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

Oh… Here I thought ginger was only good for makin' your mouth taste all sweaty. Like when people'll put peppers and chili paste in their food — ah.

[ The towel lands smack dab on his forehead, and instinctively, Denji's eyelids flick shut, crinkling. They slowly open back up again when he doesn't feel any water droplets slipping down into his eyes, his hand ascending to press a few fingers down into the cool fabric. It's not cold-cold, like when the three of them went to Hokkaido, and he'd bent down to shape a snowball only for Power to dunk his face into a bed of sleet. No, this is just right — a balm, dampening the hurt drilling his head like a protective sheath. ]

…Feels good, almost better than sex. [ He can say that, can't he? Nayuta's not in the vicinity, so he's pretty sure… He brushes a few bright strands of hair out from under the rag, smoothing them up, then allows the hand to drop and slide under the seat cushion as he rolls on his side. Testing the accuracy of the trick. It shifts a smidge downward, but, otherwise, doesn't fall. ] Thanks, Aki. [ A lengthy sigh. Quiet and tired. ] Did someone used to do this sorta thing for you?

[He seriously must be sick, if he thinks a cold compress feels better than sex. Aki lets the slight insult slide, leaning on his arm to look him over from a little further away. Take him in, see if he's as pale as he looks or if it's just thanks to the white rag that nearly matches his cheeks in complexion. So when Denji asks him that, it's easy to see how his brows knit and his eyes briefly pinch. For him?]

No. Not really.

[The No is too immediate of an answer, so he softens it with the follow up. Surely at some point, someone must have cared for him when he got sick like this, but he doesn't remember getting sick, himself, very often. No, this is all what he learned from watching how others were cared for.]

[He pulls his eyes away at last and looks over his shoulder, the commotion of noise as the devil gathers the dogs, leashes each one in turn, like she's dressing them in little outfits rather than simply attaching leads to their collars. They all go to her belt as she heads out with them, the slam of the door behind herself as she yells for the dogs to behave on their walk, no yanking. He turns back around.]

...I didn't get sick a lot. But I knew how to care for sick people. [Aki pats his thigh, where his legs are crossed, offering the spot between his knees and within his legs as a spot for Denji to lay his head.] You probably just have a head cold. That's common when your body temperature drops too suddenly. Your body's defenses are slower and die off, so more germs can get through. ...This is really stuff you never dealt with, as a kid? [Aside from with "tea" made from flour.]

[ …Hrm, Denji thinks back to a few nights ago — didn't he say that his little brother always got sick? That he was clingy and…

The wet towel hides the minuscule wrinkle marring his forehead when Aki asks his question. It's basically the same one he asked before, just rephrased, as if he's trying to confirm something about Denji. Not that he knows whatever that could be. An echo of Aki's response — no, not really — jumps to Denji's mind, but his mouth thins. His eyes slide to the battered door Nayuta just passed through, closed and marked up, yet something he could easily open if he decided to stumble over to it. What about this?

Denji rolls over to take up Aki's invitation, one of his hands hooking under Aki's leg, like someone might the cool underside of a pillow. Just to have something to hold on to. ]

…Can't remember, if I dealt with it or someone else did. And if it was someone else, they sure didn't stick around to teach me.

[ Or maybe it's just that he can't trust his memory. Denji's youth was a topsy-turvy place: Holes where a childhood should be, misshapen blurs where the outline of a family would normally sit around a dinner table. He has a hard time reaching out to that part of his life, attuning to it beyond the remembrance of vague feelings like residual resentment and fear. ]

But if you teach me, I can do this stuff for you and Nayuta…

[Maybe it's a little annoying to be put in league with a devil like that, as someone Denji wants to care for. But Aki sets that aside for now. He presses a stray strand of Denji's hair from below the rag so it more directly rests on his forehead, hopefully cools the heat a little better.]

You don't need to worry about me. I don't get sick.

[At least, he hasn't in a year. But he's also not been in much of a position to get sick. Germs can't get into you when you're not around other people very much.]

...But I'll let you take a sick day, if you're still not feeling better by Monday.

[ …With the subtlety of a toddler nicking dessert before dinner, Denji begins to shift the rag slightly downward. Because, hell yeah, he loves sick days. He usually takes those when he's not sick like this, though. ]

But if I stopped worrying about you, then who would?

[ It's not his responsibility, and yeah, he knows that Aki probably wouldn't want it to be, but he doesn't give a fly about that. Never really been about being responsible or doing the right for Denji, when it comes to caring about Aki. It's about holding on to him. You have to take care of the stuff you want to hold on to, or else they won't keep. ]

Anyway, y'never know. You were out with me last night, and we… [ He hums, the sound strained and tight, the vibration of it kicking up some mucus in his throat. Which he promptly swallows down. Well, Aki knows what they got up to. He was there.

Actually, they should probably talk about that. ]

…You still didn't feel any different earlier? When you got up this morning?

[That's... not a question Aki wants to think about. He doesn't want anyone to worry about him. He has things under control. Denji has a thousand other things he should be worried about before he starts fretting over the possibility of Aki getting a headcold. But there's no point in starting an argument. Especially when he brings up if he feels different. Only so many things he could be referring to.]

Not really. It's more like...

[He trails off, suddenly realizing: He didn't even mention it to his handler. Didn't even remember to bring it up. Just seeing him had thrown him so off-kilter that he forgot about it. But now that Denji is bringing it up... Crap. Maybe he should call him. ...But doing that, he'll definitely be swept off to who-knows-where for testing. Then Denji will really be upset.]

