Chapter Text
Gojo calls Nanami as he throws clothing he is barely looking at into a bag in the corner.
He had gotten the number from Shoko, who somewhat stayed in contact with the guy since he left jujutsu behind in favor of a more stable lifestyle. Though, from what he can tell, she mainly contacts him when she’s in need of a night at the bar and just Utahime’s company wouldn’t have sufficed – which isn’t too often, according to her. At the very least, she has his cell phone number and might even send – or receive – the customary Happy Holidays, or Happy New Years text.
The phone rings and rings, and Gojo has to pull it from his ear and narrow his eyes at the number that flashes on his screen, questioning if it’s actually correct for a moment. It’s entirely possible that Nanami simply does not answer calls from numbers he does not recognize, which is not good news for his intentions.
The idea of contacting Nanami came to him as a Hail Mary, because after a good five-year-long streak, the inevitable has finally come to pass.
The likelihood that between him and Shoko, there would – at some point – be a time where someone else would have to join the babysitting rotation had gotten exponentially bigger in the past five years. Though the exact duties vary, they both work around the very same profession, and the job is never done.
He got called in on short notice, as he usually is, to quickly take care of trouble brewing someplace too many hours away.
They need you there, they said, and they need you immediately. As though he’s some hound with a handler, ready and willing to take each command as given.
Evidently, nothing good comes out of that kind of call. Shoko would not have been able to watch over Megumi and Tsumiki, what with her own work-related obligations. And though the two had experienced several weeks of taking care of each other with no adult present before coming into his care, he can’t leave them alone for these couple days in good conscience.
A nine-year-old and a ten-year-old left home alone while he’s on a work trip? The mothers who ogle and giggle at him every time he shows up to Tsumiki’s recitals and Megumi’s parent-visit days would slap him purple.
Realistically, there really was no one else he could have trusted. The other jujutsu sorcerers they met before were not close enough to Gojo that he would consider leaving the two with them. Ijichi, they only interacted with in passing, when Gojo was too lazy to use his legs or ability and instead utilized Ijichi’s driving as a means to bring Megumi and Tsumiki places. Yaga, they’d only met twice when Gojo weaseled him out of his Jujutsu-hidey-hole.
A brief, funny thought even had him considering Mei Mei for a few minutes, and aside from the iffy nature of their acquaintanceship, she would probably do a good enough job of making sure they don’t burn the whole apartment complex down with them inside. For the right price, that is.
Once everyone else was considered, Nanami was clearly the only viable option he had.
The line makes a new sound and the dial tone ceases. “Who is this?” A deep voice slides easily through his cell phone, vibrating comfortably into his ear. If he hadn’t known whose phone he was calling, Gojo would be confused. Little Nanamin had grown up, apparently. Little Nanamin does not sound so little anymore.
“Nanamin, it’s me!” He inserts a normal tone of cheer into his voice. It is impossible that Nanami had forgotten him in the past five years that have passed without contact, but if the voice and the nickname don’t jog his memory, the cheeky tone will.
It is silent on the other end for a few beats. For a moment sandwiched in between, Gojo idly wonders if Nanami had actually forgotten him – or if this is Nanami at all; it’s not like he had bothered to check. But then, “Gojo-se – san.” He notices the slip, but he withholds from saying anything about it. He’s asking for a favor here, and given their relationship in the past, teasing the man will undoubtedly work against his intentions.
“The one and only!”
“To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?” The slightly lower tone he takes towards the end of the question strongly implies that this call is not a pleasure.
He pouts at Nanami’s diplomatic wall. His next move is meant to break down its defenses, not that this has particularly worked at any time on Nanami of all people. He completely dodges the initial question, asking, conversely, “Nee, Nanami, how have you been? Haven’t seen you in years! Took a big, fancy job in the city, right?”
“Gojo-san.” The wall grows ever taller. Nanami’s voice is even harder, rigid and just as no-nonsense as it had been in high school, when Gojo went and slacked off at his and Haibara’s expense.
He looks off to the side, slowing in his rapid – and careless – cramming and fighting the urge to tsk. He certainly had not expected to get into Nanami’s good graces in a five-minute call, but some leeway would have been nice. “Fine, fine,” he says, waving a rather dismissive hand that the other man won’t be able to see. “Do you remember those two kids I took in that one year? The Fushiguros?”
There is a pause from the other side. Gojo waits, and the missing reply skips through a few beats of silence, and then his mind begins to wander. Had he told Nanami about them? He must have. But between Haibara’s death and…everything else that happened in about the same time frame, there is a chance Nanami had simply erased everything from that point. Willfully forgotten about it, just as he probably had done with the rest of this side of the world.
