Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You can feel the floor trembling beneath your boots, a low hum that seeps into your bones before a single note is even played. The crowd isn’t massive — maybe forty, fifty people, most of them nursing plastic cups of cheap beer — but their chatter has that restless edge that means they’re ready to be impressed.

Satoru is leaning against the mic stand, sunglasses on despite the very dim light, fidgeting the mic cable between his fingers like he’s done numberless times during the rehearsals and shows.

He says it keeps him grounded.

He catches your eyes as he shoots a glance between the stage's curtains and his lips curl into a smirk. He knows how nervous you are for this particular show — it's the first time the band is playing an authorial song, not just that, it will be the first song of the playlist for the night.

Damned be Satoru Gojo for convincing everyone that this was a good idea.

Lights dim a little bit more when — in the stage's left wing — you operate the levers on the console, lowering their intensity just enough to make the string of fairy lights over the stage glow like a lazy constellation.

This doesn’t go unnoticed by the crowd, the chattering dying progressively as they realize the show is starting.

Not only are you the band’s lyricist along with Satoru, you also take care of the lighting and sound, you check the equipment, design the outfits and set the tone to their aesthetic, you also schedule the shows with the clubs, talk to promoters, to agents… and basically  do every single thing at your reach to make sure all will be absolutely fine.

No one asked you to do that but you can't help but feel like just composing the lyrics isn't enough, and since you don't know how to play any instruments, you really want to help however you can with everything else.

You want to take the weight off them.

You want to be useful.

Suguru runs his fingers along the neck of his guitar, inspecting it and checking the tuning one last time. Toji barely glances up from his bass, but you can tell by the way his jaw shifts that he’s itching to start.

A little bit behind them, Maki is adjusting the straps of her fingerless black gloves, rolling her shoulders and cracking her neck like a fighter about to step into the ring. She grips her drumsticks firmly before doing a little trick and twirling them on her fingers, giving you a short nod the next second — no words, no smile, just a nod — and you know she’s ready and the show is about to start.

Her sticks clash rhythmically four times against each other before she settles in.

Clack

Clack

Clack

Clack 

Within the last clacking sound of her drumsticks you shine the spotlight directly on Satoru.

And so it begins.

The people who gather around the stage don't recognize the song, obviously, so you notice the low buzz and the puzzled expressions.

Your stomach twists with anticipation as Suguru keeps singing.

The crowd’s undivided attention is on him, on his soft voice singing through the first verses as the band waits for their mark.

The only other thing echoing besides his voice is the pre-recorded keyboard notes — also played by Satoru.

Well, I know what you want from me
You want someone to be
Your reflection, your bitter deception
Setting you free
So you take what you want, then leave

There’s a brief pause before the next sung part and you can’t help but hold your breath.

Will they like it? Is it really as good as you deemed it to be?

Who made you like this?
Who encrypted your dark gospel in body language?
Synapses snap back in blissful anguish
Tell me you met me in past lives, past lie
Past what might be eating me from the inside, darling
Half algorithm, half deity
Glitches in the code or gaps in a strange dream
Tell me you guessed my future and it mapped onto your fantasy
Turn me into your mannequin and I'll turn you into my puppet queen

And then, the room starts to change.

People start moving in a slow, soft kind of dance.

Heads nodding, feet tapping at the rhythm, shoulders swaying.

By the time Satoru’s voice pours into the mix — rich, velvety, and just a little dangerous — the crowd is locked in.

You exhale and feel your shoulders sag and relax, the sudden dizziness making you realize just now that you were really holding your breath all this time.

They like it.

Won't you come and dance in the dark with me?
Show me what you are, I am desperate to know
Nobody better than the perfect enemy
Digital demons make the night feel heavenly
Make it real
'Cause anything's better than the way I feel right now
I can offer you a blacklit paradise
Diamonds in the trees, pentagrams in the night sky

With a heavy sigh of relief you allow yourself to decompress and enjoy the show as much as the rest of the band and likely the audience, humming along as you still pay close attention on the stage — sound and lighting included — making sure nothing goes remotely wrong.

Satoru is nailing the lyrics and tone, he’s delivering each line perfectly and performing beautifully, gesturing softly sometimes, swaying his hips other times, letting his feelings bleed out into the song.

Lipstick, chemtrails, red flags, pink nails
With one eye on the door, other eye on a rail
While the other eye following a scarlet trail
And the last few drops from the Holy Grail, now
Rose gold chains, ripped lace, cut glass
Blood stains on the collar means just don't ask
Be the first to the feast
Let's choke on the past
And take to the broken skies at last

You make me wish I could disappear

You are mouthing the lyrics as he sings, now a little calmer, truly enjoying the experience when you realize the crowd is invested, curious, but paying very close attention.

They want more of it. More of Satoru's voice. More of his performance.

And as the song slowly reaches its breakdown, Suguru echoes with a whisper on the microphone.

“Diamonds in the trees, pentagrams in the night sky.”

And there is the cue, a furious strum — a precise picking pattern — attacking the strings, Maki plays heavily the drums, driving rhythm, a relentless beat, and Toji’s fingers walk up the thick strings, thumb slapped against the metal, a confident pluck, a steady, hypnotic motion.

The flock of people rejoice, cheer and scream, filled with sudden adrenaline as the song walked to its end after a heavy chorus.

“You're gonna watch me ascend ”

—a sudden roared phrase delivered impeccably by Suguru before Satoru picked up with the soft, soothing tone once again.

And I know what you want from me
You want the same as me
My redemption, eternal ascension
Setting me free
So I'll take what I want, then leave

You’re filled with some kind of excitement and delight you didn’t know existed.

They’re improvising with the lyrics and as the song reaches its conclusion, they’re singing together, perfectly synced as the crowd howls in bliss and your heart is pounding like crazy.

Song covers never got you to witness something like that.

“You make me wish I could disappear, no
You make me wish I could disappear"

Suguru and Satoru are leaning against each other — back against back — as they sing into the same mic, shoulders pressed together and body arched slightly, head tilted, eyes closed as they finish.

When the song ends, Satoru is oddly breathless — a rare sight for him.

You notice it stemmed from the nervous anticipation of debuting the first original song to a sizable audience.

To everyone's relief, it was a massive fucking hit.

The audience — which was composed for the most part by university students — applaud, roar, praise and cheer the band as they continue with their playlist for the night, returning right after that first song to the familiar covers they typically perform, thus allowing the lightly drunk young adults to finally sing along as they enjoy their friday night.

The original song was requested a few more times, and even though people feared they would deny, they were pleased to play again and again.

Amidst the razzmatazz, something catches your eyes.

Leaning against the far wall, half-hidden in the shadows near the bar counter, a tall guy with black ink crawling up his neck, jaw and face. You know him from a few classes you take together at the university but you didn’t take him for someone who would hang out in the same kinds of places as you and your alternative and diverse friends.

Maybe you shouldn't judge people by their appearance, how about that?

Coming to think of it, you haven't seen him anywhere outside the classroom.

His gaze is fixed on the stage, but there’s no smile, no visible reaction of joy or even boredom. Just the steady, unblinking attention of someone who seems to be analyzing something deeply. It's kind of mesmerizing to watch him from afar, but you will be taken as a creep if he catches you staring.

You look away before you can think too hard about it, going backstage to check if everything is still in one piece, nothing missing, no hidden fangirl again.

Gods Beneath is not very famous as a band — but Suguru and Satoru are… gorgeous, charismatic and pretty much eye candy.

Toji is jacked, buff, and has that sharp, resting bitch — handsome, nonetheless — face that does some damage.

Maki does wonders for the girls as well, who mistakenly take her as a fellow lesbian, when in reality she’s pretty much the only straight member of the band, you included.

Performing on the stage, they’re all stunning, attractive enough to have girls hiding backstage to flash them their boobs before Maki shoves them out.

*****

About an hour has passed after the show ended, so your friends finally get to unwind, go backstage and store their musical equipment before joining you at the bar, where you are absent mindedly chewing on the red straw of your half-empty cup of mostly melted ice.

Maki, coming from no fucking where, slides her bare arm around your shoulders and pulls you closer to her in a overjoyed hug that you start to lean into just before the realization hits and you slam the cup on the counter, bringing both your hands up to shove her away.

"Get those sticky ass arms off me! You’re gross!"

She howls with laughter as the rest of the guys come around slowly and join the fun.

