Archive of Our Own

Yuuji always comes home at nine p.m. sharp. He says that he takes his time doing so, but Megumi believes he rushes over training and washing –sometimes not even that, by the way he can taste the lingering sweat on his skin, the scent of copper and open wounds and violence– just to see him before he goes to bed. He doesn’t tell him this, but he’s glad about it; glad that Yuuji cares enough about him to run back to their small, simple apartment and find joy in seeing him.  

There’s nothing different about it tonight. The sound of keys going inside the keyhole –with the stupid lion keychain that he bought him for their first month; something that didn’t even represent him, that he didn’t even like, and yet Yuuji carried like a treasure–, the sound of his ragged breathing on the other side of the door; Megumi is on their bed, with the lights off and bundled under washed, lavender scented sheets not because he’s tired, but because Yuuji told him it might help with his frequent headaches. He thinks it’s bullshit, yet he lays in bed at eight and thirty every night and waits for him. 

There are eleven steps from the door to their bedroom, five to their kitchen, nine to their bathroom, and four to their living room. Yuuji walks around and Megumi counts seventeen steps, which makes him think he’s going around the living room making a mess, or just trying to be silent and miserably failing; there’s no need for that, either, because Megumi is a chronic insomniac and just manages to fall unconscious by the time Yuuji is heavy, warm and impossibly big in their bed and he needs to go to his classes in two hours.  

Yet he doesn’t tell him this, and a lot more stuff that he might or might not have to tell him someday. 

For now, he has this peace; for now, he can enjoy it. Who could take it from him, anyway? 

Yuuji doesn’t stop at the bathroom –because of all those times where he did and Megumi threw a fit because I’m tired, I’m sleepy, I need to go to class, I haven’t seen you all day and you just ignore me? And Yuuji fell for it like a fool–, the door to their bedroom creaking just the slightest and letting through the ray of light of their small, fucked up lamp in the living room, blinking most of those days and shining... Well, shit. But he can see the silhouette of Yuuji’s features, that way; half-shadows clinging to the busted lip and the scar there, the rough hits he took today, the high cheekbones and the sharp jaw and something inside of him feels warm and hungry and aching.  

Megumi closes his eyes and buries his face on the pillow, feeling like a caught little kid; of those days of old, where Tsumiki used to play pretend with him, and the pretend was pretending that his dad and her mom didn’t abandon them.  

But Yuuji wouldn’t ever abandon him –he walks closer and leans over Megumi’s still body and he can smell the lingering scent of sweat and soap in him, wishing to bite him, dig his teeth in his skin until it hurt and returning with a little piece of Yuuji, forever to be his–. He wouldn’t, because he promised Megumi this, and Megumi believes in him blindly. 

He presses the side of his face against Megumi’s temple, and the sweat there is already cold and dry and clinging to his hair like ivy. He spent a lot of time in the streets tonight. He told him he went out early and would come back early, and yet he didn’t, as if this were a day like any other; Megumi doesn’t find it within himself to care about it, because Yuuji always comes back, sooner or later, so who cares, truly, if he needed a beer or two to cool off after a shitty day of work and fighting –even if Yuuji doesn’t drink, never drinks, because Megumi once told him that his dad used to have a box of them under his bed and throw the receipt at Megumi when he saw the slightest peak of his hair, and he just stopped after it–, as long as he comes back to Megumi?  

Yuuji opens his mouth and presses two, three kisses against the crown of his head, drowning him with his scent, his weight. Yuuji is so heavy he could crush him. Yuuji could choke him and not a sound would come out of him. 

Megumi struggles at that, heat pooling in his low belly and between his legs and wanting to come out.  

Yuuji coos, kisses, holds him, shushes him; his hand in the back of his head and his mouth over the extension of his forehead, as he wants to morph them together. If he asked, Megumi would say yes, yes please, do it. Fortunely –sadly– he doesn’t, so Megumi can spare the shame, the need, and store it in a place where Yuuji would never see it. 

“Shh, Megs.” his hand slips under his shirt, cupping his back, the sharp bones of his shoulder blades, “Go back to sleep, Megs.” 

“’M not.” He mutters, stubborn and wanting to make it hard for him, make him pissed off. Yuuji doesn’t take the bait –never does–, and he chuckles in a way that reverberates through Megumi’s whole skeleton, from his head to his hips to his toes and stays inside. He has a list of his favorite Yuuji’s sounds; he has whines and sighs and giggles, and he has this chuckle, very high on the list.  

Yuuji has his own list; Yuuji loves a lot of things about Megumi, of Megumi, for Megumi. He never asks about those because it’s embarrassing to hear him talk, yet he wants Yuuji to never stop loving him, never stop treasuring him like that stupid lion keychain.  

Yuuji melts over him, heavy, his own very warm blanket. Megumi feels himself setting on his arms, fitting like puzzle pieces; Yuuji heavier and broader, and Megumi leaner and harder. He thinks of a match more fitting than the two of them and can’t find one.  

Yuuji is spitting words like vomiting over his head, talking and talking and talking. When does he ever stop? When does he ever run out of thoughts and praises and adoration?  

“My pretty Megs, my Gumi, baby–” he kisses his cheek, open mouthed and hot, cupping his back as one would do with something precious– with a child, perhaps, “hello, baby.” 

Megumi huffs, tugging on the pink-strands of hair in his head. They’re overgrown. Maybe he’ll ask Yuuji if he can trim his hair,, fix his undercut. When he says yes, he’ll be overjoyed, and pretending not to be, “hello, you.” and then, hugging his broad shoulders; broad like the world, like a mountain, “how was work?” 

“Shitty,” Yuuji sighs, bumping their heads together, “horrible. Terrible. A mess–” 

“It can’t be that bad.” 

“You say that because your work is sitting around and looking pretty,” and then he kisses and murmurs joking, baby, and I love when you look pretty, so Megumi doesn’t take offense to that, “and you’re going to have a fancy, high-end job where everyone is afraid of you, and you’ll get tired of me and leave for a nice, rich businessman that actually puts the socks away.” 

And Megumi says, “Fancy, high-end job?” Instead of how could I ever get tired of you? How could I ever fall in love with someone else?, but he thinks Yuuji gets it, because the amber in his eyes shine brighter and he, finally, kisses him, even if Megumi just had the spiciest ramen ever, hasn’t brushed his teeth before bed and he smells like sweat. Somehow, those kisses taste better than the ones with toothpaste and built speeches.  

There’s an afterthought, right at the back of his head; a when and where and who that he can’t place. It always happens this way when he’s close to Yuuji. He seems to forget inhibitions and the right questions he has to ask, and then he loses the answers he could’ve got. 

He doesn’t find it within himself to care about it; the things Yuuji isn’t telling him, the probable lies he’s feeding him. What do people say? Blind eyes, deaf ears, blind heart? Well, he’s okay with it.  

