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Megumi cringes as his hand turns the doorknob. It’s still a struggle, as it would be for a 6 year old boy. His face is less fucked up than it was at school, but he still would rather avoid the whole explanation; Gojo can get… overbearing. He tiptoes into the apartment and shuts the door as quietly as possible.
It’s been 3 months since the strange teenager showed up, and took the two siblings in. Tsumiki was cautious for the first week, not leaving Megumi’s side as they moved flats to the teen’s bigger home. Unfamiliar, weird, unlike their old home. (Their flat was far dingier than this apartment, but Megumi refuses to see the benefits of a working household.) And when Megumi shared the story of the teen showing up unannounced, with his strange demeanor, general strangeness towards Megumi, Tsumiki was less than impressed by their new impromptu guardian.
She had been doing a good job, she didn’t need some student taking over when Tsumiki had it all handled on her side.
However, when he took over all their responsibilities, keeping on top of laundry with little reminders, cooking the worst food ever and then ordering out because of Megumi’s refusal to touch it, helping with school projects; she warmed up. He wasn’t home as often as other parents should be, but he’s there consistently. That was enough for Tsumiki. She still cooked for Megumi, for fear he’ll starve himself if he had to watch Gojo stumble around the kitchen daring to call the abomination he’s plating up for Megumi a ‘nutritious meal’.
Megumi can’t lie, her joy when Gojo let her go to a sleepover for the first time was something he won’t ever forget. She jumped and hugged the teen, knocking his glasses off his face with her intensity. It was the first time she ever cried from happiness, at least from Megumi’s memory. Being left alone for an hour with the teen was a sensible price to pay for Tsumiki’s sleepover.
Megumi still keeps reserved from the eccentric teen, not trusting him more than he has to, as the boy prefers to keep the teen at a distance. They have little in common, apart from sorcery. But Megumi is apparently ‘too young’ to be trained properly, so there goes their one link. Gojo’s own stupid rule. Maybe if he protests enough with his silence, Gojo will hurry his training…
This is the exact reason for his sneaking inside, trying to stay as quiet as possible as he gets to the bathroom. He can hear Gojo in the kitchen. ‘Whoever he gives all his failed meals to must be a poor soul’ Megumi thinks as he enters the bathroom and brings the stool over to the sink.
It is slightly noisy, Megumi winces. His face aches.
He climbs onto the stool, balancing himself. His knees are furiously red. It’s still strange seeing three toothbrushes in the cup, as well as toothpaste which isn’t on its last legs. It’s shiny and white and nothing like the one he’s been using beforehand. Another strange sight is a clean working sink, the metal tap polished and reflective, the sink pristine and white with no chunks missing. Megumi hates the shine he’s decided. If it’s Gojo’s, it’s bad.
He reaches up, standing on his tiptoes, to reach the medicine cabinet. It opens loudly and he cringes, glancing at the doorway. The clattering from the kitchen is constant. The smell is domestic, now that Megumi pays attention to it, and his stomach twists at the thought.
That man is still a stranger.
And a stupid one at that.
Megumi picks up the skin tone plasters and looks at his reflection in the mirror. His hair is disheveled like always (Gojo makes a habit of comparing him to random animals to exaggerate his hair’s style, which is immature. Who’s the child supposed to be again?), and he’s got a cut lip. His arms and legs are dirty from the ground, and some parts sting when they move.
(Most parts sting when they move, his eyes are shining with building tears.)
He turns on the tap and soaks his arms in the water, biting his lip to keep quiet. This is what he’s meant to do right? Surely. His tears blur his vision as the stinging worsens, an onslaught of water on his wounds may not have been the brightest of ideas. Oh well, mistakes are experience, or whatever Gojo says. Why he’s listening to Gojo advice is beyond—
“Megumi?”
He jumps, looking at the tall man who manifested in the doorway. His smile turns up into an amused smirk, a brow lifting in question. Megumi shuts the tap off and dabs his arms with the hand towel with swiftness, pointedly not looking his way any more.