But after a few seconds of quiet breaths, Nanami’s voice breaks through the phone’s speakers once more. “...Yes, I do.” It sounds oddly hesitant, a suspicious edge to it that has him pondering the chances of Nanami knowing what exactly he is about to ask.
“Perfect!” He leans back against his bed, exaggeratedly stretching his legs out in front of him. His bag is tubby and slumped without a forceful hand holding it upright, messily spilling fabric over the floor, legs of pants and hems of shirts laying gently over its well-rounded sides. He’s not quite done, but he takes the break anyway. “Well, for starters, they’re both still alive. Happy, healthy pups – I know you of all people wouldn’t have expected it.” He grins, once again a mannerism that screams self-indulgent; there is no way Nanami can see it through the phone. “Now, on that note, I should emphasize once again that they are pups. Y’know, young, impulsive, inexperienced, naive –”
“Gojo-san.” Nanami’s tone lands like a heavy foot on the ground, trampling green vegetation and crushing the life underneath. “It’s late. Please get to the point.” Or I’ll hang up, goes unsaid. He can’t imagine that Nanami has work in the morning, since the next few hours mark the beginning of the weekend. Unless he’s so devoted to his job and the life he left jujutsu behind for so much that he can’t go a day or two without – unlikely, in every way. He distinctly remembers Nanami’s twitching lips, practically a scowl on his stony face, every time instruction went over its established time. He’d always enjoyed his own time the best.
That, or he has a family to tend to, which…is somewhat disturbing for Gojo to imagine.
“Right. Right.” He rolls his shoulders back, lolling his head to the side as his tone dims into something much calmer. “You haven’t been outta the job for so long you’ve forgotten about how jujutsu society rolls, right? Long story short, I got a last-minute call. Gotta be on the next plane out of Tokyo by dawn. Shoko is usually here to help out with ‘em, but she’s busy this weekend – somewhere out in Kobe on some other mission. And that’s where you come in!”
He hears an intake of breath, and it feels a little like the kind of breath a doctor takes before delivering bad news. If he hadn’t expected it already, Gojo would feel a sense of foreboding, apprehension crawling up his shoulders. But as he has seen this coming, before Nanami has the chance to speak, Gojo cuts ahead, bringing down the enthusiastic quality of his tone to a calm simmer. “I’m not asking for you to be a babysitter. You don’t have to come and stay the night. Just check over them from time to time. Touch base, make sure they’re still alive, and then go back to living that debauched bachelor lifestyle. They’re nine and ten, so I doubt they’ll die of starvation or set the whole place on fire in like two and a half days, but you never know!”
He says such a morbid possibility so nonchalantly, as is the natural trait of a jujutsu sorcerer, and he feels oddly shameless, like a con man with products he knows are faulty. He knows that both Megumi and Tsumiki can likely last a few days without adult supervision without somehow injuring or killing themselves, knows that they have lived through much worse than, like, three days without an adult, yet he can not shake the discontent that walks across his shoulders at the thought.
Here he is, persuading a busy man like Nanami to check in on them. He feels a fleeting sense of indignation at the higher-ups, who had set the cards up so that Shoko who should be in her dedicated post at the school is now hours away in Kobe and now Gojo is forced to leave too.
Still, he waits. Even if Nanami declines, he’ll just ask again, and again, relentless until the blond finally gives in. Gojo is unwaveringly persistent, and Nanami is much too straight-laced not to give in to something with higher moral value such as this.
He waits until there is a light disruption in the tiny auditory vibrations of the phone line, a small breath taken in preparation of speech. The pause breaks, and with it, Gojo can just about hear Nanami’s obstinance splinter. “What is your address?” Gojo grins triumphantly. Betting on Nanami’s foolish sense of duty has always paid out well. He’d have thought that a few years in the jujutsu world and a few more in the corporate world – which, Gojo knows, is just as merciless and cutthroat as its accursed counterpart – would have ripped that particular page from Nanami’s book. But Nanami is just too recalcitrant for that, even if being as greedy as everyone else is how one stays afloat. When in Rome, do as Romans do – but, apparently, he has yet to learn that lesson.
After the fight he put up to leave and all these years, maybe he hasn’t grown up at all.
Gojo cheers and sings his praises as though the only thing on his mind is not, Naive.
At the crack of dawn, just before the sun rises, Gojo comes to the conclusion that he might have been too hasty, thinking of Nanami as naive, as the same exact person he had been all those years ago. The very familiar image of a long blond curtain of hair covering part of his face, arms thin like twigs, quite obstinate for how easily it appeared he could be snapped.
But discounting the ebb and flow of time like that, when Nanami had been a small, though lanky, teenager when he’d last seen him some five years ago – it was incredibly rash of him. He of all people should know how long five years truly is, how much five years can change a person.
