Chapter Text
Megumi is asleep. It would be fine if he weren't asleep smack dab in the middle of Gojo's class. Again.
As far as teachers go, Gojo's pretty chill. Too chill, as Utahime would say. No, that's not quite right. She'd say he was a lazy bastard who couldn't get his class under control if his life depended on it. But that was beside the point.
The point being that youth should be a time of freedom, not a dress rehearsal for adulthood. The way Gojo sees it, children should be allowed to get into a bit of trouble, and Gojo should be allowed to be a bit of an enabler when it suits him. It's why he turns the other way when he sees Yuuji slinking out of a pachinko parlor in broad daylight, why he ignores the illegal betting pool Kinji organizes every time there's a school event, and why he doesn't bother to check attendance when Aoi and Mai skip class to go to an idol meet-up of all things.
He wants his kids to make some mistakes, break a few rules—maybe a heart or two along the way, their own or someone else’s. They deserve to enjoy their precious youth, unburdened by responsibility and expectation.
He knows, however, that he's far too lenient on Megumi especially. But Megumi's home life is complicated to say the least. Gojo’s role in Megumi’s life is also complicated. He’s known Megumi since he was a cynical little first-grader with a fierce frown that was too big and too solemn for his tiny cherubic face. It makes it hard for Gojo not to show preferential treatment for the little boy he's watched grow up.
The fact remains, though, that while Megumi is at the top of his class, he’s also more than a bit of a delinquent, and so Gojo is constantly turning a blind eye when the boy gets into brawls and “bullies the bullies” as he’s heard his other students describe it.
He isn’t sure what, exactly, has gotten into his star pupil as of late, but it seems the boy has replaced his penchant for using fists instead of words with taking naps when he’s supposed to be studying physics. As annoying as it is, it’s a trade off that Gojo will take. Megumi's grades haven't suffered for it yet, and Gojo doesn't need any more outraged parents demanding why their little brat came home with a broken nose.
Taking a quick survey of the room, he sees Yuuji and Nobara, Megumi's usual partners in crime, both nodding off into their books. Last night, Shoko had sent him a blurry video of those three sneaking into a karaoke bar at one in the morning on a school night. She had run into them while out getting drunk with Utahime, also at one in the morning on a school night.
Gojo can only assume that such late night excursions are the reason why Megumi has been dreaming his way through Gojo's lectures nearly every damn day.
It could be worse. At least Megumi is finally having fun like a teenager should.
A part of him wants to just let the kid rest—those dark circles under his eyes have been getting out of hand recently—but he knows that it would be unfair to his other students if he keeps letting Megumi flout the rules. He takes the opportunity to have some fun of his own, though. Megumi is so easy to tease after all.
With a bright smile, Gojo hops up from his chair and creeps over to Megumi's desk. His students quietly titter as they anticipate what he's about to do. He takes a moment to theatrically clear his throat before pulling in a deep breath.
"Megumi-chan~!" he shouts, slamming his hands down on Megumi's desk, right on either side of the boy’s head.
Only Gojo's quick reflexes save him from being smacked on the chin as Megumi’s head snaps up immediately. There's something wild in Megumi's eyes before he seems to take stock of his surroundings, his usual mask of indifference quickly settling on delicate features.
Gojo grins down at Megumi’s upturned face.
The boy’s ears flush pink as he meets Gojo’s amusement with a sheepish expression befitting of a teenager caught goofing off in class. Around them, the class erupts into laughter at both Megumi’s reaction and Gojo’s antics.
“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty,” Gojo crows, obnoxiously loud.
The embarrassment on Megumi’s face fluidly morphs into irritation, as it usually does around Gojo.
“Oh-ho, someone’s grumpy in the morning,” Gojo says, covering his mouth with the back of his hand as he leans back to stage whisper to the class. If possible, Megumi’s scowl deepens as he primly turns back to his schoolwork.
“Ah, ah, Megumi.” Gojo’s eyes twinkle behind his sunglasses as he wags a chiding finger under Megumi’s nose. “Isn’t there something you’d like to say?”
Megumi huffs out a sigh, clicking his tongue in annoyance as if he were the one dealing with a misbehaving student.
"I apologize for falling asleep, Gojo-sensei," the boy says, pointedly looking away from Gojo. "It won't happen again."
That's a bald-faced lie, and they both know it. Megumi has twice fallen asleep in his class this week alone. It’s not just Gojo’s class either. According to Nanami, he’s caught Megumi dozing off there as well.
