"have you ever once told the truth in your life?"

You were the tallest in your class that year, which should have been an advantage. Long lines, your first instructor had said when you were six, pressing down on your shoulders to lengthen your neck. You have the bones for it. But somewhere between ten and eleven, your body had decided to curve in ways the other girls' hadn't yet. Your thighs thickened. Your hips spread just slightly, and suddenly your lines weren't so clean anymore.

"Again."

Madame Dupont's voice cut through the rehearsal studio like a blade. You were at the barre, sweat cooling on your neck, one hand resting on the wood that was slick from the last hour of work. The other girls had moved to their water bottles. You were supposed to join them.

"Just you," she clarified, and the room went quiet; it always did when someone was about to be made an example of. "The développé. I want to see it."

Your stomach clenched. The extension from passé to full arabesque required your leg to lift and hold, floating up as if it weighed nothing at all. The other girls could do it with a kind of effortless grace, their legs rising as if pulled by strings. Yours fought gravity every inch of the way.

You returned to the barre. You set your feet in fifth position and felt the tremor that was already starting in your standing leg. You lifted into passé, felt your thigh burn, and then extended.

You saw it in the mirror before you felt it, saw the slight wobble in your supporting ankle and the way your extended leg didn't quite reach the height the others achieved. Your hips tilted, compensating. Wrong. It was wrong.

"Enough." Madame Dupont didn't raise her voice. She never did. That was almost worse. "You see the problem, yes? The line breaks here." She pointed with her cane vaguely toward your thigh, toward your hip, and you felt your face flush hot. "It disrupts the whole silhouette. You are fighting your own body. A dancer cannot fight her body. A dancer's body is her instrument, and yours is… resistant."

You lowered your leg. The silence in the room was sticky, uncomfortable. You could feel the other girls not looking at you, which was somehow worse than if they'd stared.

"We will continue to work on this," Madame Dupont said, already turning away. "But you should consider whether the corps is perhaps a better fit for your physique. Skip dinner today; breakfast tomorrow too."

You nodded because that was what you did. You nodded and you didn't cry, not there, not until later in the bathroom stall with your hand pressed over your mouth so no one would hear.

The role was Giselle. The peasant girl who dies of a broken heart and becomes a spirit, all gossamer and grief. You wanted it so badly you could taste it, something metallic and desperate at the back of your throat.

You started skipping breakfast because it was the easiest meal to miss. Your mother left for work early, and she never checked the trash to see if you'd actually eaten the toast she laid out. Lunch was harder—the school cafeteria had monitors—but you learned to push food around your plate, to take bites so small they barely counted, to wrap things in napkins, and to bury them at the bottom of your bag.

The weight came off slowly at first, then faster. Your thighs stopped touching at the very top when you stood with your feet together, and you would stare at that gap in the mirror like it was proof of something. Proof that you could do this. Proof that your body wasn't resistant after all, that you could mold it into whatever shape you needed it to be.

Your développé improved. Madame Dupont noticed. She didn't praise you—she never praised anyone—but she stopped correcting you, and that felt the same. Better, even.

When the casting went up, you found your name at the top of the list. Giselle. You stared at it for so long that the letters started to blur and you had to blink hard to bring them back into focus. Your heart was pounding so fast you felt dizzy, but it was a good dizzy, a victorious dizzy.

You called your mother from the studio phone. She cried. You didn't.

The week before the performance, you stopped eating almost entirely. Just water, just black coffee, just the occasional apple cut into slices so thin you could see light through them. You were still hungry—you were always hungry—but hunger had started to feel like something else. Like discipline. Like control. Like the only thing standing between you and the corps, between you and Madame Dupont's dismissive cane waving at your unacceptable body.

Performance night. The theater was full. You could hear the murmur of the audience through the curtain, hundreds of people settling into velvet seats, program pages rustling. You stood in the wings in your white peasant dress, your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your temples.

The first act went well. Your feet found their marks, and your arms traced the air the way you'd practiced a thousand times. The hunger was a hollow ache in your stomach, but you were floating above it, running on adrenaline and terror and the blinding heat of the lights.

And then, during your solo—the famous mad scene, Giselle's heart breaking—something went wrong.

It started as a lightness in your head, a kind of fizzing at the edges of your vision. The stage tilted. You tried to compensate, tried to keep dancing, because that was what you did; that was what Madame Dupont had drilled into you: you danced through pain, through exhaustion, through anything. The show didn't stop.

But your body stopped.

You didn't feel yourself fall. You only heard the collective inhale from three hundred people, a sound like all the air being sucked out of the room at once. And then nothing.

You woke up backstage. Someone had put a cold cloth on your forehead. Your mother was there, which didn't make sense because she was supposed to be in the audience; she was supposed to be watching you be brilliant. Her face was pale, and her eyes were red, and before you could ask what happened, you heard Madame Dupont's voice from somewhere above you, clipped and cold.

"This is what I was afraid of. I knew she wouldn't be fit for the role."

You closed your eyes again. You wished you hadn't woken up at all.

You quit ballet that summer. You told your mother it was because you'd lost your passion for it, and she believed you because she wanted to. She'd been scared by the fainting, scared by the sharp lines of your collarbones that had started showing through your skin. She took you to a doctor, then a therapist, then a nutritionist. You learned words like "disordered eating," "restriction cycle," and "refeeding," and you hated all of them because they made your control sound like illness.

But you got better. Sort of. You stopped counting calories and started counting other things—steps on your phone, laps in the pool, and miles on the treadmill. It wasn't the same, you told yourself. It was healthy. Everyone should exercise. Everyone should stay in shape. You ate three meals a day, reasonable portions, nothing extreme. You didn't weigh yourself more than once a month. You were fine. You were absolutely fine.

And then you met Megumi.

Megumi was quiet in a way that made you feel quiet, too, like his presence turned down the volume on the anxious voice that usually whispered in the back of your mind. He didn't talk much, but he listened, and he watched, and he noticed things. The first time he kissed you, his hand had come up to cup your jaw so gently that you'd almost cried. No one had ever touched you like that before, like you were something precious instead of something to be managed.

For two years, you were happy. Genuinely happy. You moved in together. You adopted a cat and rented until you could find an affordable apartment to buy; you lived in the same city as your friends, and work was close by. Life was great; it was supposed to be great. A life where food was just food, where your body was just your body, where the ghost of Madame Dupont's voice had faded to a whisper so faint you could almost forget it was there.

Almost.

Until one particular day, when Megumi left his phone unlocked on the kitchen counter while he was in the shower. You weren't snooping. You were looking for a takeout menu he'd mentioned saving, and his messages were right there, and you saw your name in a thread with one of his coworkers.

Megumi's girlfriend is sweet. She's a little bigger than I expected, though. I thought you only dated skinny girls lol

Your thumb had frozen over the screen. You read the message four times, each word burying itself into your chest like a splinter. The coworker who'd sent it—some guy named Tanaka who you'd met exactly once at a work happy hour, who poured you a drink and chatted your ear off until Megumi had to take you away—had probably forgotten he'd even typed it. It was a throwaway comment, the kind of casual cruelty people deployed without thinking.

Megumi's response had been immediate and cold: Don't talk about her like that. What the fuck is wrong with you?

But you barely registered his defense. All you could see was a little bigger than I expected, and suddenly you were twelve years old again, standing at the barre, Madame Dupont's voice in your ear. Your body is resistant.

You closed the phone. You put it back on the counter exactly where you'd found it. When Megumi came out of the shower, hair damp and all over his face, you smiled, asked if he still wanted Thai food, and walked towards him to dry his hair properly.

You ordered a salad. No dressing.

It crept back in slowly, the way it always did. You started by cutting out snacks, the mindless eating that happened while you and Megumi watched movies on the couch. He'd offer you a handful of popcorn, the bowl balanced on his knee, and you'd shake your head. "Not hungry." He'd frown, just slightly, but he wouldn't push. That was the thing about Megumi—he noticed, but he trusted you. He didn't know what to look for.

Then came the smaller portions. You'd cook dinner and serve yourself half of what you used to, pushing the rest around your plate until it looked like you'd eaten more than you had. You started skipping breakfast again, telling Megumi you'd grab something at work. You never did.

The hunger came back like an old friend. You'd missed it, in some twisted way you couldn't explain. The clarity it brought. The sense of control. Every time your stomach growled, it felt like one step closer to the finishing line.

Megumi started watching you more closely. You caught him tracking your plate with his eyes, noticing the way you cut your food into smaller and smaller pieces, the way you chewed each bite for too long. He didn't say anything, but his silences had always been louder than other people's words.

The dress was for Megumi's work gala, a formal thing at a hotel downtown that he'd been dreading for weeks. You'd offered to skip it, but he'd asked you to come—actually asked, his hand finding yours across the dinner table, his dark eyes serious. "I don't want to go alone," he'd said, and that was as close to "I need you" as Megumi ever got.

So you went shopping. Alone, because you wanted it to be a surprise.

The boutique was one of those places that smelled like expensive perfume and judgment, the kind of store where the saleswomen looked you up and down before deciding whether to help you. This one was young, maybe twenty-two, with a sleek ponytail and a name tag that read KARIN.

"Can I help you find something?" she asked, her tone suggesting she'd already decided you were a waste of her time.

"I'm looking for a formal dress. Cocktail length, maybe. Black or dark blue."

She nodded and pulled a few options from the racks. Most of them were fine. Nothing special. And then she held up a dress that made your breath catch—deep emerald green, silk, with a neckline that plunged just enough to be interesting and a skirt that would hit just below the knee. It was beautiful. It was exactly the kind of dress that would make Megumi's eyes go soft and startled the way they did when you surprised him.

"Can I try this one?"

Karin glanced at the tag, then at you. "We have it in a six. What size are you usually?"

"Eight, I think."

She looked at you again, longer this time. Her mouth pursed slightly at the corner. "This brand runs small. You might want to try the ten."

The ten. You felt heat crawl up the back of your neck. "I'd like to try the eight, please."

"Sure." Her shrug was almost imperceptible. "Just so you know, our return policy on formal wear is strict. If you rip a seam trying to force it…"

She let the sentence hang. You took the dress from her hand.

In the fitting room, you pulled the dress off the hanger and stepped into it. It got stuck at your hips. You tugged, harder than you should have, and heard the awful sound of fabric straining. You tried the zipper. It wouldn't go past your ribs. You sucked in hard and pulled, and the zipper moved another inch before it jammed completely.

You looked at yourself in the mirror. The dress was half-on, bunched around your waist, the zipper gaping open over your back. The silk was creased from your efforts. Your face was flushed and your eyes were bright, which warned of tears. You looked exactly like you felt: like a failure.

You couldn't get the dress off fast enough. You practically tore it over your head, not caring about the seams, and shoved it back on the hanger. You pulled your own clothes on with shaking hands. When you pushed through the curtain, Karin was there, one eyebrow already raised.

"Not quite right," you managed, your voice tight. "I'll keep looking."

"Of course." She took the dress from you, and you didn't miss the way her eyes flicked down your body and back up. "Let me know if you want to try any of our extended sizes. We keep them in the back."

You left without buying anything. On the sidewalk outside, the sun was too bright and the air was too warm, and you couldn't breathe properly. You pulled out your phone and texted Megumi with fingers that still trembled.

Didn't find anything. The dress wasn't really my style anyway.

His response came quickly, because Megumi always responded quickly to you: We can look somewhere else this weekend.

It's fine, you typed back. I'll figure something out.

You stopped at the gym on your way home. You ran until your legs burned and your lungs ached and the voice in your head finally, mercifully, went quiet.

For the next two weeks, you ate less than you ever had, less than you had even during the ballet years. You started tracking again, not calories but something simpler: how long you could go between meals, how light you could make each plate, and how many times you could say I'm not hungry before Megumi stopped believing you, because now you had Megumi to worry about too.

He stopped believing you around day four.

"You didn't eat lunch," he said one evening, leaning against the kitchen counter while you washed dishes that didn't need washing. It wasn't a question.

"I had a big breakfast."

"You had black coffee."

You scrubbed harder at a plate that was already clean. "I wasn't hungry."

"You're never hungry anymore." His voice was level, controlled, but you could hear the worry underneath. You'd known him long enough to recognize the signs—the slight tension in his jaw and the way his hands were shoved deep in his pockets like he was trying to keep them still. "What's going on?"

"Nothing's going on. God, Megumi, can't I just not be hungry sometimes?"

He didn't answer. When you turned around, he was still watching you, his dark eyes unreadable. But he didn't push. He never pushed, not then.

You wished to God he had.

The dress from the boutique haunted you. You dreamed about it—the emerald silk, the way it had refused to close over your body, Karin's knowing look. You started visiting the boutique's website late at night when Megumi was asleep, scrolling through the product photos, reading the size chart over and over until the numbers blurred together.

And then, the light at the end of the tunnel. The scale—the one you'd bought in secret and hidden under the bathroom sink—showed a number you hadn't seen since you were seventeen. Your stomach was concave in the mornings. Your hip bones jutted out just slightly, a silhouette you'd almost forgotten you could achieve. You were tired all the time, and your head ached constantly, and you felt like you were made of glass, but the number on the scale kept dropping, and that was the only thing that mattered.

"The boutique got a new shipment," you told Megumi one morning, your voice carefully casual. "They have a dress I want to try. Can we go before dinner with Yuuji and Nobara?"

He looked at you for a long moment. "The place you went before?"

"Yeah."

"I thought you said the dresses there weren't your style."

"They got new things in. Please? It won't take long."

He agreed. You could tell he wanted to ask more, but you were already pulling on your coat, already moving toward the door, and he followed because he loved you. That was the problem. He loved you enough to trust you even when he shouldn't.

The boutique was the same. The same perfume-scented air, the same whisper of judgment. Karin was there, too, her ponytail as sleek as ever, and she recognized you immediately.

"Back again?" she asked, and there was something almost amused in her voice. "Looking for anything specific?"

"The green dress. The silk one. I want to try it again."

She retrieved it from the rack without comment. The same dress. The same size. Eight. You took it to the fitting room with your heart hammering so hard you could feel your pulse in your throat.

The dress slid over your hips like water. The zipper pulled up smoothly, without resistance. You stood in front of the mirror and stared at your reflection, at the way the emerald silk draped over your collarbones and skimmed your waist and fell to just below your knees. It fit. It fit perfectly. It fit better than perfectly—there was room to spare.

You pushed open the heavy, stepping out onto the showroom floor. Megumi was standing near the register, scrolling through his phone, looking deeply out of place among the tulle and chiffon. When he looked up and saw you, his expression went through a rapid series of micro-expressions you couldn’t quite track. Surprise. Shock. And then, something else. Something dark and devastating that should have been happiness but wasn’t.

Before he could even open his mouth to speak, Karin appeared at your elbow.

“Oh, wow,” she said, and her voice was entirely different now—warm, enthusiastic, the sycophantic voice of someone who saw a fat commission check. “That looks amazing on you. I told you this brand runs small, right? You’ve clearly been putting in the work since last time. It’s really paid off.”

You preened. You couldn’t help it. The validation from this stranger was like a drug. You’d done it. You’d proven her wrong. You’d proven Tanaka wrong. You’d proven Madame Dupont wrong.

You turned to Megumi, beaming, expecting to see the awe you felt. “What do you think?”

He was staring at you. But he wasn’t looking at the beautiful dress. He was looking at you. He was looking at the bruised hollows under your cheekbones, the sharp, jutting angles of your shoulders, and the way your wrists looked so thin and fragile hanging out of the short sleeves. His face was pale, his jaw was clamped tight enough to crack his teeth, and his eyes—

His eyes looked horrified.

"Can we talk outside?" he asked, his voice very quiet.

Your smile faltered. "What's wrong? Doesn't it look good?"

"We'll talk outside." He turned to Karin, and his expression was so cold that she actually took a step back. "We're not buying anything. Thank you."

He walked out. You had no choice but to change back into your own clothes and follow, your cheeks burning, confusion and anger already starting to curdle in your stomach.

He didn't say a word in the car. The silence was thick and suffocating, and you spent the whole drive working yourself up, building a case for yourself, preparing for the fight you could feel coming. By the time you got home, you were almost vibrating with defensive fury.

He threw his keys into the bowl. You whirled on him before he could even take off his jacket.

"What the hell was that?"

"You know what that was." His voice was still quiet, still controlled, but there was a tremor underneath it now. "How much weight have you lost?"

"I don't know. A few pounds. Why do you care?"

"A few pounds." He repeated the words like he couldn't believe you'd said them. "You've lost more than a few pounds. Your clothes don't fit anymore. You don't eat. You haven't eaten a real meal in front of me in weeks."

"I eat. I just—"

"You just what? Push food around your plate? Tell me you're not hungry? Hide in the bathroom after meals?" He stepped closer, and you saw that his hands were shaking. Megumi's hands never shook. He was the calmest person you ever knew. "I'm not stupid. I've been watching this happen for weeks, and I didn't say anything because I thought—I don't fucking know what I thought. That you'd talk to me. That you'd trust me."

"This has nothing to do with trust. This is my body." You heard your voice rising, cracking, but you couldn't stop it. "I'm allowed to lose weight if I want to. I'm allowed to want to look good. You don't get to control what I do with my body."

"Control?" He looked like you'd slapped him. "You think this is about control? You're starving yourself. You're literally disappearing in front of me, and you think I'm trying to control you?"

"You're not happy for me! I finally fit into that dress, and you couldn't even pretend to be happy for me. You dragged me out of there like I'd done something wrong. You're supposed to support me. You're supposed to be on my side, and you're not! Some kind of boyfriend you are"

The words left your mouth and landed like a physical blow. Megumi's face went blank for a second, completely blank, and then something behind his eyes seemed to splinter.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he repeated, his voice dangerously low. "I'm a terrible boyfriend because I don't clap and cheer while you starve yourself into a dress size?"

"You don't get it—"

"No, I don't get it!" His voice finally rose, cracking through the apartment like a whip. "I don't get how you can look at yourself and not see what I see. I don't get how you can think this—" he gestured disapprovingly towards your hips, the same Madame Dupont did"—is something to be proud of. And I sure as hell don't get how I'm the villain for being terrified that the person I love is killing herself right in front of me."

"I'm not killing myself! God, you're so dramatic! I lost some weight. People lose weight all the time. That just shows I have discipline. It means I set a goal and I reached it, and you can't stand that because it wasn't about you."

"About me?" He let out a laugh that had no humor in it, sharp and jagged. "You think any of this is about me? I don't care what size you are. I have never cared what size you are. I care that you're lying to me, hiding from me, flinching every time I touch you because you're afraid I'll feel your bones. I care that you can't eat a meal without looking like you're about to cry. But sure, I'm the terrible boyfriend. I'm the one who's wrong here."

"You are wrong! You're wrong to make me feel like this—like I'm crazy. I'm finally happy with how I look. I'm finally in control. And you want to take that away from me because it makes you uncomfortable."

"Because it's not control!" He was almost shouting now, his composure completely gone, his dark eyes blazing. "You're not controlling anything; all you're doing is punishing yourself for something that was never your fault, and you're so deep in it you can't even see it anymore. You think that saleswoman's compliment means something? She's a stranger. She doesn't give a shit about you. I'm the one who's been here, every day, watching you vanish. I'm the one who loves you. And you're calling me terrible?"

You opened your mouth to fire back, to say something cruel and cutting that would make him hurt the way you were hurting, but before you could, your phone's ringtone echoed over the room.

Nobara's contact photo lit up the screen, her grinning face an absurd contrast to the anger crackling in the room. You grabbed the phone with shaking hands.

"Where are you guys?" Nobara's voice was full with impatience. "Yuuji's been waiting for like twenty minutes, and the waitress keeps giving us dirty looks."

You couldn't speak for a moment. Your throat was too tight. Megumi was still standing across from you, his chest heaving, his hands clenched into fists at his sides so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

"We're on our way," you managed, and hung up before she could ask questions.

The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush you. Megumi stared at you for a long, awful moment. His anger hadn't cooled—if anything, it had settled into something more brittle. Something that looked like hurt dressed up as fury.

"We're going to this dinner," he said, his voice flat and cold in a way you'd never heard directed at you before. "And when we get home, you are going to tell me exactly what's going on."

He grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door. He didn't even look at you.

"Fine," you bit out, even though nothing about this was fine. Nothing had been fine for weeks, and you were both too angry and too scared to admit it.

The restaurant was one of those cozy ramen shops that Yuuji had discovered and then insisted everyone try, the kind of place with steam-fogged windows and the smell of pork broth so rich it made your head swim the moment you walked in. Your stomach cramped at the smell—hunger, always hunger—and you pressed your hand against your abdomen like you could quiet it through sheer force of will.

Yuuji and Nobara were already at a booth near the back, Yuuji's pink hair sticking up in its usual disarray. He had already ordered an array of appetizers, little plates spread across the table like a buffet, and his face lit up when he spotted the two of you walking toward him.

"Finally!" He was already scooting over to make room, patting the booth seat enthusiastically. "I was starting to think you guys got abducted by aliens or something. Sit, sit—I ordered like half the menu; we're gonna feast."

You slid into the booth across from him and Nobara. Megumi sat beside you, close enough that his shoulder could have brushed yours, but he kept careful distance. The cold fury from the apartment still radiated off him in waves you could almost feel, and you were still simmering with your own anger, your own hurt. Neither of you had spoken in the car. Neither of you looked at each other now.

Nobara, sharp-eyed as ever, clocked the tension immediately. She looked from your tight expression to Megumi's rigid jaw, and something flickered across her face—recognition, maybe, or concern—but she didn't say anything. She just took a pointed sip of her drink and let her gaze slide over to Yuuji, who was blessedly, mercifully oblivious.