He’s come face to face with his injudiciousness and it has clear, pale skin, thin, delicately arched eyebrows, and high cheeks chiseled out of stone, and shiny, slicked-back blond hair that forms an iridescent halo at his crown even under the dimmed light of the genkan.
It’s almost hard to believe it’s Kento Nanami. The long, perhaps toned limbs he had totted around as arms and legs as a teenager had grown in volume; now healthy, taut, resilient ropes, intertwining and weaving together across his body. The dainty plain of his shoulders have broadened extensively and now they are more like the Atlas peaks of his body's monumental landscape. He is wearing a long-sleeved - and a bit snug - shirt, well-suited for chilly autumn mornings like this, and despite the inherently modest nature of such clothing which is meant to cover one up completely, Gojo can tell that there is more lean muscle to see if he follows the trail down the collar of his shirt.
Yes; it would be possible to believe this is another person.
But those eyes; burnt umber irises which peer at him rather plainly, undemanding and even a bit irreverently – they could not belong to anyone else.
The man’s lips – flushed red, possibly from the cold – part and low, dulcet tones leave from it in the shape of Gojo’s name. He bows politely, and if Gojo were further depraved he would purposely peer over him to watch the small of his back, suddenly interested in discovering how the muscles of his back move as he does, like a scholar observing how the gears of a magnificent machine might work.
When Nanami comes back up, Gojo offers a hand. His dark lashes flutter with two quick blinks; he’s likely confused as to why Gojo is offering one greeting when he had just given another, but perhaps it is the developed muscle memory from his time spent as a salaryman that makes his hand move to take it.
A thousand thoughts buzz through Gojo’s head, incessant flies. One ponders if the business Nanami works for serves Westerners, because the grasp with which he holds it is firm, unyielding, yet comfortable and rather unconcerned. Another wonders how many hands he had to shake to have developed this skill. A third nosily asks why his hands are kind of rough, a bit calloused when all he’s supposed to have been doing these past few years is sit at his desk for eight to ten hours a day and crunch numbers. A fourth muses that he’s been working out, somehow.
Before the greeting lasts too long to be considered normal, he curls his lips into a cheerful smile. “Nanamin, glad you could make it!” He shakes their joined hands once, twice.
And a fifth thought hums wickedly. Nanami smells divine.
When Gojo dipped a little bit lower to accommodate their handshake, he had gotten a light whiff of Nanami’s now-matured scent. It was truthfully quite faint, but its subtlety left blooms of new tones flowering deep in his nose and even on his tongue for seconds after the initial whiff.
Gojo remembers that when they were classmates, Nanami rarely left his scent out without some form of moderation. He doesn’t remember why, nor if Nanami had even given him a reason, but he does remember that it had not been much to him at the time. It was not an unpleasant scent, he would not scrunch his nose when confronted with it, but conversely, he would not have gone out of his way to chase after it.
But this. This is finely-aged wine. Like he had abandoned it after the first fermentation process and forgotten about it for five years, and this was the final product.
Nanami’s a fully matured omega now. It might be a testament to his most recent chaste behavior. That the moment someone like this, someone whom he had known from his past and had exited the stage ages ago, comes back into the play, he abruptly feels every single second since the last time he’d laid with another.
“Gojo-san,” Nanami says again in that low, well-grown-into voice of his. Gojo vaguely feels the urge to inhale the tips of his fingers rather indecently, searching for leftover scent from where they had lightly brushed up against the scent glands of his wrist.
And suddenly, the whole situation feels a bit dangerous.
The thing about Alpha-Omega attraction is that it’s just that – Alpha-Omega attraction. Much of it boils down to a biological drive, one that runs things from the background and curls around the shell of one’s ear and suggests things to them. Fun things, self-indulgent things, ill-advisable things.
The concept of true love at first sight can be attributed to that same drive. Two people crossed paths and were coincidentally especially compatible, end of story. Except every hundred alphas feel that way about every hundred omegas, and vice versa. It’s common, widespread, and nothing more than a misinterpreted urge to mate and breed. It doesn’t mean that they have to get together, and it certainly doesn’t mean that they are meant for one another – too many matters that could have been avoided have historically come from that particular train of thought. His own experiences included.
It’s in his best interest to ignore the appeal. If anything, it’s a short burst of desire and it will quell in a few days, when Nanami is long gone.
Gojo pulls himself back steadily, though every step away from temptation feels like a bandaid hastily yanked from his skin. He’s never felt the need for scent blockers of any kind. Infinity has been the only scent blocker he’s ever needed. Before he slips up and unintentionally gives Nanami a nose-full of just how much Gojo appreciates his improvements, he pulls his Infinity protectively around him.
