Work Text:
When Gojo asked her whether he’ll be remembered, she’d been intoxicated.
His face was a blur, the bar a myriad of sound, and all she could do was hope her words fell out appropriately.
“History’s failed us,” she said. “But no matter.”
Monday, 4 June
What would Megumi’s mother do if she found out he’d been picked off the street by a stranger in pyjamas? Nothing, really, because she was a metaphorical concept, but the point still stood.
Tuesday he came unannounced, barging into their slipshod home like some chatty hurricane. “Nice bedroom,” he’d said. “Where’s the bed?” And for thirty minutes he prodded their floorboards, scanned their closets, laughed at their kitchen, all while sneaking them his newest batch of shitty questions. Like “No relatives?” and “Are you kids even registered?”
“Good news,” he said now, swivelling around to face them. Tsumiki giggled. She’d never seen a himbo before. “From now on, you’ll be living with me!”
Megumi’s innards coiled fiercely. This had to have been a violation of some law, somewhere. Guys in tacky crocks shouldn’t be in the vicinity of children. “You can’t just say that.”
“Gumi, don’t be rude. He’s being nice to us.”
“Yeah, Gumi.”
His smile was the kind in old movies, bright and pandering. He’d worn it when they met, and again in that noiseless house where he’d gambled behind shoji blinds. It was a palpable force, as was the whole of Gojo Satoru.
The current arrangement, proposed by a ‘Yaga’, was that the college would support the Fushiguros financially. That had been the end of it. Their living conditions weren’t… financially sound, but what the hell, living with Gojo?
The guy rolled his eyes. “Kid, I’m not gonna murder you. Your shower only works when you kick the boiler, your floor’s got sinkholes, the heater’s cold and your roof-“ a yawning creak came from above, “- might just commit homicide. So uh, yeah, we’re moving.“
Megumi felt his sister’s probing gaze. They had nowhere else to go, no one else to turn to.
She asked him, hours later, why he felt the way he did. Gojo had done something good. They would have something, for once. “Why do you hate him?”
“I don’t,” he replied. “Only a bit. He’s annoying.”
“And?”
“He’s loud.”
Friday, 8 June
The first thing Megumi noticed about Gojo’s apartment was the furniture. Satin sheets, mahogany countertops, pendant lamps. It felt like an IKEA catalogue, all faultless colour palettes and kettles named Björn, everything in pretty, rational order. A one-man paradise.
Gojo owned steel cups. This was for juice-drinking. Gojo also had five bedrooms. Gojo had comforters and duvets, and stools to reach higher things, like medication. (“Don’t look at the label. Don’t swallow the pills,” he said. “Just bring ‘em to me.”)
He had a pantry. A pool. A view. When he clapped his hands, the lights dimmed and Tokyo glistened, all for him.
“I think I could live here forever and ever,” Tsumiki sighed, and Megumi couldn’t bring himself to argue. The apartment was big enough to avoid Gojo entirely. He could shower without lamenting the bill.
But there was curfew.
“Okay, huddle up!” Gojo had stationed a meeting area (dining table) for ‘life-and-death’ affairs. “I’m going to set some ground rules. We’re all getting used to big changes, so we gotta draw lines. Borders. I’m gonna tell you something about myself: up until today I’ve hated all children under the age of seven. Why? Don’t know.”
“I’m six.”
“You’re seven this year.” He patted Megumi’s head. “It’s an irrational, visceral hatred, which brings me to Boundary number one: no friends over.”
Tsumiki frowned. “You can’t be serious. Half of my friends are older than seven!”
“All of you look the same. Which brings me to my next point!” It did not bring him there. “Laundry room’s off limits. Don’t touch my digimon cards. Curfew’s at eight so don’t go around getting kidnapped.”
Megumi bristled. In their house with faulty plumbing, curfew was nonexistent. “Change it to ten.”
“I won’t be out after eight either, so let’s be fair.”
“Did Yaga give you a curfew?”
“No, I just needed… different nighttime hobbies.”
“He definitely gave you one.”
“I- be quiet.“ Tsumiki snickered. “Balcony’s also a no-no. If and when the neighbours give you shit, call Shoko. If she’s unavailable, tell the guy I know what he did on February 24.”
“Who’s Shoko?”
“…Ah.”
She spent much of her sobriety mulling over the human ego.