"So," Yuuji said, pushing a plate of gyoza toward the center of the table, "I've been thinking about this all day. The pork ramen here is supposed to be life-changing. Like, actually life-changing. The guy who owns this place trained in Sapporo for like twenty years. I'm gonna get the big bowl. Who's with me?"

"I'll stick with the miso," Nobara said.

"Lame. What about you?" He looked at you, eyes bright with expectation. "You always get the good stuff. Remember that time we split the tonkotsu at that place in Shinjuku and you ate like three quarters of it? I was so impressed."

The memory hit you like a punch to the chest. That had been over a year ago, before the message on Megumi's phone, before Karin and the emerald dress, before the hunger had crawled back into your bones and made a home there. You'd laughed that night, laughed so hard you'd snorted broth out your nose, and Yuuji had nearly fallen off his chair, and Megumi had watched you both with that quiet, soft expression he got when he was looking at his favourite people.

Now you couldn't even look at the menu without your stomach twisting into knots.

"I'm not super hungry," you said, your voice too bright, too brittle. "I'll probably just get a salad or something."

"A salad?" Yuuji looked personally offended. "At a ramen place? That's like going to a sushi restaurant and ordering chicken nuggets. Come on, at least get the small bowl. We can share!"

He was already pushing a menu toward you, grinning, and the gesture was so warm, so Yuuji, so completely unaware of the landmine he was stepping on—and still the panic rose in your chest. The thought of a full bowl of ramen, rich and heavy and swimming with oil, of putting that much food into your body, of undoing weeks of work in a single meal—

"I said I'm not hungry." The words came out sharper than you intended, an edge of warning.

Yuuji blinked, his grin faltering just slightly. "Okay, okay, no pressure. But if you change your mind, you can totally steal some of mine. I always order too much anyway." He nudged the plate of gyoza closer to you. "At least have one of these while we wait. They're the garlic kind you like."

It was such a small thing. Such an innocent, generous thing. A friend offering to share his food, the way he'd done a hundred times before, the way you'd always accepted before. But now the sight of the gyoza—golden and glistening with oil—made your stomach heave with a mixture of hunger and revulsion and fear so intense it felt like drowning.

"I don't want one," you said, your voice tight.

"Are you sure? They're really good—"

"I said I don't want one, Yuuji!" Your voice cracked across the table like a slap. "Why can't you just leave me alone? Why does everyone keep trying to force food on me like I can't make my own decisions?"

The silence that followed was deafening. The couple at the next table turned to look. Nobara's drink paused halfway to her lips. And Yuuji—sweet, kind, wonderful Yuuji, who had never done anything but try to make you smile—looked at you with an expression of such genuine, wounded confusion that you felt something inside you shatter.

"I was just…" He trailed off, his hand still hovering near the gyoza plate, his brow furrowed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to push. I just thought… you always liked sharing food with me before…"

The hurt in his voice was unbearable. You couldn't sit there another second. You couldn't look at his face or Nobara's sharp eyes or the plate of gyoza that was still steaming innocently between you. You shoved yourself out of the booth so fast you nearly tripped, your hip catching the edge of the table and rattling the glasses.

"Bathroom," you choked out, and fled.

The bathroom was small and brightly lit and smelled like cheap floral air freshener. You locked yourself in the stall and pressed your back against the door and slid down until you were sitting on the floor, your knees pulled up to your chest, your hands pressed so hard against your mouth you could feel your teeth through your lips.

What had you done? What had you done?

Yuuji's face kept replaying in your mind—the way his smile had crumbled, the way he'd apologized even though he hadn't done anything wrong, the way his hand had hovered there, frozen, still trying to give you something you'd thrown back in his face. He was the kindest person you'd ever met. He was Megumi's best friend. He was your friend. And you'd just humiliated him in the middle of a restaurant for offering you a dumpling.

Your breathing was coming in ragged, shallow gasps now, your vision blurring at the edges. You were ruining everything. You were ruining your relationship, ruining your friendships, and ruining yourself. You couldn't eat, and you couldn't not eat, and either way, you were failing. Either way, you were too much and not enough at the same time.

You didn't know how long you sat there. Time had gone strange. But at some point, you became aware of voices outside—not in the bathroom, but somewhere nearby, muffled through the wall. One of them was Megumi's.

"…didn't do anything wrong. She's going through something. It's not about you." His voice was low and steady, but there was a protective edge to it, a warning.

Yuuji's voice, still sounding small and confused: "I know, I just… is she okay? What did I say? I don't know what I said, I didn't mean to upset her."

"It's really nothing to do with you,". Megumi's tone softened, just slightly. "You didn't do anything wrong, Yuuji. I mean it. I'll go check on her. Just… give us a minute."

You heard footsteps. Then a knock on the bathroom door, firm and familiar.

"It's me." Megumi's voice, closer now, right outside. "Open the door."

"Go away." Your voice came out raw and scraped, barely recognizable.

"You know I'm not going to do that."

You pressed your forehead against your knees. You could feel the cold from the tile seeping through your jeans. You didn't answer.

A pause. Then, quieter: "Yuuji's not upset with you. He's worried. Nobara too. They're not mad. They just want to know you're okay."

"They should be mad. I yelled at him for no reason. I'm a terrible person."

"You're not a terrible person. You're going through shit, they understand." The door creaked slightly, like he was leaning against it. "Do you want to leave?"

The question was so soft, so careful, that it cut through the spiral of panic in your head. You lifted your head from your knees. The fluorescent light was too bright, making spots dance in your vision.

"Yes," you whispered.

"Okay. I'll talk to them. Meet me outside in five minutes. Can you do that?"

You nodded, even though he couldn't see you. "Yeah."

"Okay." His voice gentled even further, the anger from earlier completely absent now, replaced by tenderness wrapped in exhaustion. "Five minutes. I'll be waiting."

You heard him push away from the door. You heard his footsteps retreat.

You sat there for another minute, maybe two, until your breathing evened out and your hands stopped shaking enough that you could unlock the stall. You splashed cold water on your face. You looked at yourself in the mirror—really looked—and for the first time in weeks, you saw what Megumi saw. The hollow cheeks. The sharp collarbones. The way your eyes seemed too big for your face, too bright, too hungry.

You looked like you did back then, standing in the wings, about to faint on stage.

You looked like you needed help.

Megumi was waiting outside, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets and his face tilted up toward the dark sky. The night air was cool, a welcome relief against your flushed skin. He didn't say anything when you appeared. He just pushed off the wall and started walking toward the car, and you followed him, and the silence between you was different now. Heavier. More honest.

He drove. You didn't ask where you were going. You didn't care. You watched the streetlights pass and tried to find the words for what you needed to say. The fight replayed in your head on a loop—the things you'd thrown at him, the accusations, the way he'd finally broken and yelled back. And then the dinner. Yuuji's face.

"Megumi."

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry." Your voice was small, raw. "What I said back at the apartment—implying you are a terrible boyfriend—I didn't mean it. I was angry. I was defensive. But I shouldn't have said it. And what I did to Yuuji… God, Megumi, I yelled at him for trying to share his food with me. What is wrong with me?"

He didn't look at you, but his jaw tightened. "You really think I want to control you?"

"No. I know you don't. I just… I couldn't see past myself. I couldn't see what I was doing to you. To us. To everyone." Your voice cracked, and you had to pause and swallow hard. "I'm sorry I made you feel like you were the problem. You're not. You've never been the problem."

He exhaled slowly, a long breath that seemed to carry some of the tension out of his shoulders. "I shouldn't have yelled at you either. I just… I've been so scared. For weeks, I've been watching this happen and feeling completely helpless, and today, seeing you in that dress, seeing how happy you were about something that's hurting you so badly… I didn't know what to do with that. I handled it wrong."

"We both did."

Silence again. But it was softer now, less jagged. He pulled the car over to the side of the road, a quiet residential street lined with dark houses and sleeping trees. He killed the engine and turned to face you, and in the dim light from the streetlamp, you could see the exhaustion in his face, the shadows under his eyes, the redness around them.

"Talk to me," he said. "Please. What's going on?"

So you told him.

You told him everything. The ballet. Madame Dupont. The fainting. The way the audience's gasp had echoed in your dreams for years afterward. The slow, painful process of trying to fix your relationship with food, and how fragile that fix had always been, how it had only ever been held together with discipline and denial and the refusal to look too closely at your own thoughts.

You told him about the message on his phone. A little bigger than I expected. You told him about Karin, about the dress, about the way her look had gutted you. You told him about the scale hidden under the bathroom sink and the hunger that felt like an achievement and the way you'd convinced yourself that disappearing was the only way to be worthy of him. You told him about the voice that lived in the back of your head, the one that sounded like Madame Dupont, the one that whispered not good enough, never good enough, resistant, too much, take up less space, be less, be less.

By the time you finished, you were crying. Ugly, messy sobs that made your chest heave and your nose run. Megumi had pulled the car over fully, and now he was just sitting there, his face pale and stricken.

"I didn't know," he said, his voice hoarse. "I knew something was wrong. The message on my phone—I could never tell you about it, I didn't want to upset you, so I just deleted it and moved on, and all this time you knew."

"It wasn't your fault. It wasn't about you. It's this… thing in my head. It never really went away. I just got better at ignoring it, and then I couldn't anymore."

"I don't know how to stop. I don't know how to eat like a normal person. Every time I try, it all comes back, and I can't—I can't do it alone, Megumi. I've been trying to do it alone and I can't."

"Tell me what you need. Tell me what to do."

"I don't know what I need."

"Okay. Then we'll figure it out together." His hand catching yours in a warm grasp, "I'm not going anywhere. I don't care how long this takes. I don't care how hard it is. I love you. Not some version of you that fits into a dress or some version of you that doesn't eat. You. All of you. The one who watches bad reality TV and steals the blankets and makes fun of me for using too much conditioner. The one who shared tonkotsu with Yuuji and laughed so hard broth came out her nose. That's who I want. That's who I've always wanted."

You were crying again, harder now, but it felt different. More like relief than heartache.

"I'm scared," you whispered.

"I know." He pulled you against his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other wrapped around your waist. "But we can find a professional if you want; we can look. If you don't, I'll look for how I can help from here. Whatever needs to be done, we will do it. I just want you to know that I love you no matter what, it doesn't matter how much you eat or even less. I could not care about it, I just want you to be safe, and healthy and actually live for yourself, that's all I ever wanted."

You stayed like that for a long time, wrapped around each other in the front seat of his car while the streetlights flickered overhead. You could feel his heartbeat against your cheek, steady and solid and real. You could feel his hands on your back, gentle but grounding, like he was afraid you'd disappear if he let go.

When you finally pulled back, your face was a mess and your head ached and you were so tired you could barely keep your eyes open. But something in your chest felt lighter. Something that had been wound tight for years and years had loosened, just a little.

"Megumi?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we go home?"

He kissed your forehead, soft and lingering. "Yeah. Let's go home."

He made you food when you got back to the apartment. Nothing complicated—rice and steamed vegetables and a piece of salmon he'd been saving for tomorrow. He put the plate in front of you and sat down across the table and waited.

You stared at the food. Your stomach clenched. Every instinct you'd been feeding for the past month screamed at you to push it away, to make an excuse, to retreat.

Megumi reached across the table and took your hand. His fingers were warm and steady.

"Just one bite," he said. "That's it. Just one. You need to start slow since your stomach most likely shrunk.

You picked up your fork. Your hand was shaking, but his hand was steady, and when you lifted the first bite to your mouth, he squeezed your fingers.

"Good," he said, his voice soft and certain. "That's good. You're doing so well. Keep going."

You took another bite. And another. The food felt heavy in your stomach, foreign, but Megumi didn't let go of your hand the whole time. He kept murmuring quiet encouragements, little things like I'm proud of you, and just one more bite, and you're so strong, you have no idea how strong you are. And when you finally put down your fork with half the plate still uneaten, he didn't push. He just brought your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles.

"I'm proud of you," he said again.

And for the first time in a very very long time, you believed it.

Later, curled against his chest in bed, the cat purring at the foot of the duvet, you felt his hand trace gentle patterns on your shoulder blade.

"We'll call someone tomorrow," he said quietly. "A therapist. Someone who knows how to help with this. I'll go with you if you want. I'll wait in the lobby. Whatever you need."

You didn't answer. You weren't sure you could. The words were there somewhere, tangled up behind the exhaustion, but before you could force them out, Megumi was already moving.

He shifted onto his side and pulled you with him, settling you against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. One arm slid beneath your head, the other wrapped around your waist and tugged you in until there was no space left between you. He tucked his face into the crook of your neck and stayed there, his breath slow and even against your skin.

"I mean it," he said, quieter now. "Whatever you need."

A kiss, pressed just below your ear. Then another, softer, at the curve of your jaw. His hand moved up your back in a slow line, palm warm through the thin fabric of your shirt.

"You don't have to say anything right now," he murmured. "Just… stay here. Let me hold you. Okay?"

You managed a small nod, your throat too tight for words. He felt it. His arms tightened around you in response, solid and steady.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said. "This—us—it's not conditional. It never was. You don't have to be fine for me to love you."

You turned your face into his chest, and he let you. His hand came up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. He didn't shush you. He didn't fill the silence with empty comfort. He just held you, anchored you, while your breathing slowly steadied against his heartbeat.

After a long moment, his lips found your forehead. The kiss was unhurried, deliberate, like he had nowhere else to be.

"You ate tonight," he said quietly. "It was a start. That's all that matters, and I am really happy you did."

He shifted, pulling the duvet up around your shoulders and tucking it in with one hand while the other kept you pressed firmly against him. His leg hooked over yours under the covers, tangling you together in a way that felt less like restraint and more like a promise.

"Get some sleep," he said. "I've got you."

You felt his hand resume its slow pattern on your back, tracing absent shapes through the fabric of your shirt. His chin rested against the top of your head. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear.

"I love you," he said. Simple. Certain. Not a reassurance he was waiting to have validated, just a fact he needed you to know.

You closed your eyes, and let yourself get lulled to sleep by the sound of his heartbeat.

© belchyra. All rights reserved. Do not republish, translate, steal, or feed my work to AI.

Almost absentmindedly, his hand comes to rest on the left side of his chest, the side where a heart would be located if he possessed one like you did. Mr. Scarletella hears a gentle murmur interrupt his thoughts, a noise that cuts through the fog in his mind like a saw slicing through flesh and sinew. 

“You okay?” Your voice echoes, and his pitch-black eyes dart down to meet with yours. You’re holding a red umbrella – his very heart and soul – in your hands. Your hold isn’t painful, nor is it gentle. It was perfect, just like you, he thought to himself. 

Rain drips down the water-resistant material of the umbrella that was permanently stained a bright, bloody red, and it falls onto the clear rubber of your raincoat before sliding down your form. Both the umbrella and your coat effectively keep your body dry from the elements. Mr. Scarletella, on the other hand, was completely soaked, having no issue walking beside you while the rain clung to his clothing and chilled his skin.  

If he concentrated hard enough, he could feel the heat of your body spreading throughout his chest and warming his form from the inside out. Oh, how happy he would be if the small flame within him sparked into something more, forming a fiery inferno inside his body. Even if you were to burn him, set an uncontrollable blaze within him that only left an empty husk behind, he would be content.  

Your brows are furrowed while you crane your neck back to look at him, the sound of rain around the two of you, effectively breaking up the long stretch of silence. He was acting a bit strange today, you thought to yourself. While the man dressed in red was never really normal in the conventional sense, he was much more quiet today than usual. 

Mr. Scarletella’s gaze used to be immensely nervewracking, his hollow stare once being able to cause the hair on the back of your neck to stand on edge, but you had grown used to it after spending so much time together. The two of you were in your old realm, the one you left behind to stay in the other world. You were fairly close to the haunted apartments he used to call his home and the site where you would dump the bodies of anyone unfortunate to cross your path… The start of everything that led you to where you are now. 

“You quiet… What you thinking about?” You ask him, shifting the hold of the umbrella in your hand to the other. You hadn’t brought your weapon today, wanting to give Mr. Scarletella a chance to experience a “typical” date, one that didn’t consist of violence and murder for a change. However, he had been in a daze since the two of you arrived, and that was somewhat out of character for him. 

Shifting your stance to better face him, your feet sink slightly into the mud beneath you. You look down at your boot-clad feet and frown. While you had grown used to being in a constant state of uncleanliness since the other world didn’t have showers readily or easily available, it was still quite annoying to clean mud from the soles of your shoes. This was the type of mud that threatened to pull your shoe from your foot if you were to try tugging on it, but you pushed your frustration to the side to focus on the man in front of you. 

Mr. Scarletella hums and reaches his hand out to your head, placing his palm against your hair, and you freeze. Your hair sticks to his deathly cold hand, almost as if static electricity was coursing through his fingers. 

It was soft under his skin, your hair, yet he could feel that some knots had begun to form near the base of the strands. Then, he begins to rub his hand back and forth, effectively messing your hair up even more. Your mind blanks at his sudden movement, the action reminding you of Mr. Crawling.

“Why… you touch me?” You ask, staring up at him as the rain begins to fall even harder, your grip on the umbrella in your hand tightening around the handle. The rain was so heavy that you could barely see into the distance, the horizon completely covered in a thick, gray mist. A sudden gust of wind blew Mr. Scarletella’s red hair, and within his usually hollow eyes swirled something you had never seen within them before. 

It reminded you of a storm rolling in across the ocean waves, a variety of emotions spiraling within his ashen irises. His hand never once leaves your body, instead sliding down the side of your head to cup your cheek in his palm. Whenever he touched you, it felt like TV static against your flesh, and you could see white-and-black dots begin to dance across your vision as a light hum filled your ears. 

Mr. Scarletella’s flesh is cold, and it reminds you of a corpse the chill his touch leaves in its wake. His head tilts to one side and he whispers to you, his voice barely audible above the rain crashing around you, “I want you – want to touch you.” 

Before you can even speak or formulate a response to his words, he quickly pulls his hand away from your skin. It felt like you had burnt him, yet he found himself not minding the stinging sensation that danced across his flesh. His hand dropped lifelessly to his side before he muttered an apologetic, “Sorry. Shouldn’t have touched you.”

After taking a moment to gather your thoughts, you shake your head and tell him, “...You okay,” before turning on your heel to walk away. You glance at him over your shoulder, his form becoming further soaked from the storm. It was kind of amusing, you thought, seeing such a previously powerful entity look like a stray, sopping-wet cat. 

Eventually, you gesture for him to come with one hand, the order of, “Follow me.” coming out of your lips, loud enough for him to hear.

He teleports to you before you can even finish your sentence, staring down at you with those unnerving eyes of his as he waits to see where you want to go. A huff of air forces its way out of your nose, chuckling at his obedience before you lightly graze his hand with your nails. It’s strange touching him, his form more like an illusion than a body made of flesh and blood. 

The two of you make your way across the waterlogged fields and flooded, muddy roads. Your footsteps splash in the puddles beneath you as you walk while Mr. Scarletella moves without making a single noise, merely a ghost in this world. Soon, however, the abandoned apartments come into view, and you lead him inside the old concrete structure. 

You pause as soon as your feet make contact with the cracked floor of the building, making sure that you can’t hear the sound of another living being within the hollow corridors. You close the umbrella when nothing catches your attention, making sure to shake it a few times to try and remove the raindrops that have accumulated on its surface. You watch as the water falls to the ground, making small, dark grey circles on the concrete. 

Looking over your shoulder, you watch as Mr. Scarletella watches you in return while holding the umbrella, waiting patiently for you to say something as a shiver runs down his spine. His hands that were hanging at his sides were closed, and he was clenching and unclenching his fingers almost like he was fighting the urge to place his palms against your skin once more.  

You can’t help but chuckle at his demeanor, placing the now-closed umbrella down so it was leaning against the wall. You do the same, leaning back on the wall before you hold your arms out to him, saying with a small smirk, “You can touch me.”

You jumped slightly at the speed at which he appeared in front of you. His body hunched over yours while he watched your expression intently, his black eyes partially hidden behind the thick curtain of red hair that cast shadows across his sickly complexion. Mr. Scarletella places his palm on your head, telling you smoothly, “Thank you.”

One of his hands begins to tentatively pat your skull while he enjoys the feeling of your hair against his palm. Then, his other hand soon joins, and you close your eyes while you allow him to pat you like a dog. It felt a bit demeaning in a way, but also strangely comforting, and it reminded you of one of the friendliest residents of the other world you had met. 

Your eyes flutter shut almost out of habit, allowing the man in front of you to enjoy the rare moment with you. His hands started out resting against the top and sides of your head, the movement of palms against your hair causing it to become messy and sticking up because of the static he created. 

Then, they tentatively travel to your face, cupping your cheeks before he brushes his thumbs underneath your eyes. You jolt a bit when his cold hand brushes against your neck, swallowing harshly when you feel him trace a finger down your SCM. Your breathing hitches while he explores your skin, and your teeth dig harshly into your bottom lip in response. 

Then, you feel his touch pause, and Mr. Scarletella whispers against your neck, the pad of his thumb swiping against your lips, “...blood.” 

“Oh, uh…” You open your eyes and look at him, seeing the way he’s staring up at you while his face remains close to your jugular. Your hand goes up to your lips, and you wince when you feel the soreness. When you pull your fingers away from your mouth, you see the blood that clings to them. Geez, you didn’t think you had bit your lip that hard. 

You tell Mr. Scarletella, patting his head much like how he had been doing with you, “I’m okay. Don’t stop.”

He smiles widely and lights up at your words. Suddenly, he grabs your face and hastily presses his lips to yours. Your eyes grow at the sudden act, and a strangled noise leaves your throat. It wasn’t a bad noise, per se, you just hadn’t been expecting that from him. Typically, he waited until you permitted him to do that... He must have been too excited to hold back this time around.