Suguru has Satoru’s sunglasses resting on top of his shiny, now a little messy, black hair. Toji has his arm around the waist of a tall blonde woman you have never seen in your life. And Satoru now joins Maki in the attempt to pester you as you try to keep them both away from you like a damn zoo-keeper managing two sticky, sweaty velociraptors.

Assholes.

“How come you don’t want to be a part of this now? It's how we celebrate success!” Maki sneers, knocking twice on the wooden counter with her knuckles to grab the bartender’s attention before ordering the usual for them all.

Tequila shots and a round of caipirinhas to toast after the show.

“She’s always all over the place trying to fix this, solve that, arrange this, polish those, but when we actually want her to take part in something else… She bails. Unbelievable.” Satoru joins her mockery and you roll your eyes as you finish the already watered down bloody marry you brought back to your hands after making sure they would not get you all wet and stinky.

“There are better ways to thank me for taking care of the little things while you all play— I’ll bite your hand off if you dare.” You threaten as Suguru snickers but quickly retreats the arm he meant to wrap around your shoulders, thinking you wouldn’t notice.

They were all in their mid-twenties and still you can't help but feel that sometimes you dealt with overgrown toddlers. Maybe fifth-graders, at best.

When the tequila shots finally arrive, Toji is already gone, nowhere to be seen, so Suguru has to make the herculean sacrifice of drinking two doses, one after another, before soothing the burning sensation down with a gulp of the following fruity drink.

You all toast and cheer the success of the night, talking loudly, drinking and relishing in the amazing sensation of knowing that all the extra effort you and Satoru put on the lyrics and melody of that song paid off.

People are actually approaching you all to chat and to ask if you have already planned other shows, and if you plan to debut more original songs.

The feeling is unreal, and yet you can't bring yourself to fully experience the euphoria.

Maki has confided in you something just the night before and asked for absolute confidentiality.

She has been accepted at the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland a month prior and has just finished organizing her documents, passports and new housing in Europe.

She will leave the furniture on the campus apartment you share with her since it’s a little too expensive to actually move it all across the sea, but in a week she will be departing on her new journey.

And you are really, extremely happy for her. It's an amazing opportunity, one in a lifetime, really.

But the bleak feeling of having your best friend move away — and the band losing its drummer is a hard thing to lift.

Maki never liked soppy goodbyes nor the overall look of sadness on people’s faces when they receive something they deem as bad news, and having her move away to another continent was the worst news she could ever deliver to them right now.

The band, your beloved band — Gods Beneath — that just now gathered the courage to throw its first single at the world and actually get the best feedback possible, would have to figure out what to do with the big news when it hit them.

How on earth are you supposed to just brush off the fact that one of your closest friends won't be right in the next door when you have a rough night and need someone to talk or to watch something stupid with you?

You will also have to find another drummer skilled enough and that has a fast pace learning new songs to fill her role before the end of the month, because of course there is already another show scheduled on the first sunday of May.

As if being capable of reading your mind, she comes closer to where you are leaning — with your brows furrowed and your lower lip being chewed on — and places a gentle kiss against your temple before lifting you off the floor briefly with a tight hug that goes around both your arms and almost crushes you.

She sometimes forgets she’s stronger than most boys.

*****

After a couple of hours the bar is finally thinning out, chairs scraping against the sticky floor as people drift toward the cold night outside.

You’re at the counter, elbows on the sticky wood, sipping the last inch of watered down cuba libre in your glass just so you have something to do as you wait for Maki to finish talking to a bunch of guys on the farther left of the bar.

Satoru is talking to a small group of people that surrounded him — mostly girls — and probably bragging about something as Suguru joins in to further inflate his already giant ego.

A shadow falls over the space beside you.

You don’t look up right away, from the presence alone you think it's probably Toji coming back to announce he is heading home for the night, but as you catch the faint scent of smoke and something sharper — copper, maybe — you turn your head and glance over.

“It was a reasonable show. Nice song.”

The voice is deep, stern, and a little low, which prompts you to squint a little to hear him better — as if it makes any sense.

The pale shade of pink of his hair is overtaken by the yellow bar lights.

He’s so much taller up close, the tattoos climbing his neck and jaws are at your eyes’ level and it makes it almost impossible for you to not stare for a little while before looking up and finding his eyes.

From such a small distance you can notice for the first time he has two slits on his left eyebrow, and you also notice how the dim light still shines well at his piercings. So many of them. Bridge, eyebrows, labret, snake bites, ears — they ornate very well with the black ink of his tattoos.

And you realize that his tattoos don't die out on his jaws as you previously thought when you glanced at him at the college, he has them on his face as well — fine lines, a beautiful work adorning a beautiful face.

His eyes lock onto yours as he rests his elbows on the counter and presses his back on its edge, leaning back.

“Thanks! Satoru and I worked really hard on it!” You say joyfully, probably sounding a little drunk already, but still unsure whether to smile at him as you finish slurping what is mostly melted ice from the bottom of your cup before placing it on the counter top.

You should really stop stalling so much to consume your drinks.

Something about him makes you a little bit uneasy, but you can't place your finger on what it is exactly.

He doesn’t reply right away, just studies you from above. Even with you straightening yourself up and him still leaning back, he easily towers over you.

“Your drummer’s good. Shame she won’t be around much longer.”

“Uh?” Your eyebrows knit together in confusion. “How do you kn— who told you that?” Lowering your voice in a worry of Satoru or Suguru butting in the conversation, you urge him to quiet down, gesturing with your index in front of your lips with that impatient look on your face.

One corner of his mouth curls at your inquiry.

“I know a lot of things.”

And then, just like that, he pushes himself off the counter and leaves. Moving through the remnant crowd and vanishing like he was never there, leaving you questioning what the fuck even was that conversation.

What an ominous man.

You can ask Maki later if she told someone else of her departure on your way to the apartment.

Regardless, that anxiety building up in your chest is a you problem. And you are very determined to drown it in some vodka and maybe a glass or two of bourbon tonight with the gang on the afterparty.

You can think about solutions and maybe freak out a little bit after dealing with tomorrow's hangover.

Chapter Text

When the Bough Breaks

The sunlight through the blinds is a personal attack.

You barely manage to peel yourself off the couch, eyes crusty, mouth dry — your bed felt too far away last night — and the dull, echoing thump in your skull reminds you exactly why you hate tequila shots.

Still, you downed more than four of them last night, didn't you?

Somewhere in the kitchen, Maki is humming the melody of the new song the band played last night at the bar gig. She is already dressed, donning a black tank top and her beaten out jeans, hair tied up in a high ponytail, coffee mug in one hand, painkillers in the other.

An entirely unfair display of morning functionality.

“Good morning, sunshine.” She coos softly at you, not looking directly at your crusty face as she throws the aspirin pack on your scrunched self.

You let out a raspy groan and she understands it’s a thank you.

You are fairly sure your eyeliner has migrated halfway down your cheek and any trace of makeup you previously wore is now part of a reinterpretation of some sort of surrealist painting taking place all over your face.

“That’s… debatable.” You mutter, mouth really dry, voice gravelly.

She titters, letting her body sink in the couch, bare feet already up and resting over the coffee table and free hand foraging the cushions for the remote.

She sets her mug down and leans back comfortably as the old TV powers on.

The coffee smells divine, you just need to gather some strength to go grab yourself a mug and really start the morning.

Meanwhile you’re slowly screwing up courage to sit up properly and and pop a pill so your head stops trying to kill you.

You swallow it with no water, it feels like eating a small ball of sandpaper, and then proceed to yawn loudly, stretching your heavy arms as much as you can until you feel a little less crumpled.

At least you didn’t wake up with a stiff neck or some lower back pain this time, but it’s not very wise of you to keep pulling all nighters like that every time Satoru makes a pouty face and asks nicely for you to stay a little longer with them. 

He's insane and has endless stamina and you're not that far from your thirties already, you should know better. 

You glance at Maki, ignoring the TV’s hellish noise, and she is already watching you over the rim of her glasses.

“So… thanks for not telling everyone about the thing.”

The words hit harder than the hangover.

You actually managed to drink enough alcohol to briefly forget about that for the past hours.

“The thing, yeah.” You repeat, wondering why she is treating her departure as some unnamable terror. “Aren’t you happy about it? You don’t need to spare my feelings treating it as something bad, y’know? ”

You catch a glimpse of a smile on her lips before she reaches quickly for her mug and hides it in a long sip.

