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Megumi hadn’t intended for Gojo to see, but when he called him down for dinner, he didn’t get much of a chance to clean up the fresh blood. He opted for an old rag, stuffed beneath his clothes, just to soak up the oozing liquid. It was too soon to bandage it, the blood was still flowing like it was unlimited.
“Megumi, get down here,” Gojo called for the third time. Panic surged through him. A second longer and he would probably come up to see what was taking him so long, and with the evidence of his anger all over the floor, all bloody and messy, he had no choice but to abandon the scene he’d created.
“I’m coming,” he muttered, closing his bedroom door behind him. All he could do now was hope Gojo had no reason to go in there before he finished his dinner. He’d clean it up as soon as he was finished.
He made his way down the stairs, trying his very best not to physically cringe at the stinging sensations all over his body. As he walked, he could feel it beginning to drip from his thighs, leaking all the way down his legs. Good thing he chose to wear long, black pants today.
He pulled his sweater sleeves over his palms just to keep everything under wraps. He knew it wouldn't be long before the rags began to shift and dry up, and the blood would begin to show through his clothing, maybe even stain the furniture he sat on.
He’d just have to finish eating before that happened, or at least before Gojo could spot it.
“I made soba,” Gojo handed him a bowl, sitting across from him at the table. “I know you like it.”
“Thanks,” Megumi muttered back. Too bad he wasn’t really hungry. He lapped it up without tasting it. It was hard to savour it when all he could focus on was the harsh sting and the blood he knew was still flowing in abundance. He’d gone too deep, and the wounds were taking too long to close. He could already feel it sinking into the fabric of his pants. Hurry, he thought to himself, nearly choking on his dinner. He needed to get out of here, make up some excuse for why he couldn’t stay longer.
“Someone’s hungry,” Gojo chuckled a little, carefully, like he knew something was up.
He always knew.
That’s just how parents are, isn’t it?
“What’s the hurry?” He continued when Megumi said nothing, only continued stuffing his face like he had a million other places to be.
“Homework,” he quickly said through a mouthful of it - too quickly, Gojo thinks.
“I can help you with it, you kno-”
“Don’t need it,” he interrupted, standing up so quickly he bumped his knee on the table, knocking over his empty glass as he winced in pain. He’d hit something, something fresh, something bloody.
“Shit.”
“You good?”
“Fine,” Megumi cringed, but he could hardly summon the strength to force his body to move. Whatever it was he hit on the table, he’d only made it a thousand times worse. Some sick part of his mind convinced him he deserved this - to open the wound against his will, drag the pain out. For all his father wanted was to spend time with him, to enjoy a good meal together, and all he could focus on was his own stupid problems.
“Stay. Let me see,” Gojo reached out to hold him steady, but when Megumi flinched away, it only confirmed his suspicions. He was hiding something, and something wasn’t right. He furrowed his brows, trying again to reach him, but the boy stumbled away, despite how unsteady he was on his feet.
“Megumi,” he then said, voice stern and unyielding like that of a real father, and Megumi knew there was no escaping it now. “Listen to me.”
“I just need to be alone,” he stuttered. He wasn’t usually one to cry, but his voice trembled and broke and he feared he wouldn’t know how to stop it. Maybe if he rubbed his eyes, it would blur the hot tears and force them back inside.
But the moment he stretched his arms overhead, he immediately realised his mistake.
The sweater sleeves only had to slip slightly to expose his wrists, effectively showing off the places he hadn’t yet managed to bandage, where fresh blood still seeped through sliced skin.
His breath caught, and he yanked them back into place, pulling the fabric back over his hands.
But a hand shot out, catching his wrist before he could turn away. He immediately hissed in pain.
“Don’t,” Gojo said, “don’t pretend I didn’t see that.”
His grip loosened at Megumi’s obvious discomfort, but not enough for him to escape it. His thumb shifted, avoiding the worst of it, though his touch still burned and tugged at the open wounds.
“What the hell have you been doing up there?”
“I don’t want to talk about this,” was all he could manage to say. What other explanation was there? He swallowed. The room felt far too small, the air too thin. “Not right now.” He kept his eyes fixed somewhere else, anywhere else, staring at something random over Gojo’s shoulder.
Silence stretched between them. Gojo ran his tongue over his front teeth, considering, or perhaps only trying not to snap.
“You don’t get to ‘not right now’ this,” he eventually spoke. “Not when you’re bleeding this much. God, Megumi. What have you done?”
Megumi’s jaw tightened. What was he supposed to say? That it was an accident? That it helped? That he hadn’t meant to go that far?
“I’m sorry,” he settled for instead, unfeeling and far too casual, only trying to end the conversation. “It’s nothing, really-”
“Can I not leave you alone?” Gojo cut in, “Can you not be trusted?” He tried not to snap, really, but the words came out sharp anyways. The frustration spilled without much of a filter, and maybe only targeted at himself. How could he let this happen? He was supposed to be looking out for Megumi.
His grip tightened before he caught himself, easing again just as quickly. “I turn my back for five minutes and you-”
He stopped, hesitating, jaw flexing as he considered what needed to be done. Anger was never going to fix this.