...It felt like when you finally put on your shoes, after spending the whole day barefoot.

[It's a bit of an esoteric comparison for someone like Aki to make, but it's the closest he can come up with that isn't an admission that it felt good.]

And... About before. [He's staring off somewhere, across the room, not at him. He could just ignore this but it's still bothering him.] I threw you around a bit. So - I'm sorry.

[ Denji wants to shake his head, but the second he starts to, it draws a grimace to his front temple, like there's a displaced cog in his head and it's rattling in there from the slightest movement. He shifts onto his back with a grunt, the same hairs Aki'd tucked away gravitating into their previous arrangement over the compress. They always wind up like this, in some fashion, anyway: Aki, resolutely looking ahead, away, wherever, like he's got a bird's-eye-view of something Denji can't make out; Denji, staring up at the silhouette of a crescent falling from his jaw to his throat, the focal point of his vision, taking up every square space.

Clearly, they weren't themselves last night. Aki discerned that within moments of them reuniting. Take into account the bullet, and it was like — going to bed with someone alien. Someone Aki had always kept away from him. It was scary and demanding, thrilling and gratifying; it wasn't something worth apologizing for, though, even if they did cry and shout a bunch of crap at each other. So the fact that Aki feels compelled to…

He feels like he's missing something again. Aki is always telling him his way of thinking is wrong, so maybe he should just accept the apology…? But — ]

What was the bad part of throwin' me around?

[ Genuine confusion. ]

Pretty sure I took a chunk outta your neck last night, which is kinda the same idea… But, like, a ton worse. I think we're even, right?

[...Does Denji really think those things are comparable? Aki glances down at him, brow furrowed when he adjusts onto his back.]

I told you to.

[He didn't exactly tell him Rip my throat open, but he definitely very bluntly told Denji to bite him. And then to keep going from there.]

I didn't mean to be so rough with you. Or so - [Out of control. Maybe that's why it bothers him so much. That he felt fueled by id when he usually stamps that down.] ...I didn't mean to hurt you, that much. You asked for one thing and I gave you something else.

[He really doesn't know how to accept an apology, does he? Denji is so obsessed with his ideas of debts, he's not sure why he assumed he would take this easily.]

You're still basically a virgin. So I shouldn't throw you around.

[ Last night, after the fact, Denji technically did give him permission to mess him up, act more recklessly, unreasonably, but it almost felt like it didn't reach him — or more that Aki was outright rejecting that permission. Like he couldn't stand the idea that Denji could be okay with getting hurt, and by Aki, at that. Maybe he just felt like his permission wasn't coming from the right place or something.

Either way, it'd felt bad. But what do you say to someone who isn't exactly wrong? "So just take my virginity over and over again until it stops being weird for you? And that way I'll get used to it, too?"

…Tempting. That can be Plan B. ]

Okay. The main difference is, like, tellin' each other stuff when we want something, then? [ The ends of his mouth tug downward, just barely. ] But I feel like with you, I'm not sure if you're saying what you want or just… [ What feels safe to want, between the two of them. In lieu of saying that, though, his mouth simply purses together. ] I dunno. I just — I dunno. [ He's losing track of his train of thought, rapidly, which can only mean he's on the verge of spiraling into a sick man's ramble. Better cut to the chase. ] When you say you "gave me something else," isn't that because you wanted something else?

[For someone like Denji to call him out feels impressively insulting. Denji shouldn't understand him like that, and yet he so easily points out what Aki was trying not to show. Of course he wanted that last night. The issue is that Denji can't give him what he wants. That's why he got upset.]

I haven't talked this much to anyone in a long time.

[About things that concern himself and not... Gun, or things related to work. When was the last time he shot the shit with someone? Had a smoke break? Watched a movie? Knowing how short this is all going to last, it almost feels like he's missing the point. That Denji cares about what Aki wants instead of using this time to take what he wants, instead. He keeps staring across the small apartment, trying to think of some way to convince him of this. Some way to convince him that Aki fucked up. Annoying.]

It's better to only want something you can feasibly have. So it was cruel of me to push you like that. That's what I'm saying.

[ There it is again, that thing that may as well be a life-long sickness of his: indecision. He doesn't know what to make of that, if he sides with him or against, if it sounds correct because the reasoning actually resonates with Denji or it's just the natural lowness of Aki's voice that he likes, saying it.

It's better to only want something you can feasibly have. Is that how it has to be? ]

That's…

[ He reaches for the towel, meaning to fiddle nervously with it, but his thumb fits underneath it and he's surprised to feel that it really has helped numb the heat of the affected area some. Aki was right about that. So maybe he's right about the other stuff, too…?

The skin of his forehead scrunches, almost physically pained by his efforts to consider everything that needs to be considered to come to an answer he won't budge from. One that's his own. ]

Nngh, I dunno. I dunno, man. I —

[ It's his neck that's bothering him now, he realizes. He takes the towel off, forcing himself to sit up, pull away from Aki — and then, seemingly on a whim, he stands completely, slapping the towel around his nape as he unsteadily heads for his bedroom. ]

I'm… gonna go get changed. Be back.

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

Yeah.

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

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

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

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

But the lurch never comes. His footing settles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can just leave it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You find it?

[ How long has he been watching him?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dude.

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

Are you okay?

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

It's just a knick.

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

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

Here. Give it.

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

Under the tongue. Sixty seconds.

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

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

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

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

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

I can do it myself.

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

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

Like that.

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

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

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

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

Don't worry about anything else right now.

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

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

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

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

I don't especially like it, no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'm not upset…

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

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

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

…Are you upset?

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

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

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

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

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