Chapter Text
Gojo plucks the mug from Megumi’s slack hands before the contents can slosh over and scald him. The action seems to snap Megumi back into the present, the haze lifting from his distant eyes. He glances at Gojo contritely before ducking his head.
“It was manageable for a while," Megumi says. He pulls his legs up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them and resting his chin on his knees. “Until that.”
Gojo sighs. It’s quite a big that.
“From then on, I stayed at manga or internet cafes when I could afford them,” Megumi continues.
“And when you couldn’t?”
“I mostly walked around,” Megumi says quietly, his voice still breathy and strained. “There was a night Kugisaki dragged Itadori and me to late night karaoke. She even paid for once. The clerk chased us out pretty quickly, though. He said we looked underage.”
“You are underaged,” Gojo responds, although there’s no real rebuke in his tone.
Megumi smiles a little at that, shameless.
“Your friends, do they know?”
“I didn’t want them to worry.”
Gojo’s lips twist in sympathy. Megumi has always had to shoulder more than he should at such a young age, and he has always done so alone. Even when he was a little boy, he didn’t open up to Gojo, didn’t reveal any of the burdens he carried. Naturally he wouldn’t tell his friends.
Megumi had been tight-lipped the day he came in with a black eye as well. It wasn’t a fight, he had said. Of course it wasn't. That was a grown man, and Megumi is a skinny fourteen year old omega. Gojo’s frown deepens as he turns the matter over in his mind.
That black eye was weeks ago. Judging by the state Megumi’s in, even more has transpired in the intervening days, none of it good.
Gojo rubs his sweaty palms against his thighs. The fabric of his pants is rough against his hands.
"And tonight? What happened tonight?”
Megumi’s face darkens.
“I’m so stupid. I should never have gone back,” Megumi says, bitter with self-reproach. “I should have known better.”
Megumi’s distress floods the air, cloudy with shame, and Gojo’s heart rate spikes in response. Sudden anxiety makes his head buzz, and he’s struck by the urge to fix this, to get the child in front of him to calm.
The blanket has fallen from Megumi’s shoulders, pooling around his hips. Quickly—too quickly—he reaches out for the blanket, and Megumi jerks backward. Gojo pulls back just as fast. Megumi watches him with wide, cautious eyes, all traces of exhaustion extinguished. With a mumbled apology, Gojo reaches over again slowly to reposition the throw, tugging it back up to ensconce the boy. He lets out a little of his own scent as he does so, pushing forth what he hopes are calming pheromones.
It’s awkward. Unpracticed, to say the least.
But Megumi hums in quiet acknowledgement, nuzzling his nose into the blanket at his shoulder, one nimble hand emerging from his cocoon to clutch the fabric close.
“He wasn’t supposed to be there,” Megumi mutters into the blanket, voice thick.
Megumi’s breath fogs the air as he blows on his bare hands, desperately trying to work circulation back into them. They’ve gone stiff and sore with the bitter cold. He’s pelted by a gust of wind that wracks his frame with shivers as it cuts straight through his threadbare jacket.
Crouching low by a light post to shield himself from the worst of the wind, he shoves his hands into his armpits as he tries to think of what to do. He bounces a knee, agitated. The cold seeps into his bones but it does nothing to numb the hunger pangs; neither does it deaden the aching in his joints.
Half delirious and hoping he’d missed something the first time he’d looked, he fumbles through his pockets yet again, only coming up with a handful of coins and a crinkled convenience store receipt. He’s out of money. With what he has left, he can barely afford to buy a rice ball let alone shelter in a cafe for the night.
That evening alone, Megumi had already been stopped twice by police due to the youth curfew, and twice he’s been issued a stern warning and told to get off the street. It will be worse if they catch him yet again on the same night. They’ll take him into protective custody or contact his guardians, and that will result in an even bigger headache. A chill runs down his spine at the thought.
He groans and jams his thumbs into his eye sockets, trying to focus on the pain to force himself into clarity of mind. The weight of exhaustion bears down on him, heavy and oppressive. He’s running out of options, and he’s so hungry that his head feels like it’s floating rather than attached to his shoulders.
