Chapter Text
art by: Nerurrus
Megumi was sixteen.
That fact alone already made most adults uncomfortable.
He was still in high school...uniform crisp, grades carefully balanced, sleep perpetually borrowed from tomorrow. But three afternoons a week, after the final bell rang, he traded his blazer for a plain black sweater and walked to the small language academy near the station.
He needed the money.
University prep courses weren’t cheap. Hospital bills were worse. And Megumi hated asking for help.
So he taught.
English, mostly. Sometimes, basic Japanese literacy for younger kids.
His students were children, elementary and middle schoolers…small voices, big backpacks, endless questions. They loved him.
Even when he looked stern.
Even when his eyebrows knit together in that serious way that made new students nervous.
Because Megumi was patient.
He never raised his voice. Never laughed at mistakes. He corrected gently, rewrote carefully, praised quietly.
“Fushiguro-sensei!”
“Sensei, look!”
“Sensei, is this right?”
They crowded him every afternoon like ducklings.
The staff adored him too…responsible, reliable, mature beyond his years.
Which was exactly why, on a rainy Tuesday, the manager called him aside.
“We have a special student,” she said.
Megumi listened.
And frowned.
Gojo Satoru.
Twenty-one.
University student.
Japanese nationality.
Lived in France.
Fluent in French.
Understands English.
Speaks neither English nor Japanese properly.
Megumi read the file twice.
“…He’s older than me,” Megumi said flatly.
“Yes,” the manager replied, clearly aware. “But academically, he needs a beginner’s instructor. Someone calm. Someone patient.”
Megumi hesitated.
“…I usually teach kids.”
“We know,” she said gently. “That’s exactly why we thought of you.”
Megumi frowned slightly, glancing back at the file. “What about the other teachers? The adults?”
The manager let out a small, tired sigh.
“Ah—that,” she said. “That’s… actually the problem. They’re finding him difficult to teach.”
Megumi looked up. “Difficult how?”
She hesitated, choosing her words carefully.
“He doesn’t respond well to pressure. Or authority. And when he gets frustrated, he switches languages. The classes lose structure very quickly.”
Megumi was quiet for a moment.
“And you thought of me?”
The manager bowed her head slightly.
“Please, Fushiguro-kun. Just try. The truth is, he comes from a very well-known family—and they’ve already paid a significant sum for his Japanese lessons. We can’t simply turn him away.”
The weight of that settled between them.
Megumi exhaled slowly.
After a long moment, he nodded once.
“…I’ll try.”
—----
Classroom B smelled faintly of whiteboard cleaner and rain.
Megumi set up his materials with the same care he always did…kana charts taped straight, flashcards aligned, notebook placed precisely at the edge of the desk.
The clock ticked.
Then…
The door slid open.
Megumi looked up.
And nearly forgot how to breathe.
The man who entered looked out of place in the way foreign magazines did when left on a tatami mat.
Tall….absurdly tall. Too tall for the doorframe. White hair pulled loosely back. Long coat draped over his shoulders like he didn’t care about weather or gravity.
Blue eyes.
Bright. Curious. Unapologetically foreign.
He smiled when he saw Megumi.
Wide. Easy.
“Bonjour,” he said.
The sound of French filled the room...smooth, confident, musical.
Megumi blinked once.
“…Hello,” he replied in English.
The man’s face lit up.
“Ah—!” he said, relief immediate. “You speak English. C’est bien.”
His English came slowly after that, careful and accented.
“I understand,” he said. “But I do not… speak vell.”
Megumi caught the pronunciation automatically.
vell.
not well.
“I’m Fushiguro... Megumi,” Megumi said after a slight hesitation. “I’ll be teaching you Japanese.”
The man was already lowering himself into the chair, folding his long limbs into it with awkward grace, as if the furniture hadn’t been designed with someone like him in mind
“Gojo Satoru,” he said, then added with a soft, too-easy smile:
“Please take care of me…”
He looked Megumi up and down with those haunting blue eyes.
“…Sensei.”
Megumi didn’t understand the French. But he could tell—the student was at least trying. Earnest, even if the word came out crooked.
He gestured lightly toward the desk, more out of habit than necessity. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”
Gojo adjusted in the chair instead, stretching just enough to make the poor thing creak in protest, like he was testing its limits, or Megumi’s.
“Nice to meet you, Gojo-san,” Megumi said, carefully composed. “Like I said, I’ll teach you Japanese. And English too, if needed.”
Gojo leaned in, resting his elbows on the desk, his eyes glittering with interest.
“Merci,” he said smoothly, gaze sweeping over Megumi as if trying to memorize him.
“Eh–are you, ah… plus jeune ?” Satoru finally asked, tilting his head.
“I’m sorry?” Megumi said.
“Ah––you look a lit-tle… comme un enfant,” he added, teasing, the French slipping out unconsciously.
Megumi blinked, confused.
Gojo smiled, lazy and unapologetic. “I am vingt-et-un years old,” he said, the accent thick on the words.
Ah.
Now Megumi understood.
“I’m actually still in high school,” Megumi replied evenly, “but I work part-time.” His eyes flicked over Satoru, sharp, assessing.
“Is that going to be a problem, Gojo-san?”
Gojo blinked then shook his head at once.
“Non, non… it’s okay,” he said softly, a grin tugging at his mouth.
“Mon petit.”
There was something about the way he said it that Megumi felt…
A strange, quiet awareness.
Like the room had tilted slightly.
“…We’ll start with the basics,” Megumi said eventually, regaining composure.
He picked up a marker and wrote carefully on the board.
こんにちは
“This is konnichiwa,” he said. “Hello.”
Gojo watched…not the board, but Megumi’s hand as he wrote.
“Konnichi… va,” Gojo repeated.
Megumi nodded. “Good.”
Gojo leaned forward, resting his chin in his palm.
“Vat can i call you?”
Megumi pauses for a while, the kids call him sensei but this…This was different.
The man in front of him wasn’t a child. Wasn’t even really a student in the conventional sense. He was twenty-one, with perfect posture and movie-star bone structure, watching him like a cat watched a cornered bird.
“How… would you like to address me?” he said as he continue to write words in Japanese and in English
“Mon petit… Megumi,” he said fondly, the syllables rolling off his tongue like a lullaby laced with flirtation.
Megumi paused again. Then turned.
“…Yes? What was that?”
Gojo smiled, wider now and unrepentant.
“Ah. French,” he said lightly, almost sing-song. “Iz… nickname. I call you.”
Megumi frowned slightly, the same way he did whenever a kid used slang in a sentence they didn’t quite understand.