Gojo tilts his head, letting his lenses slide down the bridge of his nose. Up close, Megumi looks a little ill, eyes dull and lips pale. His hair is disheveled, more so than usual, and there's a small tear in Megumi’s uniform that has been carefully stitched up. A warning bell chimes in the back of Gojo’s mind. It gives Gojo pause for just a second before he shakes it off.
"It's okay." He smiles and drops a heavy hand on Megumi's head, ruffling his soft, black hair.
Objectively, Gojo has a good life. He knows this. He has a stable job teaching fantastic kids whom he adores. He has an impeccable luxury apartment and a housekeeper that comes by weekly to ensure that it stays impeccable. He even has a trust fund that pays for his every whim and more. Not to mention, he's tall and incredibly good-looking.
It’s great; it really is. He’s lucky.
The thing about working with teenagers is that they stink, in the most literal sense of the word. It's almost enough to make his head spin, having to swim around in their collective hormones all day long. On particularly humid days, he often fears that he's going to have to give another uncomfortable lecture on the importance of personal hygiene.
Even though the school is filled with scent neutralizers that constantly filter and circulate the air, some days it's just not enough. Teenagers in the midst of puberty and presentation aren’t the best at regulating their scents, as is to be expected, and, like most things in junior high, that lack of restraint can lead to inconvenient and embarrassing situations for everyone involved. They'll get better at it, both controlling their scents and tolerating the scents of others. It's just a part of growing up.
Megumi is the only omega in his class, and in yet another extraordinary display of absolutely not having favorites, Gojo allows him to sit by the window so that he can crack it open whenever the scents get too overwhelming. Gojo doesn't abide by old-fashioned notions that omegas are hothouse flowers in need of special care—the string of students Megumi has sent to the nurse’s office can attest to that—but Megumi has admitted to having a sensitive nose and Gojo indulges in providing a minor comfort for his student.
It's a pleasant day outside, the kind where the sun shines and the breeze carries the promise of spring. In honor of the balmy weather, all the windows in the classroom have been thrown open to welcome in the fresh air.
Gojo's finished with the day's lesson, so he gives the kids free time to do as they please while he grades problem sets. Gojo doesn't keep much of an eye on the students while he works. He trusts them, more or less, to behave themselves, and the quiet hum of their chatter provides a soothing backdrop as he makes his way through stacks of paperwork.
A strong breeze rolls through the open windows, rustling the papers strewn across Gojo's desk. It takes a fraction of a second, but Gojo's nose is sharp and he catches the scent first. It's delicate and rather pretty, light and distinctly omegan—distinctly Megumi.
His gaze snaps up, locating Megumi perched obliviously at his desk beside the window, nose deep in a book. Dread pools in Gojo’s stomach.
A breath passes—
And then Megumi's scent permeates the entire room. The students start murmuring, sending pointed looks in Megumi's direction. A couple of boys in the back, newly presented alphas, squirm in their seats.
The subtle murmurs quickly morph into muted laughter and giggles.
Megumi glances around at the growing commotion, and his nostrils flare as he too catches his scent in the air. His eyes widen, and it's only by virtue of having known him for years that Gojo could recognize his mortification. Megumi's face burns scarlet with shame, but Yuuji is already up and shielding Megumi from view with his own body, teeth bared and snarling at anyone who looks their way. Beside him, Nobara—shoulders tense and square—looks fit to murder someone.
There’s a whisper that sounds disturbingly like slut, someone wolf-whistles, and then it’s mayhem. Jeers and cat calls spew forth from the class.
“Fushiguro! You smell like that for all the alphas?”
“If you wanted a good time, all you had to do was ask, baby!”
“Just because he smells like that, he has all the alphas falling for him.”
“Didn’t he get enough attention when he presented?”
“I bet it smells even better between his—”
The shouts overlap as the students talk over each other all at once. Within seconds, the derisive taunts and scornful whispers blend into a relentless tidal wave bearing down on the lone omega at the window. Megumi bolts—book tumbling to the floor as he shoves his friends aside in his haste.
"Yuuji," Gojo calls out sharply.
"On it," Yuuji shouts back, sprinting out after Megumi.
With the knowledge that Megumi will be taken care of, Gojo turns the weight of his attention back to his class. He smacks a heavy textbook down on his desk, and the room falls into a deathly hush.
