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 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.

[ His lungs grow full with a breath he doesn't release, air eddying in his chest. He's hesitant to be seen or to see whatever Aki has to show him. He doesn't feel ready. Strange, that's never stopped him from catapulting into the unknown before, so why does the thought of meeting Aki's gaze feel more daunting than being hunted and tracked by a thousand yellowed devil eyes?

Yet the bed springs whine. Yet Denji still turns on his back, almost tempted to raise his hands up. No sex afterglow, no weightlessness to his shoulders — Aki looks like shit, so he must look the same way from under him. It'd make him laugh in any other situation. How fast and easy it is for everything to come crashing down.

This time, it's Denji's turn to sigh. ]

You'll come? [ He extends a hand to brush Aki's bangs back. His heartbeat pounds in the background somewhere far off, like its hidden doors and doors away in some hellishly peaceful glen. ] If I call your name, you'll come?

[From his fingertips, Aki can feel the pulse of Denji's heart, beating hard like his own was not long before this. His expression creases in slight pain at Denji's question and the repetition of it, because he knows he won't. If he was in trouble and he called out for Aki, he wouldn't hear him, wouldn't come running. If he was alone and called for him, he wouldn't even know. He should be honest with him. He can only lie by omission, not by words.]

Maybe not so easily. [It could be months, it could be years. He doesn't know what his life is going to be like. If he'll even live long enough to hold his end of the bargain up. He leans down and, with his hair brused away and parted from water and sweat, he presses his bare forehead into Denji's, eyes closing so he can get close.] But I'll find you. I promise. So don't try and beat me to it, next time.

[Briefly, making it less of a kiss and more of a caress, he presses his lips into Denji's before shifting to the side to lay down again.]

Just live your life and be happy. I'll come back for you.

[ His eyes shutter for a moment, wanting to melt into the contact, a bit — have something good to balance out the tough course this conversation has tread, like adding sweetener to black coffee. He wants to believe him. Nearly considers saying that he doesn't have to promise to come back, to not abandon him so readily, even though it does make him feel better to hear, that for him, for Denji, he'll come back.

Promises like that can be cruel. ]

…Okay. I'll try. I promise.

[ So he makes his own. Two different promises, only connected somewhere toward the end where they can finally make good on them.

He watches Aki settle back on his side and, after a second passes, he lifts his arm. Offering up the space, same as what was done for him last night. He's never liked owing Aki anything; there's a part of him that feels acutely like he'll be spending however span of time his life lasts trying to pay him back. Especially now.

His arms itch to stretch out, to be the one to bridge their distance, but he'll wait for Aki. Regardless of whether it's here in this bed or years ahead. Maybe they won't even be in Tokyo by then. ]

[Aki isn't sure he wants to be the one to reach out, either. It's shameful, of course, to want it. The same way he feels shameful for nearly jumping at the idea of fleeing with him, taking Denji with him so he knows he's safe. Taken care of. But every time he's felt the tight grip of his arms, the press of his body against his own... He'd tell himself it's from the year of not touching anyone, but even before that he wouldn't go out of his way to hug anyone, either. Why does a hug feel so good?]

[He reaches out to accept the opening, wraps his arm over Denji's back and pulls him in. He tells himself that doing this just for now is okay. Enjoying things in the moment. Eating char siu. Even if it ends, he'll have time in the future to look back on it and recognize the happiness he can't feel right now, just like before.]

Thanks. [Mumbled into his hair, it's the least he can say after tonight.] Denji.

…Mhmm.

[ Starting and ending the day in Aki's arms almost makes the rest of what happened, the roughage in this confusing ass sandwich, worthwhile. If happiness is a selective memory, then that's what butting his face into Aki's neck does to Denji. Like hearing the air moving in Aki's lungs, feeling the microbeat of something that's not quite his heart yet works just as well, makes him forget all about their ruined breakfast, Nayuta pressuring him into engaging the devil, and the farawayness of the world as their mind's fell to more than one thing out of their control. It's warm and comforting and when he breathes in, Aki smells like Aki, not whatever chemical compounds make up a bullet, a weapon. The government may not believe it, and Aki himself may not, either, but that's fine. That's alright.

