Chapter Text
There’s something wrong with him.
On the stovetop, an array of vegetables are steeped in oil that crackles from high heat. Cabbage, carrots, onions, a bit of sliced bell peppers–all things Gojo brought by earlier after he met the cupboards bare and only water, curdled milk and Hot Pockets in the fridge.
He’d left as soon as he’d arrived, sparing Megumi a lingering, warm stare, something like sorrow and anger in the blues of his eyes, his clear glasses resting on his nose. Megumi didn’t like that look, especially from Gojo, because he didn’t like to be pitied, and he didn’t exactly like Gojo, but Megumi was not so unhuman that he was immune to the comfort of company.
When Gojo visited, it gave him a feeling that helped him to feel less alone, less cold. He only wished he could come over without his eyes wandering about the apartment when he felt Megumi was not looking. Gojo felt indebted in some way, like a benefactor of sorts, to remain watchful, to remain helpful.
Gojo was not always responsible, and his attitude over the years made it clear that he never had a desire to become responsible for anyone except one person–but Megumi, as an extension of that person, seemed to grow on him over time.
To ignore Megumi would in some way, be the same as ignoring the person who held Gojo’s heart.
It is a strange thing, and Megumi finds it uncomfortable to think about, so then he just doesn’t.
He doesn’t find it useful to get involved in the emotions of others when he cannot work out his own.
Bags of groceries are huddled on the counter, abandoned. Megumi took what he needed to prepare a small dinner, then turned away from the rest of it. The ingredients turned out to be big enough to cook for two, despite the empty space of the apartment, and that’d only been an accident. Or perhaps it can be called muscle memory, or him being unable to shake his kindness, his hopefulness. His hands had moved with their own mind, picking more than he needed for just himself, throwing them all into the pan haphazardly–as if he wanted to do it before he changed his mind.
Well, that, and…his stomach was growling ferociously. He had been hurrying, nearly nicking his finger with the knife, but still, he’d found himself adding more, cutting more, frying more.
Call it what you might.
The onions are browning in the hot oil, as are the thin strips of cabbage, and the cuts of bell pepper, and in the oven, chicken thighs are baking, herbs scenting the air. The kitchen is sweltering. Sweat is lining Megumi’s brows, slithering down his temples, pooling there in the hollowness of his collarbone, and his stomach is eating itself.
He’s fucking hungry, and it angers him.
His hands are shaking, and he’s on edge. Has been all day.
Even more so now in the dead of night, and he can’t shake it.
He stirs the vegetables, and the oil pops, burning the back of his hand, which he yanks backward, shaking off the pain.
The hairs on the back of his neck stand, and he might vomit–something’s happening.
Distantly, keys jingle. The locks of the front door turn, there at his right, just feet away, beyond the arch of the kitchen. Megumi’s eyes shut, and he curses himself as he holds his burnt hand, flexing his fingers. He recaptures the fork he’s been using to stir,and he stares at the copious amount of food he figured might have wasted.
It won’t.
Call it a sixth sense. Call it whatever.
What happens now is expected: it smells like smoke immediately, and not the sort that accompanies cooking, no this is deep, cheap, heady Seven Stars smoke–and beyond it, copper and ash, drowning out the scent of Megumi’s dinner, washing through the halls of the apartment in seconds, wrapping the environment in a thick coat that is not warm, nor inviting, but instead is cold and wet.
The door shuts, and the lock turns again, clicking.
In his peripheral vision, Toji shuffles, a hulking shadow in the dark.
Megumi doesn’t look at him.
Something thumps, likely Toji’s duffle bag, then he’s pushing his way into the kitchen, silent first–as silent as a person that takes up as much space as he does, can be–stalking past Megumi to the fridge, one of his arms brushing against Megumi’s back. He pulls it open, leans over to peer inside, then he sucks on his teeth, annoyed.
“Fuck,” He mutters under his breath. He looks around for a while longer at the bare shelves of the refrigerator, like if he does whatever he hoped would be there will materialize before his eyes. When he rises back up, the fridge’s light bathes half of his body. Megumi turns the fire down a notch, sweaty fingertips slipping on the handle of the burner. “Where’d the beer go?”
Megumi doesn’t answer, just watches the last few raw vegetables cook, rushing them with his eyes. Accepting that nothing will change, Toji shuts the fridge, thin eyes turning to his son. “You drink it or something? Sure I had one left.”
Megumi’s eye twitches.
He didn’t drink it per say–Megumi more so popped the cap, tasted less than a mouthful, spat it into the sink, then drained the bottle and threw it away. He’s never understood the appeal of liquor. It tastes like shit and the few sips he’s managed to swallow have never done anything to cure what Megumi feels inside.
Megumi considers the men who stand outside liquor stores, stumbling and incoherent, with empty pockets and broken dreams in shards at their feet to be stupid, pathetic.
Alcohol doesn’t help. It makes things worse–and perhaps it’s there, in that fact, that Megumi finds his answer, but he refuses to contend with it. Feeling worse may just be the point.
Toji moves until he’s closer to Megumi, towering over him to glance into the pan.
“Cooking for us?”
Megumi pokes a carrot with the fork. It pierces through without much fuss.
Toji pokes fun at him, voice lilted into a mean, teasing tone that makes Megumi grow hot with aggravation. “Lucky me, coming home to a hot meal. You’re missing your apron, sweetheart.”
He grunts softly in offense. He knows he’s being baited, he hates that he’s being baited, and despite it, he still responds, teeth gritted, “Stop trying to talk to me.”
“Can talk to you if I want,” Toji responds, not missing a beat, the scent of him heavier now as close as they are. There’s a spike in his tone that lets Megumi know he’s enjoying the sight of him here, very clearly annoyed. Toji has a playful streak that Megumi finds hard to deal with. Megumi can’t say he has a playful bone in his body. “I fuckin’ made you.”
Megumi figures he makes up for what he lacks in merriment in bitterness.
“You sure about that?” He replies. As soon as the words are out, he’s upset with himself–not because he cares about being mean, but instead because he’s fallen into his father’s game.
Megumi winces, his mouth pulling into a taut frown, his face damp, chest tight. He’s too easy. He plays into it too easy, biting the bait over and over. He can never stay quiet, he can never not get riled up, he can never not be angry. He can never not contradict himself.
He can never just prepare enough food for only himself.
Like the men outside of the corner store, he’s quick to hurt, quick to forgiveness, quick to hoping and dreaming.
Toji slips from beside him to lean on the counter beside the stove, in Megumi’s line of sight. He’s blurred still, but now Megumi can’t hope to ignore him. He wants to go to his room. He wants to toss the frying pan in Toji’s face, watch his skin bubble over and melt. He wants to yell at him, scream his grievances, release something. Where have you been, he longs to ask.
He does none of this.