You were speechless when he pulled away from you, noticing your blood that was now smeared across his lips. He licks it away, his tongue peeking out from behind his lips before he asks you, “...You happy?”

You can’t help but laugh at his question, reaching up to place your hand on his head while your giggles echo throughout the empty hallways, patting him softly. Mr. Scarletella’s smile falters while he focuses on the feeling of your touch, on burning the memory of your expression and the sweet sound of your laughter into his mind. It made him feel strange knowing he was the one making you react in such a way, but it was good.

He wanted to do it more. 

“Yes, I happy. You cute.” You reply, smiling warmly at him while he stares at you like you’re the most beautiful thing in the world. 

“I like you.” He says, sounding almost breathless as his body hunches over more, his face nuzzling into the crook of your neck while his hands explore the rest of your body, stroking and touching and petting you. Mr. Scarletella didn’t want this moment to end. 

You chuckle as his breath fans against your skin, telling him gently as you feel his fingers work out any knots in your hair, “I know.” 

“gumii!” the moment you spot him across the courtyard, your face lights up.

megumi barely has time to register before you’re wrapping your arms around his waist “hi love.” you murmur against his chest.

a few students stare, but you ignore them as usual.

megumi sighs, though there’s no actual annoyance behind it. his hand moves to your back automatically. “hey.”

you grin at him “did ya miss me?”

“you saw me this morning. we woke up together.”

“so that’s a yes!” 

“noo.. that’s not what i said.” 

“sure, megumi.” the faint pink dusting his ears tells you all you need to know. 

most people only see the cold side of megumi. they don’t see the side of him that walks on the closest side of the road, the side of him that lends you his jacket when you complain about being cold just once, or the side of him that takes care of you on nights when your happiness fades into tears.

they don’t see how he stays up with you in the cold hours of night just to hold you together piece by piece. 

 because that side of him is reserved to you only. 

his hand slides down to squeeze yours once. “you done causing a scene?”

“never ever.”

for a moment, the corner of his mouth lifts. “i figured.” 

“but you love me so much anyway.. right?!”

“ehh..” he jokes.

“baby!” you swat his chest softly. 

“i was just kidding.” he squeezes your hand once more and leads you through the courtyard, walking home with you.

you hum softly before suddenly gasping, stopping in your tracks. “oh my goodness!”

megumi’s eyes immediately blow with concern. “what?”

“i forgot to tell you.”

“tell me what?”

you grab both of his hands, bouncing slightly on your feet. “we’re pregnant!” 

“huh? you serious?”

“no! LOL! a new sushi place just opened near our apartment!” 

megumi blinks a couple of times before shaking his head. “who says lol outside of texting?”

“your girlfriend, duh.” you say it like it’s the most obvious thing ever, because it is.. “ but that’s besides the point! new sushi, babe!” 

megumi guides you across the street as you ramble on about this new place. two fingers subtly pushing against your lower back, nodding respectfully to the other passersby. 

“slow down, bunny. did you even look at the reviews?” he asks, palm now flat against your back as you continue walking and talking. 

“noooo, but that’s the point in trying new things! don’t you get it?”

he stays quiet for a moment and thinks “.. not really.”

“ugh, boooriing.” you tease, eyes rolling before settling on his face. “gummy, we should go tonight.”

“tonight?”

“yes! date night!” you squeak.

“we had a date night three days ago, i have to study for course exams.”

“okay so do i, but like.. live a little.” you say dramatically, squeezing his hand tighter.

but he already knows where this is going, because your determined look says you’re not taking no for an answer.

“please?” you say, giving him your best puppy eyes.

“no.” 

“please.”

“nope.” 

that’s not his answer, he never says no.

“pleeeeease?”

“you’re being annoying.” he jokes.

“…but am i annoying enough to get sushi with?” you wink.

you look away from his face, from the floor, from your mind for a second and realize you’re already outside of your apartment door

megumi sighs heavily, tilting his head back towards the sky. you smile because that’s always a good sign. “i heard they have cute mochi desserts,” you don’t give up.

silence follows. 

“and private booths.”

a whole beat of silence.

“and couples get a free dessert if they post a picture together!” you giggle, dragging him inside after fiddling with the keys for two long minutes. sometimes you agree that megumi has too much patience. 

“absolutely not.” he follows, shutting the door behind him and wriggling out of his jacket immediately. 

you smile and get closer, burying your face in between his pecs. “mm.. does this mean you’ll go with me?”

megumi looks down at you. at your hopeful expression, at your cute smile, at the way you’re practically vibrating with excitement over something as simple as trying a new restaurant with him.

his expression softens enough for you to notice. “what time?” he says, helping you out of your coat.

your face lightens up even more. “you will?”

“i never said no.” 

“aww! baby you’re the best!”

before megumi can stop you, you’re already peppering kisses all across his cheek, he groans, ears red as his arm stays firmly wrapped around your waist. “be ready by six thirty. giving you two hours. kay? i’ll be right here studying,” 

you leave one last, dramatic kiss to his cheek and let go of him completely. “yes captain!” you scurry off and start getting ready. 

at six twenty-four, megumi knocks at the bedroom door and opens it when you don’t answer. he sees you sitting at your vanity upon entry, hands occupied with a makeup brush and a highlighter stick, a silk robe covering your date night outfit. 

“hi baby!” you smile with all teeth, blowing him kisses through the mirror. 

“six twenty-five, slowpoke.” he reminds you.

“heeyyy, this is the last step of my routine! you gave me till six thirty, remember?”

“yes, y/n. i remember.” 

you finish fast and remove your robe, grabbing your purse and pausing suddenly, patting yourself down. 

“whatt’d you forget?” megumi asks, already beside you and adjusting your bodice.

“lipgloss!” you reach for it but his fingers wrap around your wrist to stop you. 

“i like when your lips are just colored.. i always end up wearing your lipgloss home anyway.”

“good.” you smile and apply it, puckering up sweetly. megumi huffs before kissing your lips, smirking just a little bit when he pulls away.

you hand megumi your purse and follow him outside. the drive is loud with you in the car, singing along to every song in you and megumi's shared playlist—which you made… because your boyfriend is megumi fushiguro.

he parks smoothly and helps you out of his car, thumb squeezing and circling your hip as you walk into the restaurant together. the place is packed on opening night, but megumi finds a private booth near the emergency exit, his favorite spot.

you both place your different orders, megumi watches as you excitedly place yours, occasionally glancing at him between words just to make sure he’s interested in the menu. 

when your food arrives, you take trillions of photos and videos, teasingly calling megumi to get his face in frame and obviously, posting him all over the place. whether it be a photo of his hand holding yours on the table, or his face, or his annoyed face because you won’t stop sticking your phone in his face-face. 

three hours into the night, megumi’s carrying you to the car with your heels in one hand because you’re wine drunk and too full to move on your own. the pleasantly mellow high makes you feel more romantic than usual, megumi chuckles at the feeling of you kissing and nipping at his neck.

“there, there…” he pats your head as he sits you down in the passenger seat, lowering it slightly so that you’re comfortable. “that okay?” 

“nnn-yess!” you giggle, throwing your feet onto his dash.

he spares you a quick side glance before focusing on the road. “did you like the new sushi place?” one of his hands moves to your thigh, rubbing soft, warm streaks up and down. “hm?”

“yes baby! i looooooveeed it.. see?” you smile almost theatrically, drunk and dazed in such a fuzzy high. 

he gets you two home quick, megumi carries you up the stairs and into your apartment. taking his time and peeling off your clothes, wiping away your makeup, bathing you in warm water and massaging your collar bones with body scrub.

you sigh and lean into him, falling asleep in the bath. megumi dries you up and lays you in bed immediately, stripping himself of anything other than his boxers and laying down beside you after a long shower. 

his fingers skim your pretty forehead as he pulls the blanket over you. your boyfriend snaps a quick photo of you sleeping in his bed and posts it on his story with the caption reading, “knocked out immediately. lol.” 

megumi sets his phone aside and kisses your cheek carefully, pulling you flush against him and burying his face in your hair.

“mm.. goodnight princess” he grumbles, listening to yoiur breathing.

the room is dark, save for the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds. outside, the city is quiet. Inside, the atmosphere is settled. he eventually closes his eyes, drifting off to sleep as the evening’s fatigue catches hold of him too.

morning light slips through the blinds in golden pale strips, you’re the first to wake up and inevitably, the first to be hit with an aching thirst. 

you wince just a little, stretching your limbs and trying to untangle yourself from megumi—but even in sleep, his grip is impossibly strong.

“mm.. megumii” you whine, fingers brushing his hair, face impossibly close to his. 

he stirs, getting off of you to sit up and rub his eyes. you take that chance to slip out of the bedroom and go grab some water, but instead, two strong arms wrap around your waist again. 

you slide a shirt over your pretty panties, the fabric pools at megumi’s arms that are still around you. 

“where are you going? he murmurs against you, eyes closed, cheek squeezed into your back. 

“just getting some water.. do you want some?” you ask sweetly, cute nails brushing his arm softly in the way he likes. 

“mmhm.. what do you say?” 

you pretend to think for a minute, shooting him a look of feigned annoyance before gripping his hand. “goodmorning baby.”

“goodmorning girl.”

you giggle and go to the kitchen, pouring two cups of water and skipping back to the room, spilling some on the floor and on top of that, you forgot to close the fridge.

“whoa baby, no one ever taught you not to run with glass in your hands?  what about scissors?” 

“we really need to keep a thinner curtain in the kitchen.. it’s so dark in there.” 

“my girl’s still scared of the dark?” megumi’s expression catches the physical tension of stifling a laugh. 

“that’s not funny and you know this already. it scares me to an extent.” 

the fridge beeps suddenly and you leap back in bed, clutching his forearm. 

silence falls as you both process the sound. “.. you left the fridge open.”

“i can hear it. will my boyfriend do me a favor and go close it. hmm?”

he thinks for a moment and then he carries you by the waist, manhandling you out of bed. “go face your fear.”

“nope.” you move impressively fast, trying to belly flop back in bed but his big arms hold you out. 

“i’ll come with you!” he yells over your stammering and stands up, gently waking you to the kitchen. “see? not so bad is it?” he whispers, but to you it feels like a millennia away from the fridge. 

megumi walks faster and closes the fridge, throws you over his shoulder casually and walks back to your bedroom. . 

you laugh and swing your legs, scratching his bare back softly. 

megumi doesn’t even bother setting you down. “this is kidnapping, gummy.” 

“mhm.”

“i’m calling the police.” 

“..you left the fridge open.”

“but that isn't a reasonable cause for this!” 

“it’s the entire reason you’re up here.”

you huff and give his shoulder a tiny bite. “ow.”

“you deserved it.”

“i don’t think so.” 

he finally lowers you onto the mattress, but before you could flop backward dramatically, his hands stayed around your waist.

“no running with glass.”

“i know.”

“no sprinting through dark kitchens. where you can easily fall and hit your head and—“

“i knooow.”

your grin softens and you bump your forehead against his. “how about breakfast. your girl is hungry.” 

before you can even say anything else, he leans down, pressing a quick kiss against the corner of your mouth. 

you immediately chased another one, and more after that. his jaw, his beauty marks, his chin.. all polluted with kisses from his favorite girl.

“baby…” he mumbles, trying—and falling—to sound annoyed.

“what?”

“you kiss me too much.”

“that’s not possible.” 

“you’ve kissed me like eight times.”

“nine.” you giggle and kiss him more. “ten.” 

he catches your chin gently between his fingers and kisses you, slow and patient. long enough that all your teasing dissolved into a little hum against his lips. 

you wrap your arms around his neck, swaying from side to side. “you love me sooo much! don’t you baby?” 

he rests his forehead against yours, closing his eyes. “yeah.”

you cup his face so carefully it makes him want to smile. “i love you too. but i’m hungry.”

“no morning classes today. we could take the dogs for a run and get some breakfast. how’s that sound?”

his thumbs rub lazy circles against your hip beneath the oversized shirt that definitely belongs to him. he lets you decide. 

you bury your face in his neck. “carry me to the bathroom. let’s go before the cafes close.” 

he rubs your back and lifts you, setting you down on the bathroom counter and handing you your toothbrush, already rinsed with white toothpaste squirted on top.

you both brush together, you occasionally whipping out your phone and snapping photos of your shirtless boyfriend with his toothbrush in his mouth and a rare smile only you get to see. 

you finish brushing and hop off the counter, getting dressed in some leggings and a large shirt, tying your hair up in the easiest style possible, and putting the dogs on a leash. 

shiro jumps on you as soon as he sees you, kuro marching straight to megumi. 

“kuro baby! mommy wants some love too!” you get on your knees and put your arms out for him, and he moves into your embrace. 

“fierce protectors by the way.” megumi jokes, grabbing their leashes and opening the door for you.

you smile at him as you pass him at the door as if he were a total stranger. megumi makes no comment though, just holds you against him while walking to the cafe. 

the cafe is warm in the way small neighborhood cafes always are. 

the windows are fogged slightly from the morning chill outside, the smell of espresso and buttered pastries filling the air while people chatter softly around them. 

shiro is curled beneath the table after their walk, kuro lying against megumi’s timbs with his head on his paws. 

usually you’re talking, about the dog wearing rain boots outside, about the old couple across from you and megumi sharing one slice of cake, about how the barista drew a little heart in your latte foam. 

about literally anything. and while megumi’s mind won’t get off of you being so quiet, he’s also trying to take in how beautiful you look. and your mind.. your mind drifts back to a conversation you had three weeks ago exactly.

outside this cafe, your own friend told you that you’re “too much” and that you, “need to leave megumi alone because he’s clearly tired.” 

today you just stir your drink, megumi decides to say something after exactly four minutes. “you don’t like it today?”

you blink. “hm?” 

“the latte, bunny.”

“oh!” you force a little smile. “no, it’s good.” 

he watches you over the rim of his coffee. “you sure? we can add more sugar, anything you want.”

“mhm. i’m sure.”

another silence. you break your croissant into tiny pieces instead of eating it. 

megumi leans back. he’s seen you cry, he’s seen you sick, he’s seen you laugh so hard you snorted juice out of your nose. he knows every version of you and yet, this quiet one is unfamiliar. 

“did i do something?” 

your head shoots up. “what?! no!” 

“then what’s wrong?”

“nothing.”

“liar.”

his voice is far from accusing, just certain. “you’ve been weird since we sat down.” 

you look away toward the window. outside, someone laughs loudly with their friend. your fingers tighten around your mug. “can i ask you something?”

“you just did.”

“seriously, megumi.”

“i’m listening.” 

you stare into your coffee, voice unusuallyy small now. “am i..”

the words suddenly feel stupid, childish and embarrassing. but megumi waits. 

“am i too much?”

his eyebrows knit together immediately. “what?”

“you know..” you laugh weakly. “too loud, or too clingy?”

silence followes. 

“someone said,” you mumble. “that i do too much around you.”

you don’t even look at him.

“they said you always look tired, that maybe you just put up with me because you’re nice.”

you pick at your sleeve. 

“and i know they shouldn’t matter, but..” your voice gets quieter. “i started thinking; what if you’re secretly exhausted by me?” 

you swallow dryly. the cafe suddenly feels very loud. the clinking dishes, the espresso machine, someone laughing nearby. you cant bring yourself to meet his eyes. “sorry.” 

nothing.

then you feel sudden warmth, engulfing your hand and a thumb brushing your knuckles. 

your tears fall immediately into your lap. concern replaces megumi’s sleepy calm almost immediately. 

“look at me.” 

you do. his face is completely serious. “who told you that?” 

“it doesn’t matter.” 

“it does.”

“i just don’t wanna make it a thing.”

his jaw tightens. “fine.” 

his fingers brush yours, palms squeezing your hand occasionally. “listen carefully.” 

you nod. 

“when have i ever pretended to like something?” 

you blink softly. “never.”

“i don’t.” 

he squeezes your hand again, bringing it up to his nose, kissing your knuckles softly. “if i don’t like someone, they know.” 

you can’t help the tiny laugh. “yeah, i know.”

“so why,” he asks quietly. “why would you think i’d fake loving you?”

your eyes begin to sting. “i just.. you don’t seem to get tired.”

“i do.” 

“i know, but-”

“no.”

he shakes his head. “i get tired of crowds, noise, classes, people asking stupid questions. maybe besides itadori. and you.”

“i don’t ask stupid questions.” you say.

he brushes his thumb across your knuckles. “i’ve never gotten tired of you.” 

your lip trembles. “really?” 

he looks almost offended. “you think carrying you around, making you breakfast, getting up close and intimate with you, staying awake with you when you can’t sleep…”

megumi tilts his head. “you think i do all that because i tolerate you?

you find it impossible how much megumi loves you despite being so good at containing it. “no..”

“i do it because i love you.” 

your eyes finally meet his again. 

“i like hearing you talk.”

“even when i ramble?” 

“especially then.” 

“but interrupt you all the time, i steal your things and i kiss you a lot..” 

“you do all those things. and if you suddenly stopped, i’d think something was wrong.” 

a tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it. “i’m sorry.”

“for what?” 

“i don’t know why it got to me.” 

“it got to you because they were talking about someone you love.” 

he brushes the tear away with his thumb. “and because they were talking about you.”

you lean into his hand instinctively. 

“do you know waht i see?” 

you shake your head.

“i see someone who gets really excited over sushi, the person who waves at strangers.. laughs with them, the girl who cries during dog food commercials and snuggles kuro.”

you laugh through another tear. 

“you make every place feel like home, baby.” 

he says it so simply, like it’s just a fact. no hesitation and no embarrassment. “i don’t want less of you.” his thumb brushes beneath your eye again and your shoulders finally sag. 

“i want all of you.”

you smile despite yourself, looking down again. “even when im embarassing?” 

“i’ve carried you out of a restaurant while you were wine drunk and trying to kiss my neck.” 

you stay quiet, still smiling, a bit bigger now. 

“you post me all the time too.” 

“that’s not embarassing. besides, you posted me sleeping.” 

“that’s fair.”

you laugh properly this time, a sound that makes something unclench in megumi’s chest. 

“you’re really romantic for someone who pretends he isn’t.” 

“no i don’t pretend.” 

you roll your eyes and give him such a funny look he can only agree with you.

“fine but only a teeny bit.”

your smile grows with each passing second. it becomes bigger until it’s the smile he recognizes.

he moves his chair next to yours and pulls you closer, kissing your hair. a comfortable silence falls between you, and nearly after a full minute of stillness, you lift your head. 

“baby?” 

“hm?” 

“that little strawberry tart in the display case..” 

he closes his eyes. “here we go.” 

“can we split one?” 

a tiny sigh escapes him. “we were already going to.” 

your entire face lights up. “we were?” 

“i ordered it ten minutes ago. in a to go box. hot.” 

you shower him with kisses, he knows you oh so well.

The silence in Megumi Fushiguro’s apartment had never felt like a weapon before. It had always been a soft, comfortable thing. The quiet of shared space, the peace of two people who didn’t need to fill every moment with noise. But tonight, the silence it felt different.

Megumi had come home late, later than usual, his shoulders hunched and his jaw tight. You’d watched him shrug off his jacket, his movements jerky and exhausted, and your heart had clenched with sympathy. You knew he’d had a brutal week. A mission had gone sideways, leaving him with a concussion and a civilian casualty that wasn’t his fault but weighed on him anyway. Then there had been the endless debriefings, the paperwork, the sidelong glances from the higher-ups who always seemed to be waiting for him to fail. You’d seen the dark circles under his eyes deepen with each passing day, watched him pick at his food without eating, and felt him toss and turn beside you in bed long after the lights went out.

So you’d done what you always did. You’d tried to help. You’d made his favorite tea, the ginger one that stung the nose and warmed the throat. You’d set out his comfortable clothes, the soft sweater with the frayed cuffs he loved. And when he’d sunk onto the couch with a bone-deep sigh, you’d settled beside him and started talking, hoping to pull him out of his head, to distract him from the darkness you could see swirling behind his eyes.

“I was thinking about time today,” you’d begun, your voice soft and meandering, the way it always was when you were trying to soothe him. “Not like, clock time, but geological time. Did you know that if you compressed the entire history of the Earth into a single year, humans wouldn’t show up until like, eleven-forty PM on December thirty-first? And the entire recorded history of human civilization would be the last few seconds before midnight? It’s wild, right? All of our wars and art and love and everything, just this tiny little blip. And it made me think about how when you’re in the middle of a bad week, it feels like it’s going to last forever, but in the grand scheme of things, it’s not even a fraction of a fraction of a—”

“Can you just be quiet?”

The words weren’t loud. They weren’t even particularly harsh. But they stopped you cold, your mouth still half-open around the next syllable, your hands frozen mid-gesture. You stared at him, waiting for the punchline, the softening of his eyes, the small quirk of his lips that meant he was teasing.

It didn’t come.

He wasn’t looking at you. His head was tilted back against the couch, his eyes closed, and there was a furrow between his brows so deep it looked carved there. The words hung in the air between you, ugly and final, and for one bizarre, disorienting moment, a single thought cut through your shock: This isn’t Megumi.

The thought was so strong, so visceral, that your eyes darted around the room, half-expecting to see the shimmer of a veil, the telltale distortion of a curse’s technique. Because this couldn’t be real. Your Megumi—your sweet, quiet, secretly tender Megumi who let you put face masks on him and once sat through a three-hour documentary about nudibranchs because you’d said they looked like tiny sea dragons and you loved them—your Megumi would never, ever say that to you. This had to be a curse. Some vile, parasitic thing wearing his skin, twisting his voice, using his exhaustion as a doorway in.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until your lungs started to burn. Your hands were trembling in your lap, but you kept them still, kept your face as neutral as you could manage, while your mind spiraled through every exorcism you’d ever studied, every curse you’d ever encountered. You searched his face for some sign of the supernatural, some glint of something that wasn’t him.