The wind whistles through the treetops, and the sound of laughter carries through to him from some streets over. At least someone’s having a good night, he thinks mournfully, feeling sorry for himself.
It’s a bit pathetic. He knew this was coming. He knew he would be kicked out of the orphanage at some point and should have prepared himself better for it.
Careless. He was too careless.
He had thought it was a boon when a couple wanted to foster him, his stars finally turning. A small reprieve before he was eventually, inevitably, cast aside. The cost was even higher than he had expected.
His lips twist into a grimace. That man’s face springs to his mind, unbidden, and he feels a cold suffuse through him that has nothing to do with the weather. Megumi shakes his head, willing the dark thoughts away.
He tilts his head back to face the sky. It’s a clear night, but the sky is an empty black void. Megumi knows that with the light pollution, stars can’t be seen from Tokyo regardless of the weather, but he likes to imagine them there anyway, watching over the city like distant sentinels. It reminds him of nights at the orphanage with Tsumiki, mapping far-off constellations with clumsy fingers and a secondhand star atlas.
Megumi closes his eyes and lets the melody of distant laughter wash over him, carrying him away into better memories. The facility wasn’t so bad, really, until Tsumiki got adopted. And even then, he was mostly just lonely. With his cold demeanor, he had difficulty interacting with others, and the older kids picked on him for it, but he soon learned the way to settle that was with some pointed words and well-placed punches.
With time, they grew bored of him, as people tended to do, and he was left on his own again. It was fine. He didn’t want any friends anyway.
And for a few years, he still had Gojo’s visits to look forward to. Even though Megumi acted sour when that troublesome man came by, it was mostly a pretense. Gojo was more than annoying, yes, but he was also the one constant in Megumi’s life.
By the time Megumi got to junior high, though, the frequency of Gojo’s visits had gradually dwindled down to nonexistent. Gojo was busy, and that was understandable. He had his own life. He didn't always have time for Megumi, but that was alright too because that’s when Itadori came into his life. And right on Itadori’s heels came Kugisaki. Megumi hasn’t been alone since then.
Megumi smiles a little, eyes still closed. He thinks Itadori would let him stay at his place, if he asks, but he’s loath to burden his friend when Itadori is already caring for his ailing grandfather. He’s even more reluctant to ask Kugisaki who is constantly butting heads with her strict and equally stubborn parents. The smile fades from Megumi’s lips. He really doesn’t want to trouble anyone with his problems. It’s already enough that—
Skrrrkkk!
Megumi’s eyes fly open. He whips his head around, trying to pinpoint the source of the commotion. There’s another screech, a bang, and then a roar of cheers. Down the street, a gaggle of teenagers have succeeded in ripping a bolted down bike rack from the sidewalk.
Megumi climbs wearily to his feet, dusting off his trousers as he does so. He’s in no mood to be harassed or get in a fight tonight, and judging by the ruckus, one of the neighbors will be calling the cops soon and he definitely can’t afford to be there when they arrive. He checks the time on his little flip phone before shoving it back into his jacket pocket.
It’s late enough, he thinks. The man is away on a business trip and the woman should be asleep, so there will be no questions to answer. Megumi can creep into his bedroom as quiet and unobtrusive as a dormouse. Just to spend a couple of hours out of the cold before he can slip away in the dawn. Gone before anyone is the wiser.
Then he can leave for school where he can rest, surrounded by his friends and safe under Gojo and Nanami's watchful eyes. With their presences like an assuring balm over his tattered nerves, the dread and anxiety finally melt away, granting him a few blissful moments of hard-won repose.
He only feels a pang of remorse when he remembers the disappointment on Gojo's face as he handed back Megumi’s exams, crowned with his failing marks circled in red ink at the top.
Megumi frowns to himself. It’s been hard to bring himself to care about something as insignificant as schoolwork or his plummeting grades. He sighs. He’s always been an unfortunate problem child, but now he feels like a delinquent through and through.
As he trudges down the street, an uneasiness in his body makes itself known. He bites his lip while his stomach twists and flips. Something tells him not to do it, not to go to that house, and it’s enough to make him vacillate.