To curb her compulsions and maximise productivity, she gave herself three days of drunken isolation. Blinds shut, TV rambling up and down about the newest scandal abroad, she indulged in a tangible numbing, a calculated poverty of thought in place of bliss.
Which, in retrospect, had worked. Wednesday rolled about and her output stretched infinitely. Dissections, cleanups, dissections, cleanups. Write a referral. Eat a salad. Read up on Darwin. Rediscover the parameters of death. Watch the bowl of chicken nuggets spin in the microwave, look outside, watch again.
Academic studies often labelled individuals as ‘variants’. If the microwave exploded and drove glass through her head, her death would be a statistical outlier, redefining existing data within the minute fragility of a lifetime.
Bing.
“Fucking hate vegans.” She snatched the bowl and shuffled to her desk. Her phone vibrated. She chewed slower.
ugly | 11:58PM
Yo
They’re asking why u fuck w dead ppl
Quickly, she realised that Gojo had long since taken the Fushiguros under his care. This was a miserable thought.
11:58PM
I eat their livers for better skin
and traffic human fat to liposuction companies
ugly | 11:59PM
no way
LSNDJDBS THEY SAID UR COOLER THAN ME EWW
It hadn’t irked her that children were aware of her macabre profession. They would meet eventually, be it over dinner or the cusp of battle, but there was no need to rush. She’d just been indoctrinated, her office newly refurbished, and already her mother questioned her social life. What will you tell people, stitching up the dead like that?
Her job had no use for sentiment. Sentiment clouded precision. Sometimes you had to rip a tendon hard and fast. That being said, meet-cutes were easy.
My name’s Shoko, she’d say. I study curses. I bury people.
She scrolled through her phone, letting the nuggets run cold for the third time that day. Eventually she found herself in her chat archives, sifting through his messages like they mattered.
uglier | 8:45PM | 4 Jan 2005
Which glasses do you think fit Gojo better?
Sorry for bothering.
8:46PM | 4 Jan 2005
why are you so uptight
uglier | 8:46PM | 4 Jan 2005
Just trying to make a good impression
Wednesday, 13 June
Tsumiki went to school in shiny red shoes.
In a shady internet forum Megumi had found whilst scouring Gojo’s home computer (“ways to hide weaponry”, “what’s a derealization” and “how to check if neighbor is drug dealer or therapist” were the top searches), he learned that his sister was a mediator of sorts. She stuck to herself, kept her side clean. He hadn’t the heart to disappoint her and Gojo had grown easily fond. She was a walking peace treaty, that is to say, days in her absence were impossible.
A list of why:
- Gojo couldn’t sit right, or still, and hours after midnight he’d pace incessantly
- Gojo had an unhealthy attachment to his vacuum
- Gojo asked too many questions
- Gojo liked rearranging his furniture, fiddling with the lights
- Gojo poked his hair, called it ugly, failed to elaborate
- Gojo chewed too loud
- Automatic soap dispenser
“Wanna go grocery shopping?”
“No, thank you.”
“It’ll be quick! We’re running low on ice-cream and Tsumiki’s got a field trip coming up.”
Woefully, he wondered why Tsumiki was a grade above him. He wanted, needed school. Wikipedia rabbit holes and television didn’t cut it.
“Gojo-san, I’m busy.”
“Bullshit. You’re just — what are you doing?”
Megumi closed the tab he’d been using to interrogate horse enthusiasts and faced his weird guardian (surrogate adult figure was a better term), who frowned and raised a brow.
“You into ponies?” Gojo asked.
“It’s a very interesting subculture.”
“Ponies?”
“I don’t think you get it.”
Silence sat between them, long and heavy, before Gojo reached over and shut the computer. The sound bounced along his marble floors, 1960s smile on high. “We’re going to the grocery. Put on a jacket, get your shoes. We’ll be out in two.”
“But-“
“No buts!” He poked Megumi’s nose, earning him a hiss and a poorly-aimed kick. “I’m paying the water bill, and if you don’t come I’ll tell Tsumiki you aren’t studying.”
Megumi scowled. “Manipulator.”
He grinned. “Flattered.”
Megumi pushed off the chair, grumbling to himself as he grabbed his jacket from his room and made his way to the door, where Gojo already sat tying his shoes. His eyes (what he could make of them, anyway) were fixed on something far-off.
Standing, Gojo tossed the keys. Come?
He relented.
The hallway had three distinct features:
- It was suspiciously clean.
- To their right were windows, and Tokyo was blistering.
- Twenty metres down were the neighbours.