You roll your eyes and raise your brows. She still tries to treat you like a delicate thing that can’t handle any sort of conflict.

“I sent the documents yesterday before class. I already told Mai and Yuji about it and they made me show them everything.”

There she is, finally letting herself talk freely about something you know she’s ecstatic about.

You smile and nod as she keeps going, now both of you are ignoring the faint noises of the morning news being broadcasted on the screen.

“They made me take them on a web tour using google maps. Who does that?" You hear her indignation mixed with excitement. "But the conservatory in Glasgow is… fucking amazing.”

She smiles, reaching into her jeans’ pocket for her phone so she can show you a few pictures of the place.

And damn, she’s right.

The conservatory is magnificent.

Marvelous architecture and the classes seem to be all she ever wanted — and what she honestly deserves.

You let her walk you through some steps she will have to make in order to fully relocate to Europe, and as she does you finally get on your feet and start to… power through the headache and the sensation that your mouth is drier than the fucking desert.

You know she’s nervous, and you know she’s blabbing out so she can make sense of things and calm down a tad.

Maki follows you and keeps talking — it’s a common thing for the two of you. Almost routine.

You talk as you complete chores, solve issues, bathe, and do the daily deeds. Why halt the conversation if you can simply keep talking.

You wash your face, that hey, it doesn't look as bad as you thought.

You brush your teeth, take off your clothes and kick them to the dirty-clothes-corner under the sink, then proceed to step into the kitchen and pour yourself some of that good smelling coffee while in your underwear before even considering taking a shower.

It was freeing living with your best friend and having almost no boundaries.

You will miss this feeling deeply.

Maki is your drummer, your roommate, your anchor.

She helped you — and still does — through so much shit.

She has never mistreated you, never let you down, never let anyone wrong you, and always made sure you felt included in pretty much anything she took part in.

You were a very reserved child, very introspective and a little weird.

Coming from a rather complicated family, you were very wary of people coming close to you in general, but she didn’t let it stop her from being your friend.

For pulling you into being her friend.

Your first friend, your best friend.

She has been your soulmate since you were both very young, and despite being truly happy with her huge opportunity overseas, you feel a deep pit forming inside your chest and a knot in your guts.

Feels a little bit like grief , but you don’t let it leak to your face or tone.

And she promises she will call you every night, so there's no need to feel miserable, right?

It will be like she never left as she tells you about her day until you fall asleep. You let a bitter laugh die before it could crawl through your throat as you shut down the saddening thoughts.

As you finally get to enjoy your dose of hot, bitter, caffeinated drink, she cocks a brow at some message she just received on her phone.

She knows you noticed her face, so you settle against the kitchen counter, crossing your ankles as you wait for the context for her expression as you enjoy the comfortable warmth of the mug now nursed in both your hands.

“Yuji says he’s considering applying to be your new roomie.” She glances up from the cellphone screen to your surprised face. “He says this apartment is closer to his classes than the current one he’s in.”

When she shows you the texts you feel anxiety stirring inside your chest.

“Yeah? You think I would survive him as my roommate?” An eyebrow lifts in curiosity.

If you don’t accept him moving in, you can either find someone else of your choosing to fill Maki’s vacant bedroom until the end of the week or you can let fate decide as a random student is assigned to it.

“You know him a little bit better than I do, so…”

The words linger for a bit. Maki finally shrugs. “He’s… okay to spend time with? Decent boy. He’s younger than us, you know, he has more energy but he usually burns it all down on the field after classes. Football and sport stuff.”

You hum, staring into the bottom of your mug as she starts to wash her own.

“Plus, there won’t be any random girls roaming around your place in the mornings if he moves in.” She reaches for your mug and you give a final gulp before handing it to her so she can wash it too. “Can’t say the same for random twinks… Or maybe he’s into daddies?”

Yuji seems like a good kid as far as you know.

Maki, being the extrovert-mom-type-friend she is, simply showed up with him one day to one of the coffee dates you two used to have.

She said she caught him looking kind of lost and awkward around the campus on her way to the coffee shop and she decided to bring him and help him make some friends.

She simply took the guy in — like someone would take a lost puppy on the road before deciding to be its new foster mom.

Which later you pointed out to her and she brushed you off saying you were exaggerating. 

But now you feel like you’re somehow inclined to accept him moving in just so you can take this extra worry off her head when she’s gone.

For him, she became a safety net, always there to catch him if he falls or fucks up, pretty much like she has been with you.

How come Maki always choses her friends based on how fucked up their ties with their families are?

And she doesn’t even realize it.

Anyway, you just went along with it when it happened.

You pulled another chair for him, made him feel welcomed — smiling and introducing yourself politely as you explained to him that this was a common Maki behavior and he shouldn’t fret about it.

She would not kidnap him nor sell his organs.

That's how Yuji became your new colleague — and Maki's adoptive-sophomore-slash-dog, even though she will slap you when you call him that.

Calling him your nephew, as in her son, also grants you a slap.

“Maybe it’s not a bad idea then. I don’t think I have the energy to deal with some random person moving in, so Yuji will do. If he misbehaves or ruins something I’ll make sure to send you the bill.” You sneer with a raised brow and Maki squints at you, not completely sure if you’re joking or not. 

And you’re kind of not.

It's just saturday morning and you already found yourself a new roommate — He offered himself for the role but a win is a win, you’re taking it.

Except you haven’t showered yet and the clock marks 10:48a.m., meaning you and Maki have approximately ten minutes before Satoru starts spamming you with messages.

And why is that, you might ask?

Because you forgot — until now — that you are supposed to go to his place at 11a.m. and work on another melody he’s coming up with since… 4a.m. on this same day.

He told you about those plans before you left the bar to go home with Maki.

Why would he consider anything you promised under the effect of god knows how many drinks?

“Fuck-” you groan when you finally remember the promise.

Bolting for the bathroom, you take the fastest shower of your life, leaving a mildly confused Maki still in the kitchen, but soon she follows you and sits on the lid of the toilet to carry on with the conversation as you wash yourself.

“We gotta go to Satoru’s! He’s picking us up in like… five minutes.” 

Maki stares at you through the dimmish glass of the box, brows furrowing before she scoffs.

“I’m not gonna spend my saturday with that nutjob trying to make sense of something that came to him in a dream , forget it.” So she remembers the plans he made! And it didn’t even cross her mind to remind your very forgetful self?

She sighs and leans back, resting the back of her head on the bathroom wall. “Besides, I won’t be here for the next show, you know that...”

And you can’t say she’s wrong.

You also can’t say you don’t want to spend every following second by her side until she inevitably leaves at the end of the next week. But you get it, she has things to do, people outside of your circle to tell the news and probably places to visit one last time.

“When will you tell the boys?” You inquire, already stepping out of the box and drenching the bath mat as she hands you your towel.

You have now two minutes before he pulls over outside the apartment and starts being an absolute gremlin about your lack of punctuality.

“And please don’t tell me you plan on just leaving and making me deal with the aftermath.”

Your words sound more like a threat than a plea, and you catch the corner of her lips twitching, like she might do exactly that.

But she shakes her head and drops her shoulders, defeated. “Soon? ”

“Not good enough.”

You yell to her from your bedroom, leaving behind some wet footmarks on the wooden floor and grabbing the first set of clothes you spot on the closet.

Maki is soon splayed on your bed, arms spread over your blanket and head hanging by the edge of the mattress, looking at you upside down.

“We gotta find another drummer soon. And we can’t actively search for one and make some kind of audition if we don’t know that our own drummer is planning on leaving.”

Your cellphone is buzzing on the coffee table. He’s already there, waiting for you, and you know you’re about to spend the next twenty minutes dealing with his bullshit.

The heavy groan Maki lets out is the affirmation you needed. She knows you’re right. She knows she’s being self-centered and an asshole by not telling the guys immediately, but she’s still nervous.

You understand her and don’t want to force her hand on it — but they have the right to know what’s unfolding behind the scenes.

“Let’s tell them tonight, ok? Do what you want with your saturday afternoon and I’ll try to arrange something if I don’t kill Satoru on the way to his house. Maybe we can have some pizza here or- shit, anyway, I gotta go, we settle this over text.”

You rush to the living room, lace your shoes and put your hair up in a bun — no time to brush it properly. You grab your backpack, cellphone and your keys before shouting to Maki, who’s still on your bed trying to think of how to make this inevitable situation less terrible for everyone.

