windfall | light a cigarette, i'll watch as it burns

light a cigarette, i'll watch as it burns

[ Knocking. The roar of ammunition fire in his ears. Blasts of heat and debris sticking to his face, dust crusting in his eyes. A delirious and delicious taste, sweet red like pomegranate, like Aki's skin scraping open in his mouth.

Denji doesn't talk much about what happened that day.

Not unusual, since he doesn't really talk much about any of what transpired prior to meeting Nayuta, either. Or about how sometimes he can still sense, not even hear, but sense a phone ringing in the distance, its pull like a spiral cord that's gone taut, that's trying to make its way back home and if he follows its trail, he might just find someone familiar on the other end of the receiver.

No, he doesn't tell anyone all that, because, see, the last time he did, Kishibe had just hummed and looked at him, the kind of look Denji would get from adults whenever they caught him picking through the dumpster for his next meal: pitying. Then, he'd shook out a flask from the inside of his coat and said, "Sometimes it's better for the line to go dead, kid."

Weird response, right? It'd made Denji go silent, think a bit. And after a while, he hadn't liked that so much, so he'd changed the subject to something inoffensive, like complaining about how much Nayuta's so much better at arcade games than he is, but Kishibe had cut him short at that point to go take a call.

Naturally, Denji had followed.

It's a little sad that a man in his silver years is the only person he can confide in, but Kishibe's not a bad guy — and that's coming from someone who generally hates men. Then again, the guy doesn't show his gaunt face around these parts unless he absolutely has to, which is probably by his own design, so it helps that he's never around long enough for Denji to get sick of seeing him. Up until that conversation, his absence wouldn't have been something Denji paid notice to. It'd usually take weeks and months and Nayuta asking where the funny, drunk geezer who always sneaks her hard candy is for him to see past the everyday chaos of being Tokyo's friendly neighborhood Chainsaw Man.

But as Denji creeped closer, overhearing some words but not registering most of them, a dangerous curiosity brought him to the edge of his hiding spot. What the hell has this dude been up to?

And then he'd froze.

"So the Gun Devil's position has been compromised. Initiate a tactical retreat."

Afterward, he hadn't done anything for a solid week besides go to school, kick some devil ass and stare vacantly at a pair of eggs frying in the pan for dinner each evening. Predictably, Nayuta had rapidly gotten sick of the menu. So before he could make his eighth pair of fried eggs, she'd scaled up his back and twisted his earlobes until he begged for forgiveness.

"Stuuupid! Dummy! Get a hold of yourself!" Nayuta raged on. "No more acting weird, or else I'm putting doggy kibble in your cereal again!"

She was right. He needed to get a hold of himself. Yeah, he was dumb, but that didn't mean he had eggshells for brains. He could still do stuff in his own way.

In the following weeks, Denji spent his time hounding members of the Devil Hunter Club for all and any relevant knowledge pertaining to devils. From rumors about recent devil sightings, to insights into things like the theoretical mechanics behind how long it took for certain types of devils to die in Hell and be reborn, to mathematical equations projecting the survivability rate of fiends based on the velocity and quantity of violence…

Of course, he only understood about three-percent of anything at any given time, but one detail of interest shared by some gloomy, pig-tailed girl stood out to him. According to her, a mysterious amount of devils had been slain in the Kabukicho district, none of which had been reported by either civilian hunters or Public Safety ones.

Anyone with half their wits would be able to easily determine that this wasn't a reasonable lead, but for Denji? He could feel something trilling out to him. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Aki reaches up out of habit to steady him, but his hand falls back when Denji stands allof a sudden, throws the towel against his neck and heads off. He watches him, hand falling into his lap, feeling the residual warmth from where he was laying.]

Yeah.

[He probably should, too. Once the bathroom door shuts, Aki sits up on his knees and heads to his bag to search for a change of clothes. He doesn't wait for access to the bathroom for it, instead pulling his shirt off and tugging on the new one before repeating the motion with his pants. He feels the bulky little cellphone in the pockets of the ones he pulls off and switches it into the new ones, taking the moment to look at it a little closer, examine the numbers stored. Then decides he may as well continue his charade here and starts on the dishes. No use thinking about it too closely. Hell, maybe he should have said thanks to the guy for letting him keep this up.]

[...Does medicine work if you're half devil? He really should go out and get him a fever reducer. For now, though, he heads to the bathroom to see if he can come in, rapping his knuckles against the door.]

You have a thermometer, don't you? [Please say yes.]

[ Aki reaches for him, and Denji wishes he could brush him and that brief stir of expectation inside of himself off. That hope he might drag him back down, insist that it's better to stay put. Heel, boy. Eyes up. Don't think too hard about this.

But the lurch never comes. His footing settles.

When he's inside his bedroom, it's hard not to stray from the course and immediately nosedive into the familiar comforts of his futon, which Nayuta has, of course, left unmade. Hasn't even taken a lint roller to it yet to get rid of all the dog hair sticking to the sheets, he notices as he passes by. That's fine. She's out walking the animals, which is something neither he nor Aki are really suited for at the moment, but something that needs doing, regardless. Plus, she's a kid, so she gets a free pass. That's how those things should work out.