Megumi’s eyes opened, and you searched them desperately. But all you saw was exhaustion. Bone-deep, soul-crushing exhaustion, and underneath it, a flicker of irritation that made your stomach drop.

He must have seen something in your expression—the wide-eyed horror, the desperate scanning—because his brow furrowed further. "Nothing is wrong, I just… I can’t right now. I need quiet. Please.”

Please. He’d said please, like it was a reasonable request, like he hadn’t just taken the thing you were most vulnerable about—the thing you’d been terrified of your entire life—and confirmed it was true. You talked too much, you shared too much, you were too much, and the one person you’d trusted with all of it had finally gotten sick of pretending otherwise.

You didn’t remember standing up. You didn’t remember walking to the bedroom. All you remembered was the click of the door closing behind you, the sound of your own heartbeat thundering in your ears, and the slow, creeping horror of a new thought slithering into your mind.

What if he’s been holding this back for our entire relationship, and tonight he just… slipped?

You pressed your back against the bedroom door and slid down until you were sitting on the floor, your knees drawn up to your chest. The tears came hot and silent, and with them, the spiral.

Because the thing was, it made sense. It made terrible, perfect sense.

You’d always known you talked a lot. You’d been told so your whole life—by teachers who moved your desk to the back of the classroom, by friends who slowly stopped returning your texts, by family members who smiled tight smiles and said, “Don’t you ever run out of things to say?” You talked when you were happy, when you were nervous, when you were sad, and when you were excited. Talking was how you processed the world. It was how you connected, how you loved, how you breathed.

And Megumi… Megumi was so quiet. He spoke in glances and small gestures, in the brush of his fingers against yours, in the way he’d make you tea without being asked. You’d always thought—hoped—that your talking was the yang to his yin, that you filled the silences he didn’t want to fill himself, that he liked it, that he liked you.

But what if he didn’t? What if every story you’d ever told him, every random observation, every excited ramble about sea slugs or cloud formations or the socioeconomic implications of ancient Roman plumbing—what if every single word had been sandpaper against his nerves? What if all those little hums and nods, the ones you’d interpreted as listening, had actually been him just… enduring?

You thought back through your entire relationship, and the memories shifted and warped before your eyes, taking on a sinister new shape. The time you’d spent forty-five minutes explaining the plot of a book he’d never read, and he’d just sat there, silent. You’d thought he was being a good listener. What if he’d been wishing you would stop? The time you’d made him watch a video essay about the history of buttons, and he’d fallen asleep halfway through. You’d teased him about it, thinking it was cute. What if he’d been so bored, so exhausted by your endless stream of words, that his body had just given up?

Every memory became evidence. Every silence became a verdict. And you, who loved him so much, realized with a sickening lurch that your love might have been a burden. That the very thing you’d been offering him—yourself, unfiltered and enthusiastic and overflowing—might have been the thing he’d secretly wished he could escape.

You didn’t sleep that night. You lay in bed, still and silent as a stone, listening to Megumi’s breathing on the other side of the mattress. He didn’t reach for you. He didn’t say anything. And that, too, felt like confirmation.

───

The next morning, you woke up with a new resolve. If Megumi needed quiet, you would give him quiet. If your talking was a burden, you would set it down. You would become smaller, neater, easier. You would be the girlfriend he deserved, not the one he’d been saddled with.

It was the hardest thing you’d ever done.

The first day, you caught yourself a dozen times. You’d open your mouth to tell him about the weird bird you’d seen outside the window, and you’d snap it shut again. You’d pick up your phone to text him a thought that had just occurred to you, and you’d set it back down. Every suppressed word felt like a small death, a little piece of yourself that you were burying alive.

But you did it. For him, you did it.

“Morning,” you said when he stumbled into the kitchen. One word. Neat. Contained. You placed his coffee in front of him—black, no sugar, the way he liked it—and turned back to the sink.

Megumi grunted in response, rubbing his eyes. He didn’t seem to notice anything different. Why would he? This was probably what he’d always wanted. A quiet morning. A peaceful coffee. A girlfriend who didn’t assault him with trivia before he’d fully woken up.

The second day was harder. You saw a dog on your walk home that looked exactly like his Divine Dog, a big black shaggy thing with soulful eyes, and your first instinct was to take a picture, to send it to him, to say, “Look! It’s your son! He’s working at a café now apparently, very distinguished!” You had your phone out, the camera app open, before you remembered. You put the phone away. You walked home in silence. And when Megumi asked, “How was your day?” you said, “Fine,” and nothing else.

The third day, the fourth day, the fifth day—they all blurred together into a haze. You’d never realized how much of your life was made of words until you had to swallow every single one. You’d never realized how lonely silence could be until you were drowning in it.

You didn’t have a lot of close friends. It wasn’t that people didn’t like you—they did, or at least, they seemed to. But friendships required maintenance, and you’d always poured so much of yourself into your relationship with Megumi that there hadn’t been much left over. He’d been your person. The one you texted at 2 AM when you had a thought that couldn’t wait. The one whose shoulder you shook when you saw something beautiful or weird or funny, because sharing it with him was what made it real.

Now you had no one. The thoughts piled up inside you, a tower of unsaid words growing taller every day. You started a journal, but it wasn’t the same. The journal didn’t hum in the right places. The journal didn’t roll its eyes fondly or call you an idiot with that particular soft inflection that meant I love you. The journal was just paper, and you were so, so lonely.

Megumi didn’t notice.

Well, that wasn’t entirely fair. He noticed something. He noticed that you were quieter, but he chalked it up to mood swings. You’d always been emotional, up and down, sunshine and rain. He figured you were going through something personal—maybe family stuff, maybe hormones, maybe just the general weight of being a sorcerer in a world that never stopped needing saving. He’d ask, “You okay?” and you’d say, “I’m fine,” and he’d accept it, because Megumi was not, by nature, a person who pushed.

A small, petty part of you wanted him to push. You wanted him to grab you by the shoulders and say, “You’re not fine. You haven’t told me a single fact about marine biology in five days. What’s wrong?” But he didn’t. He just drifted through the apartment like a ghost, and you drifted with him, two silent ships passing in a fog of your own making.

Weeks passed. You got very good at being quiet. You learned the precise number of words required to get through a day without arousing suspicion: “Good morning.” “Do you want dinner?” “I’m going to bed.”

And through it all, the thoughts kept coming. They never stopped. Every moment of every day, your brain was churning out observations, questions, connections, jokes, stories. Did you know that octopuses have three hearts? Did you know that the moon is slowly moving away from the Earth? Did you know that I love you so much it’s killing me not to tell you? The words pressed against the inside of your skull and you had nowhere to put them.

Until Yuuta.

───

You’d gone to the sorcerer headquarters to drop off some paperwork for Gojo—a favor you’d agreed to in the morning. You were walking across the training grounds, head down, already composing the text you wouldn’t send Megumi about the interesting moss pattern on the path, when you literally ran into someone.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, I wasn’t—” You looked up into a pair of kind, worried eyes, and your brain short-circuited. “Yuuta?”

Yuuta Okkotsu smiled at you, that gentle, slightly awkward smile that made him look like a startled puppy. “Hey! It’s good to see you. I feel like it’s been forever. How are you? How’s Megumi?”

And something in you, something that had been wound tight for weeks, just… snapped.

“Did you know,” you said, the words tumbling out before you could stop them, “that there’s a species of jellyfish that’s biologically immortal? It’s called the Turritopsis dohrnii, and when it gets injured or stressed or just old, it can revert back to its polyp stage and start its whole life cycle over. It’s like hitting the reset button on your own existence. Scientists are studying it to see if there are applications for human aging, but honestly, I think the jellyfish is onto something. Imagine if every time you made a horrible mistake, you could just turn back into a baby and try again. Megumi would probably appreciate that, right? A do-over button for relationships? ‘Oh no, I’ve been a terrible boyfriend, time to become a polyp!’ Though I guess that’s not really fair. He’s not terrible. I’m the terrible one. I’m the one who talks too much. That’s literally what he said. Well, not literally, but implied. He said, ‘Can you just be quiet?’ and I’ve been trying, I really have, but it’s so hard because I have all these thoughts and nowhere to put them and I can’t tell him because he doesn’t want to hear it and I don’t have anyone else because he was my person and now I’m just—I’m just full. Do you ever feel full? Like you’re going to burst if you don’t say something, but if you say something, the person you love most in the world is going to look at you with that exhausted, annoyed expression, and you’ll die a little inside? No? Just me? Okay. Okay, I’m sorry. I’m doing it again. I’m talking too much. I should stop. I’m going to stop now.”

You stopped. You were breathing hard, your heart pounding, and you realized with a distant sort of horror that you’d just verbally vomited all over Yuuta Okkotsu, a man you barely knew, a man who was probably just trying to be polite and was now trapped in a conversation with a lunatic.

But Yuuta didn’t look trapped. He looked… concerned. And interested. And maybe a little bit sad.

“The jellyfish thing is really cool,” he said quietly. “Tell me more about that.”

You stared at him. “What?”

“The immortal jellyfish. How does it work, exactly? Does it remember its previous life, or is it a blank slate every time?”

It was like someone had opened a floodgate. You couldn’t stop yourself. You didn’t want to stop yourself. You told him about the cellular transdifferentiation process, about the way the jellyfish’s cells could change from one type to another, about the implications for regenerative medicine and the philosophical questions it raised about identity and consciousness and what it meant to truly die. And then, because he was still listening, still nodding, still asking questions with genuine curiosity in his dark eyes, you told him about octopuses and moon phases and the time you’d gotten lost in a museum and accidentally attended a lecture on medieval grain storage, and it had been the most fascinating hour of your life.

You talked for two hours. Two solid hours of uninterrupted, uncensored, gloriously rambling. You told Yuuta things you hadn’t even realized you’d been holding in. You told him about the specific shade of gray the sky turned before a storm, and the way Megumi’s hair fell over his eyes when he was concentrating, and the dream you’d had about flying whales, and the theory you’d developed about pigeons being government drones, and—

And through it all, Yuuta listened. He didn’t endure. He listened. He laughed at your jokes. He gasped at your revelations. He leaned in when you got to the good parts, and he shook his head in wonder when you finished a particularly convoluted tangent. He was, you realized with a pang, everything you’d been missing. Not a romantic prospect—you were too in love with Megumi for that, even now, even after everything—but a friend. A real, true friend who didn’t seem to mind that you talked too much. Who maybe even liked it.

“That was incredible,” Yuuta said when you finally wound down, your throat hoarse and your heart lighter than it had been in weeks. “You’re like a living Wikipedia, except way more entertaining. Megumi’s a lucky guy.”

The mention of Megumi’s name was like a splash of cold water. “I should… I should probably go. I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

“You didn’t take anything,” Yuuta said firmly. “I offered. And honestly?” He ducked his head, a little shy. “It was nice. I enjoyed learning so much, and if it made you feel better, then I am even more glad. So thank you. For talking to me.”

Something in your chest cracked open. “You’re welcome, thank you too for hearing me.” you whispered. And you meant it.

───

The afternoon sun was slanting through the trees of the training grounds, casting long, golden shadows across the grass, and Megumi Fushiguro was worried.

Something was wrong with you. He’d noticed it in the small things—the way you’d stopped texting him random facts in the middle of the day, the way the apartment had become so painfully quiet, the way you’d answer his questions with one-word responses and tight, brittle smiles that never reached your eyes. He’d told himself it was a mood swing, or stress, or something personal that you’d share when you were ready. He’d told himself to be patient, to give you space, to be the steady, silent presence you needed.

But today, the worry had sharpened into something sharper. You hadn’t answered your phone. Three calls, straight to voicemail. You were supposed to drop off paperwork for Gojo, a simple errand that should have taken an hour at most, but three hours had passed and you still weren’t home. Megumi had tried to ignore the cold knot forming in his stomach. He’d tried to reason with himself—maybe your phone died, maybe you got caught up talking to someone, maybe you just needed time alone. But the image of your face that morning, pale and drawn and so terribly quiet, had pushed him out the door.

He found you on a bench near the old training fields, a secluded spot dappled with light and shadow, the kind of place you used to drag him to for “cloud-watching dates” where you’d spend an hour narrating the lives of the cumulus sheep and their stratus shepherds. The memory hit him like a punch to the chest, a reminder of everything that had been missing, everything he’d somehow let slip away.

But you weren’t alone.

Yuuta Okkotsu was sitting beside you on the bench, his body angled toward you in a posture of complete, undivided attention. And you were talking. You were talking the way you used to talk to Megumi, your hands flying through the air, your face alight with an animation he hadn’t seen in weeks, your voice carrying across the grass in a bright, effervescent stream that made his heart seize in his chest.

"—And that’s why I’m convinced pigeons are actually government surveillance drones,” you were saying, your voice breathless with laughter. “I mean, think about it, Yuuta. They’re everywhere. They never migrate. They have that weird red eye thing that looks exactly like a camera lens. And have you ever seen a baby pigeon? No. You haven’t. Because they’re not born. They’re manufactured.”

Yuuta laughed—a real, genuine laugh, warm and surprised—and Megumi watched him shake his head in wonder. “That’s the most unhinged wild I’ve ever heard,” Yuuta said, but his voice was fond, almost admiring. “I love it. What else do you have? What’s your take on squirrels?”

“Oh, squirrels are just tree spies,” you said immediately, and you launched into another tangent without missing a beat, your whole body leaning toward Yuuta like he was the sun and you were a flower desperate for light.

Megumi stood frozen at the edge of the treeline, hidden in the shadows of a large oak, and watched.

He should have walked away. He should have announced himself, or texted you that he was there, or done anything other than stand there like a ghost, eavesdropping on a conversation that was never meant for his ears. But he couldn’t move. His feet were rooted to the ground, and his eyes were fixed on you, on the way you sparkled, on the way you came alive in a way you hadn’t around him in weeks.

Look at her, a voice whispered in the back of his mind, cold and insidious. Look at how happy she is. Look at how she’s glowing. You haven’t made her look like that in weeks. Maybe ever.

He tried to push the thought away, but it clung to him like a curse, sinking its claws into the softest, most vulnerable parts of his heart. He watched Yuuta lean in slightly, his dark eyes soft with genuine interest, and something bitter and acidic rose in Megumi’s throat.

Of course. Of course it’s Yuuta.

Yuuta Okkotsu, the prodigy. The special grade sorcerer who had overcome a curse born of love itself. The one everyone admired, the one everyone trusted, the one who was unfailingly kind and gentle and everything Megumi knew, deep in his bones, he could never be.

He’s perfect for her.

The thought was a knife twisting in his gut. Yuuta was everything you deserved. He was affectionate. He was emotionally available. He probably knew how to say “I love you” without choking on the words, without hoping his actions could speak loudly enough to drown out his silence. He would never snap at you after a hard week. He would never make you feel like your voice was a burden. He would listen—really listen, with his whole heart, the way he was listening now—and he would make you feel seen, cherished, adored.

And what did Megumi do? He grunted. He nodded. He made tea and hoped you understood that the steam rising from the cup meant you are my whole world. He was a coward, a man made of silences and shadows, and he’d always known, somewhere deep down, that it was only a matter of time before you realized you deserved more.

This is it, he thought, and the cold certainty of it settled over him like a shroud. She’s found someone who can give her what I can’t. Someone who can listen. She’s going to leave me.

He watched you laugh again, your hand reaching out to touch Yuuta’s arm in a gesture of easy familiarity, and something inside him cracked. You used to touch him like that. You used to look at him like that, like he was the only person in the world who mattered. And he’d thrown it away. He’d thrown it away with two stupid, careless sentences, spoken in a moment of exhausted weakness.

“Can you just be quiet?”

The memory of that night crashed over him like a wave of ice. He remembered the way your face had crumpled, the way you’d frozen, silent and terrified, before retreating to the bedroom without a word. How you’d looked at him like he was a stranger wearing a familiar face. And he’d been too tired, too wrapped up in his own misery, to follow you. He’d let you go. He’d let you think, for weeks, that your voice was a burden, that your beautiful, bright, overflowing self was something to be endured rather than cherished.

And now here you were, blooming under someone else’s attention, because he had starved you of his own.

She deserves this, he thought, and the resignation was so heavy it made his knees weak. She deserves someone who doesn’t make her feel like she has to be small. Someone who doesn’t need weeks to notice she’s dying inside. Someone like Yuuta.

Yuuta said something that made you laugh again—a full, unrestrained, head-tilted-back laugh that Megumi hadn’t heard in so long he’d almost forgotten the sound of it. The joy in it was a blade, and it cut him to the bone. He wanted to be the one making you laugh like that. He wanted to be the one you leaned toward, the one you touched, the one you trusted with your wild theories and endless curiosities. But he’d forfeited that right, hadn’t he? He’d pushed you away, and you’d found someone else to fill the space he’d left.

If you love her, you’ll let her go. The thought was noble, self-sacrificing, the kind of thought the heroes in your stories would have. But Megumi wasn’t a hero. He was a jealous, terrified, broken man who couldn’t stand the idea of losing you, even if it was exactly what he deserved.

He watched Yuuta stand up from the bench, saying something that made you smile and nod. You stood too, and for one horrible, heart-stopping moment, Megumi thought you might hug him, might press yourself against Yuuta the way you used to press against him. But you didn’t. You just waved, a cheerful, grateful wave, and Yuuta walked away, leaving you alone on the path.

Megumi should have waited. He should have let you walk home, should have given himself time to compose his thoughts, to find the right words, to be calm and rational and mature about this. But he’d spent his whole life being calm and rational and mature, and look where it had gotten him. Standing in the shadows, watching the love of his life light up for someone else because he’d been too stupid, too silent, too scared to tell her how much she meant to him.

He stepped out from behind the tree.

You saw him immediately. Your head turned at the sound of his footsteps, and the smile—the beautiful, radiant smile you’d been wearing for Yuuta—froze on your face and then slowly, painfully, died. It was like watching a door slam shut, and Megumi felt the impact in his soul.

“Megumi,” you said, and your voice was flat. Neutral. Nothing like the bright, bubbling stream he’d just been eavesdropping on. “What are you doing here?”

He opened his mouth to say something reasonable—“I was worried about you,” or “Your phone was off,” or “Let’s go home and talk about this calmly”—but what came out instead was: “So that’s it, then. You’re going to leave me for him.”

Your eyes widened. “What?”

“Yuuta.” Megumi’s voice was shaking, and he hated it. He hated the way he couldn’t control it, the way all the fear and jealousy and self-loathing he’d been swallowing for weeks was spilling out of him like poison. “I saw you. Just now. You were so happy, talking to him. You were so… you were yourself again. And you haven’t been yourself with me in weeks. So I get it, okay? I get it. He’s better than me. He’s everything I’m not. And you deserve someone like him.”

The words hung in the air between you, ugly and raw and desperate. Megumi watched your face cycle through shock, confusion, and then—slowly, devastatingly—understanding.

“You were watching us,” you said quietly.

“I came looking for you.” He couldn’t meet your eyes anymore. He stared at the ground, at the grass, at the ants marching in a neat line across the path. “You weren’t answering your phone. I was worried. And then I saw you with him, and you were talking the way you used to talk to me, and I just… I knew. I knew you’d finally realized I’m not enough.”

“Megumi—”

“Do you know what I was thinking the whole time I watched you two?” The words kept coming. His hands were shaking at his sides. His chest was so tight he could barely breathe. “I was thinking, ‘Of course. Of course it’s Yuuta.’ Yuuta is kind and gentle and he probably never forgets to tell you how much he loves you. He probably listens to every word you say and tells you you’re brilliant and doesn’t just grunt and hope you understand. He’s affectionate and he’s sweet and he’s exactly what you need, and I’m just… I’m just me. I’m dark and quiet and broken, and I’ve always known, deep down, that someday you’d wake up and realize you could do better.”

He finally looked up at you, and the expression on your face made his heart shatter into a thousand pieces. You were crying. Silent tears were streaming down your cheeks, and you were looking at him with something that wasn’t anger or confirmation—it was heartbreak. Pure, aching heartbreak.

“Oh, Megumi,” you whispered.

He couldn’t stop. The dam was broken, and everything he’d been holding in for years was pouring out in an uncontrollable torrent. “He’s better for you. Everyone knows it. Gojo, Nobara, probably even you. Yuuta is the kind of person who deserves someone like you—someone bright and warm and full of life. I’m just the guy who told you to shut up when you were trying to help me. I’m the guy who didn’t notice you were dying inside for three whole weeks because I was too wrapped up in my own head. I’m the guy who can’t even say ‘I love you’ without feeling like I’m going to choke on it. So go ahead.” His voice cracked, and he felt the hot sting of tears in his own eyes, tears he’d been fighting for weeks, for years, for a lifetime. “If you’re going to leave me for him, just do it. I won’t stop you. I won’t fight. I just… I need to know.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Megumi stood there, trembling, his heart laid bare in the ugliest possible way, waiting for the axe to fall. He’d said it. He’d said all of it—every fear, every insecurity, every dark thought that had ever whispered in the back of his mind. And now you knew. Now you knew exactly how broken he was, exactly how little he thought of himself, exactly how terrified he’d been from the very beginning that you would leave.

You took a step toward him. Then another. And then you were right in front of him, your hands reaching up to cup his face, your thumbs brushing away the tears he hadn’t even realized had fallen.

“You absolute walnut,” you said, your voice thick with tears. “I’m not leaving you for Yuuta.”

Megumi blinked. “You’re… you’re not?”