“You need to stop scaring little kids, idiot.” He murmurs to himself, loud enough for Gojo to hear him anyway. Good.
Gojo leans to the side, taking a better look at Megumi’s face, who is vehemently trying to hide. Turning his back on Gojo should do the trick. With a sigh, Gojo reaches over Megumi’s head and takes out the antiseptic wipes and crouches in front of the stool.
“I can do it myself.” Megumi folds his arms, side eyeing Gojo as he opens the packet and takes out a wipe.
“Let me help anyway.” Gojo lifts the wipe up, looking up at Megumi. He holds his arms so close it’s like he’s hugging himself, shielding himself from the teen who is just a nuisance and not a threat at all. “Sit down Megs.”
Megumi only listens because his knees hurt, muttering quietly, “don’t call me that.” Gojo brings the wipe closer to Megumi’s knees and waits for the boy’s go ahead. From this angle, Megumi can see the aquamarine eyes, and their heavy gaze.
Gojo is strange like that. He’ll mess with Megumi’s hair, pinch at his cheeks, and not care about Megumi’s protests. He’ll pick Megumi up and insist on carrying him over to a different room even though Megumi would rather stay in his room with Tsumiki. But when Megumi gets into a fight, Gojo waits.
(There’s another strange thing about the teen. Megumi doesn’t know what his touch feels like. His fingers don’t touch his scalp when he messes with his hair, his hands don’t hold Megumi when he’s lifted, his fingers don’t touch him when they’re pinching his cheeks. There’s a constant barrier there.
It’s annoying, because he can’t push Gojo’s hands away if they’re untouchable.
It’s annoying because Megumi can’t feel anything when Gojo is close but impossibly far away from his little fingers.)
Megumi huffs and kicks his leg to swing, giving the go ahead. Gojo dabs the wipe across the dirt and red skin, his characteristic smile gone, replaced with concentration. Megumi fiddles with his fingers to ignore the stinging of the wipe. Stray tears fall as Gojo begins to clean his arms, so Megumi decides to shut his eyes tightly when Gojo starts cleaning his hands.
Each wipe he uses is worse than the last one, stinging his skin worse than his falls. Megumi scrunches his face when a wipe rubs at his cheeks, a quiet chuckle comes out of Gojo. If his palms didn’t sting like hell, Megumi would try to punch him. Try, and fail, but still try anyway.
“What happened Megumi?” Gojo asks, rubbing the tear tracks off of Megumi’s cheeks with his thumbs.
(Not his thumbs, Megumi doesn’t feel any warmth from the touch. It’s just the barrier.)
Megumi wipes his eyes and sniffles, shrugging. He avoids looking at Gojo, instead staring at his knees. There’s no dirt on his legs anymore, just his red skin. Gojo doesn’t catch the hint, like always, and his heavy eyes don’t leave Megumi.
“Was this outside of school?” Gojo asks, leaning down to try and catch Megumi’s eyes, but the boy just turns his head away. Gojo holds back a resigned sigh. “You can tell me, you know I won’t be mad.”
Megumi stares at the bottom of the doorframe to the bathroom, counting all the specks of black. Gojo looks there also, taps his fingers on his leg, then stands up and puts the unused wipes away, binning the dirty ones. Megumi dries his eyes again and sniffles. He won, for now.
“Okay kiddo, let’s get you some ice for that busted lip of yours.” Gojo puts on his smile, and Megumi huffs, walking into the kitchen.
Gojo cleaned the apartment, Megumi notes. He has also moved some stuff from his and Tsumiki’s old place he notices, walking past the picture frames of his mother and his sister. He stares up at it as Gojo walks past.
(Megumi will ignore how his heart races at the thought of Gojo being here all day. He’s not free ever, always on missions but here he is, cleaning, cooking, a constant presence.
He feels like Tsumiki might be the reason for it.
She did have that nightmare last week.)
“I put the rest of your stuff in your room, decorate it however you want.” He says, messing with Megumi’s hair.
