the most twisted curse of all

"thank you, mrs. hasegawa," you say, curling a warm hand around your husband's bicep, "but really, she gets it honest."

mrs. hasegawa looks on as you pat megumi's arm; he fidgets and squirms at the implied compliment, still adjusting to your newfound tendency of bragging about his fatherly capabilities. the hearts in mrs. hasegawa's eyes are unmistakable. she's trying not to swoon at the image of young, devoted love, but she's failing so hard, it seems like she's about to clasp her hands together and kick up one foot.

"oh, and she has this adorable habit—i'm not sure if the two of you were aware ... but, chie tends to personify objects that she's actively talking about. like yesterday, she was playing outside, and she was wondering if mister slide needed any sunscreen."

megumi's face flushes, and he turns his head to the side. he's trying to avoid a myriad of assaults at the moment; megumi doesn't want mrs. hasegawa to spot the furious blush on his cheeks, and her certainly has no interest in seeing your smug, shit-eating grin, because you happen to know exactly where chie's habit comes from.

a few months into your relationship, megumi had been remarking about an impending heatwave when he said: "seems like mister sun is really angry these days." back then, it had stopped you in your tracks; your megumi—gloomy, pessimistic, gentle, kindhearted megumi—has just called that giant, fiery ball in the sky 'mister sun'. and you never, ever let him live it down.

but, as much as you teased him for it, you prayed to the gods that he would slip up around your daughter and pass down that same, inexplicably cute habit. even at eight months pregnant, you still hauled yourself out of the house for hatsumode; megumi had fussed about your fingers, but you were determined to ask for one thing. please, if linguistic tendencies are at all inheritable—please let chie follow in her father's footsteps.

"ah yes," you nod, "ms. fujinuma informed us about another instance last week when we came to pick her up."

"we're trying to encourage her to use the correct terminology," megumi chimes in, scratching at the back of his neck. he flinches a bit and crinkles his nose when you jab him between the ribs, shooting you a biting glance.

"we're trying to savor it for as long as we can," you amend his previous statement.

megumi isn't sure if this 'we' includes him.

but, when chie bounds over to him with round cheeks and a bright smile reminiscent of your own, she launches herself into megumi's open arms. already talking at the speed of light, she doesn't wait for her father to catch up; instead, she simply trusts that he will understand. because he does. he always does. in fact, megumi was one of the first people who did—he translated her little kicks, knew exactly what each type of cry meant, and hung on to every piece of gibberish she spewed as a toddler.

upon exiting the building, megumi notes how the sky is a brilliant shade of blue; there is a soft breeze that ruffles her feathery black hair, and he can't help but place a swift kiss on her cheek.

"look, daddy!" she shuffles around in his hold and points upward; megumi follows the trajectory of her chubby finger to squint at the sky. "mister sun is happy ... he's smiling so big today!"

"i'm sure he is, baby," you say, pinching at her tummy and making her giggle.

"mhm," megumi nods, "daddy thinks so, too."

chie continues with her musings, bringing in character after character. mister sun, miss sky, mister bluejay, mister tow truck. by the time the three of you reach home, she has created a whole world in her head, and you and megumi listen to her gush about anything and everything.

when megumi catches your gaze again, the smile you offer him is softer—less 'i know you want to shrivel up and die right now', and more 'i'm thanking the gods that i can see you in her'.

as soon as she's occupied at the kitchen table with a color-by-number, you run the tips of your fingers over his cheekbones. he has some stubble growing in, but you don't mind. you never do. it makes your lips tingle as you pepper his face with kiss after kiss. when you reach ten, he starts laughing. it's a sound that comes from his belly, one that has become more and more common over the years.

"you're smiling so big," you murmur against his mouth.

toji hears your hesitance—the way you cut yourself off, the slow shuffling of your feet as you approach the door, the pause before you look through the peephole. the surprise must be overwhelming because you gasp, and a rush of shame punches toji square in the stomach. his calloused fingers twitch, unsure of it all. the urge to run bubbles up in his chest again, but regret squeezes him like a vise, anchoring him where he stands.

he waits, not daring to breathe. then, after a few suffocatingly long minutes, the lock clicks, the handle turns, and the vault opens from the inside.

there are deep, dark circles carved into the spaces beneath your eyes, but your gaze is sharp and almost tactical, like you’re trying to mitigate the fallout of his unceremonious return. toji is thrown off balance by the way you analyze him. up and down and up and down—like he shouldn’t be here, like he’s a stranger to you, like he’s already been erased. he swallows hard, unfamiliar with the nervous beads of sweat welling up under his fringe. submitting to you in this way goes against his nature entirely. when he was a zenin, he would attack first and ask questions never, but as he stands before you awaiting your judgement, questions are the only things that fill his mind.

how have you been? has the brat started walking? what ever happened with the broken light bulb in the closet? did you miss me? did you want me to come back?