Instead, when Toji crosses his arms over his chest, he looks. Jade eyes flicker away from the pan to the thickness of his forearms, the dark hair of them, the wide, large, veined over hands tucked against his biceps. The rounded shape of his pecs, the pebble of his nipples against his shirt, white but dirtied brown, a tinge of red there, smeared and smudged. His chest lifts with his breathing, up and down, up and down.
Megumi tears his eyes away, disgust simmering in his chest.
“That or your mom had a type,” Toji says, voice low, falsely contemplative. Real undercurrents of drowsiness in it. “What do you think?”
Megumi manages to bite his tongue.
The vegetables are done, and his stomach is hurting, caving in on itself. He kills the fire, backs away enough to pull open the oven and peek at the chicken. Finished, too. He pulls it out, sets the dish on the burners, and thanks any god that’s listening for Gojo’s incessant need to check on him.
Toji pushes off of the counter. Pats a big palm on Megumi’s head, fingers digging into the wayward waves of his hair. Megumi tries hard not to flinch, pausing momentarily. The touch is soft, affectionate. “I need to piss and change out of this shit. You gonna set me a plate?”
I’m not your wife, Megumi almost says. But he doesn’t. He just rotates his head to shake Toji’s hand away from him. “Whatever.”
Toji slinks away and Megumi does not watch him go.
He pulls two plastic plates from an opened bag in the cupboard, begrudgingly.
“Gojo been by a lot?”
They’re at the small, round dining table, and Megumi’s cutlery clinks only against his teeth, scraping lines into plastic plates.
Toji’s slumped in his chair like it’s a throne, forgoing his fork completely to stuff meat into his mouth with his fingers, sucking the gravy off leisurely. In these walls, Toji has the idea that he’s some sort of king, even if he pushes through the door on his own schedule, without the first idea of when the rent is due, without knowing how much begging it took Megumi to convince Gojo that he didn’t have to pay the entire bill off for the rest of the year.
Toji eats food he doesn’t buy, wears clothes he doesn’t buy, bathes with soap he doesn’t buy, in water he hasn’t paid for, lays on sheets he hasn’t picked out, and at the end of the day, he smiles at Megumi with straight white teeth full of audacity.
It’s this that makes Megumi sick to his stomach and injects him with the desire to reach across the table and strangle his father to death. It’s this, watching him eat, that makes Megumi want to stick his fingers down Toji’s throat and make him throw it all back up. He hasn’t earned any of this.
Megumi shakes his head.
Toji’s thumb slips from out his mouth, glistening with his spit. “That a ‘no, he hasn’t’ or a ‘no, he has but I didn’t let him in?’”
Megumi sticks his fork into a slice of potato, sticking it into his mouth. He chews and Toji watches him for a handful of seconds. “Gumi.”
Megumi swallows. He stares down at his nearly finished plate of food, then he reaches for his cup of water, but Toji’s quicker. Megumi’s eyes fall shut for a moment, fluttering back open to glare at him, poisonous. Toji’s face is fairly blank, eyes heavily lidded, eyebrows raised just so, mouth straight.
“Give it,” Megumi seethes.
“Stop ignoring me.”
“Give it.”
“Stop ignoring me first.”
Megumi’s teeth creak with how tight he presses them together. “Do you ever get tired of acting like a kid?”
“And what the hell do you know about acting like a kid? You act like you’re fuckin’ forty. Stop being a little brat for two seconds and answer me when I’m talking to you.”
His tongue is pure fire. “I don’t have to do shit if I don’t feel like it.”
Toji’s eyebrows hit his hairline. “The hell? Who’re you fuckin’ cursing at?”
It’s kind of ironic. Megumi never used to swear before Toji. He never thought it made sense. It’s only through dealing with his father that he began to understand how incensed a person can make another.
Megumi’s chest heaves up and down from the heat of his small outburst.
His face reddens, and he looks away then flits his eyes right back to Toji, his heartbeat quickening under the heat of his glare, under the upturn of his scarred mouth. Of course he’s smiling, of course he thinks it's funny. Everything is always endlessly funny to Toji. Nothing is a big deal, nothing matters. Megumi shudders, sweat beading at his forehead, on the curve of his lip.
“Just…give it to me.”
“What the fuck are they teaching you at that fancy ass school, huh? Manners gone now?”
Megumi actually finds that funny. They’re both smiling now but Megumi’s laugh seems to kill some of Toji’s amusement, unnerving him. It’s only funny because the same school he’s talking about is the one he used to attend–if Gojo’s to be believed.
You know, it’s funny, Megumi-chan. Your dad used to go here a looooooong time ago. Like dinosaur times ago. That’s kinda cute. You should ask him if he has any pictures from back then. That’d be funny, too.
The thought of Toji in a uniform of any sort is funny.
Megumi sighs.
“Please,” he says. “Can you give me the water? I’m thirsty.”
Toji stares at him for a few moments more, shadows cast over his face, eyes slanted to slits. When he releases the water, some of it splashes out of the cup and Megumi doesn’t even feel like drinking it anymore. His fists ball up, and with his mouth dry, he stays silent.
“Gumi.” Toji repeats, voice softer, lulling Megumi like a spell. “Just wanna talk to you. I missed you.”
Then you shouldn’t have fucking left, he wishes he could say, but that would just mean an argument, and he refuses to start one, he’s too tired, even if that is what he longs for, even if he can feel the blood sizzling underneath his flesh with how greedy he is for it.
He inhales deeply, exhaling slowly. He concedes, “He didn’t come over.”
Toji blinks in response, his silence encouraging Megumi to go on.
Megumi scratches at his neck. “He—I told him I was okay. He didn’t realize I was…stalling until today. So, he came, and he bought groceries and other stuff. He couldn’t stay long, so he’ll be back tomorrow.”
Toji takes a long gulp of Megumi’s water. “Stalling?”
Megumi doesn’t answer. Instead, he says, “I told him you were only gone for a few days. Just a heads up for when he asks you about it.”
Toji sets the cup down, staring down into it like he somehow swallowed a lemon. “Listen, Gumi. You know…you know I have to work. You know that right?”
“Sure,” he says looking at the floor, fists resting on his knees.
“And…” Toji pauses, as though contemplating his words. “You know sometimes it takes a while. Depending on what the job is and…all that shit. Look, we’ve talked about this. I just don’t want you to feel like you’ve gotta lie for me or something. I’m working. That’s all. I’m just working, you know?”
Megumi’s chest feels tighter. “Yeah, well. Not sure he’s gonna see it that way, that’s all.”
“Megumi, you don’t have to lie for me.”
“I don’t?” Megumi responds, tone clipped.
“Shit, I don’t wanna argue tonight.” Toji grunts.
But it’s a bit too late.
