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There was blood on his hands.
The bathroom door was shut and the lights were on, but even while squatting on the tile, Denji felt like he had made some kind of big ass mistake.
Not that he regretted what he did. He had been curious. And people called him dumb all the time. Curiosity killed the cat, or whatever. People said all kinds of things and Denji was supposed to just handle it. And he did. Of course he did. It was starting to gnaw at him, though, the same way he gnawed on paper or metal poles or wood that shouldn’t be touched with teeth. But…
He stared at the blood, bright as blood could be. “Ah, shit,” he muttered under his breath. “Shit.”
Denji was a guy with a contract with a devil. He had a chainsaw heart. He used to have a debt to the yakuza but he didn’t anymore because the yakuza was dead and because the Public Safety Devil Hunters probably would have helped eliminate that financial shit if he had joined them willingly or whatever. (Or whatever.) And Denji had joined willingly, anyway. Pochita had given him the opportunity to stick around, so sticking was what Denji was doing. He was sixteen and had a dream of having a girlfriend who loved him. Being a devil hunter had to come with some kind of benefit, right? Getting chicks? Being near chicks? Power didn’t count. Himiko was… and of course Miss Makima was out of his league. Angel wasn’t even a girl. Reze was dead.
Probably dead. She never showed up at Crossroads the day after the fight. Denji was pretty sure she either fled town and died, or simply died. Reze…
He blinked.
Denji stared at the blood on his hands. It was caked under his nails.
He had been bloody before, badly, but normally he didn’t, like, cause it directly. When he got all messy and injured and shit, he wasn’t the one to have scratched and scratched until skin ripped. Humans were delicate, y’know. He was delicate.
(Not like that.)
He blinked, quicker than before. His heart thumped and thumped and thumped. Pochita didn’t say anything. Denji stared at his hands and felt his ribs ache. A slow buzz that turned into a sting when the air kissed at home—the air conditioner liked to kick on in these unfortunate moments. When it did, Denji felt his wounds shrivel and an unfair sensation begin to grow.
“Maybe a bath,” said Denji, slowly, to the room. Not like anyone else was listening. Not like anyone else would have an argument, either…
His shirt was shucked off already. It sat pathetically on the bathroom rug, crumpled. Denji glanced at his knees. His shorts weren’t stained with blood yet, but he didn’t want to risk it. He finally stood up—something burning along his spine and climbing up until it reached his nape and burrowed in. He winced, barely.
“Ugh,” said the boy, even though it was his fault and he didn’t regret it. I don’t, said the weird voice. Everyone wants to see their insides once in their life time. That’s not weird.
Something was wrong with his eyes, though, as the world started to spin.
He wasn’t a washing machine. He wasn’t in a cycle of anything. Clean clothes. Clean boy. Aki’s house was a luxury that Denji couldn’t have ever afforded otherwise. Real water, hot water—baths—showers—shampoo and cleaning oroducts—food—electricity and internet, even if Denji didn’t know how to use it—a washing machine and a dryer—a balcony with a chair and a small table and a clothesline—a dresser with clothes for Denji—a real mattress that wasn’t convulsed with the awful kind of sex that Denji didn’t like thinking about.
The house was different. The house was good. This was the only place Denji had ever really been given—the shed in the woods didn’t really count—and this was… better. If only Pochita was here to bounce between the couch cushions and table mats.
The boy reached out and turned the faucet on. Water came out instantly, unbothered—because water didn’t have a personality, obviously—and had no reservations about baths—again, because it wasn’t a sentient thing, it was just water—and so the tub began filling. Denji watched it while feeling odd. Sometimes he got all cold and shivery when things were too calm, but it wasn’t like he was sick.
And, you know. He wasn’t sick or sad or anything like that. That pressure at the back of his skull and bottom of his sternum, thpugh—oh, it was—much worse than it should. Ugh, ugh, ugh. Eating crab didn’t even make him this uncomfortable. Eating a cigarette, either—that didn’t hurt so much—was this hurting? He glanced at his bloodied hands. His ribs throbbed again. He wasn’t bruised or sore. He hadn’t been thrown around lately. But… he turned the water off, once it was about halfway full.
He moved on. Took one deep breath. Denji undressed fully, sparing the door one glance before slipping into the tub.