It’s not an unfamiliar sensation, this sinking in his stomach. It's a response that's been ingrained in him for as long as he can remember, as natural as breathing. His instincts, his father had called them. Megumi doesn’t remember his father’s face, can’t recall his scent, but he does remember the man teaching him to trust his intuition, regardless of whether he could find any logical rationale behind it.
“This world won’t be kind to a runt like you,” his father had said, poking him in the belly, one big hand braced on Megumi’s back, keeping him upright.
Megumi had hung onto his every word, seated on his knee and staring up at the man who was, at the time, the entire extent of his young world.
“Trust your gut—it’ll keep you alive.”
The advice has served him well in fights and other unsavory situations over the years.
Illuminated under the sallow light of a singular street lamp, Megumi looks down the dark road, into that endless black expanse, and then back over his shoulder. The burning discomfort gnaws at his insides. He shouldn’t. Not after last time.
Just as he’s about to turn back, another burst of icy wind whips his hair into his face, ruthlessly ripping at his thin jacket. He hunches his shoulders, bowing his head to anchor himself against the wind’s fierce assault until the gusts subside. Spitting hair from his mouth, Megumi wraps his arms tighter around himself.
It’s cold.
His stomach gurgles in pitiful protest as he staggers in the direction of his foster house.
A couple of hours—a brief respite from the sleepless cold. Not long at all. It will be fine. The man is not there.
Megumi ignores the sticky feeling pooling in his chest like tar, begging him to turn around, to stay put. It clings to the soles of his feet like cobwebs, trying, failing, to trap him where he stands.
The wind blows. Withered leaves dance in the air currents, dried edges crumbling to nothingness as they batter against the unyielding concrete. Megumi soldiers onward.
The house is dark when he arrives. His shoulders droop in relief. It’s a good sign. Maybe he’s lucky and can even sneak some leftovers from the kitchen.
Megumi unlocks the front door, lifting it a little by the handle and quickly swinging it open to keep the hinges from squeaking. He nearly purrs when he steps into the house and out of the cold. It’s like melting into a hot bath, all of the tension draining from his aching body in one smooth exodus. Warmth seeps into his fingertips, and his cheeks tingle as blood returns to them. He takes a moment to close his eyes and flex his stiff fingers, relishing in the heat of the house soaking into his marrow.
He inhales deeply and lets it out in one long sigh.
His nose scrunches as he takes in the scent of his foster parents, which is rich and pervasive in their house, as is to be expected. It has been so long since he’s stepped foot in the building that the intensity of the scent almost floors him.
With a sniffle, he rubs his fists against his face. He’s so tired that his vision swims. Shaking his head, he closes the door behind him. He’s not thinking straight. If he can catch a few hours of uninterrupted sleep, he’ll be fine again by morning.
It’s become second nature to hide any signs of his presence, and so, although he feels shame for tracking dirt through the woman’s clean house, he doesn’t remove his shoes as he creeps through the entryway and into the living room.
“Megumi-kun.”
Megumi freezes. The living room floor lamp clicks on, and light floods the space, illuminating the man who’s leaning against the armrest of a square, leather club chair.
Without stopping to think, Megumi bolts for the door, but the man is fast. He grabs Megumi by his backpack, nearly yanking him off his feet. Megumi thrashes, struggling to pull his arms free of the straps. He ends up losing both his coat and his backpack in the struggle but at least he’s free of the man’s grasp.
Carelessly, the man tosses his bag and coat aside as Megumi scrambles forward, trying to reach the door.
A strong arm wraps itself around Megumi’s stomach and hauls him back until his back collides with a broad chest. Megumi struggles, but he’s trapped with his arms pinned to his sides, the man’s arm locked firmly around him. The man pivots them so that their backs are to the door, blocking Megumi’s only route of escape.
The man’s free hand slides up his chest, rough fingers encircling the column of Megumi’s neck. The man squeezes once in warning, and Megumi stills, his pulse fluttering beneath the man’s palm.
“Where are you running, little blessing?” The man nuzzles his face against Megumi’s cheek, his jaw. He inhales deeply, dragging in Megumi’s terrified scent, nostrils flaring. “I haven’t seen you in so long. I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”
The man’s scent rolls over Megumi in a wave. It saturates the narrow space between them, dense and invasive and full of lust. Despite Megumi’s best efforts, the potency of it overwhelms him. His knees go soft, buckling under the sheer oppressive weight of the pheromones flooding the air. He gags as the scent invades his lungs, coating his tongue and the insides of his mouth like oil.
