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

[ He hates this, hates him, hates being compared to the very women he’s always wanted to sleep with and earn the approval of — that’s what Denji keeps telling himself as he squirms and pants, tosses his head back to try to wrestle his jaw out from his grip. Anything to not have to think about how Aki’s touch feels like it comes straight from the overflowing mouth of a volcanic eruption, how his tummy is bulging exactly where he’s pressing down. Skin sweaty and sticking to one another, seeking each other out in the most basic of biological reactions. The outline of his cock snaking in and out with each outrageous shift of his hips, hitting him so, so much deeper from this new slope of their bodies, the long slide thick and hard and dirty, like he's trying to make him burst all the way open. Make a new hole inside him to fuck.

He can act like he hates it all he wants, but mostly, he just hates how right Aki is.

The woman on the screen gasps, her back lurching, bowing hard against the mattress with such force he can hear the springs creaking. And without thinking, Denji himself mimics the same action, curving into him so that the center of his spine lines up in a perfect symmetry against the definition of Aki's chest. The man laughs into the pink folds of her skin, flicking up his tongue in quick licks before he rears back, mouth wet and shiny as he says to her, Are you a happy slut?

For a second, he's the one Denji answers. Not Aki. ]

Yes! Yes — hngh, yours, your dick! Your dick, only, only yours!

[ It's hard to tell whether he's being honest, more than one hole of his getting looser when he's being screwed well, or if he's playing to the fantasy they've set up here. His ass cheeks smacking down wetly into Aki's pelvis, the coiling ache in his guts excruciating and exquisite. ]

Always — yours!

[It's even rougher this third time. Denji is stretched out and still raw from their earlier bouts, the rough angles he's held him at, the deep pushes he's forced him to open up for. As he holds him upright and keeps him pointed at the TV, the woman's moans still echoing around them, his answers still have the ability to surprise him. On and on he goes, about being his, being Aki's. He's answering his question, sure, but it doesn't sound like it. It sounds like a greater plea. Aki didn't accept it before, didn't reject him either, but maybe the harsher answer is a lack of one. When he repeats himself that second time, Aki lets out a wet, heavy breath on his neck. His fingers wrap around his jaw and push it further back. Exposing his throat like a submissive pup.]

You're mine?

[His hips still as he asks that, lets the echo of the porn take over the sound of their own sex. The man is running his tongue all up and down her slit while she writhes in ecstacy, eyes rolling, lips curled in pleasure. Aki gently grinds against him, keeping Denji's eyes on the movie even with his head tilted back. The hold on his body is tense and unyielding. The flex of his muscles works to keep him pinned in position, like he could roll him onto his stomach in a moment and hogtie him with a wrap of the sheets. Compared to just a moment ago when his movements were rough enough to bruise his skin, his motions inside of him have slowed, gone soft. Gentle, to allow him the space to answer.]

Is that what you want so bad? You want to be mine?

[ He winces like Aki hissed his words back at him, growled them with all his teeth bared, scratching over the surface of his neck like an axe poised for swinging. Swallowing, goosebumps rise with the flex of his throat, his gaze jerking away from the b-film to hurriedly look at Aki, just as the woman's hips fly up in pleasure, her juices painting the man's face with a squirt, and him continuing to drink and drink. ]

Wha…?! I want you to not stop fucking me, stupid!

[ Why is he asking that? More importantly, why is he slowing down?

He feels pained, empty without the sweet simmer in his guts, like someone's turned the stove temperature low right before its reached its boiling point. But above all that, he feels like he's in trouble. Did he say something wrong? Denji doesn't fight back or kick his hips down to pressure Aki into moving, into pushing his limits, though he sorely wants to; instead, his body stiffens. His brows squish together, the way a hound might fold its ears back, tail tucked between its legs. Like he's guilty of something, but he doesn't know what.

Would it be so bad to be Aki's? No, probably not. He doesn't even really know what that means, fully, to be someone's; he likes Aki, if that's good enough to past muster. He wants to be near him, embrace him, to curl his fist into his silky hairs and live the rest of his life with the curled tip of his tongue shoved inside him, and to want to be held and contorted and molded into whatever image of him Aki wants in return. He wants to make him feel better. He wants to help him forget the sad things. He wants to need him. Need him within arm's reach, to need see him right there at the break of each dawn and beg to kiss his shitty morning breath.