“Do you even realize what’ll happen if I don’t lie?” Megumi demands more than he asks. “You weren’t here. You didn’t see his face. You don’t ever have to see it. You—just. Just whatever. Just remember, that’s all you have to do. It’s easy. If you tell him you were gone for weeks you’re just going to fuck it all up so just remember.”
“It’s just work—”
“I really don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Megumi stands, his chair scraping against the tile. “I just need the money. Where’s the money?”
Toji looks caught in between a rock and a hard place. But he says, before taking another drink of Megumi’s water, “In the bag. Front door.”
Megumi wondered, in the beginning when things were still fresh, and he was still too green for his own good, what Toji did for a living, but with time that was truly no time at all, he did not need to know much in order to piece it together.
The first time his father came back from a job with a bag bulging as though fit to burst, stretched completely to its limits with cold, hard cash, and there was this vacant, strange look in his eye–as if Toji was not really there at all, but instead operating on some kind of internal setting–Megumi, young but not unintelligent, had known.
Or at the very least, had an inkling of a feeling. A vague knowing, the kind that immediately set in stone that Megumi would never ask him any questions, and consequently, Toji would never tell him anything he was not ready to hear.
Toji looms over him, always, but especially here and now as Megumi squats to unzip the duffle bag. Crisp, banded stacks sit together, and one, there in the lefthand corner is smeared with a stroke of red that only gives Megumi pause for one singular moment before he shakes it off, starting to remove the stacks one by one.
“Hey, now.”
“Shut up.”
Megumi pulls them out until the bag is a quarter way empty, ignoring Toji’s voice behind him until he can’t anymore and Toji’s hand is balling into the back of his shirt, tugging him upward to his full height. “Don’t—”
“That’s enough.”
“For how long?” Megumi asks. “It’s enough now, but how long will it be enough? You’re gonna gamble it away then we won’t have any. Just let me take it.”
“I’m not gonna gamble—” Megumi’s eyes narrow and the words die in Toji’s mouth.
Toji sucks his teeth and Megumi seethes, “While you’re out there working, I’m here, fucking starving. Having to shower with fucking shampoo. Cutting open toothpaste tubes.”Toji’s mouth opens, but Megumi doesn’t want to hear it. He can’t hear it. “Just let me take it. I need it. Isn’t that why you work anyway? For us? Me? Isn’t that what you tell me? Or do you just lie?”
Hesitantly, Toji lets go of Megumi’s shirt to stick his hands into his pockets. Megumi breathes out. Kneels to retrieve more stacks. “I don’t have a problem with you taking the money. Shouldn’t it be with me, though? I mean…”
“You’ll give it all away.”
Toji shrugs. “I mean, I don’t like gambling. Not anymore.”
Megumi pauses. “Then why do you do it?”
“Habit.” He scratches at his jaw. “Bad fuckin’ habit.”
Three a.m.
Toji’s been home for four hours.
Megumi’s buried in a cocoon of thin sheets on the bed’s left side, his thumbs hovering over the glowing screen of his phone when the bedroom door creaks open. Toji’s feet pad lightly on the carpet and then the box spring creaks like a squealing pig under his weight.
He smells even more like tobacco than before, another of his bad habits.
Toji’s pulling off his socks when he asks Megumi, “Who’re you talkin’ to?”
“My friends,” he says, fingers tapping the screen idly. Message forgotten. What was Yuuji saying again?
Toji grunts, getting up to pull his shirt off and Megumi’s hands grow weak, his phone screen growing dim. He blinks and his eyes wander—no, they’re pulled. He can’t help that, he can’t help himself, or that’s what he tells himself as he follows the lines of Toji’s back, the deep indentations of muscle, the wide expanse of it, the curve of his spine.
Sometimes Megumi wonders if he’ll get as big as Toji is, or is he simply doomed to be lanky forever, slim and tall, taller than a lot of the boys in his grade and even the grade above him. Taller than Yuuji, sure, but slender, all sharp edges, slightly protruding ribs and hipbones, dwindling muscle, a body he hides in large shirts and sweaters, the oversized fit of his uniform jacket. He looks nearly nothing like his father, a far cry away from the thick fullness of Toji’s body, the safety, the warmth it exhibits.
But at least he is tall. At least he’s still growing. There’s hope. He might start to fill out if he ate more. May’ve already filled out if he was still living with Gojo.
That doesn’t matter, that isn’t even relevant, he tells himself.
Maybe he just takes after his mother. Maybe she was lithe.
Toji’s arms raise in a stretch, hands balled, then they come back down, and he’s fiddling with the button of his pants. Megumi can’t decide whether he’s favored or hated in the eyes of god when Toji turns around, button popped, zipper pulled halfway down, protruding where his cock presses into it, curves into the shape. Megumi’s mouth is watering, saliva pouring into the canal between his lower teeth, beneath his tongue, enough to pour over, past his lips. He swallows it down.
At least this time he’s wearing underwear, and for that Megumi’s thankful.
For some reason, Toji is much more comfortable with Megumi than Megumi is with him. Maybe it’s something that comes with being a parent, with knowing that the person in your presence has come from you, could not be closer to you if they tried, would not even exist if not for you–maybe it’s that that suspends any sort of shame.
Toji walks around in nothing but his underwear often, sleeps in them always, showers with the door open, and changes in front of Megumi like it doesn’t matter, and Megumi supposes that none of it matters at all, except for the fact that it does, to him. All of these things are normal and it is he that makes them strange.
It is Megumi that makes these things abnormal, he knows. It’s not normal to look at Toji in the manner of which he does, to think of him the way he does. It’s not normal to shy away from him for the reasons he does. Little things: evading eye contact, evading touches, evading spaces of time whereby they could be alone together for too long, evading long conversations.
It wouldn’t be good to indulge in these things because the truth Megumi hates to admit, the truth he’ll likely take to his grave, is that he desires Toji in a complex way.
It could be split into two, it could be understood easier that way.
On one hand, Megumi wants Toji to be here, and wants him to smile down on him pridefully, lovingly, and paternally. There is an emptiness in his heart where their memories should be. There is a longing that provisions, affection and doting from other people–people Megumi felt pawned off to in the first–could never quell. A burning need. Love.
He wants Toji’s love.
He wants his father’s love.
Two ways.
Abnormal.
On the other hand, the way his mouth is salivating at the sight of Toji’s body is abnormal.
The way he can’t wait for Toji to lay beside him could be normal, if it weren’t just to feel his body heat, to snuggle against the supple hardness of him. To wake up underneath him, crushed under his weight. To feel the hot, hardness of his arousal beaming a hole into him in the morning.
He thinks normal children that aren’t plagued with disgusting, crippling thoughts also desire to have their parents near them.
To feel their warmth.
To feel safe.
Megumi wants to feel safe. An impossibility from Toji.
He gives him a mimicry of it anyway.
