#KHRONIKA.

He’s in the midst of removing his apron when Yuiji slides over and he only sees his hand move in a blur. Like slapping a mosquito out of the air, Sukuna’s hand shoots forward. If he simply smacked him away, Yuji would endure the pain if it meant he could snatch a slice of crispy pork, so Sukuna grabs his wrist mid-air and grips it tightly. He stares at his brother, unimpressed, as he gradually increases the strength of his grip. Sukuna doesn’t have to say anything, Yuji knows he only has seconds to apologize and back off. 

As these seconds pass, Yuji’s friend catches Sukuna’s attention, and maybe it’s because he’s annoyed with Yuji that he ends up speaking harshly to him as well. 

“Hey,” Sukuna’s tone demands attention—more than attention, it demands obedience. “Take this to the table before this idiot gets his disgusting fingers all over it.” 

With that, he turns his attention back to his brother. His face is set in mild disgust. 

yuji itadori is many things. loud, obnoxious, loyal to a fault, and — most importantly — megumi's best friend. megumi wishes he could say he was surprised to see yuji behaving like an idiot, but he could never tell that to someone with a straight face; or, at the very least, could never do it without feeling an accusatory tingling in his fingertips that registers as mild panic, wondering if anyone might parse his attempted deception. and so he stares, blankly; unfazed and unbothered. that is, until yuji itadori's older brother's voice demands things from him in a firm, commanding rasp. it shakes something in him.

he's never been sure of what to make of yuji's older brother — from the stories yuji told, he could glean that sukuna is strict in some ways, and completely uninterested in others. he knows that they were left to themselves from a fairly young age, and so sukuna stepped into the role of guardian. he knows sukuna hates junk food. he knows — now — that the hills and valleys of sukuna's muscles are covered in traditional tattoos. that they span, it would seem from the hints the loose tank-top he's wearing provides, from his wrists, over a strong chest, and up his neck; that his voice is deep and demanding, brooking no argument. the gravel of it... megumi wonders, fleetingly, if he might find cigarettes laying out somewhere around the apartment. the flushed tips of his ears feel damning, regardless.

swallowing thickly, he stares for only a moment longer before he stutters into action, eyes darting from yuji's confined wrist to the serving plates. megumi takes a moment to bow, even if it isn't particularly deep, to say, "yes, itadori-san." before he's moving, swiveling around the brothers, steps light as he grabs two or three plates at a time to take them to the dinner table where they are placed with a satisfying rumble of porcelain on wood. it doesn't take long before the food is laid out, the smell of it admittedly mouth-watering. it's only as he sits, waiting, that he feels either a little stupid or horrendously out of place.

It was how they worked: a jibe here, a face pulled there, a shove, something snatched from the other. He'd had Sukuna chasing him through the apartment more times than he could count after pushing his luck. Yuji wouldn't have had it another way; not between the two of them, anyway.

"He's a guest, Sukuna!" He reproached, wrist still trapped in his Onii-san's unwavering, somewhat crushing, grip. He wiggled his arm, testing the grip unnecessarily, knowing he wouldn't get loose until Sukuna wanted him to be.

His eyes dart to Megumi as he agrees and collects the plates, hearing the 'Itadori-san' and fake gagging at the sound.

"That makes him sound like he's an adult!" Yuji's face wrinkles. "Sukuna-san is fine, right?"

She pauses, smoothing a crease from his collar, her touch feather-light but fussing as always. “Whether it’s you or her that survives, District 12 will be… handsomely rewarded.” The confidence in her words falters just slightly — only someone looking closely would notice. Even she wasn’t sure anymore, not after everything. Not after what the Capitol had already done.

“You’re a very —” Effie pats his shoulder delicately, adjusting the cut of his suit jacket. “Handsome young man. And you’re clever, too. Articulate. Talented.” Her painted smile wavers just a touch. “Use what you have. The Capitol responds to charm and tragedy in equal measure.”

Then, her voice softens, no longer the glittering escort but a woman who’s seen too many children thrown to the wolves. “But if you truly want her to survive… then show them. Show them the depth of your devotion. Make them believe in it. That you would fight with her—for her.”

