Stray Cats

By the third Sunday of the month, Satoru Gojo had learned two things:

One. Twelve-year-olds were far more emotionally mature than expected.

Two. Eggs were lying to the world about how easy they were to cook.

Especially when said twelve-year-old was Megumi Fushiguro: emotionally composed, terrifyingly capable, and a better cook than Satoru had any right to admit.

He learned it the hard way.

It started that morning, when the maid casually mentioned that Megumi usually cooked breakfast during school days.

Something about that struck Satoru. Not guilt—he wasn’t evolved enough for guilt yet. More like pride being kicked in the shins. He was eighteen. A legal adult. Supposedly the caretaker in this setup. And yet here was this tiny, bookish gremlin doing his job like it was nothing.

Worse? The food tasted amazing.

He actually cleaned his plate every morning without realizing it. And the one time he commented how good it was thinking it was just the maid changing it's cooking method, Megumi had just shrugged and said, “It’s just eggs and rice, you’re overreacting.”

He didn't really think about that. But now, knowing who actually cooked, It lit something competitive in him.

So that Sunday, he woke up early.

Earlier than Megumi.

Earlier than the maid.

Determined to make a Real Adult Breakfast.

The fridge was full but not helpful. He opened it and was immediately overwhelmed. Vegetables stared at him in judgment. Unlabeled Tupperware mocked him. Raw meats whispered threats. There were fish—possibly alive if it weren't for their frozen state.

He muttered, “Okay… chicken? beef? Eggs? No, wait—how do you cook rice again?”

Then came the sound of soft footsteps.

Megumi entered the kitchen, still in pajama shorts and a plain black tee, rubbing sleep from his eyes as if being summoned by the chaos Satoru would unleash in the kitchen.

He stopped just past the doorway.

Satoru could feel the judgment radiating off him.

He didn’t even look up. “Good morning, Darcy Jr. What would you like for breakfast?”

Megumi blinked at him. Hard.

Then said, deadpan, “You’re cooking?”

Satoru didn’t flinch. “Absolutely.”

Megumi stared for a moment longer, then relented. “Omurice. Or just sunny side up eggs.”

Satoru nearly cried in relief. I’ve seen that in anime. I can do this.

“Right. Rice. Cooking. Easy.” He began opening random drawers like a raccoon in a five-star kitchen. “Where’s the rice again?”

Megumi stepped in without a word, walked to the sleek cabinet beside the fridge, and pulled open a rice dispenser Satoru didn’t even know existed.

“I’ll do the rice. You do the eggs. They’re over there,” he said, pointing.

Satoru muttered a quiet thanks and grabbed the carton.

Satoru Gojo had never made breakfast in his life.

He was now on his fourth egg.

Yolk #4 was dying in his hands.

Behind him, Megumi cleared his throat, sipping his milk like a judge about to drop a sentence.

“You’re not supposed to smash them.”

“I’m not smashing them. I’m cracking them with enthusiasm,” Satoru snapped, cheeks pink.

Megumi stepped up, took an egg, and softly tapped it on the pan's edge. Clean break. No drama. Perfect pour.

Satoru stared. “What the hell. How are you this competent? You’re twelve!”

Megumi glanced at him. “Almost thirteen. And you’re the adult. Why are you this bad?”

Satoru groaned but smiled anyway. “You wound me, tiny chef.”

The call came mid-scramble.

Satoru had just given up on aesthetics and was turning the eggs into some vaguely acceptable scrambled disaster when his phone buzzed.

Mom.

He answered on speaker. “What?”

“Hi, darling~! How’s everything going? You two getting along?”

“Define ‘getting along,’” he grumbled, scraping eggs into a pan.

“Well, I have good news! Toji and I are extending our trip! Isn’t that great?”

Satoru froze, yolk dripping between his fingers.

“…What.”

“Spain is just sooo romantic this time of year. We might stop by Italy too!”

She didn’t even pause.

“You boys will be fine, right? You’re such a great big brother!”

The line went dead.

He stood in silence. Egg sliding onto the counter. His eye twitched.

Behind him, Megumi’s voice drifted in, dry as ever. “You broke another one.”

Satoru turned slowly, like a man processing betrayal. “They’re staying in Europe.”

Megumi didn’t look surprised.

He just blinked. “I see.”

Satoru stared at the kid. The way he said it—like he expected it. Like disappointment was an old friend that showed up uninvited every time.

