Chapter Text
The next morning starts before the sky lightens.
Megumi doesn't get his usual fifteen minutes. He walks in and gets handed gloves and a stack of trays so heavy he nearly drops them. No greeting. No explanation. Just the heavy, choking air of a kitchen that’s already pissed off.
"Don't fall behind today," the sous chef snaps, not looking at him.
Megumi doesn’t ask why. He knows. Everyone knows.
Sukuna walked through the kitchen like he owned it — because he did. And now, someone’s got to pay for the mess. Someone has to answer for how the line looked, the clutter on the pass, and the scuff on the baseboard Sukuna’s shoe might have touched.
And Megumi is just forgettable enough that he gets the blame. It didn’t matter that Megumi wasn’t in charge of ensuring the kitchen was clean. He was only there for the dishes and minimum wage.
All it takes is one comment from Sukuna and everybody starts acting like it was the word of God.
By the time the dinner rush dies, his wrists throb, arms splattered with burns from the steamer and cleaner alike. He smells like bleach and lemon cleaner. His break never came.
When the last dish clatters down, the room goes weirdly quiet. Heavy.
He feels it before he sees it.
Not again, he thinks.
But it is.
Sukuna walks in like he was always meant to — sleeves rolled, smirk dialed down to just this side of infuriating.
Megumi doesn't look at him. Not at first. Just clenches the sponge tighter, and keeps scrubbing at a spot that’s already clean.
“You missed a spot,” Sukuna says, low and dry.
Megumi doesn’t even blink. “And you missed the exit.”
Sukuna’s laugh isn’t kind. But it’s not cruel either. Just surprised.
“I remember you,” Sukuna says, inching closer. “Sketchbook boy.”
Megumi finally looks. Regrets it immediately. Sukuna’s closer than he thought. Tall. Unapologetic. That same unreadable gaze pinned to him like a challenge.
Megumi stiffens. “If you’re here to complain again, talk to the manager. I’m busy.”
“You are,” Sukuna murmurs, eyes dragging slowly over Megumi’s posture, the mess, the soaked gloves. “But I like watching people who work too hard.”
Megumi snorts. “You mean people who work at all.”
Sukuna tilts his head, amused. “Sharp mouth. Matches your eyes.”
Megumi looks away, throat tight. The sink hisses as he turns the water back on, steam rising like a shield between them.
He hears Sukuna take a step back. But not far.
“You’re interesting,” Sukuna says, voice soft now. Too soft. “Most people praise me when I give them the time of day. You seem like you’d rather punch me.”
“You think too highly of yourself,” Megumi mutters.
“Maybe. Or maybe I just see things.” Sukuna’s voice lingers. “You see things too, don’t you?”
Megumi doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t look up.
But he hears the footsteps leave. The silence left behind. The echo in his chest was like something had cracked open.
Megumi glares down at the pot and chucks it down into the sink. It clangs loudly with a few looks thrown at him. Curious eyes question Megumi’s every move. He sneers at the closest person and the looks stop.
By the time Megumi’s shift ends, his whole body is aching and his hands feel clammy. Megumi quickly moves to pick up his bag from the locker but a body leans onto the one next to it. Megumi turns to face the person and stops in shock.
It’s Sukuna again.
His red eyes are boring into Megumi’s. Just watching. Seeing. Megumi yanks his bag out and slams the locker shut before spinning on his heel towards the alley door.
A noise of shock comes from behind as footsteps follow. Megumi ignores them as he walks the familiar path towards the bus stop. After what seems like forever, Megumi spots the bus stop and promptly stops. Sukuna, who was walking behind him, almost crashes into Megumi’s back.
Megumi spins around sharply.
“Do you need something?” He asks, his voice tight with frustration.
Sukuna doesn’t immediately answer. He stands there for a moment, studying Megumi as if considering the question.
Then, with an exaggerated shrug, he speaks, his voice softer, almost too casual. “Just making sure you’re still breathing.”
Megumi feels a flicker of something — annoyance, anger, maybe both. He shakes his head, turning back toward the bus stop. “I don’t need you to check up on me.”
Sukuna’s footsteps fall in line behind him, but he doesn’t press. Not immediately. It’s only when Megumi reaches the stop that Sukuna speaks again, the words deliberate, almost like a challenge. “You know, it’s rare for someone to ignore me.”
Megumi doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t let himself. He knows Sukuna’s watching him, his presence too damn loud for the quiet road. “Lucky me,” Megumi mutters under his breath.
The sound of Sukuna’s footsteps stops behind him, leaving a quiet tension hanging in the air. For a long moment, Megumi wonders if he’ll just leave, or if he’ll try again. He doesn’t know what’s worse.
Finally, a sigh. “Don’t get too comfortable.” Sukuna’s voice drifts back to him like smoke. “You’ll see me again.”
Megumi’s jaw tightens as the bus approaches, the doors opening with a whoosh. He steps inside without a second glance, the hiss of the doors closing behind him offering no relief. He can feel Sukuna’s words lingering in the air, heavy like they’re pulling him back to the road in ways he can’t escape.
As the bus rumbles away, Megumi leans back in his seat, closing his eyes, and trying to push the vision of those red eyes out of his head.
It’s not easy and Megumi doesn't succeed.
As Megumi crawls into bed later in the night, the thought lingers: What does Sukuna see in him?