“If you ghost my texts I’ll murder you too! Bye, love ya!”

*****

The ride to Satoru’s house wasn’t so terrible. Of course he teased you for not being punctual, and for straightway forgetting you made plans with him, but he soon agreed it was stupid to hold you accountable for plans he made at 4am and — on top of that — with you being far, very far from sober.

“I’m surprised Suguru isn’t already here?” You close the car’s door behind you before following Satoru to the entrance. “Doesn’t he normally crash at your place after drinking so much?”

Satoru unlocks the giant front door with only a scan of his face — you’re living in the future and you still think that’s nonsensical use of technology, what’s wrong with keys? — and gives passage so you can enter before him, like the gentleman he claims to be whenever he gets the chance.

You take off your shoes and leave them in the little shoe rack on the foyer.

You’ve been to his house a few times these past months, it is currently the best place to practice for the shows and to write undisturbed.

It has a great view of the giant vicinity around it from the second floor, it’s absolutely gigantic compared to your apartment, it’s also very welcoming, plus he has the sweetest dog you know, — Goma — pretty odd for an Akita since they’re usually headstrong and aggressive.

“He said he had to take care of a little thing before joining us today and that’s why he didn’t sleep in, can you believe that? Goma was very disappointed she had to sleep by herself.”

He sighs dramatically and walks by your side towards the kitchen, gesturing to the refrigerator as he starts grabbing some snacks from the pantry and shoving a few of the packs in his sweatpant’s pockets, the others he just piles up against his chest and hugs to keep from falling.

He could just ask you for some help with them but you glance over and leave him be as you keep walking to the refrigerator.

“To think my best friend chose to spend time doing something else instead of spending time with our band. With me!” The overbearing drama in his tone didn’t reach you, and he knew it wouldn’t, but that didn’t stop the scene.

Unphased and accustomed with the Gojo way of dealing with life and with people, you grab a big bottle of iced tea and one of coke, firmly holding one in each hand before swaying your hips to close the refrigerator door. “I know Goma sleeps on your bed with you. She's fine.”

Now you are both ready for the following hours of finding out what Satoru wants.

“And it’s probably important if he had to deal with it on a saturday before lunch — after going to bed at sunrise or later.” Leading the way to his bedroom on the upper floor, you hear him grumbling something and finally following you.

You’re there to work on the new lyrics, not to massage his ego by agreeing that he, Satoru Gojo, is the most important person in all his friends' lives, and there is nothing that could be more important than a plan made with him.

He already believes that vehemently, you’re sure.

“You were much more fun last night.” He finally arrives at his own bedroom, sprawling across the armchair beside his king sized bed and tossing a few of the snack packs on the mattress and others on the low coffee table near it. “You agreed with everything I said, and even laughed at my jokes.”

He has a small hint of a pout on his lips, and when you don’t respond he pokes at your lower back with his left foot. You squirm a little, ticklish.

His bedroom is immense — as is the rest of his house — and yet you prefer to nestle on the fluffy white carpet by the low coffee table he has between his bed and the balcony.

You reach inside your backpack for your notebook and your laptop, laying out all your stuff across the tabletop. 

“And what did being much more fun last night do for me?” You shoot an accusatory glance at him over your shoulder and grab his sock covered foot with a strong grip, pressing your thumb against his sole lightly before he could poke you again.

“It made you join me for the day~” he croons and opens a wide smile.

“Exactly.” You raise a brow and let go of his foot, just so he finally melts down from the armchair to the floor and crouches a little behind you, very close, looming over your shoulder to peek at the pages of drafts and lyrics you are skimming through.

The number one enemy of personal space, ladies and gentlemen.

But allowing him to be this close means he has your trust.

He spent a lot of time building that trust though, and so did Suguru.

It wasn’t until the beginning of this year that you started allowing them to hug you tight, or to pass arms around your shoulder when sitting side by side.

You allow them to actually be handsy with you in their own friendly way — like they are with each other and with Maki.

And of course Satoru grasps tight every chance he has to be close to you. As he says, ‘it’s an honor given to few, so I’ll enjoy it thoroughly.’

“That's me?” A long finger coming from under your left arm stops you from turning the pages.

His left arm brushing against your waist as he stares at a work in progress you had made for the band’s outfits.

“I’d look very good in that— I mean, I look very good in mostly everything, but that?” He let out a soft moan to make his point across and you can’t help but laugh.

You didn’t think he would be okay with such an exposing design, but who did you think you were designing for, honestly?

This man would probably agree to wear a thong, cowboy boots and nothing else on a stage and he would be absolutely confident doing it.

“Yeah, and this is for Toji, and this right here for Suguru.”

You finally turn the pages to show him the rest of the designs and the color palette you considered for them.

He has his chin nested on your right shoulder now, making himself absolutely comfortable in your personal space as he sits properly behind you with crossed legs. He’s way taller than you, so you can only imagine how hunched over he is just to keep his chin resting there.

“Where’s Maki’s?” He asks looking for it, turning the pages slowly to peek over a few more discarded designs, but you shrug in response.

“She didn’t like anything I had thought for her, found them too revealing, so I started working on other designs… but I’ll revisit this idea since you like it so much.”

You aren’t lying, she really didn’t give you an easy time when you were showing her your ideas, but coming to think of it she was probably already thinking of leaving the country, and the band, to pursue her dreams in Europe.

That would make sense.

“And what’s that frown for?” His bright blue eyes are locked on your face now, still too close as he just turns his head a little to examine that expression.

It’s about time to stop calling it your personal space and start calling it your shared space, or our personal space, at least when you are around Satoru.

“Just thinking about how big your bedroom is, and still you prefer to be almost fused with me.” You shoot him a side eyed glare when you mutter the response, but his lips widen in a grim instead of doing the normal thing, which would be sitting besides you.

Did you expect something different? So naive of you.

“I barely spent time with you this past week between rehearsals and classes, a man can’t shower his best friend in affection? How will you know I’m glad you’re spending your saturday working with me?”

He teases and now you feel his arms sliding properly around your waist from behind you, slowly wrapping your torso.

You also feel the blood rushing to your face and the heat coming up quickly. You’re kind of used to him now, and also to his ways of showing love and affection — he’s handsy, has no shame and won’t let go of his friends, physically. 

You see him and Suguru glued to each other on a daily basis, but you still feel embarrassed when you are the one receiving his attention. He is still a very handsome, incredibly charming and good smelling man with the voice of an angel and smooth talk of a devil, it's only normal to feel flustered when he does things like that.

“Y-you can use your words to demonstrate what you want people to know, Satoru.” You whisper a little too low for your own liking, and he sneers.

The next thing you know is that the arms around your waist tighten the grip and he raises you from the spot you’re so comfortably perched, pulling you back into his lap. You’re now sitting on a slightly different — also very comfortable — spot.

And your face is burning.

“And you just said downstairs that Suguru is your best friend.” You point out as nonchalantly as you can, trying to abstract the thoughts worming inside your brain with you being on his lap and his chin once again resting on your right shoulder.

His breath smells like mint and tobacco.

“He can claim that position back once he stops leaving me for less important things.”

Dismissing the subject, one of his arms leaves your waist to reach for the cellphone in his pocket. 

You lower your eyes to his screen and can’t stop yourself from inspecting everything, after all he’s scrolling down his notes app in front of you, literally — his hand holding the device is resting on the low table’s edge, between your body and the notebook and all your scattered shit.

His other arm is wrapped around your waist loosely, with his fingers tapping in some rhythm only he knows against your bare skin since your shirt scrunched up a little when he grabbed you.

He is probably looking for the notes he wrote for the melody he thought about and so desperately needed to show you last night.

It doesn’t take long for him to find what he’s looking for and place the cellphone in your hands so you can give it a look and tell him what you think of it.

There are notations of lyrics, of the feelings he wants to manifest with it and some incoherent words that probably made sense to him last night. You can work with that.

Reading the notes also came with the exclusive version of the melody he created too, hummed directly into your ear as you felt every single hair in your body stand on end — yes, the goosebumps are here now, guys.

It will be one hell of an afternoon.

*****

It’s now one and thirty in the afternoon and you two look like you haven’t moved, except for the notebook you are aggressively scribbling on as Satoru tries to help with the completion of the lyrics to make them fit the rhythm.

Yes, you have managed to forget the embarrassment of being on his lap, and you both are still snuggled up as you focus on the important things.

