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It’s a hellishly hot summer day. The air is thick and humid and heavy in the most uncomfortable way.
Satoru spreads his limbs out, relishing in the feel of the cold air that a plug-in fan blows across the bare skin of his legs and arms. He cracks one eye open and glances to his right. Tsumiki and Megumi sit next to a portable fan of their own. Tsumiki clips back Megumi’s hair, pinning the boy’s unruly bangs away from his forehead. Megumi’s hair is getting long, Satoru notes. He’ll need a haircut soon before he tries doing something stupid like cutting it himself.
He glances around the vacant room. Most of the kids’ meagre belongings have been packed up and moved already. The kitchen is bare, drawers emptied of mismatched cutlery and dishes. The furniture of the living area, where the three of them lounge around now, has been packed up too, the floors wiped clean to a subtle shine.
All that remains in the small apartment now are two plug-in fans, three sets of house slippers, and a few miscellaneous things the kids still need before leaving. This includes Tsumiki’s clear zip-up bag of hair accessories that she insisted could not be trusted in the care of the movers.
Satoru closes his eyes again, extending his legs out further and flexing his toes to stretch out his muscles.
“Just you two wait,” Satoru promises. “The air conditioning in your new place is so good, you’ll need a kotatsu in August even! No more sweating to death in the summer heat.”
A new, bigger place with sturdy rooms and walls. A security system and consistent water pressure, a balcony and a proper bathroom. Everything two orphaned kids could need.
“It’s fun, sometimes,” Tsumiki says. “We get to eat ice cream and frozen watermelon and sit in front of the fan until your skin feels all funny.”
“Being sweaty and hot isn’t fun,” Megumi huffs. “You’re just weird.”
“You’re weird,” Tsumiki huffs back. Satoru smiles softly, the sound of the two siblings bickering back and forth melting into white noise as he floats off into a half-asleep state.
When Satoru drifts back into consciousness, it’s hard to tell exactly how much time has passed. He blinks, opening his eyes with a sleepy sigh escaping his mouth. The room is still humid and bright so it’s still early afternoon, he guesses. Someone is missing though, he notices.
“Where’d Tsumiki go?” Satoru tilts his head backwards, in Megumi’s direction, his sunglasses sliding up his nose. The boy sits crossed-legged, back against the wall near the window with a book that’s about three-quarters through in his hands. His bangs are still pinned back, although a couple of strands have popped loose against his forehead.
“She went to go play with that girl from the sixth floor. She wanted to say goodbye or something.”
“It’s kinda hot out to play,” Satoru says. Megumi shrugs in response and goes back to his book. Satoru regards him for a moment, taking in the upside-down image of the younger boy. He sets his glasses aside and crawls over to Megumi.
“Come here.”
Megumi sticks a foot out to stop him, already guessing what Satoru’s about to do. Megumi has always been quick to catch on. “Quit it, you just said it’s hot.”
“Outside. It’s fine in here,” Satoru insists, worming his way closer until his head is on Megumi’s lap. “Ah, that’s better. The floor was getting so uncomfy.”
“Get off of me.” Megumi tries swatting at Satoru’s face with his book, which is so rude, that’s a hardcover Megumi!
Satoru grins and lifts his head. He pretends to back away and then snatches Megumi up in one fluid move. Megumi falls against Satoru’s side, trapped by his arm. He tries wriggling away, squirming and kicking.
“Let go, weirdo.” Megumi tries pushing at Satoru with no luck. Sighing— a big, full-body sigh — Megumi gives up and goes lax, letting Satoru have his way.
“What should we eat, hmm?” he asks, resting his cheek on top of Megumi’s head, Megumi’s spiky locks tickling his skin.
“M’not hungry.”
Satoru clicks his tongue. “You haven’t eaten anything since breakfast. How’re you not hungry, huh? Come on. Let’s eat something super yummy since Tsumiki went to go have fun without us.”
“Don’t want to.”
“What can we have?” Satoru hums. “Sōmen? Curry?”
Megumi doesn't reply, which is expected. He has never been one to make decisions about lunch before but will definitely be a brat and refuse to eat if Satoru picks something he doesn’t like.
“Hey,” Satoru says after a few beats of silence. “Aren’t you going to miss this place?”
“Why would I? It’s just a place.”