“Weirdos,” Gojo muttered. He pointed at their door, an ornate bow carved into it. “Don’t ever talk to them. There’s some cultist voodoo in there, I know it.”
He and Tsumiki had barely moved in, their bedsheets sat stiff and their clothes idled in boxes, but the neighbours were practically folklore. They were elusive, and they liked flute music, and people dressed in blue came every Sunday. Cultist voodoo? Maybe. Either that or his guardian was a pathological gossip.
The building itself felt fragile, eerie and devoid the way hospitals were. Gojo walked in long, fluid strides; his creepy building must’ve felt homely, at least. He imagined the air cracking, atoms splitting, beneath his magnitude.
Gojo mentioned all their other neighbours once they got to the lobby, like Mr. Crawford who’d swum along the Suez, and old Linh-san who left Vietnam with nothing but a leg and a wheelbarrow. There was Hanako, who secured her fortune from her late husband (“Well-timed murder,” Gojo mused. “Right when his shares doubled.”), and Freja, who’d just been discharged on three counts of fraud.
“She’s still gonna live here?”
“No idea. None of us talk to each other.”
“Then how do you know all this?”
Gojo shrugged. “I like to listen.”
Refusing to elaborate (again), he traipsed across the room and greeted the doorman, who blushed and gave a hasty “stay safe”, which had Gojo laughing. Megumi followed him out the building and into the bustling street, but somehow he’d disappeared.
The singsong rabble of pedestrians churned his head. There, screeching traffic, here, swarming businessmen. Here, there, here. Skyscrapers hunched over him like sagging willows. A plane rumbled across the sky. His breath quickened. Where was Gojo, again?
A hand gripped his shoulder. He fought it off before realising whose it was. A part of him wanted to say he didn’t need his help, but everything was too big and he didn’t know where the grocery was.
Gojo patted his head, saying something along the lines of you’re short for seven and began steering him forward. He rambled on and on, leaning down so Megumi could hear. The words filled his head, muffling out the street’s fuss.
“If you ever wanna major in physics, I’m your guy. But if you’re an art kid you’re Shoko’s problem. She’s likes weird contemporary shit…” On and on and on. Megumi focused on how small his steps had become. Like he was matching his pace, or something.
Where was Infinity?
Gojo’s hands were warm.
They reached the grocery in fifteen, partially because someone decided to buy a heap of socks twice over. Fabric count matters was the reason.
Now, he’d nabbed a shopping cart and was urging Megumi to get in, right at the entrance where everyone could see. Don’t waste your childhood like this! was the reason. Megumi was tired of reasons.
“C’mon, it’ll be fun!” He nudged the cart back and forth, goading. “We’ll even race the sakkā moms!”
He was about to argue that no, racing random women wasn’t fun and that they shouldn’t block the damn entrance, but an old foreigner poked into their conversation right when he got a word out.
“Tedious?” He’d turned towards Gojo with a look of sympathy. “Fathers don’t get enough slack nowadays.”
Gojo stared.
“I’m not -“
“It’ll get better.”
And he left, swift as that. Gojo’s easy smile had slipped off, replaced with something Megumi couldn’t place. Before he knew it he’d swivelled the cart around and nudged Megumi to follow, sweeping through the aisles at unnerving speed. Whatever quip he made about his choice of peanut-butter went ignored, as were his comments on jelly. Three right turns, two left, a backtrack. Where’s the ice-cream? Aisle three. Where’s the high-calcium naturally cholesterol-free soy milk? Aisle nine.
They hung in silence (they were getting good at that, weren’t they?) for a long while before Gojo stopped, took a breath, and flicked 1960 back on.
Brief Recollection
She wiped her mouth, the burn swallowed in the dark of an emptying bar, save for a few lonelies who had nowhere else to go, which was nice. Like a camaraderie of sorts. Gojo was blowing bubbles in his juice. For three hours he’d said all the wrong things, a habit, and Shoko was a drink away from jamming a fork through his eyes. This feeling was customary on Fuck-Up Tuesdays.
The arrangement had been simple: whenever Shoko snagged a cigarette, or Gojo‘s shady indulgences ran dry, they’d take to a bar and numb it all out. Shit-talking the higher-ups was the usual purge, as was a game on who was worse off.
“Does he know?”
“He doesn’t need to know.”
Wrong things, like clockwork.