Megumi looked down at his feet. Anything to avoid his gaze, anything to distract himself from the blood that was now staining his sweater like it was unlimited. At this rate, it looked like he might need stitches.
“What do you need? Do I take your privacy away from you? Do I take away your bedroom door? Do you need to sleep with your father like you’re six years old again?”
“No,” he breathed, voice trembling. Never had Gojo lost his temper like this. Not even when he was suspended from school, all those years ago. Nothing compared to this.
Finally, Gojo released his grip, but Megumi didn’t dare move. This was far from over.
“Take your clothes off,” he breathed, calmer now, but stern. It wasn’t up for debate. He was telling him what to do. “All of them.”
“What?” As if Gojo had suddenly shaken him awake, he stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “No. Why the hell would I do that?”
“I need to see. I need to know how bad it is.” He took a step closer and Megumi flinched away. He felt like a little kid again, powerless to whatever Gojo asked. He couldn’t make him do that, could he?
“It’s fine,” he assured, doing everything in his power to make his voice sound steady again. “I won’t do it again, okay?” And if it meant he didn’t have to deal with this, he meant it. He’d get clean, starting right now. He’d throw away every blade if it just meant Gojo would give this up.
“I promise, I’ve learnt my-”
“Megumi.”
He said his name like a warning. This wasn’t something he had a choice in, and he didn’t need to know the possible consequences to understand the severity of this. It was written on his face, in the way anger transitioned into sadness, the quiet pain that told him he blamed himself.
And that hurt worse than any amount of anger could.
He didn’t need to say anything, he only sighed. A quiet kind of acceptance. Gojo already knew. There was no pulling the sleeves back down now. No shrugging it off. No careless promise that would smooth everything over and put things back the way they were before.
Maybe the least he could do was let him in. And maybe, it would help.
With shaking hands, Megumi lifted his sweater from the bottom, cringing as he pulled it over his head. Some of the blood had dried, and pulling the hardened fabric away from his skin only opened the wounds again. He hadn’t bothered to wear anything else beneath it, cool air hit bare skin, raising goosebumps along his shoulders, gracefully coating the uncut skin. Though the marks were impossible to ignore now, angry slashes, neatly sliced over the top of still-fading old scars - some shallow, some not. His chest and arms seemed to be a map of his emotions, all of his hatred and anger, piled onto such a small, delicately pale frame.
The contrast made Gojo feel ill. For a fleeting second, it felt as though he’d held the blade himself. As though every missed sign and every moment he’d chosen to give Megumi space instead of pushing harder, had guided those cuts into their places. As if he’d done it himself, he felt just as responsible. How could he let this happen?
Megumi kept his eyes fixed on the floor. Never had he felt more exposed.
There was a long silence, but Gojo was patient. He’d wait all night if that’s what Megumi needed.
One layer was already gone, he just needed to lose the pants.
“You need a hand?” Gojo asked softly, the offer gentle, patient, almost hesitant.
Megumi nodded. Fire rose in his throat. He couldn’t speak like this, he’d only burst into tears. He let Gojo’s larger hand brush against his own, guiding him slowly, carefully. Each movement felt impossibly intimate, heavy with undying trust and unbearable humiliation at the same time. And though his chest constricted and his knees shook, he didn’t pull away.
He couldn’t.
Because honestly, he needed this.
Gojo held him firmly, guiding the fabric away from his skin with gentle hands, careful not to tug too hard, even though the blood was too thick, too abundant to have dried yet. The fabric was heavy with it, sticking to his skin in all the wrong ways.
Gojo kept one hand firm at his hip to steady him while the other worked the fabric down inch by careful inch. It clung wetly, resisting. Megumi winced.
“You’re okay,” Gojo whispered. Any anger had faded. This wasn’t what it was about anymore.
He peeled the fabric back instead of pulling, separating cloth from skin with painstaking care. Each place it had adhered came free with a faint, sickening sound, revealing thick lines that hadn’t sealed. Fresh red followed in its wake.
Gojo’s jaw tightened, but his hands never faltered. He’d unbuttoned Megumi’s pants at the top, and when the fabric finally slid away, heavy, damp and cold, he set it aside without looking at it for too long. It only would’ve made him feel sick. He didn’t comment. Didn’t react outwardly. He realised that wasn’t what Megumi needed. Not right now.
Instead, he adjusted his hold, one hand coming up to steady the back of Megumi’s neck, thumb resting warm against his pulse. Every move was cautious like Megumi could break at any second.
He shivered, whether it was from the cold air against exposed skin or from the weight of being seen so completely, he couldn’t tell.
“We’re gonna fix this,” Gojo murmured, low and steady. “Okay?”
“You’re not mad?”
“I’m not mad at you,” he reached for one of the kitchen stools and dragged it closer before sitting down. He slouched deliberately, long legs folding awkwardly so he could meet Megumi at eye level. He even dipped his chin slightly, exaggerating the height difference and making himself smaller on purpose.
“But look at you…” Gojo took a moment to take all of Megumi in. The worst of it was his thighs, where there was more flesh for him to work with. The blood dripped all the way down to his knees. He’d have to get him to lie down just to tend to it.