But he realizes something else he doesn't know, just one of many in the list: what Aki wants. He backpedals. ]

If you hate it, I didn't mean it! I'll take it back right now, just… keep going…

[He'll take it back? The surprise is visible on Aki's expression at that, that Denji would just as easily say something like that just before and now be so willing to take it back. All in the name of Aki continuing. They're just using one another - Aki knows that and is well aware that he's using Denji to cope with the loneliness he's experienced. But if that was all this was, it would be easy. He could keep fucking Denji just like this and come inside him and they could roll over and go to sleep.]

[But nothing is ever easy with Denji.]

You're such - a whiny ingrate.

[Using his knees, Aki turns Denji to the side and pushes him into the bed, its sheets half stripped and giving little cushioning to buffer the way he shoves his head into the mattress. His hips roll back before fucking forward to fill him again, bullying him hard against the side of the bed before retreating and repeating the motion, over and over. He huffs with each thrust forward and the hand that was holding his head up is now pinning him down by the back of his neck. The porn is forgotten. Aki wasn't watching it at any point, anyway.]

You piss me off - so much. [Each slam of his hips breaks him open just that much wider, the sweet suction of his body that keeps teasing him towards completion. God, how he loves feeling Denji below him. How he loves the warmth of his body, how he moves against him even without meaning to. The caress of his muscles, of his skin. He could turn him around and wrap him in a hug, gentle and warm, thank him.]

[...But then that wouldn't be using him, and right now he's supposed to just be using him. Like Denji is using him. It's just like before, he realizes, where he wanted nothing more than to hear Denji say his name. What did he have to do to get that out of him?]

You'll just say anything you can to make me fuck you - You don't give a shit about anyone but yourself, you selfish little -

[His voice is tense, pulled taut like a bow string, jerking through each word like they're thrusts in and of themselves.]

You want me to call you a slut? Is that what you want?

[(He was kind of watching the porn.)]

What the hell —

[ Disorientation strikes him faster than his head strikes the naked mattress, forehead bouncing up from the recoil for a moment until his face is being driven into the comforter again. The way a child might try to hammer in the wrong puzzle piece into the spot they think it should fit. Resisting the chokehold he has on him, Denji tenses the muscles in his neck, shoving back, gasping for a breath that isn't obstructed by the bed quilts. Before he's dunked back down. He barely comprehends what’s happening. Or why, why he is so angry, what did he do to upset him, and lastly how can he make it up to him? ]

A — [ ki, the last syllable of his name gets asphyxiated into the wet mark his hostaged mouth has made into the mattress, Denji's bruised knees scrabbling over the edge of the bed, then crumpling completely, once he tastes the full-scale of him blunting, scorching, his insides like greased lightning. It feels good; it feels bad; it feels wrong. Every other thrust has him ricocheting between these clashing thoughts, one eye rolled back and the other squeezed shut, like the pleasure is being shot up his veins and he's overdosing on it. He wants Aki, he wants to be battered by him and he wants to be bettered for it, but he wants to seek refuge in him, too.

But there's nowhere like that in sight, nowhere to hide. Not from the head of Aki's cock grinding so deep it might just create a womb inside of him — which is, God, it doesn't even make sense, does it? He doesn't care, not while his own arousal is building up throughout all this, the swell of his dick leaking precome against the bed, like some kind of open wound. Wanting to twitch and throb, but being unable to when he's sandwiched so uncomfortably into the covers.

It always comes back to one thing: What does Denji want? Does he want this? Does he want to be called a slut, a no-good, too happy to be used dumping ground for Aki to unload all his come into? ]

No, no, nonono… [ Denji tries to shake his head back-and-forth, teardrops budding from the corners of his eyes the more he struggles to breathe, to answer him back. ] Want… Wanna — see your face!

[His face. He wants to see Aki's face. He won't even say his name, but he wants to see his face.]

[It should annoy him. Of the few one night stands he's had, they were mostly like this. From behind, no emotion, no connection. Just a need to get off and a mutual understanding that this was all it was. But Denji makes everything so personal, and of course it speaks to something in Aki. Of course he craves that personal connection. To be told that your partner wants to see your face - Even this morning, he asked for a kiss, didn't he?]

[How long has it been since someone woke him up with a pleading whine for a good morning kiss?]

[When he slides out, it's like rushing head-first into a blizzard, barrelling outside from the tight warmth as he presses Denji the rest of the way up onto the bed. He grabs him by the shoulder to turn him over and hooks his leg up to pump straight back in, a brief bump of his cock against Denji's, a misstep in an otherwise fluid motion as he sinks back into him. He wraps his arms around his shoulders once he's inside and smashes his lips into his, kissing openly and desperately as he humps forward like a jackrabbit. Fill, pull, fill, pull. His tongue slides out to bully his way into Denji's mouth. He said he wanted to see him, but Aki doesn't care. Surely he can see him plenty like this.]