There’s a flicker of something in her eyes then. A silent plea. Don’t let this be for nothing.

— "maybe district 12 will have a chance at winning this year."

but not me. it was never going to be me.

peeta nods silently at effie's words. of course she would want him to think of himself, everyone else was only thinking of themselves, but none of them felt the way he did about their tribute partner. he lets out a long breath, secure in thr knowledge that he won't make it back to twelve. it doesn't make the entire thing any less terrifying, but he knows his role in this year's game, at least.

it was katniss' prickly nature that would be her downfall. maybe effie was right; maybe he needed to spin a new narrative to show that there was a softer side.

"she needs a better narrative." he murmurs thoughtfully.

peeta snaps back to attention, hearing once more of the capitol's hospitality. He doesn't sneer like katniss would have; if he's giving up his life for the entertainment of strangers who live in luxury, then why shouldn't he enjoy those luxuries while he can?

He watches them walk off unceremoniously, Yuji tugging the other along. As they trail off, Sukuna’s eyes linger on Fushiguro. Impressive. He managed to stifle his brother’s resistance by barely speaking a full sentence. Maybe he’ll like this kid. 

          Sukuna gets to work on three side dishes to make up for the smaller servings of pork. Marinated cucumbers, spinach ohitashi, and a quick zucchini corn stir fry. It only takes him thirty minutes as he moves from pan to cutting board to cupboard seasonings, mumbling through barely comprehensible death metal lyrics shouted in shrill screams that fill the kitchen along with the hiss of oil and clinking cutlery.  

He turns the music off when he’s done, walking to the edge of the kitchen while stirring sesame oil into the bowl of thinly sliced cucumbers. 

his thoughts snap back to the textbook — one of three — currently in his lap, all five senses snapping back to the sound of yuji's pencil jotting things down over index cards even if he's grumbling to himself about it; whether griping or about the subject matter, megumi can't quite make out. there's a sense of what he certainly can't call pride, but a something that whispers in the back of his mind, the spark of recognition behind green eyes. usually he's half fighting with yuji to focus damn it, but today seems easier.

he reaches for the can of sparkling water that advertises lemon & lime and leaves only the faint trace of the hint of the idea on the tongue. "sukuna's not huge on junk," was the simple explanation offered to him before they settled in, and it was more than enough for megumi. he's happy just to feel the way the bubbles pop and tickle his tongue, fizzing all the way down as he swallows. at least it's not flavorless and flat.

time ticks ever onward, but he's pretty sure only about thirty minutes pass before he hears the deep rasp of a now-familiar voice filling the hall with what, to megumi — who is admittedly quiet by nature — sounds like he's more than used to doing. he blinks, turning his head to address yuji on the bed. "i take it this is typical," he observes, no judgment in his voice but rather a quiet curiosity. even when he could've claimed a better home life, his sister never—

thank god for vending machines.

he agonises and grumbles his way through studying; not even bothering to try to distract or coerce megumi, knowing sukuna could come check on them or something adult like that, and give him grief for not taking his studies seriously. so instead he bides his time, letting megumi have his study time, until the familiar sound of sukuna's voice comes from the hallway, allowing yuji to drop his pencil aside carelessly as he lifts his head immediately.

"COMING!" he bellows in return, unhurried and casual in the normality of their way of communication.

his gaze moves to his friend's dark head as he speaks and yuji smiles, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly, his voice now a normal speaking level once again. "yeah. i mean, he cooks, so it's only fair right? doesn't mean i don't give him a hard time about it though." he grins, rising to his feet and stretching his arms upward -- something in his lower back pops satisfyingly. "c'mon. you'll like sukuna's food. he's a damn good cook; but don't tell him i said that."

