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“There’s a weird man by the door.”
Yoshida looked down on the little girl who insulted him. It was a blunt comment, meant for the ears of the person inside, but it was said in front of his face like he couldn’t hear it.
She had her hair tied into a braid, surrounded by a group of large dogs. They were crowding the small apartment, one wanting to go in and one wanting to go out.
None of them moved from where they were.
Did he arrive at the wrong time? But what Kishibe told him appeared to be true. The control devil was being housed in an area that could be considered both volatile and stable.
She hasn’t suffered from neglect or overindulgence—at least from what Yoshida could see through his first impression with the stoic little girl, but he needed to spend more time with the subject to truly come to a conclusion.
Yoshida crouched, lowering himself to her level to make proper eye contact. “I didn’t know Denji had such a cute roommate, what’s your name?”
The girl’s face was blank. He let a smile curl his lips, imitating the expression of someone children could trust.
Yoshida didn’t let her lack of reply bother him, continuing with his attempt, “are you walking your dogs for your big brother?”
Still nothing.
The little girl continued to stare at him with those eyes, almost unsettling.
Despite how similar she was to her late predecessor, the girl has yet to grow into the threat that it stood for.
She was only a little girl, not yet the woman Makima was feared to be when she was still active.
Yoshida continued from where he left off, “dogs are quite rowdy, aren't they? I’m impressed by how responsible you are for teaching them to heel.” He complimented her, in an attempt to encourage a reply.
“I have always been fond of training dogs myself. Maybe we can trade tips on how best to keep them on a leash?”
The little girl was not receptive to his attempts at conversation. She had made no move to say goodbye, standing still like a stubborn roadblock.
If she had no intentions to say hello, nor does she have intentions to make conversation, what does she want from him?
Despite being mellowed down by her upbringing, an average life with her supposed big brother, there was a hint of a predator, a sprout that has yet to grow into its full potential.
It was an interesting observation between a case of nature vs nurture.
Would she learn the morals of what society deems correct, see beyond disposable tools and stringless puppets, or would she acknowledge them in the future but fail to abide by them?
There was a subtle scrunch of her brow, a flare of a nostril. The silence stretched, only the sounds of dogs panting and an almost impatient scuffle from her pets.
Yoshida could read the disgust on her face.
She was only a child—an intelligent one, with a spark in her eyes and the quiet observation she was reading him with—a deceptively cute face, her short height that made her peer up at him, and she has yet to say anything that could hint to her thoughts.
It was still there, though. She failed to completely conceal her intentions.
“You’re the one who gives big brother his drugs.” It was not a question. It was a statement.
Yoshida kept a smile on his face.
The little girl was straight to the point. Ignorant to societal niceties, an attempt at small talk, piercing through the meat of the conversation without letting him know her name.
It could be taken for a child’s bluntness, seeing things as they are and laying it out as they are seen to be.
The little girl was correct, he was the one who gave Denji his drugs.
It was an easy decision, a vice many would fall back to when days were tough, to ignore the stubborn emotions that would rattle the chest and refuse to go away.
Getting Denji to indulge in it took a little convincing, but once he was hooked? It was difficult for him to let go of such an experience.
Yoshida was responsible for passing it on to Denji. He never gave him a dangerous amount, only enough for him to lean back into the experience, but he knew how Denji looked forward to his visits whenever he dropped them off.
Denji has yet to completely yield to the substance, but that was not Yoshida’s goal. It was only a factor in one of many.
After all, he would not be able to raise a child if he were to indulge in the drug for far too often. It had to be controlled in particular dosages, and Yoshida did not seek to endanger him just yet.
“Is your big brother home?” Yoshida ignored her question.
The little girl tilted her head to the side, assessing. “Big brother told me to ignore weirdos.”
"You stink like a dead octopus. Leave.”
Her last statement was said like a demand. The little girl was still immature, her hackles starting to rise with the threat she already labeled him with.
She could already sense devils? It was a bit of a surprise, but it was to be expected.
