sugurusummer

The house always felt different after ten o’clock.

Quieter.

Not silent—silence was impossible when three boys lived under the same roof—but quieter.

The kind of quiet that settled over the house in layers.

The dishwasher hummed softly from the kitchen.

Rain tapped occasionally against the upstairs windows.

Floorboards creaked as the house settled for the night.

And somewhere down the hall—

“OH COME ON!”

Yuji.

Immediately followed by:

“YUJI!”

Your voice carried from the bedroom.

A pause.

Then—

“Sorry!”

Three seconds later:

“THAT’S SO UNFAIR!”

You closed your eyes.

From beside you, Kento slowly turned a page in his book.

Neither of you spoke.

There was no point.

The cycle would simply continue.

Sure enough—

“YUJI.”

“Sorry!”

Again.

The response came so quickly that he was clearly expecting it.

You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you.

The sound earned a glance from your husband over the top of his glasses.

A familiar look.

Part amusement.

Part exhaustion.

Entirely parenthood.

The bedroom was warm.

A single lamp glowed from the nightstand beside Kento’s side of the bed, casting the room in soft amber light. Shadows stretched lazily across the walls while the rain-muted world outside disappeared behind drawn curtains.

You had only just finished your shower.

Your hair was still slightly damp.

Your favourite bathrobe hung loosely around your shoulders.

The scent of your shampoo lingered faintly in the room.

For the first time all day, everything felt calm.

At least for a moment.

Kento sat propped against the headboard beside you, one hand holding his book while the other rested comfortably atop the blanket.

Reading.

Or pretending to.

You’d been married long enough to know when he was actually focused.

And when he was simply staring at the same paragraph repeatedly while thinking about something else.

Tonight was definitely the second one.

Downstairs, a cupboard door opened.

Then another.

Then another.

You lifted your head slightly.

Kento didn’t even look up.

“Sukuna.”

It wasn’t a question.

A statement.

The sound of something falling immediately followed.

A pause.

Then silence.

Your husband sighed.

Long.

Slow.

Practiced.

The sigh of a man who had spent sixteen years raising Sukuna.

“I bought snacks yesterday.”

“He found them yesterday.”

“That quickly?”

“He is your son.”

You smiled.

“Unfortunately.”

That finally earned the faintest twitch at the corner of Kento’s mouth.

Not quite a smile.

Close enough.

The house settled again.

Yuji’s shouting became slightly more distant.

Sukuna’s scavenger hunt downstairs continued.

Somewhere down the hallway, Choso’s bedroom remained quiet.

Too quiet.

Your smile faded slightly.

Without meaning to, your gaze drifted toward the bedroom door.

Toward the hallway beyond it.

Toward the room where your middle son had disappeared hours ago.

You hadn’t missed the way he’d barely touched dinner.

Or how tired he’d looked.

Or the way he’d avoided eye contact whenever you asked if he was alright.

Mothers noticed things.

Even when their children desperately wished they wouldn’t.

You curled your legs beneath the blanket.

“Kento.”

The page stopped turning.

A tiny thing.

But you noticed.

Immediately.

“Mm?”

You stared at the rain-speckled darkness beyond the curtains.

Thinking.

Trying to find the right words.

Because saying them aloud somehow made them more real.

“I’m worried about Choso.”

The room fell quiet.

Not awkward.

Not surprised.

Just quiet.

Because Kento already knew.

Of course he did.

After a few seconds, he closed the book.

The soft thud echoed through the room.

“I know.”

The answer came immediately.

Too immediately.

Like he’d been thinking the exact same thing.

You looked over.

His glasses had slipped slightly lower down his nose.

His expression was thoughtful now.

Concerned.

The same expression he’d worn earlier at dinner when Choso left the table.

“He didn’t eat much.”

“No.”

“And he went straight upstairs.”

“Yes.”

You pulled absently at the sleeve of your bathrobe.

“He seems sad.”

The words sounded wrong.

Too simple.

Too small.

There were a thousand ways to describe the feeling sitting in your chest.

None of them felt adequate.

Because Choso wasn’t usually sad.

Sensitive, yes.

Quiet, absolutely.

But there was a lightness to him.