“We don’t usually address people by their first names, especially not the first time we meet,” he explained. His tone was polite, but firm.
Gojo tilted his head, pout forming. Clearly a performance.
“But you zed—‘anyzing I vant,’ non? Is it… bad? To call someone in first name?”
“Not exactly,” Megumi sighed. “It’s not rude, just… not the norm here.”
“Zen… Fu—Fuu—Zhi…gurow?”
It came out all wrong, drawled and mispronounced. Megumi winced at the attempted syllables.
Gojo looked like he was trying to sound it out phonetically, failing miserably, and making it everyone’s problem.
Megumi considered it.
Maybe it was better if he didn’t try so hard.
“You can call me whatever you like,” he relented, turning back to the board. “I just hope it’s not something inappropriate.”
“Non, non,” Gojo said, with a warmth that was surprisingly genuine. “Iz good name. Mon petit Megumi.”
Megumi didn’t know what it meant.
He didn’t ask.
But the tone…it wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t patronizing. It wasn’t even particularly playful.
It was… soft.
Somewhere between affectionate and reverent.
Their session continued.
Gojo spoke mostly in French. When he attempted English, it came out warped and breathy.
“I vill try,” he’d say, brows furrowed in exaggerated determination.
“I ave question.”
“You vill help me, yes?”
Megumi corrected him quietly. Patiently. Gojo listened—closely, if not always obediently.
Sometimes, when frustration got the better of him, French would spill out in quick, musical bursts, sentences too fast for Megumi to catch, syllables sharp and lilting.
And every time…
“Mon petit Megumi,” Gojo would murmur, like it was some kind of charm. A lullaby. A spell.
Megumi didn’t really ask what the french word means or correct him.
He told himself it was just a name.
Just words he didn't understand.
But somewhere between kana charts and mispronounced verbs, Megumi began to realise…
Gojo Satoru wasn’t actually difficult to teach.
Which begged the question:
Then what, exactly, was the problem?
—-----
Gojo Satoru spoke Japanese perfectly.
Annoyingly perfect.
Native cadence. Casual slang. The kind that made people assume he’d never left the country…even though he’d just stepped off a plane from France three weeks ago with a graduating thesis, top honors, and an inbox full of job offers he was ignoring.
He was supposed to meet friends that afternoon.
They were late.
Gojo, bored and mildly offended by the sun, wandered to a nearby ice cream stall.
“Vanilla,” he said easily, Japanese smooth and lazy. “Two scoops.”
He paid. Took the cone. Turned…
…and immediately felt something small slam into his leg.
The impact was light. The aftermath was not.
The ice cream arced through the air in a tragic, slow-motion parabola and met the pavement face-first.
There was a beat of silence.
Then….
“WAAAHHHH!”
The child who’d bumped into him stumbled back and started crying like the world had ended.
Gojo stared.
He stared at the child.
He stared at the empty cone.
He stared at the pavement, where his ice cream had died an undignified death.
…Are you serious? He thought.
“What the hell,” Gojo said aloud, baffled. The child cried louder.
You bump into me, and you’re the one crying? What about my ice cream?
Before Gojo could say something that would absolutely get him cancelled by nearby parents, a second figure stepped into the scene.
A younger guy…teenager, probably…messy black hair sticking out at odd angles, holding a brightly colored spiral lollipop.
He crouched immediately, movements quick and practiced.
“Hey,” the boy said calmly. “You’re okay. Look…! no blood.”
He checked the kid’s knees, then gently pressed the lollipop into his hand.
“Here. This helps more than crying.”
The child sniffed.
Paused.
Then accepted the lollipop like it was sacred.
Crisis resolved.
The kid ran off a moment later, joy restored, trauma forgotten.
The boy stood.
And that’s when their eyes met.
Gojo blinked.
Once.
…Oh.
The kid—no, the teen—had sharp eyes. Dark blue eyes. Focused. Too serious for his age. His expression was neutral, almost flat, but there was something gentle still lingering in it, leftover from the way he’d handled the child.
His hair was a mess. Like it had lost a fight with a pillow.
Objectively…
Cute.
No.
Adorable cute.
No…worse.
Pretty cute.
Gojo, who had charmed professors, bartenders, strangers, and at least one customs officer by accident, felt his brain misfire.
The boy’s gaze dropped.
To Gojo’s hand.
To the cone.
Empty.
“…Ah,” the boy said.
Without another word, he turned back to the stall.
Gojo watched, confused, as the boy stepped behind the counter.
Scooped ice cream.
Vanilla. Two scoops.
Then walked back and held it out.
“Here.”
Gojo stared.
“You didn’t have to…”
“It fell because of the kid,” the boy said simply. “Not your fault.”
Gojo took it automatically.
“…Wait,” he said. “You work here?”
The boy shrugged. “Part-time.”
Gojo laughed, bright and easy. “Wow. Kind and employed. Dangerous combination.”
No reaction.
Interesting.
Gojo leaned in slightly, smile turning familiar, practiced charm.
“You know,” he said lightly, “This kind gesture requires rewards, I’ll treat you to something fancy.”
The boy looked at him.
Really looked.
Then….
“No.”
Flat. Immediate. Absolute.
Gojo froze.
“…No?”
“I’m sixteen,” the boy continued evenly. “And you’re a stranger.”
Pause.
“And you talk too much.”
Silence fell.
Gojo Satoru, international honors graduate, linguistic prodigy, walking disaster, felt something new happen to him.
He had been rejected.
Completely.
Cleanly.
Without hesitation.
It was…
Fascinating.
“Wow,” Gojo said softly. “First time for everything.”
The boy didn’t respond. Just turned back to the stall.
Gojo ate his ice cream, eyes drifting toward the boy behind the counter. The boy didn’t look back. Not even once.
That’s strange.
Gojo knew he was handsome. Objectively. Statistically. Maybe he should’ve taken off the dark shades. Maybe showing his eyes would’ve tipped the balance.
Then again…
The stall grew busier. Customers lined up. Coins clinked. Orders were called out.
The boy continued working without pause, efficient and focused, as if Gojo didn’t exist at all.
…Oh well.
Gojo finished his ice cream.
Left shortly after.
He didn’t get the boy’s name.
-----------
That should have been the end of it.
It wasn’t.
A few days later, Gojo was walking with friends through a narrow street near campus, half-listening to complaints about jet lag, credit transfers, and how nothing in Japan tasted the same anymore. Someone was laughing. Someone was loud.
Gojo wasn’t paying attention.
Then….
thump.
Something light but solid collided with his chest.
A plastic folder slipped free, papers fanning out across the pavement like startled birds.