he motions for megumi to follow and makes his way back down the hall to the kitchen, his gaze on the food from the moment he walks in. "god, i thought we'd never get to eat." he whines pathetically, as if he wasn't perfectly fine two seconds beforehand. "first no snacks, then we had to wait forever to eat." he collects the cutlery with a grumble, chopsticks, spoons, and the like, shuffling over to the table to place it all down in a setting for three. once that's accomplished, he sneaks to his brother's side, eyeing the food and trying his luck at stealing some from under sukuna's nose.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Rogers,” Tony scoffed. “Not even that couch is long enough for those legs. You’d wake up folded like a malfunctioning Transformer.” He waved it off like he’d just settled the matter conclusively. “It’s fine. It’ll be like a sleepover. You know, awkward, vaguely regrettable, zero emotional damage.” He gestured at the bed, sprawling and far too plush for the situation. “We’ve got room. I mean, this thing could fit Banner in full Hulk mode and still have space for throw pillows.” A beat, then his mouth twitched. “And also, if housekeeping wanders in and my husband is exiled to the couch, that’s… not exactly selling our domestic bliss, Captain America.”

Tony watched Steve take a glass and raised his own in response, a half-second delayed toast to their brand-new marriage. Sure. Yep. Nailed it already. If anyone asked, this was exactly how confident, well-adjusted newlyweds behaved.

He didn’t actually know how they were supposed to pull this off. Ordinarily, he could rely on bravado, sarcasm, and a carefully calibrated amount of flirting to paper over the cracks - a system that had served him very well over the years. But this? This was fragile. One misplaced look, one moment where Steve forgot to blink like a normal human being, and the whole thing went up in flames.

Which, honestly, tracked. When did their plans ever run smoothly? How many times had they argued over tactics, morals, whose fault literally everything was? They were spectacularly good at disagreeing. Champion-level, even. So really, in hindsight, it made a disturbing amount of sense that they’d been picked for this. The domestic disputes were already baked in.

“That’s what I’ve been doing since we got here, Rogers,” Tony said lightly. “Please, try to keep up, honey.”

And then Steve said that.

Tony absolutely did not handle it well. He inhaled his champagne like his lungs had personally betrayed him, coughing hard enough that his vision blurred. “I’m-” cough. “I’m sorry, what?” No. No, that couldn’t be right. He had misheard. There was simply no universe where that sentence had come out of Steve Rogers’ mouth.

He waved a hand, half choking, half gesturing, as though physically rewinding reality might help. “Back up there, Captain Speedy. Just - back it up.” Another cough. “You think I need a hickey?” His voice jumped despite himself, immediately followed by a laugh that landed a little too sharp, a little too fast to be real. He stared at Steve, his brain very clearly stuck buffering. Cool. Great. Married undercover. Excellent plan. And for the first time since they’d walked in, Tony Stark had absolutely no witty comeback ready to go.

Tony had a point about the size of the bed at least, and how it would look if he was found on the couch while they were meant to be on their honeymoon. So there really wasn't much choice in the matter.

Pull it together, Rogers. You've been through worse things than sharing a bed with Tony Stark.

He had the strange feeling that Howard would have found this hilarious, all things considered.

Given Tony's reputation, Steve hadn't expected the reaction he had; his blue eyes widened with concern as Tony coughed up his inhaled champagne. With that kind of reaction anyone would have assumed that Steve had suggested they actually sleep together. Though, perhaps they shouldn't rule out that they were being watched, even if it wasn't inside the room itself.

Steve rose his brows and lowered his chin while looking at the other in the way that said 'are you deliberately being stupid or is your genius level brain malfunctioning?'. If it wasn't so humiliating to be talking about this, even Steve might have found humour in it.

As far as introductions go, this can’t be his worst one. Still, unlike with Yuji, he can’t decipher the look on Megumi’s face– if he’s openly staring because of the silly picture Sukuna paints in bubblegum pink strokes (the apron wasn’t his purchase, it was left behind by the last cook in the house, their father) or because of the shocking resemblance to Yuji sans the tattoos. Or maybe it’s something else altogether, but Sukuna’s concern about this matter only goes as far as how fast he can make Yuji eat his self-satisfied grin. After all, the occasion to embarrass the brat in front of his friends is so rare.

the hand gripping the strap of his schoolbag tightens.