Yuuji bites the skin of his lip and eases the pain with a soft, warm tongue, sliding it inside his mouth with the welcoming feeling of wanting pooling in Megumi’s gut, Megumi’s heart, Megumi’s soul. It’s late and he has to wake up early, it’s late and Yuuji never quite sleeps well, tormented by dreams and old memories he’s never told Megumi about, and he feels guilty enough of leeching off his kindness, his love and his compassion to be there; but at the same time– 

When has been the last time they actually touched each other? When was the last time Yuuji made love to him, slow and good, instead of quickies and rub-offs before running to the station and the different lives they shared? 

And maybe, maybe he’s selfish –he tears the hoodie off Yuuji’s body, something inside his soul shaking when he shivers and murmurs his way in a broken, wrecked way–. Maybe he’s selfish, going inside Yuuji’s life, making a place out of it for him, taking his home, taking his memories and his time and his love– 

Yuuji startles when he caresses the skin over his ribs; palm open, wide, like a five-pointed star right where the bones settle inside him. Megumi pulls apart, peeks over his shoulder, his gaze falling on the bruise blossoming like sin on his tanned skin– 

“Don’t look at it,” he kisses Megumi’s cheek and settles over him, moving his hips in tight, slow circles that feel way better when he’s inside Megumi. “Megs–” 

“When was this?”  

Yuuji sighs, “c’mon, Megs.” 

He scowls and pulls away, something sharp and hot stinging behind his eyes. “No.” 

He doesn’t want to be difficult, but Yuuji sighs defeated, and something worse tugs at his heart. 

“Did you break a rib? Did you shatter something?” 

“No, baby.” 

“Did you even think of telling me this, or did you expect to walk home and pretend that no one beat your ass?” 

Yuuji tenses at it; not at the tone Megumi is using, but at the way he says it as if he lost, “no. No, I wasn’t thinking of telling you.” 

The back of his head buzzes, and when he lays down on bed and curls over himself, his eyes stinging with rage, he realizes is shame. Or something akin to it, merging with the worry and anger he feels toward Yuuji, with the love he feels for him, morphing into something worse.  

He feels him before hearing him, his body curling over him, his hand tracing the curve of his jaw and the tips of his still-wet hair, going over the dark circles under his eyes that he doesn’t hate, because I think you’d look beautiful no matter what, Megs. When they fight and they’re mean, he stops believing him, sometimes; and when he’s angry at him, too. He doesn’t know what’s worse; to be worried about Yuuji or to be mad at him. 

“I’m sorry, ‘kay?” Yuuji kisses the curve of his ear, softly, his warm breath tingling all over, “sorry, baby. I didn’t think we would–” 

“We’d fuck?” 

He chuckles, “yeah, that.” 

“Am I that undesirable to you?” 

“Don’t be stupid.” And he stops being it, “just figured you’d be tired of it. Sorry. Won’t happen again.” Then, “y’know I always tell you stuff, right?” He smiles, and presses his mouth against Megumi’s hair, “you’re practically, like, my best friend. But I also like you, so that’s very nice.” His finger runs across the slope of Megumi’s nose, and he does nothing but melt.  

Stupid man.  

Megumi uncurls from under the sheets, hair a mess, anger still blazing in his heart; yet Yuuji snickers at the sight of his face and the state of his hair, and all it’s good. It’s better than he thought it’d ever be. Life, he means.  

“So, you didn’t break anything, right?” 

“Nothing at all, honey.” And he smiles, wide and trusting, “pinkie promise?” 

“I’m okay.” But he feels instantly better, huffing and grinning and pulling Yuuji down until their mouths are together, and Megumi can part his thighs and welcome him between them. 

Then there’s Yuuji’s bag in the hallway, standing right in the small crack in the door. The same way it always did, when Yuuji took his sweet time cuddling Megumi and forgot he had to fix his stuff for the next day, and then doing it.  

Yuuji’s bag is always filled with his stuff for work; sometimes with the money he won after his matches, his gloves, his clothes. Sometimes Megumi packs him a little bento for the day, messy before because Tsumiki was the once who took care of the food in the house. For all Megumi cared, he could survive with ramen or just bread; Gojo wasn’t bad, and he’d cook when he could, but being always busy with the family business took precious hours he could spend at home, and since Megumi and Tsumiki weren’t his family– 

Tsumiki always took care of feeding Megumi, even if he wasn’t useless. Then she stopped, and Megumi didn’t find the strength within himself to do something as easy and simple as feeding himself. Then he met Yuuji, and he wanted to take care of him; not one of Megumi’s bentos went to waste with him, returning from work and gym with the box practically licked clean. 

But Yuuji’s bag is not heavy, not like that, because why would he need to bring all of his stuff from work to home every day when he trusted Hakari enough to take care of his things overnight? Sure, there was that one incident where Yuuji’s gloves and wallet –the spare one Megumi gave him because he always lost the other one– disappeared in thin air, and maybe Yuuji wanted to just drop it and keep working, but they appeared again the moment Megumi stepped inside the gym and screamed at Hakari until his throat was sore, so, there was that.  

Yuuji’s bag only has his bento box, his changing clothes, the money he brings for Megumi, for the little trinkets he likes; sometimes food for him, sometimes for his dogs, that are well feed enough to have a big, round belly, and they didn’t have that always; when Megumi was too tired to even feed them. The guilt was icy and deep in his gut, and if it weren’t for Yuuji... 

So, why was his bag heavy? What did he bring home today? 

“Did you bring something for me?” He murmurs, shy, feeling giddy, the biggest demonstration of Yuuji’s desire pressing against the sharp bone of his hip.  

“What?” He muses, and mouths over the curve of Megumi’s jaw, making him giggle.  

“The bag, idiot. Your work bag–”  

Yuuji pulls away, amber eyes looking black in the pooling darkness of their room, and sparing a single look to the bag in the way. 

Then he’s in Megumi again, grabbing at his waist, molding the soft skin under his scarred, bruised hands. 

“Don’t think about it,” Yuuji murmurs over his bellybutton, kissing around it as if he was kissing Megumi himself. 

“What?” He sputters, struggling in his hold, thighs slotting around Yuuji and keeping him caged. “What do you have there, Yuu–”  

“Nothing important.”  

And he stops kissing altogether, elbows holding his weight as he hangs over Megumi like a guillotine. His necklace dangles and brushes his nose, and Megumi loses sight before staring right into Yuuji’s black, golden eyes. 

There’s one single second of Yuuji’s doubt, and that’s enough for him.  

“Just some stuff Hakari asked me to take care of. Nothing important. Gym equipment, y’know?” 

“I see,” Megumi says, and nothing more.  

“Sorry. I didn’t tell you that either, baby.” 