Then, he pivots on his heel, beckoning Nanami to follow him down the short hall into the main room. Nanami’s footsteps are methodical and heavy even without his shoes, a self-assured pace. Gojo does not look back, but he is curious about what he would find if he did.
He walks right up to the table in the kitchenette-living room space and pulls his phone away from it, quickly tapping in his password without having to think about it, and enters his gallery. He swipes through a few more recent photos, humming shortly through each photo.
One of Tsumiki smiling so wide her teeth are bared. One of Megumi practicing summoning his shikigami, his young face twisted in a rather mature picture of concentration. Another of the two of them right at the same table, shiny and rounded cheeks stuffed like chipmunks after Gojo dared them to fit as much daifuku as they could into their mouths. Tsumiki is troubled, her eyebrows downturned with her small frown, unable to fit anymore. Megumi is sour-faced because, after all, it had been the endless goading by Gojo and pleading from Tsumiki that had gotten him to participate in the first place. He makes a considering noise deep from his throat. This one will do.
He turns the phone toward Nanami, who had stopped a few paces away from him, far enough that if this was not Gojo’s apartment, if they were in a public space, they could be considered strangers. Gojo steps up to him, just close enough for Nanami to see the children in the picture, and raises a finger to tap at the screen.
“This is what they look like nowadays. Tsumiki.” He points her out. “And Megumi.” He does the same with him and feels strangely like a proud parent as he does. “Not sure if I’ve introduced you to them before, but–” he shrugs, “–better late than never.”
Nanami observes the picture for about two seconds before nodding and then shifts on his feet. “Are there any allergies or health conditions I should be made aware of?”
“Nothing that either of them don’t already know.”
Nanami raises an unimpressed eyebrow, his arms crossed. His eyes are stony as he stares at Gojo.
Gojo waves his hand dismissively. “They aren’t allergic to anything, as far as we know, and they’re both healthy, so you have nothing to worry about there.”
“Is there anything else I should know? Are there certain subjects that I should not mention around them? Things that may agitate or startle them?” Gojo tilts his head. It’s a reasonable concern, but it is also such a telling question to ask. An effective indicator of a jujutsu sorcerer – former, or otherwise.
If they were normal children living normal lives, perhaps this would not be an issue, perhaps this would not be something an adult would ask when referring to them. But those involved with Gojo and those who are so intrinsically linked with the world of curses are all too likely to have a trigger.
He leans back against the table, tilting his head up toward the ceiling. “Curses, preferably around Tsumiki. She lacks cursed energy, and so she can’t see them. We try not to expose her to it.”
Tsumiki knows, though, that there is something that differentiates her from her brother and guardian. She does not mention it, but Gojo can tell that she is aware of that line which separates them. Whether it bothers her or unnerves her, they have yet to discuss.
“And Megumi-kun?”
Goji shifts. “He does.” He keeps it clipped short. Nanami does not need to know any more than that. Gojo grins, pumping enthusiasm into his voice. “You don’t have to worry about it, though! He knows how to control himself; taught him myself.”
If Nanami is displeased by the evident secrecy, he certainly doesn’t show it. Instead, he asks, “Is there anything else I should not bring up in front of them?” Gojo hums for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Nanami should already know the circumstances surrounding the reason why they stay here and he is good at knowing the right time and place for things, so he will stay away from any topics regarding a real parent.
“Nope! Just don’t tease Megumi too much. He’ll get upset.”
The look in Nanami’s eye is quite neutral, but Gojo gets the feeling that he’s somehow commiserating with the boy. Dryly, he remarks, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Before he can respond, his hearing picks up a low creak down the hallway they came from. He easily identifies it as Megumi and Tsumiki’s room door and wanders away from Nanami without warning, standing at the threshold that separates the main room from the hallway. As it is swung open slowly, he makes out a small head, which leans out from the doorway, and two hands on the wooden edge.
“Satoru?”
“Eh? What’s this? Tsumiki?” She shuffles out of the room and he sees a smaller figure right next to her. “Megumi, too?” When they make it into the main room, he walks up in front of them and leans slightly above them. “What are you doing awake?”
“We wanted to see you before you left!” Tsumiki says, confident and rather assured. Slightly behind her, Megumi quietly fists his eyes free of sleep, his fingers wrapped tightly around a clump of her nightdress.
Aside from the fact that they stopped seeing him off a while back, Tsumiki’s eyes keep drifting around him, trying to peer at the unfamiliar adult in the room. Megumi, to his credit, does not spare any glances toward Nanami, but he does not spare any for Gojo, either. Still, he comes to a very simple understanding that they had just wanted to see the man that he told them he entrusted with their care for the next couple days. Cute.