“Oh..! I’m sorry!”
The voice was familiar.
Gojo looked down.
Black hair. Same messy angles. Same too-serious eyes.
The boy from the ice cream stall was already crouching, hands moving fast as he gathered the scattered pages.
Megumi didn’t look up.
Gojo froze.
No way.
“I wasn’t watching where I was going,” the boy said quickly, clearly embarrassed. “I’m really sorry.”
Gojo bent down automatically, picking up the nearest papers.
“Hey,” he said, smile already forming. “This is starting to feel a little serendi—”
He stopped.
Their eyes met.
Recognition should have sparked.
It didn’t.
Megumi blinked once. Politely.
Then bowed his head slightly.
“Thank you for helping,” he said. “I should’ve been more careful.”
The words were practiced. Courteous. Distant.
Gojo stared at him from behind his round-rimmed shades.
“…You don’t remember me,” he said.
Megumi frowned, genuinely puzzled. “Have we met?”
Oh.
Oh.
“No,” Gojo replied lightly. “Must be my face. Happens all the time.”
Megumi nodded, accepting the explanation without question.
He gathered the remaining papers, straightened, and bowed again.
“I’m sorry again,” he said. “And… thank you, sir.”
Then he turned and jogged toward the building across the street, disappearing inside without looking back.
Silence followed.
“…What was that?” Geto Suguru asked as he walked back over.
“I think,” Shoko said slowly, already amused, “he just flirted with a high schooler and got rejected.”
Geto snorted.
Gojo looked up at them, still crouched on the pavement.
“Can you believe that?” he said. “He doesn’t remember this handsome face.”
“The hell are you talking about?” Geto asked.
“The ice cream incident I told you about,” Gojo said. “That was him.”
“Oh,” both of them said in unison.
Geto squinted. “You’re going after minors now? Wow. You really fell off.”
“HEY,” Gojo protested.
That was when he saw it.
One sheet of paper remained on the ground.
He picked it up.
A simple flyer.
Black-and-white. Clean layout. No unnecessary decoration.
ENGLISH & JAPANESE LESSONS for KIDS
Beginner to Intermediate
Patient instruction
After-school hours
Fushiguro Megumi
Gojo read it once.
Then again.
Slowly, a grin spread across his face.
“…Oh,” he murmured.
So that’s how it was.
“Stop that, Satoru,” Shoko said dryly. “You’re making that creepy smile again.”
—
Weeks later, sitting in a language academy classroom and very deliberately pretending not to know Japanese, Gojo Satoru watched a familiar sixteen-year-old write こんにちは on the board.
Messy hair.
Serious expression.
The same hands that had held a spiral lollipop.
The same hands that had picked up flyers from the pavement.
The same calm.
Gojo wondered briefly if wearing his shades would help.
If hiding his eyes would make him remember from the previous days.
Then again, that might look strange. Suspicious. Like he was stalking him.
Which was… only slightly true.
Megumi continued the lesson without hesitation, voice steady as he explained pronunciation, kana structure, the difference between hiragana and katakana, how a single shift in diction could change meaning entirely.
Patient. Clear. Focused.
Gojo listened. Mostly.
It was fun, especially when Megumi paused, brows knitting in quiet concentration, those deep dark ocean eyes lifting every time Gojo slipped into French.
The boy stared, just a second longer than necessary.
As if the sounds themselves had caught him.
Hypnotized, maybe.
Gojo smiled to himself.
French always did sound sweeter when spoken properly.
And hotter.
Megumi, apparently, had noticed.
“…Does French really sound like that?” Megumi asked one day, almost as an afterthought.
Gojo paused mid-page.
“Oui,” he replied, then switched–carefully, into his broken English. “Iz… normal sounding. Vhy?”
Megumi blinked, clearly not expecting the question to be turned back on him.
“Oh, nothing,” he said quickly. He adjusted his collar, gaze shifting away for half a second too long.
“It just… sounded sweet.”
Gojo stared.
Oh no.
That was a blush.
A real one. Subtle. Pink at the ears. Practiced composure failing at the edges.
How adorably hot, Gojo thought, horrified and delighted at the same time. That should be illegal.
Megumi cleared his throat and straightened, professionalism snapping back into place like armor.
“Anyway,” he said briskly, “please practice the exercises I gave you. We’ll have speaking exercises next lesson.”
He capped the marker. Closed the notebook.
“That’s all for today, Gojo-san.”
And just like that…
The fun ended.
For today.
Gojo packed up slowly, exaggeratedly, as if time itself might stretch if he moved carefully enough.
It didn’t.
Gojo had lessons twice a week.
Wednesday afternoons. Saturday mornings.
At first, that was fine.
Then it became… insufficient.
After a month, seeing Megumi only twice a week felt like being given half a sentence and told to guess the rest.
So Gojo did what Gojo Satoru always did when faced with a minor inconvenience.
He escalated.
He went to the manager. Cornered her one afternoon, leaning casually against the counter like he didn’t already know he was being unfair.
“Iz it possible,” he asked gently, “to add… more days?”
She hesitated, naturally.
“Fushiguro-kun already has a full schedule,” she said carefully. “He teaches children after school, and Saturdays are already packed.”
Gojo leaned against the counter, smiling pleasantly.
“Ah,” he said. “But maybe… we can arrange something, non?” he said thoughtfully, slipping into Franglais without effort, “I am très motivated student, you see. Très sérieux. I vould like to… ‘immerse’ myself.”
He smiled.
Not wide. Not flashy.
Toothily, like those guys in Hollywood when they try to catch your eyes and heart.
The manager blinked and stammered.
“Oh. I—”
“And of course,” Gojo continued smoothly, showing those beautiful blue eyes behind dark shades that always make anyone falter, “I am willing to pay for additional time. No problem at all. Education iz important, non?”
She swallowed.
“…I can ask him,” she said weakly. “If he can make room for another slot.”
Gojo’s smile deepened.
“Zat vould be magnifique,” he said warmly.
Then, as an afterthought, “Merci, belle.”
The manager looked like she might short-circuit.
Gojo left the office humming.
-----
Megumi was good with time management.
He had to be.
Between school, work, and the long commute back to his apartment, there wasn’t much room for mistakes. He planned his days carefully…classes stacked tight, lessons scheduled back-to-back, evenings measured in minutes instead of hours.
Despite everything, he made sure of one thing.
Sleep.
No matter how busy he was, Megumi protected his sleep like it was sacred. Being tired made him careless. Carelessness meant mistakes. And mistakes were expensive.
Food was… negotiable.
He ate when he could. Usually twice a day. Sometimes less. It was fine. He was used to it.