“It’s okay,” plainly, simply, and he sees the knowing look in Yuuji’s eyes, and wonders if he’ll do something about it. 

Him knowing, him talking, him asking.  

He leans down, kissing on the patch of skin under Megumi’s eyes, and he shoots a look at the bag, the element of discord between them. 

Heavy, full, tearing at the edges of something too big to carry. He thinks he wouldn’t be able to carry it around, but Yuuji is big, Yuuji is strong; as strong as the threshold of his old house where Tsumiki used to mess with his hair before going to hang out with her friends and one day he just stopped seeing her doing that. Or seeing her at all. 

Yuuji is too strong, he likes that about him.  

And the bag is too filled, right to the brim; would Hakari really trust Yuuji with something that important as his gym, even if it isn’t his gambling parties? 

Something leaks through the old fabric of the bag that Yuuji never cared to replace; dark and deep. 

Megumi closes his eyes and melts in Yuuji’s hold, pressing his face against his shoulder. 

“I’m going to wash it, ‘kay, baby?” He whispers on the skin of his cheek, rubbing their faces together, “I’m sorry, sweetness. I really didn’t want to bother you.” 

“It’s okay,” and it’s true. It’s okay, why wouldn’t it be?  

Yuuji pulls away and kisses him, and Megumi catches the scent of it in him; in his clothes, his hands, his very pores. The scent of iron. And he doesn’t see any wounds –open ones, bleeding ones, for him to kiss and dote on and touch when he’s riding him to completion, as if he wants to tear him apart from that starting point– for it to be Yuuji’s. 

Maybe the guy he beat up today. Maybe the guy he beat up yesterday. The one he’ll beat up tomorrow and the day after it, because he doesn’t have any choice, or because he simply likes it; the thrill of hurting it, way sweeter than sex and Megumi and whatever he could ever offer him. 

But it’s a lot of blood; a lot of it. Yuuji isn’t bloody, not even his lips or nose are. An easy victory. 

Megumi watches as Yuuji stands up, broad as the world itself, muscles ripping under the tight shirt and the shorts. 

He leans down to grab the bag, and he doesn’t falter one bit, like he thought he would.  

Megumi doesn’t see the blood leaking through Yuuji’s bag. Decides not to. 

He wishes that the man there didn’t put up a fight. That he didn’t bother Yuuji at all. 

Yuuji is up before Megumi the next day, right before dawn caresses the horizon. He worries that he’s not sleeping well, not sleeping enough, but doesn’t tell him so. 

The bag of yesterday and a hundred days before it is gone; another one replaces it, bright orange –just like Yuuji’s favorite color– and bigger than the other one. Megumi wants to ask where he got it, how and when, but knows better. 

And how could he ruin a day like this? Bright and yellow and blue; like the day they met.  

There’s a simplicity in domesticity that he finds enticing, and now, after meeting Yuuji and loving him, he understands why Tsumiki loved so much caring and wanting people. He’s never cared for anyone like he cares for Yuuji; he’s never wanted anyone like him. 

He never wants anyone but him.  

“Oh, fuck–” 

“Careful,” he deadpans, pushing the rice balls away, making room for Yuuji’s sauce that’s in no way traditional for a bento but if Yuuji wants something, Yuuji gets it. 

“I know, I know–”  

Megumi shoots a glance at him. Barefoot and fresh out of the shower, golden and handsome. 

Maybe his days would be better if he didn’t have to go to class, if he could stay all day and wait for Yuuji at home, wide armed and giddy. His therapist would tell him not to; that depending so thoroughly on someone else to fix his day was against all the process they made of half a decade and some, of cancelled appointments and hushed attacks because this is not helping, you’re not helping and what’s the point if they’re gone and I’m still here? but he, frankly, doesn’t care. 

He went back just because Yuuji asked him, anyway. Because Yuuji got on his knees and rubbed Megumi’s sore ones and told him, slowly, gently, that he needed help, and he wasn’t the one meant to do that. It wasn’t any different of what Nobara told him a hundred and some times; that he wasn’t broken, that he wasn’t unfixed, that he just needed a little push, yet it felt better; less condescending, maybe. He doesn’t know if it’s because Nobara was always a little harsh and rough around the edges or just because he loved Yuuji. 

Anyhow, he’s back in therapy, and it doesn’t work because he only feels better when Yuuji texts him and talks to him and when he comes back home; especially then.  

But Yuuji’s eyes always seem to glint more when Megumi talks about his sessions, so he might as well endure it for him. 

“Megs, baby, y’know where my socks are?” 

“Where did you leave them last time?” 

“I don’t know– laundry?” 

“No.” 

“Crap–” 

Megumi shoots him an unamused glance, and after a very hard demonstration of puppy eyes, he sighs –totally pretended, totally false– and walks away from the counter, circling Yuuji’s broad silhouette like two magnets attracting each other. 

He stands at his side, frowns at the door, then the hallway that leads to the bathroom, and kneels. 

He returns with a pair of wrinkled socks with cat-like shapes, those that Yuuji bought two months in their thing because they look just like you, Fushiguro. 

Stupid man. 

“Hey, you found them!” He perks up, taking the stupid things from Megumi’s hands as if they’re an incomparable treasure, “how? Are you a wizard?” 

He rolls his eyes right as his heart skips a beat, stops, and starts faster, “you kicked them under the coffee table.” 

“Yeah? Why did I do that?”  

“You were trying to stop Kuro and Shiro from biting them when you got home,” then, quieter, “also, I told you to take off your clothes.”  

Yuuji grins at that, then chuckles, bright and hot as the sun itself, “oh, I remember.” And nothing more, but by the way his grin widens, and his hands rub over the worn fabric of the socks, Megumi just knows what he’s thinking about. 

His cheeks are as hot as Yuuji’s smile now, and he turns around before he sees it and notes it and does something about it. 

“Idiot.” 

“Huh? What did I do?” 

“Nothing. Get dressed and out of my sight.”  

Yuuji chuckles and suddenly Megumi is not ashamed anymore. He might as well like therapy now. Funny how that works. 

The bento sits nicely on their counter, already filled and ready to go, not like his owner. Megumi grabs it and walks over to the bag, unzipping one of the pockets and sliding it in. Yuuji doesn’t move, doesn’t tense, doesn’t startle, sitting on their couch with his feet up the coffee table while he puts his shoes on. 

Heavy bag. Clean bag. Empty bag; not out of gym equipment, but something heavier. 

And smellier. 

“Taking Hakari’s stuff back?” He asks, unprompted. Yuuji doesn’t falter. 

“Yeah, I’m tired of his crap.” He plants his foot on the floor, kicks two times, gets with the other, “I’m not babysitting his stuff, y’know. Too busy for that. He has other people.” 