“toji …” you sigh, shoulders sagging under the weight of his name, “you look thinner.”

toji is still as he takes in your words. he’s never been very good with them, and now he can’t think of a single phrase that is good enough, that is sorry enough. it has been three months since the two of you last spoke, and toji hates that you’re still able to see him. he hates that you didn’t slam the door in his face and call him a good-for-nothing, deadbeat bastard. he hates that you have no mud to sling or curses to spit. because that can only mean one thing—you have been hopeful. to toji, hope is not something to hold out for. it is a forest fire that takes and takes and takes.

he grunts, looking away, “been workin’.”

“have you?” there is no scorn in your voice. it is passive, listless, tired.

silence smothers the dying embers of conversation, and toji stares at what you have become. a husk of the person he left three months ago, a ghost of someone bright and full of light. a warm summer breeze blows around him and into the apartment. you sway as though you are subject to the whims of the wind. in an instant, all the guilt he has stored away comes pouring out. it crashes into his chest, heavy and unforgiving. he tries to reason with his unbecoming—there wasn’t anything he could do, leaving is second nature to him—but, it is no use. this is his day of reckoning.

“he still points at your picture,” you say, gesturing inside with a flick of your eyes. “asks about you—for you.”

toji hums, “i told him to forget about me. whispered in his little ear before i left.”

“did you?”

toji nods, shifting his weight from foot to foot and trying to get a better look inside. blinded by contrition and a blazing heart, curiosity urges him forward, but your touch brings him to a halt. gentle hands press against the toned expanse of his abdomen; they push until he is at arm’s length once again. his jaw clenches and tension coils in his gut like a spring about to release. but, instead of fulfilling everyone’s expectations for him, toji takes a deep breath and steps back. your arms fall away from his body to land limp at your sides.

“really didn’t think he’d remember …” toji admits, “smart kid.”

“yeah.” a humorless chuckle trickles from your lips, “he loves anpanman and navy blue and he can’t sleep unless i put one of your old shirts on a pillow for him to hold.”

a white-hot column of pain spears toji through the sternum; his adam’s apple bobs and his eyes widen before he has a chance to tamp down the rush of emotion. this isn’t what he imagined when he had left. 

that night was cold, snow falling in sheets to blanket the ground. he had been thinking about it for days by then; he grew distant, stayed out later, lingered by the door. around midnight, he kissed your forehead, ran an uncharacteristically tender finger down the length of your face, and left everything else unsaid. as he made his way out, he stopped for a moment to look at his baby boy. soft, fat cheeks, long eyelashes that always made you a bit jealous, and a plump toddler tummy. toji’s feet faltered and his chest spasmed, but at the time, it wasn’t enough to make him stay. he had thought that leaving would make things simpler—believed that making a memory was easier than making a promise—but now, confronted with the reality of all he’d abandoned, the incessant beating of his heart told him otherwise.

“i don’t want to let you in, toji,” you say, not bothering to glance up at him, “but i will. if you ask.”

“can i—” toji begins, speaking around the lump threatening to form in his throat. “can i … come inside?”

his immediate willingness seems to stun you. your feet stutter as you move backwards, and you’re not quite sure where to put your hands. they twitch in the empty space like the limbs of a scared, cornered animal. toji notices the uncertainty that overtakes your body, and he pauses. he never wants to make you feel like this—uncomfortable, unsafe. his legs remain rooted in the ground about six inches from the front door, and he glances up at you through his shaggy black hair.

“you don’t have to do this. i don’t want to force you to do this,” he relents, shaking his head. “tell me to go, and i’ll go.”

you look down, closing your eyes and furrowing your brow, “look—i don’t want to let you in. but, i could never let you go.”

“i—”

“mama.” 

a small voice rings out before toji can finish his sentence, and he stiffens. as he sucks in a sharp breath, the air feels like a thousand daggers sliding down his throat. a mop of black hair atop chubby toddler legs waddles into toji’s line of sight. time freezes. toji watches. the baby’s shirt is a deep navy blue that reflects the color of his eyes, he’s sporting a pair of firetruck training pants, and his expression is almost unnervingly keen. toji’s mouth opens and closes as he flounders for something—anything—to say.

for a moment, everything is quiet. your pant leg is bunched up in the child’s little fist, but the invisible boundary doesn’t seem to mean a whole lot to the toddler. he continues to wobble forward until he stumbles and catches himself on toji’s calf. slow and measured, toji shifts his gaze downward to look at the boy. an age-old warmth explodes in his chest; it heats him from the inside out, and toji is certain that the tips of his ears are a flaming, fiery red.

“hey, kid.” he coughs, "don't fall."

the toddler blinks, “up.”

“megumi—” you begin to move toward your son, but he tugs on his father’s pant leg and bounces on his toes. eager. excited.