Rent came first.
Then utilities.
Then his step-sister’s therapy.
There wasn’t much left after that.
So when Gojo Satoru was added to his schedule, Megumi hesitated.
Normally, he wouldn’t accept students like him.
Older.
University-level.
Above him in every way that usually mattered.
Megumi was still a high school student. Sixteen. Technically unqualified on paper. He knew his limits, and he respected them.
But…
The pay for Gojo-san’s lessons was three times higher than what he earned teaching children.
Three times.
Megumi stared at the numbers for a long time before agreeing.
He told himself it was temporary.
Just until things stabilized.
Just until the next payment is cleared.
So when the manager asked, carefully, apologetically, if Megumi could take two more lessons a week with Gojo-san, Megumi didn’t complain.
He did the math in his head.
Rent.
Therapy.
Groceries.
He nodded.
“…I can make it work.”
Money was necessary.
And besides, Gojo-san was… manageable.
Strange. Distracting. Occasionally exhausting.
But manageable.
Megumi adjusted his schedule again.
Woke up a little earlier.
Cut breaks a little shorter.
Moved meals later.
It was fine.
It had to be.
He told himself that every morning, while pulling on his school uniform, and every night, while setting his alarm. Time was something he could control. If he arranged it carefully enough, nothing would spill over. Nothing would break.
Then, one afternoon, exactly one month into Gojo Satoru’s lessons, the Specialty Clinic called.
Megumi stepped into the narrow stairwell to take it, the sound of the city muffled by concrete walls and distance.
They told him Tsumiki would be undergoing another form of memory therapy.
Life had already been difficult before the accident.
A year ago, Tsumiki had been hit by a car—a hit-and-run. No witnesses. No plate number. Just a body left on the road.
She lost her memory.
Then her ability to walk.
Then, slowly, even the ability to swallow food on her own.
Tsumiki was only twenty.
Before that, she worked ten-hour shifts at a local bakery, flour always dusting her sleeves, smiling even when her feet hurt. She supported him without complaint, without ever making him feel like a burden.
They were considered orphans.
Megumi’s father disappeared when he was ten. No warning. No goodbye.
Two years later, Tsumiki’s mother left too—found someone else, chose a different life.
Megumi had thought that would be it.
That Tsumiki would leave him as well.
But she stayed.
She chose him.
Their life was never easy, but it was survivable. Tight budgets. Shared dinners. Quiet evenings where they sat back-to-back on the floor, doing their own things, together.
Then the accident happened.
The bakery owner paid for three weeks of hospital confinement out of kindness alone.
And during those three weeks, Megumi went looking for work.
That was when teaching began.
That was when survival became a schedule.
—--
“Megumi, you’re leaving early today?”
Kugisaki Nobara tilted her head, arms crossed, as she watched Megumi stuff his books into his bag with mechanical efficiency.
Usually, he stayed behind after school, another thirty minutes, sometimes an hour—feeding the rabbits and chickens in their Animal Care club. He liked the quiet. The routine. The warmth of tiny paws and beady eyes. It was the kind of silence that didn’t demand anything from him.
But not today.
“Yeah,” Megumi said shortly, zipping his bag. “I’ve got a new student.”
Nobara’s brow twitched. “Another one? Slow down, will you?”
“You know I can’t.”
His voice was flat. Not sharp, not angry...just tired. The kind of tired that had long since turned into muscle memory.
Nobara’s mouth opened...then closed.
Because she did know.
She knew what he didn’t say. About Tsumiki. About the therapy bills. About how his lunch was smaller these days and how his sleeves had gotten looser even though the weather hadn’t warmed. About how he smiled less often now.
“I just worry, you know,” she muttered, brushing off her hands on her skirt. “Do you even eat? Or sleep?”
“I manage.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I do sleep,” he said, a touch of defensiveness creeping into his tone. “It’s food that’s optional.”
Nobara gave him a look so fierce it could’ve curdled milk. “Don’t joke about that.”
Megumi gave her a small, humorless shrug. “I’m not.”
A silence stretched between them.
Then, more gently:
“...You’ve said sure the last time too,” Nobara murmured. “You keep saying you’ll slow down, but you never do.”
Megumi didn’t meet her eyes.
Instead, he adjusted the strap of his bag, fingers tightening around the worn canvas as if that alone could anchor him.
Just before he reached the door, Nobara called out again, her voice quieter this time—like the words weren’t meant to echo, only land softly.
“Yuuji notices, you know.”
That made him pause. Not fully turn. Just… pause.
“He might be busy with baseball, but he’s worried,” she said. “Says he doesn’t see you around much anymore.”
A beat passed.
Something unreadable flickered across Megumi’s face.
“…Tell him I’m just busy,” he said. Quiet. Careful. Rehearsed.
And then, softer, barely above a whisper:
“He has enough to think about. I’m fine.”
He left before she could say more.
But as he stepped into the hall, the weight of those words lingered in his chest.
He has enough to think about.
Megumi repeated it like a prayer. Like a shield.
Because he knew.
He knew Yuuji cared. Too much, probably.
He knew Yuuji looked at him like he was something fragile ever since Tsumiki’s incident, like maybe if he held him too tightly, he might crack open.
But Megumi didn’t have room for soft things right now.
Tsumiki came first.
She always had.
So he wouldn’t think about Yuuji. Or how warm his voice sounded when he said Megumi’s name. Or how often those stupid brown eyes flicked over to him during lunch like they were trying to memorize his shape.
He didn’t have space for anything that wasn’t survival.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
So he kept walking.
And didn’t look back.
—-----
“How’s the fake lessons with the minor going?”
Shoko asked it lazily, spoon tapping the edge of her plate as she glanced across the table.
The café was one of those places people only went to when they wanted to be seen—gold-trimmed menus, desserts plated like art, prices that quietly insulted you. Gojo lounged back in his chair like he belonged there. Which, unfortunately, he did.
“Hm?” Gojo hummed, midway through demolishing a parfait. “Oh. Same as usual. Interesting. Fun.”
He paused, then added far too casually, “I started calling him mon petit. He thinks it’s another word for teacher.”
He chuckled to himself.
Shoko stared.
“…Wow,” she said slowly. “You’re awful.”
Gojo grinned. “Thank you.”
“Aww,” she continued, unimpressed, “making fun of a kid who’s just trying to do his job. Truly villain behavior.”
Across the table, Geto squinted at Gojo like he was trying to solve a crime.
