Chapter Text
Gojo Satoru, Age 42
The Canadian mountains were quiet at night. Too quiet for someone who had once lived in Tokyo.
Gojo Satoru sat on the veranda of his villa, a half-finished glass of whisky at his side, watching the snow drown the world in silence. He had never married, never taken a proper mate. People assumed it was because of his work, his cursed bloodline, his Six Eyes. But the truth sat somewhere deeper, heavier, hidden beneath thirteen years of carefully folded memories.
His phone buzzed on the armrest beside him, its screen glowing faintly against the dark.
Shoko.
He hesitated before answering, then pressed the call through.
“Yo,” her voice crackled through, dry as ever. “Still alive up there in your frozen cave?”
“Barely,” Satoru drawled, leaning back. “I miss Tokyo ramen more than I miss civilization.”
“That’s a lie,” Shoko said flatly. “You miss chaos. Admit it.”
“Chaos misses me,” he countered. It was an old dance, familiar and worn smooth by years apart. They exchanged small talk—gossip about the school, the higher-ups, the mess left behind by the younger generation.
But beneath every easy reply, Satoru was circling a single thought he couldn’t voice.
He wanted to ask about him.
Wanted to know if Megumi was well.
If he was still angry. If he still remembered the way Satoru had reached out and Megumi had turned away.
He wanted to ask — but pride, that wretched thing, held his tongue hostage.
And then Shoko said, casually, like it was nothing:
“Oh, by the way, Satoru… Megumi’s having a baby.”
The world fell silent.
Or maybe it was just him.
For a second, he thought he’d misheard. Then Shoko’s words slid in like knives, slow and deliberate:
“I said Megumi’s pregnant.”
The whisky glass slipped from his hand, rolling noiselessly into the snow. No sound came out of his mouth. He tried, but nothing fit. Nothing made sense. His throat clenched like it might close forever if he forced out more than a single syllable.
“Oh.”
It was all he could manage.
“Oh,” as if any other word would choke him to death. As if his lungs had forgotten how to breathe. His chest ached, sharp and unfamiliar, and yet it felt like this pain had been waiting, crouched beneath his ribs, for years.
His heart wasn’t breaking now.
It had broken a long time ago.
“Who…” he rasped, voice fraying. “Shoko… who’s—”
“With Yuta,” she said gently. “They’re getting married next month.”
There was nothing left to say.
“I see,” Satoru murmured finally, the words fragile in his mouth.
It was, indeed, too late.
His Megumi had found a different Alpha.
He had no plans of returning to Japan that year—had sworn he wouldn’t—but Yuta’s wedding invitation arrived anyway, polite, formal, cruel. He was going to decline. Of course he was. But then, during the call, Yuta’s voice blurred in the background:
“Megumi, he’s on the line—it’s Gojo-sensei!”
And then, faint but unmistakable, came the reply:
“Oh. Say hi to him for me.”
He missed...missed that voice. He said yes before he could stop himself.
When he landed at Narita Airport, Ijichi was waiting — dependable as ever — and beside him, a boy. Ten years old. Pink hair. Grey eyes.
“Yuuto,” Satoru breathed, guilt curling like smoke in his chest.
The child spotted him instantly, bright as sunlight, and sprinted forward.
“Toru!” Yuuto laughed, barreling into him. “You came back!”
“Hey, little guy,” Gojo managed, lifting him easily into his arms. He tried to smile—for Yuuto’s sake—but his gaze snagged on the boy’s soft curls, his wide grin, his familiar scent.
His son.
The accident.
The regret.
An Alpha’s rut tangled by Sukuna’s manipulation, Yuuji’s heat triggered like a trap, and they knotted on that evening.
He had tried, gods he had tried, to make it work with Yuuji, to honor his omega's pride—to be a proper father, a proper mate, to build a family out of broken instinct. Two years of trying. Two years of pretending.
But in the end, he couldn’t.
Because loving or being with Yuuji had never been an option.
Because the moment Yuuto was born, the truth had sharpened into clarity:
He’d been in love with someone else all along. He was just denying it even before the accident with Yuuji.
And Megumi had suffered for his weakness and stupidity.
He remembered the last time they spoke.
Megumi had just turned eighteen. Satoru had called him over the phone, furious when Ijichi had told him.
Megumi announced he was leaving Tokyo to travel with Yuta.
“Why?” Satoru demanded. “Why him? Why now?”
There was a pause. Then Megumi’s voice—quiet, steady, unflinching:
“Because I’ve loved you for so long, Gojo-sensei, not as a guardian...but as an Alpha to have and hold… and I can’t watch you with Yuuji anymore. It hurts.”
Satoru had said nothing. Could say nothing. Because hearing Megumi say he had loved him as an alpha all these years had made his heart shatter.
“It’s not your fault,” Megumi whispered. “It’s just… mine. I'm sorry, I don't want to look badly at you both...Good bye Gojo-sensei”
"Wait--Megumi!"