Taking mercy on them, Gojo smiles kindly and avoids pointing it out. He then straightens himself, moving to the side to give them a clearer view of Nanami. With a one-handed gesture in way of presenting, he says, “This is Kento Nanami! He so graciously accepted my request for someone to monitor you over the weekend since Shoko wasn’t available!”
Tsumiki ogles – albeit, innocently and not at all in the same way Gojo had just moments before – at the novelty of this new adult. His height, his build, his blond hair, his strong Euro-centric features – everything, all at the same time. Megumi is much more restrained with his surveying, though his sleep-addled and aloof expression gives off an air of disinterest, despite the new presence in the apartment.
Nanami bows at them, too. This time, Gojo does peek at the small of his back as his sweater pulls up to accommodate his movements, but he is unable to see more than a tiny sliver of pale skin before he comes back up. “It is nice to meet you both. You may call me Nanami.”
His polite greeting serves to shake Tsumiki out of her engrossment. She hurries to bow and exchange a greeting herself. Megumi does not follow.
“Good morning, Nanami-san! Thank you for looking after us. My name is Tsumiki. This is my brother, Megumi.” She gestures between the two of them as she makes her introductions, then pauses when her eyes meet Gojo’s. She looks between them, and Gojo can see the cogs turning in her head. “Do you and Satoru know each other?”
Gojo takes the lead, smirking proudly. “Of course we do! How could I ever leave you two at the hands of someone who I don’t trust? Nanamin here is an old friend from high school.” Rather boldly, he saunters up to Nanami’s side and unrolls an intrusive arm across the broad expanse of his shoulders. He can feel the muscles underneath his arm tense and sees Nanami’s eyebrows twitch and furrow together, his pupils stretching over to deliver a sharp glance at him from their sides. Gojo sends him a cheeky grin in response.
With a mildly exasperated puff leaving his nose, Nanami tunes his attention into the two children, seemingly set on ignoring Gojo. “Just Nanami is fine, Tsumiki-san. You too, Megumi-kun.”
Her face turns contemplative – as contemplative as a ten-year-old can be – and she is seemingly taken aback by the idea of addressing him without an honorific. Slowly, she nods. “You can just call me Tsumiki, then, too.” She gives Nanami a kind smile, and Gojo wonders if she already trusts him, or if this is her customary good-naturedness coming to play. Admittedly, one’s first impression of Nanami, if not intimidating, would likely be reliable.
After Nanami agrees to her request, a silence pulls over the room like thick wool. Not quite oppressive, but awkward in a way that stilts growth – unable to move forward without sounding out of place, but similarly unable to move backward if the words have already been said.
Gojo opens his mouth to spare everyone the burden of being caught in such circumstances for so long, but before he can get a single syllable out, he feels a subtle rhythm pulse against his thigh and palms at his pants for the phone he had abandoned in his pocket.
Flashing persistently in white against the bright, though grayed-out, screen of his phone is Yaga’s name. Gojo tsks petulantly, unwilling to leave now that the ball’s already started rolling and knowing that answering now would only subject him to loud, authoritative yelling.
He knows Nanami has seen the name when he shifts against him, just about pushing Gojo to his own feet. His scent flourishes under Gojo’s nose in waves, deep in its complexities and impassioned by the phone call that has reminded him of the circumstances. If Nanami had been less even-tempered at his core, less tolerant around him, then the scent might have buried him and the whole room underneath it – Gojo can imagine the subtle notes that powerfully bear into the air with new weight when Nanami is upset. He contemplates if it would spice into something impossibly pungent, maybe sour into something bitter, but all the same, taking the room completely by storm.
Gojo can feel his neck prickle with interest and his tongue wet as though under a Pavlovian response, and he casually steps away from the man as though he has finally taken the hint to stop leaning on him like Nanami has been indicating. Truthfully, though, he has forced himself to tear away from his undue arousal.
“Gojo-san,” Nanami says, a steel tone lining the walls of his throat. Even if he had left sorcerer society, he is still just the same about work as he had been before he did. Gojo has that typical flippant attitude when lives are quite possibly on the line again, he's probably thinking.
Gojo smiles so nicely he feels one cheek dimple and the skin under his eyes plumpen, and it feels every bit as candy-wrapper-thin as it may look. Without sparing even one more proper glance at the phone, he turns it off, jamming it back into his pocket with an intensity only one of the damned may possess.
“Sounds like that’s my cue to go! Can’t have Yaga wait too long before he starts hunting for my head, y’know?” He leisurely makes his way toward the counter table where he had discarded his backpack full of mostly snacks and a couple items of clothing, slugs it over his shoulder, and steps in front of the children.