[ He’s witnessed Aki frenzied, desperate, enraged, been on the receiving end of the latter heat too many times to not have each twist in his expression carved into the marrow of his memory. But in what glimpses he manages to see of his face in the turbulence, Denji's not sure what he's looking at. And Aki doesn't give his thoughts the time to percolate, occupy his mind long enough for him to figure it out, before he's back on him again, wrenching him apart, as if he's going to gate him out the very next second. As if he isn't spread wide for him, his eyes fluttering closed with a tight whimper as their cocks stroke past each other and he's sleeved inside him again.

Denji's core shakes with the heavy thrusts strangling out more airless babbling into the kiss, the headboard of the mattress pumping back against the wall, shuddering, his toes pinched and bobbing in the air. He sucks down on Aki's tongue, not caring that the muscle was teasing and penetrating him not too long ago; the inside of his mouth is cloyingly warm, viscous and something he could get hooked on, if he weren't already, like the fruit preserves Aki would always used to buy him.

His eyes slit open and, fuck, the only thing he can see are his lashes, curled and dark. It almost feels cruel, but he must have done something to only be punished with this much. Must have, and yet it doesn't feel fair at all when Aki, jerk that he is, has been so rude to him, yelling at Denji about his wants, then not sharing any of his own. A burst of indignation igniting to life for a flickering moment, impelling him to launch his weight up, palms shoving Aki bodily onto his back, the two of them still connected by their lips, by the clap of their hips. Still moving, still thundering, like a storm trying to wring out the last of its rain.

Slumped over so that they're chest-to-chest, the stiff peaks of his nipples rubbing against his sweat-slicked skin, Denji suckles and gasps into Aki's open mouth, careless with the bite of his teeth. Careless, as well, with how he lines up their bodies, crudely drills his hole down, ignoring the sting, ignoring the squelch, just hoping it'll bring him closer to what he really wants. Who he really wants. ]

Aki. [ He barely pulls away to say his name, a quiet puff of sound, as Denji holds his face in place between his hands, trying to forcibly take what he asked for. The next moment, his expression scrunches, slackening as he loses himself to deep drowning of his orgasm, his salty release dirtying the narrow space between their abdomens. ] Aki.

[Aki is aware that Denji is tough, can defend himself, can put up a fair fight. But he also hasn't seen him in over a year and the change in his physique from someone whose ribs were visible when he stretched after a shower to now, where he can easily topple Aki onto his back and get over him... He's shocked enough that he doesn't put up any fight, only shifting his hands from where they were holding him to wrapping around him, keeping him close, as if he might dare to back off after doing so.]

[But of course he doesn't, of course he's slamming hard onto him and their bodies keep sliding against one another and Aki groans into his mouth, nails digging into his bare back, the force of his movements knocking him off kilter. He was the one taking charge of this and to have that suddenly yanked away is - it's confusing. He wants to grab him and turn him back over, wrestle him onto his stomach and pin him by the nape of his neck. Hold him prone until he gives and lets him do what he wants. What he wants?]

[And Denji says his name, right against his lips, and suddenly his eyes fly open as he watches him orgasm, the flicker in his brows and the way his lips move as he says his name once more. His heart is racing again like he just swallowed that chunk, like it's suddenly coarsing through his blood again. He feels the wet release of him on his stomach down between their bodies and he grasps him tight around the back to keep Denji tugged close, his hips jutting up and into him as he tries to keep him from getting up, leaving him, ending this. His breath hitches - ] Denji.

[When he comes inside him, he holds still, one hand grasping his hip as if he's afraid he'll pull off and leave him shooting his seed into the air, against his thighs and onto the bedding. The other stays tight on his back, almost a hug if it wasn't so forceful and clawing, and Aki groans as his head jerks back while he finishes with a final duo of thrusts up into him, shuddering before leaning up to try and find Denji's lips once more, furtive kisses spilling out of him. He shouldn't care this much about this. It's just sex. That's what he told Denji. It shouldn't mean anything. But why can't he shake this fear that everything he gets ahold of is going to be swiped away if he doesn't consume it before they can?]

[He doesn't want to have Denji. Doesn't want Denji to be his. Nothing he owns stays his for long anymore. But like that chunk of metal, maybe if he can keep him close, consume him in a way - can he be allowed to accept it, then?]