Megumi hums, noncommittal, “you could always leave him, you know. You have a degree. You can do that stuff without him, being the stubborn ass he is,” he shrugs, because he knows exactly how Yuuji can be when he likes someone. And maybe he doesn’t like Hakari, but he respects him, which is worse. 

“But if I do, who’s going to spoil you, Megs?”  

Megumi tenses, arms still at his sides. 

Yuuji finishes putting his shoes on and looks up, smiling widely at Megumi’s face. 

“Don’t worry about it, Megs. I’ll leave it someday, I swear, but for now, we gotta play rent somehow, right?” 

“I could always pay it.” He mutters, remembering Gojo’s inheritance going to his name because he didn’t have children of his own or spouses or anything at all except him. 

“Nah.” Yuuji stands up, brushing his hands against his fighting shorts. Too tight, Megumi fixates the sight of his thighs straining against the fabric. Maybe they can spare a few minutes, yeah? “You ease your mind, Megs. I got it all covered.”  

Maybe it’s something he says, or something he doesn’t say; or just the uncanny, eerie way Yuuji just knows when he’s looking at him, but his eyes find his face, and he can’t stop the grin that blossoms there, like a wound. Megumi’s face burns. 

His hands find his hips, and he cups the sharp bone there, protruding under his skin. Shame bubbles in his throat. 

Because Megumi is not skinny, he’s not starving even if it looks like that. He’s lean, that’s all, and maybe he’s gone through rough patches where eating is hard and disgusting and every bite reminds him of Tsumiki and Gojo and he’d rather starve than think of them; maybe he was in the bones before meeting Yuuji, maybe he just started eating well because of his praising and the way his hands caressed the space between his ribs and dug his fingers there. The thing is, he’s not starving, just skinnier than Yuuji, that’s thick like a tree; he’s never had a problem with it, anyway, because all he does when they make love is say how pretty Megumi is, how sweet he is and how beautiful his hips are– 

“I love you,” Yuuji says, “you know that. I love how independent you are, I love that you wanna help, but you’re my guest, ‘kay, baby? You’re here because of me, gotta take care of you, yeah?” 

Megumi settles in his arm, trapped there, hands rubbing the skin on Yuuji’s with something that feels like surrendering and tastes like devotion.  

“Okay. Okay, but–” he swallows around the taste of faith and adoration in his throat, “if you ever need help, you’d tell me, right? You would.” 

“Of course I would, baby,” and he smiles, squeezing his skin under his hands, “but we’re okay, I swear. Never went late with the rent before, hm? And the landlord loves us.” Megumi begs to differ, remembering all those noise complaints they have gotten after he moved in, but since Yuuji is the golden grandson of the building, he decides not to, “you just ease down. Go to your classes, call me when you’re there. Eat, please.”  

“Yeah, okay,” he cuts him off, shame burning his cheeks. Yuuji’s face softens and he leans in to kiss his cheeks, tender and sweet. 

“I like it, anyway.” He murmurs.  

Yeah, I know, he thinks. I know that you like violence, I know that you like hitting people even when you say you don’t. I know you like being hit. 

I just wish that you’d tell me why, that you’d tell me how to fix whatever is wrong inside of you. 

But who am I to ask if I can’t even fix myself? 

Yuuji is staring at him, quiet, as if reading his thoughts going a mile inside of his head. 

Megumi is always thinking, always reminiscing. There’s not a day in this world where he isn’t thinking, and he wonders if Yuuji is afraid that, someday, he might get lost permanently inside of his head. Megumi is afraid of that; undeniably, irrationally afraid of it. 

He shakes his head and waves him off, even if he worries that Yuuji is as lost as he is; as Gojo was, and he can’t save him from it. 

“Go to work.” 

“Okay!” He gives him one loud kiss on his forehead, Megumi’s favorite, and even if he tries to struggle in his arms and scowl at him, it doesn’t quite land well. 

And if they stand in the doorway, kissing and giving soft pecks, and laughing –“Megs, baby, I’m going to be late. Megs...”– it’s no one’s business but theirs. 

“So, how are you doing with Mr. Hunk?”  

Megumi gives her a noncommittal hum, refusing to entertain her.  

Nobara stretches on the bench, impossibly long like only she can be, and kicks him on the shin. 

“Ouch.” And he pushes her leg away. 

“Answer me when I’m talking to you!” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He says, looking down at his book. 

“Oh, c’mon–” 

Megumi hears her grumbling under her breath, crossing her legs by the ankles, crossing her arms, too. He wonders if he can throw her in the air and make her spin, considering her figure.  

“I mean...” 

“You mean.”  

She scowls, “I mean Itadori, of course.”  

The sore spot, then. The object of discord between them. 

Megumi shrugs, shooting her a glance, “he’s fine,” and nothing more, and pretends to not see the frown between Nobara’s trimmed, perfect eyebrows. 

Nobara wasn’t thrilled when Megumi broke the news to her that he’d move in with Yuuji. She told him that it was too soon; that they knew each other for– what? Three, four months? Not even that. Maybe less than that, but Megumi doesn’t care enough to count. 

She told him that it was too soon, that he barely knew Yuuji, that he didn’t know how it was living with someone else; especially a boyfriend –though Megumi has never called Yuuji that, at least not out loud, and Yuuji has done the same. Whatever they are and whatever they will be is only their business, and he’s okay with whatever he can hold onto–. She told him that he could find another place, closer to him, so it might feel like they’re living together even if they were not. She told him to take his time and think about it, and when Megumi cut her off and told her he didn’t care about that stuff, she told him and how do you know he’s not a serial killer? How are you so sure he’s not going to kill you in your sleep? Have you ever thought about how I’d feel, watching the news and seeing your corpse? Inconsiderate prick.  

He’s been living with Yuuji for a few months now, and he’s quite sure he’s not dead, anyway. 

But Nobara doesn’t feel the same, and he doesn’t know when it will be the moment she finally melts with Yuuji. 

She hums, tapping her ankle with her well-manicured nails. Bright pink, the kind that makes Megumi’s eyes sore, “okay.” 

He looks at her, “that’s all?” 

“Well, what should I ask? I don’t even know him good enough,” she retorts, and that’s Megumi’s fault, because he hasn’t allowed Nobara to fully meet Yuuji. 

He just didn’t want her to scare him away with her questions, that’s all. 

Also, he didn’t want Yuuji to realize that there was someone better in the world for him; that Megumi was mean and cruel and weird and that he could do better. Maybe not Nobara, because she already had Fumi and wasn’t interested in the slightest in men, but– 

But having Megumi sitting close to anyone that wasn’t him would, most probably, bring light to Yuuji’s that he wasn’t worth bothering. And whatever he may do or say the day Yuuji decides to leave him is only something he will have to deal with when it happens, and if he makes sure Yuuji never leaves the house except for work and Yuuji never sees anyone else but him... Then it won’t happen. 