Even Makima was wrong toward the end, about movies and sad endings. They can be wrong about this, about people and devils.

The next morning, awareness comes to him in waves: first, of the assortment of aches crying from his joints; second, of the dull tension pervading his skull; and lastly, of something tickling his nose. His eyes open to half his vision obscured by Aki's hair and the overfluffed pillowcase. He'd been a rather unpleasant bedfellow most of the night, tossing and turning until finally landing face down on his stomach, an arm thrown across Aki's waist. Fingers tucked under his side, ready to dig his nails in if anything tugged him away.

For a moment, Denji considers ignoring how disgusting he feels to extend their closeness while there's nothing complicated around to ruin it, but he can only go so long without acknowledging how parched his throat is, the dried snot crusting his nostrils. A sharp throb hits him right above his left eye, which could either be a remnant of yesterday's stress — or a sign that he's getting sick. Guess that's what happens when you go frolicking from place to place in the rain. Either way, he should do something about the cold semen tacked to his thighs.

Carefully, which is probably not careful at all by anyone's standards, he extricates himself. Patters to the bathroom as quietly as he can, but he's kinda in a rush, because the second he's vertical, it hits him that he's really gotta pee.

Flush of the toilet. Water hissing from the shower head, spraying against the tile.

If Aki isn't already awake by the time Denji has toweled himself off, he'll snag his clothes from last night, toss them over his shoulder, and pad over. He stands there, looming over him, like a kid debating on whether or not to wake their parents after wetting the bed. Eventually, he can feel his nose running again, so he sniffs and hoarsely says: ] Aki. Bathroom's open now.

[He's awake, but at what cost.]

[Sleeping beside someone is still strange. Aki woke multiple times in the night, laying perfectly still as Denji rolls around in his sleep, searching for a good position and bumping into him enough times that he would have been annoyed any other night. By the time he does get up, Aki has closed his eyes and is mostly asleep but quickly woken by the motion. But still, he doesn't move. Like a child feigning sleep to secure a couple more minutes before having to face the world. When he hears the shower shut off he rolls onto his back and just breathes, feels the too warm air of the love hotel flood his lungs. He senses the shadow of Denji over him and only when he speaks does he finally open his eyes.]

Yeah.

[Fine. Fine, he'll get up. Do this properly. There's no real rush, since he booked twelve hours, but he still moves without dragging his feet as he heads to the bathroom, rinses himself off, pulls on clothes and brushes out his hair before pulling it up. Stares at himself in the mirror, where there should be a gouge taken out of his neck but where there isn't. Where he should be bruised and battered by more than Denji's desires. But it's like he's never been touched.]

[When he comes out of the restroom, he sits down on the bed to begin pulling his socks and shoes on, both soaked from the rain but essential to Aki's feeling that things are normal. The laces of his sneakers are crusty with rain and street grime but he ties them carefully and stands, looking to Denji expectantly. Like there's no other answer to what they should be doing right now. At least it's the weekend so he doesn't have to bitch at him about going to school. They'll grab something to eat and head home.]

[...Head back to Denji's apartment, that is.]

Are you ready? [He's avoided him a bit in the brief movements around the hotel room, not focusing on him directly, so he hasn't noticed his sniffling, his pale skin. Aki is a pro at acting as if things are normal when they aren't - this morning is no different.]

[ Denji's fully dressed and on standby near the door, arms crossed, trying to stay warm, stay awake, or both. While Aki's been busying himself, he's been hunched over, sometimes watching, but really just keeping out of the way. Inert, mostly, so it isn't that difficult to give one another a wide berth. Easier on his head that way. Moving around, hearing his filthy sneakers squeak, makes his brain rattle and ring like a cracked bell. If he speaks up, says something that could lead to a sequel of last night, he's pretty sure his skull would split clean open, no different from tapping an eggshell too hard against the kitchen counter.

He'll feel better when they're home. Dump 50 grams of honey into a cup of boiling water and call it tea. There, cured. Nayuta will be there, of course. Hopefully, she'll have gotten all that weird crap outta her system and she won't say something else that'll make him question everything. But if she does, at least he'll be home. They both will.

