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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. ]
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. ]
no subject
[The breakdown should have been expected. He should have known he was going to say something to ruin this, that he couldn't keep it back. How could he, when he can't even keep it from his own mind? The past year, if he hasn't been wishing for death, it's been wishing for a do-over. For Denji to be the one to kill him, for Gun to be the one to fail. And apparently Denji has been wishing for the exact same. For the hell that Aki is living in to have been reality. Their split truths each other's paradise. How unfair is that, he thinks. That he can't tell him about the daydreams he's allowed himself to reside in without Denji telling him how awful that dream is to live out.]
[The soap and shampoo clatter to the ground and Aki wants to habitually reach down to help, but he knows - He remembers. He said he wouldn't touch him. He promised he wouldn't set a hand on him, not even a brushed foot or the side of his arm. He said he would wait for Denji after Denji so patiently waited for him. Right? That's the kind of trade they used to make, Denji so petulant in his hatred for quid-pro-quo that he would make sure any favor was paid back before it could be used against him. Aki watches him rise back up along his left side and the spray of water against his skin feels like ice despite the warm heat. He can see it coming before it even hits.]
[It's a good thing he has no arm there. His mind commands it to reach out and grasp him, pull him in as he makes that disgusting sound. But of course there's nothing there to listen to such an order.]
[Aki has no memory of the story Denji tells him, the messy, soupy recollection of something he did, or maybe Gun did. He suggests Aki could do that again, next time, and Aki wants to tell him, Of course I can't. Doesn't he know anything? The last time Gun went beserk, the last time Gun forced his way out and overpowered him, it took ten men to create an opening for Mirror to shove him back into that cell. Gun didn't fade until he wore himself out, powerless and weak. What was different about this time? Why did he...]
[His eyes widen. The chunk. The flesh. The veiny metal, cool on his skin and oddly smooth like a pill as it slid down his throat, combined with the rest of him, solidified into the mass in his chest, in his heart. Sent heat radiating through him and ecstasy lighting up every nerve. Full. He was full, finally, after so long, he felt just a bit satisfied. Like a rock in a shoe finally freed from beneath his heel. Like a pair of pants that fit just right - For the first time in ages, his body was his own just a bit more. But whose, exactly?]
Shit.
[And Denji had told him not to. Denji told him he was being stupid. To drink his own blood instead, to take it from him and ignore the feeling deep in his gut - deep in his heart - that the bullet would fix him, somehow. A drinker promising this time is different. An addict begging for just one more tab.]
["I'd taste way better. Promise."]
[Denji had been wrong when he'd said that. Nothing had ever tasted better than that. But right before it... Right before that, what they'd done in that bar as rain kept them trapped. What Denji had said. His desperation, his begging. Apologies, requests. His eyes clench closed, grasp tight on his own thigh to keep from breaking his own promise from just moments ago. Can he even...?]
Denji... [His eyes lift. Stare at where Denji's hand hides his own eyes, what keeps him from meeting his gaze. After everything, this request might be too much to ask, might be like asking a pomeranian to play friendly with a pitbull. But Aki stretches his neck anyway, removing his hand from his own skin and pushing it behind his back. Holstering the only weapon he has right now.]
Denji - Bite me, please. ["Make me yours," he wishes he could say. Can't he ask for that, too?]