“But seriously,” Geto said, “you’ve gotten creepier. Why stalk a high schooler to the point you fake not speaking Japanese? What’s wrong with you?” He gestured vaguely. “I mean, I get it. The kid’s handsome, but—”
“Handsome?” Gojo interrupted immediately.
He frowned.
“No,” he corrected, offended. “He’s pretty. And suppperrr adorable.”
Silence.
Shoko slowly set her spoon down.
“Stop that,” she said flatly. “Your Highness.”
Gojo waved her off. “I’m just being accurate.”
Geto leaned back. “You do realize how this sounds, right?”
Gojo tilted his head, considering.
“…Yeah,” he said. “That’s the worst part.”
For just a second, the grin softened.
Not kinder……focused.
His eyes went distant, as if he were tasting a thought and deciding it was worth keeping.
Shoko noticed.
Geto noticed.
They didn’t like it.
-------
Gojo Satoru liked to watch him.
Not just in the way people watched things they liked.
In the way astronomers watched falling stars…
Knowing they were watching something that didn’t belong in the sky forever.
Something bright.
And fleeting.
Something he wanted to catch anyway.
At first, it was only curiosity.
Because after bumping into him twice–the ice cream, the flyer, the boy had shown no recognition at all. No pause. No flicker of memory. Nothing.
Him.
A man whose face people remembered. Who was offered modeling gigs, acting roles, numbers slipped into his hands by people who thought confidence could substitute sincerity.
And yet…Those eyes hadn’t looked at him.
They had looked through him.
That was what caught Gojo’s attention.
Megumi’s gaze was always forward. Steady. Like he was bracing against something invisible. Like losing wasn’t an option he allowed himself to consider.
Even in class.
Gojo teased him constantly. Soft Franglais, intentionally stupid questions, exaggerated confusion.
“Eh… mon petit, zis sound—how you say…mysterieux?”
Megumi would blink once.
Then answer calmly. Precisely.
“That’s not how the word is used,” he’d say in English, voice even. “Please focus, Gojo-san.”
Sometimes annoyed.
Sometimes visibly tempted to throw the marker at him.
But always professional.
Always polite.
Always serious about his work.
That was the strange part.
Seven weeks into the lessons, Gojo began noticing things he hadn’t before.
How Megumi’s voice grew slightly rough near the end of class.
How his explanations sometimes drifted, just a sentence too far before he caught himself and corrected course.
How he massaged the bridge of his nose while speaking, fingers lingering there as if holding something together.
How his uniform hung looser than it used to.
Thinner.
Gojo stopped asking stupid questions as often.
Not because he was bored.
Because he was observing.
—
That afternoon, rain streaked the windows in thin silver lines. The classroom smelled faintly of paper and cleaning solution. The heater clicked on and off, never quite warming the space.
Megumi wrote on the board.
はつおん – Pronunciation
“Please repeat,” he said. “Slowly.”
Gojo leaned forward, chin resting in his palm.
“Okay,” he said easily. “I vill try.”
He repeated it—deliberately imperfect, just enough to stay believable.
Megumi paused.
Looked at him.
“…Better,” he said. “But be careful with the stress.”
Gojo smiled. “Ah. You worry for me, mon petit.”
Megumi’s marker hesitated mid-air.
He glanced over his shoulder, brows knitting slightly.
“…You keep calling me that,” he said.
Gojo shrugged, casual. Effortless.
“Mm. Is… teacher,” he said in his broken English. “Like sensei. French version.”
Megumi blinked.
“Oh.”
That was it.
No suspicion. No follow-up.
He nodded once and turned back to the board.
“…If that’s the case,” Megumi said, “please don’t use it in front of other students. It might confuse them.”
Gojo’s smile widened just a fraction.
“Of course,” he said gently. “Only for you, mon petit.”
Megumi paused again.
Just for a second.
Then continued writing, pretending his ears weren’t faintly red.
But Gojo noticed, of course, he did. He really finds him very adorable.
—
By the end of class, Megumi swayed slightly when he stood.
Barely noticeable.
Unless you were watching closely.
“Zat is all for today?” Gojo asked.
“Yes,” Megumi replied. “Please review the material for next time.”
Gojo didn’t move right away. He gathered his things slowly, movements unhurried, like time was something he could afford to waste.
“…’Ave you eaten?” he asked lightly.
Megumi froze for half a second.
“…Excuse me?” He glanced back over his shoulder, confusion flickering across his face.
Gojo smiled. It was softer than usual. Careful. Choosing his words.
“Eaten,” he repeated. “Food. Today.”
A beat.
“You look… comment dire… ’ungry.” He tilted his head, smile stretching just a little wider. “Vould you like to eat wiz me? My treat.”
It was the kind of smile that made most people melt.
Megumi just blinked twice, staring at him like he’d grown a second head.
Then he shook his head once, hesitant but firm.
“No. I’ll eat after my last class.”
Ouch.
Rejection, immediate.
But Gojo Satoru was nothing if not persistent.
“Vhy?” he pressed, leaning forward a little. “I vanted to get to know you more, mon petit. Eating togezzer iz not bad, non? On a dix minutes, non? Just a small bite.”
Megumi’s brows furrowed.
“Thank you, Gojo-san,” Megumi said, tone polite but distant. “But I’d rather not. I have to prepare for my next lesson. And you’re my student.”
Ah. That line. A tiny boundary, drawn in one quiet sentence.
Gojo clicked his tongue softly.
“But you look ’ungry,” he tried again, eyes narrowing just a bit. “Is not good to teach on empty stomach, mon petit.”
Megumi held his gaze. His eyes were tired, but steady.
“Again,” Megumi replied, a little more firmly now, “I will eat after my last lesson.”
He hesitated then, just for a heartbeat. His shoulders dropped a fraction. When he looked at Gojo again, his deep blue-green eyes softened, and a small, tired—but still unfairly beautiful—smile tugged at his lips.
“…Thank you for the invite, though.”
Oh.
So those lips could smile too.
Not just press into annoyed lines or flatten in seriousness or disapproval. They could curve. Warm. Gentle. It landed in Gojo’s chest like something small and sharp, a feeling he didn’t have a name for yet.
Gojo tried one last time…
“Are you sure?” he tried once more. “It vill be my treat. No strings, I promise.”
Megumi exhaled, a small sigh slipping out before he could stop it.
“No, Gojo-san,” he said. “I still have class in ten minutes.”
That was the end of it.
He turned back to the board, picking up the eraser. Chalk dust smeared under his hand as he wiped away the last of the day’s lesson.
Gojo watched the careful line of his shoulders. The way he moved like rest was something he had to bargain for, not something he was allowed to have.
Curiosity settled deeper in his chest. Heavy. Inevitable.