His eyes flash open suddenly at Aki's question, the muddy tips of his shoes staring at him. When did they even close? ]

Uh… [ He stares at him, dumbly. Gives another sniff, rubbing his nose with his knuckles to clean up some stray mucus, and nods. ] Uh-huh. Let's go.

[ His voice is a mumble, like he's actively trying not to exert too much sound from his throat. Pushing off the wall, he pulls the door open. In a way, Denji's avoiding him, too. Trying to walk ahead, trying not to look Aki in the eye.

What happened couldn't exactly be called a breakthrough. It was more like what happens when you go to the batting cages and pay to slam as many balls into the chain-link fencing as possible. Or when someone punches you and you punch back. Pure instinct and pent-up whatever taking over. The kind of shit that happens when you put two scabbed and scarred fighting dogs into the same ring, or that's just his guess. Aki would know better than him which part of yesterday was normal and which part was an outcome of fighting that plant devil and which part meant something, but then again, can he trust him anymore to be honest about that stuff? To not just hide things from him —

Someone shoves Denji aside as he tries to exit the establishment at the same time as a huge party of people are entering. He runs into a potted plant, the stalk of it snapping, when he grabs at it to balance himself. ]

The hell! That hurt, [ complains Denji, opening up his palm to stare at the scratch lines. It doesn't actually hurt that much. These will be gone within the hour. ]

[Something's off with him, Aki realizes, taking him in for the first time that morning. He looks chilly. Maybe it's from putting on the same clothes from yesterday, damp and grimy. Maybe it's from sleeping after sex that harsh, nearly back to back to back. Maybe he's under the weather thanks to the storm they had to run through.]

[He's hoping it's just a result of the sex, of the mood from last night, but when guests coming in nearly knock him over Aki is surprised enough that he reaches out to grab him, keep him from toppling over and taking the plant with him. He says a quick, Watch out, to the open air, directed at the strangers or at Denji, who really knows. But regardless, he helps pull him upright and, once they're outside, begins toward the station to take the train home. He'll take his temperature when they get there. Surely Denji has a thermometer.]

[It's hard to know what to say to him. If he should just act like none of this happened. That's usually what he does. He doesn't have deep conversations with Denji - at least, he didn't used to. Maybe one or two, about a few things. But nothing deep enough to break skin. They've both revealed more about themselves than Aki ever intended to have shown now, however, and he doesn't know how he feels about it. The strange feeling that he's opened his heart to Denji and now has to turn around and leave him blinking in the reveal. How cruel it is, but how oddly grateful he's been. At the very least, he tells himself, he doesn't think he'll be leaving any time soon.]

[That's what he really believes, until they get to the apartment and there's a car parked outside. As they walk up the street together in the grey morning sky, the passenger door opens and a man steps out that makes Aki immediately freeze, his feet going still for a moment, a short inhale through his nose. He separates from Denji almost immediately, muttering to him,] Go inside. I'll be there in a minute.

[Then continues toward the man, walking like a dog who knows he did something wrong.]

But the food's gonna get cold —

[ The bag of char siu they'd nabbed on the way home rustles as Denji shifts his weight, indications of another coming protest visible in the set of his mouth, but it's too late, Aki's already outside of hearing range. As his spine wilts forward, like a sunflower on an overcast day, a frustrated sound that's part huff, part growl, swiftly replaces whatever he's about to say.

Always so quick to leave…

Instead of listening or doing a similarly reasonable thing, like waiting patiently at the foot of the stairs the way a well-trained mutt would, Denji promptly slinks after him. Not saying or doing anything to announce his presence besides bumping his forehead into Aki's shoulder, scratched hand curling around his wrist. If either the man or Aki question why he's there, he'll just — make something up. Yeah, he can definitely do that, even with the layer of static fuzzing his senses. He can pretend that this has nothing to do with feeling territorial or helpless in the wake of last night's events. ]

[Aki is in the midst of essentially being dressed down, answering questions honestly - beginning with where he was last night when suddenly Denji's weight is in his back and his hand around his wrist. He turns around in surprise despite knowing it's him (and why does he know it so assuredly?) and begins to tell him to go back, go inside, but the man speaks over him, his tone easy and calm as he says, "It's alright." He looks like the kind of guy who would blend in anywhere - no piercings, no scars, short black hair. Maybe that's why he unsettles Aki a bit. He's too normal to be as high up as he is.]