“I’m not.” You tightened your grip on his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. “I’m not in love with Yuuta. I don’t want Yuuta. I want you, you emotionally constipated disaster of a man. I have always wanted you.”

“But you were so happy with him,” Megumi whispered, and the words came out small and broken. “You were laughing. You were talking. You were… you were yourself. And you haven’t been yourself with me in weeks. I thought… I thought you’d finally found someone who could make you happy.”

Your face crumpled. “I haven’t been myself with you because you told me to be quiet,” you said, and the words were gentle but they hit him even harder. “You told me to be quiet, and I thought… I thought you’d been holding that in our whole relationship. I thought every story I’d ever told you, every random fact, every ramble about clouds or sea slugs or whatever—I thought you’d just been enduring it. I thought my voice was a burden to you, the person I loved most in the world. So I tried to be less. I tried to be what I thought you wanted. And it was killing me, Megumi. It was killing me because I have all these things I want to tell you, all these thoughts and ideas and questions, and I couldn’t, because I was so terrified you’d look at me the way you did that night. Like I was exhausting. Like I was too much.”

Megumi felt the ground tilt beneath him. Everything you were saying—it was so much worse than he’d imagined. He’d thought you were pulling away because you’d outgrown him. He’d thought you were preparing to leave because you’d found someone better. But the truth was so much more devastating: you’d been trying to stay. You’d been contorting yourself into someone smaller, someone quieter, someone you thought he wanted, and it had been destroying you. And he’d been so blind, so self-absorbed, that he hadn’t even noticed.

“I talked to Yuuta today because I was desperate,” you continued, your voice breaking. “I’ve been drowning in silence for weeks, and he was there, and he listened. That’s it. That’s all it was. He was a life raft in the middle of an ocean I’ve been trying not to drown in. He’s not you. He’ll never be you. I don’t want a life raft. I want my person back. I want the man who makes me tea without being asked and lets me put face masks on him and sits through documentaries about nudibranchs even though he’s probably bored out of his mind. I want you, Megumi. Just you. But I need you to talk to me. Actually talk to me. With words. Out loud. So I don’t have to guess what’s going on in that beautiful, overthinking brain of yours.”

Megumi stared at you, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. “You want… me? Still? Even after everything?”

“Even after everything.” You smiled, a watery, trembling smile that was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “I’m still mad at you, by the way. Very mad. ‘Can you just be quiet?’ What kind of thing is that to say to the love of your life?”

“I’m sorry.” The words came out in a rush, desperate and sincere. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I was exhausted and I was taking it out on you, and that’s not an excuse, it’s just… it’s the truth. I was drowning in my own head, and you were trying to help, and I pushed you away because I’m an idiot who doesn’t know how to accept love. I should have apologized the next morning. I should have apologized every single day for the past three weeks. I should have noticed. I should have seen that you were hurting and asked you what was wrong instead of just… assuming.”

You shook your head, still holding his face in your hands. “Don’t blame yourself. I know you love me, Megumi. But sometimes I need the words too. Sometimes I need you to tell me, out loud, that I’m not too much. That my voice isn’t a burden. That you like listening to me.”

“You’re not too much.” The words came out fierce, almost angry in their intensity. “You’ve never been too much. You’re exactly enough. You’re more than enough. Your voice is—it’s the best part of my day. Every day. When you talk to me about clouds or jellyfish or the socioeconomic implications of Roman plumbing, it’s like you’re chasing all the shadows out of my head. I’m not bored. I’m never bored. I’m just… quiet. I’ve always been quiet. But that doesn’t mean I’m not listening. That doesn’t mean I don’t love every single word.”

You were crying again, but you were smiling too, and Megumi realized with a jolt that these were good tears. Relief tears. The tears of someone who had been holding their breath for weeks and was finally, finally allowed to exhale.

“I’m sorry I compared myself to Yuuta,” he said quietly. “I just… I saw you with him, and you looked so happy, and I thought… I thought maybe he could give you something I can’t.”

“He’s not you,” you said simply. “And I don’t want someone who isn’t you. Yuuta is sweet. He’s kind. He’ll probably make some other rambling disaster of a person very happy someday. But he’s not my person. You are. You’ve always been my person.” You paused, and a mischievous glint flickered in your tear-bright eyes. “Now, I have approximately four hundred more facts to tell you, and I’ve been holding them in for three weeks, and I’m pretty sure my brain is going to explode.”

Megumi let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob, and he didn’t kiss you—not yet. Instead, he pulled you into his arms and held you as tight as he could without breaking you, burying his face in your hair and breathing you in like you were oxygen and he’d been drowning for weeks.

“Tell me,” he whispered against your temple. “Tell me everything. I’m listening. I swear I’m listening.”

“Did you know that wombats have cube-shaped poop?”

He laughed, a real laugh, startled out of him by the sheer absurdity of it. “…What?”

“It’s true! It’s so they can stack it to mark their territory without it rolling away. Nature is amazing and also deeply weird, and I have so many more where that came from. Are you ready?”

“I’m ready,” he said, and he meant it. He was ready to listen. He was ready to learn. He was ready to spend the rest of his life proving to you that your voice was the most precious thing in his world, that your words were never a burden, that he would never, ever make you feel small again.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, to take in the way the setting sun caught the tears still drying on your cheeks and turned them to gold. “I love you,” he said, and the words didn’t choke him the way they usually did. They felt right. They felt necessary. “I should have said it more. I love you and I love your voice and I’m sorry I made you feel like you had to be quiet.”

Your smile, when it came, was the sun breaking through the clouds after a storm. “I love you too, you absolute walnut.”

And then you kissed him, and he kissed you back, and the silence between you wasn’t a weapon anymore. It was a soft thing. A comfortable thing. A thing you could share together, without fear.

Later, you would walk home together, your hand in his, and you would tell him everything—the immortal jellyfish, the medieval grain storage, the flying whales, the specific shade of gray the sky turned before a storm. He would listen to every word, and he would ask questions, and he would make the right hums in the right places, and he would silently vow to spend the rest of his life being the kind of partner who deserved the gift of your voice.

But for now, there was just this: the two of you standing in the golden afternoon light, holding each other like you’d found your way home after a long and lonely journey. The sky overhead was doing that thing you loved—turning that specific shade of gray before a storm—and you’d tell him about it later. You had time. You had all the time in the world.

But Yuuji’s rotten to the core, these days. These days, months, the past year. He’s become the kind of person who thinks things like that; thinks of himself before the kid he’s traveling way the hell across the city to pick up. Yuuji’s been trying very, very hard not to act on his impulses, on account of all of them screaming at him to torpedo his own life irreversibly. He’s not acting on his first thoughts, and he doesn’t judge himself for them, either. Yuuji’s been focusing on what he does after.

The action after he hangs up the phone is he gets in the car. But the thought is ‘this is a fucking terrible time to saddle me with an orphan I’ve never met.’

Damning. Unignorable. When Yuuji finally kicks it and they place his ugly heart on the scale, the weight of his sins will send that metal plate straight into the ground.

His first thought is foul; cracks open a hideous side of himself. His second thought is ‘this is a terrible time to become a foster parent.’

He almost throws up after that one. But he doesn’t have time; there’s a six-year-old waiting for him in a police station an hour away. Yuuji might not be father material, but even he knows he’s gotta get to that kid as soon as possible. He can’t leave Sukuna alone for long.

Yuuji grips the steering wheel, flying down the highway. Sukuna. Kaori’s son, which makes him Yuuji’s…cousin? Nephew? Yuuji’s not sure there’s a word for “child of a distant cousin who went rogue and married a juiced-up ex-cult leader.”

His nails dig into the wheel’s leather upholstery. Well. The word now is ‘guardian.’ ‘Parental guardian,’ if he’s got the legalese right.

Yuuji resists the urge to crash into a guardrail. Instead, he tries to make a to-do list.

Pick up Sukuna. 

In progress. Already, Yuuji’s doing just great.

Get a lawyer. 

Higuruma, Yuuji thinks distractedly. He’ll call him tonight.

Crushed that problem without even trying. Yuuji’s a natural at this parenting shit.

He grimaces; kind of wanting to throw up again. He grits his teeth and shoulders on.

3. …

What else should he do? What the hell else will Sukuna need?

A place to sleep, Yuuji realizes with dawning horror. He’s taking Sukuna back to the apartment, he’s going to need a bed. He’s going to need a room.

Yuuji’s stomach twists, folds in on itself. He forces himself to breathe, can’t, and pulls onto the shoulder of the road.

Car goes in park. Head pushed between his knees; hands clasped behind the back of his neck. Breath shallow, unstable. Sukuna needs a room, Yuuji’s got a spare room. It’s dusty, no doubt. Shoved out of sight behind a locked door, and Yuuji would’ve swallowed the key if Megumi hadn’t given him that flat, unimpressed look. Forward thinking of him.

Yeah, Sukuna will get his own room. Trembling, Yuuji pulls himself upright and steers back onto the highway. His own room, and that’s—good, Yuuji thinks, skin too tight. It’s good, it’ll, it’ll probably help Sukuna adjust, or whatever. Good for him to have his own space.

Yeah. Sukuna will get his own space, Yuuji just has to swap out the crib for a big-boy bed.

God above.

At least the crib’s untouched, he thinks miserably. Unused. He can probably just dismantle it and send it right back to the manufacturer.

For a moment, his vision goes white hot. He swallows it back and glances at the GPS. Twenty more minutes to—to figure this out.

Yuuji’s brain spins in circles. He cannot, for the life of him, figure out number four on the to-do list.

And then he’s at the police station.

He is suddenly aware that he—he cannot mess this up. Yuuji—Yuuji needs to be very, very careful.

A voice rings in his ear, sudden and sharp. Too careless, too reckless, too ready to throw a punch. You never slow down, you never think, Yuuji!

Yuuji bats it away desperately. He can’t bring that with him into this meeting, he’s a wreck enough as it is.

Carefully, hands shaking with the physical exertion of holding himself back, Yuuji eases the car into a parking spot.

He kills the engine; leaves his hand on the key. Yuuji needs to get to Sukuna as soon as possible. But he also needs a minute.

He sets a timer on his phone, sixty seconds. When it’s done, he tells himself sternly, when it’s done he’ll go in.

Yuuji unbuckles his seat belt thirty seconds after the sharp alarm hits the windows. Outside, he pulls his hood up over his head. It’s raining, he notes dully. Dark and gloomy, because the universe always knows when to kick him in the ass.

Inside, the station is busy. His eyes track motion, jumping from person to person as he watches people scurrying about.

A stone settles in his stomach. Where…where the hell is he supposed to go? Is there a “new orphan waiting for distant cousin” room?

Panic spreads, then drops as he catches a flash of bright pink hair. Exhaling gratefully, Yuuji heads toward it like a beacon. Sukuna has the same shade of hair as his own, though even from afar he can see Sukuna’s is longer, more unkempt.

Same hair, and that, apparently, is where the similarities end, because as Yuuji approaches the little boy slumped in the rickety folding chair, Yuuji realizes Sukuna has four arms.

Four arms.

What—what the fuck?

How the fuck is he supposed to—what do they expect him to—what the fuck?

Half-terrified, Yuuji takes in Sukuna from behind the safety of his drawn hood. Four arms, some kind of whacked up facial scarring, and three—four eyes total. Two normal ones (ha) stacked on the left side of his face, and two big, pulsing, diagonal ones bulging out of the angry scar tissue.

It’s enough to make his blood run cold. What were cousin Kaori’s prenatal vitamins, Yuuji wonders faintly, chippings from the Chernobyl elephant’s foot?

Someone coughs, and Yuuji hastily whips his head up and throws off his hood. Water scatters everywhere, and the woman at the desk in front of Sukuna winces as droplets fling across her face.

“I am so sorry,” Yuuji apologizes hurriedly, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a crushed up napkin. “Uh, I don’t know if you—” He offers it up awkwardly.

“It’s fine,” the woman reassures him stiffly. “You must be Itadori Yuuji.”

He nods quickly. “Yes, that’s me.”

“I’m the social worker assigned to Sukuna’s case,” she gestures meaningfully at the kid huddled up by her desk.

R—right. Okay. Uh—

Not knowing what the hell to do with himself, Yuuji crouches down, kneeling so he’s eye level with Sukuna. He works overtime trying not to react, but holy fuck, it’s even worse up close. Sukuna’s eyes are red, big and red and entirely unnatural. What the fuck even is this kid?

Four big red eyes, that were big, for a second.   Wide and captivated, looking right at Yuuji, isn’t that something? Staring bright at him, God knows why, before narrowing into slits. Suspicious, and—and this kid isn’t slick, Yuuji can tell Sukuna is devastated.

The ground rumbles; Yuuji struggles to keep up. What happened just then? Did Yuuji let the shock show? Fuck, fuck, he’s gotta make that ground up, right the fuck now. Sukuna needs to trust him, because he is hunched and huddled and gripping the chair with all four hands, and Yuuji is not sure he’ll be able to get him in the car if he doesn’t go willingly.

Yuuji forces himself to smile—genuine, genuine, please for the love of God let this lie stick—and relaxes his face. “Hey, kiddo,” he says softly, gently, Yuuji can be gentle. “My name’s Yuuji.”

Sukuna stays quiet, face scrunching even further. Yuuji’s prepared to wait him out, but the woman behind the desk speaks up.

“Sukuna’s very quiet,” she says, a little too severely. 

The kid flinches, small shake wriggling through his body.

Yuuji raises his eyebrows. “Is he?” he calls out to her without turning, without moving his eyes from Sukuna’s face. Then, to Sukuna: “are you?”

There is a wild fraction of a moment where Yuuji thinks Sukuna will open his mouth. The woman cuts him off, if he was even going to talk in the first place. “Sukuna hasn’t said anything since he came here.”

Her tone is reproachful. Yuuji rolls his eyes, only for Sukuna to see. Kid just lost his father, what the hell does she expect him to say?

Yuuji doesn’t bother answering her. Instead, he talks to Sukuna. “I knew your mom, she was my cousin.” 

We’re related, he begs silently, please trust me on that alone.

Yuuji waits. Waits, waits. Finally, Sukuna opens his mouth.

“Did you think she was crazy for marrying my psycho dad, too?”

Defiance like armor, brittle and weak. His voice is high and thin, and extremely like any other six year old’s. It breaks Yuuji’s heart a little.

“Sukuna,” the woman at the desk hisses. “How dare you say—”

“No,” Yuuji interrupts her. Sukuna shrunk small even further, this woman is not helping. “It’s fine. I didn’t—Kaori and I weren’t close.”

Yeah, he thinks. We all thought she was crazy. Now I’m worried your dad fed her straight bleach while she was pregnant.

Sukuna sizes him up. He doesn’t say anything else.

Yuuji almost raises a hand to rub the exhaustion out of his eyes, but catches himself. This is not exhausting, he chants in his mind. Sukuna is not a burden. 

Abruptly he realizes the severity, the quiet horror of the police station. Fluorescent lights buzzing, fans whirring, and Sukuna trembling lightly in his crap folding chair. Yuuji needs to get Sukuna out of here. Yuuji needs to get himself out of here.

He stands up. “What,” he clears his throat. “What are the next steps?”

The woman gestures at a second chair in front of her desk. Yuuji falls into it awkwardly. She begins to talk, but Yuuji quickly tunes her out. 

Sukuna is on his right, a couple inches behind him and almost a foot away. He’s awfully far, and he probably can only see the back of Yuuji’s head.

He hesitates, then slides his chair backwards. It makes a horrible grating sound on the linoleum, but when he’s finished, he’s level with Sukuna. Still a foot of space between them, but he’ll leave that bridge for Sukuna to cross. If he wants to.

“Sorry,” Yuuji calls to the woman, “could you say that again?”

She grimaces. Yuuji might have imagined it, but he would swear Sukuna’s body unclicked.

He settles his hands on his thighs. Okay.

There are forms. Lots of them. Yuuji stretches his arm out and passes the clipboard back and forth; signs on the long lines, initials on the short ones. He has no idea what he’s signing, Higuruma will probably eviscerate him for it later, but Yuuji can’t focus on little bits of paper with words that run together. He’s got an ear on the conversation so he can nod in the right places. The rest of him is trained on Sukuna.

This kid is a four-armed lockbox, Yuuji realizes in dismay. He has no idea what Sukuna is thinking, only that he’s angry. That’s not normal, right? Kids are usually easy to read, aren’t they? Open?

Well, Yuuji certainly was, he thinks wryly. Heart on his sleeve and emotions in his mouth. Sukuna seems more closed off, which is going to make this even harder.

Which is—great. 

Yuuji stifles a sigh and keeps an eye on Sukuna anyway. Closed off, but he’s got a feeling a crack’s gonna show.

Three minutes later, Yuuji gets the miserable satisfaction of being right: Sukuna sniffs. Just a little.

Yuuji locks onto it like a missile. And then—

Sukuna’s lip wobbles. Almost imperceptible.

The neurons fire, and Yuuji’s lifting his hand to—to what? he doesn’t know—when the woman’s sharp voice intercepts him.

“We’ll need to do a home visit.” She looks him over coolly. “Tomorrow. To make sure Sukuna’s in a safe environment.”

She says his name harshly. The whole sentence is harsh. Sukuna’s lip goes again, and Yuuji chooses to invade his space because he doesn’t know what else to do.

“That’s fine,” he says easily, widening his hips, stretching his knee toward Sukuna. The kid can—can have it, or hold onto it, or push it away in disgust. Yuuji’s too drained to panic about how Sukuna reacts.

Sukuna does nothing. Yuuji leaves the knee where it is.

The social worker takes him through what to expect during the home visit. Again, Yuuji’s only half paying attention; he’s pretty sure he’s too boring to have any red flags. Instead, he watches Sukuna carefully out of the corner of his eye. 

It takes a couple minutes of Yuuji nodding vacantly at the woman, but soon that unclicking bit happens again. Shoulders lowered just a fraction, all four hands loosened. Sukuna must think no one’s looking at him, Yuuji guesses. He doesn’t realize Yuuji’s got an unblinking, quiet focus when he wants to. He can be a very, very good listener.

It’ll probably save his skin, because soon enough, Sukuna gives Yuuji a crack. A little fracture, just enough room for movement, and Sukuna shifts. Yuuji braces himself, worried it’s going to be a tear this time, but instead Sukuna just shuffles himself closer to Yuuji.

It’s almost undetectable. Completely soundless; the chair remains right where it is, but that small, little-kid body is definitely closer than it was before. As if to prove it, Sukuna does it again, slides himself just the slightest bit closer to the knee Yuuji’s shoved in front of him.

Yuuji’s entire body relaxes, breath coming easy for the first time since he picked up the phone. Okay. Maybe he can do this.

Then the woman says the magic words: medical records. 

Yuuji nearly jumps out of the chair, scrambling up to get the file from her hand. He startles Sukuna, who freezes solid. Yuuji shoots him an apologetic look, dropping back down and resettling his knee right where it was.

“Sorry, kiddo,” he murmurs, already flicking through the papers. “This one’s important.”

The woman’s giving him a knowing look, and Yuuji can’t even blame her for it. He pours through the forms eagerly, looking for something, anything that can explain why Sukuna’s got two too many arms, why his face is so deformed.

He looks, but there’s nothing. There isn’t anything. Sukuna is an incredibly healthy child. 

That can’t be—

Yuuji goes through it again, this time as if he were at work and reviewing a client’s history. Kenjaku had X-rayed—rightfully so—and the films of Sukuna’s chest and arms look good, he notes absently. Well—it’s the most fucked up thing he’s ever seen in his life, those extra arms below the armpits, but all the bones are the same. Yuuji checks, traces every arm right down to the fingertip, but there’s not so much as a joint out of place.

Hm.

There’s information on his vision, too. Eyes aren’t in the realm of a physiotherapist, but Yuuji reads the document anyway. Twenty-twenty vision, in all four eyes. Yuuji’s fascinated despite himself.

Sukuna should have seen a dermatologist, too, Yuuji thinks. Make sure there’s nothing hiding in that extra tissue. But when he looks around for a derm’s report, there’s nothing.

Damn. Yuuji will have to find a doctor. He adds it to the to-do list.

Then he checks the dates on the x-ray, the eye doctor appointment. His head flies up, eyes seeking out the social worker.

“These are two years out of date,” he says, almost accusatorially.

She fixes him with a grim look. Anger begins to light him up.

“When’s his last checkup?” Yuuji asks, louder now.

The woman’s face hardens even more. “Those forms are all we have,” she says quietly.

His head whips to Sukuna. “When’s the last time your dad took you to the doctor?” he demands.

Sukuna shrinks, jolts away from him. Shit. 

“Sorry, kiddo.” Second apology in less than two minutes, but Yuuji finds himself shaking with rage. “Not your fault, just trying to sort through some stuff. Make sure you’re healthy.”

Sukuna’s eyes drop to his own arms, but Yuuji doesn’t have time for that, he’s too busy fishing for the vaccination records.

It’s—it’s not as bad as he feared. Sukuna got his scheduled vaccines up until he was four. 

Two years behind schedule. That’s fine, Yuuji thinks distractedly. Well, it’s not—he needs to find a pediatrician. 

Damn. He adds it to the to do list; bumps it up to priority number one. Two, after calling Higuruma.

Dental records—oddly enough, Sukuna had his last checkup within the year. 

Yuuji has to stop at that one. Dentist, but not the pediatrician? He’ll never know what the hell went on in Kenjaku’s head.

He looks over the document. All fine; baby teeth starting to fall out. Looks like Yuuji will have to play tooth fairy.

That kicks him in the chest. He has to stop and control himself; make sure Sukuna can’t see that he feels like he ate a bullet.