Gojo’s sunglasses clatter as he drops them to his desk. The sound is unnaturally loud in the stillness of the room.
Rising to his feet, Gojo glares around the room with the full force of his unsettling blue eyes. Two dozen pale, shocked faces stare back at him. His jaw tightens, muscles twitching with the effort to retain the torrent of emotion frothing within him.
Gojo's anger has always burned cold, and this is no exception. His rage comes like the first frost of winter—icy, sharp, and bitter. It scours across the room, agnostic in its path, sparing none.
His sweeping gaze finally settles on the worst offenders, a pack of three boys and a singular beta girl in the corner—Ito Shota and his spineless pals.
"You four. Out in the hall. Now."
He has the rest of the class kneeling on the linoleum, lined up beside their desks. He orders them to close their eyes and reflect on their vile behavior. Immediately, the teens comply, dropping to their knees, heads bowed and shaking. His students are terrified and rightly so. Gojo never raises his voice.
In the silence of the room, Gojo stares at his desk for a full minute. Is this what Utahime meant when she said he couldn't control his class?
He turns to follow the four culprits into the hallway and mete out his punishment.
Gojo has them holding filled buckets of water in the hall every day, all day for a full week like it's the 1970s until someone tattles to Yaga, who gives Gojo an earful. Cowards. Just for that, Gojo's assigning them extra cleaning duty until the end of time.
He still has them standing out in the hall, noses to the wall, for weeks. He’s filled with sadistic glee when their grades plummet.
Kids may not realize it, but teachers are well aware of the rumors that circulate in the student population. Megumi is a popular kid even if he doesn’t act like it, and as such, he is accordingly a recurring target of classroom gossip. There was nothing mean in the rumors that Gojo had overheard, at first. They were mostly comments on how scary Megumi is, or alternatively, how cool and mysterious he is. The words cute and pretty got thrown around with some frequency. Overall, benign comments appropriate for curious teenagers. Gojo never thought much of it.
The content of the gossip surrounding Megumi shifted dramatically after the boy’s first heat.
It started in Gojo’s class, funnily enough, a handful of months prior. The boy had been under the weather all week, enough to make him miserable and lethargic but not enough to keep him out of class. Gojo had suspected it was coming, based on the subtle changes in Megumi’s scent, his age, and his designation. In retrospect, Gojo should have intervened sooner because without an adult guardian in his life to see the signs and warn him, Megumi was caught unaware.
The fever hit him fast and hard midway through the school day. One minute he was fine, and the next he was bowed over on his knees, clutching his stomach and biting back tears. The scent of distress was so thick in the air that it made Gojo’s eyes water.
He was by Megumi’s side in an instant, and it was not a moment too soon as the classroom exploded into a frenzy of chaos and confusion. Gojo barked at poor Junpei, the one unfortunate student in his line of sight, to go find another teacher to deal with the class as he bundled Megumi into his own jacket.
While he rushed to the nurse’s office with Megumi in his arms, he had both Yuuji and Nobara nipping at his heels. The two protective alpha children were both loath to let their vulnerable friend out of their sight, and Gojo was too busy trying to soothe Megumi, who was quietly whining into Gojo’s shoulder, to tell them off.
In the end, all three of them sat, agitated and stinking up the corridor, outside of the nurse’s office until it was determined that Megumi needed more intensive care. The boy was whisked away to the hospital where he spent a week under sedation as he rode out the fever.
First heats were always hard. Or so Gojo had heard. He'd had little dealing with omegas in his life, but he supposed it made sense, given the rapid changes the body faced in such a short time.
"Severe growing pains," Shoko had drawled, describing how the reproductive system fully developed and the body was flooded with hormones.
Gojo was concerned—more than concerned, really. But. Megumi was tough. Resilient even, like a wild fern unfurling in the forest shadows—a delicate exterior that belied the mettle at his core. He would endure, in that quiet, measured way of his.
News of Megumi’s presentation, however, spread like wildfire. By the end of the day, the whole school knew.
Now, several months after Megumi’s presentation, the gossip about Megumi revolves almost solely around his status as an omega. He's the talk of the school. There are questions about whether he’s single, speculation about who will confess to him. Some students wax lyrical about his black hair and bright green eyes, deeming him a rare and singular beauty.
Others make comments of a decidedly less poetic nature, whispered in locker rooms between snickers and rude jokes. A handful of sour alphas sneer and call him frigid, an aloof little omega who thinks he’s better than the rest. They’re cruel, all of them, in the way that only young people are.
