Nasty

Sukuna glanced over. “Why are you staring.”

You blinked. “Nothing.”

“That face means something.”

You shook your head, and he went back to typing. Two minutes later, you spoke again. “Why are your hands like that?”

He stopped typing and slowly looked at you. “What does that mean.”

You sat up. “No, like…” You reached over and took one of his hands before he could pull away. He let you. You turned it over in your lap, his palm warm and rough. You traced one of the scars with your thumb.

“You work too hard.”

He stared at you, then looked away. “What.”

Your throat felt strange. You laughed awkwardly. “I dunno. I just… I don't know.” You pressed your thumb into his palm, and suddenly your eyes stung.

He noticed immediately. His expression shifted. “Oi.”

You looked away, and he responded by closing the laptop. “Why are you crying?”

“M’not.”

“You are.”

You sniffed, and it sounded ridiculous even to you. You whispered, “I just got sad.”

His eyebrows pulled together. “About my hand.”

You nodded once.

He looked genuinely confused. You swallowed. “I know this is dumb,” you murmured, tracing another scar. “But every time I see stuff like this, I think you do too much.”

His face stayed blank, so you kept going quietly.

“You work all day. You raise Yuji and Cho. You always pay. You fix everything, and…” Your voice softened. “Your hands look tired.”

Silence settled between you. Sukuna looked at you, then at his own hand resting in yours. For a moment, something in his expression shifted. Not dramatically, just a flicker of surprise, like nobody had ever looked at him and thought about him instead of what he could do.

He scoffed under his breath. “You’re weird.”

You nodded sadly. “I know.”

He stared at you for a few more seconds, then turned his hand and closed his fingers around yours. You froze. He looked away, the tips of his ears faintly pink.

“They’re just hands.”

You looked at him and whispered, “No.” 

When his eyes flicked back to you, you smiled softly. “They look like someone whose been trying really hard.”

His jaw tightened, the way it always did, like affection made him uncomfortable. Then he reached out, grabbed your wrist, and pulled you into him. You made a small, confused sound as he pressed your forehead against his shoulder.

“Stop looking at me like I’m dying.”

You laughed weakly. “M’ not.”

His hand rubbed your back once, slow and awkward. Then, quieter, he said, “It is not that bad.”

You nodded against him.

But later, when he was asleep, you held one of his hands against your cheek and thought that next time he came over, you were buying hand cream. Not because he needed it, but because somebody should take care of the hands that take care of everyone else.