“You don't really love…” You nibble at the back of your pen to avoid chewing the insides of your cheeks, brows knit together and your eyes are fixed on some random point in front of you as you think.

Satoru, on the other hand, has his eyes on your notebook, chin now resting on top of your head and humming like it would instantly kill him to stop even if just for a second.

“You just hate to be alone? ” You mumble and write it down the line, now chewing on the insides of your cheeks, the effort was in vain.

And then he squeezes you harder as his eyes widen.

“That’s it!” He exclaims and tightens even more that hug of sorts around you, laying a kiss against the top of your head — which makes you widen your eyes and feel your cheeks begin to warm again. “We did it! And all it took for you to be inspired was being this close to me~ You can say I’m your muse now.” He once again rests his chin on your head. “Satoru Gojo does not do average.”

You are not sure if you should headbutt his chin, but you’re a little tempted to.

This thought is interrupted by Suguru showing up unannounced, already coming inside the bedroom and stopping just a few steps away from you both.

It figures he has his face already registered on the door scan based on how much he claims to be at Satoru’s during the weeks.

“Satoru, I take a few hours to solve something and you’re already tangled up with someone else.” His hand rests on his hip and he tilts his head a little to the side, a hint of a pout on his lips. “And all this time I thought that what we had was real…”

They are certainly two halves of the same drama queen.

The amount of frowning you are doing on this day only will certainly give you wrinkles before your forties, but it took less than five seconds for Suguru to drop down besides Satoru and scooch over to see what you two were up to while he was not around.

Now you have a chin on your head and, once again, a chin on your shoulder.

At least he didn't try to pile up and sit on your lap. It wouldn’t be the first time.

And you know you would be burned alive if at any point in your life you complain about the situation you find yourself in.

You know some people would do unthinkable things to be where you are right now.

But you? You’re a little bit too blunt.

You get flustered, sometimes a little embarrassed, but you’re not sure why, since they’re just acting like they do around each other.

They’re your handsy, clingy friends.

They never crossed any of your boundaries nor limits, so you’re yet to find out why you feel your stomach behaving strangely at given moments when they’re just behaving as the dorks they are.

You’re also completely incapable of noticing common hints and undertones. Social cues? Oof, big miss.

So here you are, buried in hot men that treat you like a treasure, explaining the lyrics as Satoru does his best to point to Suguru how the guitar would go with this specific melody.

“I think I got it, I can try to make sense of it, let me grab your guitar real quick, Toru.” Suguru rises from where he is, and you tap on Satoru’s arm around your waist, signalling that you would like to get up as well.

He allows it by slowly letting you free from his hold, proceeding to stretch his arms — getting his white shirt to raise a little bit, exposing just a tiny bit of his belly and happy trail in the process — and then cracking his back like an old man.

You look up to the ceiling when you realize you were looking at his abs after you managed to get up, but why the hell would you be looking at the ceiling?

So you look straight down and stare for a while at your own feet. Satoru doesn’t seem to notice anything, since he’s not teasing you about it, so you exhale slowly and try to act like a normal, human person.

Grabbing a pack of pringles along with your notebook, you flop on his bed, laying on your stomach to keep refining the lyrics. Suguru grabs one of the many guitars Satoru has displayed on the far wall of his bedroom to practice a bit of what he has been told.

Satoru's guitars all really beautiful. Some of them have some kind of meaning, but he admitted that some are just for the sake of the aesthetic of his bedroom.

It’s been another three hours of Satoru and Suguru working on the melody and you rolling on the mattress every now and then, half way through with the lyrics.

The chorus is a bit tricky to come by, and iced tea, chips and that morning coffee being the only food in your stomach could be the reason you're not really as sharp as you could be.

You’re hungry, your stomach starts rumbling and you know you’re gonna get bitchy and mean if you don’t fix it soon, besides, it’s four in the afternoon and none of you had a decent lunch, so you force them to drop the guitar and go downstairs to grab something substantial to eat.

Since there is nothing ready, Satoru is forced to cook for you three, and he chooses to make some omurice because it’s quick and Suguru says he makes the best ones.

As he cooks you listen to Suguru talking about all the nice things people said last night after you went home.

“They asked about the inspiration for the lyrics, and said it was really beautiful and unique.”

You open a bright smile.

“Toru told them you wrote them with him in mind.” Suguru rests his elbows on the kitchen counter, intertwines his fingers and lays his chin on them. “He said he’s your muse.”

“And now you can tell Suguru that I, in fact, am your muse.” He drawls as he cracks an egg on the hot pan.

“You’re just gonna break your own heart, Toru. Everyone knows I’m her real muse. Isn’t that right?” Suguru coos and raises his face from his hands to reach at your left hand that is also resting over the counter.

“My muse was Blade.” You deadpan. Both men look bewildered. “You know, the vampire hunter? I had just watched it when I started to scribble the lyrics.”

They both didn’t say anything until the omurice was ready, but you could see their pout and furrower brows at all times.

So sensitive.

Well, it’s soon proved Suguru was not wrong.

Maybe it's hunger speaking, but you devour the food like a beast, thinking that rice and eggs don’t have the right to taste this good, and to have such a perfect texture as well.

Realizing you’re enjoying it too much, they smirk and take a few moments to watch you eating. You feel their gaze on you and raise your eyes from the food bowl.

You feel like some sort of cute baby animal doing something for the first time in front of tourists.

But you’re now well fed and satiated, so they will be escaping your insults for the time being.

Once you’re all done it’s time to go back to the lyrics, Satoru and Suguru want to go to the studio downstairs claiming they can work better on the riffs and notes with the actual electric guitar — and you go along with it, bringing your notebook with you to see if it will help you coming up with the very needed chorus that’s still a little obscure on your mind.

You sit down cross legged on the corner of the studio as the boys get ready, Satoru hops on the electric keyboard to work some of the notes instead of singing the fractioned lyrics and Suguru is already catching the melody without needing too many corrections.

Your phone buzzes and you see it’s a message from Maki asking if you’re alive and if you already gave up on making her tell the boys such bad news on a saturday night.

And of course you didn’t.

“You guys know what’s Toji up to tonight?” Your unprompted question interrupts them mid practice, and then there’s a ten seconds of pure silence of them both just looking at you, trying to understand why exactly you wanted to know about Toji’s plans for a saturday night. 

They blink, a pair of squinting eyes and arched brows still waiting for your elaboration.

“Is Toji free to practice with us, or maybe have a pizza with you two, me and Maki later?”

The much needed clarification makes them nod before saying he’s probably still asleep since he most definitely took the hot blonde from last night home to have some fun.

“You two take him for a manwhore, he’s just enjoying his rising fame, and you two are in a former-garage stuck with me. Who do you guys think is winning?”

You coax, but when they reply ‘us, obviously’ in unison you scoff and go back to texting Maki to let her know of the still standing plan, to which she replies that she may have to cancel due to a thing that came up last minute.

“Don’t lie to me.” You snap quietly and mutter at your phone's screen as you type back, starting to consider going home early and dragging her back to Satoru’s by her ponytail.

“That works.” Suguru replies and you only now realize that they were still paying attention to you.

He starts to play the chorus notes and echo ‘don’t lie to me’ rhythmically.

Satoru plays along on the keyboard.

It fits. It works. It’s done.

And now you’re finally texting Toji to invite him over to practice a little bit, knowing he really only enjoys doing it when the song is basically complete.

Maki, on the other hand, will show up later just to have some pizza.

Luckily, Satoru doesn't get anxious when she’s not on the rehearsals since she lives with you and he’s very aware you fill her in with everything you all accomplished on the practice.

*****

“When will Maki arrive?” Toji only wants to know because Suguru told him it was polite to order the food only when everyone is already present. “I’m already done with practicing today, an hour is more than enough for me.” He groans.

You’re lying with your back on the floor, legs bent, knees up, feet tapping nervously against the floor and cellphone in your hand as you convince Maki to call an uber and share the link with you.

For someone that is willing to kill for her, you’re being a little too ruthless with your best friend, but then again… the three men in this studio with you also became good, close friends.

And it was all thanks to her.

You also care a lot about them, and Maki was a key element to connect all of you — It’s only fair she makes it all very clear with the band so things can work out for everyone, not just for her.

“She’s on her way, let’s say… less than thirty minutes.” Toji groans once again but there’s just so much you can do about it.