Anyway, their apartment's small, so dust and clutter always collects pretty fast — like in that corner there, with Aki's box of things. He's been staring at it unfocusedly since he first walked in, keeps staring at it while he tosses his dirty laundry in the general direction of his hamper, some clothing articles not even making it inside. There were some nights where he'd look inside, not really rifling, but just peeking in to make sure it was all still there. And probably, secretly, to feel more connected to him. Besides, he could treat it like practice for whenever he'd find Aki again, to show him his things; they could pick through the remnants of Aki's life, put the pieces back together, and he'd be brave enough to ask what each thing meant to him. It'd be that easy, everything falling into place.

However, he doesn't think bravery is the thing that compels him to kneel beside it once he's all changed. He lifts the flap open with the back of his hand, reaches in to fish around for something to pull out and examine, it doesn't really matter what it is. It's a sword hilt that he grabs, and he lifts it. Obviously, there's no blade, just a jagged stump where one used to be — it always used to remind him of how Aki's amputated arm looked like. He tilts it in the light, thumbing the edge of the pommel. The second Aki's voice penetrates through the door, though, he panics, curses loudly as he drops the hilt with a metallic peal, akin to a bell ringing. ]

No. [ He says, forcefully, guiltily, like he's been caught in the act of a crime. Whatever, Denji scrambles to shove the hilt back into the box. What the hell's a thermometer? …Wait, is it that tongue poker thing? ] Er, maybe.

[He doesn't notice what it is he's doing at first because he's too distracted by the state of the bedroom as he opens the door, the rough condition of a night spent by a child and seven dogs. When Aki realizes what he's hunched over and what Denji was holding for a moment in his hand, before it dropped to the ground, heavy and metallic. "I made that, you know."]

[He stares at Denji like he's playing with a snake.]

...Then go and get it. [He presses the door open fully and moves aside, fully expecting him to leave and do as much.]

[The hell did he say he kept...? The idea of looking in the box is akin to whatever Pandora felt about looking in hers. Heavy desire to see the burned remains of his old life mixed with disgust and despair at its loss. A loss he made happen. Really - it's like Denji is playing with the gun he shot himself with. He tears his gaze away from him, brow pulled tight.]

You should be resting. I'll clean this all up. [The room, not the box.]

[ His blood runs frigid cold seeing Aki push his way inside, because, A) he looks a step away from reprimanding him, and B) Denji's afraid he may deserve it. Staring at him for a long second, he doesn't move, feeling ill. Feeling stuck in that illness, like a bacterial culture baking under a microscopic lens. I don't want any of it, is what he said, tears weighing against the curve of his neck.

Was his expression as tight and sundered at that time as it looks now? Should he say something?

…He nods, ignoring the way the room tilts forward and then yanks back with the curt motion. He thinks about passing by Aki without a word, but just as the thought flickers to mind, Denji's reaching a hand out to his elbow — not that Aki needs the steadying the same way he does. Denji doesn't quite know why he does it, but he does, and he regrets it immediately, the familiar claw taking him by the jaw and forcing his gaze to slant away. ]

You can just leave it.

[ The room, the box, everything else in-between. That said, he shuffles out, to find the the thing he was asked to find, which is probably in a place only Nayuta knows. Regardless, it'll take sometime for Denji to ferret through the drawers. Whatever Aki wants to do in that interim is up to him. ]

[Just leave it. Nothing he leaves ever stays where he left it. Aki allows him out of the room, his stare placed somewhere on another wall. After standing still for a moment, the uncomfortable dampness of his shirt sleeves bothers him enough that he pulls it off over his head, tosses it in the hamper, then begins to neaten up the bed.]

[He gets as far as settling on his knees before he's almost magnetized to the box. The hilt sits uneven on the surface of the other things inside, but then, how would anything sit neatly in this mess? He blinks at the collection and pulls what's below it out first - his alarm clock. The stupid thing that woke him up every day at the same time, rain or shine, work day or long weekend. He can almost hear the buzz from it just by touching it and it quickly goes right back in... beside the pair of sweatpants with the impossible-to-remove stain on the pocket, the one that got worse with every recommended fix anyone told him to try. Vinegar, baking soda, alcohol, boiling water. It blurred into a strange brown blob half-faded into the material but texturally different. Aki wasn't the sort to throw something away because it looked ugly. And here, still, it remains.]

[He can't ignore it. He picks the hilt up and it fits into his right hand as assuredly as it ever did, his thumb finding the right position, fingers wrapped around perfectly, the width just right. The leather worn from his own heat, friction, blood, sweat. He'd always thought the wrapping was made from cotton or something from how soft it was, but Angel said it was leather. Like it was a point he relished, that it was supposedly made with the corpse of an animal somehow, despite the fact that it came out of his halo fully made and untouched by reality until that very moment.]

["I made that, you know," he'd said. Like he didn't care whose hands it ended up in. Like he didn't care that Aki was pointing it at him, threatening him. "Don't fuck with me," Aki had told him, or something to that effect.]

[He turns it and presses the guard into his palm, like he could slice through the skin were the blade still there. Something knicks him and he pulls it away, turns it to look - part of the tang is still visible, wedged into the handle and coming out uneven and strange. It's not a clean cut like a real sword would have. It's jagged and angry-looking, as if ripped in a fight and not snapped in defense. He presses it again into his palm, feels the slight cut of the metal, and his skin burns like it's made of acid. He drops it with a start and it bangs against the floor again.]

