Work Text:
The world stands still as the box is opened. For several horrible, heart splitting moments, Megumi fears the worst— that whatever went in there will come out different, or broken, or not at all. He has no idea how much time has passed for Gojo inside that box. He has no idea what Gojo has seen or heard, if anything, and no idea what he might be like if he really is still in there, fully intact.
And then Gojo is there, as tall and horrible and beautiful as always, and there’s a ringing in Megumi’s ears, halos in his vision, blurring around the edges, and he can’t hear anything, can’t see anything except for Gojo’s tired, beautiful eyes, not covered by his blindfold because he didn’t have it in there, didn’t even need it in there, probably, since there was nothing to see, probably. His eyes must hurt. With shaking hands, Megumi retrieves the black blindfold from his pocket. The only sound that reaches his ears is the unsteady sound of his own breathing, like he’s underwater and he can hear every beat of his own heart but nothing of what’s going on around him.
There are voices everywhere, loud, and bodies, too many people, when the only one he cares about is right there, finally, and he’s reaching out, saying something, probably something stupid as always, and he’s taking the blindfold from Megumi’s hand, and he feels their fingers brush, and then—
Megumi runs.
Much later, when he finds himself at Gojo’s door, after he’s had some time to come to grips with the intensity of his own emotions, he’s still not sure what exactly he wants to say. It doesn’t matter. He’ll figure it out.
Gojo opens the door with a tired smile. He looks so goddamn tired. He’s wearing the blindfold still, even alone in his apartment — the tiny one he stays in at the school since he’s not allowed off of school grounds for now (not that anyone could stop him) — and Megumi has had that thing in his pocket for days now, waiting to give it back, to just see him again—
“Megumi! I thought you’d left me!”
It’s supposed to be a joke, but it’s not funny. It’s… it’s so unbelievably not funny. Of the two of them, Megumi isn’t the one who left. He’s the one who was left behind.
And now Gojo is just standing there with his stupid blindfold and his stupid soft hair all disheveled because even after coming back from the dead, basically, he still can’t manage to brush his damn hair, and god Megumi has missed him. He’s missed him so fucking much it hurts, didn’t even realize how badly it hurt until he saw him standing there after months of trying to live without him, and now, god why does he have to be such an idiot?
“Shut up,” Megumi says, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.
Gojo laughs his stupid laugh, the one that’s way too big, especially for how tired he looks, so Megumi says it again, and Gojo tries to laugh again, but Megumi doesn’t want to hear it.
“None of this is funny,” he says darkly, so many months of repressed emotion threatening to swallow him whole.
“Megumi—”
“Don’t.” He takes a step into Gojo’s space. He just… he needs to… touch. Feel. He hasn’t felt anything in so long. Hasn’t let himself feel anything. And now he feels way too much, and he doesn’t know what else to do about it except to remove that blindfold himself and look into Gojo’s too-bright eyes, the same ones that are still so goddamn tired despite Gojo having been in a fucking box this entire time—
Gojo doesn’t stop him. Even when Megumi yanks on his hair because he’s petty and he wants Gojo to feel even a fraction of what Megumi feels, he doesn’t move away, just pouts with an affronted “Hey!” before Megumi pats it back down again, soothing the pain he caused because he doesn’t want Gojo to leave him again.
He doesn’t back up when Megumi gets right into his space, doesn’t comment when Megumi folds himself into Gojo’s arms and sobs, instead just hugging him tightly like he did when Megumi was young enough that he still cried, which he hasn’t done in years until now.
And when he tries to speak again, tries to say, “I’m sorry,” Megumi doesn’t want to fucking hear it, and so he shuts him up by pressing his own mouth against Gojo’s, by kissing him so hard that Gojo can’t get a word in edgewise, until he feels like he’s not so much drowning in emotion as he is swimming in it, and this — his lips on Gojo’s, his tongue brushing against Gojo’s, his hands in Gojo’s soft, unruly hair, his body pressed up against Gojo’s stronger one — is helping him stay afloat in a way he didn’t really know he needed.