“I guess we’ve been abandoned,” Satoru said, tossing the egg aside. “That means you’re stuck with this devastatingly handsome and nurturing onii-chan for much longer.”

Megumi stared at him as he sipped his milk. “I suppose.”

Then calmly went back to reading his book like this was just another day.

Surprisingly, things got… easier after.

Not perfect. But smoother.

They didn’t talk about “That Night”—the one where they’d accidentally fallen asleep on the living room carpet under a shared blanket, hiding from thunder like emotionally repressed cats.

But something shifted.

Megumi stopped flinching when their shoulders brushed in the hallway. He stopped hiding behind books when Satoru walked in. He still scowled. Still called him annoying. But there was no real venom behind it anymore—just dry commentary. Low-key fondness, disguised as disapproval.

Satoru noticed it in the small stuff.

Like how Megumi always poured a second cup of tea and left it wordlessly on the counter—Satoru’s favorite mug, no less.

Or how he muttered things under his breath when he thought no one could hear: “He’s going to ruin the laundry again,” or “Why does he take so long in the shower, it’s suspicious.”

One morning, Satoru went on a cereal rant.

“Cartoon shapes make it taste better. That’s science.” he said glaring at his cereal as if it offended him greatly, This cereal was just not that sweet and not his favorite.

Megumi stared at him, reached over calmly, and dropped his spoon into Satoru’s bowl.

“Congratulations,” he said. “Now we both have soggy disappointment for breakfast.”

Satoru stared. “Did you just sabotage my cereal?”

“You’ve been sabotaging my peace for a month. Seemed fair.”

And Satoru laughed. Loud. Real. The kind that hit his chest like sunlight.

It wasn’t war anymore.

It was sparring.

And Satoru had started to look forward to it.

Too much.

Because somewhere in the middle of all the teasing, the bickering, and the silent cups of tea…

He realized he wasn’t just messing with Megumi for fun.

He was craving his attention. Craving his presence. Watching how he stirred his tea. Noticing the way he tied his hair back when it fell into his eyes. Standing closer than necessary just to feel that small shift of warmth. 

It was subtle.

But dangerous.

Because Megumi wasn’t just some kid anymore.

He was becoming everything Satoru looked forward to.

And that was a problem.

A very, very adorable problem with deep blue eyes and a sharper tongue.

The sickness hit on a Thursday.

Because of course it did.

The sky had been spitting rain all afternoon, moody and gray like a soap opera backdrop. And Megumi—rational, logical, smart Megumi—had apparently forgotten what an umbrella was. Or common sense.

Satoru had just stepped out of the car, hoodie pulled halfway over his damp hair, when he spotted him: a lone figure in uniform, soaked through and kneeling in the garden like a tragic little statue.

“Megumi!” Satoru yelled, voice echoing across the lawn. “What the hell are you doing?! It’s raining!”

Megumi looked over, expression unreadable. Then—casually—he stuck a finger in his ear like he couldn’t hear him.

“Oh my god,” Satoru muttered, marching over.

The boy was hunched under the skeletal branches of a tree, rain plastering his bangs to his forehead. Cupped in his hands was a tiny, soaked bird, wings trembling, eyes wide.

“It was stuck,” Megumi said simply, not looking up.

Satoru stared at him. “You’re soaking wet and talking like a Disney princess.”

Megumi, without missing a beat, replied, “You’re soaking wet and overreacting..”

Satoru spluttered. “I—what?!”

“Go inside, Onii-chan,” Megumi mimicked, voice syrupy and fake as hell.

Satoru gave up. “Fine! Get sick and suffer, you midget Darcy!”

By nightfall, he was pale and quiet. Too quiet.

Satoru found him curled on the couch, knees pulled to his chest, wrapped in a blanket but still shivering. His cheeks were flushed, lips dry, eyes glazed over.

“Megumi?” Satoru asked, crouching next to him.

Megumi blinked slowly. “M’fine.”

“You’re so not fine. You look like a ghost cosplaying a boy.”

“Shut it,” Megumi mumbled, voice scratchy. “You’re loud.”

Satoru pressed a hand to his forehead and nearly swore. “Jesus. You’re burning up.”

“It’s nothing.”

“What do you mean its nothing. See, this is why I told you to just come in?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not! I told you to come inside earlier—”

“The bird was stuck under the branch,” Megumi muttered, like that made everything okay.