“Your big brother never mentioned me?” Yoshida could feel the pressure of her stare. It was pressing against his skull, like a weight at the risk of toppling over. He ignored it, pushing forward. “He talks about you all the time, I’m happy I’m able to meet you for myself!” Yoshida lied.
The little girl didn’t fall for it. "He mentions a lot of people. Some of them are gone, some of them are still here.”
The little girl didn’t answer his question. Rather, she minimized his presence in Denji’s life. “So cute." Yoshida found her far from it. "Are you always willing to lend an ear for your big brother to confide in?”
The little girl was not flattered by his attempt at a conversation.
“And why do you supply big brother with drugs when he doesn’t need it?” The little girl ignored his question, giving Yoshida one of her own instead. “Why is that? Weirdo.” She continued her line of questioning, insulting how he acted.
Yoshida could sense the little girl was tensing the fist on her side. He could defend himself, but it was still a worry.
“How do you know what’s good for your big brother?” Yoshida was walking on a tightrope, one wrong move that could lead to a fall out he would rather avoid. “I’m not a weirdo, I’m your big brother’s friend.”
The little girl walked closer, almost near enough for contact. It did not negate the possibility of an attack. “Friends don’t give each other drugs.” The little girl disagreed, saying things slowly as if it would get it through his head.
“You’re too young to understand that."
"Big brother says I'm smart for my age." The little girl exclaimed proudly, for once showing an emotion unlike the disgust she gave to him.
It was a subtle thing, but it clearly meant a lot to her. It was in the way she straightened her shoulders, tilted her chin in an arrogant manner only children could make cute, a slight upturn of her small lips.
"Sure, but only for your age. You have yet to grow into anything. Our relationship isn’t like the ones you have with your own classmates.” Yoshida talked down on her, as if there was still knowledge the little girl has yet to grasp.
“I don’t need to give my classmates drugs to force them to like me.” The little girl pointed out, bringing attention to how artificial his relationship was with Denji.
Yoshida ignored the irritated twinge in his chest.
“Drugs aren’t as bad as drinking alcohol or smoking cigarettes. It’s just a simple recreational activity your big brother enjoys doing with me.”
“Big brother said lying is bad.” The little girl refused to believe what he was saying. “You’re lying. Drugs are addictive… and it smells super bad.”
“Am I lying?” Yoshida narrowed his eyes. “Really now?”
The smell coming off their room was unmistakable to him. Denji must have been smoking in the presence of a kid, and she must have wanted to leave because of it. Yoshida was unlucky enough to interrupt her exit.
“You are bad for big brother.” The little girl raised her finger, pointing at him.
“And you," Yoshida was familiar with that set of movements. He stood up, "are a little brat."
He was ready to call forth his own devil. "Consider this as an opportunity to learn something new.”
She did not supply his condescending statement with a reply.
A chain erupted from her finger, sharp and quick enough to pierce through the skin of its target, heading straight towards Yoshida’s head.
“Nayuta?”
Suddenly—the chain stopped.
“Is that Yoshida by the door?”
—
Yoshida watched Denji through half-lidded eyes.
Denji stretched, lounging like a lazy cat under the sun.
He was splayed out on a pillow, head on the floor and legs swaying on the edge of the table, upside down.
Denji was simply not there.
He was tonelessly listening to the advertisements that played on the small screen of the television.
He lost a sock somewhere, wiggling his toes and looking through the small spaces in between as he occasionally banged it on the surface.
His gaze was attentive yet not completely present, in his own little bubble, taking in the pictures that flew past as they were, most likely letting the information slip through his fingers.
Denji absent mindedly picked up the remote control, clicking the buttons as channels kept changing into something new.
“Yes, a new virus in Madagascar, say could be in Chicago—”
“Well, well, what have we here? A new seasonal meal in stores near—”
“I know you aren’t listening, let’s talk later when we have the—”
Yoshida held a cigarette between his fingers, bringing it to his lips. He breathed in slowly, lazy. He let the smoke enter his lungs, enjoying the crisp sensation it left in the back of his throat, watching Denji destroy his brain with nonsensical images.
Denji had his attention elsewhere, touchy with his hands as it fell onto the floor. He was rocking to the beat of some song Yoshida was not privy to, bobbing his head to lyrics only he was aware of.