["Why ghosts?" he'd asked when they were on better terms. "Do devils even have the concept of ghosts?" Angel had said that of course they don't, given how their life cycle operates. "But I don't like ghosts," he'd added, in the same way he'd told Aki he didn't like lemon ice cream.]

[Why does he remember these conversations so easily, so effortlessly? Why does he remember the way Nomo had suggested the baking soda, his hand on his chin as his thumb rubbed at his scar, fingered at the rough skin as he tried to remember how long to leave it in the fabric. "I guess start with five minutes, but then try ten if it's still bad? Hell, leave it overnight, why don't you?" How Himeno had groaned in agony at the sound of his alarm clock, kicking him in the back with the heel of her foot when he sat up to turn it off. Her eyepatch halfway off her head as she stared blearily up at him. Why can he look at every single item in here and remember so, so many dead people?]

[He startles when Denji comes back in, turning around to look at him with an almost hunted look, like he just found him looking at something especially revealing. Or, more honestly, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He grabs the sword handle and shoves it back into the box.]

You find it?

[ How long has he been watching him?

Long enough for his knees to lock and his back to cramp. The towel at his neck saturating clean through his shirt collar, which he hates the cloying sensation of. The way its cling makes the whole circumference of his throat constrict and itch, a hungry boa. But, maybe for the same reason that he can’t bring himself to tear away from the crack in the door, silently taking in each item Aki takes out and examines — Denji can’t seem to do a single thing about it. He flinches when he watches him drop the hilt, wonders what he’s seeing in his mind’s view, wonders what would happen if he asked, if a bear would wake up with the poke or something else.

Is this how voyeurs feel? Creeps who peek through your window, imagining a life they can poke holes through, like a pest, and permanently burrow their way inside?

When Denji steps back in, he looks just as startled to be standing there, like he’s triggered the snap of a mouse trap. Suddenly that same young boy in an oversized tank top stepping into a place that isn’t his to occupy. Opening doors and bringing home boxes he shouldn’t. It’s funny that Aki’s the kid with his hand in the cookie jar, because who does that make Denji? The admonishing dad? The mom who chuckles, strokes his head, and says it’ll be their little secret? What about the baby brother who insists they snap the cookie in half, or the shrewd friend who keeps a lookout for anyone passing by?

None of the above, probably. He couldn’t be any of those people, even if he tried. ]

Um. Yeah. [ There’s a pregnant pause between the words; he’s clearly struggling to string them together, so he tries to compensate for the strange hollow pressurizing in his chest with a little wave of the thermometer. ] Inside a textbook.

[ Being used as a placeholder for some chapter he failed to read months ago. He found it within a handful of minutes spent searching. ]

Um, [ he says again, this time as an interjection, cutting off any opportunity for Aki to follow up. Sorry, he plans on telling him. For going through your stuff and for dropping your sword thing. I didn't break anything, did I… But the words don't spill out as fast as the red blemishing Aki's palm. Denji blinks, quick, the sight waking him up, almost. Where did the cut come from? ]

Dude.

[ His brow twists as he hurries to his side, and without thinking, he reaches behind his neck, slapping the wet compress against Aki's hand to soak the wound. ]

Are you okay?

[He didn't not notice the blood, but when Denji grabs him it's suddenly much more obvious to him that the tang cut him, the small dribble of blood too bright before suddenly covered by the rag that was on Denji's neck. It's warm when it should be cold, the chill already absorbed into his skin, and Aki winces at the contact. He pulls his hand away and rubs the wound briefly as he picks up the rag.]

It's just a knick.

[It is, really. Just, why did it cut him so easily? "But I don't like ghosts."]

[...Would he dislike him, if he saw him like this?]

Here. Give it.

[He reaches out to take the thermometer, roll it in his palm. There's no telling where this thing had been and Aki doesn't have any idea how long he was staring at that box to know how long it took him to find it. It could have been under the sink, for all he knows. So he uses the edge of the towel to wipe off the tip of it - the non-bloody part, that is - and then offers it up, holding it in front of Denji's mouth.]

Under the tongue. Sixty seconds.

[This stuff is easy. This stuff requires no thought.]

I have eyes. So what if it's a knick? [ The way he dropped his damaged blade made it seem like he'd pierced a vital artery. And, anyway, Denji just said he'd commit to worrying over him! Isn't fussing part of the deal? ] Let's wash it out with soap. That sword's gotta have rust or somethin' on it by now —

[ Denji's mouth snaps shut as Aki deftly bypasses the heft of his consternation like it's nothing more than a roadblock to swing his leg over, diverting the focus of the conversation to the thermometer. Slowly, the circumference of his mouth widens back open, the outer edges twitching, appearing as if he can barely believe how easily Aki brushes him off.

Except he's not that surprised, the more he considers it. It's really just one more item to add to the list of things he doesn't want to talk about — not with Denji, at least, and that thought by itself is enough to induce an annoying throb between his eyes, the pain of it echoing like a plucked string throughout his head. Ugh, being sick freaking sucks.