“And now you’re stuck with a fever from hell. Hope the bird’s worth it. Did you name it?”

“Stupid.”

“Fitting.”

Megumi didn’t argue. He just buried his face into the pillow with a little groan that made Satoru’s heart do something very stupid and painful.

He panicked for approximately seven seconds before kicking into chaos-fueled caregiver mode.

Step one: carry Megumi to bed, which involved way too much awkward body heat and Satoru pretending not to notice how warm and light the kid felt against him.

Step two: text Shoko in all caps.
MEGUMI IS DYING FROM FEVER WHAT DO I DO
To which she replied:
Make soup, calm down, he’s 12, not a war victim.

Step three: google “how to treat a child who got fever saving a bird.”

Step four: raid every towel in the house, become an amateur nurse, and start whisper-arguing with the patient who refused to act sick.

“Should I call Aiko-san?” he muttered out loud, already reaching for his phone. “Or the driver? Do you need a hospital—?”

“Don’t bother Aiko-san,” Megumi croaked from under the blanket. “She cleaned the whole house today. Let her rest.”

Satoru blinked. “You are dying. That was considerate.”

“Shut up,” Megumi mumbled.

“I should take you to the ER. Where’s the thermometer—?”

“I said I’m okay, you mother hen!”

Satoru froze. “You did not just—!”

“Cluck cluck,” Megumi muttered into the pillow.

“You’re insufferable.”

“You’re fussy.”

“You’re melting.”

“And you’re—” Megumi broke into a coughing fit, cutting himself off.

Satoru shoved a glass of water into his hands. “Shut up and drink this or I swear to God I’ll....”

“What, choke me to death?”

Satoru narrowed his eyes. “No. Kiss you to death.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

The air between them changed....tightened, stretched.

Megumi blinked at him, flushed and dazed, lips parted slightly. “Oh yeah...? I’d like to see you try.”

Satoru blinked back. His brain completely blue-screened.

“…You delirious,” he managed, “or just brave?”

Megumi turned his face toward the wall, voice muffled. “Maybe both.”

Satoru sat back in the chair beside the bed, dragged his hands down his face, and muttered into his palms.

“I’m going to die. You’re going to kill me.”

He peeked through his fingers.

Megumi had fallen asleep already, hair messy across the pillow, skin still warm and flushed from fever. But his mouth curved just slightly at the corner.

The smirk was barely there.

But it was real.

And Satoru was doomed.

The next morning, Megumi was a little better. Still pale, still quiet, but his fever had gone down. He was tucked under three blankets, sipping weak tea, when Satoru dropped into the chair beside him and yawned.

“You didn’t sleep,” Megumi said.

“Not true,” Satoru replied. “I napped aggressively between panic spirals.”

Megumi looked at him.

Something soft flickered in his gaze.

“…Thanks.”

Satoru blinked. “For what?”

“For staying.”

Satoru stared for a second, then looked away.

“…I wasn’t gonna leave you alone while you burn yourself into the afterlife. I’m annoying, not heartless.”

Megumi smiled. Small. Brief. Real.

And Satoru felt it in his lungs.

Not dramatically. No fireworks. No life-altering speeches.

But there was a subtle shift in their rhythm, like some invisible weight had been quietly set down between them.

Megumi still rolled his eyes when Satoru annoyed him, but now? He let him ruffle his hair. Sometimes.
Satoru still stole Megumi’s snacks, but Megumi started packing extras. “In case you’re insufferable,” he claimed.

There were more silences, but not the cold kind. The kind that felt safe.

Domestic.

It was stupid. Soft. Dangerous.

Satoru would catch himself watching Megumi do the most ordinary things—make tea, fold laundry, fuss over a cat with a limp—and something in his chest would twist.

It wasn’t babysitting anymore.

It was starting to feel like something he wanted to keep. Protect. Carry in his arms and never let go.

And the scariest part?

He didn’t know why.

He wasn’t ready to say it out loud.

So instead, he did what he was good at.

He bitched to his friends.

Lunchtime. Café. Shoko and Geto across from him, judgment primed and loaded.

“He insulted my toast today,” Satoru muttered, poking at his matcha crepe like it personally offended him.

“He’s still recovering, you know,” he added. “I wanted to make something for him. Like, nice.”

“What did you make?” Shoko asked flatly.

Satoru winced. “...Toast. But like, heartfelt toast.”