“You’re not gonna believe this, but I am trying,” Toji says, and Megumi’s eyes ache with how fast they leave the bulge of his crotch. Toji’s staring down at him with eyes earnest as they can be, like he doesn’t know what lies in Megumi’s brain. Like if he did, he wouldn’t spit on him, He wouldn’t throw him away. Wouldn’t call Gojo to get him—he’s yours, come get him, I gave him to you, come get him. Megumi likes to think that he’d spare him the embarrassment of telling Gojo the reason why.
Why, again.
Again.
And Megumi wouldn’t be left to wonder this time—why?
His abandonment would be his fault for sure this time.
Toji drags a huge hand down his face. “Nobody gave me a handbook on this shit. I promise I’m trying. Just…just help me until I can stand on my own. It’s not fair, I know, but—”
Megumi can’t stop looking at his neck, the way his Adam’s apple twitches in his throat, at the lines of his collarbones, the brown shade of his nipples. He’s going to get hard.
“I missed you.” He chokes out. Shocked, Toji's slender eyes widen just a touch. Megumi reddens, flinches at the breathy way of his voice. The desperation of it. “Too. I missed y-you, too. You said you missed me earlier, so. I—” thought you weren’t coming back. “I think I should sleep on the couch tonight.”
Toji cocks an eyebrow. “For what?”
“I’m just…I mean you’re tired. You’re probably gonna snore. I have to get up early, anyway—” He says, already untangling himself from the sheets, haphazardly. His phone falls on the bed within Toji’s reach. He picks it up, casting it a wary look.
“He didn’t see your phone’s broken?”
“It’s not—” Megumi stammers, reaching for it. Toji moves backward. “—broken. I just cracked the screen.”
“Nobara says if you’re not ready in the morning they’re leaving your ass.”
“Stop reading my texts.”
He ignores him. “Where are you guys going?”
“Out,” Megumi says curtly, and Toji throws the phone back on the bed.
“Where?” he asks as Megumi picks it up. He starts shoving his pants down, the band of his boxer briefs sliding, dark, coarse hair peeking over it, and Megumi turns away swiftly.
“I’m going on the couch,” he states, grabbing his pillow.
“‘M not gonna snore,” Toji grumbles.
“You always snore after you get back,” Megumi says, standing to his feet. With his crumpled ball of sheets, he takes exactly one step before Toji’s hand pulls at his hair, his scalp screaming. He yelps, losing his footing, then he’s on the bed again, flat on his back, body being tossed into position without the faintest bit of tenderness. “Stop!”
“Shut up, you’re gonna wake the fuckin’ neighbors. They’re gonna think I’m hitting you or some shit,” Toji shushes him, but he’s grinning really, his hand still tangled in Megumi’s hair as he yanks away the bundle of sheets and pillows in his hands. “Then we’re really gonna be up shit creek without a paddle, baby. Would you sell me out like that? Would you tell them I’m hitting you?”
It’s the morbid kind of humor Megumi expects from him.
He hisses, “Fuck, let me go.”
“Stop fucking swearing. What kinda kid are you?” Toji laughs. He lets go anyway.
“Yours,” Megumi snaps.
“Really?” He mumbles with false shock. “I thought you said you weren’t mine. Scared I’m gonna go get a DNA test, now?”
“You wouldn’t.”
“‘Course I wouldn’t, that shit’s for idiots,” Toji says. “And I’m not gonna snore. You’re gonna sleep with me tonight.”
Megumi tosses his head to the side, away from Toji’s eyes, and Toji pulls at his hip, thumb brushing over his hipbone. He doesn’t stop pulling until he’s close, positioned whichever way Toji wants him. He exhales in comfort and contentment when he’s done, Megumi lying on his side to face him, and him lying on his side to face Megumi.
He’s patting the pillow to shove it under Megumi’s head when he says, “Thought you missed me, what’s with the long face?”
Looking anywhere but at him, he sourly replies, “You pulled me by the hair. I’m not gonna be able to sleep. You’re gonna keep me up and I’m gonna wake up late.”
“Stop growing it out stupid like that if you don’t want it to get pulled,” He murmurs, pleased with himself at the way Megumi’s nose wrinkles.
“It’s—”
“Not stupid. Yeah, I know. I know, Gumi. It’s not. It’s cute.” He yawns, deep olive eyes black in the sparingly cast moonlight. “I’m tired as fuck.”
“You were gone for three weeks and came home at ass o’clock in the night. Didn’t expect anything else.” Megumi mutters, eyes focusing on the dip between his collarbones. A safe spot.
Toji hand curls on the pillow, and he fixes all of his attention on Megumi. It makes him grow hot. It makes him feel a lot of things, most of all special. He feels special. “You’re real mad about that.”
“I’m not—”
“Wasn’t a question. Knew you were pissed the minute I stepped through the door. Could feel it. Like some weird ass energy, y’know?” Megumi’s mouth thins out, forehead creasing with his displeasure, eyes already burning. Weak. Toji’s reaches out to smooth the knot with his thumb. “Sorry.”
His voice is entirely too soft when he says, “Could you not have told me you were going?”
“It was sudden, Gumi. You know I wouldn’t have done it like that if it wasn’t sudden.”
Megumi shuts his eyes. This. Toji surprises Megumi constantly with the way he acts like they’re normal. Like they don’t have eight years missing between them. Like Megumi is just supposed to know things he’s never had the opportunity to learn.
Like he should just trust him.
Trust is something that shattered so long ago, that exploded to life on the doorstep of Gojo’s estate when Toji decided to leave him behind. Megumi cut himself many times trying to put it back together. He still slices open his fingers regularly, just trying to make it all make sense.
“You could’ve said something.”
“Didn’t wanna wake you.”
“Not good enough,” Megumi says. “Not…good enough. You have to tell me. You have to let me know when you’re going so I can…”
Toji’s silent for a long time. So long Megumi thinks he must’ve fallen asleep. “I wasn’t thinking.” His arm shifts, then it’s thrown over Megumi’s body, just above the line of his waist. “Wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.”
Megumi’s voice is close to cracking when he says, “You can’t just leave like that and expect me not to be mad.”
“I know.”
“You…can’t just leave like that. O-okay?”
Toji apologizes again. “I’m sorry.”
“He’s gonna ask you. Don’t tell him the truth.” A beat passes. “Toji.”
Toji shakes his head. He concedes,“Yeah. Yeah, I heard you. Won’t tell him shit. But it’s not like Gojo’s…”
“You can’t.”
“Fine. Whatever.”
Megumi nods, slow, jerky. “Thanks.”
Toji shuffles, his arm heavy where it rests on Megumi’s body, hot where his hand curves into the fabric of his shirt.
His voice is a little rougher when he says, “Don’t thank me for that.”
The dawn was more beautiful than anything, stroked deep violet and gray, the shy push of the sun’s light a distance behind thin clouds.