Gaze drifting sideways, he snatches the instrument back with a huff and turns slightly away from Aki. ]

I can do it myself.

[ From there, the tip of it gets shoved beneath his tongue as directed. His arms cross, waiting for the sixty seconds to pass. The thermometer isn't on. ]

[Rust? He's concerned about rust? ...Surely a sword made by a devil can't rust, anyway. Aki watches as Denji turns himself away and pushes the thermometer in his mouth, arms crossing, seeming to wait. Not five seconds pass before he reaches out and presses the button, eliciting a loud beep from the device.]

Like that.

[Maybe he's used to mercury thermometers...? Aki won't question it right now. He closes up the box and then focuses on the rag to fold it up and rub gently over the small incision on his palm. Nothing that won't heal within a couple hours, anyway. This situation has some benefits, to his chagrin.]

[When the thermometer finally beeps again, Aki reaches out before Denji can and looks at the number, waving it slightly out of some sort of habit. Definitely a fever, though it's not as bad as it could be. He looks around the room briefly, recognizing the mess he forgot about when lured in by that box he isn't thinking about anymore. Of course.]

Lay down. I'll clean all this up. ...It smells like dog in here.

[It only just really hit him. He knew they all sleep in here, but doesn't that get crowded? Maybe it feels good, in a bed covered with dogs. But it also smells extremely like an animal, due to it.]

Don't worry about anything else right now.

[ Aki talks. Denji grunts along, teeth set on edge from the time the thermometer beeps on to him pulling the futon covers up to his chin. But the bedroom feels quiet, like nothing is really being said between them right now. Even if things were different, even if Aki trusted him to clean up his own messes, what is it that Denji would say to him, though? That he hasn't already tried saying?

His head's full of sewage sludge and his chest an overflowing drain for all of it. Maybe Aki's right. Maybe he shouldn't worry about anything right now, while he feels like this. Not thinking is something he's always been proud of being good at. He should be sticking to his chops, what's tried and true. ]

…But you know, [ he starts, seemingly apropos of nothing in particular. Denji's hand lays outside of the covers, not reaching out for Aki, but wanting to. Really, really wanting to. ] Nayuta always tells me the dog smell is good. Do you, uh — [ He has a question in mind that he should reword, rephrase, reconfigure in an arrangement that doesn't give away what he hopes Aki's answer is; he blurts it out, anyway. ] Do you hate it?

[Once Denji lays down, Aki begins to get up until he suddenly speaks. It's that kind of tone he uses when he seems like he really wants to get something out, rushed and tripping over his own words. In the past it was always to ask something stupid or confirm something anyone else would find obvious. You wash your hands before eating. You don't put body soap in your hair. You read comics from right to left. What he follows it up with, about whether dogs smell good or not... It's a similar kind of stupid statement, one that has Aki staring at him, at his hand out of the covers. He reaches out to take it, then pushes it below the sheets.]

I don't especially like it, no.

[Does Denji like it...? Does he think he shares the smell? Standing up and briefly looking around the room, he adds offhandedly,] You don't smell bad. Not like that.

[Maybe he's still thinking about the Makima stuff. Maybe he really thought of himself like a dog. But didn't they all, in some ways?]

[He makes him have the weirdest conversations. Without a word, he steps out of the room to cross to the bathroom, briefly running the tap over the cloth before returning to put it onto Denji's forehead. A light pat to make it stick in place.]

There are better things to smell like. Don't trust a devil's opinion on something like that.

[ Like what, he wants to say. Gasoline? Motor oil? Staring numbly ahead, he catches Aki's hand before it can pull away again, latching his fingers in like fishhooks.

He'll let him get away with the snipe against Nayuta, so just… give him this. Denji knows that if he argues that her opinion, her skewed and imperfect opinion, is something he values more than the roof over his head, the clothes on his back. Sees as headlights on a car beaming out past the fog. He'll just try to correct him. Regardless of how much Denji insists that he does fight her when he needs to, has to, because she's still a kid who can't seem to put the right amount of water into the rice cooker, Aki just won't accept it, that her head's already way more level than Denji's own. That she's honest, in the way humans forget how to be. She knows the difference between bread and toast, and that unhealthy fats like butter are bad for dogs, and when they went to Hokkaido, she was the one who reminded him what types of offerings to leave at a tombstone, to bring the right kind of incense. Nayuta is able to scent things better than him; harsh stenches like smoke and ash make her gag, cough. She'd probably never be able to handle smoking or being around smoke when she gets older. But she did all that, without fully understanding what it meant to him.

Aki can think he's being led astray all he wants, but if she tells him that the smell of wet dog isn't so bad, of course, he'll believe her. Of course, he'll want Aki to want to believe it, too. What he feels for both of them, voracious and eating at him with teeth just as sharp as his own.

He tugs at Aki, trying to get him to join him on the bed. ]

So what'm s'posed to do? Trust some shirtless weirdo instead? [ … ] Seriously, why aren't you wearing a shirt? You tryin' to get freaky? You're gonna get sick from me and the cold.