Gojo was young once, and stupid, too. He reveled in the ignorance of youth, wielding his privilege like a weapon. He had no reasons to be cautious. He was Gojo Satoru and thus untouchable. The sole alpha heir to a wealthy, venerate clan—shielded by the impenetrable armor of his birthright.
Shining, perfect.
A god amongst men, they whispered.
Not long after the debacle in his classroom, Gojo is strolling through the hall at the end of the school day, blithely daydreaming about stopping for crepes on his way back from work. As he rounds the corner, he’s treated to the wonderful sight of Megumi ramming a fist straight into another student’s nose. When both boys finally notice him, Gojo groans. He had just gotten used to not having to field angry phone calls from parents.
Megumi's grip on his opponent's collar slackens, and with Megumi distracted, the other boy—Ikezawa? Is that his name?—takes the opportunity to flee. Neither Gojo nor Megumi bother to watch him go, gazes locked on each other.
Alone with the troublemaker, Gojo contemplates whether he can get away with pretending that this simply didn’t happen. Just as he’s about to suggest pushing everything under the rug, something about Megumi’s appearance catches him off guard.
His shirt, crumpled and half untucked.
It's a small thing, but Megumi is typically so composed, so reluctant to show even the slightest hint of vulnerability.
Behind the barrier of his ever-present shades, Gojo scrutinizes the boy before him more carefully. He looks...uncharacteristically ruffled. His collar is askew, and his cheeks are flushed.
Normally, after a fight, Megumi looks just shy of haughty as he jadedly lectures his victims and expounds on his personal ideology of justice. Now, Megumi scowls up at him with mute rage and scuffed knuckles, shoulders strung so tight that he nearly vibrates with anger. Vicious eyes bore into Gojo’s, a challenge.
Dragging his tongue over his teeth, Gojo considers what to say. He has the inkling that the situation requires a certain amount of sensitivity, but when a solution doesn't immediately spring to mind, Gojo, as usual, decides to wing it.
"Six out of ten," Gojo says.
It's enough of a non-sequitur that Megumi is abruptly taken aback. He blinks twice in quick succession, and a bewildered furrow of his brows replaces the scowl on his face.
"I give it a six out of ten," Gojo says again, shooting Megumi a disarming grin. "C’mon, Megumi, I taught you how to throw a punch better than that."
At that, Megumi rolls his eyes like the moody teenager that he is, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Funny," he says dryly. "Are we done here? Just give me my punishment so I can leave."
"Aw, don't you want to spend some time with your favorite teacher?" Gojo teases, reaching out a long arm to ruffle Megumi's hair.
Megumi dodges it readily, swatting at Gojo's hand with obvious annoyance. He steps away, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to stave off a headache.
"Gojo-sensei, please, can you be the adult for once?"
There's a weariness and an edge of desperation in Megumi's voice that cuts straight through Gojo's playful demeanor. Gojo's smile falters, and Megumi turns his face away from him, frowning as he stares out the window to his left. Almost self-consciously, he tugs his collar back into place and smooths down his shirt, trying to restore some semblance of order to his disheveled appearance.
Discreetly, despite the rudeness of it, Gojo sniffs the air, trying to catch a flicker of Megumi's scent seeping through the neutralizers installed throughout the school. It is surprisingly easy to do—Megumi’s scent is stronger than normal, has been for some weeks now. Gojo frowns as he mulls it over. Megumi's usually clear, refreshing scent is heavy with rage, yes, but also an emotion that Gojo can't quite place. There's a caustic edge to it that has the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.
All at once, Gojo’s consternation gives way to concern, his brow softening as he regards Megumi.
"Megumi, what's wrong?" Gojo's voice is soft—too soft, too gentle. Gojo realizes he's missed the mark when irritation simmers in Megumi's eyes in response.
“Nothing,” Megumi replies, clipped. "Can I go now?"
Gojo sighs, combing a hand through his hair. While not exactly a difficult child, Megumi has certainly never made things easy either. It's hard to find the right approach to get him to talk.
“You can tell me anything,” he tries again. “I mean it. No judgment.”
"There's nothing to tell," Megumi says, like a broken record, clinging to his obstinacy. "Just drop it."
“Megu—"
“I said drop it.”
Gojo clicks his tongue, unable to stop the mounting exasperation from bleeding through to his tone. "Don’t you think it’s embarrassing to be lashing out like this? Aren't you sick of your little teenage rebellion?"