Megumi doesn’t feel the touch, scowling. He huffs and follows after Gojo, glaring at the back of his head. He climbs up onto his chair as Gojo hums cheerily to himself and grabs some frozen peas from the freezer. On the table, Megumi can see Gojo’s phone light up with a call.
He can’t read the name for the life of him, just learning Hiragana.
Gojo walks over and notices his concentrated stare with an amused smile. “Can you read it?”
Megumi huffs and crosses his arms, looking away. Gojo gently places the bag against Megumi’s face, not commenting on his flinch from the cold. Braving the cold doesn’t last much longer when Gojo provides Megumi a cloth so he can hold the bag himself as he answers his phone. Megumi managed to sneak a look, to see Gojo has 56 missed calls. That number makes his stomach twist at the thought. He’s been here all day—
Gojo says something about being right back and goes into his room, closing the door after himself as he answers the phone with a melodic “Ijichi~”.
Megumi hops off the chair and follows after him quietly, pressing his ear against his door to listen in. He knows Gojo is busy being the strongest sorcerer, that his job is dangerous which is why he’s gone for so long; because only he can handle it. He often jokes that dealing with the kids is harder than exorcising curses.
His job is hard though, that’s without doubt. It’s stamped by how many times he comes home bloody and stinky, immediately starting the washing machine to clean his clothes. Taking a shower to get rid of the smell of blood and evil. The first time he showed up all bloody, Megumi and Tsumiki didn’t say anything. Tsumiki only asked if it wasn’t his, if he was hurt.
Gojo looked pained at the question. Megumi wonders why.
So him missing 56 calls is a big deal, Megumi knows that. He wonders why he’d rather stay home and clean and cook and deal with Megumi’s silent treatment than save people. He doesn’t make sense, Gojo is so strange.
The conversation is muffled, Gojo is keeping his voice low. He can probably see Megumi at the door, trying to listen in. Megumi wishes he could spy without being spied on back, urgh, so troublesome. ‘Ijichi’s voice is also quiet over the phone, it always is,’ Megumi thinks; it’s because the man is scared of Gojo. Surely. Gojo usually is brash over the phone with the colleague, teasing him ceaselessly.
He huffs, annoyed at not being able to listen in, so he leaves for his room. Megumi spends the time organising his stuff, not holding the bag to his lips anymore. It feels numb enough anyway. Mangas, a picture album, some of his old clothes. It really isn’t much, but Megumi doesn’t mind. Sure, he doesn’t mind. It’s his, and it’s here, that’s all that matters. Materialism hasn’t dwelled on his mind, especially with the exceptional lack of personality Gojo’s barren walls hold when the teen is exceptionally loud and bombastic. He doesn’t care to ask.
Darkness begins to fill Megumi’s room around 18 o’clock, and Gojo knocks on his door shortly after. Megumi frowns confused, ‘didn’t he get called for a mission?’
“Gumi?” He sing songs his nickname. “Dinner is ready.”
He puts the manga down onto his bedside drawer and holds the now warm pea bag with him as he opens the door, looking up at Gojo with the same confused look.
‘We never eat together.’ He thinks, remembering all the dinners Gojo buys or supervises the making of before promptly leaving Tsumiki and Megumi, wishing them a goodnight. It makes no sense.
“What’s with that look?” Gojo has his glasses down on his nose, eyes bright. He grumbles, skin prickling with the stare, and pushes past Gojo for the kitchen. Gojo rolls his eyes and says something under his breath while Megumi climbs onto his chair. Before him is his bowl, steaming with vegetables and meat and flavour and opposite Megumi, the other ready seat has a steaming bowl too. Gojo’s eating with him. His phone is still lighting up with an unreadable name. It makes no sense.
Gojo followed after him, helping push Megumi’s chair closer to the table, then taking the bag of peas and returning them to the freezer. He sits at his seat. His barely used seat because he’s never here, why is he here now, what changed? Megumi can be by himself, it’s nothing new, so why today?