She hadn’t met him yet, this boy. The system spat him out at seven and landed him right in their arms, a final blow to the face. What could she do, anyway? She wasn’t liable. She wasn’t the one who killed his father.
The thought coiled hot in her head. Too many times she’d felt disgusted with herself.
“I’m not saying I’ll never tell him.” Gojo leaned back, rubbing his eyes. “He’s my responsibility now.”
Now that was funny. Two years ago Gojo couldn’t spell responsibility without a knife to the liver (Longissimus capitis to anterior jugular vein, main bronchus, stomach, frontal cortex - severed in that order - and the scars stood for it.)
“You’re quite the grownup.”
There was more to children than whatever slipshod care they could give. A house and a bed were the basics. Support, understanding, love - she didn’t know if Gojo had the room for it. He’d been left to fend alone, and she wanted to believe it was better that way.
“How much do you think you’ll give?”
“What?”
“I’ve been thinking about religion,” she said. “How we end up perceiving god, whatever god is.
“And when I was six I thought the world of my father. Wanted to be him, work accounting. Write emails.” She poured another glass. “Is that god?”
“You’re asking whether your Pa’s god?”
“I’m asking whether you’ll play hero.” Her throat ached. “Give this kid something to hold on to.”
He was aware that he was still a child
“Want anything for dinner?”
Far as he knew, this was another game.
“I don’t know.”
“Salmon? Curry?”
This was a weird game. “Tsumiki likes chicken.”
He hummed, looking around, like he was actually considering it. Megumi didn’t know what to do or say, so he gave a thumbs-up and kept forward. One step, two more.
Backtrack.
Gojo was staring at packets of soba sitting high on a shelf. Piles and piles of them. On sale, said a sign, thirty-percent off. They were stacked too far up for anyone to reach sensibly, but what kind of business ploy was that? It all felt a little silly, maybe because Gojo was suddenly on his toes and still couldn’t reach them. He looked a bit offended.
Something told Megumi to leave, but he stood there and contemplated a good many things. Tsumiki had always groaned about his give-receive mentality, saying that he’d never meet nice people, but he liked equilibriums, thus the current hypothesis: Gojo with soba = less annoying.
He rolled the idea around, threw it under a light and contemplated harder. Less annoying = less questions = go home faster = more time for horse crazies.
Help was on the way.
“Piggyback me,” he said. “I’ll get them.”
Gojo snorted. “Piggyback? You?“
Megumi waited, vehement regret nibbling at the pits of his belly as Gojo’s eyes widened. “You’re serious?”
“Do you want the soba or not?”
His guardian smiled, big as the sun. All too quick he was millions of feet in the air, vertigo catching in his throat as the world shifted down, down, until the sky was fluorescent and bright and he had to grab tufts of Gojo’s hair to keep from falling. The old warmth seeped through his hands (where was Infinity?) as he balanced himself. The quicker he did this, the faster they’d get out of here.
Gojo twitched, like he was stifling a laugh. “You scared?”
“Shut up.”
“Get the one at the back, will you?” Why this guy wanted discount soba was beyond him. He was rich enough to buy the store.
He grabbed the nearest one and dropped it into the cart. Then another. They went on like that. Soba, cart, soba, cart. At one point Gojo kicked the cart away and told him to shoot. Grudgingly, he did, over and over, which began an imaginary game of sorts.
They went down the aisle, Gojo checking things off his list as Megumi scored. Toilet paper, a dozen toothbrushes - anything was fair play. Soon, three meters meant two points, five meant four points and ten, Megumi decided, guaranteed unlimited screen time. His metaphorical mother would have flipped.
He grabbed a cereal box and took his shot. Four points!
An employee giggled as they moved to the next aisle. There was a girl who tugged at her mother’s shirt; Carry me too! she pleaded, and her mother gave Gojo a tight smile. Megumi was too busy tallying points in his head to really pay attention to anyone, but Gojo was waving at people left and right. He must’ve loved the attention.
The cart was another story. Megumi didn’t know when it started disappearing and reappearing at the oddest angles, inching further and further away after every throw. He’d blink and it’d be parked three metres to the left, or peeking from behind a shelf. He looked down. Gojo was busy texting Shoko. Hmm.
Anyway.
A toss. The bento box soared, landing with a clang so loud a man nearby shrieked. Ten points!
Gojo snickered. Shoko must be a really funny person.