He forces a deep breath. Yuuji’s got to be careful with his expression, now, because Sukuna is outright staring at him. No shame, no awareness, just boring his eyes straight into Yuuji’s face.

It’s better than ignoring him, Yuuji supposes. He pushes on.

Medical records finished; a few more forms, and then the social worker stands up. “I’ll need to talk to you privately.” She glances at Sukuna, then at Yuuji. “We can speak in a room down the hall.”

Yuuji has a feeling this will be bad. He starts to get to his feet.

A hand—two hands—shoot out and grab hold of his knee. Two from the same side, two little-kid left hands.

Yuuji swallows down his shock and looks to his right. Sukuna’s dropped his stony anger, now his face is wide with fear, eyes big and pleading.

Yuuji stays right where he is. “I think we’ll need to talk here,” he says softly.

The woman grimaces. “It’s—I know, but,” her eyes flick to Sukuna, and she shakes her head.

His throat tightens. Sukuna can’t see, can’t hear whatever she’s going to tell Yuuji.

Shit. It is going to be bad.

He exhales slowly. Okay. 

Carefully, he turns to Sukuna. “Listen, kiddo—”

Sukuna interrupts with a violent shake of his head. 

“I—I’m not going to go anywhere, okay?” Yuuji tries to sound soothing. “I just need to talk to the social worker, but you’ll be able to see me the whole time. Just a couple steps that way.”

Sukuna’s hands clench into fists. “How many steps?” His voice is so tiny.

Uh. He looks at the social worker. “Ten?”

“Six,” Sukuna insists immediately. 

Sure, what the hell. “Okay, then. Six steps.”

He stands up slowly. Yuuji’s not trying to trick Sukuna, but these aren’t exactly going to be the smallest steps Yuuji’s ever taken.

He walks six medium-sized paces away, then turns back to look at the kid. 

Sukuna nods begrudgingly. Okay.

Yuuji looks pleadingly at the social worker. Surprisingly, she gets up readily enough, joining Yuuji the short distance away from Sukuna.

She takes a file with her, opening it so that it's carefully angled away from Sukuna. “We had to take pictures,” she explains in a low voice, showing him a printout of Sukuna’s naked torso.

Yuuji feels his face twist. His throat catches horribly. Across Sukuna’s stomach is an ugly scar, maybe three inches long. The skin around it is raised and mottled; it healed infected; likely not cared for properly.

He raises his eyes to the social worker. Her mouth sets. “We don’t know,” she says quietly, reading the question on his face. “This kind of wound, it’s inconclusive.”

His face goes heavy. She’s really going to tell him that that hellish, mottled line was unintentional? That someone—that Kenjaku didn’t do that to Sukuna?

“I know what you’re thinking,” she says reassuringly. “But it is entirely possible that it was by accident.”

Yuuji looks at her sideways. She’s been rude and stiff with Sukuna this entire meeting; can Yuuji really trust her? If she thinks he’s a freak, would she ignore this red flag because it’s on a four armed body?

She must pick up on his suspicion, because she takes a deep breath. “Listen, I—I’ve seen this kind of thing before,” she whispers imploringly. “Sometimes it’s an intentional wound, sometimes not. We can’t say for certain.”

He clears his throat; glances at Sukuna. The kid’s glaring at him hard, like he could grab hold of Yuuji with his four red eyes and yank him back over with the strength of his stare.

Yuuji wobbles. He clears his throat again. “Did Sukuna say anything?” he breathes softly.

The woman shakes her head. “He wouldn’t answer when we asked,” she murmurs, “but that’s normal.”

He nods carefully, eyes dropping back to the photo. One of Sukuna’s hands is in the shot, he realizes, scratching at his chest. Yuuji looks closer and realizes there are tiny, bright scrapes spanning his torso.

Yuuji snaps his gaze to the woman, questioning. She inclines her head. “Self-inflicted,” she confirms. “He didn’t like the picture, but we, we had to.” She looks almost apologetic.

His throat sticks. Right. 

“Is that all?” he asks softly. Yuuji doesn’t want to stay this far from Sukuna any longer than he has to. Not after—not after that.

He steps toward the chair, but the woman stops him with a hand on his arm. “Don’t rule out that it’s self-inflicted,” she intones quietly, eyes flicking to the file.

Yuuji nearly chokes; forces himself to swallow. God almighty.

He holds in place, steadying himself. Wills his bones to stop rattling. “O—kay,” he answers, voice low. “Thank you.”

Handing the file back to her, Yuuji walks back to the chair, kicks it a few inches closer to Sukuna, and drops into it. The kid immediately grips the denim of his pants with his two left hands, the right twisting into the hem of his shirt.

Yuuji reaches out and pats him on the back tiredly. Sukuna stiffens, recoiling.

Suddenly, Yuuji’s exhausted. “Is there—what else is there to do?”

“Release form,” the social worker hands him a clipboard. “Then you’re all set.”

Thank god. Yuuji scribbles his name, then nudges Sukuna carefully. “C’mon, kiddo, let’s get out of here.” He rises to his feet.

The woman hands him a file. “Your copies of the documents,” she explains. “Guardianship will go through the courts, it might take a while.”

“Right.” Yuuji has no idea what she just said, there is not a single spare inch in his brain to process anything other than the fact that Sukuna just stood up.

Yuuji stares down at him, taking him in. The extra arms look even odder now, sitting just beneath the others, torso long enough to accommodate them. Yuuji looks at the arms for half a second, then fixates on Sukuna’s shirt. T-shirt with four sleeves, he realizes. 

Damn. Where the hell is he going to get four sleeved t-shirts?

A tomorrow problem, Yuuji decides wearily. His eyes travel down, looking at the worn green cargo pants, the scuffed little kid sneakers. He glances up to see Sukuna glaring at him, chin raised defiantly even as his shoulders fold in on themselves. 

Yuuji forces his face to flatten out, pulls on a weak smile. Sukuna’s hair’s long and grown-out, falling into his eyes. He needs a haircut, and that sounds like just the kind of thing Sukuna will love, Yuuji notes grimly.

His eyes fall on Sukuna’s bare arms, gooseflesh under the cool air of the station. It’s late February, chilled enough that Yuuji’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt under his rain jacket. 

“No sweater?” He speaks softly to Sukuna. “Raincoat?”

Sukuna freezes, then shakes his head.

Yuuji tries not to dwell on it as he shucks off his jacket. Putting the file under his arm, he takes a step closer to Sukuna, holding his coat by the shoulders.

Sukuna looks up, anger barely covering the anxiety in his eyes.

Yuuji looks down. Kid only comes up to his hip.

His hands shake; he swiftly clenches them into fists, waterproof material of the coat crinkling in his grip. Yuuji makes himself relax, kneeling down to Sukuna’s height again. 

“It’s raining out there,” he explains. “Want to wear this until we get to the car?”

Sukuna hesitates, then bobs his head. Carefully, Yuuji drapes the coat around him, helping his upper arms into the sleeves and rolling them up until his hands show. When he zips him up, the hem nearly touches the floor.

His hands stutter again. Can Yuuji do this?

Sukuna looks at him, eyes wide enough to eat up his whole face. 

No other choice. Yuuji stands up. “I parked just down the road,” he says, then stops short.

The car. Shit. Yuuji doesn’t have a car seat.

Fucking he’ll, this just gets more and more complicated.

“Uh.” He looks at the social worker. “I—I don’t have a car seat for him.”

She narrows her eyes, then shrugs. “Common enough, just be careful. He’s on the older end, anyway.”

Yuuji nods. He can be careful.

“Alright, kiddo, let’s go.” He holds out his hand, just in case Sukuna wants to take it. 

He catches hold of it immediately, squeezing tight. 

Yuuji exhales. Okay.

They make it five paces before Yuuji jolts, turning to look over his shoulder. 

He never asked the social worker about Kenjaku. About how—how Sukuna found out.

His stomach pitches. Did that slimy motherfucker do it at home? Was—was Sukuna the one to—

Yuuji abruptly turns, marching Sukuna backward. He’s gonna have to talk to the social worker alone again, he realizes. Fuck.

How should he—Okay. 

Crouching down again, Yuuji grabs Sukuna’s other hand. “I need to talk to the social worker again,” he says seriously. “By myself.”

Little kid nails dig into his palms. Sukuna shakes his head violently enough that hair whips Yuuji in the face. 

“I know,” Yuuji tries to be soothing. “So, uh, this—this is what we’ll do.”

He gets to his feet. “You said six steps?” Sukuna nods. “Okay, we’ll walk until we’re six steps away.” Letting go of one hand, Yuuji shuffles Sukuna toward the desk. When he gauges the six steps he stops, looking down at Sukuna seriously. 

“I will be right back.” He enunciates, words slow and careful. “Wait right here.” Yuuji holds in place until Sukuna gently lets go of his hand. Then he bounds back to the social worker.

Yuuji angles himself so he’s still facing Sukuna, leaning down to whisper in her ear. “What happened with his father? How did—how did Sukuna end up here?”

She takes a breath and stands up, putting her mouth at Yuuji’s ear. “Sukuna came to school wearing the same clothes for a week. When the teacher asked, he told her he hadn’t seen his father in a long time, longer than usual.”

Longer than usual. His chest tightens.

“Our officers picked him up at the school,” she finishes. “He came right here.”

“So—so he didn’t see…anything,” Yuuji trails off lamely.

“No. He didn’t.” The woman catches his relief. “Small blessings.”

Yuuji nods. Okay. “What happened—where did you find Kenjaku?” Something occurs to him. “How do you know it was a suicide?”

Her gaze shifts, like she’s giving Yuuji a moment to brace himself. “Coroner is doing the report, but we found him washed ashore beneath a bridge. Technically inconclusive; we might label it as an accident, depending on if we find anything in his system.”

They’ll find something, Yuuji thinks savagely. Rage blasts through him, contorting his face into something foul, something he doesn’t want Sukuna to see. He adjusts slightly, turning to hide until he can get himself under control.

The woman’s eyes widen; he’s startled her. Yuuji’s not in a position to care. 

“W—we have grief counseling,” she offers, placating. “If you need it.”

Ha. Yuuji’s lips twist into a snarl. Maybe tomorrow this will kill him all over again, maybe he’s adding to the list of things to hate himself for later, but all Yuuji can feel for Kenjaku is pure loathing. Raw hatred for what he did to Kaori, to Sukuna.

His skin’s got that terrifying hue again, he knows it has. The voice in Yuuji’s ear surges. Stop getting so angry, stop with this bullshit sense of justice! Righteous anger doesn’t give you an excuse to throw a punch, Yuuji!

He turns his back to Sukuna. The kid—the kid doesn’t need to see this. Yuuji takes a step away from him, distancing himself, trying to get his expression under control.

As soon as he moves, there’s a small yelp. Sneakers scuffing on the linoleum, water-proof fabric screeching, and a thud.

Yuuji looks over his shoulder. Sukuna’s sprawled on the floor, hands splayed out in front of him, looking at Yuuji with such keen betrayal it makes Yuuji’s heart stop.

He’s there in a second, knees hitting the floor as he comes to rest by Sukuna. He reaches out a hand, but Sukuna skitters backward before he can touch him. 

“You said six steps!” Shaking; little-kid voice hollow with despair.

Yuuji swallows. “I know, bud. My—my fault.” He sits back on his knees and watches Sukuna struggle to his feet. “Forgot I put you in that straight-jacket,” he says, ruefully eyeing the raincoat.

Sukuna glares at him distrustfully. More ground to make up. 

The exhaustion hits deeper. Taking a deep breath, Yuuji stands up, reaching down a hand.

This time, Sukuna doesn’t take it. Which is—great.

Feeling suddenly hopeless, Yuuji turns slightly toward the social worker. “Thank you,” he calls quietly.

Her face evens out. “Of course.” Then she fixes him with a look. “Home visit. Tomorrow, eleven am. Don’t forget.”

Yuuji nods. Eleven am. Don’t forget.

“Thank you for coming,” she adds softly, eyes on Sukuna.

It takes Yuuji aback. He manages a small nod. Of—of course he was going to come for Sukuna, what else would he have done?

He looks down. Sukuna’s staring at him again, eyes wide and fixated. As soon as Yuuji meets his gaze, the kid glares at the floor, lip jutting out.

Yuuji takes a deep breath. “Ready to go?”

Sukuna doesn’t say anything.

Yuuji walks a step forward; turns and waits. 

Sukuna hesitates, then scrambles to catch up. He nearly trips again, but Yuuji’s quick to reach out and steady him.

He pulls his hands away as soon as Sukuna’s solid on his feet. Sukuna huffs, crossing his arms protectively across his chest.

Yuuji stuffs the file up his shirt to keep it safe from the rain, then leads Sukuna out of the police station. As soon as they get outside, Sukuna latches onto Yuuji’s leg.

Carefully, Yuuji puts his hand in front of Sukuna’s face. “Gotta walk, bud.”  

Sukuna grabs onto Yuuji with both free hands. Okay.

They step out from under the awning. Immediately, rain drenches Yuuji, and he grimaces. Glancing at Sukuna, he realized the hood of the raincoat is down; Sukuna’s hair is getting wet.

“Want the hood up, kiddo?” he calls.

Sukuna shakes his head furiously. Shrugging, Yuuji walks him to the car.

It’s close, but by the time they get there, Yuuji’s soaked through. Opening the back door, he gestures at Sukuna. “Hop in, you’re wet enough as it is.”

Sukuna looks at the car, distrustful again. He doesn’t want to get in.

“We gotta get home, kiddo,” Yuuji tries. Sukuna glowers at him, refusing to cooperate.

Yuuji—has no idea what to do.

“Uh, what would—” he shakes his head. “Okay, uh, look.” Yuuji reaches inside and turns on the interior light. “See? Just a car.”

That doesn’t seem to help much. Sukuna stays where he is.

Rainwater drips down Yuuji’s back. The documents from the social worker will get ruined, he worries frantically, and then Higuruma will have his head. 

He’s losing patience. “Sukuna.” Voice flint, hard. “Just get in the—”

Sukuna flinches, sharp and violent. His body jerks like he wants to get away from Yuuji but has nowhere to go.

Yuuji stops. Brings himself to heel. 

One breath later, he’s crouching in front of Sukuna. “We need to go home, bud,” he explains slowly. “And I want to get out of the rain.”

Sukuna’s face twists. He says nothing.

Yuuji almost yells aloud. What do you want? Why won’t you get in the damn car?

He exhales. “What is it, Sukuna? Can you tell me why you don’t want to get in the car?”

Sukuna looks at Yuuji, lip trembling. No, he can’t. Yuuji gets to play a guessing game.

He is so tired. Yuuji can’t—he is so tired.

He grits his teeth and replays the afternoon in his head. How Sukuna freaked when he had to step away and talk to the social worker.

Oh. Okay.

“Listen, kiddo—I’m gonna help you get into the car,” he explains. Sukuna begins to shake his head. “I know you don’t want to, but, just listen, please?” Yuuji waits until Sukuna holds his head still. “I’m going to help you into the car, I’m going to click the seatbelt for you, okay? Then I’m going to shut the door.” Sukuna freezes solid, little hands squeezing Yuuji’s painfully.

“I’m gonna shut the door,” Yuuji continues, and then I’m going to run to the front of the car, open the door, and jump inside.” He looks at Sukuna seriously. “‘Cause it’s raining. I will be right there, I promise.”

Sukuna squints at him. Yuuji bites back a groan. “It’ll be—look, I’ll be back in the car before you can count to six.”

Lightbulb moment. He raises his eyebrows, looking at Sukuna appealingly. 

Sukuna shifts on his feet, sneakers squelching in the rain. “Promise?”

Little kid voice. Yuuji nods firmly. “I promise.”

Sukuna nods, then lets go of Yuuji’s hand and climbs in the car. Yuuji gets the seatbelt buckled, then leans back and eyes Sukuna. “You know how to count to six?”

Those four eyes roll. “Everyone knows how to count to six,” he mumbles.

Longest sentence yet. Yuuji pats himself on the back. “Okay, show me.”

He waits. Sukuna gets a gleam in his eye. “Onetwothreefourfivesix!”

“Yeah, see?” Yuuji shakes his head. “Thought you would do that. I’m fast, but I’m not that fast. Let’s count together.”

Slowly, Yuuji leads him through the count. “Okay, now just you. Slow as we did it.”

Dutifully, Sukuna counts again to Yuuji’s pace.

“Okay.” Yuuji stands up. “I’m gonna go now. I’ll be in the car by the time you get to six, as long as you go like we practiced.”

Sukuna’s tiny jaw sets. His lip wobbles. 

God, this fucking sucks. “I know, bud,” Yuuji tries to reassure him. “Just count to six, okay?”

Sukuna pulls in a shaky breath. “One—”

As soon as his lips form the long ‘o’ Yuuji’s moving, shutting the door as carefully as he can manage and sprinting to the driver’s side door. He yanks the door open, throws himself inside, and slams it shut behind him.

Panting, he turns to Sukuna over his shoulder. “How was I?”

Sukuna looks at him, jaw slack for a moment. Then he gets that clever look again. “I got to seven,” he says reproachfully.

“Liar,” Yuuji accuses easily. If he had taken more than six seconds, he’s pretty sure Sukuna would have had a meltdown.

Sukuna pouts. “How’d you know?”

Yuuji taps his forehead, taking out the damp file from under his shirt. “Secret.”

He turns the car on and gets a good look at Sukuna. He’s small in the backseat, seatbelt coming up a little too high on his chest. One pair of hands is gripping the strap, the other playing with the sleeve of the raincoat. “Want me to help take that off?” Yuuji offers.

Sukuna clutches it tighter, shaking his head.

Yuuji shrugs. “Okay.”

He fiddles with the dash, turning the heat on and engaging the windshield wipers. It’s dusk, he’d spent almost two hours with the social worker. Late enough that he’s going to need to sort out dinner.

He glances at Sukuna in the rearview mirror. What on earth does the kid want to eat?

He’ll deal with that later, he’s got an hour’s drive to figure it out. First, he needs to call Higuruma. 

Yuuji twists around again to face Sukuna. “We’re driving to my apartment, okay? It’s far away, it’ll take about an hour. You’ll stay there for tonight.”

The kid tenses up. That may have been the wrong thing to say. He’d only added ‘for tonight’ because he wanted to reassure Sukuna; let him know that Yuuji would only be permanent if he wanted him to. But now he’s made Sukuna retreat again.

A sudden wave of self-hatred and despair nearly takes him. He forces it back.

Getting a grip on himself, Yuuji turns back around, puts the car in gear, and pulls out of the parking spot. When they’re cruising on the highway a few minutes later, he looks briefly over his shoulder. “I’m gonna make a phone call, okay? It’s gonna be on speaker so I can keep driving.”

Without waiting for an answer he pulls up Higurama’s contact and hits call. He answers on the first ring.

“Evening, Itadori.” His cool baritone fills the car. Instantly, Yuuji feels a bit better. 

“Hello, Higuruma.” Then he stops. How should he say this?

“What’s got you calling on a school night?” 

A joke, but Yuuji flinches. “I, uh, I need your help.”

“My help?” Higuruma clarifies. “Or a lawyer’s?”

Honestly? “Both.”

“Tell me what happened,” Higuruma orders.

“My cou—” Suddenly, Yuuji is hyper aware of Sukuna’s gaze in the rearview mirror.

Yuuji switches gears. “Uh, can I—can I call you back later? In a few hours?”

Silence.

Please, Higuruma. I need help.

“Is it an emergency? Can it wait until tomorrow? I’ve got a tricky case going.”

Yuuji meets Sukuna’s eyes. He swallows. “It’s an emergency. It can’t wait.”

Higuruma clicks his tongue. “Alright. Call me when you can.” The line disconnects.

Yuuji exhales slowly. Damn. He was hoping to cross off number one on his to-do list in transit, but he—he can’t call Higuruma now. Not where Sukuna can hear.

“Do you like music?” Yuuji offers politely. 

He nearly smacks himself in the face. What an idiotic question. But it seems like Sukuna can’t answer. Yuuji watches him worry at his lip.

“I’m going to put on something quiet,” he decides. “Let me know if it bothers you.”

Yuuji switches on the radio, knocking the volume down. He needs some mindless background noise so he doesn’t think too hard about—about anything.

Plus, he doesn’t want to talk to Sukuna. It makes him wince, but it’s true. He’ll have the rest of tonight, and tomorrow, and the day after that and on and on to talk to the kid, try and get him to open up. For now, for this car ride, Yuuji wants to pretend that the four-armed, four-eyed kid in his backseat doesn’t exist. That his life is still the same as it was three hours ago.

The play-pretend lasts about a minute, before his stomach growls. Dinnertime, he thinks grimly. Yuuji’s about to walk into another minefield; how can he get Sukuna to tell him what he wants to eat?

Yuuji tries to narrow down the options. He’s not cooking; doesn’t have the energy. What takeout can he get? What’s on the way, what’s close enough to his apartment, what will Sukuna eat? How many choices should he give him?

He’s preparing a list when there’s a gasp from the backseat. Yuuji looks in the rearview mirror to see Sukuna frantically searching the floor of the car, head whipping back and forth. “What’s going on, bud?”

“My—” Sukuna gasps again. “My—” he sucks in a breath and can’t make it go down; body jerking against the seatbelt.

Yuuji turns off the radio, panic rising. “Whoa, slow down, kiddo. What happened?”

“My backpack!” Sukuna manages, clearly terrified. “I lost my backpack!”

Oh. Yuuji relaxes. “Did you have it at the police station?”

Sukuna nods, tears brewing in all four eyes. His face is pale, and his chin wobbles.

Yuuji chews his lip. They’re most of the way home now, only about twenty minutes out and a good forty from the station. If he goes back for it now, they won’t be home for another hour and forty minutes.