“I’ll ask him if you can come over,” he says, softly, a cheap apology that Nobara might discover if she looks too closely. He fidgets on the bench and stares at the light peeking through the leaves, feeling prickly, “I’m sure he’ll say yes.” 

Nobara hums, “wouldn’t want to disturb your love nest.” 

“It’s not a love nest,” Megumi protests, but it’s weak and shallow and even he can see it. 

“How would you call it if you never answer my calls or texts when you get there?” she huffs, pressing her cheek against her hand, “man, you really are in deep, aren’t you?” 

He thinks of Yuuji and the way he looks when the first morning light is dipping in through their dirty window in the kitchen; the way he sings in the shower, screaming ABBA songs until Megumi gets pissy and walks over to complain, and then pulling him under the water stream.  

He thinks of his soft hands, even with scars and bruises, even tired after a long day at work; the way they look when they carry flowers to give to Megumi’s sister and dad, and the way they touch him. Love had never looked so good before, until it started looking like Yuuji. 

“Yeah,” and he shrugs, “yeah, I am. I guess.”  

Nobara hums at him, the only confirmation that she heard him, and that’s all, for a moment.  

He’s sure that Nobara would get along with Yuuji; loud and abrasive as she is. He’s not. He’s quiet and weird, and teachers used to pull him away from recess to ask, quietly, if mommy and daddy were mad at each other or if mommy and daddy sometimes got mad at him.  

Megumi was eight when he decided to stop explaining that he didn’t have a mom, that he didn’t have a dad; that the first one died and the second one left, and that his dad left with her. The second one was Tsumiki’s mom, so she wasn’t forced to stay, whatsoever. At least not for him. That all he had was his sister, and then Gojo, and Gojo, for all of his extravagant, never hit him. 

But that was a lot, and most of the time he just settled with they’re fine. 

Anyway, if Nobara really had a problem with his silence, she’d tell him so. No matter how different they are, they get along just fine. 

Maybe that’s why they’re best friends. 

“You seem happy with him,” she says, suddenly, as if the words were lodged deep inside of her and they couldn’t help but come out at the slightest pressure, which was Megumi just existing, most of the time. He hums and nods, not finding a reason to hide it. 

“I am.” 

“I know that I was against it, at first–” she keeps going, rambling, waving her hands in the space between them. Fumi finds this the most adorable thing in the world. Megumi didn’t quite understand why until he started finding Yuuji’s feet in his socks cute, “but you have to know that it was because I was worried, okay? I love you, you’re my best friend in the world, and I don’t want you to get hurt. Ever.”  

“You ghosted me one week after it,” he says. 

“Because you were being stubborn! Can’t you just accept my apology?!”  

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Megumi shrugs, looking down at his boots, “you were worried, I was stubborn. We fought and made up, and we kept being us, no matter what happened. I don’t hold it against you. I didn’t know I had to tell you so.”  

Nobara stares at him and sighs, “man, you’re too calm, you know? When I fight with Fumi, I get pissy for, I don’t know, two days.” Then, “that doesn’t mean I ghost her, but I’m still pissed off.” 

Megumi thinks about those times he blocked Yuuji’s number for silly, stupid fights between them and how he apologized for three days straight, smothering him with kisses until Megumi finally give in, and he finds himself smiling at the memory. 

“Man, you’re creepy.” Nobara mutters, narrowing her eyes at him. 

“Shut your mouth.”  

Later, when they’re walking to class and the sun is hot and orange behind them, painting the steps to Megumi’s favorite class the color of Yuuji’s hoodie, Nobara turns to stare at him, trying to be nonchalant and failing.  

“Just in case... If something happened, if you ever felt worried or needed help, you’d tell me, right?” 

And Megumi thinks of all the things he hasn’t told her, the lies, the pretension. 

“Yeah,” he says, burying his hands in his pockets, pretending to not see the relief painting her beautiful face in pieces, “I would.” 

Gojo was sick. 

Megumi didn’t know or what, or why, or since when; he just knew. He knew all the time. 

The very first moment he locked himself in his room for hours, the very first day he forgot to feed Megumi, and Tsumiki had to cook for both of them. That afternoon he forgot to pick him up. The nights where he didn’t eat dinner, and when he undressed in front of Megumi, he could see his ribs and count them. That’s when it all clicked. 

Gojo was sick; of what, he didn’t know. Maybe it was the same sickness that took his mother away, like he confessed to Tsumiki on a warm, damp afternoon; that Gojo was sick and dying, that he could be sick and dying, too. Maybe he was rotting from inside out and they didn’t know it yet. He told Tsumiki so, and stopped once she got so angry she cried and screamed and locked herself in her room. 

Gojo was sick. Megumi was sick, too, but in a different way. He just wasn’t sure if it was deathly, but it could very probably be so. 

He didn’t visit him when that happened; when the days used to stretch for the infinity, and Gojo would only go out of his room to go to work or to the bathroom, afraid of opening the door and finding him death on the other side, or worse; finding him on his deathbed and not knowing what to do, what to say to make it better. Maybe that’d unlock some lost, old memories of his mother, maybe Gojo’s death would make him, finally, remember her, but for some reason he never found the way to choose one thing or the other. 

Tsumiki did see him, because she was strong. She was the strongest out of the three of them, and where Megumi would lock himself in his room, just like Gojo –twin flames, coward as one another–, she’d pry the man out of the darkness of those four walls and force him to live. Megumi never quite understood how; making him walk out of that well of darkness, making him eat, making him smile, even if it was fake as fuck and even she could see it. Living, too. For Megumi, it was just the mechanism of his body, making him breath, making him move. He never understood how Tsumiki could see such beauty in a heart, in a pair of lungs, in a brain. He never understood how Tsumiki could find joy in breathing and purely existing in the world. 

When Tsumiki started to die, Megumi was the one who pried Gojo out of his sadness, because she wasn’t there to do it any longer. He could use Gojo’s language about it, if he wanted; Tsumiki was sick, Tsumiki was recovering, Tsumiki was resting. 

But the plain truth is that she was dying, just like his mother was dying, just like, maybe, his father was; if he wasn’t in some small village, spending his days with his wife and the new son he chose above him. If he ever fixed his life enough to start again, that is.  

The truth was that all of them were dying; Gojo, Tsumiki, his father, him.  

He could have done it to help; he could have done it because Gojo loved Tsumiki as much as he loved him, as much as Megumi loved her. That was his daughter, too. And he was losing her. 

But Megumi was selfish. He didn’t pull Gojo out of his sickness because of compassion, or love or selflessness– 

He only did it because if Gojo was there, too, maybe he wouldn’t have to carry the weight of Tsumiki’s sickness all on his own. He did it because he was selfish and a coward. 