He’s not used to be being this close to a full-grown alpha, being this close to anyone really, and—
And Megumi can feel the man's arousal pressing against him then, hard and insistent. He clenches his eyes shut tightly, fighting back the sob rising in his throat.
Blood rushes in his ears as his heart thunders the constant drumbeat of fear that drowns out all else. He shivers, nausea and terror gripping him in a paralyzing vice.
He wants to run, he wants to fight, but—
But he can’t think—
Move.
He can feel lips pressing against the juncture of his neck, right where his scent glands are.
He needs to—to run. But he can only tremble as—
as teeth graze his—
Move.
Jagged pressure on his skin, fangs—
Move!
Megumi snaps his eyes open and slams his foot down hard on the man’s instep. The man lets out a surprised yelp as he recoils from Megumi. When his arm drops, Megumi swings an elbow backward, aiming for the man’s solar plexus, the way he was taught when he was a kid. The man staggers back, gasping for air, when Megumi’s hit lands true.
Megumi stumbles forward, breaking free of the man’s hold. He has no time to lose—the window of opportunity he’s made for himself is small, and the man is still between him and the only exit.
Megumi darts toward the door, propelled by raw desperation. He feints left, but as he lunges to slip past on the other side, the man’s arm shoots out in blur of movement, palm slamming against the opposite wall—a sudden unyielding barrier that sends Megumi skittering out of its path, shoulder checking the wall as he dodges.
As Megumi loses his footing, the man backhands him with such brute strength that Megumi goes sprawling to the floor. A stabbing pain shoots through his side as he lands hard on his hip.
Before he can orient himself, the man is on him, chest heaving with labored breaths. The man takes a bruising grip on each of Megumi’s wrists and uses them to slam him down. Megumi’s head cracks against the hardwood floor, sending gray spots dancing in his field of view as he's pinned on his back.
Dazed, Megumi blinks as he tries to get his bearings. Above him, the man’s face swims in and out of focus, eyes ablaze with manic fury, a sneer on his lips. Megumi wants to swipe it right off his face.
With renewed determination, Megumi thrashes against the merciless grip on his wrists, face contorting with effort.
The man grins down at him, flashing long canines, and the lust in his scent redoubles. A sudden surge of disgust and horror shoots through Megumi as he realizes the man is becoming more aroused the more Megumi struggles.
Shifting to grip both of Megumi’s wrists in one hand, the man shoves Megumi’s legs apart with the other, forcing himself between his thighs. Megumi squirms, his narrow hips aching at the strain, but he’s fully trapped under the man’s weight.
“Don’t make me ruin that pretty face,” the man murmurs.
He chuckles low in his chest, cupping Megumi’s clammy cheek with a heavy hand, stroking his thumb tenderly over the bruise already forming.
His thumb drifts down further to tug at the corner of Megumi's mouth, and with a twist of his head, Megumi clamps his teeth down hard on the space between the man’s thumb and his forefinger, sinking his little fangs deep into the man’s flesh. The man rips his hand away with a curse. With the same hand, he slaps Megumi again, and Megumi’s head snaps to the side with the force of it.
“Know your place, omega,” the man hisses. “Submit.”
Megumi spits a mouthful of blood in his face.
He grins at the man's shocked expression, blood on his teeth. But the vicious satisfaction is short-lived when a palm slams down on his neck. Cruel, blunt nails tear across the delicate scent glands on his neck, and it hurts.
Megumi yelps, and the man’s fingers dig in harder. Fresh, warm blood spills from his scent gland and soaks his collar. The pain leaves him reeling even as the man releases his wrists, bringing both hands down to wrap around his neck, squeezing hard enough to choke.
Megumi’s gasp is strangled in his throat as the man’s hands clamp down on him like an iron band. Megumi’s own hands fly up to grab at the man’s wrists, fingers scrabbling and digging at his forearm in a vain attempt to free himself. He scratches and claws, straining against the man’s bulk, but the man just groans, loud and low, as he applies more and more pressure on Megumi’s throat.