And Gojo Satoru, for the first time in a very long while, decided…
I want to know everything about you, mon petit.
….
He had Fushiguro Megumi investigated.
Because curiosity wasn’t a harmless thing. Not with him.
Gojo sat unusually still, tablet balanced in one hand, eyes fixed on the screen. His brows were drawn together, the usual careless amusement gone—replaced by focus sharp enough to be uncomfortable.
Shoko noticed first.
Then Geto.
It was rare to see Gojo Satoru look this serious over anything that wasn’t life-threatening.
“…What are you reading,” she asked at last, leaning over the table, “that has you so absorbed?”
Geto didn’t even look up from his drink.
“I’m betting it’s jailbait.”
Shoko choked. “Jailbait? The English tutor?”
Geto shrugged. “How down bad do you have to be to fake a language barrier for a kid?”
She glanced back at Gojo, then at Geto. “Have you ever seen him like this?”
Geto hummed thoughtfully. “Last time he was this serious was when he was competing with that other genius—Ryomen Sukuna.”
“Ohhh, yeah,” Shoko said, nodding. “That was ugly.”
“Hey,” Gojo said without looking up. “I can hear you.”
He set the tablet down at last.
“So?” Shoko leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Still playing curiosity, or are you actually falling in love with a jailbait?”
Gojo scoffed.
Though, if he was being honest--
Megumi was jailbait. Technically.
Curiosity had turned into fascination. Fascination into attention. Attention into something that required… confirmation.
He frowned.
Geto reached for the tablet. “You’re stalking him now?”
“Hey!” Gojo snapped, swiping it back instantly.
Shoko raised an eyebrow. “You had him investigated?”
“What gives, Satoru?” Geto asked.
“None of your beeswax,” Gojo replied flatly.
Shoko leaned back. “Oho. You’re being creepy.”
“Preying on a kid?” Geto added.
“I am not.”
“Are you sure?” they asked in perfect unison.
Gojo’s lips pushed out in an irritated pout, brows knitting together as he glared at them like an annoyed cat.
“Okay,” Shoko said, tapping the table. “Hypothetical. How would you feel if you found out the kid has a girlfriend?”
“He doesn’t,” Gojo answered immediately.
Geto blinked. “Wow.”
“But what if he does--”
“Still no,” Gojo cut in.
Shoko stared. “Oh my god. Satoru. You’re actually obsessed with a high schooler who happens to be your English teacher by choice.”
““Still not your goddamn business,” Gojo said, standing abruptly.
He grabbed his coat, already smiling again, the seriousness folding neatly away.
“I’ll see you later,” he said lightly. “My English lesson starts in an hour.”
He waved lazily. “Au revoir.”
And just like that, he was gone.
Shoko took a long sip of her juice.
“…He’s got it bad,” she said.
Geto nodded. “Yeah. Good luck to him.”
They both paused.
“…That kid’s doomed,” Shoko added.
Geto sighed. “Yeah.”
—-----
Megumi didn’t notice at first that he was getting thinner.
Or that the dark circles under his eyes were no longer something sleep could fix.
He didn’t notice the way Gojo Satoru had started watching him more closely either—how his gaze lingered in that quiet, unsettling way. Like a predator not yet hunting. Like someone cataloguing damage.
Gojo didn’t say anything when Megumi stumbled over a sentence mid-lesson. Didn’t flinch when he paused a little too long between topics, steadying his breath like his lungs had turned traitor.
He never pointed out the way Megumi sometimes braced a hand on the desk to stay upright.
Never asked about the headaches. Or asked further when Megumi shrugged off hunger with a practiced, "I’ll eat later."
But slowly, Gojo began leaving things behind.
A bottle of tea—always unopened, always cold.
A neatly wrapped bun balanced on the desk like it had gotten lost.
A triangle of convenience store onigiri, set down too deliberately to be an accident.
No notes. No jokes. No explanation.
At first, Megumi told himself it was a coincidence. That Gojo was forgetful. That maybe he brought extra and left it behind without meaning to. That he wasn’t watching.
But it kept happening.
Week after week.
And each time, despite himself, Megumi ate it. Quickly. Shamefully. In the empty ten minutes between classes, with his back to the door. A flicker of embarrassment burning in his chest each time he peeled back plastic, like the food itself was evidence of something he'd failed to hide.
And now, it was worse.
Today, Gojo hadn’t just left behind a bottle of tea.
On the chair where he always sat, there was a full spread: a ham and cheese bun, an energy drink, a KitKat bar neatly stacked on top like a ribbon.
Megumi stared at it. Then at the retreating figure of his student, waving casually as he disappeared down the hall.
His stomach twisted.
Does he know?
Had Gojo seen him eating? Had he been watching? Was he—what?—trying to take care of him?
Megumi hated the thought.
Did he look that pitiful?
Did he look so hungry that even someone like Gojo Satoru—a student, a stranger, a man wrapped in pretty skin and expensive cologne—felt compelled to feed him like a stray cat behind the classroom?
Was this pity?
The thought made his ears burn with shame.
He picked up the items slowly, fingers curling around the cold plastic. For a moment, he thought about throwing them away. Just to prove a point. That he didn’t need them. That he wasn’t that kind of charity case.
But he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
Instead, before his last class with the kids, he quietly passed the food to another teacher in the hall. Smiled politely. Said he’d brought extra.
And when the hallway emptied and the lights began to dim, Megumi sat on the edge of his desk for a moment, hands clenched in his lap.
He would talk to Gojo-san.
He had to.
Because this couldn’t continue.
He wasn’t someone to be pitied.
He wouldn’t let himself be.
No matter how kind the gestures were.
Even if—maybe—some quiet, traitorous part of him wished he didn’t have to give it away.
—-----
Satoru knew everything now.
The report was thorough. Too thorough, Shoko would say. Creepy, Geto would say. Useful, Satoru thought.
He sprawled across his couch, tablet balanced in one hand, city lights bleeding in through the window. His parfait from earlier was a memory. The sweetness in his mouth now was different.
Fushiguro Megumi.
Sixteen.
Top of his class.
No disciplinary record. Excellent attendance.
Of course.
He flicked to the next page.
Mother: deceased. Complications at childbirth.
Father: missing, presumed dead or simply gone.
Step-mother: remarried, new family, new address, no legal involvement.
The file was dry. Clinical. No adjectives. Just dates and facts.
It still pissed him off.
“Born and abandoned in the same breath, huh…” Satoru murmured to himself.
Another page.
Tsumiki Fushiguro. Age: 20.
Accident: hit-and-run, intersection near the bakery.