Denji ended up in the tub.
It was late. They didn’t have a job planned tomorrow, but he really should be asleep. Or at the minimum, he should be staring at the ceiling and counting imaginary sheep. Little orange chainsaw dogs running around in circles, maybe.
Instead, Denji was in the bathtub holding his arms under the water. He filled it as high as it could go, and now the warm liquid was licking at his skin and every red-splotchy patch of rawness. Denji was kinda certain he could just… scratch at every part of himself until all the skin and uneasiness pulled away. It was weird. How many people have ever talked about this kind of feeling? He didn’t know. I dunno. I dunno. Sixteen years old. The yakuza weren’t a good example to look to, and he didn’t really remember them anyway. He didn’t remember his Ma or Dad either, right, so he was… thinking.
He sat in the bathtub and let the water soak into his skin and he tried to think of a reason as to why he decided to tear his own skin off at 2:32am on a Tuesday night. Denji gave up after a few minutes of staring at the water. “Pochita,” he mumbled. “Why’d you have to go and leave me?”
It had nothing to do with the blood that was being gently washed from the surface of his skin.
Denji wasn’t sure why he kept thinking about—any of it. He didn’t know why everything had suddenly become so murky. Trying to keep his head above the water—well, it was easy in a bathtub. He slid further, tilted his head back. It rested against the edge and stayed there. He planted his feet on the bottom of the ceramic, made sure he didn’t lose his tension and somehow fall all the way under the warm surface. Waiting, thinking, thinking, spinning—spinning—he blinked weakly. He flexed his hands under the water, stared without any intentions. There was a pink film, now, barely moving. He wasn’t moving, so neither was the water. He blinked some more.
The world was nothing more than a place outside his skull. He sat in the tub for some time before—something tapped along the door, heavy and quick.
A muffled voice, “Denji?”
“Huh?” said Denji, loudly. He lifted his head from the water. “What?”
“What are you doing in there?” Aki’s voice carried through the door. Denji barely even thought about it. What? He was taking a bath. He was in here to bathe. He didn’t know what else Aki was asking.
“Bath,” Denji said, still loud.
The words were awful in his mouth. He tried to sink further into the water. And he did—somehow his chin touched the surface, and his knees were forced to come up from the water. Knees to his chest, like he was a little kid. He heard something on the other side of the door but he didn’t know what to say. The water was still… well, no it wasn’t. It wasn’t warm any more. He didn’t know how long it had been—how long. Pochita and him had never been good at keeping track of the time. It had always made the yakuza so mad. Always late, always in debt, always dumb.
Denji stared at his kneecaps. There was a scraggly look to the skin, like he scraped at the joint until the bone and cartilage finally dared to show themselves.
The silence became a static buzz, like the television when the channel was no longer active, and—
(Gonna die, gonna try, gonna, gonna, gonna, gonna.)
—twisting, now, there was a quiet thump on the tile and a gentle thud that followed. The lights were still on. The door was shut again—oh. “Denji,” a familiar someone said from the left, sounding weird. “Don’t yell at me for coming in, but are you still here? Denji?”
Still here?
From under the water. Like drowning. Hearing noise from the bottom of a pool. It reminded him of Reze. Hearing noise, feeling the wind whip at his face, feeling it. Denji wasn’t sure how to answer that call. The heavy longing that rested its head on his chest, where Pochita was buried in muscle.
“Huh?” Denji mumbled. His mouth was numb.
“Denji,” Aki said. “You’re in the bathroom. I don’t know how long you’ve been here, but it’s—hey, don’t zone out.” A hand was placed on Denji’s shoulder, finally, and the touch was scalding. “It’s seven in the morning.” Aki paused. “Are you okay?”
There was a hand on his naked shoulder. The water in the tub was tinged pink and black—the boy was dirty—he was tired and wrong and quiet—and Pochita was quiet and buried alive, now, a debt and a dream and a promise and… Denji’s mouth was numb and prickly. He tasted blood in his mouth. Maybe he bit his tongue again? Aki was—here.
Oh, man.
Denji winced, and something cleared up in his head. And yet, when he went to speak, all his words were slurred, “‘M fine, ‘m fine, ‘m fine…” A breath and a collapsing lung and he shuddered when the hand didn’t leave. “Jus’ needed to be clean.”