Tsumiki offers him a kindhearted smile, but it’s a bit sad at the edges – he has noticed that she always looks like this when it comes to goodbyes. Like one of these days, she is expecting him to saunter right through the door and never come back.
She leans into him, tightly wrapping her arms around his waist and pushing her cheek against his lower sternum. He can feel some of her heat seep into his shirt and thinks the small tremble that inches across her skin is just a heartbeat.
Laughing brightly in reassurance, he puts a hand on her head. When she releases him, he steps froward and plants the same hand atop Megumi’s disheveled crown of dark curls, ruffling it mercilessly. Megumi rears back, the sleep in his eyes quickly yielding to annoyance like a sand embankment under the water’s current. He swats and paws at Gojo’s relentless hand to cease, but it’s only when the man feels like it that the appendage is taken away.
“I’ll see you guys soon, alright? Nanamin will check up on you all from time to time so don’t raise hell over here. You just might give him a heart attack.” He then leans his head down a bit so that his eyes can be seen from above his glasses as he tilts his head to the side and lazily lulls his gaze toward the man in question. Nanami’s acrid stare is nearly poem-worthy as he stands salaryman-still, wholly unfazed by the flash of Gojo’s aquamarine-blue irises. Uncaring in the face of a blatant threat. Gojo grins, sure to present his teeth, and feels like his younger self when he would ceaselessly and arrogantly provoke Nanami. “Make sure to take good care of them, Nanamin. You have my number now; contact me when you need. Spare key’s under the mat.”
The man sighs at his blatant attempt at warning, but nods dutifully. “I understand.”
Gojo brightens like a sunflower in noon and cheers, “Perfect! I’ll see you guys later!” With an exaggerated wave, he makes his way to the entrance. The step through the threshold and successive slam of the door is purely for show, as seconds later he simply teleports to the school, where the auxiliary manager who will accompany him to his destination awaits.
He is back by Sunday evening, though it is so late that one may call it Monday morning. By the time his feet tap against the entrance of his apartment, the trains have either stopped or are likely making their last rounds. Even from the car he had ridden inside from the airport, he could feel the sense of stillness the neighborhood could only possess in the dead of the night, the streetlights casting a soft, amber glow and tall shadows along the narrow roads. Now, in front of his door, he feels the hush lull him into a light sense of impatience, magnifying his desire to unwind for the night.
While the mission had not been particularly far or difficult, his auxiliary manager had been a teary-eyed, bumbling newcomer. A fresh graduate they had paired him with because having the strongest, arguably most experienced special-grade sorcerer and the newest manager must equal out. The ease of the mission itself had been buried under the inconvenience of having such an aid, and so an unfamiliar feeling of weariness weighs down his bones tonight.
As soon as Gojo opens the door, something snaps into place, like a key turning into a lock, pushing all the right notches. He becomes acutely aware of a familiar, though surprising presence sitting in the main room.
He toes off his shoes slowly, silently considering the presence still in the apartment for a few moments, and walks through the hall into the room in question. Seated peacefully on the couch facing the television is Nanami. There is a book settled in his lap, its spine curved gently from use. Its creme pages are spread wide open, exposing the black words printed upon them. Nanami seems to have dozed off whilst reading, his head laid lightly against his planted fist, eyes closed.
His weariness shifts and warms into something obscurely gleeful. His interest is piqued and he makes it a sudden goal to make it across the room, close enough that he could read the lines on those papers, possibly startle Nanami when he rouses or maybe shake him awake himself. Rather than use his own two feet and possibly spoil the outcome, he teleports in front of the man, grinning above him. But he gets all of two seconds to savor the moment before Nanami’s eyelashes flutter open, his pupils pinpointing him immediately. His sharp gaze is incredibly laser-focused for someone who was resting a moment ago.
He is far from the only person who has reacted so calmly and knowingly to a scheme of this nature, yet Gojo finds himself bemused for a few beats of silence.
As though he had been aware the entire time, he sighs right in Gojo’s confounded face and straightens himself into a prim position. In a cool tone, he remarks, “I sincerely hope you were not planning on surprising me, Gojo-san.”
Gojo smiles innocently. “Never dreamed of it.”
Nanami stares at him. “Hm.”
Then, with another sigh, he pushes off from the couch. Gojo steps back a few faces to give him room as he does so and watches as he stretches out, his face scrunching minimally in effort. A light, breathy groan escapes his mouth, relieved of the tight muscles he had earned from resting like so. Gojo smells a hint of Nanami’s scent, faint with little intensity and the amount of space between them. He is still unable to place it to anything specific, but that is of little consequence to his interest. His will to relax shrinks and shrivels into nonexistence, replaced by a heady, innate impulse to touch. He can not imagine Nanami would be much interested. Still, as he watches him collect his things, his broad build bending over the couch to take his book and a deep brown jacket he had not noticed until now, his long legs flexing to accommodate, Gojo wonders if high-minded businessmen like Nanami also feel these urges, if they do something about them at all.