“up.”

toji’s body surges forward before his brain has time to register what he’s doing. his large, calloused hands slot themselves under megumi’s arms, and he hoists the toddler up to rest on his hip. it reminds him of learning how to swing a sword for the first time; the muscles know how and when to move, it’s only a matter of activating them. megumi’s slightly sticky hands reach out to pinch toji’s earlobe. the baby rubs the skin between his fingers, and he shoots toji a mischievous, toothy grin. the ice thaws, that cold winter’s night transitions to a warm summer evening, and toji has to tense every last part of his face to remain serious.

as megumi delights in the return of his father, you conduct surveillance. toji watches you watch him. that analytical glint surfaces again; you’re taking him apart, working him backwards like a math problem you can’t seem to solve. but there’s a softness about you. it vignettes your harsh exterior and blurs your sharp edges. every time megumi giggles in toji’s hold, he sees another piece of your barrier crumble away into dust. your baby’s smile blows on the dying fire of hope in your chest. 

after a brief pause, you turn around. toji’s eyes bore into your back, and the fear of rejection he stamped out decades ago reappears in full force. is it your turn to leave? what should he do with megumi? how is he supposed to live knowing you won’t even be here to come back to? why—

“take off your shoes, will you?” you sound far away; five feet feels like five hundred miles. nevertheless, toji follows you in. “sit down, and i’ll make tea.”

in just a couple of seconds, his sandals lay next to yours and megumi’s, dwarfing both pairs of shoes in size. the toddler giggles and babbles nonsense in his ear. the peace that washes over him is so otherworldly and unfamiliar, it makes him uneasy.

toji walks through the remains of a distant memory, checking off everything he remembers. a family photo hanging on the wall near the door; megumi’s first finger painting preserved with a copious amount of magnets on the fridge; the neverending, always overflowing basket of laundry waiting to be done; a rhythmic flickering coming from where your shared bedroom used to be.

he shuffles into the kitchen and takes a seat at the dining room table.

it’s his seat. he doesn’t know why he imagined you throwing it away, but he’s glad you didn’t.

“haven’t called anyone to fix that lightbulb?” he asks.

you press down to start the electric kettle and answer without turning to face him, “you always said you would.”

a hot wave of discomfort creeps up the length of toji’s spine; each vertebrae erupts with a ferocious burning sensation. he shifts in the chair, and megumi laughs while burying his face in toji’s muscular chest. he wonders if the boy can feel the heat radiating from his body, the shame pooling out of his pores. toji scratches the back of his neck with his free hand. the pressure of his blunt nail is just a bit too hard. it forces him to stay, to remain present.

toji sits for a few minutes, listening to the water boil. after the kettle clicks, he sets megumi down with a sigh. 

“‘they where they always are?” he speaks, voice gruff, “the bulbs?”

this makes you stop. your fingers fumble around the handle of your favorite mug—a handmade, pochacco-shaped ceramic cup toji got you for your birthday a few years ago.

“what are you trying to do, toji?” the question is loaded, laden with the subtext of a decade-long love. 

toji knows. he answers anyway.

“‘trying to do what i said i would.”

you open your mouth. to protest, to argue, to tell him to fuck off—toji isn’t sure, but you ultimate settle for a slight shake of your head. stirring a dash of milk into your tea, you say, “they’re in the hall closet.”

“you moved ‘em?”

“megumi kept trying to put them in his mouth.”

toji snorts, glancing down at the toddler who appears to be none the wiser. it’s the first bout of levity he’s experienced in months. the weight on his broad shoulders dissipates as he walks through the hallway, stopping at the closet, and dragging his seat in tow. megumi follows close behind, grunting every time he almost misses a step. determined little brat, toji thinks, willing away the smile playing at the corners of his lips.

but, when he reaches the threshold of your bedroom, toji comes face to face with a ghost. his ghost. a faint indentation on the side of the bed that used to be his; dust collecting on the books he picked up when he was in between jobs; an old, left sandal of his that had been appropriated to kill any bugs that dare enter the fushiguro residence. megumi slips past his father and tries to fit his tiny foot into toji’s giant shoe, attempting to wear a memory. it’s as though toji died and never left.