[ Aki could pull away. It wouldn't be hard. Denji feels worse now, for some reason: his face is grimy and hot and sweating, breath coming out in shortened puffs of air. Dryly, like he's been outside wandering in the cold. Maybe it was the box stuff. Maybe his fever is just that bad. ]

[...Oh, right. He took his shirt off. Aki honestly forgot that he'd planned to change clothes, gather his and Denji's and toss them in the wash from how wrinkled and gross they'd gotten drying overnight. He settles next to him, seated and not joined with him, still with his hand grasped in his. What did he do this time, to piss him off? Why did he get moody? He must still not be feeling well.]

I didn't get a chance to finish changing. I'm not going to get sick.

[He pulls his hand free and again pushes Denji's hand below the covers. Likely he doesn't understand the idea of sweating out a sickness, but Aki doesn't feel like explaining the idea to him. He also doesn't want to let him continue with the idea that Aki might get "freaky" with him while he has a fever.]

Most people don't like the smell of animals. People like...

[What do people like? When he thinks of smells he likes... He thinks of coffee, cigarette smoke, oil heating aromatics in a pan. Specific soap smells. That one ramen joint he and Himeno used to go to all the time smelled amazing. Did he keep going there for the smell or for the memory, though? Certainly not the food. Aki spots a drip of water from the rag running down Denji's face and reaches to scoop it away with the edge of his thumb.]

Maybe she just likes it because it's familiar to her. But most people aren't around that many dogs. So the smell is overwhelming. Don't get upset with me about it.

'm not upset…

[ Per se. On the agitation scale of 1-10, he was at a solid 2 — that's, like, an annoying fruit fly that keeps zigzagging around your face no matter how many times you think you've killed it. Though, perhaps, Denji is the fly in this case, from how frequently he keeps reaching for Aki. He touches a single thumb to his cheek and all he wants to do is press that much inward, strong-arm him into holding on to Denji.

It's stupid. He's never felt so stupid. Except he definitely has, it's just — this situation's all different. All confusing.

As sorely as he wants to, he doesn't twist his grip around Aki's wrist this time, but his lower lip does push out, the upper one hidden completely beneath. ]

…Are you upset?

[ About what, Denji? says nobody, but Denji quickly delivers an answer, anyway. Covering his bases. ]

'bout the box. 'bout keeping all your stuff… 'Bout me touching your stuff. Be honest. I'm not a baby, I can take it. You can get mad at me. [ A claim that would be more believable if his brows didn't immediately furrow, and if he weren't rushing to add something to smooth, what, he's not sure exactly over. The grievous crime of bringing the past up again, could be it. ] You know, it wasn't… just you. Powy's things are around here, too. Her dumb costumes and toys and books.

[ Like it makes it better that he wasn't trying to single Aki out. Cause him pain, specifically. ]

I'm gonna give those to her when she's back. It's seriously taking up all the space in this place, sheesh. Can't wait tell her to stop being such a pack rat.

[He's kind of upset. If he thinks about it for too long, he's upset. But he's not upset with Denji, really. It's more the entire situation that led him to make that decision, to keep those things. That he kept Power's things is another kind of pain, but at the same time, can he really blame him? Just because Aki wasn't horribly sentimental. All he kept were photos, things that are meant to be kept. Not something like a gross pair of sweats or a broken sword.]

[But that's the main thing, is that those things hold no memories to Denji. Does he remember the sound of his alarm clock enough to want to keep it? Does he recognize something in those sweatpants that Aki doesn't? No. He kept them with the expectation this encounter would happen, and it's one that shouldn't have happened anyway. That feeling is compounded when he says he'll be giving Power's things back to her "when she's back." She's not coming back, he wants to tell him. She was a fiend. She's somewhere in hell and, if she does come back, it won't be as Power. So what good does it do, to keep all these things that serve no purpose but to take up room and never be delivered?]

[Of course he complains Power was a packrat when he's the one hoarding dead peoples' junk. He has half a mind to get up and carry the whole box out to the burnables bin.]

I'm not upset with you.

[Scolding someone for how they've dealt with something like this doesn't make sense to him. He's had his own strange ways of dealing with loss. He didn't get used to it until he was well into his tenure at Public Safety - and he still cried every time.]

But I think you should let go.

[He raises his chin towards the box. More as a symbol than anything.]

She's not coming back for any of that. I think you know that.

[ It's baseless and irrational, but that doesn't stay the irritation tiding in as Denji's toes scrunch into the covers, pulling the quilted weight closer to himself. Like this makeshift cocoon can keep it all dammed in. But he knows the reality, that he and Aki won't be seeing eye to eye on this. Obviously. He's been telling him to let go since last night, and Denji hasn't the fainted idea the reason he bothered bringing this crap up, knowing that. Doesn't understand why he always does this, always keeps pitching for the pole while Aki's standing in an entirely different field. Playing an entirely different sport.

Actually, that was a lie. He knows why. ]

…You came back different, too, you know. But you still came back.

[ Yeah, but Aki came back and he didn't want any of the things Denji saved for him, an annoying voice recounts for him. Saying this just proves Aki's point. Whatever. He'll say it, anyway. Let the dam break. He feels sick of enough as is, what's another thing to make his head pulse like a jackhammer. ]

I know, alright? I know it's not gonna be the same. And that whoever Power is won't be, either. But, it's like — maybe whoever walks in through that door will like mystery anime and cats just as much. [ Naively, he thought maybe they'd be happy someone was waiting for them, all this time. ] And if they don't care, then, that's that, right? They can fucking trash the stuff, not me!