Panic swells as the relentless pressure around his neck increases, restricting his airflow. His chest tightens, a sharp panicked ache as his body demands oxygen, each breath too shallow and inadequate.
Megumi kicks out his legs, twisting and arching his hips to try to create even the tiniest bit of leverage. But he can’t find any purchase as his feet slip on the smooth floor, worn treads of his old sneakers sliding against waxed hardwood.
Megumi’s brain is growing fuzzy, his movements more sluggish. Sound fades away, and the world narrows down to the sensation of the man’s hands tightening around his neck. His mouth falls open, gasping like a fish on a hook.
His fingertips tingle with numbness as his muscles grow slack. His hands drop away from the man’s wrists, falling aside with a muted thud. His limbs feel disconnected, leaden and weighed down by invisible shackles. He tries to bring them up again, but they remain limp, uncooperative. The edges of his vision start to blur, his lashes fluttering as his head grows light and hazy.
His eyes close.
The blackness beckoning.
An empty sky. No stars to be seen.
No,
not yet.
His eyes crack back open.
Despite the overwhelming weakness in his body, one final flicker of resolve sparks in his mind. Summoning the last reserves of his strength, Megumi drags his knees up, shifting his weight just enough to get his feet planted against the man’s sides.
With a sudden push, he forces a brief sliver of space, and as the man’s weight momentarily wavers, his grip loosens. It’s the opening that Megumi needs.
With the last of his coherence, Megumi does the only thing he can think of—
He throws his head forward and slams it into the man’s face. Blood pours down onto him as he breaks the man’s nose. The man roars with pain, sputtering blood. Megumi has to choke back his disgust as it splatters across his face. As the man rears back on his knees, Megumi gulps in big mouthfuls of air, throat burning. The first inhale is a painful jolt, lungs aching as they expand for the first time in what feels like an eternity.
Still coughing and hacking from the deprivation, Megumi scrambles backward with no time to waste, palms and heels digging into the wood to push himself away. His movements are jerky and uncoordinated as he slides across the floor. Ignoring the pain radiating through his neck and throat, he squints his eyes to focus through his blurry vision, forcing his wayward limbs to move.
"I took you into my house, and this is how you repay me?" the man snarls at him, lunging forward to grab at him even as blood rains from his face.
Before Megumi can get his feet under him, the man seizes him by an ankle, dragging him back. Megumi kicks at the man’s fingers and face, using his heel to try to break the man’s grip on his ankle. Frantically, he throws his hand out, searching for anything he can use as a weapon. He ends up grabbing the strap of his backpack. It’s hard-sided leather and full of his heavy textbooks. It will have to do.
He grabs the bag and swings. It smashes into the man’s face with a solid thud. If his nose wasn’t broken before, it certainly is now.
The man screams, falling back on his haunches, clutching at his face, and Megumi lurches to unsteady feet. The room spins around him, tilting and shifting, but he pushes forward. His heart slams against his ribs as he sprints for the door, the guttural sounds of the man’s agony echoing behind him. Hope flares in him as he grasps the handle and yanks it open.
Blessed, frigid air lashes him in the face and—
Megumi runs. Blindly, he runs, escaping into the cold night.
Gojo stares vacantly at the wall just beyond Megumi’s ear as the boy finishes recounting his story.
Megumi doesn’t look at him, but Gojo can see that even now he maintains that flat, stoic face. His eyes are dry of tears, and his mouth rests in a thin, hard line. Nothing in his face or body suggests more than apathy, and Gojo doesn’t understand how he can sustain that perfectly impassive expression when—
When—
Gojo grows suddenly, uncomfortably aware of the beating of his own heart. It pulses in his ears, behind his eyes. An escalating bump-bump bump-bump that has static crackling at the edges of his vision.
Fury surges to life in his gut, a savage tempest that has him trembling with the effort to contain it. His jaw locks tightly, teeth grinding in a symphony of tension and restraint. The metallic scent of ozone bleeds into the air, wrapping around them like an electric current. It thickens with his rage, heavy and charged, as if a storm is brewing in the confines of the room.