“Maybe let’s go again from the start?” Getting up from the floor, you hope it will at least distract them for a little bit more “I can record this time so I show Maki when she arrives.”

“You’re such a good friend.” Suguru gives you a warm smile. “You should consider grabbing some management classes one of these days… I think we will need a music manager soon enough.” He winks at you and chuckles.

That came out of nowhere, but so do a lot of things Suguru says.

You shrug, maybe he’s right.

But if you do become their manager at some point on top of everything you already do, you fear that you won’t be able to dedicate as much time as you like to writing lyrics. Or anything else.

“Enough chitchat, let’s do it one more time then.” Toji barks and you open your camera app to start recording.

This time you can see Satoru performing dramatically again on the mic stand as he sings, and that’s just a video for Maki, when true fame comes, how much more unhinged will this man become?

After almost thirty minutes the doorbell rings and Satoru jumps from the couch to answer it.

Everyone is in the living room now, Toji sinking on the armchair, his stomach rumbling loudly every now and then, Suguru laying down on the bigger couch with his head resting on your lap as you run your fingers through his silky dark stands.

And now there’s Maki, coming along with Satoru and sitting by your side. Satoru sits on Suguru’s stomach, ripping from the poor man a pained moan.

“Everyone is here, can we order the fucking food already?” Toji’s stomach once again speaks up after his complaint, and Maki is already on her phone to order the pizzas from the same place you all always order when you’re too tired and hungry after rehearsals.

She does it in less than two minutes and shows him the screen with the ‘food being prepared’ message.

“Fuckin’ finally.” He lets himself relax on the armchair, calming down for once.

“Why didn’t you feed him something until I got here?” She pokes Satoru’s waist “You made him come with the promise of food and trapped him downstairs to practice until now?”

And by the guttural sound Toji makes she understands that it is exactly what had happened. “You’re all too mean with him just because he’s not the biggest fan of practicing to perfection.”

For the first time in a while you are all reunited in that living room again, talking about random things and laughing at anything at all, not really worrying about getting ready for another show. 

The following scheduled show would happen next month — in two and a half weeks — so you could enjoy the relaxed atmosphere for a little while, right?

You would wait until after the pizzas to actually have Maki talk to them — it would be less of a risk of drama with the guys being less hangry. Or so you think.

There is only half a pizza left in the box lying on the coffee table now, all the empty boxes are piled over the kitchen counter and you are all full, happy and discussing the high points of the past shows, as well as the low points and failures you could avoid in the future.

The clock shows it’s near ten, so you give Maki a gentle tap on the thigh. She can’t procrastinate anymore.

With a heavy sigh, she finally speaks after so much time building up the courage.

“So… I’ve been accepted into a badass music conservatory.” She states, grabbing everyone’s attention with that start. “You know how I always wanted to follow a very solid path when it comes to music, so I took my time and did some research to find the best ones that could work for me, and then applied to them.”

She is sitting by your side still. Your hand is being held by hers now, hidden between you both. 

She speaks very calmly, even with hints of excitement, but she’s really nervous.

“That’s wonderful! Who would think we have a soon to be graduated professional musicist as our drummer?” Satoru interrupts her, gesturing widely and rising from his spot on the couch to further show his excitement as he stops in front of her. “So this reunion was just an excuse to celebrate?”

He is so right and so wrong.

“Uh, I do prefer you see it that way than the other, less fun way.” She lets out a faint laugh.

“What do you mean?” He rests both his hands on his hips, leaning in towards her. “What’chu hiding?”

“She’s leaving.” You widen your eyes a little when you hear Toji deadpanning from the armchair he’s sprawled on.

You thought you would be the one to break the news to Satoru if Maki couldn’t bring herself to explain properly.

“The best music conservatories are in Europe.”

Suguru lets out a low gasp with the realization and Satoru remains there, leaning in, staring at Maki over the rims of his sunglasses with both hands on his hips, like a statue.

She blinks and squints at him when he doesn’t move for a few seconds, but then he straightens his back and throws his head back, letting out an annoyed groan.

“Where is it?” He finally asks, and by his tone you know he’s trying to see what can be arranged to bring her back to the shows. “How far?”

“Glasgow.” She mutters, sounding almost disappointed. “I thought about it for a while, but I need to do it. Even if it means I won’t be able to be with the band for some time. Maybe forever.”

The last part comes out lowly, softly. Another squeeze on your hand.

“I’ll come visit at least once a year, but it’s not enough to keep me in the band.”

There is a moment of silence and maybe mutual realization.

Satoru falls on his haunches on the same spot he was standing still moments ago. Suguru, who is now sitting properly on the couch, is fidgeting with his thumb ring between his fingers.

Toji is there, chilling on the armchair, seemingly unbothered.

“We’re gonna need to find another drummer.” You finally speak, your voice almost cracks. “I can take care of it since I won’t need to get busy finding another roommate. That’s already taken care of.”

Suguru’s eyes meet yours and he nods in appreciation. Another warm smile, but his eyes are sorrowful.

Maki is probably the actual glue of the band.

She was the one to bring you all together, to talk to people and gather the ones interested in making it happen. Even Toji was convinced to join the band by her.

Her leaving will take a toll on everyone’s lives, and you all seem to know that really well.

“So we’re changing the name of the band.” Satoru decides out of nowhere, still crouched and sitting on his heels, forearms resting on his knees. “Without Maki we’re no longer the same band. Therefore, this incarnation of us ends here. Gods Beneath dies tonight.”

He raises a hand to rub his jaw for a moment, humming. “No one can, nor will replace you.” His other hand reaches Maki’s calf and squeezes it lightly before letting go.

She gives him an amused smirk before shooting you a glance that you know means here we go again.

“We’re finding a new drummer, alright, and it will be the start of a new band... And no more covers.”

You open your mouth, ready to ask what’s the difference between this band and the new one besides the drummer, but Maki — knowing you too well and also knowing how Satoru will take any opportunity to ramble on until no one is left awake — is quicker than you and with an elbow nudge she prevents you from granting everyone there a big, big explanation of why his was the right and ethic way of looking at the situation.

So instead you go check on your new messages from the past hour or so.

Hey, future roomie! Maki told me you need a drummer now? I know someone. Ryoumen Sukuna. You’ve probably seen him on campus — big guy, tattoos, piercings, scar on his face? Plays like a demon.

You do know who he’s talking about. Of course you do! You’d spotted him more than once in music theory classes, and once in the bar enjoying — debatable — the show last night.

That guy who never spoke, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, who carried himself like the lecture was an inconvenience.

Ryoumen Sukuna.

That name rings a bell but you’re not sure why, so you search for it on the internet on your phone.

Ryomen Sukuna who’d walked off stage mid-song in a viral clip that had been circulating the internet just a few weeks ago.

He is — was — drummer of Black Halberd, a hard rock band that used to play on lots of festivals.

They’re kind of big on the scene and you remember some show houses unbooking Gods Beneath upon Black Halberd accepting their invitation to play.

Did he actually leave the band mid show and didn’t go back? That’s cold.

You stare at Yuji’s message.

The thought of working with someone unpredictable was… a little unsettling.

But your next gig is in two and a half weeks. Satoru is already rambling about killing the band and rebirthing a new one.

And you need a new drummer.

Chapter Text

Waking the Demon

Sukuna POV

The neon sign outside the show house displays — in red, curvy letters — the name of the establishment; Underground Harajuku Club.

UHC for short.

It’s quite a big place, and it’s already rammed with people. His eyes scan the space, unimpressed. The ceiling is low, a chaotic web of black pipes and chains dangling. Dim, crimson lanterns cast a low  glow over a long wooden bar and the predictable collection of punks and goths that make up the crowd. 

There’s already a line of people ordering drinks, either for themselves or the people waiting for them in a booth with worn leather seats. The tables are packed up, and the main floor is crowded with people dancing drunkenly to the faint beat they have been playing before the main show.

Black Halberd is playing tonight, in a few minutes actually.

Sukuna looks up just to realize that even the damn mezzanine is packed — how can the VIP area be so full?

Do they ever get this loaded or it’s just because the band agreed to play there after a brief unannounced hiatus? Either way the night seems like it’s going to be chaotic.

Kenjaku has contact with countless good promoters, and since they announced Black Halberd would be playing at the UHC this night tickets sold out almost immediately. Sukuna has the slight impression the house is overpacked, maybe the VIPs paid a little bit more to take part in the comeback show even when there were no more tickets left. Who knows.