[ He's yelling. He didn't mean to yell, but there it is, the words its own animal clawing and mutilating up his throat, a resounding ache, the echo of it leaving angry gashes . So loud it could almost live outside of him. It does, really, looking at this bite-sized apartment and everything he's stuffed inside of it, like corking up the holes in a leaking boat. ] But I… I don't wanna make that decision for 'em. Sick of being the one to do that. I just want —

[ Someone else to figure it out, is what he holds back. It's a chicken shit thing to say from a guy who keeps claiming to want to think for himself, but he did all the hard stuff already, didn't he? He lived without them. Looked after himself, plus another kid with an even worse temper than his own, and Aki even told him that first night that he was doing — well. Just not well enough, apparently.

He's on the verge of rolling over, letting the conversation die out, because he ran too much of his mouth. But mercifully, a trilling from the living room is what does his job for him. No one ever calls them, not unless it's one of Kishibe's people. Without looking at Aki, Denji sheds the blanket covering him, trudging out the door like an inmate speeding toward a tunnel hidden under a bunk bed. ]

…I'll get it.

[He knows he's different now, but to hear it right from Denji hurts more than he must be intending for it to. He doesn't respond to that, to his clear agitation, the way his voice raises.]

[Has Denji been doing everything in his life so far just for the off chance he might find the blood devil again? That he might have found Aki? And what does it say about Aki that he gave up on both of them ages ago - that he ignored the world because he assumed everything in his was gone?]

[He looks up when the phone rings and the sound is unfamiliar enough that it actually confuses him for a moment. But then Denji starts to get up and he considers telling him to stay put, that he'll take care of it. But that's stupid. Whoever is calling is probably calling for Denji, not Aki. He allows him to rise and trudge off, taking the brief separation to begin grabbing clothes off the ground, tidying things up and shoving that box back into the closet. He'll deal with it later.]

[He comes out with the laundry, not in an attempt to eavesdrop on Denji but just because that's where the bin is. But he's still Aki, and he still tries to listen to Denji's side. See if it's something that can distract him from this current line of discussion.]

[He would love a cigarette right now. No wonder he never tried to talk to Denji seriously before this - he's impossible to get through to. The type of person who says "I dunno, whatever," when you ask what you should do for dinner. ...Well, maybe Denji would make a decision about that topic. But nothing more serious.]

[ It's not as if he likes that this keeps happening between them, that every time Aki broaches the idea that none of this will last, not their time together, not the lifestyle that orbits around being Chainsaw Man and taking care of Nayuta, Denji's first reaction is his worst one. It feels like shit, which is the one feeling that he thinks, he's pretty sure, he can confidently assume that he shares with Aki. Feeling like shit, yeah, that's it. That's the only thing they're on the same page about, it seems.

But his, right now, is the kind where all the energy has sapped from his bones, and the only he can do is pluck the receiver from its dock. Hold it to his ear, barely even to the height it needs to be for him to hear the other person on the line clearly. His throat is still stinging, a self-inflicted rawness dogging each swallow, each time he tries to croak out something that isn't a one-syllable grunt. So he doesn't bother greeting this caller, expecting them to cut to the chase on their own accord. If they're anyone who matters, they will.

"Pepperoni or seafood pizza?"

That's weird. Whoever this is, their voice is familiar.

After that point, the exchange goes back-and-forth like the type of snappy dialogue you'd expect from a stage play: Pepperoni, but who's asking. Yoshida, remember? I dunno, doesn't ring a bell. Okay, what about 'Cake Guy,' then? Oh, yeah, what the hell do you want, Cake Guy, and so on, until Denji finally gleans that the reason he's having this conversation at all is because Nayuta can't decide what she wants from the menu. Because Nayuta is apparently dining with his weird classmate who offered to buy her pizza while she was out walking the pups, despite eating something like brunch with them just a little while ago. It was pretty heavy, too, being barbecue and all. ]

Seriously?

[ Incredulity, of course. His fingers pincer around the bulge at his throat, massaging it an effort to relieve the inner strain to his vocal chords.

"I know you're feeling sick, but if you get here in fifteen minutes, there might still be some leftover."

How does he know I'm sick, Denji wonders, spiral phone cord around his wrist restlessly stretching and withdrawing back into its tight curls. He'd started fidgeting with it the second Aki entered the room. What he says, though: ] I changed my mind, I want both pepperoni and seafood pizza.

[ "Seriously?"

The call ends like that with Denji hanging the receiver up, no mention of anything out of the ordinary. The type of conversation you'd expect between two regular high school boys. He steps over Meowy, who'd taken residence up beside his socked feet, to find a mask or something to put on in one of the drawers in the kitchen.

He passes Aki along the way. ]

…I'm gonna head out. To meet, uh, a friend, I guess.

[He only comes in towards the tail end of whatever he's saying on the phone, so all he hears is something about pizza. It sounds like such a normal conversation that Aki doesn't even really think about it for a moment. Kind of like the normal yet unusual conversations he and Power would have on the way back from work. And then he hangs up and says he's leaving and Aki gives him a look, frowning with a pinched brow.]