green eyes glance between the two of them, nails scratching lightly at the fabric of the strap, the inside of his bottom lip finding itself caught between two teeth. it's sore already, from his nasty habit of gnawing at it. at least the attitude's helped to calm his nerves. with a quiet breath, he turns to face yuji more directly, stepping slowly in an effort to abide by his brother's... request. "we have a lot to get done," he states what he knows with little character behind the words; thinks he'd make something up for them to get done if he had to in order to escape the present situation. "you can pine for potato chips while we go over our notes," he offers, words a little sharper between his teeth to emphasize let's leave.

he'd have continued to comment too, and whined; 'wasn't it enough that he had to suffer through an assignment, did he really have to lack such a simple joy in life? snacks were his one vice, sukuna!' if megumi hadn't interrupted him with a very pointed look and tone.

yuji huffed, his lips downturned in a dramatic frown. "you can't mention chips when we can't have any! that's like, torture!" still, he wasn't going to get on megumi's nerves over this particular subject. his next words were grumbled, even as he shot his brother a somewhat pathetic expression. "my room's this way." he shuffled down the hall, his hand wrapped around megumi's wrist once again, as if pulling him along was his own idea and not a demand from both his brother and his friend.

he'd like to think the state of his room was expected. was it tidy? nope. was it a trash heap? nah. but were there random items distributed here and there haphazardly, seemingly placed without a second thought for where they ought to go? yeah. it worked for yuji though. he knew vaguely where stuff was, and he hadn't managed to lose anything too important yet, so why change what wasn't broken, right?

he gestured vaguely to the room at large; bed, wardrobe, desk, bookshelves, a side table, and a small collection of anime characters that he had collected over the years here and there. some were in worse shape than others. "make yourself at home. d'you want me to get you a drink of anything?"

He could practically feel Steve cursing his name six ways to Sunday, probably extending it to the entire Stark bloodline while he was at it. Honestly, Tony hadn’t expected him to play along so easily, he’d figured the Captain would keep quiet, grit his teeth, and save the lecture for when they hit the room.

"Oh? Getting into the honeymoon spirit already, sweetheart?" Tony shot back with a grin that was far too pleased with itself. "I don’t think our lovely receptionist needs the mental image." He tossed her a wink, earning a flustered blush as she slid over their keycards with trembling hands, mumbling something about hoping the suite was to their liking. Tony pocketed them smoothly. "Let’s just hope the bed’s rated for... enthusiasm." Her blush deepened and she quickly excused herself, making Tony chuckle.

When they reached the suite, Tony let out a low whistle. The view over the balcony was spectacular. He dropped his bags and looked around. Fury hadn’t spared a credit. Probably pulled it straight from one of Tony’s own accounts. Typical.

He pushed open the bedroom door and laughed outright. The bed was strewn with rose petals, and of course there was only one. He hadn’t expected otherwise - they were supposed to be newlyweds, after all. "Well, this is romantic," he muttered, stepping inside and taking it all in. The air even smelled faintly floral, like the room had been sprayed within an inch of its life. "Rose petals, mood lighting... probably some overpriced champagne chilling in the minibar."

He tossed his jacket onto the bed, scattering a few petals to the floor. They stuck to the leather like confetti at a wedding gone wrong. "Looks like you’re actually bunking with me, Cap," he said, flashing a grin over his shoulder. "And fair warning, I’m a cuddler." The words came out easy, teasing, automatic. Easier to joke than acknowledge the weird knot in his chest - the one that always tightened in quiet rooms like this. Too quiet. Too still. He busied himself with the champagne instead, because at least bubbles didn’t look at you like they expected something noble.

The suite was bigger than his apartment. He wasn't surprised by the luxury of it all, not with years of making appearances in the White House, living in the avengers facility, or surrounded by S.H.I.E.L.D. Steve was used to a certain level of showiness by those who thought that money talked: but money had never gained an ounce of respect from Steve.

He slowly followed behind Tony, letting the guy talk, knowing it was his own way of processing things. It was the pettles, as they scattered off of the bed and around the room, that finally broke Steve's silence.