At the change in Gojo’s scent, at the hint of danger, Megumi shrinks back into the couch—his chin comes down to hide his neck, shoulders rounding as he tries to make himself smaller.
Gojo catches the motion from the corner of his eye, but he can’t bring himself to heel. His anger rises, a gnawing, suffocating presence demanding to be released, writhing and twining itself about him.
Gone is the cold clarity that his anger usually brings; the world dims, leaving only the raw intensity of his furor, its heat distorting everything around it.
His eyes rove the room, looking anywhere but at Megumi. His gaze drops to the cups strewn across the low table—silent twin witnesses to every harsh detail of Megumi’s months in foster care.
Unable to contain himself even in the face of Megumi’s narrow-eyed trepidation, Gojo shoots to his feet, startling Megumi further. Swiping the mugs from the table, he storms into the kitchen.
At the sink, he waves an impatient hand past the sensor to activate the touchless faucet and shoves the cups under the stream. The sound of rushing water fills the kitchen with a cacophonous roar. Gojo’s movements are jerky, nearly frantic as he scours a mug with more force than necessary. The tension in his shoulders climbs, muscles pulling taut. Delicate ceramic strains under his rough handling, threatening to shatter like his control.
Murky water spirals down the drain, disappearing from sight. A mirror of his tumult—cloudy, restless.
As he scrubs harder, his grip fumbles, and the mug slips from his hands. It crashes into the sink with a jarring bang—a violent punctuation to his frustration. His rage spills over.
In one sudden, explosive motion, he slams his hands on the counter.
Gojo glares down at the marble, the echo of his own anger resounding through the still kitchen, his hands stinging from the intensity of the collision.
He could feel the pain, the heat of impact, but it did nothing to distract him. The marble did not give, did not react, did not offer any solace or change—just a solid, indifferent surface. Unflinching in the face of Gojo’s rage.
He stands immobile for long moments, hunched over the counter and panting in ragged bursts. His hands curl over the lip of the sink, his grip tightening until his arms tremble with the force with which he clutches it.
All of his impotent fury has no outlet, nowhere to escape.
He clenches his eyes shut and takes a deep, shuddering breath in through his nose, feeling the air expand in his lungs and press against the cage of his ribs.
With both hands braced against the counter, he sags forward, resting his forehead against the cool wood of a cupboard door. The glossed veneer is placid and smooth against his skin, a welcome contrast to the white hot anger boiling within, threatening to burn him from the inside out.
The frustration—the helplessness—intensifies with every passing second, blazing brighter until the heat of it becomes unbearable. He presses his palms harder against the counter, leaning into the silence, searching for a moment of relief that shimmers like a mirage on the horizon, always receding, always just out of reach.
“Gojo-sensei?”
The sound of Megumi’s voice slashes through the ash clouding his thoughts, snapping Gojo out of his trance. He straightens, pushing himself away from the counter and turning toward the archway. Megumi is waiting for him there, cautious but not meek. At a glance, he’s as calm and collected as ever, yet despite his brave face and steady voice, Megumi’s own scent betrays him. Fear wreaths him like smoke, its tendrils slipping through every crack and crevice of his false indifference.
It hits Gojo like a gut punch. In an instant, his anger dissipates, giving way to a dawning guilt. He flounders for a moment, cursing and cringing at his own loss of self-control.
Fuck.
He’s fucking this up.
Gojo is an idiot.
Shaking his head, he scrapes a tired hand over his face. The anger that had driven Gojo thus far now leaves him feeling hollow and drained. His shoulders slump, the adrenaline fading. He walks slowly toward Megumi, each step doleful as he approaches with unspoken remorse.
“Are you okay?” the boy asks as Gojo draws close.
With effort, Gojo pulls his gaze to Megumi’s silent, drawn face. He still cannot meet Megumi’s eyes, afraid to see the accusation that must be there.
“I’m fine,” he replies, voice rough. “And you? Alright?”
Despite Megumi’s small nod, Gojo feels stupid even as he says the words. Megumi’s not alright. Nothing about this is alright.
“We’ll figure it out,” Gojo says. “You won’t have to go back there ever again.”
The promise settles in the space between them. It expands, filling every nook and cranny the same way it has overtaken every corner of Gojo’s mind.