Result: memory impairment, paralysis, dysphagia.
Current status: Long-term rehabilitation. Specialty clinic.
Attached: projected costs.
Monthly therapy fees. Medication. Equipment.
The numbers were not that much but thinking of Little Megumi…it was… irritating.
He scrolled further. Typed notes from the investigator.
Subject works multiple part-time jobs.
Main income: language academy (English/Japanese).
Academic performance not impacted. Minimal socialization.
Has intervened in at least three neighborhood bullying incidents.
Police were never involved. Witnesses consistent: “That quiet kid,” “Fushiguro,” “the smart one from the prep class.”
Satoru huffed out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.
“No wonder you didn’t see me, mon petit,” he said softly. “You’re too busy wrestling God.”
Sixteen.
Barely eating.
Sleeping in fragments.
Working until his body shook.
Still getting perfect scores.
Still beating up local trash in alleyways on the way home.
Still showing up to class in a clean uniform, hair only slightly losing the battle against gravity.
Still kind enough to give away a lollipop to a crying kid in the street.
His poor, stubborn, infuriating mon petit.
Satoru rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling, the tablet resting on his chest.
What had it turned Megumi into, to survive like that?
Someone who didn’t look at him.
Someone who only looked forward.
“Fine,” Satoru murmured. “If you won’t look at me… I’ll just stand where you’re already looking.”
He picked the tablet back up. Swiped to the hospital page again.
The clinic had a number. He dialed.
—
“Fushiguro Tsumiki-san’s attending, please,” Satoru said calmly when the call connected, his voice sliding into that deceptively polite tone that made administrators nervous.
There was the usual shuffle—holds, transfers, the muted buzz of hospital noise in the background, before a woman’s voice answered.
“Hello, this is Dr. Morita. How can I help you?”
“Good evening, sensei,” Satoru began, casually precise. “This is from the Gojo Group.”
There was a pause.
A beat.
Then the sharp, quiet intake of breath on the other end.
“…That Gojo Group?” the doctor asked carefully.
Satoru almost laughed.
“Yes,” he replied, half amused, half bored. “That Gojo Group.”
A shift in tone. Straightened spine through the phone line.
“How may I assist the Gojo Group today?” she asked, smoother now, but more cautious.
“I’m calling about one of your patients,” Satoru said. “Fushiguro Tsumiki. I understand she’s undergoing memory and motor rehabilitation.”
Another pause.
More cautious, this time.
“I’m afraid I can’t disclose details about a patient without proper authorization—”
“I don’t need the details,” Satoru cut in smoothly, but now with a weight behind it. “I have them already.”
Silence.
He smiled.
“I’m calling,” he continued, softer now, “to pay.”
“…To what?”
“Pay,” he repeated. “For her therapies. Her stay. Whatever she needs.”
“That’s… not how this usually—”
“Then make it how it works this time,” Satoru said lightly. “Set it up as a charitable fund. Scholarship. Miracle from heaven. I don’t care. Just don’t use my name...yet…”
He could almost hear the frown through the line.
“…You understand we have procedures, Gojo-san. The Fushiguro family–”
“Has already done more than enough,” Satoru said, expression flattening. “He has. She has. I’m just… adjusting the difficulty level a little.”
Another pause.
“Why anonymously?” the doctor asked.
Satoru thought of Megumi’s face when he said no at the ice cream stall. The way his shoulders tensed when asked if he’d eaten. That brittle look around his eyes when he lied and said later.
“Because,” he said, “if he knows it’s me, he’ll refuse.”
He could see it so clearly. Megumi standing there, jaw tight, anger burning under all that control. I don’t need your money.
Tch.
“I want him to use it,” Satoru said. “So tell him whatever you like, but keep my name out of it. Say a charity picked her. A foundation. A lottery. God. I don’t care.”
“…You understand this is highly irregular, Gojo-san.”
“You understand I can pay your entire wing’s yearly operating cost and not notice, Morita-sensei?”
The silence that followed was different.
Resigned. Practical.
“Very well,” she said quietly. “We’ll restructure the billing and inform Fushiguro-san’s guardian that a support program has been approved.”
“Good,” Satoru said.
“Gojo-san.”
“Yes?”
“Why this patient?” she asked. “Do you have any connection to them?”
Satoru smiled up at the ceiling.
“…You could say I’m her brother’s beloved student,” he replied.
Before she could ask anything else, he ended the call.
—
The hospital part was easy.
Money made systems move. Papers rearranged themselves. Zeroes shifted places.
But money couldn’t make someone eat.
Couldn’t tuck them into bed.
Couldn’t make them stop sacrificing themselves.
That part was harder.
That part was… fun.
—----
Megumi needed to start eating properly.
He needed to sleep more.
Satoru knew, with bone-deep certainty, that if he offered outright, Megumi would reject it. If he said, “Let me treat you”, the kid would slam iron walls down behind his eyes and refuse. Pride and survival had built a fortress around him.
So.
He went around the walls.
The next lesson, he left a bottle of tea on the desk.
Just tea. Nothing sweet. Nothing loud. Something easy to ignore.
He watched Megumi notice it at the end of class.
The way his gaze landed on it, then flicked away. The pause in his hands as he rearranged his worksheets. The way he glanced at the door—as if checking no one was watching—before slipping the bottle into his bag.
Satoru looked down at his workbook, pretending not to see.
The week after that, it was tea and bread.
A simple bun from the convenience store. Nothing fancy. Cheap enough to be “extra,” but fresh enough to tempt.
Megumi ate that too.
Quickly. Back half-turned to the room. Like he was the one stealing.
Cute.
By the third week, Satoru was sure.
He started layering more.
Onigiri. An energy drink. A KitKat. Bread.
Never with a note. Never saying, This is for you.
He just… left them. On the chair. On the desk. On the edge of Megumi’s textbook.
Let Megumi decide the story.
Forgotten.
Extra.
Take it or leave it.
Satoru didn’t push.
He just watched.
Watched the wrappers vanish by the next lesson. Watched the way Megumi’s hands shook a little less some days. Watched faint color return to his face. Not enough. Never enough. But something.
It made something in Satoru unwind and knot at the same time.
He supposed that was what people called concern.
He called it investment.
—---
Of course, it wasn’t perfect.
One day, he walked out after class like usual, waving lazily.
“Merci, mon petit,” he sang. “Study vell too, okay?”
He could feel Megumi’s eyes on his back. Could practically hear the thoughts grinding in that overworked head.
Satoru smiled to himself.
Later, loitering at the far end of the hall with his shades on and his phone held up like he was checking something, he watched Megumi.