Nanami eyes him suddenly. Gojo fears he might have let his own scent run loose for a moment, having dropped Infinity just past the doorway. “I will take my leave,” he says, his tone betraying no real feeling.
Gojo pouts, dancing around Nanami in feather-light steps that those in the profession would envy. “So soon?”
He checks the silver wristwatch on his left. Gojo sees his eyelashes bat quickly, as though he is shocked at the time. “I have work in the morning.”
“At your boring day job?”
A thin, blonde eyebrow arches skyward. “I don’t recall working anywhere else.” It does not escape Gojo’s notice that Nanami doesn’t deny that his job is boring.
Before, when Friday evening had just brightened into Saturday morning, Gojo had noted that the skin underneath his eyes was a bit darker in color than the rest. Now, he can see that the skin has darkened in shade, even if just a bit, and he wonders if Nanami is facing the same problems he had faced in his previous position, the one he had nipped right before it could bloom. Sleepless nights. Burdensome workloads. Demanding higher-ups. No time to rest or think before the next folder is on top of you, the lack of respite making you obedient, pliant, weak.
He hums. “It’s late. Why don’t you just stay here for the night?” It is a purely innocent intention that coaxes this offer from his lips, and unlike if he had some dark ulterior motive behind it, he feels almost virtuous, light. He can’t let an omega like Nanami, who smells so tantalizing even to his own nose, who makes his body shake with such intoxicating intrigue that it does not offer to even the most coquettish omegas (unless he is in rut, starving for a primal kind of attention). He can’t just let him go home alone. Not without an escort.
But Nanami shakes his head. “I will have to decline that offer. There are things I must prepare in my apartment before work.”
“I’ll teleport you, then.”
He holds a hand up. “No need. I will take the trains.”
Gojo raises an eyebrow. “Haven’t they already stopped by now?”
“It’s close, but if I leave now I will be able to make the last one to my stop. Have a good night, Gojo-san.” He turns toward the small hallway that leads to the entrance. Gojo decides that he should, at least, follow him to the door.
Nanami is putting his shoes on at the genkan when he speaks in oddly earnest feeling, leaning against the wall across from him. “I don’t think I thanked you properly for keeping an eye on them. Thank you, Nanami. I do mean it.”
The man pauses at the last loop, looking up at his former classmate with a strangely curious look. He doesn’t have to completely stop what he’s doing, nor does he have to host such a questioning expression on his face. He can be genuine when it suits him, and the unadulterated curiosity Nanami has in reaction to it makes something vaguely unpleasant prickle and warm Gojo’s back.
“It was little trouble,” he says after a small pause. Of course, it couldn’t have been no trouble; he had gone out of his way, after all, to do this favor for him, and Gojo knows how much Nanami values his routines. “They are well-behaved children.”
Gojo preens. “Of course they are. Raised them myself!”
“Somehow, I doubt you have had much influence on them in that particular regard, Gojo-san.” Nanami stands, his shoes completely tied. He pulls his brown jacket on, zipping it up to his neck.
“What’s that mean, huh?”
Nanami turns his head, walks up to the door, and opens it. The blue luminescence of the moon bathes the dim genkan in a beautiful light. It glints off the blond strands of Nanami’s hair, making the entire head of hair seem to have been spun of the most delicate gosammer. Nanami turns his head back toward him, and Gojo is speechless for the second time in the same night, at the slightest, amused curve of his lips. “Nothing at all, Gojo-san.”
Then, the door gently creaks closed and clicks shut.
Gojo stands there, at that entrance, for a few beats of silence following his departure. He blinks out from his reverie, turning on his heel and walking back down into the kitchenette by rote. Now that he is alone, the children asleep and his most recent company out the door, the bone-deep clarity that comes with a dark, quiet night helps him recognize a few minute changes in the space.
The kitchenette counter has been wiped down, the white tile countertop scrubbed free of marks and crumbs. It glistens under the ceiling light. The stove has also been washed out. The dried and darkened splotches from failed past attempts at cooking have virtually disappeared, as though they had never happened in the first place. They had been hard to clean. He remembers Tsumiki struggling to use enough strength to get at it, then his own efforts when she had asked him. He had just resolved to employ a cleaner for the job, maybe even replace the countertop altogether, depending on which came to him first. But now, it appears he has been saved the trouble.
