surface tension on a cup of water about to spill over.
Then it’s overflowing, and Megumi starts to laugh.
His body convulses in what starts as a giggle and breaks into a fit of unfettered laughter. His chest heaves in and out, expands and contracts, until the whole room resonates with the happy sounds. Gojo looks at him with wild eyes and wonders if Megumi’s finally lost it, until all of a sudden and all at once, Gojo starts to laugh too. Soon, they’re both doubled over, laughter ripping through their stomachs and shaking their shoulders as they cackle against one another. Gojo laughs until his lungs ache, until his vocal cords are on fire, but he can’t bring himself to care.
Yuuji’s looking at them both like they’re totally crazy, which he of all people has no right to do. Eventually he starts laughing too, despite the fact that he’s definitely not a part of this; that’s just like him, and it only makes Gojo laugh even harder. And if a few more tears squeeze their way out of his eyes, Yuuji and Megumi are both laughing too hard to notice.
Finally, their laughter dies down, and Yuuji speaks again. “I was wondering if you guys could run an errand for me. I think I’ve got Kugisaki calm for the moment, but I think it’d be awesome if we got her some of her favorite snacks and ice cream. You can dash out and do that, right? You remember her favorite flavor?”
Gojo doesn’t remember her favorite flavor. He’s pretty sure Megumi doesn’t either, but they exchange a single glance then nod at Yuuji, Gojo raising his hand in mock solute. “Yes, Yuuji-kun!”
He and Megumi head out after that, with Yuuji scurrying back to Nobara’s dorm room. The two of them wander through the streets as the warm vibrance of day bleeds into a jewel-colored twilight, the sun dipping below the edge of the horizon. They duck into the nearest convenience store, a gentle bell chiming as they walk through the door.
And Gojo can’t help but think that there’s so much meaning in this, as he and Megumi rummage through the freezer section trying and failing to remember what Nobara’s favorite ice cream flavor is, so in the end they just buy them all. And if she chews them out for it, that’s okay, because she’d be mad at at them together; because they’re the same, they both messed up, equally clueless and equally dense.
What’s that phrase again?
Like father like son, right?