"Aren't you sick of sticking your nose in my business?" Megumi shoots back without missing a beat. His gaze flickers, defiant and discomfited in equal measure.
Gojo shakes his head. "You're in such a rush to grow up. Always have been. It's not a weakness to rely on someone else, you know. I can help.”
"I don't want your help. I don't want anyone's help." Megumi’s words tumble out in a rush, as if he’s been holding them back for too long.
Gojo’s frustration bubbles over. “Then what do you want, Megumi? To keep pushing people away until you’re completely isolated? Is that it?”
Megumi draws back as if struck. A wounded look flashes across his face before he masks it with a stubborn scowl. The shift is subtle but undeniable, and Gojo feels the sharp sting of regret, his own carelessness slicing like a razor blade.
But Gojo isn’t one to walk back his words, and sometimes, a bit of tough love can go a long way. This isn’t one of those times.
Megumi's face flushes with anger, and he takes a step back, raising his chin to glare at Gojo. His fists clench at his sides as his breaths come fast and shallow.
“Why does it matter?” Megumi snaps, his voice rising. “Why does it matter what I do?”
“It's called growing up," Gojo says, trying to keep his voice steady. "Learning how to handle your emotions and being considerate of others. You can't keep acting out when something doesn't go your way."
"No," Megumi says. His eyes narrow, searching—anger giving way to something deeper. "Why does it matter to you?"
Megumi’s words hang between them like a spider’s web, delicate and deadly. Gojo shifts uncomfortably, a tight knot forming in his chest. There's a rawness to Megumi's expression that makes Gojo want to turn away. Like an exposed nerve, he wants to bury it lest he be exposed too.
He works his jaw, struggling to find a response to Megumi's question, but no sound escapes. With each passing second, the chasm between them widens, and Gojo finds himself unable to bridge it, the weight of his inadequacy too heavy on his back.
Logically, he knows that there must be some combination of words that would mend this rift. Reassuring words that would soothe Megumi’s open wounds and lay flat his rough edges—but they remain just out of reach, slipping away like sand in an hourglass.
“It’s part of my job,” he says finally, his voice distant and flat.
Megumi’s face crumples, hurt breaking through the cracks in his stoic facade for just a moment before he reins it in.
"I see," Megumi says quietly. He looks down, breaking their unspoken staring contest.
Gojo can practically see the walls Megumi has erected around himself grow higher. A faint sense of dismay rises in his throat. He has to try again before Megumi closes himself off completely.
“Megumi, I know you—"
“No,” Megumi says. “You don’t.” His tone is stripped of any inflection. Neither contentious nor conciliatory, it is simply resigned, each word landing with a dull finality.
Like a smothered ember, the fight seems to drain out of him all at once, and his shoulders sag under a burden that Gojo cannot see no matter how hard he tries.
"You don't—" Megumi shakes his head, his frown growing. Disappointment mingles with frustration on his face. "You don't know anything about me."
He turns away, his movements sharp and deliberate. “I’m done with this conversation.”
Before Gojo can respond, Megumi walks away, his footsteps echoing through the empty corridor. Gojo stares after his retreating form until he turns a corner at the end of the hall and disappears from Gojo's sight.
Megumi spends most of the next class with his head down on his desk and turns in a blank test. He looks like a frayed rope, ready to snap.
There was someone else, a long time ago, who had the same look, like he was teetering on the edge of the abyss. There was a boy with whom Gojo spent all his time, never one without the other. And yet, somehow, he still didn't see it coming when they went careening over the precipice.
That was the day Gojo Satoru learned that he wasn't a god. He was just a boy, as helpless as any other boy.
It truly is the worst of both worlds.
With Megumi’s apparently short lived retirement from schoolyard skirmishes at an end, reports of his unruly behavior start rolling in again. Now, Gojo has to deal with Megumi both sleeping through classes and getting into endless fights on top of it all. With Yaga on his ass since he deemed Gojo's punishments "needlessly archaic," he can't shirk the rest of his duties like he so desperately wants to either.
But between fielding angry parental phone calls and directing surly, shamefaced teenagers to Shoko's office, Gojo finds himself...puzzled. Although Megumi is standoffish at the best of times and makes little effort to rein in his foul temper, he has always been judicious in who he fights; it’s never without reason.
Yet suddenly, he has a string of adversaries with otherwise clean track records. No prior citations for bullying, vandalism, or even simple truancy. Gojo doesn’t know what the common denominator is, but he knows Megumi, despite what the boy himself claims, and so he knows there is one.