[ Everything, the weightlessness rushing to the roof his skull, the sudden oversensitivity of his skin, his cock resting against Aki's stomach, trembling and twitching like a livewire — it hits him the way a leaning building would, one he watched tip further and further over as he refused to go anywhere else, in a single fell swoop. Leaves him gratified and airy, but not so oblivious that he's numb to the sensation of Aki still pushing inside him, encased and trying to the reach his roots as he clings to him, trying to vault over this last hurdle, and of course, Denji doesn't mind. Of course, Denji clings and kisses and vents his inner frustrations right back, his thighs squeezing, locking him in and throwing away the key, willing to throw away more than that, if it means it'll get Aki to completion. Get him to stay right where he is, under him — or just with him. It doesn't matter how; it never has.

Denji presses long into his lips, less of a kiss and more of a sigh, when he comes, always, always perfect, always good, feeling somehow free of every worry despite how heavy he is with whatever semen Aki had left to spare. Even long after they've become nothing but two boneless bodies, he refuses to move. Sticks to him stubbornly, as if by silencing him with his lips, he might be able to silence Aki's judgments, distract him from whatever remaining ire he might have for him. A wishful part of him dares to presume it might make Aki happy, too, to remain in place, inert for a moment, when the world is always demanding they move.

When the tension has all but shivered out of both of them, his pulse slowing to a more breathable velocity, he begins to lift his hips if Aki will let him, his weight shifting. But if Aki keeps his hold on him, Denji will be the last person to fight off his touch. ]

[He feels so fucking alone.]

[The thought barrels into him like a baseball hit through his skull, smashing what he was trying to coax himself down with. That he could keep things close to himself if he just found a way to take them into him. He can keep those parts of Gun held down and lacking any power, used only to kill devils. Under his own control, kept safe and with him all the time. He can do that. But he can't do that with a human being, and he can't do that with Denji. Do you still feel alone? he'd asked him just earlier, and Aki had said he didn't. In that moment, he didn't. But right now, as he comes down from the orgasm and feels Denji start to shift to pull off of him, Aki letting him, the thoughts he had on high that he could keep him like this, consume him like he ate that stupid hunk of metal... He lays limp and stares at the ceiling, lips still, the drop hitting like a sledgehammer.]

[Stupid fucking Denji. He makes everything so complicated. Saying stupid shit to him when he feels high with ecstasy, with pleasure. And then he's left to pick up the pieces of his own id in his wake. Goddamn Denji.]

[His fingers twitch on his skin and the little slivers of id poke through. His fingers flatten so he isn't digging into him anymore but instead so his arms can wrap around him tight, seeking that same warmth from when Aki told him he hadn't been with anyone in years. It hadn't worked before. But he'll try it again now.]

[ Tugged closer by Aki's arms, Denji's own twine around his waist in a loose wreath, his eyes drifting shut again as he buries his face into his neck, breathing in his scent. He feels electric. He feels languid and fulfilled, and even though the circumstances are unconventional, he feels like he was able to experience something else normal people do, which is spend a night in a hotel with someone they care about. Things got weird in the middle, rough and out of sync, but they came together in the end, didn't they? That's a good sign, right? That they both got what they wanted in the end.

It should be, but Aki is as silent and stiff as an ivory sculpture, a thing that can't be moved. Didn't he say that people are supposed to talk after sex? Maybe he's waiting for him…? One of his eyes lazily opens, a sweet smile on his face as he's about to ask a stupid question, like if they should take another bath or order take-out, but what he sees empties his throat of all sound, his head of all thought. ]

[ Aki looks like he's sheathed within a body of ice, something shatterable if someone so much as takes the wrong step — or maybe, more aptly, like something that's already been shattered, that's now just an untouchable ice cap drifting nowhere. His expression stops dead, and he feels, then, what he didn't before: A strangeness in the air. A sense of collateral, that the connection between them is damaged, and that it's all his fault. His smile falls. ]

…Are you cold? [ he says, weakly, a real panic humming in his chest, no different from a hornet's nest that's been jolted to life, vibrating with activity. He makes to pull at the comforter, still heaped on the ground, trying to cocoon it over them. Like the added warmth might thaw whatever's wrong, melt it away. ]

[The shift in Denji's expression is noticed, if only from how it seems to exude from his entire body. He feels the cold sink into him, transferred from Aki's body into his, sapping the heat that burned in him so naturally. Of course.]

No, it's...

[The comforter comes over them and suddenly they're covered in it, the thin sheet that god knows how many people have fucked on. It feels clean, starchy with bleach, but it doesn't feel fluffy like it may have been one day. Like it's been sanitized every day to be ready for the next mess. Why the hell is he pitying a piece of bedding?]