“Ah,” she said. “So it looked like trash.”

“It was effort!” Satoru whined. “I didn’t even let the maid do it! I wanted him to taste something I made myself!”

Geto blinked. “You… trying? Wow. Historic.”

Satoru waved a hand, ignoring him. “Anyway, he took the knife out of my hand like I was holding a chainsaw. Then made the toast himself. Still half-sick, and acting like he’s the adult!”

Shoko sipped her coffee, unbothered. “From the sound of it… sounds like foreplay.”

Satoru choked. “Excuse me?!”

“I’m just saying,” she shrugged, “you sound like someone who gets weirdly excited when he scolds you.”

“I’m not into that.”

“You’re so into that,” Geto said, barely holding back a grin. “You probably jerk off to him giving you the disapproval look.”

“I don’t!” Satoru hissed, going scarlet.

“Wait,” Shoko leaned in. “He does the cooking now?”

Satoru squinted. “I mean… sometimes.”

“Interesting,” she said, nodding. “Because I thought you were the babysitter.”

“I am!”

Geto crossed his arms. “You sure? ‘Cause from what I’m hearing, he’s the one cooking, cleaning, regulating your sugar intake, and telling you to wear socks.”

Shoko smirked. “Sounds like an exhausted single parent.”

Satoru gasped, hand to his chest. “I’m the big brother!”

“No,” Geto said gently, like he was breaking news to a toddler. “You’re the baby and he’s your nanny.”

Satoru crossed his arms. “This is betrayal. I brought snacks.”

“And we love you for it,” Shoko said, reaching for a macaron. “But we’re still right.”

Satoru sulked. “You guys are the worst.”

“You say that,” Geto grinned, “but you’re the one who can’t go five minutes without telling us what Megumi did that made your heart do a little spin.”

“It does not spin.”

“Sure,” Shoko said, biting into the cracker. “And I’m not diagnosing you with a chronic case of Feelings™.”

Satoru groaned, burying his face in his arms.

It's not like that...is it?

The message came in at 8:03 a.m on a Saturday morning.

A LINE notification. No call. No context.

Just a photo of Satoru’s mother in a bikini—again—posing beachside in Marbella like she was filming the reboot of Real Housewives: Tokyo Edition. And behind her?

Toji.

Shirtless. Dripping. Wearing tiny swim trunks and a grin that screamed I beat your ass with these buns

Satoru, sweaty and gross from his treadmill run, stared at the image like it was cursed.

“Oh my god. These horny rabbits,” he muttered, wiping his forehead. “Business trip my ass…”

Another message. Then another. A boomerang of them clinking champagne glasses. One of Toji holding her waist with his tattooed arm like he owned the continent.

“Okay. Enough. I don’t need to see Toji’s abs before breakfast.”

He tossed his phone face-down and trudged toward the kitchen, still grumbling. He’d planned to jog outside, but something had stopped him—

Well, not something.

Someone.

The smell hit him first. Garlic. Tomatoes. Basil.

He peeked into the kitchen and there was Megumi, in his usual too-large black tee and soft pajama pants, standing over a pan of pasta like he was auditioning for a morning cooking show. The maid, Aiko-san, was setting the table without saying a word, clearly unbothered by the fact that it was 8 a.m. and spaghetti was happening.

Satoru forgot all about jogging.

He ate. 

Megumi didn’t comment. He just plated his food like this was a completely normal way to start the weekend.

Which was somehow worse.

After the sixth bikini photo and the fourth picture of Toji’s smug chest, Satoru had had enough. He just ate he doesn't want to barf.

He ditched his workout halfway, stomped through the halls, and headed for the first-floor guest bath. It was closer than his ensuite and, more importantly, didn’t have memories of Toji using it once and leaving his protein shake on the counter.

He peeled off his clothes, tossed them into the hamper like they personally offended him, and stepped into the bath, ready to drown in peace—

Only for something small and furry to bark.

“WHAT THE—!”

A tiny wet puppy sat in the tub.

Tail wagging. Eyes bright. Looking absolutely thrilled to be in the presence of a naked Gojo Satoru.

“Where the hell did you come from?” Satoru asked, startled but not entirely horrified. He picked the puppy up, and it yipped happily again, licking his shoulder. “Okay. No. Seriously. Where. Did. You. Come. From.”

The door opened behind him.

“Okay, puppy, I got you a—”

Megumi froze in the doorway.