As he buckled the belt of his uniform pants, Megumi looked at the sky from the kitchen window, eager to see the morning’s transformation. He found, even as a person who enjoyed evenings most, the way they promised the end of a day and teased the beginning of darkness, a place to lurk within the shadows, that the purgatory of early morning was quite beautiful.
He enjoyed hearing the earth rouse. He liked the dull song of birds, the flicker of lights in surrounding buildings, the distant bark of dogs, and he enjoyed the way light bled into the colorless sky slowly then seemingly all at once. He also enjoyed the coldness that stuck in the air around that time of day.
Megumi found it special as it was fleeting–he only could expect a few moments of it each morning before the sun would cut in and unveil the day. It would be hot. It would bring sweat and daylight and there would be nowhere for Megumi to hide.
Like today. Today, the sun is angry and burning, perhaps hotter than any other day of the year thus far–fair as they are heading into summer time. Soon enough March will be gone and any semblance of last winter will be gone. The air will smell like flowers, sun, lavender, chocolate and grass.
Megumi is watching Yuuji and Nobara disappear down the stony path that leads toward the school’s back doors. They get smaller as they get further away from him, shrinking into miniature figures, advancing up brick steps, Nobara pulling open one of the double doors so that Yuuji can clamber through first, like he’s the girl–or maybe, because she sees him like a little brother.
Yuuji can have that effect. Megumi doesn’t know what it’s like to have siblings–maybe he almost did, when Toji dated a woman briefly, and she had a sweet, young daughter, Tsumiki, who Megumi still remembers. Tsumiki, who had been torn away from him only months before Toji had abandoned him. Adults were like that–they didn’t care about who their breakups hurt. They didn’t care that it affected children, especially lonely, young children.
Megumi still thinks about her, the girl who could have been his sister in another life.
When Yuuji smiles, sometimes he thinks of her.
“That was expensive.”
Megumi looks away from the door. He follows Gojo’s long finger where it’s pointing downward at the ground. A ball of melting ice cream. Megumi’s waffle cone is bare. He hadn’t noticed. It’s flattening now, melting fast under the sun’s rays, forming a puddle on the pavement, soaking into the nearby grass, pink, red, strawberry puree peeking through what’s still solid.
Megumi stares at the cone. It’s soggy, sticky with sweet cream. Megumi hadn’t even tasted it. Gojo frowns beside him, eyes narrowed behind his dark glasses, his pale face safe beneath the shade of a sport’s cap Megumi thinks looks stupid. There’s whipped cream at the corner of his mouth, half a brownie waffle bowl in his hands. He’s like a child in a candy store.
Megumi, disturbed by the tackiness on his fingers, flicks his eyes to the napkins that sit between them on the bench. “No one told you to buy it.”
“I wanted to do something nice for you,” Gojo says. Megumi reaches for a tissue with his clean hand and Gojo continues, “You didn’t even taste it. Strawberry used to be your favorite.”
“When I was five.”
“What a difference ten years makes, I guess,” He mumbles, closing his mouth around a spoonful of his dessert. “I wonder if I was this bratty when I was your age.”
“Worse, I think.”
“You didn’t know me then.”
Megumi says, dabbing at his hand uselessly, “You were only a couple years off from fifteen when I met you. Barely any difference at all.”
“People grow, Megumi.” Gojo throws back. “Do you really think I was the same person at seventeen that I was at fifteen?”
“I think you’re the same person you were at seventeen that you are now.”
Gojo, pleased by the prospect of poking fun at him, smiles. “If you were going to be so disgustingly rude to me, why did you invite me to hang out with you in the first place?”
“I didn’t,” he responds, getting to his feet. His eyes skitter in search of a trash can. “You invited yourself here and made my friends leave.”
“Your friends,” Gojo repeats, as if he can’t believe Megumi has friends. Megumi doesn’t hold it against him. With one leg crossed over the other, and his back arched into posture it takes effort to upkeep, Gojo holds up one finger, like he’s about to make a point. Megumi rolls his eyes before he can even speak. “Actually Yuuji-kun seemed more than happy to stay.”
“That’s because he has a stupid crush on you,” Megumi says bluntly.
It’s Casual Friday.
Gojo’s wearing black slacks with a navy shirt unbuttoned lower than what’s considered appropriate. Flashy as ever. Megumi watches him blush in real time, redness spreading over his ears, splotchy on his neck, down into that little crevice of skin on his chest that is visible.
That’s something Megumi finds interesting about Satoru Gojo. He’s very human, despite the way Japan objectifies him, places their molding hands unto him, crafting him until he is but a spectacle. As the heir of a media conglomerate and an athlete, who actually works, who’s actually knowledgeable, who’s good at anything he puts his mind to, Megumi supposes it could be no other way. He defies the odds in every way. He gets whatever he wants.
Most times.
Destined to be the best but settling for a nine-to-five–to spite who? Megumi wonders. His parents? Getou?–and training the upcoming generation, pouring money into a school that has enough of it.
The side of Megumi’s mouth twitches upward at the sight of him. At the sound of him, the smell of him, here in this moment. Awfully human.
“I’m joking,” Megumi most definitely was not joking. He adds, his voice softer around the edges, “It’s melting.”
Gojo sighs like he’s relieved. Like the suggestion of romance is too much for him to bear. He spoons some of his watery ice cream into his mouth. “You shouldn’t spread rumors like that. Besides, everyone has a crush on me.”
“Mm,” he hums, watching as Gojo lifts the waffle bowl to his mouth, a series of loud slurps following soon thereafter. “You’re gross. That’s really disgusting.”
Through a mouthful of too sweet dessert, “But it can’t go to waste. It’s better like this anyway.”
“Can you actually stop? You’re grossing me out.”
“Mm?” Ice cream drips down his face, down onto his shirt.
Megumi almost grins. It’s just a small smile. “You’re making a mess. I hope you have an extra shirt somewhere.”
“I do. I’ll just throw this one out when I get back to my office.”
“Hm.” Megumi pictures it: Gojo throwing away this shirt branded with a Ralph Lauren symbol for no other reason than it’s got some ice cream on the front. Likely.
He stalks over to the nearest trashcan, throwing the creamy tissue into the bin. He turns back around, and Gojo is looking at him already, face soft, eyes the way they have been since Megumi left. Shielded poorly, painted over with a cool kind of neutrality, but there is something so interesting about true, raw emotion. It cannot be boxed up and locked away. It cannot be painted over; it glows too brightly. Gojo’s eyes are made of a thousand blues, transparent glass settled over ocean waves.
Megumi is able to ignore the hot, unyielding fire of his emotions most days, because if he doesn’t it threatens to choke him.
Megumi can’t get involved in the feelings of others.
It vexes him just a bit–doesn’t Gojo understand? He could allow himself to go back. He could go back to Gojo’s estate, back into the pampered fluff of his care, and he could be safe, with all of his needs met. All but one. But would it make him happy?