[His eyes close and he tries not to think about it. Fat chance. You're such a sap. You'd cry if you stepped on a mouse. It always comes to him in her voice and the loneliness piles like snow mounds blocking traffic. He wraps his arms a little tighter around Denji - because he's aware he must be worrying about him, and he's not helping with that. Not helping to soothe that worry and convince him he's fine, just tired. Like he did a hundred times before.]

I'll be gone again at some point.

[A reminder of the obvious, the same thing he told him earlier that evening when Denji grabbed him and begged him not to.]

And I can't take you with me.

[ Linen cloaks over them, draped off Denji's head almost like mourning lace spilling over a widow's face from the way his expression further darkens, unusually grave. Moments earlier, when he was still flushed from intercourse, it might have looked more like a wedding veil — incredible, how a few undesirable words can change a person's mood. Though he doesn't resist the pull of his arms, Denji doesn't quite fall back into his embrace, either. His eyes, pinned on any point other than the downcast slant of Aki's face, doing his best to push past not simply how exhausted he looks beneath him, but how sad. ]

Why… do you have to be so…

[ Complicated goes unsaid, however, the sharp hitch of bitterness in his voice likely says more than enough in its stead.

Aki brings up their eventual parting so often, it makes him feel like, even if he did have the choice to bring him, he still wouldn't; he'd find a reason not to. Self-centeredly, Denji can't help but feel like it's an issue with himself, like maybe if someone else had been left alive other than him, then Aki's conclusion would be different. He would have more hope, more trust in someone other than him. ]

…I'll just find you again, if you go. Like how I did that first time. [ From a real superhero, those series of statements might sound touching; from Denji, it only sounds reckless. Delusional. ] Or I'll have Nayuta find you! She's got a good nose, a good head… She's smart, so she'd be able to.

[He starts going on about nonsense, about the devil finding him, how smart she is, and Aki interrupts with - ] Denji.

[It sounds delusional. He thinks he's speaking clearly enough that he should understand. Aki's only alive as long as Gun is unsalvageable. If he ever becomes salvageable, he'll be gone. He gets this is borrowed time, right? The same borrowed time Denji has been cashing in on like a credit card without a limit.]

[...No, maybe he doesn't get that. Maybe he thinks of his situation as different. If he won't pull in close, Aki instead slides his hand up to his head, runs his fingers into the back of his hair. Coaxing him back against his neck like before. He's fighting an internal war between enjoying this in the moment, the desire that overwhelmed him in that bar, and the desire to push him away - the one that's ruled him his entire life. His fingers slacken in his hair whether he moves or not.]

I thought I knew what I was doing, with you. I thought I was trying to give you a good life. [Based on his current situation, it's good enough. He goes to school, he's eating properly, he's got responsibilities.] I wanted...

[He pauses. Stares up at the ceiling tiles, flimsy pieces of asbestos. A sign of a cheaply constructed building, a quickly cobbled together facade. Stupid.]

...I wanted you to move on. Not look for me.

[ He says nothing; he doesn't know how to speak around the ache cramping his throat, spreading like a malignancy, so he doesn't bother risking it.

Gentle as Aki is, kind as he's trying to be, there's no comfort to be found in the soft brush of his fingertips carding through his scalp. Trying to lure him back in, make the cold fist that's enveloped his heart waver. Clutch and release. At first, he seems adamant on not reacting, but then, in the same moment Aki's eyes flick away from him, Denji's digress upward, to his face, as if he's looking for him even now, even after he's told him not to.

He considers getting up and leaving, saying that he should clean himself, and no, he doesn't need his help this time. Thinks about asking Pochita what he should do, searching for his silent validation. Or he could stay put, shout a full monologue of diatribes dismissing the very idea — of letting him go, of living a cookie-cutter life where everything is as it seems and they never share a meal together again. And in a fit of anger, he would tell him, I really fucking hate this part of you the most, more than anything.

That's what he should do. But in the midst of pondering these diverging paths, it becomes abundantly clear to him that there's only a single real one.

Slowly, slowly, he folds into Aki once more, his face tucked into the naked corner of his neck. Using his body as a hiding place, Denji mumbles the following question: ] …That'll make you happy?

[ Because, Denji thinks, that's all he wants. It's why he said he'd give himself to Aki, and it's why he said he'd take it back if he hated it, hated having him. He'd asked Aki a similar question last night, and that, in turn, led him to telling a story about Typhoon. About hindsight, and happiness, and how it's only after it's over that you can appreciate it. ]

Wherever you are, when you think of this — [ This, this unnameable thing they are: friends, brothers, both, neither. ] You'll be happy?