He ignores the main floor entirely, moving through the side of the place with an unnerving purpose toward a heavy black curtain tucked beside the stage. He sweeps it aside and goes down the long, narrow, grimy staircase.

The backstage is not actually in the back of the stage, it’s underground and it stinks of weed, old liquor and sweat. The floor is sticky and the room is  unventilated — no windows whatsoever — becoming hotter and more claustrophobic by the hour.

Yet that isn’t even the worst place they had to settle down to prepare for a show.

They’re currently on a popularity rise, Mahito and Kenjaku have invested a lot on marketing, promoters and networking — booking gigs, opening shows for more famous and bigger bands, even indulging in a few free presentations in public places every once in a while to gather new fans.

Most of their fanbase is made of people who enjoy them for the characteristic hard sound and heavy breakdowns, as well as their war, corruption and gory themed lyrics — but some people enjoy them purely for the looks of a the members.

Black Halberd has an indecent number of fangirls and devotees that go an extra mile just for the chance to spend a night out with the boys, and — more than once — they took advantage of that.

Why wouldn’t they? Isn’t getting free pussy and endless worship some of the biggest appeals of starting a band?

For Sukuna this was more than obvious.

“You’re on in ten!” A short, blue haired staff member of the club announces from the doorframe, earning almost immediately a charming smile and a wink from Kenjaku, who’s currently standing among the other three band members, trying their best to become a massive pain in the ass just minutes before the show. “We’re just finishing up with the stage.” 

“Thank you so much, love.” They purr at her, so she bows her head slightly to hide the redness relentlessly crawling up her face and soon rushes back through the corridor she came from, then upstairs, vanishing in seconds.

And Kenjaku is immediately back on their bullshit.

“Anyway, this is the new playlist I just put together. The house is full, Jogo got some pretty impressive people to join us in the mezzanine and so did I. Lots of VIPs in the house today, babes.”

Kenjaku flicks their eyes to Sukuna and opens their cellphone, showing him — and then the rest of the band the new order of the songs they just decided by themself to put together.

The band had already decided beforehand to play a specific set that extolled every single member in one or more songs. It was one of the best playlists and they usually went with it when they had to actually play for the moneybags.

Why is Kenjaku trying to fuck up his patience even before they step on the stage?

“Let’s not burn our chance of getting noticed and picked by a nice, rich agent just so we can feed into our own egos, okay?”

Mahito nods in agreement within a heartbeat, checking the strings of his guitar right away, avoiding direct eye contact with either.

Jogo shrugs and rolls his eyes, knowing how exhausting it would be to engage in an argument with Kenjaku before a show.

Sukuna, however, is done with their perpetual need of control.

Nobody has elected Kenjaku as a band leader, why the fuck would they think that shit was gonna stick?

“We’re not changing the whole order we agreed on just because of your bitching and moaning.” 

He growls the words and pushes himself off the chair he was sitting on, reaching Kenjaku in less than three steps.

When put face to face it’s easier to notice how Sukuna is taller than them. Not only that but broader, too. While Kenjaku has more delicate features, a lean body and a nearly feminine structure, Sukuna is jacked. Every muscle of his body seems to be cautiously sculpted and the black ink makes them stand out even more.

kenjaku raises their face to maintain eye contact, trying to keep that resting bitch face.

Nothing is said for a while. The room seems too silent, like every sound around them came to a sudden halt.

A smug grin curls up on Sukuna’s lips as he finally notices Kenjaku’s brows furrowing further and the corner of their mouth twitching. They swallow dryly.

Good.

“No time for pouting, princess. Suck it up and let’s play.”

And so they did.

Kenjaku seems to be keeping the original setlist so far, and by the time they tore into the third song, the air was already thick with sweat, heat, and static from the crowd and the stage altogether.

People are screaming and howling, beer is flying around the moment drunk shitheads join the pit with their glasses still in hand, a general chaos — just the way it’s supposed to be.

The way he likes it.

The stage’s floorboards vibrate nonstop beneath the force of Sukuna’s drums.

He has each strike sending a shudder through the wood like aftershocks of an earthquake.

His sticks snap again and again against snares and the cymbals, the kick pedals hammer under his boots like a frenetic heartbeat.

Kenjaku unleashed a furious scream into the microphone on the song’s breakdown as Mahito shreds through his guitar chords and Jogo plucks steadily on his bass strings, slapping his thumb over them rhythmically.

Sukuna isn’t playing for the crowd at this point anymore.

He’s playing for himself.

Their screams, their fists in the air, the chaos below the stage, the mosh pit — none of it seems to reach him once he gets into the zone.

Like some kind of trance.

He is playing for the rush, for that wild fire in his veins that no stage light or spotlight could ever touch.

He’s able to unleash his rage, frustrations and every single feeling he doesn’t want to deal with when he’s playing like that.

It's fucking therapeutic.

It feels like a frenzied bloodlust that’s only satiated by exhausting himself on stage.

Or like an intoxicating sensation that only playing in a full house with a crowd of people screaming for him, singing and relishing in the music could bring.

He feels like a god being worshipped.

And he gets so fucking high on this sensation.

Time dissolves and utterly loses meaning when he’s hitting the drums like that.

There is no club, no stage, no crowd — only the rhythm consuming him, dragging him deeper with every furious strike.

That’s the sort of trance only few things can break.

Alas, Kenjaku is one of those few things.

“We’re skipping the next track. Keep it tight. The audience doesn’t need your seven-minute ego trip, Kuna.”

They say casually into the mic and let out a faint laugh as if this is all part of an agreement made beforehand between them.

The pit calms down between songs, so people are normally a bit more composed and attentive by now.

A few phones come up, laughter ripples, the crowd thinking it was stage banter.

But Sukuna doesn’t stop at Kenjaku’s suggestion.

He rolls straight into the opening beat of the cut song, grin slicing across his face, teeth bared, daring anyone to follow.

The drums drown out Kenjaku’s voice in a second, filling the club like artillery fire for much of the crowd’s delight.

It is a vicious display, arms rising and falling, a powerful pound there, a sharp tap, his foot pumping the kick drum pedal, sweat flying from his brow.

It feels too good to stop.

And the band is dragged along, following his lead.

He knows Kenjaku is fuming, but still they sing and play along like the good little bitch they are.

Kenjaku stalks to the kit at some point mid-song, leaning down between verses until his lips could meet Sukuna’s ear.

“You’re replaceable, Kuna. Know your place. Onstage and off. Don’t forget who writes the script here.”

Sukuna’s grin widens at their soft, venomous tone. He looks like a demon smiling.

Not with anger, with rapture.

And suddenly he stops.

With one accurate strike of his hand he sends the cymbals and snares flying off easily.

Raising his hand to his face, he licks the blood from his split knuckle and lets out a dark laugh that carries over the microphone of a mortified Kenjaku that suddenly feels like they’re way too close, stepping back quickly.

The show house falls silent, realizing something is not quite right.

Sukuna rises from his seat, walking around the kit to regain his proximity with Kenjaku, being able to speak properly into their mic. 

“Replace me, then. Let’s see who burns faster.” his tone is heavy with malice.

And with that, he tosses both sticks into the crowd like offerings. And people rush, jump and fight to grab them.

He kicks the snare so it topples with a crash, cymbals still shrieking.

Not a trace of rage in his actions — pure theater.

He gave the audience a show, and they watched almost without blinking in fear of losing something important.

The crowd roars like animals after a moment, half in shock, half enthralled.

Mahito shreds nonsense into the air, laughing, feeding off the collapse.

Jogo freezes mid-note.

Kenjaku’s smile falters just for a moment as they watch him leaving.

Sukuna don’t look back.

He jumps from the stage down, parting the pit like a blade, the sea of people surging to touch him.

Cameras catch the smirk etched across his face, untouchable, drunk on the chaos he’d unleashed.

*****

The hallway now reeks of beer on top of everything else. The walls are rattling with the muffled bass of a band still trying to finish without him.

How pathetic.

Sukuna could have gone home, but he wouldn’t miss the aftershow for anything in the world.

To miss Kenjaku’s face as they realize they fucked up big time? Absolutely not.

He sits on a broken flight case, legs spread wide, forearms resting on his thighs, sweat crawling down the black tattoos inked into his skin. He sweeps his hands through his hair, pushing it back just before noticing the bass has now fully stopped.