Megumi doesn’t respond, his gaze fixed somewhere in the distance, as though the words have passed over him and left him untouched. Whether he believes Gojo or not, he doesn’t let it show; his face remains guarded, the lines of tension beneath his eyes heavy with quiet strain.
In the stillness, Gojo’s gaze drifts across Megumi’s features, taking in the weary droop of his eyelids, the way each blink stretches longer than the last. Exhaustion is carved so deeply into his bearing that it seems as much a part of him as the straight slope of his nose or the irregular skyline of his wild hair.
Anything that can be done will have to wait for the morning. What Megumi really needs is a full night’s unbroken sleep.
“Let’s get you to bed,” Gojo says, his tone softer than before. "I put fresh sheets on the bed, but it probably still smells like me. Is that going to be okay?”
Megumi is a bit slow to respond, as tired as he is, but he shoots Gojo a look of confusion when he registers the words, tilting his head to the side. His lips part and a small furrow forms between his eyebrows. He looks so terribly young that Gojo has to bite down another unwelcome wave of rage on the boy’s behalf.
“You want me to stay? In your bed?”
“I’ll take the couch,” Gojo clarifies, just in case.
It does nothing to ease the confusion on Megumi’s face.
"My bedroom locks from the inside, and the windows do as well,” Gojo says plainly. It’s too late in the night to bother with mincing words; he's not best known for his tact anyway. “No one will be able to come in while you sleep.”
“Right,” Megumi says as Gojo leads him back through to the living room. His eyes flicker to the hallway and then the entryway before returning to Gojo. “It’s really okay?”
“Yes, and I’ll be right out here if you need me.”
They retrieve Megumi’s backpack, and Gojo ushers him down the long hallway and into the master bedroom. Megumi’s nose twitches when they enter, eyes darting about the room. Gojo crosses to the far wall in long strides to close and lock the windows. He hopes his scent isn’t too overpowering for Megumi, but it's too cold to let the boy sleep with the windows open.
When Gojo turns back to face him, Megumi is reaching out a tentative hand to graze the soft bedspread. He jerks his fingers away again when he catches Gojo’s gaze.
“Is it alright?” Gojo looks around his room, trying to view it with fresh eyes.
Much like the rest of his apartment, the room is elegantly decorated—a testament to the skill of his interior designer. Spacious and uncluttered, it’s filled with muted tones of soft whites, grays, and natural wood. The bed is low to the ground with a sleek, minimalist frame of lacquered wood. A wabi-sabi inspired ball chandelier hangs gracefully above. A few carefully curated decorative accents finish the space: a small bonsai tree, a minimalist sculpture in the corner, Nihonga paintings framed on the walls.
It’s polished. A sophisticated ambiance appropriate for an unattached alpha of his age but also hardly the cozy atmosphere one would want for a young omega. It’s too sterile, too remote, to be comforting. He hopes, though, that it’s at least serene enough for Megumi to find a semblance of peace, if only for a night.
“It’s nice. Really nice.” Megumi pauses, frowning down at the inviting bed. “Are you sure? I can stay—”
“You can stay here,” Gojo says firmly.
Megumi chews on the inside of his cheek, still looking reluctant. Gojo stoops so that he’s level with Megumi’s eyeline.
“Everything will be okay, Megumi.” Holding onto his shoulders, Gojo locks eyes with the boy, trying to dispel his doubt with quiet assurance. “I promise.”
Megumi drops his gaze almost immediately, looking down at the hardwood.
"Thank you,” he says, and while his voice is as soft as snowfall, the words carry a palpable weight.
The corner of Gojo’s mouth lifts in a tender smile. “Anything you need,” he replies, gently squeezing Megumi’s shoulders.
Gojo leaves Megumi hovering by the side of his bed, closing the door behind himself when he exits the room. He grabs a blanket and a spare pillow from the linen closet and flops down onto his couch, not bothering to lay out any sheets or do anything more elaborate. As much as his mind wants to continue churning over the deeply upsetting events Megumi relayed, he knows that it’s a useless endeavor.
Sprawled on his back, he closes his eyes and waits for sleep to claim him.