“So unsentimental,” Satoru tuts. He sits up, pulling Megumi up with him. “Come on, I’m hungry. What do you wanna eat? Last chance.”
“Nothing. I’m not hungry,” Megumi insists, but trails after Satoru anyway as he heads for the entrance.
“Let’s get ice cream. Three scoops and extra toppings.”
“You can’t eat ice cream for lunch.”
“Sure I can!”
“You’ll get sick.”
“I’ve never gotten sick from ice cream.”
“I hope you get sick and can never eat ice cream ever again.”
“So mean, Megumi!”
Satoru is used to being stared at, being watched. A consequence of being so heartstoppingly handsome. He has grown used to it, after twenty or so years.
Megumi is not used to it.
He doesn’t express it outwardly but Satoru can feel the tension in his small body. He’s sure Mei Mei can tell too — she’s quite perceptive of these things — but her staring does not cease.
Megumi doesn’t tell her to stop so Satoru doesn’t say anything either. He does gently pat Megumi’s knee, hugging the boy a bit closer as he rests his chin on Megumi’s head.
“I thought you said he was a baby,” Mei Mei finally breaks the near-uncomfortable silence, turning to look at Shoko who sits next to her right.
“He is,” Satoru gasps.
“I said he was a kid,” Shoko sighs.
“Kid. Baby. What’s the difference?” Mei Mei blinks. “How old are you, huh?” she asks Megumi, leaning in closer, her sharp elbows planting themselves on the tabletop. “Three, four?”
“Oh, dear god,” Shoko mutters, lifting her drink to take a sip. Shoko and her iced Americanos, Satoru will never understand how her taste buds can be so bleak. Must be the cigarettes and alcohol.
“He’s seven,” Satoru answers Mei Mei when Megumi does not.
Mei Mei hums, narrowing her eyes and lifting a sharp manicured finger to her chin. “Can he speak?”
“Yes, he can speak.” Satoru rolls his eyes.
“Well, he’s not doing it.” Mei Mei scowls.
“Because he doesn’t like you!” Satoru scowls back, pulling Megumi away from Mei Mei’s view.
Mei Mei’s face screws up even further, plum-coloured lips twisting downwards. Satoru can tell she’s about to say something truly nasty — although to him or to Megumi, he’s unsure.
Shoko — unwillingly taking upon the burden of Responsible Adult for the day— cuts in before Mei Mei can speak.
“Hey, come on. You’re the one who wanted to practice interacting with kids. That means acting mature, for once.”
“Oh, like Gojo’s ever been mature a day in his life,” Mei Mei mutters, although she looks appropriately chastised, staring off to the side and taking a delicate sip from her cup, pinky extending outward like she’s one of those rich lady characters in Tsumiki’s mangas.
“What do you even need ‘practice’ for, huh?” Satoru asks. “No way! Mei Mei-san, are you pregnant?” he gasps with glee.
“Ew! As if!” Mei Mei takes a large gulp of her cold cappuccino as if trying to chase her disgust away with the taste of coffee. “Mother is insisting I spend more time with baby Ui Ui. Sibling bonding, or whatever. But all the little thing does is cry and scream all day long. It’s exhausting.”
Mei Mei purses her lips and leans back in her seat. She stares ardently at Megumi through mascara-thickened lashes. Megumi continues to pretend she isn't there, sipping his lemonade. The ice cubes clack together as Megumi shifts to the side. The September air has started to cool but everyone still seems to be hanging on to the last drops of summer. Iced Americano for Shoko; iced cappuccino for Mei Mei; lemonade for Megumi; and bubble tea for him (100% sugar, more ice, and extra pearls).
“Yours is so quiet though,” she muses. “Do you have to train it not to cry?”
“He’s a kid, not a dog,” Shoko sighs, again, staring up at the cafe ceiling. She looks like she very much regrets setting this meeting up, as she should.
“Can we leave yet?” Megumi utters his first words since Mei Mei’s arrival, turning his head upwards to scowl at Satoru.
Mei Mei does not seem put off by Megumi’s abrasive personality, instead looking rather fascinated to hear him speak.
“Soon,” Satoru promises, setting the empty lemonade cup on the table for him. Megumi sighs, sinking into the crook of Satoru’s arm as he sulks.