Watched him walk back to the chair.
Watched him stop.
Ham and cheese bun. Energy drink. KitKat.
All waiting for him.
Megumi stared at them for a long time.
Then his jaw clenched.
He picked them up, not with the quiet, guilty gratitude Satoru had come to expect, but with something tighter. Sharper. Angry, almost.
Good, Satoru thought.
Feel something. Anything that isn’t dull exhaustion.
Megumi put everything neatly into a plastic bag.
For a second, Satoru thought, There you go. Take it home. Eat it later.
But Megumi didn’t put it in his bag.
He walked out of the room instead.
Satoru followed with his eyes, just far enough away not to be noticed.
Megumi stopped a passing teacher. Smiled, a small, polite thing that never reached his eyes.
“I brought too much today,” Megumi said. “Would you like some?”
The teacher accepted, grateful.
Satoru watched the exchange.
“Ahh,” he murmured, amused. “You’re going to be difficult about it.”
He considered.
If Megumi wouldn’t accept being fed, Satoru would just have to change the angle.
But one step at a time.
For now, the hospital was covered.
The safety net was laid.
The food experiment had produced… mixed results.
Still, even rejection was data.
Satoru tucked his hands into his pockets and turned away, a small, dangerous smile tugging at his mouth.
“I wonder,” he said softly, to no one, “how long you can keep refusing what I give you… mon petit.”
later that night...
Across the city, in a cramped apartment, Megumi lay awake.
The ceiling stared back at him, cracked and familiar.
His thoughts circled the hospital call. The sudden shift in tone. The careful phrasing.
A charity has chosen your sister.
The numbers will no longer crushed him the way they used to. The bills won’t feel like hands around his throat anymore.
It felt unreal.
Almost cruel.
How lucky, he thought.
That just when hunger had started to blur his vision, just when exhaustion felt sharp enough to break him, relief arrived.
Maybe God hadn’t abandoned him after all.
The thought was comforting. And unsettling.
Then his mind drifted…unwanted, persistent to the classroom.
The food on the chair.
Gojo Satoru’s cerulean eyes. Too bright. Too observant.
That lazy smile. That irritating charm. The way he leaned in like the world had never told him no.
Megumi noticed him. Of course he did.
Gojo was the opposite of him. Effortless. Unburdened.
Like Yuuji, in that way.
And yet…
The thought of Gojo leaving food for him made his chest tighten.
Shame burned sharper than hunger.
He must have let himself go too far if even a stranger noticed. If someone felt compelled to take care of him.
Between relief for his sister and unease over the donor, between pride and need, Megumi came to a quiet conclusion.
I need to talk to him.
Because whatever this was…
however gentle the hand……..
Megumi Fushiguro refused to become someone’s pity project.
—----
Their Wednesday lesson began like the others.
Megumi looked… better.
Still tired, still thin but less so. His uniform was still hanging off his frame, but there aren't any dark circles in his eyes anymore, and there was a faint flush to his cheeks that hadn’t been there last week.
Gojo noticed, of course.
Noticed everything about him.
He lounged in his chair, one leg outstretched, head tilted, sunglasses pushed back into his hair, watching Megumi move about the classroom like a storm bottled into polite formality.
"Today," Megumi said, voice even and clear, "we’re reviewing basic sentence construction in English… and translating into Japanese."
Gojo, who already knew how to do all of that, nodded solemnly like a man accepting a sacred quest.
Megumi wrote on the board, English first.
“I eat breakfast at seven.”
Beneath it, with practiced strokes:
「私は七時に朝ごはんを食べます。」
Gojo raised his hand halfway, lazily.
“What if mon petit eats at… ten?”
Megumi gave him a look. “Then you’re late.”
A quiet snort escaped him.
They continued ten more sentences, practiced aloud, then wrote. Gojo played dumb exactly three times and mispronounced “vegetables” on purpose just to see Megumi’s brows twitch.
It was fun.
But time always ran faster when Megumi was standing near the whiteboard, explaining things with serious eyes and ink-stained fingers.
Before long, Megumi checked the clock and closed his notebook.
“That’s it for today. Please review the irregular verbs and be ready to translate next session.”
Gojo yawned dramatically, stretching as he leaned back.
“Zat vas exhausting, I vill need a reward.”
Megumi ignored that.
As Gojo lazily began to put his worksheets away, his fingers brushing the zipper of his leather bag, a small plastic bag landed in front of him with a gentle thump.
He blinked.
Inside were: a neatly wrapped sandwich, a canned coffee, and a small pack of matcha-flavored KitKats.
“What’s this?” he asked, genuine surprise slipping into his tone.
Megumi stood across from him, arms crossed.
“It’s payment.”
Gojo raised a brow. “For?”
“The food you left.” Megumi’s voice was calm, but the edge in it was unmistakable. “The bread. The tea. The onigiri. They weren’t accidents, right?”
He stared. Then smiled slowly. “Ah… you noticed.”
“I ate them,” Megumi said, stern now. “And I’m returning them. So we’re even.”
Inside, Megumi wanted to scream. Or laugh. Or possibly cry.
This idiot… making him feel guilty for eating a rice ball he didn’t even ask for…
Gojo stood…smooth and deliberate. He moved with all the unhurried grace of someone who knew he was taller, broader, and didn’t care if that made people uncomfortable.
Megumi held his ground.
Gojo looked down at him, all white hair and glinting lenses, his voice dropping low and almost amused.
“I did it,” he said, “because I don’t vant my teacher fainting in front of me.”
His smile curled. “That’d make you a bad instructor, non?”
Megumi’s brow twitched.
He shoved the plastic bag toward him again. “I’m fine now. But I don’t want your pity, Gojo-san.”
Their eyes met.
Gojo’s were still smiling. But underneath that…
Something sharp.
Something serious.
“…You’re really stubborn,” he murmured. “Iz annoying.”
Then, tilting his head:
“…but also très adorable.”
Megumi opened his mouth, possibly to object, but Gojo raised a hand.
“I von’t take this,” he said, pushing the bag back. “Not unless you agree to one thing.”
Megumi narrowed his eyes. “What.”
“Dinner,” Gojo said cheerfully. “With me.”
“No.”
“Zen I won’t take your food.”
Megumi blinked. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, mon petit,” Gojo purred. “I am always serious about food and... about you.”
Megumi stared at him, stunned into silence.
Gojo grinned like he’d won something.
“I’ll see you Friday,” he added, breezing toward the door. “You can give your answer zen.”
And with that, he was gone.
Leaving behind the smell of his cologne and the warm weight of something Megumi didn’t yet have a name for.
—