You can't. [Like he just said he plans to go to Enoshima on a whim. ...And since when does Denji have a friend? Weren't they arguing about that the day before last?] You're sick. You should rest up first - And what friend?

[He kind of sounds like an overprotective father like this but he ignores that. It's not about spreading a cold, it's about healing from it before he passes out in a gutter or something.]

You just ate, anyway. Go lay back down.

[ Denji misses the look Aki gives him, essentially nose-to-nose with the drawer he's digging through with how he's hunched over. He pushes aside a sewing kit and tugs free a dusty, used face mask that's been in there however long. He puts it on.

So maybe his classmate's a nuisance, not a friend. Aki doesn't need to know that. ]

You — [ Denji grinds his teeth down hard enough to make his jaw pop, his response initially something bitten out, teeth crunching through scrap metal. But he coughs in the middle of speaking, crook of his elbow pressed to his covered mouth, and by way of miracle, it lands with a forced smoothness, emergency brakes. As if he means it like an real suggestion. ]

…You go lay down. Haven't you been up on your feet most of the time? Go take a nap while I'm not in your hair. [ He's at the door now, bending over to stretch out the opening of his shoe to slide his foot in, then does the same with the other. ]

The char siu didn't really fill me up, anyway.

[ It did fill him up, actually. He's just looking for an excuse to get out of the apartment. ]

[That mask is probably going to make his cold even worse with the amount of dust on it. His response doesn't really make sense to him and Aki is smart enough to know Denji just wants to get out of here, wants to be out of the apartment and away from Aki for a bit, but...]

You're sick.

[He grabs him by the shoulder, staring at him pointedly. You don't go out to eat pizza when you're sick.]

I'll go and get you something, if you really want. But you should stay here.

[That'll separate them, right? Though given what he just made him eat, he may come back with ginger pizza or something for Denji.]

[ The mask sucks. It's stuffy, unbreathable, and a muzzle would do a better job, but he'd rather walk around with this thing on his face then go back-and-forth like this. Trying to get his point across, missing the mark, seeing Aki wall himself up, refusing to react. It makes him feel sick, in more ways than this one. Mostly of himself.

In reaction to being grabbed, Denji grabs back at Aki, physically shoving his hand off. ]

Stop. Just stop, just — stay here. Nayuta's with the dude out there. She'll help me if anything happens, or she'll make him help me.

[ He's not crazy about Nayuta getting into the habit of indiscriminately using her abilities on folks, it's not a pattern he wants to reinforce in her, but it's the only thing he can think of to, well, get Aki to back off. But also, to reassure him. Like he's trying to find some middle ground, except he's really bad at it. ]

[Make him? Didn't Denji just say this person was supposedly a friend...? He lets go of Denji when he shoves at him and clearly looks frustrated. He's being childish. Doesn't he recognize that?]

I'm just trying to -

[--look out for you.]

[...What good has that done him, up til now?]

...Fine. Whatever. Do what you want, then.

[He's aware he sounds just as childish as Denji, muttering that at him as he turns around and heads to his bag, sits down as he fishes out a fresh shirt. This is so stupid. Whatever. Denji's basically an adult, right? By his age, Aki was living on his own and making his own decisions. Fucking up and finding out. Isn't that the saying? So maybe Denji will recognize what he actually needs when he gets sick after running out to go eat some pizza with some so-called friend and the devil he insists on caring for. See if he cares. Aki won't tell him I told you so but Denji will know he did.]

Just don't come back late.

[Muttered, as he snaps the shirt flat and pulls it on over his head.]

[ Denji doesn't jockey for the last word, doesn't flip around or flip out. He stares down at his shoes, the mixed up contents of his stomach swimming, churning as whip-fast as a washing machine on its highest setting. He doesn’t feel well. He can’t keep a single part of his story straight to save his life. He doesn't want to leave and he doesn't want to stay, yet at the same time, he wants to do both at once. Is it because a part of him is still stuck back there, lost in last night’s gloom? Unable to make out sense from satisfaction…

Without making any promises to when he'll be back, and without looking at Aki, he steps outside. People pass by on his way to the station, sit next to him on the train and hug their bags. They murmur about yesterday's events, Chainsaw Man making his reappearance after a few days of silence, in equal tandem with stock market predictions, the latest album by some hit idol group, whether the Orix Buffaloes will keep up their win streak this baseball season or not. Cloyingly mundane stuff. Forgettable stuff. Is that what Aki’s been trying to tell him, that who he is to these people, that the thoughts they have about him are as insignificant and changeable as the daily weather forecast?

Slumping deep in his seat, as deep as he can get without outright laying down, Denji pulls up the hood of his sweater, tightening the drawstrings so that the opening is puckered around his face. His eyes close.

When they open next, he's missed his stop.

It takes him an extra ten minutes to beat it off the next stop and loop around to get to the fast food place. He stops short of crashing through the doors to pause and pet the heads of the dogs waiting outside, but it's not long enough a break for him to fully clean away the sweat beading down his forehead and adjust his half-off mask. He means to locate Nayuta immediately, but he spends a bit of time rubbernecking at the entrance — it's one of those family entertainment centers with arcade games, play zones, and a creepy-looking animatronic mascot for kids to rally around. He would have liked coming to one of these days with Aki and Power; if he had, he probably would've dashed for the racing simulation games in a heartbeat. But considering the circumstances, he starts to drift toward the dining booths.

