light a cigarette, i'll watch as it burns

[digestate]

[ 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. ]

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[digestate]

[ Denji blearily fastens the first aid backpack over his chest as Aki fills him in on the information gleaned from the trucker, then hauls Nayuta over his shoulder, the knuckles of his fist clenched ghost-white into the back of her shirt. Shit, so they're in that guy's home territory. He numbly considers trying to convince Aki of taking off again, rather than staying here like sitting bricks, essentially waiting to be found and who knows what afterward. It's a reactionary response, based on a fear so primal and innate, it feels like it's squirming in his stomach, tempting him to turn tail. But he doesn't know where they'd go, looking the way they do, what attention they would draw gambling with an on-foot getaway. That much, Denji can recognize.

So Aki tells him to keep quiet, and so Denji complies — he hasn't been particularly unquiet in a while. It's easy to duck his head down and avoid making eye contact with anyone for too long as they're led through a nearby corridor. Denji remembers, too, that they stayed at a place like this before for Aki's grave visit. Back then, he and Power could hardly contain themselves: swiveling their heads, exchanging jokes and too-rough elbow jabs as they were shown their room, the echo of their snickers carrying on, carrying far. It was the first time he ever got to stay at a place that nice. When he visited with Nayuta a year later, the place they holed up in wasn't even remotely similar, but the grave plots they saw, the square footage all lined up and perfectly measured — yeah, aside from a few freshly lain stones, that place had looked just the same.

…It's too much to think about. He doesn't want it. Breathing out behind Aki, he tries keeping the blow of air low and brief. Unconcerning. He'd rather think about sleep. How the second he sees a neat little futon arranged on the ground, he's going to dive in and ruin it, and he's going to close his eyes, and he's going to forget. Yes, that sounds good. He'd rather forget.

There's a dent to Nayuta's brow when he places her on the ground besides the small tea table, careful to rest the back of her down gently. Movement twitches from behind her eyelids, as if she may be having a dreadful dream. She'll probably wake up soon, in that case. Denji's not sure if he wants her to. ]

She needs pizza and ice cream. [ He rolls the hair tie out from Nayuta's braid, threading his fingers through the plaiting; it was already partially undone, so he doubts she'll miss it any. ] You get that, you can get her to wake up.

[ The elastic wrung around his wrist, Denji shifts back up onto his blistered feet, passing by Aki to move to the bathroom — that's one difference from the place they stayed at before. That other inn was wider and had a breathtaking communal bathing area with different types of springs to visit. It'd be nice to go somewhere like that again, but Denji jimmies himself into the tight bathing space without complaint, shutting the door behind him. The loud run of a bath sounds, as does Denji's tinkering with the showerhead.

Just a moment later, a sliver of space opens from the door, steam already wafting out. A quiet reminder slipping through the gap: ] If you go anywhere, lemme know. Alright?

[ Click. The door shuts once more. ]