They made it to the front of the store without any trouble. By then Megumi had accumulated a (grand, totally incredible) total of fourty-eight points, Gojo’s list a satisfying show of ticks. He watched as Gojo plucked a misshapen carton of juice from the pile and drank as they waited. Eventually the same girl and her mother scurried past - Gojo waved at them, and the girl gasped, tugged at her mother’s shirt, said He’s got pretty eyes, Momma! Can we get those eyes? And her mother looked close to bursting.
“I’m sorry. Her father spoils her,” she managed, glancing at Megumi. “He’s adorable.”
The fuzziness of his confusion dissipated, leaving only a hard edge. Neither of them knew what to do, it seemed, because the woman gave a curt nod and hassled her daughter away.
Silence, again.
“…Megumi,” Gojo began. “I’ve got pretty eyes.”
“No, you’re ugly.”
Eventually
Tsumiki went to school in shiny red shoes.
The horse crazies had bored Megumi, too adamant on their ways and unaccepting of his criticisms. By then their interactions has spanned several hours, and across those hours he learned three things: horses couldn’t breath through their mouths, people liked them too much, and these people did not often have real-life friends.
He’d moved onto other demographics, like bird-watching communities and whatnot, but these people were sane and well-adjusted, which was also boring. The closest thing he had to a good vice was their cultist neighbours’ internet history - they’d accidentally connected to the same router once.
Hence, Cultist Neighbour Facts:
- People thought they were immortal
- They got their fog machine off eBay
- “How to tell if neighbour is wizard” was their most recent search
Gojo had been rearranging the furniture for an hour now. By then he’d grown used to the indecisive screech of wood on wood, the clatter and rabble and scuffle nearly trivial if he tuned out enough. Maybe he was going crazy. He didn’t know and didn’t particularly care.
---
“Shouldn’t he be on business trips?” Tsumiki had asked, once. “He’s the ‘Strongest’, right? Isn’t he like a public figure or something?”
“Public figures don’t have weird voodoo neighbours, I think.” Megumi had been under their shared bed, soaking in the tiles’ sharp chill. “And maybe his authority’s conditional. He only deals with curses.”
Tsumiki hummed. “Weird.”
“Why?”
“Just… curses are from us. They exist because we hurt, and people feel terrible a hundred different times in a hundred different ways every day.” Megumi saw her fiddle with her red shoes. It’d be a while before she took them off. “There’s a lot to take care of. I wonder how he handles all of it.”
He sighed. Tsumiki had always been the better person. “He’s Gojo.”
“Gojo can’t be everywhere, all at once.”
“Not everyone suffers.”
Tsumiki shook her head. “People do. It’s a rule.”
---
The noise died down. Megumi closed his tabs and stretched, wondering what he could do this late into the day. He and Tsumiki had carved neat little spaces for themselves, making sure they didn’t overstep, because no matter what this home wasn’t theirs. They had nothing under their name and it felt like they were drifting. What could anyone do at sea?
He shuffled out the computer room, keeping himself as small as possible. Gojo was leaning on his kitchen counter, mugs strewn everywhere, a phone to his ear. He looked mad.
No one was answering. Gojo clenched his jaw, eyes downcast. “Pick up,” he said. “Pick up.”
Where are you?
“It’s been a year, Satoru.”
He’d been doing this now. Phone in his hand, ringing and ringing, throwing hope to the light and grasping at straws. Police report here, sighting there. It almost felt pathetic. Like a kindergartener, lost in a too-big playground without a hand to hold.
“He’s still here.” Gojo said, anger curbing the ends of his tone. “He has to be.”
“You’ve been calling for weeks-“
“At least I’m trying,” he snapped. “You’ve been sitting on your ass. Were you even really his friend?”
She bit her tongue. Of course.
Gojo looked like he’d swallowed acid. He put down his phone, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. That was… wrong.”
They could only ever be open to one another. There wasn’t a place or person who could fill their gaps, except him, but he was gone and he’d made his choice long, long ago.
No sorries. There was too much history for sorry.
“You should rest.”
“He’ll answer.”
She smiled, bitterly. “Maybe not today, Satoru.”
Sometimes he was all they talked about. Wasn’t it ironic? They couldn’t perceive the shape of him, so they found him all around.
“There are children who need more help,” she said. “Start with them.”
Crack, went the window, and he was horrified
Tsumiki‘s red shoes were gone.
At 6PM she’d stepped through the door, soaking wet, sniffling, and Megumi felt his stomach drop.
“What happened?”