Aki wasn’t a touchy person, so…
“There’s blood,” Aki said, reasonably.
Denji sighed, shaky, and he pushed his knees together. The water rippled and his stomach was at the bottom of the sea. His ribs all hurt. “It’s mine.”
Aki was quiet. He squeezed Denji’s shoulder, though, and it was very awkward. Denji wasn’t afraid of nudity. It was embarrassing and weird at times, but it wasn’t—wasn’t—wasn’t bad—even when he couldn’t say anything about it. He pushed his head further into the water. Finally, his body was registering it as cold. Really, really, really cold.
“I know it’s yours,” Aki said after a moment, very slowly. He articulated each word with the kind of care you’d expect from someone fancier.
Higher-paid to deal with… devil-bound kids, or whatever. Kids in bathtubs. Kids with blonde hair. Kids who wanted to be loved but couldn’t—high standards—Denji liked the house. He wasn’t gullible. He wasn’t. He liked being here with Power and Aki and Meowy. This was everything, right? How could he have ever thought to try and leave? Even if Reze had been—
“Sorry,” Denji mumbled at last, unable to explain himself. He was shivering. He didn’t know why.
“Hm,” echoed Aki, less of a confirmation and more of a thoughtful thing—to himself—likely not even meant to rattle in Denji’s skull. He tapped Denji’s shoulder one more time before fully pulling away—palm evacuating the clammy skin of a teenager. “Have you been in here long?”
“Yeah,” Denji replied quietly.
“Did Power bite you?” Aki asked next, keeping his voice low.
The lights were still on.
Denji wished he had shut them off and curled up in the tub, water high around his ears. He wished he drowned. Pochita and him got along like a house on fire. Pochita and him could just swim in dreams and pain together. Memories and hopes like that were so vivid—far more vivid than bleeding out. Denji thought it was so anticlimactic. He wished he hadn’t left the room, left the mattress, left Power asleep alone. He wished. He wished. He wished.
“Nah,” Denji said. He blinked slowly. “I just, I did it. I dunno.”
Aki was quiet.
“I’ll heal,” Denji said next.
“I know you will,” Aki said, curtly—something sour in his words, like he bit a lemon or saw a bird shit on the front window of his car. “Do you want to get out of the tub and dry off? I can warm a towel for you.”
“I dunno,” Denji said again. “I guess.”
“Okay,” Aki replied, easily. “I’ll get you a warm towel. Drain the tub. Do you…” and the guy paused, and Denji forced himself—hazy—foggy—to look up and see the expression that Aki was making. He was frowning, eyes looking at Denji’s face—no where else, no where else. Aki’s eye twitched, and he asked, “Do you want me to call Power in here?”
“No,” Denji breathed out, shakily, and he snickered. “She’d try to join me. Or pour soap on me. And it’s… the water is already gross, so, it’s fine. It’s fine.”
Aki glanced at his hair. “Do you want a hair brush or a blow dryer?”
The devil blinked. His hair wasn’t even that wet, just the ends. “No,” he said again. “It’s fine. I…”
He didn’t know. He didn’t know. What was the point of all this, anyway. He was so bleak. He felt all wrong. He wasn’t injured and he felt like someone was telling him awful things. Hadn't he gotten used to bad shit? Hadn't he become literal shit, muggy on forest floors, useless in back alleys? Why did it matter? Why did it hurt? Why was he so—
“It’s seven in the morning,” Aki told him, interrupting his thoughts. It was said very neutrally. “It’s a Tuesday. I was going to make miso for breakfast. Does that sound okay?”
“Yeah,” Denji croaked.
“Drain the tub,” the guy reminded, again, and he stood up-no longer crouching by the tub. He was still frowning though. “I’ll be back with a warm towel.”
The boy shivered. Aki left, though. And Denji tries—he knew how to drain the tub, after all. Slowly and surely he forced himself to get up, stand up, and leave the confines of the bathtub. He drained the water and watched it leave, then glanced at the rest of his body—pink and blemishes—but he wasn’t rotting or actively bleeding anymore. He was fine. He was fine. He was fine. Most people were. Denji was supposed to be like most people, somehow, hopefully.
He shuddered.