The drying racks are also empty. The dishes Gojo typically keeps there long-term, despite the cabinets being just above them, have been put away. He opens the cabinet where they should be, and lo and behold, there they are. Primly stacked, skillfully ordered from big to small, bowls above the flat plates. On the other side, the cups have been similarly tidied up, placed rim-down to avoid dust gathering within them. The ceramic mugs and thin glasses are one thing, but even the cutesy plastic cups meant for kids have gotten the same treatment. The dichotomy between the neutrals and the obnoxiously colorful drinkware tickles him.
Nanami had decided to clean up the house in his stead. How odd, and completely unnecessary, of him to have gone that extra mile.
Gojo hums at the thought, pivoting on his heel to scour the fridge for anything with an added sugar content above 60 grams. He knows that Nanami is not the type to pile more work upon himself if it will trouble him, nor is he the type to clink around in another’s space. He wouldn’t “make himself at home,” even if the homeowner had offered.
Except, in the fridge, he notes the lack of several vegetables, and they seem to be down about half a dozen eggs. The vegetables are no real loss. Most of them had been well past their prime; wilted, discolored, and hosting a few soft spots along their skin. They had each had about a few days to a week left before he threw them out. The missing eggs, however, are slightly more troublesome.
On the top shelf, he finds a single plate, covered over with a glossy casing of saran wrap. It was certainly not there before he left, so Gojo pulls it out and sets it on the stove.
The first thing he notices is the orange sticky note stuck to the top. The second thing is the plate’s contents. The saran wrap is quite thick in what was likely an effort to preserve the food more securely, and it distorts the image, makes it hazy and foggy around the edges. It glimmers under the stove light, the light refracting and creating a mesmerizing dance around the thin, plastic casing.
He first plucks off the sticky note. Scrawled across the top is Tsumiki’s big, wobbly handwriting in purple crayon. For Satoru, it says, with an endearing little heart at the end. He turns it over, and across the back is a neat, well-practiced handwriting that he could only accredit as Nanami’s.
It reads, in a rather unapologetic tone, I have used a few ingredients from your kitchen to make some meals for the children. Please make an effort to start feeding them more nutritious meals than pre-packaged foods, sweets, and takeout, Gojo-san.
Gojo stares at the message, incredulous of Nanami’s bout of boldness. Then, he grins, an amused shudder breaking out across his shoulders in lieu of a cackle. He did not think that Nanami had it in him.
Admittedly, Tsumiki is the best cook of all of them.
Gojo has never had to rely upon himself for food. In his estate, if he had asked for a meal it was typically there within twenty minutes, some skittish servant knelt on the floor and pushing a tray through the shoji of his room. Additionally, Megumi had always had Tsumiki to fill the role, so the young boy never had to hone the skill. However, she is still a ten-year-old girl, and when Gojo found them she had been five. The range of recipes a five-year-old could feasibly do is understandably small and basic, and with his bottomless wallet, he’s made it so that they never have to worry about cooking again since then. He brings them out to restaurants, brings home several varieties of takeout, and spoils them rotten with sweets he’d purchased after his missions.
It’s only every now and again, when Shoko’s feeling both active and generous, that she might attempt to cook a homemade meal for them. But she is every bit as shit as Gojo is at cooking and regularly falls back upon day-old takeout in her own fridge, despite occasionally using her doctor voice to chide Gojo about their diet.
As he muses, he unpeels the wrapping over the plate with a carefree kind of ease. Next to a small assortment of greens lies a pretty sizable omelet. Even though it has firmed in the fridge, it looks fluffy, golden, and it’s gently folded into a neat oval shape. There is ketchup over the top, messily curved into what seems to be a heart over the center. Again, he assumes it’s Tsumiki’s work.
Gojo reaches into a drawer and pulls out a spoon, poking and digging into the omelet, tugging off a decent amount onto the spoon, and watching as brown grains of rice pool out from underneath it. He imagines the work that went into making this meal, how Nanami must have gathered the ingredients, scowling at the takeout containers in the fridge and the aged quality of the vegetables, how Nanami must have buttered up the pan and thrown everything inside. Had he been meticulous about the temperature, the timing, the textures, the precise colors of the meal? Had he dedicated himself completely to the task, or had he put in just enough effort to make something edible? Had he finished it easily, without having to worry about mishaps or mistakes, or had he nearly burned himself in error? The possibilities are endless, yet the end result is the same.
He does not even wait a few minutes to heat it up in the microwave. Curious, and somewhat impatient, he shoves the spoonful into his mouth. The omelet has solidified, the rice is hard, the chilled ketchup has a strange texture, and everything is cold.
But Gojo still has to admit, it’s good.