Megumi shows up to class on a Thursday with a black eye.
In all the time that Gojo's known him, Megumi has gotten into fights with boys older, bigger, and taller than he. Alphas, betas, or the occasional omega, it was all the same. One-on-one or outnumbered, Megumi has never lost a fight. On one notable occasion, he had, quite literally, left a pile of bodies in the schoolyard for the underpaid teachers and staff to deal with.
Not once in all these years has Gojo ever seen him get so much as a scratch on him, and now he has the audacity to stroll into Gojo's classroom with a black eye.
To his credit, he doesn't flaunt the mark like a badge of honor as Gojo has seen some of his other students do, wearing the evidence of their fights with pride. Rather, his bangs are styled to cover the worst of the swelling. But there's no missing the ugly purple bruise on an otherwise pristine face, a chink in his well-crafted armor.
Before Gojo has the chance to approach, Yuuji plops himself down on Megumi's desk and immediately starts fussing over him. His brows furrow in dismay as he grabs Megumi’s chin with gentle hands. Megumi lets him, unusually docile as the other boy turns his face this way and that, assessing the damage.
Yuuji digs through his backpack for a minute before emerging with an ice pack from his lunchbox and a handkerchief with little dog paw prints embroidered on it. Gojo recognizes it as a gift from Megumi. He has one, too.
Yuuji wraps the ice pack with the handkerchief and carefully presses it against Megumi's bruise. Megumi winces a little but stays put. Yuuji winces, too, in sympathy and readjusts the ice pack again and again until Megumi—fed up with the fumbling—snatches the ice pack from him with a huff, firmly shoving it against his own face with little finesse or concern. He scowls, but he doesn't push Yuuji away.
It relieves something in Gojo's chest to know that Megumi has someone looking out for him. Yuuji is a good kid. Better than Gojo was at that age.
Yuuji's still hovering over Megumi, fretting and pestering Megumi to spill the story behind his black eye, when Nobara, the third of the unlikely trio, blows into the room. She takes one look at Megumi, clucks, and starts to scold him, saying that she would have brought her concealer if she'd known in advance. She reaches out a presumptuous hand to roughly shove Megumi's bangs off his face and get a better look, pushing Yuuji aside as she does so. Immediately, the two start bickering as Yuuji elbows her back out of the way.
Megumi watches them with soft eyes, one hand pressed to the small smile on his lips, the other brushing gently over the ice pack that now lay forgotten on his desk.
Gojo quickly amends his earlier thoughts. Megumi has two someones to look after him.
He instructs Megumi to hang back while the other students disperse for lunch. Megumi looks wan and tired, brittle in a way that is both foreign and jarring, as he sits motionless at his desk, waiting. When they're alone in the quiet expanse of the empty classroom, Gojo brings up the obvious. The bruising is worse up close, tender and purple like an overripe plum.
"Have you gotten it checked out?" Gojo asks, tapping lightly just underneath his own eye. He leans back on the desk in front of Megumi, waiting for the boy to speak.
"It's just a black eye," the boy says, monotone. That bored look is on his face. "It'll go away in a couple of weeks."
He looks down at Megumi over the rim of his sunglasses. Megumi stubbornly doesn't meet his gaze. But there is familiarity in the sight of Megumi’s clenched jaw, the tension radiating from his rigid posture, the straight, proud line of his shoulders.
"Go see Shoko either way. You might have an orbital fracture."
Megumi grunts. It's neither an assent nor a rejection. Gojo sighs. He hates being serious.
"You can't keep getting into fights like this, Megumi." Gojo has let this situation drag on for too many weeks. Now is as good a time as any to get some answers out of the boy.
Megumi starts to pack his bag, haphazardly shoving books and stationery away without grace. Gojo doesn't miss the subtle tremor to his hands.
"You know, avoiding the issue doesn't make it go away," Gojo says, voice pitched low. "Fighting like that doesn't help anything."
Megumi lets out a long breath and buckles his book bag, still avoiding Gojo's discerning gaze.
"It wasn't a fight," he says before slipping out of the classroom, not even waiting to be dismissed.
Gojo's not sure if he's supposed to know what that means. It's a feeling he's been well-acquainted with recently—the feeling that he and Megumi are having two entirely separate conversations altogether.