Satoru was naked.

Very naked.

Holding a puppy like an accidental Calvin Klein ad for dog dads.

Megumi stood like a statue, towel in his hands, eyes desperately looking anywhere but forward.

“Oh, of course it’s you,” Satoru said lazily, unbothered. “You Disney princess, collecting strays and turning my home into a woodland daycare.”

“Why are you even naked here?” Megumi snapped, not daring to look up. His ears were pink. His whole neck was pink.

“I was gonna take a bath.”

“WITH THE DOG?!”

“I didn’t see the dog until it barked!” Satoru reasoned, entirely too calm for someone caught in a compromising position.

"You should have locked the door!" 

"You could have knocked!"

“Release the puppy,” Megumi ordered, clutching the towel like it might save his soul.

Satoru, amused, knelt and gently placed the puppy back into the tub.

Then he realized Megumi wasn't actually looking at him...oh? 

“Ehhh....Wait a second,” he said slowly, eyes narrowing at the younger boy. “You’re embarrassed.” He smirked.

“I’m not.”

“You are! Look at you. Blushing like a maiden. What are you, twelve-going-on-timid?”

Megumi kept his gaze locked to the side. “Ha! There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. There’s nothing to see.”

That shut Satoru up.

“…Excuse me?”

“I said there’s nothing to see. Calm down.”

“Oh hell no. What do you mean there’s nothing to see?! I have a sculpted, objectively perfect body! I have definition! I have abs!”

Megumi, still red in the face, huffed. “Dad’s bigger.”

Oh hell no again.

Satoru stood up straighter. “You did not just compare me to Toji, that discount Yakuza wannabe—”

“He is. Bigger. And nicer.” Megumi smirked. Smug. Knowing. Provoking.

And Satoru—

Something snapped.

“Oh yeah? You haven’t even looked properly yet!”

“Don’t need to.”

“Then look!”

“I’m not comparing abs with you in a bathroom while holding a towel for a puppy,” Megumi hissed.

Before Megumi could react, Satoru stepped forward—still gloriously naked, mind you—and caught Megumi’s chin gently in his hand, tilting his face upward.

Megumi stiffened.

Their eyes locked.

And the air—

Shifted.

Not just awkward. Not just flustered.

Charged.

Satoru’s voice dropped. Low. Dangerous. Teasing.

“Go on then. Look. Really look. Compare properly.”

Megumi’s lips parted and closed again. He didn’t look—but he didn’t pull away either. His cheeks were flushed, but his jaw was set, stubborn as ever.

“Still think there’s nothing to see?” A challenge...

Megumi didn’t respond. But slowly, reluctantly, curiously...... he looked from Satoru's handsome, smug face down to his well-defined torso and down to the lines of his navel and down there....Megumi blushed harder before averting his eyes.

"D-Dad's still bigger down there..." He said unwittingly, shakily, and that really struck a nerve to Satoru's ego. He looked down, and yeah, he wasn't that hard. Usually, it gets bigger when someone gives him a blow job or when he wakes up early in the morning. Well, this won't do because he has to make a point..And so, Satoru did something reckless and stupid even though his intellect is IQ genius...

He gently took Megumi’s warm hand—the one not holding the towel—and guided it forward, slow and steady.

“Go on,” he murmured, looking intently at the blushing boy. “Judge for yourself.”

Megumi’s eyes widened. He looked down again. His delicate fingers curled around warm skin and big muscle, and it's pulsing and getting bigger!

His breath hitched. “Sa- Satoru—”

For a second, the world narrowed. Bathroom tile. Puppy splashing behind them. Megumi’s flushed face and Satoru’s smug grin faltered just slightly.

Then—

“O-Out,” Megumi muttered shakily, voice a whisper.

Satoru blinked. “Huh?”

“I said GET OUT before I throw the puppy at your face.”

Megumi yanked his hand back like it had been burned. “Get out!”

He turned on his heel and stormed out, red all over the face, towel flying like a cape behind him.

Satoru stood there, completely naked, completely clueless...at first. Because- Isn't it normal for men to compare sizes?

Then he looked down, and his face flushed red as the realization hit.

“…Did I just...”

The puppy barked once more and sneezed.

“Yeah,” Satoru muttered to himself. “Oh my god. I just did.” 

And the worst of it was that he had gotten sooo hard when he made Megumi touch him--and that is not normal for Satoru...