[ His hand closes around the one Aki has petting his head, pinky finger curling under his. Another promise he's forcing him to make, but this time it's not Denji's to break. ]

[He'll be... happy?]

[Aki's features slowly thaw, just a small amount, like a drip of water running down an ice cube. He feels the clutch of Denji's pinky around his, forcing this promise, this promise of - what? Does he think this is about Aki? Does he think it's ever been about Aki?]

[It clicks, though. The conversation they had before about the devil. Her future versus Denji's future. All the work he's doing, all the confidence he has in her. A massive tower of hope casting a shade his own future's shack has been relegated to. He's doing it again.]

No, I won't.

[Denji telling him about how he had visited his family's grave made him happy. The sound of Denji's voice when he called out to him that evening made him happy. The way he grins, lopsided and childish in the face of something that should make your stomach curl. The way he cherishes food. Those things all make Aki happy. But this isn't about Aki's happiness.]

This is about you, Denji.

[What happens if he dies again? If he gets swept away too suddenly? How will he react? He doesn't even fully know how Denji reacted, just how hard he seemed to be looking for him. But he visited his grave and he kept his things. He kept his things, he remembers, his eyes crinkling in pain at the memory. For what? Why would he keep any of those things?]

[How much has Denji been hurting because of him? Because of how he tried to make things work out for him and Power?]

I'll be happy if you'll be happy. But you need to... [He still can't look at him. Like telling a child their dog had to be put down. That their friend is moving away. That the baseball game was cancelled due to rain.] ...You need to prepare, for me to be gone.

[ The room feels like it’s gasping for air around them. The walls, expanding and closing in. Yeast rising in the oven. Bread baking, a nice golden shell hardening when it’s pulled out. Someone should pull it out. Someone, pull him out of here.

How can Aki do that thing he does? Speak with such certainty. Everything he says to him is like the hand of a clock passing from one second to the next, incessant and inevitable and strikingly final. True. A ticking in his head driving Denji to his fucking limit. He wants to hurl. He wants to hurl Aki off the bed. He wants to do something irrational, like lock himself in the bathroom. He wants to search for a window and stick his head out, maybe stand on the sill and claim he just needed a little air when he pitches forward and lands with a cartoon splat. And if anyone asks him what happened, fuck it, he did it by accident.

Denji's face persistently remains hidden, his temples tense. Tight, probably from the effort of trying to keep his eyes crammed shut, his emotions contained. He’s not going to cry over something stupid like this. A stupid guy like Aki. He never liked him, anyway. ]

Whatever.

[ Croaked out like a toad that's swallowed a fly wrong, insect viscera stuck to the back of his throat and the only way to get it out is to dig a finger in. Or maybe chase it down with something else. His breath rocks through his chest as he considers biting through Aki again. Like this, he could really hurt him, really make more of a mess of his neck, have him gurgling again so that he can’t say another word, another truth that makes his eyes burn. If he eats up more of him, then maybe he’d be justified in telling him to shut up, telling him you’re a part of me now, too, it’s not just about Denji, it’s about us.

He peels himself off of Aki, away from him. Rolls over on his side, showing only his back and nothing else. When he next speaks up, it's to the room. ]

Dude, just say it. If you want me to forget you, don't — [ Fist closing around the comforter, he squeezes it tighter around his shoulders. ] Don't use so many words. It's making my head feel weird…

[He moves off which is maybe the response he deserves but it feels like a slap to Aki. He wants to stop him, yank him back on, tell him to reject what he just said. Fight him over it. He always fights him over everything, so why isn't he fighting him over this?]

[Being forgotten might not be so bad. Hell, it feels like Denji is the only person left alive who would remember him, anyway. Kishibe lost enough people that he wouldn't care. If Denji forgot about him, there wouldn't be the pain he's displaying in front of him, the cold back of his shoulder to stare at. Isn't that good? It's for Denji, after all. He said it's for Denji's sake. God, but it felt so much better when he was being selfish, for a minute there.]

[He pushes that away, forcibly. Not about him.]

You don't have to forget about me. But I don't want you to be...

[The memory of Denji snapping at him when he said not to worry about him, that he wasn't worrying. He'll do that here, too. Claim he isn't sad. Even though...]

...What things of mine did you keep?

[He kind of mumbles it, like he just remembered. Like it hasn't been bothering him like a rock in his shoe since he said it.]