Gojo’s jaw tightened again. He forced himself to breathe evenly. Reacting visibly, recoiling, swearing, and letting the horror show would only make this harder. Megumi hadn’t stopped shaking
“…How else am I supposed to react,” he finished softly, lifting his gaze back to Megumi’s face, “when you do this to the one person I care about most?”
Megumi whimpered. He wasn’t one to cry often, but fuck, this was testing him.
“Okay,” Gojo then said, voice shifting into something more controlled, like someone who had a plan.
“You’re going to need to lie down. Come sit on my bed. I can’t treat this properly with you standing.”
“You don’t have to-”
“Go to my room, Megumi.”
Gojo stepped closer, not crowding him, but enough to guide. One hand hovered at Megumi’s elbow, the other ready at his back just in case he struggled on his own. He moved slowly, giving him time to adjust, to breathe. Megumi’s legs felt unsteady beneath him. The floor seemed farther away than it should’ve been. He started to walk and every step sent a sharp sting up his thighs, fresh blood warming where it hadn’t yet cooled.
When they reached the doorway, Gojo nudged it open with his foot.
“Sit,” he instructed gently, guiding him to the edge of the bed. “I’m grabbing a first aid kit. Don’t move.”
There was no anger in him now, just focus. And something fiercely protective beneath it.
Megumi sank onto the bed like his bones had finally given up pretending to hold him upright. The size of it seemed to swallow him whole, reminding him of when he was still young enough to sleep beside his father. He can’t remember the last time he did, only the safety of it and the way it made him feel so much smaller.
He tried his best not to stain the sheets in red, but Gojo quickly returned with his arms full of clean towels for him to lie on top of.
“Scoot over,” he didn’t bother turning the lights on. He could see fine. “Can you do that for me?”
Megumi nodded, shifting carefully and wincing when the movement pulled at the broken skin. Gojo stepped in close, unfolding the towels with efficient precision before layering them beneath him. The fabric was rough against tender skin, but it was better than the thought of ruining Gojo’s perfectly clean sheets.
“There we go,” he hummed. “You still with me?”
Megumi swallowed and nodded again, turning his head to the side so he wouldn’t have to look at him. The more he thought about it, the more embarrassed he felt. He was laid bare on Gojo’s bed, skin slashed and still trembling, old towels were the only barrier between him and the sheets. There was nowhere to hide. No sleeves to tug down and hide the evidence of his emotion.
Gojo hovered above him, dipping his head to an angle rather than forcing Megumi to meet his gaze.
“Hey,” he said quietly. Megumi didn’t respond.
“You’re okay, we’re gonna fix this. You don’t need to be embarrassed, ‘Gumi.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re hurting, I just want to do my job and make you feel better, okay?”
It’s all he really could do.
“And seeing you do this…” he continued to speak as he dipped an old rag into some clean water, “... It’s like I can’t fight it for you. I can’t defend you against it. I can’t exorcise it.” He sighed, wringing out the excess water. “I just have to stand here and hope I don’t miss something. Pray I don’t trigger something.”
He gently pressed the damp rag against a fresh cut, one on the inside of his upper thigh. He was careful not to tug, only placing just enough pressure to soak up the blood.
“Do you understand why I got frustrated?” He continued to speak, letting the words spill casually despite their weight. Megumi’s knuckles grew white from the way he was clinging to the bedsheet.
“Yeah.” He choked - voice raw and tight.
“You don’t have to hide from me,” once he removed the rag, the blood seemed to stop flowing at such a persistent rate. He rummaged around for a bandage, a thick kind, one that he could wrap around his entire thigh.
“I know I can’t fix whatever’s inside your head. You don’t even need to tell me, not if you don’t want to.” He continued softly, almost to himself while he worked, “But I can fix this. I can keep you from bleeding out, from getting worse. That’s all I can do, just for now. That’s my job.”
Megumi’s chest rose and fell unevenly. Gojo watched it as he worked his way upwards, tending to the smaller wounds on his delicate wrists. The pain of it all was still there, but the sharp edge of panic and embarrassment had dulled slightly under Gojo’s hands, eased by his words. For the first time in a while, he felt like he could let himself breathe a little.
Once it was done, Gojo carefully tucked the ends of the bandages, smoothing them out without pressing too hard. He then shifted, lowering himself onto the bed beside Megumi, close enough that their shoulders brushed. For a moment, he simply watched him, studying his expression for any sign of discomfort. It was hard to read him when he stayed so silent, so still, staring off at anything but his gaze.
But after a minute of silence, it was Megumi to break it. He shifted on instinct, curling closer to the larger man, drawn in by the warmth of him. Without thinking, he pressed his face into the crook of his neck, burying himself within it and pressing his bare body against Gojo’s clothed one.
Gojo’s hand stayed on his back, firm and protective, letting him cling without saying a single thing. He held his frame like it was something he could break, feeling along his sides, tracing each rib and rechecking each bandage he placed there.
Gojo didn’t speak, he didn’t need to. He simply stayed there, steady and present, letting Megumi cling, letting him be small, letting him breathe. And for the first time, Megumi allowed himself to.