["We intercepted reports of gunfire in Kabukicho. The devil's gone, no eyewitnesses to whatever killed it. Most of them think it was Chainsaw Man." The handler is reaching into his pants pocket as he speaks, digging around for a moment before unveiling a small paper container of gum, of which he holds out to Denji. Aki glances at him, then lightly shrugs his shoulder to get his attention, get him to take one. "We're fine going with that story. But you used it last night, didn't you."]

[Aki stares at the hand holding the gum, his heart thudding in his chest. His heart, Gun - whatever it is. Pounding away like it's going to jump out.] Yes.

[The admission is said and the man leans back, stuffs his hands back into his pockets. Seems to consider the situation for a long moment. Then finally says, "And didn't report it, or contact us about staying out somewhere... Did you stay in Kabukicho?" Another shallow nod. He still can't look at him directly. "With your... civilian." Yet another nod. "Well - Look. I wasn't a fan of this set-up, exactly because of this. Living with the city's superhero, it puts you right in the spotlight, too. You're the last thing we need a light shining on. There's only so much we can do to keep eyes off you, and if you can't cooperate, we'll go back to my way. I'm giving you a chance with this set-up. You said you'd keep your head down. That scene last night, it's in the morning paper. Aki..." He finally forces his eyes up, to look at him. The stare he's giving him is so casual, so normal, it's kind of sickening. Like a bureaucratic stamp on his execution paperwork. "You're not a devil hunter anymore. Don't forget that."]

[The words shouldn't sting him as much as they do. Shouldn't burn his brain like a brand. Aki nods. Because what else is there to do.]

["I was against this, too, but..." The handler reaches into his jacket pocket and takes out a cell phone, small and black. "Use this, next time. My number's in there. Captain's, too. Give us a ring, let us know if there's trouble. You know we can get there in minutes. No need for any gunny business." And he smiles the smile Aki hates, crinkling his eyes and thinning his lips. "You take care. We'll be back."]

[Like on command, Aki ducks his head down to bow as the man turns to leave, climbing back into the passenger side of the car. When it begins to drive off is when he finally stands up, looking briefly back at Denji before turning away and heading up the stairs... and nearly sending his foot through the wobby step before catching himself.]

[ Though he entered into this content with hiding inside Aki's shoulder, as the exchange continues, his face eventually rolls up, revealing the confused ambers of Denji's eyes, of which are trained on what he can make of Aki's side profile. He doesn't look away until Aki's practically forcing him to, a huff of air pushing from his nose as his gaze pounces down at the gum stick being offered to him. He stares past it, at the man's nails, how they're evenly cut and clean of any buildup of dirt. Then, without a word of thanks, he snatches it from his hands, tears the wrapper off, and pops the stick into his mouth. Doesn't very much look happy about the familiar taste of sweetener and mint, the way he usually would. That reason being…

When was the last time he saw Aki this docile? Maybe never. Deferential to his superiors, people like Makima or Kishibe whose presences demanded a certain measure of respect that Denji himself never fully committed to, sure, but the way he keeps nodding, like smoke from a gun melting into the air. It doesn't just feel uncanny, it feels untrue to the person he was laying in bed next to a mere hour ago. More nauseating to watch than how he felt using public transit earlier, eyes closed, his head ducked between his knees while both his migraine and his stomach warbled in harmony.

For a moment, however, looking between his ashen expression and this nobody's unsettling friendliness, Denji forgets his own ails, how crappy his body feels, a surge in temperature rushing up his face. Mad at the guy for being able to stand there and piss on Aki's — well, everything, all with a smile on his face. Mad at Aki for taking it.

Continuing to clutch his wrist, he fumes to himself, chewing harshly as they climb the stairs, and harsher still as he pauses on the step above Aki's, watching the broken one he'd almost slipped through swing up and down, squeaking. His hold tightening. The pain in his head sharpening.

They keep walking in silence until, finally, he can't take it anymore. He jerks Aki to a stop just short of their door. ]

What'd that mean — [ Ugh, this stupid gum is making his mouth dry out, and something about the flavor of the gum isn't as good as the kind Aki gives him. He swallows it down, then speaks up again. ] 'Go back to my way'?

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