“Don’t you have work?” Megumi asks quietly, staring at Gojo as he put his phone into his pocket. Gojo looks up at him, the same small smile on his face that he keeps every day around the kids. Tight lipped, hiding secrets from the world like a chasm will open under him if he seems genuine for a second. Megumi scowls at his smile.
“Not right now. Now eat up, I think this is the best ramen in the world, but I need your verdict, my hungry hedgehog.” Gojo winks, picking up his chopsticks to start eating.
Megumi wants to keep asking, he opens his mouth to question Gojo more, but no words come out. It’s strange. Gojo is strange. The ramen at least smells nice, as Megumi picks up his chopsticks and starts eating. Gojo smiles at him, a warmer one, when Megumi keeps eating, and it makes him forget about his bruises. The ramen is nice, the flavour is present but not overbearing, the noodles are well cooked, and the sound of Gojo slurping broth in front of him feels like a warm blanket around Megumi. He could get used to this, an actual meal and not an onslaught on your taste buds, the stupid nicknames, the warm smile. Megumi forgets all his bruises and cuts, slipping out of him like his hunger. Satiated, comfortable, in company.
Before he even knows it, his eyelids are dropping as the ramen warms his stomach, and his bowl is being cleaned by Gojo. He doesn’t remember finishing eating or Gojo taking his bowl, in actuality, but that’s alright. Megumi rubs his eyes and yawns, looking over at Gojo who is cheerily humming a song to himself. It’s the same one each time, but Megumi still doesn't know the words. Another mystery for him to solve.
“Sleepy little sea urchin aren’t you, Gumi? C’mon, it’s time for bed.” Gojo doesn’t turn around when speaking to the boy, but Megumi can still feel his look. He huffs and climbs off his chair, walking to his room lazily. He doesn’t have the motivation to brush his teeth, but he still gets his pjs on and waddles to the bathroom. The stool is still there where he left it, and the sink still looks clean.
Climbing up and looking in the mirror, his face looks better, less swollen. It’s a numb reminder of his fight. He grabs his toothbrush, toothpaste, and starts brushing his teeth. Gojo is still home, cleaning up the kitchen from dinner. Megumi brushes his teeth progressively with more aggression. He fails at not focusing on the memory of the fight. The mint taste does nothing to soothe the venom in his mouth, the sour taste left by everyone’s words.
His hands start shaking, as his blood boils with that red hot rage, replaying the entire thing in his head. Unforgiving. Hateful. His vision blurs with hot tears, thinking of those stupid faces jeering his way. Disrespectful. Hurtful. Megumi’s whole body shakes as he glares forwards, unseeing, hearing those idiots call him loveless, parentless, punching him down figuratively and physically. Red hot rage, as he remembers biting and kicking, screaming and spitting. Running and crying. Tsumiki helps soothe him after these kinds of fights, where the other kids have no heart and bully his sister and Megumi for their lack of domestic stability.
(Megumi ears ring with the sound of his angry heart that he doesn’t hear Gojo still home, still busy with something in the apartment rather than leaving for a mission.)
Megumi spits, washing his mouth out with water, rubbing at his eyes furiously. He can deal with it, he’s six years old. That’s basically seven which basically means he’s at least nine and if he’s nine he might as well be ten. Point is, he’s old enough to deal with this without Tsumiki. He sure wishes she was here, she always knows what to say in these moments. His chest hurts, his throat burns with pressure, but he can handle it. Megumi leaves the bathroom and quickly goes to storm to his room, but he wasn’t quick enough as Gojo blocks the door with his leg, jacket on.
So he is finally leaving for a mission.