He does not appear to be paying attention to anything. He was slow, uncoordinated, completely zoned-out.
Yoshida took his time.
The room was lived in, not as sparse as his place.
A couple of children’s books, sketches of a happy family—a pair of a girl and her big brother smiling, eating what appeared to be a burger and some fries—drawn with crayons, a lunch box that was set to dry by the sink.
There were pictures of them together, lively, as they walked hand in hand by the park, feeding a group of ducks under the shade of a tree. A couple of awards were framed on the wall, class pictures with a little girl and her teachers, medals that were displayed, out of pride no doubt.
Nayuta was a pain in the ass.
Yoshida off handedly wondered how the little girl dealt with it. He could tell that her nose was more acute than the average human, so smelling the stench on her big brother must be frustrating for her—especially when it was the precious brother she loved who prevented her from getting rid of the parasite who got him there in the first place.
Yoshida exhaled slowly, letting go of the burn, enjoying the slow release of smoke. He watched the smoke escape from his lips, turning into thin nothingness as the fumes blended with the room’s air.
Time was passing by like sand falling from a dial. The windows were shut, trapping in the smoke that the both of them have been exchanging for what felt like ages. The smog was thick, a stench that could be unmistakably be found from the drugs Yoshida supplied them with.
Yoshida was never a fan of the way the scent stuck to his clothes, to his hair if he stayed long enough, when a few minutes stretched to hours exposed to a smoke enclosed space.
Denji was unlike him. He reveled in the smoke, allowing his thoughts to dissipate with the fumes, drowning in the strong stench that would be difficult to clean after everything was over.
Perhaps this was what Denji considered as a break.
Maybe he enjoyed the way it slowed down time, numbs the limbs and eases the muscles, stimulates the tactile in ways being sober cannot. Yoshida gave him an opportunity to withdraw within a bubble of his own making.
It was an odd thing to consider.
Denji has fought and kept getting back up, for a chance to choose for himself, the opportunity to live another day with people who wish to build a home for themselves—with him under their roof, yet to find out it was all an intricate plot to forward someone else’s motives?
To have it all, then to have it ripped away from you. All done within a single command. It was ironic, funny, and almost laughable.
Most would kill others for less.
Makima was gone from this earth—yet she remained in the presence of a child. Her very appearance reminded him of the control devil, each little detail that could be perceived as the same.
Yet this was his first time seeing Nayuta. A meager interaction of nothing more than a few minutes could not compare to the time Denji spent on her. It was him who adopted her and called her his own little sister, who agreed to let her in on his own home.
It could be a lingering sense of loneliness.
A wish to redo the wrongs a monster left on him. An opportunity to try again, but better the mistakes that have been committed in the past.
Who was Denji to attempt such a feat? The boy who has never been given a family, born from an environment of neglect and disgust, who has known what could have been love but only for a short moment.
Too short of a moment for it to actually be realized.
Yoshida was not one to pry, but to remind oneself of the reason why everything was taken from him, a child it may be, was an unacceptable scene he will never see himself acting out in.
Denji was a fool. A gullible one, one who will never learn from his mistakes.
Yoshida looked down on him for his way of going about life, sentimental yet all too willing to fall back onto drugs, eager to move on yet weak enough to smoke through his vices.
What if Denji was stronger? What if he refused the allure Yoshida had promised him? It was difficult to consider what would happen then.
Yoshida’s attention shifted back to Denji.
The subject of his attention was still in place, yet he was almost twitching from his spot, like a newborn babe trying to get up. It was funny. Almost like a worm. He was looking right through him, eyes on his face, perhaps a little lower.
They were focused on his lips, on the way it wrapped around his own cancer stick, smoke coming out in small puffs of air.
Yoshida slowly tapped his cigarette on the provided ashtray, watching his dazed attention fall back on what he was holding.
In a way, Yoshida enjoyed it when Denji was as harmless as a worm. Loose and easy to do whatever he wanted with, pliant and slow to react.