Would it make either of them happy?
Megumi can’t help but think that when Gojo looks at him, he’s not seeing him at all–or if he does see him, it’s from the eyes of someone else.
The last tether. The only thing left shared between them.
He knows what Gojo thinks. Getou would not want Megumi to be left alone. He would not want Gojo to forget about him. And maybe it is that that inspires Gojo’s concern. And maybe it is that that makes Megumi uncomfortable and confused.
For sure, though, if he returned to Gojo’s care, he would never have another day of uncertainty. His stomach would no longer feel like it might collapse in on itself for lack of food, he would never feel the crawling anxiety of what if he doesn’t come back, again.
Megumi would live, polished, sheltered away.
Gojo would make sure of it.
But Megumi cannot be sure of if he will be able to hold his end of the agreement–can Megumi give Gojo back the boy he raised–the boy they raised?
He is not the same person he was nearly three years ago now, when Toji showed up again. He isn’t sure if he can give Gojo much more than flawed, wrong, disgusting.
And so, Megumi ignores Gojo–the way his eyes say an unspoken plea, one that he’d never voice, because to voice it would mean to tear Megumi away from Toji and Gojo, though he must struggle, does not seem inclined to do so.
Megumi sits beside him. “Toji is back.”
Gojo laughs as expected. Megumi winces anyway. “Really?”
“Yeah, last night.”
“Huh,” Gojo sighs, contemplating the bright, beautiful sky. A butterfly passes them by, nearly landing on Megumi’s knee, until it seemingly thinks better of the decision, fluttering away to find the nearest tree. “Did he bring a lot of money?”
Megumi looks down at the concrete. He doesn’t answer the question. “I just wanted you to know so you didn’t worry about me anymore.”
“I wasn’t worrying—” At Megumi’s flat expression, Gojo’s mouth thins into a straight line. “Okay, well I know you can take care of yourself. So.”
Megumi swallows. Says, pressing, “So?”
“But you’re still a kid, you know?” Gojo tries to be casual, but his smile is too wonky around the edges, his posture stiffer than it had been just a few seconds ago. “It’s gonna sound lame. Bear with me. But when you’re a kid, you think you know more than you actually do. Kids are all so independent. I was, too. But, I mean, you still need guidance. Someone there to help. That’s it.”
Megumi’s knee jumps. He can feel his cheeks reddening from what he’s about to say. It’s too soft, way too soft, but, he says, “You help.”
Gojo smiles, tugging down his glasses so he can look at him properly. “I try.”
Megumi shakes his head. “We shouldn’t talk about this here, should we?”
“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with talking about it.”
Megumi nods now. He gets up, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Thanks. For the ice cream, I mean.”
Gojo’s brow ticks upward. “The one the ants are eating?”
“Yeah, what else?” Megumi answers. He turns away, but before he begins to walk, he says, “He…he tries too.”
Before he even steps inside their apartment, he can hear the scratchy sound of the boxy television through the door.
It smells like tobacco and artificial vanilla spray.
Megumi kicks the door shut with his foot, a thud echoing in the hall. A plastic bag swings in his hand and holding onto the strap of his backpack, he ducks into the kitchen as quietly as he can manage, but it’s no use.
It takes no time at all, only the seconds it takes for Megumi’s bag to fall to the floor, close to his feet, and for the plastic bag to crinkle against the countertop, for Toji to be right there, his voice trickling through the air.
“Smells good.”
Enthralled by the smell of his takeout, Megumi’s stomach growls. “It’s not yours.”
He shifts, pulling the plastic ties of the bag to tug them free.
“But I’ve been home all day.” Toji actually sounds perplexed. It almost makes Megumi snort. “There wasn’t shit here to eat.”
“There’s more than enough to eat, Gojo just got us groceries,” he replies, placing the takeout container on the countertop, turning around to get a plate.
“Groceries have to cook. I’ve been surviving off fruits all day, for fuck’s sake, would it have killed the guy to pick up one cup of instant?” he complains gruffly. Megumi hears him shuffle closer.
“I’d love to see that day. He doesn’t like junk.”
“The guy who you said couldn’t leave the house after he ate three entire bags of jelly by himself?”
Megumi pauses, smiling very faintly at the memory. “I mean he doesn’t like when I eat junk. And sugar doesn’t count as junk to him. So.”
Toji’s quietness begs Megumi to look over. He’s already staring at him, a strangeness draped over his eyes. Megumi’s hand twitches, nearly knocking over the container. It tips, but he catches it. Toji says, blinking slow, “He never let you eat anything except greens?”
“I mean…at first, he let me eat whatever, I guess, but after a while he just. When he had time, he’d cook. Vegetables, stir fry. Dumplings. He said it was better for kids to eat fresh or something. It didn’t taste good right away, but it got better. He got better. With time, it’s a learning process.” He rambles a bit. “If he wasn’t there, the cooks would do it. Eventually they all learned what I liked and what I didn’t and…”
Megumi almost mentions Getou, but he thinks better of it. He clears his throat. “So, yeah, he’s not going to bring that stuff. Hand me a spoon?”
Toji cranks open the drawer, not even having to dig through their sparse collection of cutleries. He holds out a sizable spoon that Megumi takes. He digs it into the rice, shovels it into his mouth. He digs it in again with an unsteady hand. Offers it to Toji.
Toji’s neck bends as he dips to taste the food, sucking it off the spoon so suddenly it shocks Megumi. He looks away before he suffers a blush. “I didn’t mean…”
“I brushed my teeth today,” he says through his chewing.
“Gross. Not what I…not the point.”
He swallows thickly with a sigh. “Can I have some more?”
“It’s not enough to share.”
“But I’m hungry, Gumi. What, you're gonna let me starve? Right in front of you?”
“Why didn’t you order something?”
Toji’s brow raises. “You hid all the fucking money.”
At this, Megumi does blush, looking away, ducking his head. “Just…get another plate.”
“‘M going out later,” Toji says, when the television is flashing moving pictures over their bodies, casting the hard lines of their faces in shadows.
The sun has just begun to die, but Toji has a habit of lurking in the darkness, squeezing the blinds shut tight until their little block of an apartment is free of any sort of outside light. Megumi often wonders if it’s intentional, the way he boxes them in here.
The way it’s sort of like their own little world away from the world.
Megumi’s eyes don’t leave the screen when he says, “Okay.”
Toji shuffles on the couch, legs spread wide apart, thighs stretching the fabric of his sweats. He picks at his teeth. “Kinda like a work meeting thing. Got a call earlier.”
“Okay.”
Toji twirls the toothpick in his fingers. “It’s at the bar a couple blocks away.”
“Okay,” Megumi repeats. He bites into the softer part of his gums. ”Don’t get drunk or whatever.”
Toji nods. “Just a lil tipsy.”