“Where’s the girl one?” Mei Mei inquires, resting her face gently in the palm of her hands and she continues to watch Megumi with lazy interest.
“Overnight field trip.”
“I would like to see them both together, next time,” Mei Mei decides.
“No way, Megumi doesn’t like you.”
“I need a cigarette,” Shoko murmurs, popping the lid of her drink and downing the remaining coffee.
“Can we leave?”
“Lemme finish my bubble tea.”
“Hurry it up.”
“He’s quite impolite,” Mei Mei observes.
“This is nothing,” Satoru assures her. “He hasn’t even started the death glares.”
Megumi narrows his cloudy-green eyes for half a second before relaxing them, likely not wanting to prove Satoru’s remark about the glaring.
“Hurry up,” Megumi orders once again, shutting his eyes and leaning his head against Satoru’s collarbone in an effort to shut out the world around him.
Mei Mei continues to lament about her one-year-old brother’s lack of conversation skills and Shoko complains about the clumsy new first-years she’s forced to heal. Megumi falls asleep, head lolling against Satoru’s shoulder, and they don’t end up leaving until all the ice in his lemonade has long melted.
“Guts!” Tsumiki’s cheer is followed by the wet, squishy plop of the aforementioned guts being dropped into a large wooden bowl.
The innards of a pumpkin do not really resemble human guts in any way, for they are much too fibrous and orange and fill the air with a pleasant autumnal fragrance, but who is Satoru to rain on Tsumiki’s parade?
The young girl seems to be having a blast, not hesitating in the slightest to stick her bare hands into a pumpkin about three times the size of her head to scoop the insides out.
Unlike Megumi who sits on top of the counter with a gloomy frown on his face.
“Feels gross,” Megumi laments, shooting the small handful of pumpkin guts he scooped out a disgusted look.
“That’s the fun part!” Tsumiki insists, plopping her next handful of pumpkin innards with enough force that some of it splashes onto her apron, the orangey-brown starkly contrasting with the baby blue fabric.
Megumi wrinkles his nose and presents Satoru with his sticky little pumpkin-cover hands. Satoru sighs as he grabs a damp dish towel and begins to clean the pumpkin guts off of Megumi’s hands.
Children, honestly.
“Megumi,” Satoru chides, rubbing the cloth over Megumi’s knuckles, “don’t you want to carve your own pumpkin? You gotta clean the inside out first.”
“No,” Megumi says flatly because why would Megumi ever want to do anything fun or remotely childish?
“What do you want to do then?” Satoru probes. Children are such self-centred creatures, Satoru has learned. They just expect you to know what they want or how they feel and are terrible at using their words— perhaps because they know so very few of them.
Case in point— Megumi’s succinct response of “Sleep.”
Tsumiki takes a pause from her enthusiastic pumpkin gutting, her big sister senses tingling, undoubtedly,
“Do you feel sick?” Tsumiki asks with a slight frown, her big brown eyes cataloguing Megumi’s small frame with a kind of care and worry children shouldn’t need to possess.
Typically, asking Megumi any sort of question regarding his state of being only results in a sharp glare and a snappish non-answer.
This is why it’s surprising, worrisome even, when Megumi says, “My bones hurt,” his mouth forms a small, sad pout.
“Such an old man.” Satoru pokes Megumi’s forehead, grinning at the sharp glare Megumi sends his way. Satoru bends down assessing Megumi more closely. “Does it hurt a lot? Wanna go take a nap?”
Megumi shrugs, but that’s as much of an answer as Satoru’s going to get. He finishes wiping down Megumi’s hands until they are free of any pumpkin gut remains and scoops him up.
He wonders, as he takes Megumi over to the sofa, if he should be leaving Tsumiki alone with a knife and slippery hands.
Halfway there, his phone starts ringing.
Satoru pauses, trying to recall where he left it. His arms full of a grumpy, sleepy kid. Another kid is alone in the kitchen with sharp knives and a bowl full of pumpkin innards. The sofa is still about ten steps away.
He opens his phone, slotting it between his ear and shoulder, tilting his head to keep it in place.
He doesn’t even get the chance to say hello before Shoko starts speaking.
“What the fuck is this."
There’s a loud clatter from the kitchen. Satoru resists the urge to groan, u-turning back to the kitchen.
“Gonna need a bit more context, Shoko.”