So he takes. He takes and he takes, because he needs this. And Gojo lets him have it.
In an uncharacteristic display of cooperation, Gojo does shut up. He lets Megumi press him against the wall, wraps his big hands around Megumi’s hips and pulls him in close while Megumi keeps his mouth busy. He lets Megumi tug at his hair, position him this way and that so that he can keep kissing him however he wants, slide his hands up under his sleep shirt when Megumi decides that he’s not close enough yet. He makes no protest when Megumi pushes him all the way over to his bed and climbs on top of him.
This was not Megumi’s plan. When he came over here, none of this was even on his mind. He just needed to see the man, maybe touch him, come to terms with his return somehow. He didn’t know he would do this.
It makes sense, though, Megumi thinks as he pushes Gojo’s shirt up, breaking their heated kiss just long enough to pull it over Gojo’s head and toss it somewhere behind him. He doesn’t even bother to look at what he knows is a perfectly muscled torso — he’s seen it enough times before — content for now just to feel Gojo’s perfect skin under his hands. His own shirt follows soon after, when he decides he needs more, and then his pants, and Gojo’s, too, and Gojo just lets him undress him all the way down to his underwear and lie on top of him with his full body weight.
He’s so warm. That’s what Megumi thinks, mainly. Warm and soft, and hard, too, and there. Here. He is right here, beneath Megumi, so close; and yet, impossibly, Megumi needs to be closer.
Their legs are already tangled together, and so he does as he body instructs, grinds his hips into Gojo’s, and— yes, good, that’s so good, he thinks, and Gojo must agree because he whimpers into Megumi’s mouth, and Megumi feels him twitch against his thigh when he does it again.
“Ah, Megumi,” Gojo starts, and that must mean Megumi isn’t kissing him enough because he needs to stop talking, so he slides his tongue inside Gojo’s mouth and nips at his lips, all while rutting himself against the man in some fruitless attempt to be closer.
“Pants,” Gojo eventually manages to say with a hand down the backside of Megumi’s boxer briefs, and that’s fine. That’s good. Megumi knows what to do with that. He strips them both of their underwear and suddenly they are very naked together.
This is absolutely not what Megumi came here for.
He can’t deny that he wants it, though. He’s lightheaded with it, sick with the feeling of Gojo’s tight, naked body sliding against his own. It’s not familiar in the slightest, especially not with Gojo, but it feels right, so he keeps chasing after that feeling.
He starts at Gojo’s neck — long, pretty, tempting — sucking a bruise hard enough that it makes Gojo shudder and spurt a few drops of release between their bodies. He moves downward from there, kissing and nipping along his chest until he reaches the singular scar that mars his otherwise flawless skin. Until now, neither of them have paid much attention to what’s between their legs, focused primarily on touching every other part of each other as much as possible, pulling their bodies as close together as physically possible.
Now, though, it’s not enough. Megumi still needs more. He needs to— to claim. He needs him, fuck, he needs Gojo—
He doesn’t give Gojo a chance to protest before he swallows him down in one quick motion, inhaling through his nose as he sinks down to the base, hollowing his cheeks as he comes up again, repeating the motion until Gojo is pulling Megumi up by the hair hard enough that it stings.
It doesn’t matter. If Gojo gives it, Megumi will take it.
“Wait—”
Megumi shakes his head. No more waiting. He’s been waiting for too long already just for the chance to see Gojo again. And now they’re here, together, and Megumi wants all of it, everything he never dared to hope for, everything he never thought he could have. He wants everything with Gojo and more. He’s selfish, so fucking selfish, and he doesn’t even care because he can have it now that Gojo is back.
He reaches down between Gojo’s legs with clumsy, inexperienced fingers, looking for his opening. Gojo stops him with a hand on his wrist, and Megumi is ready to protest, but Gojo just reaches across the bed to the nightstand and directs Megumi’s attention to the drawer.
“Lube,” he explains, so Megumi nods and fishes it out for them. From there, he gets the hang of it quickly. He’s too impatient to be overly cautious, too desperate to be timid, and it’s so easy to read Gojo’s different whimpers and moans as Megumi’s fingers press inside him.