"I can take the couch." He stood, one shoulder against the doorframe to the bedroom, pointing with his thumb back toward the living space.

He wasn't a big sleeper anyway: years of fighting and war had taken its toll on his mind — he might be at the peak of human physical performance but his mind was still human at its core. He'd gone through a lot: loss, love, fighting, survival, recovery, injury. The good and the bad. But he was only human, and humans had flaws. He had ptsd which mostly came out in the form of insomnia or dreams that replayed parts of his past, sometimes in the exact way that they played out, other times changed to drag others into a place where they shouldn't have been. Always fighting. Always death. Always loss.

He watched as Tony popped the cork on the champagne, never one to pass on a drink, but also to keep up appearances. Steve wouldn't get even a buzz from the alcohol but he'd still drink a glass for housekeeping to see when they inevitably came in to straighten the place up.

Tony had a point: they definitely needed to be seen enjoying themselves in all the ways that newly married couples did. Drinking, luxurious meals, spas, pools, and generally being in a honeymoon shaped bubble. If they wanted to keep up appearances then they were going to have to make it believable.

Steve made his way over to the champagne, pouring himself a glass, only to take a large mouthful and place it back on the table he'd found it on. He wished he could get drunk simply so he didn't have to remember what he was about to say with such clarity.

𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄, it looked like your standard, overpriced, bougie couples retreat. Tucked away in the Swiss Alps — because of course it was — the place screamed exclusivity. The kind of place the ultra-rich flocked to so they could pretend to "reconnect with their souls" while sipping thousand-dollar green juice and taking selfies on glacier hikes. Definitely not Tony Stark's scene. Normally, he'd rather fake his own death than do goat yoga in matching robes.

But beneath all the wellness branding and curated Instagram aesthetics? Something much more interesting — and dangerous. A black market ring trafficking stolen Stark tech, using the retreat as its front. And the worst part? You couldn’t just stroll in, wave a platinum card, and demand the “Illicit Tech Trafficker's Couple’s Package.” No — the place was invite-only. Exclusive to a fault. Which meant: time to get creative.

Cue the plan. Elaborate. Tedious. Ridiculously unnecessary — until it worked. And then the invitation arrived.

To him. And Steve.

"Wait. People think we're a married couple?" Tony had blinked at the envelope like it might explode. "Okay, first of all, I do have taste. Second of all, no offense, Rogers, but you look like you iron your socks." He was already halfway into a martini by the time Fury dropped the mission briefing.

"Congratulations, newlyweds," Fury had said, deadpan. "Pack light. You're leaving for the Alps at dawn." Tony had groaned. Loudly. "This is karma for something, I know it. Was it the tower? The Ultron thing? The thing before the Ultron thing?"

Oh, they were going to die. Or worse — share a bed. "You better not snore, Rogers."

It wasn’t long before they were shoved into a sleek, overcompensating helicopter — matching rings catching the sunlight like some kind of joke. Courtesy of Fury, no doubt. Tony had one throwaway line about the married thing and suddenly it was “congratulations, Mr. and Mr. Rogers-Stark.” He was going to build a tiny drone just to flip Fury off from space.

The moment they touched down, it was chaos. Not the fun kind, either — the kind with aggressively smiling staff, champagne flutes thrust into their hands before their boots even hit the ground, and an itinerary so full of couple’s activities it might as well have been a hostage schedule.

"Book us for the couples massage," Tony said smoothly, barely glancing at the laminated horror in his hand. "Newlyweds, you know." He tossed a wink Steve’s way, fully aware the man was dying inside and possibly plotting his murder via protein powder sabotage. And then, just to twist the knife, he reached over and laced their fingers together. "Come on, my dear," he added, voice overly sweet and just shy of a dramatic swoon. "Let’s go see our love nest."

This was, decidedly, not the place Steve saw himself frequenting. He'd grown up poor and, following his years on ice, he had continued to live the same way in the modern day. It wasn't as though he made much money as a superhero either, though being dead and getting back pay from the government for being pronounced MIA and then eventually officially dead apparently granted you a sum of money large enough to stop you from suing the government for a number of reasons. Not that Steve would have - he'd made his choices. He'd donated most of the money, never really feeling as though he deserved it anyway.