A warmth.

And lately—

Something seemed different.

Like someone had turned that light down.

Beside you, Kento was silent for a long moment.

The rain continued tapping softly against the window.

Down the hall, Yuji yelled again.

Neither of you bothered correcting him this time.

Eventually Kento removed his glasses.

Setting them carefully on the nightstand.

“I noticed it last week.”

You blinked.

“You did?”

“I thought it might pass.”

The honesty surprised you.

Not because Kento wasn’t honest.

Because he usually waited until he was sure before voicing concerns.

If he was admitting he’d noticed something—

Then he’d been worried for a while.

Your stomach tightened.

“He hasn’t said anything to me.”

“No.”

“Or you?”

Kento shook his head.

A frown appeared between his brows.

Small.

Rare.

“I asked if something was wrong.”

“And?”

“He said no.”

You sighed.

Of course he did.

The answer was so painfully Choso.

The boy could be carrying the weight of the world and still insist he was fine.

Another cupboard slammed downstairs.

Then footsteps.

Heavy footsteps.

Definitely Sukuna.

The sound moved toward the stairs.

Then disappeared.

The house settled once more.

You leaned slightly against Kento’s shoulder.

Without thinking.

Without asking.

His arm immediately shifted around you.

Automatic.

Years of habit.

Comfort.

Marriage.

For a while neither of you spoke.

The warmth of the room wrapped around you.

The rain continued outside.

And beneath all of it sat the same shared worry.

A parent’s worry.

The quiet fear that your child was hurting somewhere you couldn’t reach.

Eventually you broke the silence.

“What do we do?”

Kento’s fingers brushed lightly against your arm.

A small reassuring gesture.

The sort he always gave when he was thinking.

“We wait.”

You frowned.

“I hate waiting.”

“I know.”

Another pause.

Then softer—

“But if something is wrong, he’ll tell us when he’s ready.”

You hoped he was right.

You really did.

Neither of you noticed the light beneath Sukuna’s bedroom door still glowing across the hallway.

Or the fact that he wasn’t asleep.

Because while you and Kento worried quietly from your room—

Sukuna was lying awake in his own.

Staring at the ceiling.

Thinking about Choso.

Thinking about school.

And thinking about three boys who were becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

⸻

The house is quiet in that rare, fragile way it only ever is when all three boys are still out.

Rain had passed earlier in the evening, leaving the streets outside damp and reflective under the glow of streetlights. Inside, the Nanami home feels warm in contrast—lamplight spilling across clean wooden floors, the faint scent of dinner already simmering away in the kitchen.

You’re leaning against the counter when Kento walks in.

His tie is slightly loosened. Jacket still on. The kind of tired that sits behind his eyes rather than on his face.

Still, the moment he sees you, something in his expression softens in a way only you ever get to see.

“You’re staring,” he says quietly as he sets his briefcase down by the door.

“I’m appreciating,” you correct, turning back to the stove.

A pause.

Then the faint sound of him exhaling—something almost like a laugh, but too small to be anything he’d admit to.

He moves closer behind you, not touching at first. Just there. Present. The warmth of him behind your shoulder is familiar in a way that makes the whole room feel steadier.

“You’ve been standing there long enough for dinner to burn,” he says.

“It’s not burning.”

“It smells like it is.”

“It’s caramelising.”

“That’s what people say when it’s burning.”

You turn your head slightly just in time to catch the faintest upward curve at the corner of his mouth.

It’s small.

Private.

Yours.

When he finally does touch you, it’s gentle—two fingers brushing lightly at your wrist as he checks whatever you’re cooking with the kind of unnecessary precision he applies to everything in life.

“You’re tired,” he says after a moment.

“So are you.”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“It’s not.”

A silence settles between you, not uncomfortable—just lived-in. The kind that comes from years of shared mornings, late nights, and raising three boys who have never once made anything easy.

Kento leans slightly closer, voice dropping just a little.

“Yuji said he was going to attempt cooking again.”

“That’s not a sentence I like hearing.”

“He was very enthusiastic.”

“That’s worse.”

And this time, he actually laughs—soft, brief, almost disbelieving.

It’s interrupted by the front door opening.