“You don’t know how to get a little tipsy,” he responds, standing to his feet. He bends to pick up the plates, empty save for scattered bones and a bit of rice Megumi couldn’t finish.
Toji’s staring at the fabric of his uniform jacket when he turns around. He reaches out to thumb at it and feel it between his fingers and Megumi’s body stiffens. He looks down at him, brow knitting in the middle, but Toji’s eyes don’t leave his midsection. “I remember when uniforms used to be normal. What happened to ties and blazers and shit?”
Megumi’s fingers grow a bit damp where he holds onto the dishes. It sparks a bout of curiosity. Was the uniform different back then? He pictures Toji in a tie, in a blazer. Youthful and fast. Did he smile a lot? Was he smaller? Did he have a different haircut? Did he have his scar?
There’s so much he doesn’t know. Toji has no pictures of himself.
Toji tugs at the jacket, just a little bit forcefully, and Megumi stumbles forward. His eyes narrow, mouth parting already, tongue ready to lash out, always. But his breath stalls in his chest, throat tightening as Toji lifts the jacket up unceremoniously. No tact, no second thoughts. Casually, as though it doesn’t matter. Maybe it doesn’t. Still, his hands tremble where he holds the plates, knuckles paling where he grips them.
He can’t see how much of his stomach is revealed, but air does kiss the dip of his navel, does caress the developing thick, black hair that runs beneath it, disappearing into the ill-fitting band of his pants—Gojo’s voice plays in his mind, I bought you belts for this same reason, Megumi-chan, you can never control your weight. Hair, he’s noticing, is one thing he’s gotten from his father, as it has begun to grow in excess in places it once only dusted. Dark and thick enough to comb.
Toji’s knuckles brush the skin of his stomach. It caves in like an empty juice box. His head cocks slightly, and he melts deeper into the stained cushion of the couch, the hand knotted in Megumi’s jacket subsequently pulling him closer until he’s stood directly in between the ‘V’ of Toji’s legs. “They don’t make you wear undershirts?”
Megumi hopes his voice does not break. “Yeah.”
“Then why are you naked under it?” He asks, raising the jacket up further, the drag of his knuckles against Megumi’s skin making him fight not to squirm.
“Laundry,” he says, strained.
“This is the kind of shit they give you demerits for.” Toji’s eyes drag upward, locking onto Megumi’s.
Does he know a lot about demerits? Did he get them in high school? He can kind of see it–Toji as a delinquent. It’s believable. Smoking behind the school, shirt unbuttoned, tie loose.
Megumi holds his stare, knowing that if his hand goes up any further, Toji will feel the beat of his heart against his fingers. “How are they gonna see?”
Toji shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“Guess not. Not like you have tits.”
Megumi breaks his eyes away, steps backward, but Toji doesn’t let him go. “Stop being gross.”
Toji grins, lazy. “If you were a girl, maybe then I’d be worried.”
“You wouldn’t have anything to worry about. Can you just—”
“Wait, wait. You’re telling me I wouldn’t have to worry about boys flipping your shirt up? Times changed that much?”
Megumi thinks about it, even though he doesn’t want to.
Thinks about the girls at school, about their short navy skirts, and their knee-high socks. The delicate swells of their breasts, the pull of them near the middle. The plumpness of their lips. The sweet smell of their ponytails. Megumi’s brain isn’t so cross wired that he can’t understand what teenage boys are supposed to like. What they do like. He’s seen Yuuji ogle Nobara’s breasts more times than he can count, and he’s seen her scold him a million times over.
He’s seen the other boys at school put their phones on the floor face up, directly underneath the girls’ skirts. Has been silent in seeing it.
He isn’t so ill beyond repair that he hasn’t experienced it for himself, too.
He’s eyed the hem of Nobara’s skirt before. Has thought of his palm cupping the round swell of Miwa’s ass, so perfect in her trousers—trousers she probably wore to avoid the wrong kind of attention. She doesn’t know.
She doesn’t know but Megumi knows, Toji knows—men are vile.
It is injected into their veins from birth, even before birth, an internal sort of sickness, passed on generation to generation.
Megumi feels like he might throw up his lunch. “It’s not a big deal.”
Toji watches Megumi’s expression. He lets him go. “Wash your undershirts.”
The Itadori household isn’t loud, but it also isn’t quiet. Not like Megumi’s apartment. Yuuji’s mom likes her music loud, the instrumentals slow enough for her to sway her hips to every beat. Though–from what Yuuji’s said–Kaori Itadori hates cooking, she bakes often, every manner of bread, cake, cookies, so then when Megumi accepts Yuuji’s phone call, he expects the background noise of soft melodies, of an electric mixer.
It’s a video call. Yuuji is sweaty for reasons that aren’t clear. Maybe his evening jog. He exercises often and sometimes he does it with his older brother. Pale rose colored hair sticks to his forehead, his golden eyes peering into the camera excitedly.
“Fushiguro! I—”
Megumi’s wifi is shitty. His voice cuts in half, then smaller into quarters, a mess of broken words Megumi can’t make out. He lays face down on his side of the bed, eyes heavy. Toji’s been gone for a few hours, and Megumi won’t be able to wait up for him. He’s exhausted to his bones.
“I can’t hear you. I told you, the wifi sucks, you’re freezing.”
Yuuji says something that sounds like an apology. It takes a moment, but Yuuji’s pixelated face becomes clear, a figure just a few feet behind him. “Sorry. I just wanted to—Chosou-nii, what—”
Chosou, Yuuji’s eldest brother, asks, “Are you going in the shower now or…”
“I am, just—I’m trying to tell Fushiguro something. Is that onigiri?”
“Mhm. Got it from—”
“Itadori.” Megumi snaps.
“Sorry! Uh, just checking on you. Didn’t see you anymore after, um, Gojo-sensei kind of crashed our hang out. So.”
“I’m fine,” Megumi mumbles. “Thanks.”
Yuuji beams, scratching at his head, trying to set his phone down somewhere stable, Chosou still lingering near the doorway.“Good! Good, so. Um, I was supposed to tell you. Next weekend, we were planning on going to that club Nobara was talking about. Chosou-nii heard Nobara and I talking about it earlier, so he wants to come but, initially, it was actually Suku-nii’s idea. He’s coming back this week, finally, so…”
There’s a heavy weight on his body. This is the first thing Megumi registers as he’s coaxed from sleep. Disoriented, not knowing how or when he managed to fall asleep, Megumi is alarmed. The weight presses him deep into the mattress, seizing his lungs, making it hard for him to breathe. His eyelids, heavy, make it hard to blink. He blinks languidly, then rapidly as he comes back into consciousness. Frantic at the unknown heaviness that traps him, Megumi squirms, forcing his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the bedroom faster.
“Stop moving.” It’s a deep groan.
Toji.
His words are only a bit slurred.