“you can go in, you know?” your voice almost manages to make him jump. “i mean—it used to be yours, too.”

toji has your permission. it should be easy to walk from the wooden floor onto the plush carpet. it should be easy, but his muscles are tense and his limbs are locked. he cranes his neck to look back at you. nothing is different. you still seem tired; the dark circles are still visible and your body still slumps forward. but, it’s your eyes that make everything more difficult. gone is that calculating, investigative stare; it is replaced by something more tender, something more vulnerable.

watching for any adverse reaction, toji places a tentative, socked foot in your bedroom. then another, and another. the chair slides behind him, filling the room with the gentle static of wood against fabric. you’re trailing him, and he’s hyper aware of your presence as the dying bulb flashes. it’s frantic, erratic, like it’s taking its last breath.

toji flips the switch. the already dim room is plunged into an intimate darkness. megumi squeals from his spot on the floor, and toji hears your soft footsteps padding over to the nightstand. there is a quiet click, and in seconds instant, everything is bathed in rich, golden light. by the time he positions the chair beneath the light fixture, the bulb is dead—lifeless and gray.

he mounts his seat, huffing while pushing himself up. toji goes through the motions—unscrew, toss the dead bulb, rescrew. then, as he reaches to get down, big, strong, incredibly agile, impossibly nimble toji fushiguro’s balance wavers. he tries to keep steady, but his knees quake atop the solid wood. his massive hands do him no good as they scrabble at nothing. toji feels himself beginning to slip, but two firm palms wrap around the circumference of his calf.

the world holds its breath.

your fingers squeeze around the hard, thick muscle. one pulse to ensure that he doesn’t fall, a second to reassure yourself, and a third to feel for the faint tremor still coursing through his body. toji catches a shift. your touch is no longer a warning, no longer a strip of yellow caution tape. it welcomes him; it tells him to take care, to not be so reckless.

it reminds him that he has something to come home to. 

he always has.

“god, you’re such a selfish prick,” your words are harsh, but toji understands. he gets you. he picks up on the air of playful tension in your voice. “to think—you come back and the first thing you do is almost die.”

toji exhales. deep, rough, and the slightest bit fearful.

“i’d never come back just to die,” he snorts, glancing down at you. “what good would that do me?”

“then …” you begin, letting your hands fall away from his leg, “what did you come back for?”

toji pauses. he knows the answer—you, megumi, a future as a family—but he can’t bring himself to speak it into the quiet atmosphere of your bedroom. his bedroom. the room you used to share. now, it’s just a tomb. a sepulchre erected in remembrance of him.

instead, he says: “you know.”

“i know?”

“you know.”

“maybe i do  …” you challenge, “but, i want to hear it from you.”

“i—”

“papa.”

megumi’s voice is thick with fatigue; it creaks like the toddler left the house at dawn and worked until dusk. he stands up on unsteady legs, rubbing his big, bleary eyes. wobbling forward, the boy fumbles for his father, reaching out and grabbing at air. this time, toji meets him half way; his bare feet touch the ground, and he scoops megumi up in his arms once more.

toji grins, poking at his son’s tummy, “you tired, little man?”

megumi yawns, nuzzling his cheek into toji’s chest.

the outpouring of affection toji experiences is unbelievably foreign to him. he was not brought up with tender hands and kind hearts; he was raised by scorn, abuse and torture waiting for him at every turn. holding something so dear, so precious against the beating of his heart is unfamiliar. megumi’s eyes fall closed, his breathing evens out, and the little boy doesn’t even bother to respond.

“what d’you say?” toji looks to you after managing to tear his gaze away from megumi. “can i at least tuck him in?”

“what do you mean?” your brow furrows as you shoot him a quizzical look, “why are you saying it like that? like you’re going to leave—like i wouldn’t let you stay?”

“i wasn’t sure if you’d want me to.”

toji catches the abyssal sadness that flashes in your eyes. he watches your lips quiver as you speak. “i already told you …” your voice is weak and watery, “i could never let you go.” 

toji moves before his mind can keep up with his actions. he adjusts megumi, and the tips of his fingers brush over the peak of your cheekbone. “i’m sorry. i’m sorry, baby. i didn’t know. ‘didn’t wanna make you uncomfortable …” the term of endearment slips from his lips—a force of habit, a return to form, “what do you want me to do?”

a terrible, heavy silence threatens to crush him into the carpet. he fears the possibility of becoming dust. your tears flash in the warm lamplight like fireflies gliding through the muggy summer air. they spill over his calloused fingertips, hot and sad and angry. when you look at him again, toji recognizes the fierce glint of determination in your eyes. he knows it well.

it’s the same look you shot him when he made the mistake of challenging you to a soba eating contest. it’s the same expression you had on your face when you showed him the positive pregnancy test, when you promised that everything would turn out okay. it’s the same sensation he felt in his chest when the name megumi came to him in a dream.

“hear me, please. listen to me,” you take his hand, cupping it against your wet cheek. “i want you to stay.”

“okay,” toji murmurs, moving a step closer to wrap a strong, stable arm around your shaking frame. megumi grunts and clutches at the fabric of toji’s shirt, and toji feels your cries morph into a fit of waterlogged giggles. as you nestle into his warmth, toji lets his lips rest on the crown of your head. to come back and be welcomed so wholly, to indulge so completely in everything he chose to leave behind—it’s selfish. he knows this.

but toji has never claimed to be a selfless man.

“okay?” you ask.