⸻

The atmosphere shifts immediately.

Not dramatically.

Not loudly.

Just… subtly.

Like the house itself recognises the difference between peace and whatever is about to walk in.

Yuji comes in first, talking about something that doesn’t matter, already halfway through taking his shoes off.

Then Sukuna.

Quiet.

Eyes scanning the room once before he moves inside.

And then Choso.

Slightly behind them.

Head lower than usual.

Sukuna notices immediately.

Of course he does.

⸻

Dinner is louder than usual in the beginning.

Yuji talks too much.

Sukuna talks too little.

You try to balance it out.

Nanami mostly listens, occasionally correcting Yuji’s table manners without even looking up from his food.

But Choso is different tonight.

He eats slower.

Less.

His shoulders stay slightly tense even when nobody is speaking directly to him.

You notice first.

Nanami notices second.

Sukuna notices instantly.

He just doesn’t say anything yet.

⸻

After dinner, Choso is the first to leave the table.

“I’m going to bed,” he says too quickly.

It’s not even late.

Yuji frowns. “Already?”

“I’m tired.”

No one stops him.

But Sukuna watches him go.

And something in his expression changes the moment Choso disappears upstairs.

⸻

It doesn’t take long.

Five minutes.

Maybe less.

Sukuna is already standing.

Walking up the stairs.

No noise.

No announcement.

Just movement.

He finds Choso exactly where he expected him to be.

Sitting on the edge of his bed.

School bag still on the floor.

Uniform half undone.

Staring at nothing.

Sukuna leans against the doorframe.

“Talk.”

Choso doesn’t look up. “Go away.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s nothing.”

A pause.

Sukuna steps inside anyway.

The room is quiet in a different way than downstairs. Softer. Heavier. The kind of quiet that sits on the skin.

Choso finally glances at him.

A warning in it.

“Just leave it.”

Sukuna exhales through his nose, impatient now.

“You’ve been like this for days.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

Choso’s grip tightens slightly on his sleeve.

The smallest tell.

The only one Sukuna needs.

“Did someone do something?”

Silence.

That’s the answer.

Sukuna straightens slightly.

Expression sharpening.

“Choso.”

“Don’t tell Mom.”

That stops him.

Not fully.

But enough.

Choso finally looks at him properly now.

Eyes steady, but tired in a way he’s trying very hard to hide.

“It’s not a big deal,” he says quietly. “Just… don’t tell her.”

Sukuna doesn’t respond immediately.

For once, he doesn’t push.

Doesn’t argue.

Just watches him.

Like he’s trying to decide what kind of anger this is.

When he finally speaks again, his voice is lower.

“Who was it?”

Choso shakes his head once.

“Drop it.”

Another pause.

Then softer—

“Please.”

That word lands differently.

Sukuna’s jaw tightens.

But he nods once.

Not agreement.

Not acceptance.

Just understanding.

“I’m not dropping it,” he says finally. “I’m just not telling her yet.”

Choso doesn’t answer.

Because that’s all he’s going to get.

⸻

Downstairs, dinner plates are being cleared.

Normal life continues like nothing is wrong.

But Choso doesn’t come back down.

Not that night.

And when Nanami eventually glances toward the empty staircase, he doesn’t say anything.

He just notices.

And so do you.

The corridor is loud in the way school always is right before lunch.

Lockers slam shut in uneven rhythm. Trainers squeak against polished floors. Someone laughs too loudly at something that isn’t even funny. The air smells like floor cleaner, damp coats, and the faint metallic scent of rain still clinging to people who forgot their umbrellas that morning.

Sukuna is leaning against the wall near the science block.

Half-listening.

Half-not.

A group of boys from his year are talking nearby, but he’s not part of it. He rarely is. He just exists at the edge of things, watching everything without ever really joining in.

That’s when he sees Choso.

He’s coming down the corridor alone.

Head slightly lowered.

Uniform too neat, like he’s trying to hide inside it. His school bag is held tightly over one shoulder, fingers curled too firmly around the strap.

Sukuna notices immediately that Choso isn’t walking like he usually does.

Not calm.

Not steady.

Smaller.

Like he’s trying not to take up space.

Then Sukuna sees them.