And because he was selfish and a coward, he never asked Gojo why he used to lock himself in his room one December before Tsumiki’s death and embrace the picture of a man he never saw before; with long dark hair and violet eyes, weeping like a little boy.  

He never asked him, either, why he carried it around in his case every time he left Tokyo, like a treasure he could never leave behind. 

He never asked him a lot of things.  

He met Yuuji on a bright, yellow, and blue day.  

The light slipped through the leaves, the morning dew clang to the trees, and the sun hit Megumi’s nape every step of the way. A warm, precious day of summer; that’s why the streets were crowded, filled with people and families. One kid bumped Megumi’s hip and apologized, and looked puzzled at him as Megumi didn’t answer at all. 

It was a beautiful day. One of Tsumiki’s favorite days, probably. One of Gojo’s, too; the days he used to pull Megumi out of his room and force him to hang out in the living room, buying him ice cream, ruffling his hair. 

In winter days, he’d hug and cuddle him when the nights got cold. They had a heater and Megumi was fourteen, but Tsumiki wasn’t home, and Gojo was big as the world with his arms around him. Megumi would pretend he wasn’t crying, and Gojo would pretend not to feel the tears on his skin, and every night he’d love him a little more. 

Megumi thought, superficially, an afterthought more than anything else, maybe I should have done it in winter. Maybe. Now, he’d never know. 

The water was always clean under the bridge, somehow; Megumi used to ask Tsumiki why, then asked Gojo, and stopped altogether when their answers were silly and stupid. Well, Gumi, you see; us Japanese folks have our souls so pure and bright the water is crystalline, too!  

Hey, why are you frowning, little old man?  

Why would they say now, if he asked? If he could ask.  

If he could ask... 

Maybe he’d be grateful; to have their silliness in his life, the way they approached it. God knows –if there is one, with the way he took Megumi’s life three times in a row– he needed it. 

God knows he needed it, then.  

The water was clean; maybe Tsumiki would like to take a dip, wherever she is. 

Maybe. 

“Hey! Hey, dude, you dropped your phone,” he didn’t. He left it there on purpose, but how could he say that to a random guy passing by? How could he explain why he was there, on a beautiful, golden day of summer... “It’s a nice one, too. Wouldn’t want to lose it, right?”  

The result of Gojo’s work, of Gojo’s time, of Gojo’s presence. 

How could that stuff remain when all the rest of him was gone, he wondered. It didn’t make sense at the time. It never made sense; how Gojo and the most precious things about him were gone, but the useless, materialistic stuff stayed. It’d probably never make sense; Megumi was that kind of pessimistic. That’s why he had Tsumiki and Gojo to counter it.  

He’d be gone, too. Someday –right now– and all that would be left of him would be shoes, notebooks and regret. If he was any more of a man, the man that Tsumiki always needed, maybe he’d leave a legacy behind; laughter, comfort, love. Megumi didn’t feel any of that stuff since she left, or before. He didn’t feel himself capable of it.  

He was ten inches up and the wind was hitting his face, pushing him off, pulling him in. Tsumiki loved the breeze. Tsumiki found beauty among the most ugly, crude things in life. Even him. Especially him. 

The sun was facing him, drowning his sight in goldens and yellows, and he turned around, apology in his tongue– but for what, exactly? He should apologize to Nobara; for lying to her, for hiding stuff. For forcing her to know his destiny across a screen and being a coward, instead of just telling her. I’m killing myself. 

I don’t want to live anymore, but those were things she already knew, things he already told her or tried to, and she understood with one look. 

But maybe, just maybe, she never thought Megumi would ever do something like it. The thought made him nauseous. Too messed up to live, too coward to die.  

Well, then, who’s right, now?  

He was facing the sun, and he turned around, and the sun was facing him, again.  

But there was only one yellow sun in their blue sky; everyone knew it, and Megumi knew it, too. Maybe the pills were messing with his head; maybe what Tsumiki and Gojo had started was ending, thanks to medication and sleepless night and another prescription, and another one, and another one; this should make you feel better. This should help with your nightmares. If you dream of them again, call me, okay? We’ll fix your dose. 

Doped, lonely and an orphan for the second time. How pathetic that could be?  

The sun smiled at him; he couldn’t know it for sure, his face white and yellow and golden, but he just knew. Deep in his soul. He felt his warmth.  

“How about this? I just got out of work.” The sun said, “Wanna grab some lunch? It’s on me.” 

Lunch.  

Right, it was time for lunch. His stomach was screaming at him. 

He was up on a bridge during lunch. Wonder what the kids would think if they saw his body down there.  

It’s been months since that, and Megumi can’t quite recall what he was thinking that day; Yuuji asks him, grinning wide and bright like the sun itself, and he always tells him don’t know, that you were pretty. 

Yuuji was more than pretty; he was beautiful. Sweaty, bruised, beaten up by life and punches and other men. More beautiful than life itself, or the sun above their heads. Though he never managed to tell him that, to find the words to tell him how gorgeous he had found him since the very first moment he laid eyes on him.  

Megumi stepped back from the bridge and followed the sun closely. 

Later that day, he fell in love. 

“What do you think, when you think of them?” 

“I don’t know, what should I think? I think that they’re dead.” 

“That’s quite simplistic, Megumi.” 

“It is what it is.” 

“Have you managed to forgive them?” 

“I have nothing to forgive. I think they died, not that they killed themselves.” 

“Don’t you think Gojo did it, somehow, out of the guilt that you told me about? The crying, the man in the picture–” 

“Go fuck yourself.” 

“Now, there’s no need for that.” 

“He was my dad.” 

The door opens; not quietly, yet trying to be. Megumi would have let it slide like a hose on a slippery plastic summer, always quickly forgiven, if he were to be asleep. If he were to be ignorant of Yuuji’s late whereabouts, and the way he’d dodge his face when coming back home. 

But he’s not. 

He’s not.  

He’s sitting on their couch, going through the pages of some old book from Yuuji’s grandfather. Too shy and ashamed to grab his stuff, that man’s stuff, so important for Yuuji’s life until what’s mine is yours, baby. Go on. I’m sure he’d have loved you, and then all Megumi did was go through Yuuji’s life, Yuuji’s space, Yuuji’s heart. 

Yuuji doesn’t stop on his way from the door to the kitchen, just tenses, and has the shame to look surprised and embarrassed and regretful. All things that latch at Megumi’s heart. 

“You still up, baby?” He says, a soft murmur of stupid words and even stupider feelings. Why am I still here? Haven’t you got enough? But the thought of saying that to Yuuji and returning with the confirmation of it hurts more than the frustration and acid bubbling in his throat, filling the box of his ribs; drowning him, making it hard to breathe.  