She shook her head. Her hands trembled. Odd bits of plastic and mud had stuck to her hair, her uniform torn and tattered. He moved to help her but she pushed past him, mumbling something like I’m all right but she’d always been terrible at lying.
“Tsumiki, what happened?”
The bathroom door slid open. Gojo poked his head out, soap suds in his hair. Megumi watched him curse, then scramble to tie his robe and dry his feet before blocking her way. His frown deepened as Tsumiki shivered, covered her eyes, stood there like she’d lost.
“Miss Fushiguro, you look a little pale.” He stepped back, giving her the berth she needed. Megumi tried to appreciate this, if not for his frank bullshit. “Want hot chocolate?”
She bit her lip and crouched, something she’d done for years. Megumi ran over, brushing hair out of her face while his chest thrummed its stupid rhythm. He made it his focal point, that cage, and Ma would ask her why are you wet and why are you crying and how long do you need?
His eyes rimmed hot. Gojo knelt in front of them, hands hovering because of course he didn’t know what to do.
“School?” He asked. “I’ll just have to buy you new shoes, won’t I?”
Tsumiki rubbed her arms, breath cutting stone against stone. “They’ll… throw it. They’ll throw it again.”
“Where did they throw it?“ He kept his tone level. A feat.
“Canal.” She coughed. Megumi patted her back.
“Why?”
She shook her head. Gojo nodded, wiped his soapy hands and stood. He stalked over to the kitchen where they watched him pour cocoa powder into the biggest mug they’d ever seen. Soon they were on the couch, a reality TV show on blast, and Gojo had begun the intricate ordeal of plucking leaves out of Tsumiki’s hair.
Ma would have told him not to touch, but Ma was a metaphorical concept. Megumi thought it was the best thing he’d done all week.
It would be a while before Tsumiki started speaking. She apologised for soaking the couch, and said she hated his pink robe, and asked how the stars only liked certain parts of Tokyo. The quiet parts, she said, like the canal.
Gojo turned pensive, tilting his head back. “Light pollution’s the easiest answer,” he nodded. “But! I’ll tell you a secret - sometimes they just like certain people.”
Tsumiki snorted. “People like you?”
“No, no, I think the stars have had enough of me. They think I’m mean.” He crossed his legs, arranging the leaves into a neat little pile. “They like nice people. Maybe people who take really good care of their little brothers. And people who have brown hair, and who like tarts.”
She gave him a pointed look. “Who is it?”
“Dunno. Who do you think?”
It only solidified one of Megumi’s newest hypotheses about the functioning world: everyone thought the best of Tsumiki.
---
They found out it was her schoolmates. Explicitly, that they’d taken the red shoes and torn them up and thrown them, over the rail and into the canal. Why did you try and get them back? I was scared you’d be mad, she said. I was scared you’d never trust me, she said, I love them more anything.
She turned to Megumi. “Not more than you, though.” And it filled his chest with a smattering of stars.
Gojo’s shades had slipped down his nose. He looked lost, like he was finding the right words.
“Why did they do it?”
She looked away, picking at her nails. She’d curled in like the sky was on her shoulders. “They said it wasn’t fair. That I get this stuff. This house and our room and the shoes. They say I don’t deser-“
“You deserve it.”
“But-“
“Don’t ever think you don’t.” Gojo turned the television off, cutting into a new kind of silence. Megumi heard his heart thump, like rain. “I’ll pay for your shoes a thousand times over. You’ve done nothing wrong, you understand? You deserve this home as much as your brother, as much as me, even if I’m not your dad or mom or anyone.
He shut his eyes. “This won’t happen again.”
Tsumiki sniffled. “It’s not your fault.”
The corner of Gojo’s lips trembled.
But let me see if
No sorries, there is too much history for sorry.
using these words like a little plot of land
“They’re children. They’re small.” Shoko took a swig of her liquor. “The world will get too big, too many times.”
“They’re the toughest sons of bitches I’ve ever seen.” Gojo swirled his juice. Time seemed to slip by them, through their fingers, and she didn’t know how far she’d last before it all came tumbling down. “The older one’s worried if I get burnout! I overheard it, god, and Megumi thinks he’s right all the time.”
“Megumi,” she smiled. “Cute name.”
Gojo relented. “He’s adorable.”
and my life as a cornerstone
“What should we do today?” he asked.
Gojo thought about it. He wanted to impress him - this was the newest, scariest thing. “I think I’ll be nicer.”