There was a click sound, and the line was dead.
And they hadn’t seen each other since then, and the last time they had a moment together was after the fight with Sukuna.
The ride was quiet.
Too quiet for Satoru Gojo.
In the past, he would have bled Ijichi’s ears dry, filling the car with useless chatter, sarcastic commentary, wild stories that left the driver groaning by the end of the first toll gate. But now, he sat in the backseat, head leaning against the window, snow-melted city lights blurring past in cold streaks.
Yuuto, at least, was talking enough for both of them.
“…and then Higuruma-san said I should join the debate team, but I told him I’d rather stick with Higuruma-jiji’s training! Oh—and I beat Kazuma-senpai during sparring last week! You should’ve seen it, Dad, it was so cool—”
Satoru hummed softly, nodding when appropriate, but most of the words passed through him like mist. He glanced at Yuuto in the reflection of the window, watching the boy’s animated expression, the light in his grey Gojo eyes—his omega-mother’s cheer, his Alpha-father’s bloodline.
“Hiromi’s been training you personally?” Satoru asked finally.
Yuuto nodded eagerly. “Uh-huh! He says my stance still sucks but I’m fast. He makes me read court cases too.” The boy beamed, proud. “He said if I don’t die like you almost do all the time, maybe I could be a lawyer someday.”
Satoru chuckled under his breath, though it came out hollow. “Sounds like Higuruma,” he murmured.
And he meant it.
Hiromi Higuruma, brilliant defense attorney turned jujutsu lawyer, had stepped into Yuuji’s life three years after their separation — and, by extension, into Yuuto’s. Between him and Satoru, Higuruma was the one Yuuto saw more. The one who showed up for school recitals. The one who made sure his homework was done. The one who knew the names of his friends and their parents.
A better father, in all the ways that counted.
Satoru told himself he was glad for that. Truly, he was. Yuuto deserved stability. Yuuji deserved happiness. And yet… somewhere deep beneath the acceptance, a small, selfish part of him burned.
Everyone had moved on with their lives.
Except him.
When Yuuto had just turned two, his relationship with Yuuji had already begun to fray—slowly, quietly, like cloth unraveling at the seams. They didn’t fight, not really. There were small arguments, yes, but Yuuji never screamed, never confronted. The cheerful omega would only pout, soft and quiet, and retreat into silence until the tension passed. If it were Megumi, he would have tried punching him.
Satoru had adored Yuuji once. Fond of him as a student first, then grateful for his warmth, his strength, his resilience despite the cursed fate of housing Sukuna. But there had never been a label, never a vow, never the bond Yuuji deserved.
The higher-ups and Gojo Elders had proposed marriage after Yuuto was born—formalising the accident into something respectable, they’d called it, but the date was pushed again and again. Until, one day, Yuuji understood without Satoru saying a word: "You don't really love me, do you?" The pink-haired boy had asked one day.
"Yuuji- I'm sorry..." was the only word he could utter. The Omega's smell had soured, and Yuuji shed tears, shaking. Satoru thought he should have been outright and straightforward at the very start. Then both of them wouldn't have been hurt like this
It was never going to happen with Yuuji. After all, from the very beginning, it was all lust, heat and rut-induced that they got into this mess.
They parted on quiet terms. Satoru supported Yuuto financially, ensured Yuuji could focus on himself, and when Hiromi entered Yuuji’s life, he watched from the sidelines as they built something new together.
It was for the best.
It had to be.
Because loving Yuuji was never the reason his heart beat the way it did.
Megumi was.
Always had been.
And Megumi… wanted nothing to do with him anymore.
Even after he turned eighteen, after the call and fight that fractured everything, Megumi avoided him—always busy, always elsewhere, always just beyond reach.
Satoru didn’t chase him.
Couldn’t.
Not when he’d been the one to break his heart.
He’d told himself, over and over, that Megumi deserved freedom, deserved space, deserved to live unburdened by the Alpha who’d failed him.
And so years passed like this—avoidance settling into silence, silence hardening into distance, distance crystallizing into inevitability.
Until now.
Until his wedding to his successor.
Satoru’s hand rested loosely against the car window, fingers curling slightly against the cold glass as Tokyo’s skyline came into view. His reflection stared back at him — older, sharper around the edges, silver threading faintly at his temples, but still recognizably him. Still Gojo Satoru.
He almost laughed at the thought.
The great Gojo Satoru, strongest in the world, undefeated in battle, unshaken by curses and death alike — and yet… one boy had undone him completely.
Tomorrow, he would see Megumi again.
Tomorrow, Megumi would be wearing another Alpha’s mark.
Tomorrow, the smile he once wanted all to himself would belong to someone else.
He told himself he was ready.
He told himself he would smile and nod and pretend.