Yuuji walks closer, big hand draping over the curve of Megumi’s flushed, bruised neck, pressing his mouth to his temple with nothing but devotion. He catches the slightest scent of iron in him; clinging to his clothes, his work uniform, his very being. Sometimes he wishes he’d come back smelling like a whore, a slut; of perfume and bad decisions and the idea that he got enough from Megumi, and then prefers this.  

“Sorry, sweetness.” He sounds regretful. He means it, which is the worst part of this all, “I really am. Lost track of time. I messed up, didn’t I? Told you I’d be back soon and broke my promise. My baby is mad at me, yeah? Hurt your feelings.” 

“It’s okay,” Megumi mumbles back, shame bubbling in his throat and heat pooling in his guts. He doesn’t say anything about it. The iron, the bruises, the glint in Yuuji’s eyes, of rapture and exhilaration and whatever he finds out there that he can’t find with Megumi. 

He hopes it’s drugs; hopes it’s bad company, Hakari’s influence. Hopes he can pull him right out of it. Lies to himself. 

Yuuji is only satisfied after a long string of mumbled apologies, Megumi’s face damp with the weight of his kisses and his regret, like the summer rain of the month they fell in love. He wants to cling to him and make him stay, make him forget about other vices, and stay with Megumi. 

Megumi watches as he walks away, clinging to his bag as if it was the most precious thing in the world. 

The dim light of their kitchen washes over Yuuji like winter rain and highlights the crimson peaks on his knuckles. The heavy weight of his gym bag. 

Megumi closes his eyes and leans back against the couch, feeling suddenly tired. 

“Megumi, baby,” Yuuji says, voice drifting from there to here, as if in a dream. Megumi can close his eyes tighter and pretend he’s eight, lightweight and lonely, pretending to be asleep as Gojo tugs him by his knees and carries him to bed. Yuuji does that, too. Sometimes. “You know where our saw is?” a pause, rummaging. 

“What for?” Megumi says, the tiredness slipped deep into his bones. 

“Stubborn branch downstairs. Pissing off all the neighbors,” then, “just tryna be nice.” 

Megumi doesn’t mention how he could just tear it apart with his bare hands; how he’s big and broad and strong, swallowing all of his thoughts like syrup. 

He doesn’t mention, either, how there’s not a branch; how he used the stairs today, and it was all clear. 

He doesn’t mention a lot of stuff. 

He hums and tilts his head, looking at Yuuji through the skinny slits of his eyes, watching the way his back ripples and moves like the ocean. 

And where is that saw, anyway? 

“Did you check under the bathroom counter?” He mutters, closing his eyes, pressing his thighs together. 

“There? Man, we gotta move it.” 

“Kinda a hazard.” a breath, “and don’t call me man, I've sucked your cock.”  

Luckily, Yuuji laughs at that. Finds Megumi prickliness endearing and cute instead of obnoxious. Likes how weird he is, the kind of things that made people despise him when he was little. 

The saw is, indeed, under the bathroom counter; he knows this by hearing Yuuji’s triumphant hum, walking over to him to kiss his forehead –“good job, cutie. You, and that smart head of yours”–, walking over to the door. 

Megumi opens his eyes and doesn’t mention that he doesn’t need his work bag to take a branch out of the way. 

Doesn’t mention a thing. 

Instead– 

“Fuck me when you’re back.” He announces, don’t ask; he doesn’t ask anymore, he just says what he wants, and Yuuji follows measure. 

He hears him laugh, hears him snicker. Not at him, with him. Absolutely in love.  

“Will do, baby.” And that’s it; Megumi’s blood and heart souring through the skies. 

Yuuji walks out the door, and he wonders if their old, rusty saw that they need to change can cut through bone. 

 
“Would you call him your father, then?” 

“Don’t know. Never did it when he was alive.” 

“The distance between you, then?” 

“He wasn’t my dad.” 

“How do you call it when a man cuddles you, feeds you, takes care of you?” 

“I don’t know. A good man.” 

“And an older man, someone that doesn’t need to, but wants to?” 

“Don’t know,” it’s the truth, ugly between them, “my dad never did. Ditched me with his second wife. Never stayed long enough for me to remember if he ever did.” 

“Take care of you?” 

“Love me. Probably didn’t, anyway.” 

“And Satoru did?” 

“Who knows,” then, “maybe.” Yes. 

Megumi’s finger traces the lines, as if writing them himself. 

Yuuji’s body under him, rippling, moving like the ocean... 

The ink on his tanned skin, tainted black on golden. 

He wraps his fingers around his bony wrist, squeezes until it dents and turns pink under his touch, “you like it?” 

Megumi blinks at it. The word imprinted forever on his skin, right above his heart. Blessing. 

No one would think about it too times; no one would doubt its existence there, intertwined on Yuuji’s chest. And if they did, they'd think he was talking about a girl, anyway. 

No one would see it, but Yuuji fights all the time, and Megumi imagines him, sweaty and shirtless, hands covered in gloves and blood and blessing on his heart. 

He nods, pressing one finger down the ink. Yuuji chuckles. 

“It’s my lucky charm.” 

What a lucky charm, then. 

Yuuji comes back home smelling like death, holding his shoulders up like an executioner would. He tries to clean the saw and can’t, afraid that people might see the crimson tears dropping across its teeth.  

He was sloppy today. Foolish, maybe. But isn’t this the point of everything? To learn? Practice makes perfection, or so his grandfather used to say. If he only could see what Yuuji was trying so hard to perfect. 

Anyhow, the trace is splintered across the river in black bags; no fingerprints to see, no face to recognize, no body parts to match.  

None of his fingerprints, either. 

He walks to the bathroom and drops the saw under the counter. Will wash it tomorrow.  

Megumi is no longer on their couch, but stretched in their bed, long legs going for miles. The tip of his toes caressing the edge of their mattress, where Yuuji has crawled over him, curled over him, made him cry. 

Basking in his attention, like a cat with its tummy facing the warm light of the sun. 

Yuuji slides over to the bed, catches the underside of his knees, and drowns between his open legs, drinking the weeping pleasure cupped between his thighs and the whimpers stumbling out of his lips like the symphony of death. 

“Do you think you’re sick, Megumi?” 

“Why am I here, if not?” 

“I don’t think you’re sick. I don’t think you have to be fixed.” 

“That’s lovely to hear. Really comforting.” 

“Therapy doesn’t fix anything. Therapy doesn’t fix you up, it gives you the tools to try–” 

“I think you have given me jack shit, actually.” 

[...]  

“Is this about Yuuji?” 

“Who’s talking about Yuuji?” 

“Just so you know... Love isn’t saving, Megumi. Love is part of the process, but not the whole process.” 

“Funny. Met him for a few weeks and has done more than you in five years of therapy. Does it shame you, that your degree sits prettily catching smoke and dust because it’s useless?” 

“It’s not a linear process, Megumi. You lost your dad, lost your sister...” 

“I know that. I’m not stupid.” 

