Work Text:
Toji recognises him by his nose.
It's a stupid thing. Not the hair, not the eyes, not the line of his jaw, but the nose: straight, for the most part, and high-bridged, but with a tiny crook at the end that's almost unnoticeable. It was unnoticeable, up until now, because Toji sure as hell didn't notice it.
Now, though. Now he notices.
It's the span of a blink, really. The kid does something, Toji's not sure what, and suddenly Toji's left foot is plunging down into something cool and liquid. His whole body tilts, and his aim goes wide, and he gets an up-close-and-personal look at the kid's face as the point of his staff sinks into the boy's side.
The first thing Toji sees is the kid's eyes, wide and terrified. Then he sees the sweat on his brow. He sees how the kid's hair falls in his face, dark and feathery, sees how it sticks up at the sides like a porcupine. And then, finally, he sees the nose.
Toji knows that damn nose.
The kid's hand moves in Toji's periphery. A sword, aimed right at the soft spot between Toji's ribs. It would be a good move if it hit, but it won't—the kid's way too slow. Toji yanks himself out of his grip and leaps backwards, watching the blade stab into empty air. The kid's eyes widen even further.
The nose. Toji knows that nose. He knows it because he remembers tracing the line of it, finding that insignificant crook, and laughing because the kid had just been born and he already looked like a delinquent. He's gonna get into fights when he's older, Toji had said. Just like his father.
Just like his father. And who was his father? Toji stares at him, and it's like watching one of those optical illusions where one picture can be two things at once. One moment it's just a boy, pale and stick-skinny with hair that sticks up all over the damn place, and then Toji blinks and he sees—he sees—
The kid's basically stolen Toji's face.
It has to have been years since Toji died, because the kid's at least thirteen, and he's Toji's through and through. It's the same chin, the same eyes, the same mouth, and yes: the same delinquent nose. The only part where they differ is that the kid's hair stands up where Toji's lays flat. He must've gotten that from his mother—his mother, Toji's wife, because this boy is—he's—
Toji's son.
A son. That's right: Toji had one of those. He'd abandoned one of those. His son, in front of him. His son, who his wife had asked him to take care of. Those were her exact words: take care of—take care of...
Shit. What's his name? Toji gave it to him—what was it? Toji can't remember it for the life of him. The kid's shaking in front of him, obviously on his last legs, and Toji can't remember his name. His own son, and he can't remember his name. He'd thought he was over feeling bad about being a shitty human being, but clearly, he's wrong: shame is an acid tang in his throat.
His son, standing right in front of him. Fuck, he's so old now, such a far cry from the boy Toji left behind—but he's so young, too. So skinny. Is he eating right? Does he have enough money? Enough food? He was summoning shikigami earlier, with that flood of rabbits and the bird that swooped in, so...
He inherited the Ten Shadows. Toji almost wants to laugh.
Toji was fucking right about him, too: he did grow up to get into fights. What the hell is he doing out here, fighting against Special Grade cursed spirits? What the hell is he doing out here fighting against Toji? Even with the Ten Shadows, he's clearly not a fully-fledged sorcerer. He's lasted impressively long, Toji will give him that, but that doesn't mean it's not fucking stupid. The kid's wounds are proof of that.
...His wounds. That's right: the kid's wounded. He's bleeding. There's a scratch on his face, a line beneath his left eye, and a steadily-spreading stain by his ribs where Toji stabbed him. Oh, fuck—Toji stabbed him. He'd felt the flesh give under his sharpened staff, easy as butter. Shit. Shit. Toji tried to kill him. He chased him down three streets, he threw a truck at him, he beat him bloody—hell, half a minute ago he'd been about to spear the kid through the damn heart. If it hadn't been for the kid's own quick thinking, he'd be dead at Toji's hand.
Take care of...
His name, his name, his damned name. What was it? Toji remembers it in bits and pieces: another pair of hands, softer and smaller than his, guiding him to splay his fingers on a swollen belly. I want you to choose the name, she'd said, and Toji had opened his mouth and blurted out a name he'd had kicking around in his skull for months.
It was a name that was important to him. It was a name that was everything Toji hoped his kid would get. But he can't remember it at all. He can't remember how many characters it was, how many syllables.
...He should ask.
"Hey, you," he gets out. The kid startles—he's doing something with his hands, some kind of jujutsu sign, but Toji doesn't care. He was never taught anything about the Ten Shadows other than that it existed. "What's your name?"
The kid blinks. His hands falter.
"Fushiguro," he says.
The ground seems to fall away beneath Toji's feet.
Relief isn't a feeling Toji's used to. Indifference, satisfaction, dissatisfaction—those, yes, but not relief. Relief is reserved for when you care about something that's out of your control, and Toji had been very careful to limit his life to things he could control, with a few significant exceptions.
But this, now, this sensation like a tight knot in his chest releasing—a knot that Toji didn't even know was there, or a knot that he hadn't wanted to know was there—this is relief.
Fushiguro. Fushiguro. It's her name, not Toji's. The kid is old enough that the sale should've happened years ago, but—
Fushiguro.
Toji's rotten fucking family never would've let him live under their roof without taking on their name. So if the kid's still going by Fushiguro, then that means...that must mean...
Toji feels his mouth curl upwards.
"Not Zen'in?" he murmurs. At his side, his hand twitches. He can only stand still for so long. His body was made to be the perfect weapon, and now it craves to fight. The only opponent around is the kid. Toji's kid, her kid, their kid—their son.
Toji's body, his one and only lifelong ally, wants to kill his son.
Ah. Toji knows what he has to do.
He'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought about it before. After she died, he'd had a lot of nights where he sat on the edge of the too-big bed and held the wrong end of a blade to his stomach. He knew how to make it quick. He knew how to make it painless. But—
But then there'd be a sound from the next room. A scream sometimes, or a wail, or even just a gurgle. Always wordless, because the kid was too young to do anything but cry. It didn't give Toji the hope to keep living, but it did remind him: if he died, he'd kill the kid, too.
Now it's the opposite. Toji's a selfish bastard: he finds this a whole lot easier.
He's killed enough people for the movement to be second nature. He goes for the head, because that's the fastest way to guarantee a death. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't falter—just lifts his hand and drives the sharp end of the staff right into the side of his own skull.
It's a clean hit.
Bone breaks. Blood sprays. Pain shoots through his head like a fucking firework. Toji's not surviving this, he knows that much. Good. Good—let him die. Let his son live.
Fushiguro. The Gojo brat must have stepped in. When Toji told him about the kid, it was a split-second decision. A last-minute chance, a fifty-fifty flip of the coin—but it worked. Toji might have had shit luck, but, at the very least, his last gamble was right on the money.
The blood is warm as it runs down Toji's arm. He looks up at the kid, looks right in those eyes that look exactly like his, and he tells him honestly: "Good for you."
Good for you, getting out of that hellhole family. Good for you, learning how to use your gift. Good for you, being rescued by that Gojo brat, blessed with his Six Eyes and his Limitless—
Oh. Wait.
Toji remembers, now, as his knees buckle and the concrete rushes up to meet him: Megumi. Blessing. His son, his tiny miracle, his last fuck you against his family. Fushiguro Megumi—it's been years, but his name is still the same as the day Toji walked out the door and didn't come back.
Take care of Megumi, okay?
So, once again, Toji takes care of his son the only way he knows how: he leaves.