The kitchen is fine and Tsumiki still has all her fingers. She stands by the sink, gathering the dirty dishes, pausing to send a questioning look at Satoru. He waves her off, leaning against the counter, readjusting his hold on Megumi.
“Your stupid ass record from yesterday’s mission.”
“Oh, that,” Satoru hums thinking back to the curse he exorcised yesterday in the old nursing home full of dismembered geriatrics. Recalling the dried, browning, stringy entrails that smeared the cream-coloured walls of the clinic, Satoru thinks maybe Tsumiki wasn’t actually too far-off with her pumpkin gut assessment. “What about it?”
“I can’t read it, dumbass.”
“How does your illiteracy make me the dumbass?” He shoots Tsumiki an apologetic smile when she frowns disapprovingly at his language. As if worse hasn’t come out of Megumi’s mouth already.
Oh, right. Megumi. Satoru peaks down at the boy in his arms, careful to keep his phone from sliding off his shoulder. Megumi, despite his even breathing and overall stillness, is not asleep. The boy blinks tiredly at Satoru, pouting at the fact he has not been deposited somewhere to nap yet, that spoiled brat.
“I can’t read it,” Shoko seethes, “because of the stupid drawings you have all over the page and the giant ass coffee stain on the second page.”
“It’s hot chocolate.” Satoru rolls his eyes exaggeratedly and gives Megumi a look like can you believe this? Megumi frowns, kicking his leg against Satoru’s hip. Satoru mouths ‘What?’ at him, only half listening to Shoko’s incensed rant about how she can’t do her report on the dismembered bodies without his report about the onsite situation. Megumi's pout deepens and Satoru recalls what he said about his bones hurting.
“Okay, okay,” he cuts Shoko off, heading back to the living room. “I’ll type it up for you next time, promise.”
“Typed up by tonight or I swear to—”
“Got it! Yeesh, you’re ruining Megumi’s nap time.” Shoko falls silent, the staticky quietness of their call filling Satoru’s right ear. Satoru takes a moment to blow air at Megumi’s face, causing his face to scrunch up, dark lashes fluttering as his eye twitches. The pout melts into a scowl and Satoru shoots him a teasing grin.
“You’re with the kiddos,” Shoko says finally, sounding considerably less enraged.
“Yeah. Carving pumpkins. Gonna have some yakiimo.”
Shoko sighs. “Tomorrow morning. Typed up. And use the damn precedents.” And then she hangs up.
Satoru blinks, pocketing his phone. He lifts Megumi up a bit, so he’s at eye level.
“Wanna type up a report for me?”
Megumi scowls, unimpressed.
“Fine, fine. Let’s get you to bed, grumpy.”
“I wanna eat first.”
“I thought you wanted a nap.”
“I’m hungry now.”
“Fine. But you can peel your own sweet potatoes.”
“I was going to. ”
“And peel mine too.”
“No.”
“Megumi,” Satoru whines. But Megumi is unrelenting, a stubborn little sea urchin that kid. Tsumiki ends up peeling it for him, that darling little girl. The sweet smell of the yakiimo mingles with the blooming autumn scent of the half-carved pumpkins on the countertop.
They eat and then Tsumiki and he get back to carving the pumpkins. Megumi naps in the living room, kicking off the blanket Tsumiki carefully lay over within minutes of falling asleep. Tsumiki carves a face and a cat and Satoru carves an artistic rendition of the curse he exorcised yesterday. Tsumiki says it looks like Mankey and then politely rebuffs Satoru’s latest attempt in getting her to watch Digimon. They set their carved pumpkins on the window sill.
Megumi wakes up and then soon it’s dinner time and then bath time and then finally bedtime— children seem to have a lot of ‘times’, their little brains love labels and names for things.
“Go write your dumb report,” Megumi scolds, sleepily attempting to push Satoru away as he clambers into Megumi’s bed.
“It’s so late though and I’m so sleepy,” Satoru laments, shuffling closer to Megumi. “I’ll do it in the morning. Make sure you wake me up in time.”
“Wake up on time yourself, dummy,” Megumi grumbles.
Satoru hums; the smell of clean linen and clementine soap, the gentle rhythm of Megumi’s heartbeat, lull Satoru into a sleepy, syrupy haze. His eyes close, his breathing slows down, and a peaceful slumber falls over them both.