It might make sense to go now, save twenty minutes from when he inevitably makes the drive tomorrow. But Yuuji’s exhausted, and the thought of driving for another two hours in the rain makes him want to keel over. 

Besides, at this rate Sukuna won’t need the backpack; he’s not going to school tomorrow.

School. He needs to figure out Sukuna’s school. 

Fuck. He nearly bashes his head against the steering wheel.

Wearily, he adds it to the to do list, then calls over his shoulder. “We’re almost home, and it’s raining pretty hard. I’ll come back for it to—”

“No!” Sukuna yells fervently. “No, I need it now!”

The shouting surprises him. Yuuji opens his mouth indignantly, ready to give as good as he gets, but the words die when he takes another look at the kid. Sukuna’s shivering, shaking like a leaf, and slow tears are dripping onto his shirt. His eyes are wide with panic, and he’s still gasping for breath.

Okay. Yuuji steels himself and pulls onto the shoulder.

He puts the car in park, then unbuckles his seatbelt so he can turn around fully. “Hey,” he says softly, reaching a hand towards Sukuna in case he wants to hold it. “We’ll go back, okay? I’ll turn around and we can go get your backpack.”

Sukuna grabs onto Yuuji with all four hands. One around his thumb, two encircling his fingers, and the last around his wrist. Unnerving, but he forces himself not to flinch. “Alright, kiddo? I’ll turn around right now.”

Sukuna nods, tears still flowing. If he were a real parent, Yuuji would have a pack of tissues in his car. 

Instead, he’s just himself. He twists, taking his free hand and wiping Sukuna’s face with the edge of his shirtsleeve.

Sukuna switches his hands and takes hold of Yuuji’s other wrist. Two little kid hands on each arm, tugging almost painfully, but Yuuji lets himself drift closer.

“Is—” Sukuna hiccups. “Is my backpack still there?”

It’d better fucking be. 

Yuuji deliberates. “Well, the police station is like, the ultimate lost and found, right? So even if someone loses it…it’ll still be at the police station.”

He grimaces. That did not make sense. But Sukuna nods, tears beginning to subside.  

Yuuji stretches to drag his shirtsleeve against Sukuna’s cheek one last time. Then he blows a raspberry. “Alright, kiddo. Let’s motor.”

He tries to turn around. The hands on his arms latch tighter. Yuuji raises an eyebrow. “Need these hands to drive, bud.”

Sukuna pushes out his lip. His fingers don’t budge.

It stops Yuuji dead. Sukuna wants the backpack, but he needs to hold Yuuji’s hands? What the hell is Yuuji supposed to do?

He glances at the steering wheel. He…he could probably drive with one hand.

Yuuji nearly screams at himself. On the fucking highway? In the rain? Don’t be reckless, Yuuji!

He looks back at Sukuna, taking in the firm set of his jaw; the staunch determination in his eyes. The persistent wobble of his lip.

Kid’s not letting go. 

Okay.

“Can I have one hand?” Yuuji asks quietly. “Need one hand to drive.”

Slowly, Sukuna peels two tiny hands off Yuuji’s left wrist. They fly to his right hand, clutching at his fingers.

Okay. Yuuji twists himself around and does his seatbelt one handed. He reaches across his chest to put the car in gear and merges back onto the highway.

No car seat. Be careful. Yuuji carefully drives one-handed for forty minutes, in the rain, back to the police station.

To his credit, he has never been more cautious in his life. No room for distracted driving, not an inch. He shoulders through his exhaustion and drives on.

Distantly, he registers a tapping against his fingers. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he realizes Sukuna is gently pressing Yuuji’s fingertips onto his chin, one after the other. Pinky, ring, middle, pointer, thumb. Then in reverse; thumb, pointer, middle, ring, pinky.

Huh. Yuuji chooses not to dwell on it.

The rhythm stays constant, mellow background noise until they reach the station. Yuuji quickly parks, collects Sukuna, and hurries inside.

He’s trying not to show it, but Yuuji is shaking in his boots. Instinct tells him that if the backpack really is missing, it’s going to be catastrophic.

The social worker’s still there, and she nods at them as soon as they’re in earshot. “The backpack?” she guesses.

Relief floods through him as he spots it, laying by desk. “Yeah. Look, kiddo, it’s still there.”

Sukuna gasps, already running toward it. Again, he trips on the edge of the raincoat, and Yuuji snags the back of the jacket to halt him in place. 

“Careful, bud,” Yuuji warns as Sukuna rights himself. “Still got that ballgown on.”

Impatient, Sukuna wriggles free and launches himself at the bag. He checks it on all sides, then hastily rips it open. Yuuji watches as he peeks into the backpack and sighs, tension leaking out of his body.

“All good?” Yuuji asks.

Sukuna nods, plunging his hand inside the bag. Yuuji thinks he’ll pull something out, but Sukuna just keeps his arm there, other three hands holding the backpack aloft.

Yuuji exhales. Okay. One river crossed.

Before they go, he turns back to the social worker. “Will I be able to—can I get into their apartment?” He needs to get his hands on some of Sukuna’s shirts, he realized, along with his other clothes.

“You’ll have to go with one of our officers,” she says apologetically. “But yes, as long as you call ahead of time, we can let you in.”

Yuuji sucks his teeth. “Can I get a key?” Makes things easier if he can get in and out on his own.

The social worker smiles sympathetically. “The apartment and everything inside it is tied up in the courts now. Anything for him is fair game,” she explains, nodding at Sukuna. “But the rest has to be sorted out.”

Yuuji winces. Right. 

He glances down at Sukuna. “Any chance I can look in the bag for an extra shirt?” Elementary school kids carry backup clothes, right?

Sukuna clutches the bag tighter. His eyes go hard. Or, as hard as a half-soaked six year old can manage.

Yuuji deflates. No going in the bag. Damn it.

He looks at the shirt Sukuna has on. Grubby. He’s been wearing it for days, Yuuji remembers. And the home visit’s tomorrow.

Yuuji will just wash it tonight, he thinks wearily. Do a pathetically small load of laundry. Jack up his electricity bill.

Whatever. No other choice.

“Is there—anything else?” he asks the woman lamely.

She shakes her head, looking almost a little sorry for him. “No, that’s all.”

He nods. “C’mon, kiddo.” Yuuji reaches down in case Sukuna wants to hold his hand. He grabs onto it, one hand in Yuuji’s, three on the backpack.

“I’m glad you came and got the bag,” the social worker calls out. 

Yuuji nods tiredly. No other choice.

He walks Sukuna back to the car. Yuuji prepares for the worst, but the kid goes into the backseat far easier this time. Yuuji instructs him to count to six, books it to the driver’s side, and falls into the seat, exhausted to the core.

Seatbelt, key in the ignition, and Yuuji eyes Sukuna in the mirror apprehensively. He doesn’t want to cause a meltdown, but he can’t drive one-handed. He’s too tired, it’s too dark, it’s raining too hard. He’s not willing to risk it again. 

Thankfully, Sukuna seems to be fine, pacified by whatever’s in his bag. Maybe Yuuji should check, make sure it’s not a dead rat or something, but there’s no energy for it.

Barely energy to put the car in drive and get back on the highway. Yuuji doesn’t bother to put the radio on, just turns on his headlights, cranks up the windshield wipers, and focuses on the road.

He looks at Sukuna every so often. The kid’s still holding the bag tight; clutching it right against his small chest. His face is half inside it, and for a few minutes, Yuuji’s really worried about the rat. But after a couple of anxious glances, Yuuji sees a flash of pink synthetic fur. He’s got a stuffed animal of some kind, he realizes, a plushie.

His heart squelches. Thank God Sukuna didn’t leave it at the school, he thinks wearily. Or the apartment.

The apartment. Shit. Yuuji will have to make the trip there, and soon. Probably by the end of the week. 

And it’ll have to be when Sukuna is in school. Instinct tells him not to bring the kid back there if he doesn’t have to.

He taps his thumb against the steering wheel. Sukuna has to be in school when he goes to Kenjaku’s apartment. So Yuuji will have to figure out school first. Then he can go get Sukuna more clothes.

His fingers twitch. Should he pull Sukuna out of his school? Yuuji’s pretty sure he’s enrolled in an elementary school near the police station, over an hour from Yuuji’s place. Gonna be hell hauling him there and back every day. Would it be better to stick him in a school that’s closer?

Better for himself, Yuuji thinks. But what’s better for Sukuna?

Probably to stay where he is. Can Yuuji commute there and back twice a day?

Fuck. He doesn’t know.

His breathing ticks up. God, this is already so fucking hard. How the fuck is he supposed to do this?

How the fuck is he supposed to do this alone?

Breath coming thick and fast, nearly panting now. His foot shakes on the gas pedal, his hands white-knuckle the steering wheel.

No, this won’t work. Yuuji thinks about his breath, his lungs, the clusters of alveoli inside. He counts his inhales, counts his exhales, and thinks of nothing but the road until the clock ticks five minutes over.

He’ll solve the school problem tomorrow, Yuuji decides dully. To stave off retching into the dashboard. The home visit, that’s his first priority.

From the backseat, Sukuna’s stomach growls.

Yuuji smiles to himself. That’s his first priority. “Alright, kiddo,” he calls. “I’m starving. What should we get for dinner?”

It’s dark, he can barely make out Sukuna’s expression in the backseat. Which is a shame, because the kid stays silent. 

Predictable.

Yuuji decides to throw out some options. “It’s late, and I’m too tired to cook,” he says honestly. “That means takeout for tonight.”

He catches Sukuna perk up excitedly. “Don’t get too used to it,” he warns. “I cook at home, and I’m a vegetable guy, okay? You’re walking into a vegetable household.”

A pout. He’ll learn to live with it, Yuuji’s not about to feed the kid fast food every night.

“This is just a treat,” he adds. “Because—”

Because what? Because Sukuna’s father died? Because his life will never be the same, because Yuuji’s life will never be the same?

“Because we met today,” he finishes lamely. “And—”

Come on. Come on, Yuuji, say something good, say the right thing, say the right thing—

“And I’m glad I met you. No matter what.”

He swallows. That, okay—okay, yeah. That went down okay.

Sukuna turns his head into a pocket of shadow, unreadable in the backseat.

Yuuji clears his throat. “So—do you like McDonald’s?”

Silence. When he checks the review mirror, Sukuna’s vibrating.

He grins. “Let’s go to McDonald’s.”

Soon enough he’s pulling onto the exit ramp, navigating through the twists and turns of his little neighborhood, and nosing the car into the McDonald’s drive thru. 

Yuuji stops, just before he’s level with the intercom. Foot firmly on the break, he twists to look at Sukuna. “Can you tell me which Happy Meal you want?” he asks softly. Yuuji really, really doesn’t want to get the wrong one.

Sukuna answers immediately. “Chicken nuggets.”

Yuuji bites back a laugh. “Okay, great. One chicken nuggets Happy Meal coming right up.”

He feeds the order into the intercom, along with two double cheeseburgers and two orders of fries. He’s absolutely starving; the past seven hours have eaten him alive. Surely two helpings of McDonald’s fries will fix him, Yuuji thinks tiredly.

Yuuji idles, pays, and drives off, taking them back to the apartment. It’s close, and soon Yuuji’s pulling into his parking spot. Grabbing the food and the paperwork, he kills the engine and quickly circles the car to reach Sukuna. 

It’s drizzling. Thin, but it soaks into Yuuji’s hair anyway. He opens the back door, and Sukuna unbuckles his seat belt and hops out, backpack held tight in all four hands. He’s still wearing Yuuji’s raincoat, and Yuuji takes one of his hands carefully and helps him into the building, making sure he doesn’t trip.

Keys, lobby door unlocked, and then they’re at the elevator. Yuuji looks down at Sukuna, and for a moment he swears he remembers being that small. “You want to push the button?” he asks, gesturing at the call button for the elevator.

Sukuna holds, then shakes his head. Yuuji shrugs, pressing it himself.

Another flint thought, this one cautious: how will Sukuna fare in the elevator? His reactions have been kind of—is he going to be afraid? Claustrophobic?

As it turns out, no. Sukuna walks into the elevator without a care in the world, one hand absently playing with the frayed end of the backpack strap. Yuuji presses the elevator for his floor, waits for the ding, and leads Sukuna down the hallway. “Here, kiddo, you ever get lost, you remember 5K, alright?” Yuuji says mindlessly. “I’ll teach you the address, and I’ll give you my phone number to memorize, okay?” That’s standard elementary school stuff, right?

Sukuna doesn’t give an answer, but Yuuji doesn’t look for one. He unlocks the door and flicks on the light, hanging his key on the hook. “Shoes off, bud,” he instructs. He braces for another meltdown, but Sukuna complies readily enough.

It occurs to Yuuji that this is a big moment, looming large in Sukuna’s world. This is going to be his new home, this is his first look at his new life. Yuuji should—should put some effort into this. Should make it sparkle, make it exciting, make Sukuna feel special and wanted, above all else.

Yuuji has had a hell of a day. He is so tired. 

Slow, sluggish, he plods over to the small dining room table and drops the food onto it. Then he retraces his step; helps Sukuna out of the raincoat. “C’mon, before the food gets any colder.” 

Sukuna follows Yuuji to the table, backpack still in his grip. Exhausted, mindless, Yuuji unpacks the food, leaving the kid to scurry onto one of the two wooden chairs. Sukuna has his milk, Yuuji thinks, but maybe he’ll want some water. Mechanically, he gets a glass out of the cupboard and fills it at the tap.

Yuuji should have some water, too. Well—

He freezes.

Shoved in the back of the fridge, hidden behind a bottle of soy sauce and a jar of pickles Yuuji’s pretty sure is expired, is a beer. Not a six pack or anything, just—just one.

He should’ve dumped it out. He doesn’t think Nobara and Megumi know he didn’t.

Yuuji has a vision of himself pulling open the fridge door, closing his hand around the cool neck of the bottle, pulling it free and cracking the beer open.

He takes a deep breath. Thinks of his lungs, and the alveoli in them. 

By the time he exhales, his muscles have loosened. Tendons relaxed, joints opened up. It’s easy to get a second glass of water for himself and carry both over to the table.

He places one cup in front of Sukuna, who’s eyeing the Happy Meal reverently. He’s too short for the chair, and he kneels on the seat so he can reach the table. Yuuji sits across from him, falling into the other chair and blearily pulling his bag of food closer. 

Yuuji unwraps the first burger and inhales it in two bites. He watches Sukuna while he eats, curious what the kid will do. Sukuna closes all four eyes, clenches all four hands very tightly, and whispers something to himself. Then he eagerly opens up the box and fishes out the toy. 

Amused, Yuuji looks on while Sukuna rips open the plastic wrap and wrestles the toy free. He holds it close, cupping it in two hands and bringing it right up to his nose. Anticipation and hope shine so brightly.

Then his face falls, disappointment etched into the downturn of his mouth. Huffing, Sukuna sits back on his heels, crossing his upper pair of arms over his chest. 

“Didn’t get the one you wanted?” Yuuji guesses. 

“No,” Sukuna mutters. “I already have three of this one.”

Yuuji raises an eyebrow. Three? How many Happy Meals was Kenjaku feeding this kid?

Morosely, Sukuna goes to put the toy in the backpack, laid carefully beside his chair. 

“Well, hold on,” Yuuji interjects. “Let’s see it.”

Sukuna looks at him distrustfully. He holds the toy in two hands, closing them tight so it’s hidden.

Yuuji tries again. “Can I see it?”

Squinting all four eyes, Sukuna removes one hand, holding out the toy in his palm. He doesn’t hold it out very far, and Yuuji grimaces internally, leaning way over to get a good look.

It’s a McDonald’s bag, he realizes, in miniature. Only a couple of centimeters tall; a little plastic replica of the paper brown bag that sits on the table below it, carrying the rest of Yuuji’s meal.

“Cool,” Yuuji says honestly. It kind of is. Sleek, insofar as a tiny piece of plastic can be sleek.

It was the right thing to say. Sukuna’s face relaxes, his eyes light up, and for a moment, he wears a triumphant grin.

Then he tries to play it off cool. “I guess,” he mumbles, a six-year-old’s attempt at nonchalance. It fails instantly, and Yuuji nearly chokes as Sukuna carefully polishes the toy clean on a napkin and stores it in his backpack.

Yuuji starts in on his second burger, watching as Sukuna gingerly pulls out the box of nuggets, bag of apple slices, and carton of fries. Surprisingly, he goes for the apple slices first, opening the bag and shoving them into his mouth. Yuuji expected him to ignore them; that’s what he did as a kid. Instead, Sukuna wolfs them down at Mach 1.

Huh. He’ll have to buy some apples.

Sukuna cleans out the bag inside of a minute, then puts the spent plastic into the big red box. He turns to the nuggets, undoing the latch and popping the box open.

He jolts, looking up at Yuuji in confusion. “There’s six!”

Yuuji swallows a mouthful of burger, wiping his mouth. “Yeah, I got the six-piece meal.” He looks at Sukuna a moment. “Did you want only four?”

Sukuna holds, then shakes his head. “Six is better.”

Yuuji nods. He thinks so, too.

Then he realizes he has an opportunity to tease Sukuna. He tries it on for size. “I could eat two,” he offers. “Give you only four.”

The reaction is immediate. Sukuna scowls, yanking the box closer. “No!”

Yuuji smiles, holding his hands up in surrender. “Don’t worry, kiddo, I’m not after your nuggets.”

Sukuna still looks at him with narrowed eyes. “You have two burgers,” he accuses. “And two fries, that’s not fair! I only have one!”

“You’re right,” Yuuji agrees easily. “Here, we can share.”

He rips his bag open, sliding the mess of fries to the middle of the table. “Now we both have a lot of fries.”

Sukuna stares up at him, mouth open. Yuuji shrugs. “It’s only fair, right?”

Sukuna nods enthusiastically. Yuuji opens a ketchup packet and squirts it over some of the fries, popping them into his mouth. Sukuna copies him.

Yuuji exhales. Okay.

He picks up his burger and keeps eating, while Sukuna turns back to his own meal. Yuuji quickly realizes that he has a method. He takes a nugget, drenches it in ketchup, then dunks it into a mustard container. Sukuna carefully eats only a quarter of it, sets it down, and then selects three fries that are all around the same length. He dunks them again, just ketchup this time, and stuffs them in his mouth. He repeats the process; quarter of the nugget and three fries, until the entire chicken nugget is gone.

Yuuji takes a handful of fries for himself. Huh. Kid’s very…systematic. Precise.

Sukuna continues the pattern for the first nugget. On the second, he stops after the first bite of chicken. 

Sizing Yuuji up, gauging his reaction, Sukuna reaches out and snatches another fry, this time from the pile between them.

Yuuji inclines his head. “Go ahead. We’re sharing, aren’t we?”

Another nod, so strong Yuuji worries those extra eyes will fall off. Sukuna finds three other fries that are around the same length as the one he took from the pile, dunks them in ketchup, then eats them greedily. 

Yuuji finishes his burger and begins to steadily make his way through his portion of the fries. Sukuna repeats his routine until the chicken nuggets are gone, then burns through at least a quarter of the bag of fries in the center.

Yuuji wipes his mouth. “Pace yourself, kiddo. Don’t want you to get a stomachache.”

Sukuna picks his head up furiously, nostrils flaring. “You’re still eating!”

“True,” Yuuji allows. “But I’m an adult. I know when to stop so my stomach doesn’t hurt the next day.”

Does he? Is he that good at taking care of himself? Whatever. He’ll lie to get Sukuna to slow down.

“I’m still hungry!” Sukuna insists. 

“You sure?” Yuuji questions. “What’s your stomach telling you?”

Sukuna pouts. “He’s hungry!”

Yuuji nods. “Okay.” He really doesn’t want Sukuna to get sick, but he also doesn’t want to fight with the kid over this.

And, he realizes, and he doesn’t want to withhold food from him. Not on night one.

Eyes narrowed, Sukuna grabs a fistful of fries and gobbles it up. He might be sick in a few hours, Yuuji thinks wearily. Oh well. 

…is it just ‘oh well?’ Should he have pushed harder to prevent Sukuna from getting sick? Yuuji desperately wishes he were a real parent.

The feeling swallows him. The spiral approaches, Yuuji can see it from the precipice. He teeters for a moment.

A wrinkle of plastic has him refocusing. Across the table, Sukuna’s wrestling with the milk bottle, trying to get it open.

Yuuji reaches his hand out. “Need help?”

Sukuna huffs, dropping it into his palm. Yuuji opens it and hands it back, placing it into two of Sukuna’s outstretched hands.

Sukuna drinks the milk in careful sips. Yuuji keeps picking at the fries, but Sukuna doesn’t touch them again, just drinks the milk until it’s empty. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, Sukuna pops the lid back on and sets the bottle on the table. He sits back on his heels and looks at Yuuji expectantly.

Yuuji raises an eyebrow. “Not gonna have any more fries?”

Sukuna pushes his lip out. “My tummy said no.”

Yuuji cracks a grin, nodding. “Good on you for listening.”

He chugs his water, then stands up from the table. “Need the bathroom, bud?”

Sukuna nods, hopping down from the chair. Yuuji leads him down the hall to the bathroom. “Here, go ahead.” He pushes the door open and flicks on the light, leaning against the doorjamb. He half expects Sukuna to shut the door behind him, but he keeps the door open. Yuuji nods. Classic six-year-old stuff, right?

He lets his gaze wander to give Sukuna privacy. Bedtime, he thinks wryly. What does he need to do?

Bath, he thinks, then immediately rules it out. Yuuji doesn’t have a shred of paternal instinct in his body, but his gut is telling him that forcing Sukuna into a bath is a battle he doesn’t want to fight.