Megumi can only stare into the void of pitch black, images starting to clear up, until he can see Toji’s face inches away from his, eyes peering down at him. “Stop, Gumi, it’s pissing me off.”
Maybe it’s the confusion, the lingering bewilderment of being yanked out of sleep, the heat of Toji’s body on him, the vagueness of his words—Megumi’s voice squeaks, “What are you doing?”
“Laying down,” Toji says, like Megumi’s stupid. “Trying to, but you won’t…stop moving. Just stop moving.”
“I can’t.” Megumi squirms again. “Move.”
“Stop,” Toji repeats, face much more visible now. Megumi can make out the glossiness of his eyes, heavy lidded no doubt from the alcohol, the curve of his nose, the pout of his mouth, the split of his scar running through it.
Megumi breathes, lungs constricted from Toji’s weight. “You’re crushing me. You’re crushing me, I can’t breathe.”
But though he complains, he remains stiff, and Toji dips his head to relax into the curve of Megumi’s neck, air huffing from his nose to heat Megumi’s skin. Now he’s sweating, despite the cool air around them. “Jus’ wanna be close to you.”
His breath heats him, the stale scent of beer wafting upward, and Megumi’s face grows warm.
Toji shifts, trying to fit his and Megumi’s bodies together like puzzle pieces. Like there might be a way for them to mesh together, into each other. Megumi shuts his eyes, body dead, mind dead, singularly focused on what is above him, what he’s doing to him. He tries to reassure himself, to say it’s normal, it’s normal, it’s normal, but even if it is, when Toji’s thigh finds the soft bulge of his crotch, and Megumi has to cut a high-pitched sound down in his throat before it can be released, it isn’t.
When he finally settles, thigh still pressed into where Megumi is most sensitive, Megumi can feel himself shaking, wonders if Toji can feel it too. If he can feel the stampede of his pulse where he’s planted into Megumi’s neck. His mouth is too dry to speak first.
“Sorry.”
Megumi winces. “For what?”
Toji seems to think about it. Then Megumi feels him smile a little. “Long list, huh?” Toji says, “Right now? Drinking. I had more than I thought I was g’nna. I didn’t wanna…didn’t wanna come home fucked up, but ‘s like, I couldn’t stop. I really didn’t wanna, G-hic-Gumi. Didn’t wan’you to be pissed at me.”
Megumi’s mouth pulls into a frown.
“Are you?” Toji asks.
Megumi’s eyes open. “…No.”
“Y’should be,” he mumbles. “You’re so good. I don’t know how you ended up so…fuckin’ good. Probably your mom. Or…Gojo, maybe. Gojo and fucking Getou.”
Megumi blinks at the ceiling. He mulls over Toji’s words, wonders if he really should be angry. Maybe he is angry. Maybe it’s just overshadowed by the soft joy and relief of him being back.
No matter how many times, it never goes away, the joy.
“Wanna ask you somethin’,” Toji says, mouth moving against Megumi’s neck, making him flinch. “You ever call him Dad?”
Megumi’s body stiffens in shock. “What?”
“Did you ever call him Dad?”
Megumi’s neck moves, not much, but enough for him to be able to see Toji’s face. Dark eyes stare at him, droopy, but stark. Serious. Pondering. “I…Gojo?” He breathlessly questions.
Toji nods. Then he says, “Or the other one. But Gojo, yeah.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Suddenly feeling like he’s somehow between a rock and a hard place, he answers the only way he knows how: honestly.
“Cause he’s…it never felt right,” Megumi admits. He thinks of porcelain skin, long legs, obnoxious laughs, and teasing remarks. Then long black hair. Kind eyes. The kind of warmth that Megumi never knew existed. The men that were there when he learned how to ride a bike. To write his name in cursive. Who held his hand when he fell and scraped his knees on gravel, when he refused to cry until he was alone. Megumi blinks away a wall of feelings, of emotions that feel like they have no place here. “I could’ve but…I don’t know. It never felt right.”
Toji’s face doesn’t give away much, making his words all the more cutting. “Yeah, cause he’s not your dad.”
Megumi’s eyebrows lift in a small bout of surprise at his tone. A tone he’s not used to from Toji. If he didn’t know better, he might think it’s jealousy. He might say his words are dunked in it, dripping with it. But because Toji doesn’t talk about Gojo much, just in passing remarks, dead remarks, void of any sort of emotion, though sometimes a bit sharp, sometimes a bit sarcastic Megumi thinks it’s him, his whirlwind of feelings, his struggle to separate Gojo from Toji, to keep them on either side of his brain–that is warping this.
Making it something it isn’t.
But…
“He’s not your dad, Megumi,” Toji repeats. “…I am.”
Megumi can’t find his voice.
“You know that right?”
“Toji…”
Toji’s silent for a moment. His voice is raw. “He wants you back.”
“Can you blame him? He…” raised me.
Toji looks away, almost meek, if Megumi could describe a man as brutish as him that way. Then he speaks again, telling no lies in his drunkenness. “You’re mine. You’re supposed to be…with me. Right?” The silence swells in the aftermath, you’re mine sticking onto Megumi’s brain like gum. Toji prompts, “Gumi.”
Megumi nods. “Yeah.”
“You wanna be here. With me. Right?”
“Yeah. Yes.”
Toji nods back. His words are so hollow, uncertain–uncharacteristic for someone like him. “I did the right thing. Comin’ back for you.”
Again, Megumi nods.
“And you’re not just sayin’ that cause…” He trails off.
”I want to be here, Toji.”
Toji nods. “Me too. I really, really…sometimes I just…maybe ‘s cause of all that time, but I just miss you. All the time. Even when you’re right here. ‘M sorry. I’m…so sorry, Gumi. But I jus’…love you.” Then he kisses Megumi on his cheek, hot, a little wet, uncoordinated from his inebriation.
Again, but a little off center, lower near his jaw. One on the bone of it.
Megumi makes a sound close to a grunt, only a little pitchier. Toji does it again.
Toji’s next words are spoken like an affirmation to himself alone. “Mine. You’re mine. Doesn’t fuckin’ matter. I get you when I want ‘cause I can, you’re mine.”
Megumi’s cock begins to fill, his body reacting to Toji’s show of affection, against his will, and disgusted at himself, Megumi turns his head away. It only makes Toji bury his face into his throat again.He inhales near the middle of it. “That fuckin’ body wash makes you smell like a girl.”
“Shut up,” Megumi croaks. Toji smiles into his skin. “Just…shut up.”
He shifts again, until his hip presses into Megumi’s erection.
“Wait—” but before he can say something, anything, before he can defend himself, dull snores vibrate on his throat.
Toji’s sleeping.
Megumi stares at the ceiling.
Air fills Megumi’s lungs to capacity.
He shuts his eyes so tight it hurts, lets the air bleed out of him, until he’s deflated, until he feels flat enough to disappear into nothing at all.