Being as old as he was, there were certain things that had been surprising about the present day, though it had all been things he had been in support of: women's rights, equality, gay marriage, vaccines, and the like, each one a positive change in the name of the future that he had fought to protect during the war. Steve was proud of those movements which had helped the people that had been marginalised and mistreated before laws were passed in their favour. They were human rights. However, sometimes it was hard to put aside his learnt prejudice when it came to himself.

He had never considered 'coming out', though he knew of the good it would do for others like him who were wary of doing so. But Captain America had grown to be such a mantle when he had been in the ice that Steve Rogers was often overlooked in the eyes of the public: a heroic story told again and again, embellished here and there by those that had fought with him and passed on to the next generation as a daring tale that never had a person alive who was attached to it. Much like a crown, the mantle of Captain America was heavy, but Steve still held onto it, sometimes unsure who he really was without it.

So when Fury slapped down a mission brief in front of them, with Tony snarking and Fury calling them newly weds, it sent Steve through a small spiral before he managed to get a grip on himself. It was just as amusing that, given how much the pair of them bickered, something like this hadn't come up previously. There had only ever been the one "mom and dad are fighting again" comment, and even that had been a throw away comment by Barton.

Rings in place and mission in motion, stepping into the elaborate building was like being slapped with a bag of diamonds in the gut: disarming and nauseating. Of course, Tony was on top form, never one to be at a disadvantage and in his element enough to blend in with the rest. It was Steve who was going to sweat over this entire situation.

And Tony was going to make it as excruciating as physically possible for him.

Couples massage. Love nest.

Steve was going to have an aneurysm and internal gay panic all in the same sitting. He was never one to let Tony get away with his antics though, and Steve had already decided he would play just as well as Tony.

i'm  left  without  a  choice  and  without  a  doubt.

you  are  the  worst  kind  of  good  'cause  you're  not  even  great.

'cause  you  fight  to  save  lives,  but  won't  kill  and  get  the  job  done.

you  are  far  too  nice,  mercy  has  a  price.

unlike  you,  i've  got  no  mercy  left  to  give.

one murder makes a villain, but millions make a hero.

the  line  between  naiveté  and  hopefulness  is  almost  invisible.

so  close  your  heart,  the  world  is  dark  and  ruthlessness  is  mercy.

tell  me  you  did  not  know  that  would  happen.

what  kind  of  sick  coward  holds  back  his  power?

i've  played  your  game  and  won.

i  don't  wanna  hurt  you,  but  trust  me,  i've  come  prepared.

one  of  these  days  you'll  have  to  choose:  coward  or  killer?

what  makes  what  you  desire  just,  but  what  I  do  cruel?

you  break  the  rules  and  you  become  the  hero.  I  do  it,  and  I  become  the  enemy.  that  doesn't  seem  fair.

you  are  justifiably  angry,  you  had  to  make  a  terrible  sacrifice.

you  have  no  idea  how  reasonable  I've  been.

and  in  spite  of  your  hypocrisies  and  insults  I  have  begged  you  to  safely  get  out  of  my  way.

you  have  exhausted  my  patience.

even  now  -  what's  about  to  happen.  this  is  me,  being  reasonable.

let  the  past  die.  kill  it  if  you  have  to.

they  don't  deserve  our  help.  they  only  deserve  destruction.

you  can't  stop  what's  coming.

your  sacrifice  will  mean  our  survival.

it's  time  to  make  the  world  our  own  -  time  someone  put  them  in  their  place.

it's  about  wiping  them  out  and  taking  our  turn.

you  know  this  world  will  never  be  ours.

a  small  price  to  pay  for  salvation.

your bravery will not ease your pain.

just  remember  the  fire  that  burns  within  you,  the  fire  that  makes  you  who  you  are.

run.  run  away  and  never  come  back

 once  you  accept  that,  in  your  heart...you  will  know  peace.

let's not waste anymore of one another's time. we both know how this ends.