The chainsaw devil was an enemy many were wary of—idolized by the masses, a hero to venerate for their strength to vanquish what has ailed humanity for ages. On the other hand, they were feared for their cockroach-like ability to keep coming back for vengeance.
An enemy that could never die. A nightmare to some, an opportunity for more.
Denji did not have a shirt on, having taken it off due to complaints from the heat. The cord on his chest drew his attention, unable to look away. One pull and Yoshida could be dead. The power this fool held? It was wasted on him.
Denji was the perfect archetype of a tragic hero, an idealistic dreamer with a wish for a humble tomorrow that may never arrive. A simple life, a small dream many had, but would take for granted. That would never be possible for a boy like Denji. He was in too deep now.
Yoshida leaned closer to Denji, meeting his eyes as he looked down on him. He cradled his cheeks with his thumb, gentle as he caressed his face. The cigarette was loose on his lips, almost hanging between his teeth.
Denji moaned, a soft, almost delirious response, leaning closer into his grip.
Despite the distraction, Denji was still flipping through channels, the background noise almost tempting enough to make him stop.
Yoshida ignored it, the simmering buzz at the back of his mind still pleasant. The nicotine in his system was still pushing strong, a humming sensation he indulged in.
There was an abandoned blunt on the table—which must have been Denji’s, but he already took a drag and was incapable of going any further—a dim light hinting to the way it was recently used.
Denji was getting there, eyes a little far and distracted by his own bubble, but he was not as far as Yoshida wanted him to be.
Yoshida wanted to see him cry. Bring tears into the eyes of someone capable of ripping through his guts, with a simple pull of his cord and a manic intensity that was impossible to hold back.
Yoshida’s chest would be struck through, organs spilling out into open air, ravenous, fatal, tempting him to fall back on the brutal force that could permanently prevent him from taking another breath again.
Yoshida could imagine the blood that would erupt from his stomach, a clean cut through his neck, a casual dislodgement of his limbs.
Chainsaw man would kill him within the span of a second, then move on to the next one without a second thought.
It was a herculean task not to tempt fate.
To see what would meet him when he crossed a distance many waded in—how they would go through the risk of killing him and return in pieces, never to be seen as the same again.
Yoshida grabbed the remote from Denji’s pliant hand. The boy didn’t notice the way he took it from his grip, with an ease the normal Denji would be offended by.
Yoshida turned off the television, tired of the indecisive way Denji could not stick to a single channel. Yoshida kept it in his pocket, confiscating it from the other boy.
There was a confused pause, a cute tilt from Denji's chin. "Huh? Wha' was that for?"
He stared at the lack of weight on his hands, then slowly blinked up at Yoshida, as if he were the answer to his problems.
"You were wasting electricity."
"No I wasn't!" Denji stubbornly insisted, frowning. "I was watching!"
Yoshida ignored him. He pushed the table Denji set his legs on, making space for himself. His limbs fell on the floor with an inelegant bang, earning a soft 'ow' from the boy.
Yoshida crawled on top of Denji's lax body, his body a little heavy but not heavy enough for him to stop what he was doing, straddling him over his lap.
Yoshida placed a pillow under Denji's head, then another on his back.
Almost on wordless command, Denji's hands wrapped around the nape of Yoshida's neck, resting in its familiar place. His fingers were absentmindedly curling through the tips of Yoshida's hair, playing with it.
"Are you enjoying yourself?"
Denji did not register the question, distracted by the way he was combing through Yoshida's hair. "... so soft."
"You like me soft?" Yoshida asked, looking into Denji's half lidded eyes, his fingers looking for the blunt Denji left on the tray.
"Mhm…"
Yoshida pried Denji's mouth open, fingers tracing sharp teeth. "Ah." He copied the sound a person made when they wanted someone to open their mouth, simplifying it for Denji to understand.
Instead of imitating him, Denji laughed as stuck his tongue out, making incomprehensible noises. Yoshida gently closed his mouth a bit, not intending for that to happen.
Yoshida did not want him to make use of that yet.
Yoshida picked up the blunt and placed it between eager lips. He tapped the side of Denji's chin, signaling him to wrap his mouth around the familiar vice.