He thinks of the scar across the boy’s stomach and feels his bones harden. No bath, he decides grimly. Not tonight.

Fine. What else?

Kid needs to brush his teeth. Does Yuuji have an extra toothbrush? Maybe, but he definitely doesn’t have any kid-toothpaste.

Sighing, Yuuji pushes off from the wall. “I’m going to look for another toothbrush,” he calls, then walks a few steps down the hall to the closet, out of Sukuna’s line of sight. He keeps talking so the kid doesn’t get spooked. “You don’t have a toothbrush in your bag, right?” 

“No.” Yuuji hears the toilet flush, just as he snags a new toothbrush from a haphazard pile of toiletries on the shelf. Back in the bathroom, he sees Sukuna standing at the sink, stubbornly trying to reach the faucet.

Step-stool, Yuuji thinks wearily. He adds it to the list. “Can I pick you up to wash your hands?”

Sukuna freezes. He glares at the floor.

Yuuji waits a tick, then goes and drags over a dining room chair, positioning it by the sink. “Here you go.” Sukuna scrambles up, washing his hands while Yuuji unwraps the toothbrush.

He passes Sukuna a hand towel. “I don’t have any toothpaste for kids,” Yuuji says with an apologetic grimace. “I’ll get some tomorrow, but for now, think you can use mine?”

Sukuna nods very seriously, holding the toothbrush steady while Yuuji squeezes out a dollop of toothpaste. He shudders when he tastes it, but soldiers on bravely, cleaning his teeth with a textbook precision that would make a dentist cry.

Yuuji looks on, almost impressed. “You’re doing a great job brushing those teeth, kiddo. Better than I do it.”

Sukuna spits, then beams at him. “My Dad taught me.”

Then his face shrivels up. Yuuji’s stomach drops. Oh, shit.

All four of Sukuna’s eyes squinch tightly shut, as if to hold back the tears already brimming at the corners. Two of Sukuna’s hands grip the edge of the sink, while the others clasp around the toothbrush. His breath comes in sharp, tiny gasps. 

Instinct drives Yuuji to his knees, reaching out to take Sukuna in his arms. Sukuna flinches backward before he can get too close.

Fuck. Yuuji freezes, hovering, watching Sukuna fight a losing battle. The kid holds out for another moment before his lower pair of arms comes up to hug himself around the middle. Breath hitching ugly, sobs brewing in his throat. He drops the toothbrush, hands pressing against his face. Yuuji catches it before it hits the ground; lays it gently on the countertop.

The tears start to fall from behind tiny fingers and Yuuji nearly cries himself. He’s exhausted, at the end of his rope, and he doesn’t know what to fucking do because he’s not a fucking parent.

Self-hatred whips in his blood. Yuuji has one move, he thinks bitterly, give Sukuna a hug. It worked on him when he was a kid, Yuuji’s always been a tactile little fucker, clinging at physical touch like he’s worried he’ll never get it again. Still like that, he thinks wryly.

If the roles were reversed, a hug would’ve done the trick. But Sukuna isn’t like Yuuji. He doesn’t have a blueprint for this.

He looks at Sukuna. He doesn’t sob loudly; his little chest heaves, but he’s swallowing his cries. The kid’s hands aren’t big enough to cover his eyes, not the big, fucked up, angled ones on the right side of his face. One peeks out from between tiny fingers, and Yuuji can see how devastated it looks, how absolutely shattered Sukuna is at the loss of his father.

Anger surges. At Kenjaku, for doing this to Sukuna, doing this to him, and at himself for—for not knowing what to do. How to comfort the child breaking down in front of him.

In the end, Yuuji stays where he is, centimeters from Sukuna, and talks to him. Murmurs nonsense, “I’m so sorry sweetheart; I know you loved your Dad so much; you must be feeling so terrible, I’m sorry you’re feeling this way,” things like that. He has no idea if it works, but he keeps at it.

What does work, the one brilliant move Yuuji can offer, is putting his hands out in front of him, within Sukuna’s reach. Just holding them there. 

“My hands are here,” Yuuji says quietly. “If you want them.”

Sukuna reaches out without hesitation, pulling his hands from around his torso and latching them onto Yuuji’s wrists. Soon, the other hands follow, gripping Yuuji’s fingers. Yuuji looks into the swollen, red-rimmed eyes and feels his chest kick.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Yuuji says softly.

Sukuna sniffles, a sob escapes. He looks wetly at Yuuji, looking for something.

No idea what he’s looking for. Yuuji clears his throat. “When I lost my grandpa,” he starts, but Sukuna interrupts him.

“What about your dad?” he demands. “Is he still here?”

Oh. Good point. “No, kiddo, my Dad died a long time ago,” he tells Sukuna. “When I was younger than you are.”

The hands on his arms tighten. “How?”

“Accident,” Yuuji shrugs. 

“Do you remember him?” Sukuna asks, wide-eyed.

Yuuji furrows his brow. “Not really,” he admits. “I can remember a few things, but I was too little to remember anything big.”

“Do you miss him?” Sukuna’s eyes are dinner plates now.

Yuuji swallows. “Yeah, I miss him,” he says, voice soft and sad.

“My mom died when I was really little,” Sukuna offers earnestly. The tears have stopped altogether. “I miss her, but I can’t remember.”

Yuuji gives a half smile. Smart kid. “My mom died, too. Same accident as my dad.”

Sukuna gasps. “So you have no parents, too?”

Knife to the gut. Yuuji smiles grimly. “Yeah, kiddo. I have no parents, either.”

Sukuna stares at Yuuji a moment longer. Something in his eyes settles, and he takes a deep, shaky breath.

Yuuji takes that as a cue. “C’mon, kiddo. Let’s get you some water.”

Sukuna gets down from the chair, two hands still holding onto Yuuji. Together, they troop back into the kitchen. Yuuji refills Sukuna’s glass, and he drinks obediently, wiping his mouth and handing the cup back.

Yuuji sets it on the counter, the sound ringing softly through the room. “Okay. Bedtime.”

Bedtime. 

Two things hit Yuuji like a truck. One—pajamas.

Two—Bedroom. Bed.

He swallows thickly. Sukuna skips ahead of him, then stops, looking back. 

Yuuji tries to smile; it feels pasted onto his face. “What should we do about PJ’s?”

Sukuna just stares at him. Of course he doesn’t know.

“You can’t wear those clothes,” Yuuji continues, “I need to wash them for tomorrow.”

Sukuna grabs at the shirt protectively. “I know,” Yuuji apologizes. “But that one’s dirty. I’ll get more of your shirts as soon as I can.”

I’ll get. Yuuji will make a trip to the apartment. Sukuna seems to understand this immediately and begins to open his mouth, but Yuuji hurries past it. He can’t deal with—with whatever Sukuna’s about to say, not right now.

“We’ve got a visitor tomorrow,” he explains quickly. “The social worker’s coming over. Need a clean shirt for that, I’ll wash it while you’re asleep.”

Sukuna scrunches up his nose, like he’s going to protest. Yuuji tries to think. What can he do to pacify him?

“Want to see the washer?” he asks hastily. “Where it’ll go? And then the dryer?”

Sukuna hesitates, then nods begrudgingly. Yuuji leads him back down the hallway, past the bathroom, to the stacked washer dryer at the end of the hall. He points out each one, then looks down at Sukuna, eyebrows raised.

Sukuna pushes out his lip, face tilted up distrustfully. 

Shit. Yuuji wracks his brain. “Wanna see inside?”

Sukuna nods. Yuuji’s about to go grab the dining room chair, but Sukuna holds out his arms, all four lifted toward Yuuji.

Oh.

Yuuji reaches down and hoists him onto his hip. Those four arms settle around him, stretching across and behind Yuuji’s torso to reach his shoulder. It is so odd Yuuji has to fight back a shiver.

“Here.” Yuuji opens the lid of the washer, then the dryer stacked on top. Sukuna peers inside dubiously. “What do you think?”

Sukuna considers for a moment, then nods. “Okay.”

Exhaling with relief, Yuuji sets him back on the floor. 

“Can I see it go in?” Sukuna asks.

Yuuji shrugs. “And why not?” Again, Sukuna lifts his arms up, and Yuuji crouches and tugs the shirt over his head.

Then he freezes solid, body locking up. He can see the scar.

There it is, drawn wide across Sukuna’s bare stomach, gnarled and ugly. No place being there, no place on a six-year-old’s skin, not something that brutal.

Yuuji’s reaction is swift. Rage lifts in his throat, snatches the breath right from his lungs. Suddenly, Yuuji’s panting, because he’s starving, this is the kind of anger that wants and begs, and it’s gotten him in trouble before, and don’t be so reckless, Yuuji!

He halts; catches himself before the edge. He closes his eyes and folds that rage onto itself over and over again, smaller and smaller until he can kick it away; shove it into a corner of his mind where it won’t scream so loud.

Yuuji brings himself back under control in two seconds. Sukuna doesn’t notice at all, a point in Yuuji’s favor.

He forces himself not to look at the scar. “Let’s do those pants too, while we’re at it.” He holds the grubby shirt in his hands while Sukuna wrestles the pants off.

Yuuji saves the underwear for later. That’s easy, that he can just run to the store and pick up so Sukuna doesn’t have to go without.

“Okay, here we go.” Yuuji grabs the detergent from the shelf and measures out a thimble full. Small load, he reasons, dumping it in. He goes to toss in the shirt, but Sukuna stops him.

“Can—can I do it?”

Yuuji looks down at him. Sukuna’s jaw is set, face determined.

“‘Course you can.” Yuuji hands him the shirt, reaching down to scoop him up. Sukuna skitters away, holding the shirt up as high as he can reach.

Yuuji pauses, then holds the lid of the washer open so Sukuna can gently throw it inside. He turns to Yuuji, holding out two hands, and Yuuji gives him the pants. He dumps them in the wash.

“Okay, kiddo, I’m gonna turn it on.” Yuuji turns the dial to ‘light colors' and presses start. Sukuna waits until he can hear the machine hum before he blinks and looks up at Yuuji.

Yuuji stares down at him. Scarred kid standing in his underwear. Hair unkempt, too many arms, too many eyes. Too many eyes that are trained on Yuuji expectantly. Waiting for him to point the way.

It all rolls over him like a wave, and he has to work to stay upright. This is his, now. This, all of it, this is his.

He clears his throat. “Let’s find you something to wear.”

It hits him again. PJs. Bed. For a moment, Yuuji’s swaying on his feet.

Shakily, he walks into the bedroom, going for his dresser. “I, uh, I think one of my shirts will fit both—”

He cuts himself off. Both arms.

Sukuna nods like nothing happened, like Yuuji didn’t stutter at all. He takes the shirt Yuuji offers and slips it over his head. Yuuji was right, the sleeves have enough room for both of Sukuna’s extra arms.

The hem drops to his ankles. “It fits!” Sukuna says triumphantly.

Yuuji sucks his teeth. Not really, but it’ll do.

“It fits,” he allows, giving a small smile. Sukuna beams.

Yuuji takes a deep breath. Now the hard part. “We gotta—” he coughs awkwardly. “We gotta figure out where you’re going to sleep, kiddo.”

Sukuna shrinks into himself. Yuuji’s unsteady in his own skin. God, this sucks.

“Where—” he catches himself before he blurts it out: where did you sleep back at home?

Not helpful, Yuuji. Don’t do that, don’t lead Sukuna down that road. Kid’s practically trembling as it is.

…it would be helpful to know, Yuuji thinks ruefully. To know what Sukuna expects, to have an idea of what Yuuji’s working with. Where did Sukuna sleep? Did he have his own room? Did he have a bed? A futon? Nothing, did he sleep on the floor?

A thought strikes like a hot iron: did he sleep in Kenjaku’s bed?

Yuuji nearly bites clean through his tongue. Rage runs high again, rage mixed with hatred, with disgust. The kind of rage that makes him want to do something, the kind of rage that brings consequences.

He swallows it down. Focuses on the problem in front of him.

Where can Sukuna sleep for the night?

Yuuji breathes carefully through his nose, training his eyes above Sukuna’s head. Okay.

He decides to run through the options. “There’s my—there’s this big bedroom,” Yuuji corrects himself. “With the big futon, right there. I also have the couch, and a smaller futon.” He falls silent. That’s it, really. 

Unless he counts the second bedroom. He’s really hoping Sukuna doesn’t ask about the nursery.

Sukuna is six, so he doesn’t. “Where are you gonna sleep?”

Yuuji looks down to see Sukuna staring at him with wide, determined eyes. He exhales heavily. “I’ll sleep on the small futon. Or the couch.” Not the bed. Yuuji hasn’t slept in that bed in over a year.

“And I can sleep wherever I want?” Sukuna asks persistently. 

Yuuji nods. “Pretty much.” He’d much rather Sukuna make the decision. 

He looks down at the kid, eyebrows raised. Sukuna pushes his lip out. “The futon goes anywhere?”

Yuuji nods again, unsure where Sukuna is going with this. 

Sukuna stays silent. Yuuji waits him out.

Finally: “can I sleep there?” Sukuna points at the big futon.

Relief hits him like a hammer. “Of course.”

Problem solved. Yuuji’s chest unlocks. Then it tightens, pulses. Is it a bad sign? That Sukuna wants to sleep in Yuuji’s bed? Does that mean that Kenjaku—

Despair takes him. He pushes it back—there’s nowhere for it to go. Nothing he can do with it, not tonight.

Yuuji will do something about it tomorrow, he thinks wearily. He’ll—he’ll talk to the school.

He pauses. Yeah. That’s—actually, that’s a great idea. Surely they would have noticed—would have seen something. That’s part of their job, right? He can talk to the school. See what they can tell him about Sukuna’s life before—before this very moment.

Wow. Yuuji’s outdone himself. It almost makes him smile. 

Then Sukuna moves, walking toward the futon. Panic grips Yuuji. Where—which side is Sukuna going to pick? 

Yuuji always slept on the near side. Claimed it for himself; he wanted to be between the door and—and the far side.

He grimaces, trying to shove the thought from his mind. There’s a reason Yuuji doesn’t sleep here anymore.

In the end, Sukuna scampers into the middle of the futon. Hands shaking, Yuuji pulls the covers back so he can slip inside. Of his own accord, Sukuna grabs the pillow from the near side—Yuuji’s pillow—and tugs it into the center for himself.

Sukuna lays down, and looks up at Yuuji. Yuuji nearly chokes.

It’s—it’s awful, no matter how he slices it. Pure awful, sends despair shooting right through him, because—

Yuuji’s body locks up. Because he wanted this so badly. 

He wanted—

His heart beats, thumps, jumps. He grits his teeth. Yuuji wanted this so desperately he could have clawed his skin off.

He wanted—he wanted a little boy who looked like him, and Sukuna almost looks like him. A boy, and they said they wouldn’t care, that they would be happy either way, but Yuuji knew he wanted a boy with that stupid, pastel-pink hair, and there Sukuna is. Little boy with his hair laying in his bed, except it’s not Yuuji’s bed, it’s their bed. Futon big enough for two. Sukuna will sleep in it by himself; Yuuji doesn’t sleep there anymore, but he used to share it with someone who—

Who wanted to be there. Someone who wanted this. With him. Until she didn’t.

Didn’t. Doesn’t.

Yuuji’s stomach heaves. Doesn’t. Not anymore, but she did. And she fucking—infected Yuuji with this, this dream-kid, she sold him the idea on a string and he swallowed it until his gut grew taut and bloated. She let Yuuji get so excited, let him grind the idea of fatherhood into his bones, let him fucking believe that he could do it, that he would be good at it, that she wanted it too—

He inhales; coughs against the bile rising in his throat. His hands clench into fists, and he turns his face away from Sukuna so he doesn’t see.

She sold Yuuji a dream, made him want it for himself, and then she woke up and decided that she didn’t. Didn’t want it, not anymore. Not with him, because Yuuji couldn’t hack it—can’t hack it. Because he doesn’t have it in him to be a father.

His shoulders hunch. She said it over a year ago, but it still makes him recoil. Yuuji’s no father. Yuuji can’t, Yuuji shouldn’t—

Yuuji has no other choice. The child is here—Sukuna is here, and Yuuji has to do it alone. And he doesn’t think he can.

This—Sukuna is so close to what he wanted that it goes down like a bitter joke. Yuuji wants to vomit.

“Wait!” A little kid voice pulls him from his stupor. He refocuses; Sukuna’s pushing off the blanket and jumping out of bed, running back into the living room. Before Yuuji can blink, Sukuna returns with his backpack. He looks at Yuuji distrustfully before turning around and taking something out of the bag, holding it against his chest and hiding it beneath three arms.

He scrambles back onto the futon, resettling under the covers. A lump falls hard in Yuuji’s throat. “Okay, kiddo,” he says hoarsely. “Sleep tight. See you tomorrow.”

He expects Sukuna to lay down and prays he’ll close his eyes, that this won’t be another war zone Yuuji didn’t sign up for. Instead, Sukuna stills, looking fiercely at Yuuji.

He stares back awkwardly. What—what does Sukuna want him to do?

They stay like that. For several minutes. Sukuna glares at him, almost imploringly. Yuuji stares back dumbly. What does the kid want?

Another three minutes go by. Finally, Sukuna winces. “You said—you can put the futon in here,” Sukuna mumbles.

Yuuji nods slowly. He can. But Sukuna’s already—

Oh. Sukuna wants Yuuji to sleep in here. On the futon.

Yuuji rubs his hand over his face. Fuck.

“Look, kiddo,” Yuuji starts clumsily. “I, uh, I’m gonna sleep out there—”

Sukuna twitches. Convulses, really, whole body jerking like Yuuji hooked him up to an electrical battery. His knees fly to his chest, his arms wrap around his shins, and he buries his head in whatever he pulled from his bag until Yuuji can only see his top two eyes.

Tears brim, mournful and desperate.

Yuuji walks it back immediately. “Okay, okay, kiddo, I’ll sleep in here.”

Sukuna jolts again, face brushing against his kneecaps, but he doesn’t unwrap himself. And he doesn’t stop crying.

Fuck.

Yuuji decides the best thing to do is set up the futon. Exhausted, he gets it from the living room and begins to roll out the tatami mat. That was on him, he realizes, laying it down flat. It was stupid to think that Sukuna would want to sleep here alone, that he would be comfortable in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room, after his father—died.

Yuuji grimaces, unfolding the mattress. Still, he’d give an arm if it meant staying out of this room for the night. Yuuji doesn’t want to share the room with a ghost.

He grits his teeth. No other choice. 

Spare futon in place, he stands up. Sukuna’s peeking out from behind his knees, calmer now that Yuuji’s sleeping right beside him.

Yuuji clears his throat. “See? I’ll be right here.”

Taking a deep breath, Sukuna nods, laying his legs out flat. Yuuji exhales gratefully. Hopefully that will be the last minefield of the night.

It isn’t. “Goodnight, kiddo,” Yuuji offers, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. Now that Sukuna’s settled, he needs to get out of here. He still has to call Higuruma, and it’s late enough as it is.

Plus—he hates this room. He’ll come back here to sleep, but he won’t be here any longer than he has to.

Sukuna looks at him blankly. “I’ll see you in the morning,” Yuuji prompts.

Sukuna doesn’t move, but his face pinches in the center.

Christ, what is it now?

Yuuji can’t guess anymore. He’s too tired to try and figure it out on his own, too tired to read Sukuna’s signals that don’t make any fucking sense, too tired to—

“Sukuna,” Yuuji says quietly. “Sukuna, sweetheart, I don’t know what you want. Can you tell me, please?”

Two of Sukuna’s arms come up to hug himself around the chest. He says nothing, just turns those big eyes on Yuuji, willing him to understand.

Yuuji doesn’t understand. “I’ll do it,” he promises wildly, “whatever it is, I’ll do it, I just—you gotta help me out here, bud. You gotta give me a hint.”

Sukuna’s shoulders fold inward. He pulls his eyes from Yuuji to flit them around the room. He looks at the corners, then the door, then Yuuji, then back to the corners. Then back to Yuuji, face wide with abject fear. He hesitates, then leaps out of bed, skidding across the floor until he’s right by Yuuji.

Sukuna’s close enough to touch him, and this time he does, placing a shaking hand on his leg and gripping the fabric of his jeans.

He tilts his face up at Yuuji. There’s that fear again, and Sukuna gently tugs him toward the futon.

Oh. Sukuna wants Yuuji to go to sleep now.

He still needs to call Higuruma. “I—”

Yuuji cuts himself off. He already told Sukuna he would.

“Okay,” Yuuji surrenders. Sukuna’s face relaxes. “Just—just let me get ready, too.” 

Sukuna follows him around as he brushes his teeth and changes into a sleep shirt and old gym shorts, before leading Yuuji back into the bedroom. He goes easy into the wide futon, watching carefully as Yuuji flips off the light switch and settles into his own.

In the dark, Yuuji can just make out the line of Sukuna’s body beneath the duvet. If he squints, he can see the extra arms: two slipped under the pillow, two clutching what must be the plushie. 

Four eyes blink at him. “Night, kiddo,” Yuuji says softly. “I’ll be here in the morning.”

Sukuna closes his eyes instantly. Yuuji counts his inhales and thinks of nothing until Sukuna’s breathing drops off, little chest rising and falling steadily. 

His eyes are on the ceiling. His joints are stiff. Mechanically, he gets off the futon, crosses the room silently, and slips through the door.

In the living room, Yuuji exhales, then drops into a squat. He pushes his head into his knees, holds his arms protectively over his head, and stays like that until he counts to a hundred. A hundred and fifty. Two hundred.

Then he stands up. Yuuji picks up his phone and calls Higuruma.

an: his tummy said no :(