Three boys.

Same year as Choso.

They’re not subtle about it.

One of them walks slightly too close behind him, matching his pace. Another one drifts to the side, cutting off space without actually touching him.

The third one is smiling.

Too wide.

Too sharp.

Sukuna straightens slightly without realising it.

He doesn’t move yet.

He watches.

⸻

The first thing they do is the easiest to miss.

One of the boys bumps into Choso’s shoulder as they pass a group of younger students.

Not hard enough to knock him over.

Just enough to make him stumble half a step.

A deliberate mistake.

The boy laughs immediately.

“Careful, yeah? You’re walking like you own the place.”

Choso doesn’t respond.

He just adjusts his grip on his bag strap and keeps walking.

Sukuna’s jaw tightens slightly.

But he still doesn’t move.

⸻

They follow him past the vending machines.

The hallway narrows here, less people around.

The noise from the main corridor fades slightly, replaced by the dull hum of fluorescent lights overhead.

One of the boys walks a little faster, overtaking Choso.

Stops right in front of him.

Forces him to pause.

Choso looks up for the first time.

Just briefly.

Immediately looks back down again.

The boy tilts his head.

“Hey, Kamo.”

No answer.

The silence is intentional now.

Choso is trying to disappear into it.

That makes the boy grin.

“You don’t talk much, do you?”

Still nothing.

Behind him, another boy laughs.

“Maybe he thinks he’s better than us.”

The first boy steps closer.

Close enough that Choso has to tilt his head slightly just to avoid eye contact.

“You always like this?” he asks. “Or just when you’re scared?”

Choso finally speaks.

Quiet.

Controlled.

“I’m not scared.”

A beat.

Sukuna watches from the end of the corridor.

Expression unreadable.

But his eyes sharpen.

⸻

The boy laughs like he’s been given permission.

“Oh yeah?”

He glances at the others.

“Did you hear that?”

One of them smirks.

“Say it again then.”

Choso doesn’t.

He just stands there.

Still.

Trying very hard not to react.

That’s when the second boy steps in closer and taps Choso’s shoulder with two fingers.

Light.

Mocking.

“Relax. We’re just talking.”

Choso flinches anyway.

Tiny.

But Sukuna sees it.

Immediately.

Something in his chest tightens.

⸻

The third boy finally speaks properly.

“You know, it’s kinda weird how you act like you don’t know anyone here.”

He gestures vaguely at the corridor.

“Like you’re just… visiting.”

The first boy leans in again.

“Yeah. Like you don’t belong.”

Choso’s fingers tighten around his bag strap again.

Harder this time.

“You don’t have to—” he starts.

But the boy cuts him off.

“What? You gonna cry?”

Silence.

The kind that stretches too long.

Too uncomfortable.

One of them snorts.

“Bet he cries like a baby when he gets home.”

That one lands differently.

Sukuna’s posture shifts.

Subtle.

But real.

He pushes off the wall slightly.

Still watching.

⸻

The first boy bumps Choso again.

This time on purpose.

Harder.

Choso stumbles a step sideways.

His books shift in his bag.

He doesn’t drop anything.

But his shoulders tense instantly.

“Stop it,” he says.

Not loud.

Not confident.

Just… there.

The boy smiles.

“Ohhh, he can talk.”

Another step closer.

“Say it properly then.”

Choso looks up again.

Longer this time.

His expression is controlled, but Sukuna can see it now.

He’s holding himself together.

Barely.

“I said stop it.”

The boy laughs again.

And that’s when it happens.

He reaches out and flicks Choso’s forehead.

Not hard.

But humiliating.

“Make me.”

⸻

That’s the moment Sukuna moves slightly forward—

just one step—

but then stops again.

Watching.

Measuring.

The air in the corridor feels different now.

He can feel it.

Something building.

Something deciding.

Choso stands still.

Completely still.

And for a second, Sukuna thinks he might actually walk away again.

Like he always does.

Like he always tries to.

But then—

Choso’s shoulders drop slightly.

And he doesn’t cry.

Doesn’t shout.

Doesn’t fight back.

He just whispers—

“…Leave me alone.”

And that’s what changes everything for Sukuna.