It's easy to spot the cake guy — Yoshida — because, peculiarly, he's the only one sitting there down the aisle. He raises a hand at Denji, something he doesn't reciprocate, making it plain that he isn't in the mood for pleasantries by merely crashing into the seat across from him. There are two half-eaten pizzas in front of him, definitely cold, by the looks of it, but that sort of thing doesn't matter to Denji. He stacks a slice of pepperoni on top of the seafood one, then sticks both into his mouth at once. He really isn't even that hungry, but chewing on something always settles his nerves.

They do talk, eventually. Yoshida tries to lead the conversation with his usual agenda ("Nayuta's out in the playhouse, the way a regular human little girl would and should be — why take that away from her?"), but Denji either rebuffs or ignores him at every attempt. He's only here for one reason, even though his enthusiasm for that reason seems to have dulled since their last conversation, when Denji proposed the idea of an exchange.

"Like I said before," Yoshida says, trimming the crust off a pizza slice with a fork and knife. "This is a trade, Denji. What I have for you depends on what you have for me. Understand those terms?"

Yeah, understood. So what does Denji have for him? What can he get away with saying without putting Aki in a difficult position?

Denji tells Yoshida the worst possible thing he could have in the most inexact terms.

"...He ate something weird. And it made him act 'goofy'...?"

Yoshida does pry a few more bites of information out of Denji through plying him with another round of pizza and soda, but it's like pulling teeth. Once it becomes abundantly obvious nothing more useful can be retrieved, he sits back, plastic cutlery set aside and his plate empty, save for a pile of stale crust. The dude appears to be pondering deeply about something, but Denji doesn't have the patience to give him the breathing room. He kicks his seat cushion.

"Ah, right."

What comes out of Yoshida's mouth is a little more high-level than what someone like Denji can process on the fly. But from what he can gather, apparently there's an operation in the works at an unspecified time from now, Scorched Meridian. Could be as soon as two weeks or three months, nothing's set in stone or written in the stars, but it's planned that Aki play a pivotal role in its execution, and that a lot is currently in motion behind the scenes, especially due to other, at this time, unrelated hands in the pot. Whatever that means.

Their discussion is interrupted abruptly by an irritated shout coming from the playhouse. They both turn to see Nayuta riding on the shoulders of another kid, who appears to be standing on the shoulders an entirely different kid, in an effort for her to climb on top of the shoulder of the animatronic bunny at the center of the establishment. Denji starts to get up onto his unsteady feet, because for all the bread and cheese he's had, he doesn't feel all that better. Go figure. Yoshida seizes his wrist, hand clinging tight enough to leave a mark, like the suction of a tentacle, not to help him, but to impart one last warning: "I'm telling you this as a courtesy, and because I doubt you want Nayuta and Hayakawa-senpai to die. Don't get involved, Denji."

He wrenches away from the touch, not fast enough to keep his skin from goosebumping. Barks at him to never to approach Nayuta again, then quickly, he makes his way over to the trio and pantses the kid at the bottom, no problem. He watches him immediately drop the rest of them. Denji catches Nayuta in his arms, blatantly ignoring the second kid as he cries out in pain. Dramatic. It wasn't that high of a drop. They gather the dogs outside and begin heading for home.

…But about five minutes into the walk, he tells Nayuta to wait, so that he can make a call at a payphone. He also asks her if she has any coins he can borrow for it. ]

C'mon… [ He says, when all he gets is the ringback tone. ] Pick up, Aki…

[It takes about twenty minutes for Aki to place why he feels so itchy and antsy in this place. Being alone without a locked door, without a peg holding the chain in the cement - he could just run out of here. He could just leave. He could open the door and be gone. Staring at the black television screen, he keeps thinking about that, how alone he is in here, how no one looks at him twice here. No one gives him a wide berth, no one looks at him like he's a sick animal on the way to get euthanized. No one clicks their tongue when they sit down near him, like his presence is disgusting to them. Like he's a hurdle they haven't figured out the jump for just yet.]

[But there's nowhere to actually go. He'll just end up coming right back to their front door out of shame and guilt. Even if he didn't, they'd find him in no time. They have enough chunks to track him down with no problem - he assumes. Running is as futile as scratching at a brick wall.]

[At least with the devil gone, Gun isn't rolling around in dissatisfaction in his gut, which is nice. By the time the phone rings he's showered off and changed into fresh clothes, finished the laundry. He lets the phone ring the first time, ignoring it out of courtesy, but when it rings again he frowns and looks at it. He really hasn't ever heard it ring, except just earlier, when that guy called for Denji. He'd like to know more about who this person is, sure, but maybe it's someone else, maybe it's the devil, or a teacher, or... Ahh. Crap. Maybe he can take a message?]

[He picks up the phone just before the second call finishes ringing and opens his mouth to answer - "Hayakawa residence" - but, wait. What should he say? What does Denji use for a name, anyway? He sort of gapes his mouth for half a second before haltingly trying a simple and almost confused,] Hello...?

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