[ When Aki speaks like that, sounding as tired and as lost as Denji feels, the temptation to make a u-turn, find a way to right whatever's gone wrong here, nearly wrenches him back around by the neck. He stops himself, though. Nails digging into his pillow — too fluffy and feathery to actually be comfortable throughout a long night, like it's overcompensating for lacking any form or substance to support someone.

…Damn it, this pity party he's throwing is spiraling out of control.

There's so much he wants to say. So much he doesn't understand. How would a normal teenager react? A normal person wouldn't freak out, right, wouldn't shut down the way he's doing. Slowly, he exhales out: ] They were just — things. Didn't know what half of 'em were.

[ By the time they went back to the ruined apartment to collect what belongings they could, there wasn't much left.

Clean-up crew tried telling them not to contaminate the scene, that they'd send what they could over to the headquarters for them to pick up at a later date, but Power was so stubborn. She must have known that, as a fiend, she had more hanging on the line by talking out of turn. Still, however, he remembers the way she'd glanced over at Denji, the big cotton ball Meowy was curled in her arms, a nervous twitch to her brow before she whipped around and yelled something about how her cat hadn't been able to sleep a wink without her bed, her toys, her feeder and her brushes, that their inferior human eyes wouldn't be able to tell apart debris from decor. It'd all been her usual nonsense and lies, but he thinks he was grateful for it back then, despite not having the words to say so. That she'd try, in her own non-human way, to preserve what she could of the life she'd known with them for them. For what was left of them.

He tries to list what he can remember. ]

It was, like, books and journals and papers. Some photos, part of your sword… Your old lighter. [ Whenever Aki gets a chance to rummage through the box, he'll find more than that. ] You can have them, or you can leave them.

[Part of his sword...? What part? he wants to ask. What happened to it? Did the blade break or the handle? He almost wants to grab Denji by the shoulder and roll him over, demand more explanation. What books? Which lighter? The black one? His fingers twitch against the bedding.]

[He doesn't want to know. He remembers Angel asking him on the train, Where's your sword, anyway? And Aki replied, I don't know how to use it anymore. And after that...]

[After that, he thought about it for weeks, where it ended up. What happened to it? Was it taken back by Public Safety? Was it destroyed in Gun's rampage? He was better off not knowing. Who cares about a stupid sword?]

[I made that, you know, he told him one day. Aloof and uncaring. Aki grits his teeth.]

I don't want any of it.

[He doesn't want to want any of it. But knowing it exists, knowing there's a shard of their normal life that he destroyed still lingering in a closer in Denji's one room apartment - It's so stupid to care. It's so stupid.]

You shouldn't have kept it.

[That's what he should say next. His voice is clipped, on the edge of breaking. He should have thrown all of this away, because that's what Aki did. He gave up the moment Kishibe didn't answer him when he asked how he was. Denji kept going and kept thinking about him and kept missing him. He shouldn't have cared that much.]

You should have left them.

[His fingers curl around something and it's then that he realizes he's rolled over, turned on his side and clutching Denji from behind. His fingers wrapped around his wrist. Face wet against the back of his neck. Furious and tired and frustrated. Why did Denji have to go looking for him? Why did they have to find one another again? He should be dead. They both should be. Yet here they are, without a working heart between them.]

You're just going to end up disappointed.

[ With a strange calmness for someone whose ribs are sore from having his midsection wrung, whose neck is itchy from the tears spilling hot on his skin like frying oil springing off the pan, Denji thinks to himself: Disappointed, huh. Aki says it like it’s the worst thing he could possibly do to him, as if it’s on par with half the crappy circus performance that’s made up his entire tenure as Chainsaw Man, not even counting the life he led before that. Like it’s his failure, his crime to owe penance to. But why?

It's as he's focusing very hard on the wall, counting the the imperfect deposits of paint dried all wrong and clumped together, that he realizes this isn't about him at all. Has never been about Denji, probably, which is a small blow in itself. But again, it's not about him. Screw what he says, Aki doesn't know everything. This is about something else, something they can’t blame on a devil: A pain that's calcified under layers and layers, years and years, of defeat — of loss, of being in the process of still losing.

A breath whittles out of him, slight. No better than a thin shaving of wood from a pencil. ]

You — [ His voice is warped by his own sadness, sinuses congested and runny. Aki's not the only one who wants to cry, who's tired of feeling this way. ] You’re such a — a fuckhead. You know that, right?