Fuck, he’s gorgeous. Megumi has never seen this side of him— this obedient side, this pliant side. He’s never seen Gojo blush like he is now. Never seen him arch his back quite so beautifully before, skin flushed to his chest and eyes squeezed shut in pleasure rather than pain. He knows he’s not Gojo’s first by a long shot, but if he has any say in it, he wants to be Gojo’s last.
I need you, he thinks as he slicks himself up and slides inside, overwhelmed by the feel of him and the way Gojo breathes his name. I need you, and I want you to need me, too.
He’s not gentle at all, too caught up in it all to even attempt to hold himself back. He buries his face in Gojo’s neck and holds Gojo around the shoulders as he fucks him with all of his pent up grief and fear and ache and need and love.
Because he does. He loves Gojo so much more than he knew until he almost lost him.
“Megumi,” Gojo pants, legs wrapped tightly around Megumi’s hips as Megumi fucks him. He says it again, and again, and Megumi eats it up like a man starved because he hasn’t heard his name on those lips — those pretty, kissable lips — in far too long.
Gojo. Gojo is back. Gojo is here, chanting Megumi’s name like a prayer, so Megumi says, “Gojo-sensei,” and Gojo comes with a life-ruining sound that Megumi hopes no one else will ever hear again. Megumi’s own release follows close behind, ripping through him like a lightning bolt just as he spills himself inside, and Gojo holds him through it.
He comes down slowly, counting their synched heartbeats from where he lies on Gojo’s chest. Gojo’s fingers trace nonsense across his back.
A sense of calm he hasn’t felt in months washes over him as he breathes in the familiar, nostalgic scent of Gojo’s skin. It’s been a long time since they’ve been this close, and even then, it was never like this. This is something Megumi could get used to. He hopes that Gojo feels the same way; hopes with everything in him that this wasn’t just Gojo being Gojo, that he actually wanted this as badly as Megumi did and that’s why he did it.
He doesn’t quite have the courage to ask, though, so for now, he lets himself be turned onto his side and cradled between the strongest arms, content with the knowledge that the man he’s been waiting for is finally, finally home.
“I love you, you know.”
It’s the first thing Megumi has said all night. He’s still not facing Gojo, still looking away into the distance, out the window at something far from this room.
He sounds angry about it. Gojo knows he’s well within his rights to be; Gojo loves himself more than anyone else possibly could, and even he hates himself a little bit.
What a shitty lot to have in life, to love someone like Gojo Satoru. What good has ever come of it?
But Gojo is a horrible, greedy man, and to know that someone like Megumi could love a man like himself? Well, that’s nothing short of a miracle. So he takes Megumi’s terse confession, tucks it back behind his ribs, and thinks that maybe he’s ready to let this happen for himself again.
He can’t help but smile— it’s so very Megumi to be angry about a thing like that.
Megumi speaks again after the long silence, quietly, like he knows Gojo is listening even though Gojo hasn’t moved a muscle, hasn’t uttered a single sound in acknowledgment, and he’s right; Gojo is always paying attention to Megumi.
“At first, when you were gone, I didn’t let myself think about what might happen if you didn’t come back. It just wasn’t an option. I put all of my time and effort into doing what needed to be done. Through everything — Shibuya, the Culling Game, everyone we lost — I just kept telling myself that the only option was to win. I had to win, because if I lost, the world would be doomed. Without Gojo-sensei, humanity would be screwed.”
A breeze ruffles Megumi’s hair from the window he’s sitting beside, looking out onto the grounds of Tokyo Jujutsu Tech, and Gojo marvels at the fierce beauty of him. He’s stunning. There’s a softness about him now that Gojo has never seen before, right next to all of the new scars and lines and signs of how much he’s grown since Gojo was first locked away. The moonlight makes his skin look as soft as Gojo now knows it feels.
Megumi has never been in Gojo’s room this late at night. Gojo thinks he could get used to having him here.