“–But what you feel for Yuuji (though beautiful, it may be) is not the solution. Therapy is. Treatment is.”  

[...] 

“I think we’re done here, Dr. [  ].” 

“Are we, now?” 

“Yes, we are.” 

“Megumi, I really saw advance in you–” 

“I didn’t. That’s why I’m leaving. You’re a shitty psychologist, Dr. Never knew why I was so fucked up. What a waste of time.” 

“... Don’t you think that what you feel for Yuuji doesn’t fall in the categorization of love, even if it feels so, but on obsession, let’s say?” 

“Doctor.” 

“If you talk about Yuuji again, I’ll kill you.” 

Megumi was sick. 

He didn’t need a doctor to tell him so; he just knew it.  

There was so much stuff he could say about his childhood of why and how and when he got sick; he just didn’t remember all that. And maybe he could blame his father –not the one who died after Tsumiki; the one who took him to school and drove him to get Kuro and Shiro when he was a kid, the one who coddled him and held him and died without ever telling him if he loved him as much as he loved the man with violet eyes, but the one who left without saying goodbye; the one who preferred his second wife over him. Not even his first wife, maybe he’d have understood that–, he could blame his absence and the old, dusty memories he had of him, of cigarettes butts and negligence. But truly, he didn’t think his father was to blame. 

No one was to blame. Megumi was born like that. Rotten, wrong, unequivocally crooked. 

And he knew it then, that appointment he took with Gojo by his side; the dark shades of his glasses –always full of pretenses, always full of shit– uncapable to cover the way his eyes glinted at him; blue and bright and concerned. 

Megumi was sick. Just like Gojo was sick, like his mother was sick before him; like the father who gave him his last name and never came back. 

Megumi was sick. 

And Yuuji was sick, too. 

And when he dipped in and tasted the sickness in his veins, it tasted like divinity on his tongue. 

The door opens behind him. He doesn’t stop chopping the vegetables of tomorrow’s lunch, even as the struggle gets louder, even as one loud blow strikes down and quiets it down altogether. 

Megumi scowls. 

“Don’t ruin the floor.” 

“Yes, yes.” 

“Please, help me! Please–” Yuuji’s hand connects with his nose in a blur; blood on the couch, on their nice, wooden floors. Megumi blinks at it and looks away, staring at the water. Is it boiling already? 

Yuuji clicks his tongue, the clean hand –though it’s covered in the man’s blood; in Megumi’s spent, from before he went out to catch today’s prey– wrapped around his neck like a vice; like the hangman’s noose. 

He wishes to be on the end of it; to be on his knees, bloody of Yuuji’s hits and violence, bloody of sin. 

“Don’t be too loud,” he chimes, thumbs running across his neck, pressing on the pulse point until the man cries and weeps and begs for forgiveness, prays to a god that’s not there and that’s not Yuuji, “the walls are thin, y’know. You’re going to get me on trouble, man.” 

“Please! I don’t know what I did! I don’t know why–” his eyes fall on Megumi; big, shiny. The eyes of a rat. 

Yuuji strikes him in the ear, and Megumi winces. 

“Don’t talk to him. Don’t look at him. Don’t even breathe the same air as him. You get it?” 

The man weeps, wets his pants. Megumi scowls at the pond he’s going to clean later. Or maybe he’ll force Yuuji to. After all, this is his doing, not his. He prefers smaller prey. 

“Please. Please. Please.” 

“That’d sound pretty,” Yuuji says, “if you were my type.” 

Because Megumi always begs, always cries, always whimpers for more. 

Megumi turns around and slides the chopped vegetables in the pan with a swift, quick turn of his wrist, the sound and smell of the oil masquerading the man’s shrieks, the scent of his urine and his fear, even for just a moment. 

“You like little girls?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about–” 

“Don’t lie to me. Your stepdaughter. Small for her age. Do you like it?” Yuuji says, “what you do to her?” 

The man weeps. That’s all he needs to hear. 

Megumi hears the door opening, the sound of stumbling. Yuuji closing it behind him. 

Not even with that they can totally drown the man’s cries. Maybe they’ll say they were watching a movie.  

Or maybe they’ll move out; nicer place, big windows. An attic.  

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll never do it again, okay? I’m really sorry, I swear.” 

“Then what? You get out and do it again? I’m not an idiot.” 

“Please! Please! Please don’t–” 

“That’s what men like you do. Always get out, always do it worse. What’s the point in arguing, anymore? You’ll keep doing it, I’ll keep getting rid of ones like you.” There’s the drag of something metallic against their floors, “I’m just a cog.” 

Megumi turns the blender on right when the man screams, bone cracking and booming through their small apartment. 

Man, he hopes Yuuji makes it hurt. 

He opens the door behind Yuuji twenty-seven minutes after it’s done. Not the first hit, but the dragged suffering, the screams that shook their home walls and down to his core. 

Yuuji is standing in the middle of the room, covered in blood and gore, hands digging on brains and bone... 

Megumi’s shirt slides off his skin like water, pearly skin flashing and highlighted against maroon. 

“Well?” Yuuji’s eyes, sharp and shining with the thrill of the hunt, the thought of hurting; of hurting Megumi, too.  

His jacket is off, then. Peeled down like washing the sin from his skin, Megumi walking over to him, throwing away inhibitions and pride. Why didn’t you ask me to join? Yuuji has his own rituals, his own traditions; the way he skins them and hurts them and guts them, dragging it as much as he can. That’s his, not Megumi’s.  

Maybe, someday, when Megumi finds his own way of how and when and where, Yuuji will invite him to join in the fun.  

Megumi’s hand finds his torso; the muscles there, rippled from pleasure and adrenaline and pain, painted deep crimson with the scratches that beast put there– 

He can put his own there, too. Make it everlasting.  

He pinches the sore muscle, exhilarated by the hiss that leaves Yuuji’s lips and the interested twitch in his trunks. 

“Well?” 

“Well, what?” 

“Well?” 

Yuuji stares at him, unamused. 

His big hand envelopes his neck, his whole soul, and Megumi tastes the remaining traces of blood in his tongue, his gums, his throat. He bites around it and giggles, drunk in his pain, Yuuji’s hands deep in his hair and pulling him in. 

“I have a petition.” 

“Gotta fill the formulary for that,” Yuuji says, later, when they’re twisted in sheets, his leg trapped between his thighs. He laughs at his own joke, pressing a deep, loud kiss on Megumi’s cheek, “just joking, my love. What is it?” 

His finger draws the path in his chest; the man’s nails, his, Yuuji’s old scars. 

The blood in their sheets, from the man in their spare room and that he drew out of Megumi, as patient as he’d with an orgasm. 

Megumi hums, settles on his chest, hearing the steady, deep rhythm of his heart under his ears. 

“Remember my psychologist?”