Aki knocked on the door again and slipped a—magically, really—warmed towel through the gal he slid open. “Wrap yourself in that,” he said, like Denji didn’t know how.
But Aki didn’t peek through the door. The awful weight on Denji’s chest slowly dissipated. He stared at the towel. It was a pale blue color, kinda like the sky. He tried to get his thoughts in order. Denji slowly grasped the towel, wrapped it around himself, and then stood there in the center of the bathroom blankly. His feet were cold. Water dripped down his skin in certain places. But the towel was warm. It helped. He blinked slowly, slowly, and his throat worked itself into knots. But the tension loosened, barely, and he stared at the floor in a brief moment of shame.
Huh. Hah. Bleh. Ugh.
“Hold on,” said the devil hunter through the door. “Don’t come out yet.”
Denji didn’t reply.
There were voices—Aki and Power, of course, and then a loud noise of complaint before steady silence. When Aki returned to the other side of the bathroom door, he said casually, “Power’s up now. I told her to stay out of the room so you’ll be able to sleep without issue.” Something was weird in Aki’s voice, though. “If you’d rather be in the living room, that’s fine too. Otherwise, go get dressed and sleep like the dead, Denji.”
“I guess,” Denji mumbled.
“Do you need help walking?” Aki asked, deliberately and with that carefully neutral voice.
“No,” Denji mumbled. “I guess not.”
The teenager shuffled to the door and slid it open. Aki was standing there, arms folded over his chest in a nervous-bundle. But he wasn’t looming, and he didn’t say anything; just waiting. The ends of Denji’s hair were still wet. He didn’t really want to do anything. Denji was so used to—sleeping wherever he wanted. In fact, he could probably just turn around and sit down on the bathroom rug and he would be asleep in minutes. Instead, he held a warm towel around his skin. He glanced at the clothes on the floor—unceremonious, ugly, messy. He breathed out, sluggish.
With a sudden realization, he croaked, “Am I sick? I don’t have a fever, but… I don’t feel good.” His heart thundered. “Am I sick?”
Aki’s frown became all the more sharp. “No,” he replied, but he looked at Denji’s strewn clothes and almost softened. His attention shifted back to the boy. His eyes traced, just once, over the rawness that was covering Denji’s left hand. He nodded down the hall, next. “I’ll get the clothes. Just go to bed.”
Denji swallowed the nausea he felt, the dispassionate burning that had settled in at his empty stomach. Numb but hurting. So cold you started to feel like you were burning. It got violent. Were all devils violent? He was. He was.
His eyes stung, and he mumbled, “I dunno if I’ll sleep.”
“That’s fine. You don’t have to sleep, just lay down and try to rest,” Aki said. “I’ll bring you miso when it’s done.”
“You don’t like it when we eat in the bedroom,” Denji said, nose crinkling. He shuffled closer to the door frame and laid his whole weight against it. “Power and I are too messy.”
Aki sighed. “It’s different, sometimes. This time, it’s fine, okay?” And then he undid his arms, offering his hands palm-up. “Do you want help down the hall?”
“You already asked,” Denji said. “‘M not sick. I don’t need help with it.”
“Sometimes the mind is sick when the body is physically fine,” Aki said at random—a bout of information that Denji didn’t know what to do with. He blinked rapidly, then, vision bouncing about like a beach ball. Aki waited for another second before stepping backwards and completely arranging himself out of Denji’s future path to the spare bedroom, where he and Power slept. “Not all sicknesses have fevers. So, it’s not easy to say if it’s a permanent sickness or a temporary one, Denji,” Aki murmured, mulling something over. “Sometimes people just don’t feel good. You can still have help.”
Denji thought about it. “Even then,” he whispered, ragged, head splitting. “I dunno if you’re supposed to offer it, y’know…”
Aki’s lips twitched into a smile. “Who else will, Denji?”
(Who else will take care of you if you’re like this?)
“I dunno,” the teenager laughed, light. Something twisted in his chest and shook like a leaf. He was a storm on the horizon. He was nothing more than an eyelid shutting over an iris. After a moment, Denji forced himself to leave the bathroom and mumble under his breath. “Eh… I want extra tofu in my soup.”
Aki said something that Denji didn’t really catch. He reached the bedroom and slid the door shut.