[ He sucks in another breath, the flat of his knuckles scrubbing harshly across his eyes, reduced to the same rawness he felt in that tiny hidden room with the drunk and the crazy girl, his face pressed to the TV screen like he'd finally found his answer. Now look at him. No answers, no girlfriend. No boyfriend, either. This sucks. Is this what breaking up feels like? Not that they dated or anything, never came close to anything normal like that these few days, but…

Denji sniffles, blinking, hoping to regain what composure he can to say what he needs to say. Except his mind keeps going back — what does he mean, I don't want any of it? How could he say that? — maddened, even with his clarity. So obviously, when that doesn't work, his efforts only making his eyes well up more, he twists his palms into his closed eyes and groans, loud and long. And once the closing strings of the discordant sound have emptied out of him, his chest taking a final inhale, he goes: ] Fine! Fine, if that's how it's gonna be…

[ Suddenly, the air rushes out of him, and his hands fall to where Aki's are knotted together. Almost like he might try to snap his leash on him, but instead, Denji pulls them even tighter around him. Locking Aki into place. ]

Disappoint me, then. Hurt me. Mess me up.

[ Total surrender. That's all he can give him. ]

It’s okay. I’ll be okay.

[Being called a fuckhead when he already feels so low, lower than even "fuckhead," feels like an unexpected gut punch. He's so shitty in how he speaks, even now, when Aki feels like he's moments away from letting Denji fall off the edge of some cavernous divide, some expanse that they can't climb back up from. Even now when he feels that, Denji calls him a fuckhead and he feels angry stupid tears blur his sight.]

[The grasp, though, is strangely grounding. The way he's forced to hold onto him and kept in place, as if Denji is the one holding him. He tells him to disappoint him and do all the other things that he's already done and Aki wants to sigh, shake his head. He can't do it to him again. Even if it wasn't him, even if it was Gun - he was still there, somewhere. Aware enough to know he was doing something Denji didn't like. But when did that ever stop him? Certainly not tonight.]

You always end up "okay."

[At some point he thought that was impressive. A marvel. No matter what happened to him he'd spring right back with a splash of blood and a few choice words. Fuckhead. At some point he began to hate it. The sound of his motor whirring to life to mark that it had ended at some point.]

Just once I don't want you to have to recover from something.

[He's kind of already ruined that, though. No matter what happens from hereon out, he'll have some kind of recovery to do... Again, it's a futile feeling, but this one leaves him feeling empty instead of free. Aki sighs, pressing his forehead into his neck, feeling the sticky warmth from his sweat.]

Why are you so content to be in pain all the time...?

[ It's so impossible, talking to Aki. Always poking holes into what he says, whether he means to or not. He wouldn't be Aki if he didn't, however, right now, it's almost what it was like talking to Makima back in her apartment, each thing he says making the muscles of his little dog-heart shrink and contract and weaken. But more than that, it's the knowing that nothing he says or does will resonate with him. Reach him, give him the understanding he wants. That, that fact — that's what threatens to dislodge Pochita from his chest completely. ]

It's not all pain… I think. Being with you…

[ The words grate out from him unevenly, uncertainly. As if feeling the premature sting of knowing that it's not enough. That it's not something that has any right to be enough. His hands crawl up Aki's forearms, nails pinning him down, not knowing when he might change his mind, pull his face away from his neck. ]

I just like it. Even if you're yelling at me or pushing me around, stuff like that… I keep thinking that I really, really —

[ No, seems to say the way the side of his face turns and wipes into his pillowcase. No, he can't say that. No. No. ]

…I dunno, it's just, it's fine. Even if you're makin' me feel crummy, you make me — twice as happy, too.

[ He sounds miserable. Devastated. But he wants to believe he's telling the truth as best he can, as best as he knows it to be. ]

I care about you.

[It doesn't feel like he deserves this sort of response. They've both lost too many people in their respective lives, but while Aki has decided to be stalwart in pushing people away as a result - and failing at it - Denji draws them in, clings to them. How can he be so comfortable doing that when the simple act of pressing himself into Denji feels like he's seeping poison over his skin? Doesn't he know it's not worth it in the long term?]

[The worst part is, as miserable as Denji sounds, it makes it that much more apparent that he's telling the truth. Aki sighs.]

[He told him he would be happy if Denji was happy. So hearing him say he's twice as happy with him... It's like a mockery of his own words.]

If you really mean that...

[He reaches up with his arm, trying to turn Denji over, make him face him. Or at least pull him onto his back so he can look at him, stare at him from a higher vantage point. Whichever he succeeds in, his reddened eyes stay locked on his as he speaks.]

Let me be the one to find you, next time.

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