But in the quiet of the car, with Yuuto’s chatter fading into background noise and Ijichi stealing glances through the rearview mirror, Satoru closed his eyes and breathed through the ache, wondering how many more times he could survive losing Megumi.
The next day...
Satoru Gojo had been to hundreds of weddings.
Clan affairs. Diplomatic farces. The occasional “strategic bonding ceremony” designed to merge cursed techniques into future heirs. He’d always loathed them — the suffocating perfume, the layers of hypocrisy hidden under polite smiles, the endless rows of self-important elders vying for scraps of power.
But he’d never hated one until today.
Because today, Megumi was the one standing at the altar and not with him.
The temple bells were ringing when he arrived, low and steady, each peal rolling across the courtyard like distant thunder.
Satoru stood at the base of the shrine steps for a long moment, sunglasses in hand, staring up at the paper lanterns swaying in the late spring breeze. The air was heavy with incense, the faint sweetness of azaleas curling against the sharp tang of rain-soaked stone.
He could hear the soft hum of voices inside — guests murmuring greetings, ceremonial prayers being whispered over sacred water, Yuta’s easy laugh somewhere near the front.
And then, through the noise, he heard it.
Megumi’s voice.
He almost didn’t recognize it at first.
Deeper now. Softer, too. The sharp edges he remembered had worn down, smoothed by time. But still undeniably him — the same measured cadence, the same low timbre that always somehow cut through chaos.
Satoru’s chest tightened.
Ijichi hovered beside him, uncertain, as if sensing the quiet storm gathering under Satoru’s calm facade. Yuuto fidgeted with his tiny formal jacket, oblivious to the weight of the moment, his bright pink hair catching stray beams of light.
“You don’t have to—” Ijichi began.
“I know.” Satoru slipped his sunglasses back on. “But I want to.”
And he climbed the steps.
Inside, the shrine was warm, light pooling through shōji screens and gilded carvings. Candles burned low in ceremonial holders, their flames bending with each shift of air. Rows of guests in pale silks and deep clan crests sat aligned like chess pieces on tatami mats, whispers falling quiet when Satoru entered.
It had always been like that.
Gojo Satoru walked into a room, and the world tilted.
Except this time, he felt none of the power that usually came with it.
This time, he only felt… small.
Because there, at the center of the shrine, stood Megumi.
He looked older now.
Not a boy anymore, but a man — poised, deliberate, luminous in the way quiet strength always is. Of course he would be; Megumi had always been beautiful, even when he’d been small enough to fit beneath Satoru’s palm. But now that beauty had sharpened, deepened, grown into something breathtaking.
And to Satoru, it was all wrong.
The ceremonial black robes hung perfectly across his shoulders, the fabric folded in precise, careful lines that spoke of tradition and permanence. The silk framed him with an elegance that made Satoru’s throat tighten—but his eyes kept catching on the subtle curve at Megumi’s waist. The way his hand rested there, almost unconsciously, light and protective.
Satoru’s breath hitched before he could stop it.
Pregnant.
Shoko hadn’t been lying.
He couldn’t look away. His gaze followed the smooth line of Megumi’s profile, the neat knot of dark hair pulled high at the back of his head, a few rebellious strands spilling free to brush against pale skin. His expression was composed, carved from quiet stone, that same guarded stillness he’d worn since childhood whenever the weight of the world pressed too hard against him.
Megumi was pregnant and still, he was so beautiful. Not in the delicate, fleeting way the elders admired, but in that quiet, unyielding way that had always belonged to him alone. Unmoving even when the whole world expected him to bend.
Satoru forced himself to stand straighter, slipping his hands into his pockets as though he could hide the tremor in his fingers. Around him, whispers drifted like gnats:
“Gojo-dono came after all…”
“Late as usual.”
“Do you suppose he’ll cause trouble?”
He ignored them. He had to. Because if he so much as breathed too loudly, the fragile thing holding him together would splinter.
But then Yuta leaned close, murmuring something only Megumi could hear.
And Megumi smiled.
Small. Fleeting. Fragile, like the first thaw of winter sunlight.
And Satoru thought, wildly, stupidly—
That should’ve been mine.
“Gojo-sensei,” Yuta greeted warmly when their eyes finally met, offering the respectful bow of a groom-to-be. “I’m glad you came.”
Satoru swallowed the bitterness on his tongue, forcing his lips into something like a grin. “Wouldn’t miss it,” he said lightly, though his voice cracked halfway through.
Megumi turned then, finally—and Satoru felt thirteen years of memories slam into him all at once.
That steady gaze.
Those impossible storm-dark eyes.
The quiet gravity Megumi carried without meaning to.
For a heartbeat, it felt like no time had passed at all.
Then Megumi dipped his head in polite acknowledgement, distant, formal. “Gojo-sensei,” he said softly. Nothing more.
No warmth. No softness or fondness. Just… distance.
And Satoru realized, with something like panic and regret, that Megumi had learned how to live without him.