“Hey-“
Megumi tries pushing Gojo’s leg, cutting him off with a frustrated grunt, as he can’t quite reach the leg. Because of the barrier. Because Gojo is untouchable, and Megumi might never know what he feels like. “Megumi what’s up?” Gojo tries again, only to be met with violent kicks at his Infinity, trying to move him from blocking Megumi’s room. “Did something—“
“Stop pretending you care!” Megumi snaps, glaring at those dark glasses, hoping Gojo can feel his wrath despite the barrier. He kicks again, a sob bubbling out from his frustration. “You’re not my dad so don’t pretend like you are! I don’t need you, I didn’t need you before- we didn’t need you before, so we don’t need you now!” He breathes, trying to keep shouting despite his uncontrollable crying, each word hiccuped and sandwiched with a sob. “Just go and leave me alone!” He screams finally.
Gojo doesn’t budge, a flat frown on his face. Megumi keeps huffing, trying to stop crying. He tries shoving the leg, then runs into the unused master bedroom with his failed attempt, slamming the door shut. His lungs fail to keep up with his movements, as he struggles for air between his anger and sobbing. Megumi could never climb up onto this bed without assistance, the frame raised and towering over him. Not like Gojo even uses it. He’s never home.
Megumi’s eyes burn again, and he runs into the walk in wardrobe, hiding among the clothes. They smell of Gojo’s cologne, a simple scent that is unlike his over the top personality. He grabs one of the looser sweaters hung up above him and pulls it down to hug, to cry into, to muffle his crying into. It.. he has no excuse.
His hands shake, as his brain relentlessly replays the entire fight, the entire outburst. Unforgiving. His vision blurs with hot tears, thinking about those stupid faces jeering, shoving him around, mocking him. They had parents who stayed because they were loved, and who could love Megumi? Megumi the ungrateful brat who slaps at Gojo’s barrier to get him away, who grumbles rather than answering questions from his big sister, who snaps at anyone who gives him the wrong look. Megumi, whose father left him before he could commit his presence to memory, whose mother died or disappeared, an obscure lore to his family history, whose step-mother ran off.
His fingers grip the sweater with all their might as he buries his head into it, trying to forget how his stomach hurt when they jeered, how his heart hurt when Gojo was by the door, how his knuckles burned when he punched them back. In the end Megumi will be left in the shadows like usually, Tsumiki isn’t here. He wishes she was. He wished a lot about people, for them to stay, for them to hug him, for them to put up with his personality and love him despite it. The sweater kinda acts like a hug, if he imagines a warmth filling it rather than being just fabric.
He wails louder into the sweater, the smell overtaking his olfactory receptors with their familiarity. The smell brings him to a late night where Megumi was trying to rush his art project because Tsumiki wanted to go out to the park on the weekend. His eyes were struggling to stay open, and the glue was not coming off of his fingers. He vaguely remembers Gojo coming home and teasing him for staying up way past his bedtime. But Gojo didn’t send him to bed. Gojo is strange like that. The strange teen sat with him and helped, cutting up shapes for Megumi to stick, correcting his sleepy writing. Megumi remembers the smell drawing closer, and feeling sleep take over him. On the weekend he woke up in his own bed with his blanket and plushies, finding Gojo passed out on the couch with dirtier clothes.
Gojo likes his cologne, Megumi knows that very well. He knows it from how rarely Gojo wears it, saying it’s a habit to not use things he likes. To keep them preserved. This sweater smells like it though, and Megumi has a strong urge to wear it, knowing he’ll look ridiculous but warm. Abnormal but he’d smell of the cologne. He wouldn’t look in the mirror, but he’ll smell of the cologne. Megumi sniffles and presses it closer to his chest, ducking his head into the fabric more as he hears the door knob turn to the room.
Megumi tries his best to hold his breath, but instead it comes out in erratic hiccups of gasping and shaky exhales. Gojo hums to himself that same song, walking around the room. “I missed your graduation from hiding under the bed Megumi, we should celebrate.” He casually says, a smile in his words. Megumi’s cheeks continue to wet, his eyes continue to flood tears.