"Breathe in, slowly ," Yoshida instructed him, as if he were back to the time Denji sucked in too quickly and burned himself, "keep it there, as long as you could."
Denji followed along, taking a drag as instructed. The tip reacted to the way Denji slowly drawn in an inhale, slowly. It prickled with heat, a hint of red coming to life as he sucked in those fumes into his mouth.
Denji closed his eyes, enjoying himself. After watching him take it all in, Yoshida picked up the blunt between his lips, aware of the amount of time that passed. "Let it all go."
Without another word, Denji exhaled.
Yoshida took in the smoke he released, enjoying the second-hand experience. His eyes blinked slowly, smelling the aftermath of the drag he made Denji follow.
Yoshida could almost taste it in the air, a husky sandalwood and a hint of lemon. He was not fond of the stench.
But on Denji, as Yoshida kept placing the blunt around his lips over and over again, enjoying the pliant acceptance as he sucked in the smoke into his lungs once more, until Denji's pupils were dilated and red rimmed—as if he cried and was only settling down for now.
Denji was rocking his head from side to side, that soundless beat Yoshida could not hear still stuck in his thoughts.
Yoshida held his head still, stopping him from moving any further. He was tempted to pull his scalp, thinking back to the time Denji came from a single tug from his hair.
These reactions were not unknown to Yoshida; how Denji craved the pleasure that came with enduring the pain. It was fucked up in a way—he should be well aware of that, but Yoshida did not mind it, not at all.
It was another eccentricity Yoshida enjoyed in Denji. It was funny, how often the other boy associated what many would deem too much. It didn't take a lot to fuck with him.
Denji licked his lips, distracting Yoshida from thinking any further.
Denji must have been enjoying the taste of the drag, or wetting his dry, cracked lips. It was peeling in some parts, a few obviously bitten by him out of impatience.
It was begging to be used. And Yoshida could not help but indulge.
Yoshida pulled Denji in for a kiss.
Denji melted into his lips, hips rucking up beneath him, arms pulling him closer to chase after the pleasure he so readily gave him.
Yoshida tasted him with his tongue, of heavy marijuana and sickness inducing smoke, fumes that stuck to his teeth and echoed closely of their illicit activities, sucking in the moans that escaped those pretty lips, dragging licks across the roof of his mouth.
His sense of touch was heightened, encouraged by the delicate buzz on the back of his head. It was intimate, a close sense of enjoyment he could indulge in with the boy that laid pliant underneath him.
Yoshida rubbed circles against heated skin, gripping his hips tight as Denji clutched at the back of his hair.
It was a heated exchange fueled with drug induced lust. He felt it hit him, drawing in a laziness that came with the package.
As of that moment, Yoshida had Denji just for himself. It was a clumsy clashing of teeth, sloppy drool of saliva escaping their lips.
Messy and uncoordinated, slow enough to be considered intimate. It was not in his plans to indulge in such a way, but there was some benefit to going with the flow.
It just felt right. Was there a need for an explanation?
Yoshida was making out with Denji, a boy too fucked in the head to make proper friends, smoking drugs in a room his little sister would be forced to go back to, someone capable enough to impale a saw right through his chest.
Because Denji was chainsaw boy, a hybrid abomination feared by both humans and devils alike, stuck between the limbo of answering back to his humanity or falling for the monstrosities he was so capable of commiting.
A tragic little tool who wanted to decide for himself, tired of the shit life kept throwing at him, in an attempt to hold the reins and go after a life he truly found worth living.
Denji was all of that—yet none of that at the same time. In the privacy of this smog filled room, on the floor of a cheap apartment, Denji was none of that.
Denji was loose-limbed and easy enough to be subject to whatever Yoshida wanted him to go through, and looked forward to the drugs he provided on a daily basis. Hooked him up with a vice difficult to shed away.
This Denji was an open book. More so than usual, the walls he built broke down for Yoshida to peer into. Eager for whatever Yoshida had in store, always willing to nod his head, taking and wanting and enjoying the treats Yoahida decided to give him.
As long as Yoshida was there, who was Denji to say no.