“The longer it went on,” Megumi continues, “the harder it was to keep ignoring your absence. I started to think that maybe I wasn’t going to win, after all. My chances of saving you were so much smaller than I originally thought. And when it hit me, I panicked. And I realized, it’s not the world that’s doomed without you; it’s me. It’s not humanity that’s screwed. It’s me. Because I can’t imagine my life without you anymore.”
There’s another long, contemplative pause, in which Gojo does not dare speak, doesn’t dare interrupt, needs to hear Megumi’s own thoughts on this.
“Maybe it started as some kind of weird, misplaced attachment. You were the closest thing to family I had left, and maybe that’s why I needed you so badly, at first. But now I have Tsumiki back, and Itadori, and Kugisaki. And I still can’t picture my life without you. I still need you.”
He takes a deep, shuttering breath, reminding Gojo that he hasn’t breathed in a while, either; so he does, as quietly as he can, still, so that Megumi will keep talking.
“It was probably selfish of me to come over here like this and do what I did. But… I know what you are to me, Satoru.”
Gojo raises an eyebrow at the use of his name. He’s never given Megumi that permission, and Megumi has never asked.
It’s not a bad thing.
“I know what Suguru meant to you. But I also know—”
Gojo’s heart stops in his chest at the mention of Suguru’s name.
He wants to say something to that, fend off whatever next words Megumi is about to speak before he gets the chance to hurt Gojo; but even more than that, he wants to hear them. He wants to hear Megumi speak his thoughts, fully formed, without influence.
And… Megumi said Suguru. Not Geto, like the other curses, or worse: Geto Suguru— his full name, used by everyone who once knew him and wishes they never had. Megumi said Suguru, like maybe he remembers the good parts of Suguru that still haunt Gojo’s heart and doesn’t hold it against him.
“I know that nothing will ever change what he was to you. And I wouldn’t want to take that from you.”
Finally, finally, Megumi turns around.
“But maybe I can be something to you, too.”
For once in his life, Gojo doesn’t have the words to respond. He’d had so much to say when he first got out, especially to Megumi, but none of it matters, now.
Megumi doesn’t let him off the hook. He maintains eye contact, not backing down, in a steady display of newfound confidence that has developed in the time that Gojo has been gone.
The words stick in the back of Gojo’s throat, so instead of answering, he stands and strides toward the window where Megumi sits. There is so much meaning behind Megumi’s words that Megumi refuses to say outright. Gojo doesn’t need to hear it. He’s made it his mission to decode Megumi’s sullen words and indifferent demeanor for half of Megumi’s life.
A better man would tell him no. A better man would give up his second chance at happiness to keep the person he loves safe. But Gojo is not a better man. Some would say he’s not even a good man. Megumi himself has called him every available synonym for the word “nuisance.”
And yet, here Megumi is, laying his heart on the line in the greediest, most selfish way he can manage.
That’s how Gojo knows he’s making the right choice. Whether or not they’ll both make it out of this alive is irrelevant. That was never going to be an option.
He takes Megumi’s face in both hands and initiates a new first kiss. He pours everything he has into it— eleven years of grief, heartbreak, joy, loneliness, laughter, fondness, anger, sorrow.
Love.
He feels it now, too. It’s different than it was when he was seventeen: more mature, calmer, easier to contain. And at the same time, it’s only grown stronger, more sure. He feels it flow between them, his own and Megumi’s, licking through them like fire. It’s an energy like no other, cursed in its own way, that only the lucky ones can feel.
Gojo pulls back when he tastes salt on his lips. Megumi wastes no time burying his face in Gojo’s shoulder, taking comfort from him even while trying to hide the depths of his grief.
“I don’t want to do this without you,” Megumi says between shuddering breaths. “Be more careful.”
Gojo can’t help but laugh. Of course, in all of this, Megumi still finds it in himself to scold him.
“It won’t happen again,” Gojo vows.
Truthfully, there’s no way to make that promise. He shouldn’t have been sealed in the first place. Wouldn’t have, if not for his love for Suguru. There’s a non-zero chance that someone will use his love for Megumi against him in the future, but that’s a problem for then.
For now, he’s going to let himself have this.
Life is too short.