He backs up into the wall of the wardrobe, hiding among the things that smell of Gojo, hiding in the shadows, as the door slowly opens. Gojo still looks as ready as he was beforehand, minus his shoes. He took those off for whatever reason, which Megumi didn’t care to find out. He was busy hiding in the wall, in the shadows, in Gojo’s sweater. He can’t see the teen anymore, face buried in the soft fabric, but he can hear. Gojo approaches tentatively, and crouches a little in front of Megumi.
“What’s up Gumi?” Gojo says the softest he’s ever spoken, the smile in his words more faint but fonder. At least, maybe, Megumi has only hears Tsumiki speak fondly to him. About him. Gojo is too strange to figure out. He tries hiding more, turning his body so he’s facing the wall a lot more. Gojo doesn’t move to stop him, his presence towering but.. different.
Megumi is used to sensing the power roll off of Gojo like a waterfall, like he’s bursting with immense strength constantly. He’s used to how the teachers as well exert their power on him, threatening behaviour sanctions if he doesn’t listen. But Gojo is actively trying to suppress that power, to hide it from Megumi.
It makes him peek out of the sweater a little, to see if he’s really there. Gojo’s smile grows a little at seeing his face, turning his head so they’re seeing each other eye to eye, but it makes Gojo look like a weird giraffe bending its neck to look at the little jackal in the corner of its wardrobe.
“What happened at school?” Gojo tries again, keeping his voice soft and quiet. Megumi feels more tears well up, and he hides again so Gojo doesn’t see the tears. Gojo comes a little closer, Megumi can hear him awkwardly shuffle and move the hanged clothes to make space for himself. Annoying, like usual. A quiet part of the boy is glad for Gojo’s insistence, not that he could admit it.
“Nuffin,” Megumi mumbles into the sweater. Gojo chuckles and parrots back the answer, amused and unconvinced.
“Megumi, I’m not angry with you.” Gojo stresses, shuffling a little closer. Megumi can hear his soft breaths now. He wishes he could believe him.
“‘S nothing Gojo,” Megumi sniffles, voice wavering dangerously. He should apologise, before it’s too late. Before Gojo does listen and leaves him, and Tsumiki. She was so happy, of course Megumi had to ruin it. Of course unloveable, grumpy, violent Megumi ruined the one thing that made his sister the happiest she’s ever been. Gojo will leave, or worse he’ll kick them out, and Megumi will be sold off somewhere. Or he and Tsumiki stay out on the streets, freezing, hungry, and loveless.
“Hey hey little susuwatari,” Gojo’s hand holds his shaking shoulder. He’s crying more, huh. Megumi tries to shrug his hand off, and there’s a small struggle. He mumbles something into the sweater, but Gojo in his strongest status, in his infinite wisdom, did not hear.
“You don’t have to pretend,” Megumi lifts his face to be a little more clear, eyes shining bright with tears. His lip wobbles, and he keeps looking at Gojo to see if he goes. Gojo’s smile falls back into a small frown, and he sits down properly in front of Megumi, reaching out his hand but giving up half way and placing it on the ground between them.
“What makes you think I’m pretending, Megumi?” Gojo asks, voice quiet.
Megumi fidgets, sniffling more. His chest is still flurrying for breath, and Gojo doesn’t rush him. Tsumiki has mentioned time and time again that Megumi needs to learn how to talk about his big feelings, a lot of which he’s feeling right now. But his throat feels funny, and his stomach is upset, and his face still stings. Those bullies with their happy families jeer at him in his mind, and he sniffles aggressively. He’s probably ruining the sweater.
“Because I’m unlovable,” he whispers into the air, gripping the sweater with all his might, not looking up at Gojo. Gojo looks appalled at the reason, and Megumi balls up into himself more. “Megumi you’re not-“
“Then why can’t I touch you?”
That’s not the main reason, but Gojo doesn’t need to know that. Gojo doesn’t need to know that Megumi lies awake each night hoping his dad comes back, that his mum comes back, that his parents do love him and made a mistake leaving. Gojo doesn’t need to know that Megumi fights more than the school catches, than he catches, and that Megumi has gotten good at hiding bruises from adults because they’ll get in the way. Gojo doesn’t need to know that Megumi wishes more than anything for Gojo to stay home longer, to stick around and play board games with them, help them with homework, take them out for fun days out. Gojo doesn’t need to know that Megumi would love nothing more than people to stay.