A nagging sensation stirs in the back of his mind, insistent like an itch that demands he keep scratching until his nails come up bloody. There’s something that Gojo is missing, and he can’t figure out what it is.
Gojo returns to an empty apartment. He exchanges his boots for house slippers and tosses his keys on the counter. He eats a single slice of strawberry shortcake for dinner and doesn't watch TV. When the oppressive silence grows to be too loud, he goes to bed.
It's lunchtime, and two of the second-year students, Yuuta and Maki, have come to visit their juniors. These days, even when the students have free time, Gojo keeps half an ear trained on them just in case. He's learned his lesson, even if it came too late.
“Is that all you’re eating?” Maki juts her chin toward Megumi’s admittedly sad looking convenience store sandwich with distaste. A piece of lettuce flops over as if wilting under the intensity of her scornful glare. “No wonder you’re so scrawny.”
“Maki-san,” Yuuta chides, ever the peacemaker. “Be kind to Fushiguro-kun.”
“What? I just want to know,” she scoffs, still eyeing Megumi judgmentally. “Is this an omega thing? Some kind of diet?”
Megumi glowers at her although the ferocity of the expression is undercut by the faded bruises on his face. Weeks have passed, but the remnants of Megumi’s black eye linger, slow to heal.
“I’m short on cash this month. I’m not on a diet.”
“Fushiguro’s on a diet?” Yuuji asks as he sidles up to join their group.
Megumi smacks him on the back of the head, and Yuuji whines, looking up at him with big brown eyes. Megumi remains unmoved until Yuuji unpacks his lunch and reveals that he’s made enough food for everyone to share today.
Yuuji is surprisingly observant. Not for the first time, Gojo is grateful for the boy’s presence in Megumi’s life.
Megumi has the grace to look ashamed, and Gojo watches with no small amount of amusement as Yuuji piles Megumi’s plate high with sliced pork and an assortment of homemade tsukemono. It's hard to mistake the look in Yuuji's eye. After all, Gojo used to wear it on his own face, all those years ago.
With fondness and painful nostalgia on his lips, Gojo turns his attention back to his paperwork.
"Nanami! Let's go out together!" Gojo's voice echoes through the empty courtyard, shattering the serenity that envelopes the school grounds long after classes have ended.
"No, thank you," Nanami says and walks straight past Gojo.
“Hey! I actually have something work-related to talk to you about!”
“I don’t discuss work after hours.”
“Really? Never?" Gojo tilts his head in question, grinning at Nanami despite the futility of capturing his attention. "But this is important!”
“Hmm, that’s unfortunate, but I believe it can wait until the next staff meeting,” Nanami replies, sounding not at all repentant. He continues through the courtyard at a dignified pace even as Gojo bounces after him, undeterred.
“Aw, but there’s a new restaurant in Ginza that I wanted to try,” Gojo whines, petulant. “You’re a foodie. Aren’t you curious?”
The late afternoon sun floods the school plaza with golden light, turning Nanami's blond hair a burnished bronze as he looks at Gojo over his shoulder.
On Nanami's face is something akin to pity.
“Don’t you have any friends to bother?”
Gojo stops short, watching as Nanami walks away. Beyond him, the horizon is painted pink and orange, docile as the day finally dies. The moon, already risen, is a pale slice carved from a dappled sky.
Later, when Gojo is sitting on his couch, alone in his vast and hollow apartment, he tips his head back and gazes out the window. The fading light casts long shadows, stretching across the landscape like fingers. Despite the sun's rays, Gojo feels no warmth.
It'll snow soon.
Maybe he should call Suguru. It's been a long while.
The night is cold, but Gojo is warm.
He's having fun, laughing and bumping shoulders with Suguru as they meander down the street toward his apartment. It feels like no time has passed, none at all. He is seventeen again.
The shared air between them blooms with plumes of condensation as their breaths take shape in the evening's chill. They are huddled so close that their exhales collide and mingle, coalescing into one.
Gojo is in the middle of telling what he knows is an absolutely horrendously unfunny joke that Suguru will laugh at regardless when he stops short, catching a scent in the air. It's acrid and sharp, mixed with the metallic tang of blood. It twists his stomach into a tight knot because he knows this scent, or rather he knows what it's supposed to smell like when its owner is happy and safe, taken care of.
He knows Suguru smells it, too, because they both break into a run. They round the corner onto his avenue, and his apartment comes into view.
There, curled up on his doorstep, is the source of the distress call.
"Megumi?"