“What? Nicer at your technique?”
“Nah. Just nicer.”
“You lost me, Satoru.” He was laughing.
He glared at him. “You’re nicer all the time. Ain’t that just magical? You can’t see me being a decent fucking person, can you?”
His laughter trickled to a stop.
“Well. Now I don’t know what to say.”
I can build you a center.
“I think I’d remember myself better, being someone you could rely on.” He gave her a towel to wipe her face. “I’m the strongest person I know. I’ll live up to it. I promise.”
Tsumiki trembled. Megumi held her, close as he could.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled.
Gojo shook his head. “Not a word of that.”
My Name is Shoko
The robot absolutely fucked. She had her sound on high, the tablet propped on her knee as Fushiguro No. 2 craned his neck to see better. By then they’d rewatched the movie twice, soaking in the same gory bits over and over.
Juice sat untouched in front of them, Gojo’s complaints drowned out by the ongoing gunfight. It’s organic this and You’ll turn him into a sociopath! that. Banal information.
“Let the kid drink, Shoko.”
“I’m not stopping him.” She turned the brightness up. “He knows what to prioritise.”
“You’ve been watching those bird freaks for forty minutes! How many time d’you gotta see the same girl get disemboweled?”
Fushiguro No. 2 peeked up at his guardian. “A lot. She was annoying.”
Shoko felt a pang through her chest. The boy was young, obviously, but he had to have been smarter than that. “I think we have to rewatch episode 22.”
Satoru had her visit the day before. She’d been exhausted, formalities and small talk a foreign concept, but he’d promised food and he provided.
This was an improvement.
He Ran Home
Throughout the night and the following week, a parasite had lodged in Megumi’s head and played a rough stereo. No delusions or liminal fallacies, but a constant need to say.
Say what, he didn’t know.
And because he wasn’t good with words, he took a piece of paper and poured his head out. It wasn’t particularly easy - he was limited by crayons and the ceaseless tick, tick, tick of the living room clock.
Quickly, then:
Things I Hate About You:
- You’re too loud. Please shut up from 3PM to 5PM. This is very easy.
- Go outside. There is a mall nearby.
- Mr Crawford is always out. You can talk to him about the Suez.
- Ask Shoko to replace you when you are too busy. I like Shoko.
- You never sleep.
- Adults need an average of 6 hours per day. If you don’t want to die at thirty-five, actually enter your bedroom.
- Whale sounds, rain, brown noise and scent therapy can help. There are several sources and links on the internet.
- You ask too many questions.
- No, shadows don’t feel mushy.
- No, you don’t sing well.
- Yes, winter is nice. I think spring is stupid. Why do you like spring?
- You’re annoying.
- You don’t take anything seriously.
- I’d like it if you kept your weird skin care to yourself.
- Substituting shades for bandages is very stupid. Don’t you have to wrap and unwrap them all the time? Don’t you sweat? Ew.
- What is a “higher-up”, and why are you mad at them?
- You need better clothes.
- Tsumiki likes you too much.
He turned the page.
Info on Neighbours:
- You were right - they’re a cult.
- They are not very good at it.
- There’s a baby on the way. His name is Jefferson like the colonist.
- If they, hypothetically, ask about the MySpace account HorseLover3000, and hypothetically call the police, don’t mention me.
- They like apple pies.
He took another piece.
Tick, tick, tick.
He wasn’t good with words at all. The crayon lay limp in the air. What else did he want to say, anyway? He’d gotten the main points across.
But even then he knew he was lying.
(Gojo was the biggest thing in the universe. He was taller than everyone, talked faster than anyone.)
(Sometimes, when he thought they were sleeping, he’d go downstairs and read in the lobby. What does anyone say about this?)
It wasn’t so important, this little project. It was useless and a waste of time.
He scoffed.
He had all the time in the world.
Things I Like Find Okay About You:
- You keep everything clean
- You
arecandanceeat very fastjuggle - Gojo is a very easy name to say
- You give us lot of space and food and a nice house
- You’re good at
everything, likephysics
Megumi decided it was better to not think about it. He simply got up, folded the pages, walked to the kitchen, threw them onto the counter and ran, fast as he could.
Therefore
When Gojo asked her whether they’ll be okay, she’d been sober.
Once, she’d asked her father whether he forgets the worst things. He’d laughed and said no, I’m rotten with them, but the devil hasn't got me yet.
She took a breath.
“I think we will.”