With the broken look in Gojo’s eyes, Megumi worries that he might already know.
The silence rolls over the two in the wardrobe. Gojo breaks eye contact and stares at his hand on the floor, and Megumi follows his gaze. No matter how many times Gojo explains his cursed technique to Megumi, he never quite gets it. He only knows that Gojo is untouchable, and that it must mean he wants nothing to do with anyone. Because Tsumiki hugs Megumi and holds his hand, and it’s nice. No one else does that. Because only Tsumiki could love such a monster like Megumi.
He hiccups on another breath.
Gojo’s hand lifts and pokes Megumi’s wet cheek. He stares at the strange teen bewildered, his finger finally touching skin. There is no more barrier, no more untouchable. Just like that. Megumi wraps his hand around Gojo’s finger, vision clearing. The skin is soft and warm, and it’s available, so Megumi takes Gojo’s entire hand and holds it. Memorises the feeling of the warm skin against his, his sniffling slowing, sitting up to get a better leverage. Gojo’s hand is big, much bigger than his. He could easily wrap his fingers around Megumi’s fist and his hand would disappear like a magic trick.
“I’m sorry Megumi,” Gojo breaks the quiet, demeanour of a guilty dog. His blue eyes are filled with such sadness that Megumi argues it rivals his own sorrows. “It wasn’t on purpose, I just forget it’s there sometimes.”
Megumi nods, still fascinated by the big hand. It’s so real. Not just a throwaway wish, real, tangible, he’s feeling it. Gojo opens his other arm, a silent invitation that Megumi can’t see himself refusing. He charges into Gojo’s chest, almost sending him toppling backwards with a huff of punched out air. Megumi’s arms don’t reach around Gojo completely as he hugs him, but that’s ok, because Gojo’s do.
It’s very warm. Megumi’s face is red with embarrassment, his heart racing, so he tries to hide in Gojo’s chest, the sweater forgotten on the floor. Who needs warm fabric when Gojo is finally reachable. He doesn’t smell of his cologne, no surprise there, but maybe Megumi smells of it enough to move the scent over.
Gojo holds him close in the hug, arms protectively around Megumi’s body, enveloping completely. It’s beyond warm, it’s smothering in the safest ways possible, and Megumi couldn’t ask for smoothing better.
He peeks out when Gojo pulls out his phone and starts quickly texting, unconsciously tightening his grip on Gojo’s shirt. His heart squeezes, his stomach ties itself, and it’s going away too soon, that’s not fair.
Megumi is ready to kick at him, to punch him, make Gojo understand his transgressions, but he puts his phone away just as quickly and looks at Megumi with a bright smile.
“Want to watch a film?”
Megumi is nestled in Gojo’s side under a blanket as they watch Spirited Away. Megumi has never seen it, and Gojo was so offended that he forgot about all the other options and put it on.
“You’re exactly like the susuwatari- don’t give me that look, you really are! The resemblance is uncanny!” Gojo said, nestling Megumin into his side.
The halfway point was when Megumi fell asleep, warm and comforted, and Gojo didn’t notice until near the climax of the film. He didn’t move to disturb the boy, he stayed valiantly still until the credits rolled, and he could finally pick the sleeping sea urchin up.
Megumi held onto Gojo’s shirt even when placed in his bed, and made a face when Gojo tried to pry him off. “So clingy,” he murmured to himself with a fondness inexplicably large. So instead of waking the sleeping gremlin up, Gojo just slept next to him, leaning against his bed. It wasn’t the most comfortable, his back was aching when he finally woke up, but the satisfied smile on the boy’s face was enough to make it all worth it.
Maybe over breakfast Megumi will feel safe enough to tell Gojo what happened to his face. He’d just have to stay and find out.