They finally gave up.

His knuckles are raw, still bleeding where the rim split them, and he sucks the iron taste without flinching, sighing heavily and realizing he would have to fix that at some point before playing again.

Both his hand and his kit.

But what were a few hundred bucks compared to the mayhem and impression he caused? Nothing at all.

Completely worth the cost.

Jogo storms in first, bass still slung over his shoulder.

“What the fuck was that, Sukuna? You humiliate us in front of everyone?!” His voice is cracking already. So fucking weak.

A low laugh rumbles in his chest as he lights a cigarette he grabbed from the crumpled wallet in his back pocket, taking a slow drag, smoke already curling from his grin.

“Humiliate? No, no. I gave them a show. They’ll remember me long after they forget your sloppy bassline, Jogo.”

Jogo’s fists clenches, but he doesn’t move.

He never does.

Mahito slips in next, still strung out on adrenaline, guitar strapped across his chest, hands swaying and gesturing as he barged in talking loudly.

“You should’ve seen their faces. That walk-off? Fucking glorious.” He leans against the wall, eyes glittering. “Kenjaku’s going to eat you alive for it, though.”

Sukuna finally looks up angain, eyes catching Mahito’s. He’s a prick, slick and a pushover, siding easily with anyone that gives him a little attention.

No loyalty, no honor, just senseless barking.

At least he is good with his fingers.

And with his mouth.

Sukuna takes another drag, pondering whether or not he should give a fuck.

“Let them try. They should be grateful I didn’t bury that mic down their throat in front of everyone.”

Mahito laughs, too loud, too long, feeding once again on Sukuna’s cruelty.

Fucking leech.

He’d love to see another big fight between the two of them — a big clash of huge egos, it was the reason behind the last unannounced hiatus in the first place.

His gaze also lingers a beat too long on Sukuna’s lips, then chest, sliding slowly to his abs, lips wet with some freaky thought that is going through that fucked up mind of his.

Sukuna quickly catches on his wicked intentions and huffs a cloud of smoke towards him to grab his attention back to the crimson eyes searing through his face.

“Don’t look at me like that unless you mean to act on it.”

Jogo, who’s still there but being completely ignored, grumbles something about them daring to start fucking in the backstage again to see what would happen.

The air tightens.

Mahito grins and takes half a step closer, but Kenjaku’s shadow stretches in the doorway, freezing him on the spot.

They don’t come in, just lean against the wooden frame, arms crossed over their chest, that serpent’s smile coiled across their face.

“Enjoy your little tantrum, Kuna? Because you’re done here. You’re out.” they seethe, the smile falls into a seriousness Sukuna is already familiar with. They’re furious and trying their best not to let their voice shake as they keep talking. “Your bullshit cost us a lot of money and our image today. You threw away your throne.”

Sukuna, seemingly unbothered, lets that uncomfortable silence linger for a while

Then he pushes himself up from the broken flight case to walk towards Kenjaku, exhaling smoke right against their face and waiting for it to slowly vanish into thin air.

“You look nervous, like you’re about to puke. Don’t. Ruins the floor.” he coos at them before giving two brief taps against their cheek with the still bloodied back of his hand, tainting their pale, sweaty skin.

Kenjaku looks livid, like they’re about to strangle him, but Sukuna is already moving through the door, shoulder bumping into theirs and soon he vanishes from their view.

*****

The drum kit is still wreckage on the stage floor. A tom lies sideways, skin torn like a wound, cymbals bent out of shape from the kick that toppled them.

People are saying Sukuna lost control that night.

He didn’t.

He chose to end it like that.

Nothing thrills him more than an audience caught between awe and fear, unsure if they just witnessed a concert or an act of violence.

Clips circulate nonstop, headlines feeding on his name: Black Halberd Drummer Implodes Onstage. Is Sukuna Unstoppable or Unemployable?

The answer is obvious. Unstoppable. Always.

Kenjaku clings to the story that they pushed Sukuna out for being unreliable, too explosive, too violent and unpredictable, spinning it as a strategy to gain sympathy.

Mahito keeps in contact with him, they’re very compatible when it comes to carnal encounters — the collapse and chaos excites Mahito even more, he doesn’t care whether it’s staged or real. And Sukuna enjoys having a hole to fuck every once in a while.

Jogo avoids his eyes whenever they cross paths, guilty for choosing the other two instead of the one friend he had.

Still a pathetic coward it seems.

Sukuna doesn’t lose sleep over them.

When he wants company, he takes it easily, Mahito seems to always be available for him.

When he needs isolation, no one is there to bother him since Yuji moved out of their family house to a campus apartment.

What matters now is the itch in his hands that’s starting to annoy him, the restlessness cracking through his knuckles.

It’s been what? Two days? He’s already feeling a hint of anxiety growing inside his chest.

Fuck.

And anxiety turns into something worse if he lets it build up for too long.

The thoughts of spending who knows how much time without playing would eat him alive.

That need of sticks in his grip again, the floor trembling under his double bass, people chanting his name.

He needed the chaos of the shows once again. The adoration. The noise. He needed to be worshipped again.

That’s the only thing that he can compare to raw power.

But even more than that, he needed release.

Now his phone won’t stop buzzing.

Promoters. Journalists. Parasites. Everyone wants a slice of the calamity.

They don’t care about Black Halberd.

They care about him.

They want to keep feeding the fire until there’s nothing else to burn.

Sukuna takes a drag from his cigarette, splayed on his living room couch. He exhales the smoke toward the ceiling slowly. The sun has already set, the lights are off and the pale light of the moon is the only thing keeping his living room slightly illuminated.

Is this melancholy?

Nah.

Humming, a sharp grin shows up as he thinks once again about the whole situation.

Scandal doesn’t bury him. It builds the myth.

It’s amusing how people are easy to entertain.

He knows it's gonna be hard as fuck to fit in again after all this mess. But he isn’t done. Not even close.

And by the morning of the third day after the show, the videos went finally viral on multiple platforms:

“MALEVOLENT SPECTACLE! — BLACK HALBERD DRUMMER DESTROYS HIS KIT, WALKS OFF LAUGHING.”

Not disgrace.

Not disaster.

Spectacle.

Exactly like Sukuna imagined.

Chapter Text

Telomeres

Satoru says it so casually you almost think he’s joking.

“Gods Beneath is dead. We’ll bury it when Maki leaves. Let’s start from there.”

You blink, waiting for him to at least give you some sort of extra context after that.

None comes.

His sunglasses catch the light of his now too-bright living room, — the big lights get powered on at night — making it impossible to tell where he’s looking at from where you’re perched on the big couch.

Toji went home already, Suguru is upstairs, presumably sleeping in Satoru’s bed with Goma since he agreed to spend the night to compensate for Friday.

Maki also left, but you stayed there even though you can feel your brain giving up on forming coherent thoughts.

You’re probably useless to brainstorm new lyrics right now, but he insists you stay a little longer so he can share a few of his insights with you. And you find it a little difficult to say no to him when he tells you how you’re the only one that can extract the best of his ideas and make them work as they should.

“Our next gig is already out of the table since we’re killing the band, so let’s allow Black Halberd to sweep in and grab it like the wretched little vultures they are.” he spits the name of the band like it’s poisonous. He resumes his talking and walking, pacing slowly through his living room as he cracks his neck and his knuckles, stopping one in place for a second just to stretch his arms up and let out a heavy sigh.

Your lips curl in a small smile when you hear that, thinking about what would be his reaction finding out who you’re considering for Maki’s spot.

“Right, but what do you need me to pry out from your chaotic little head this time?”

Your eyelids feel heavy and you think of maybe asking him to dim the bright lights a little, but you’re afraid you’re gonna end up snoozing mid explanation. It’s best to focus on Satoru’s words and on his endless walking and talking as much as you can.

So you have your eyes fixed on him. And on his hands. You find it a little easy to keep awake when you pay attention to how much he gestures while he talks and paces.

Cocking a brow, you notice his hands shaking ever so slightly when they’re finally resting by the sides of his body.

He’s also tired.

The exhaustion is crawling in, but he won’t admit it until he’s done talking about what he has planned, so there’s no use suggesting you two continue this conversation tomorrow.

If he has an idea now, now is the time to talk about it.

“I’ll be needing you to work extra hard on a few things this week and the next to come.” His tone is almost apologetic. “I also need you to trust me and keep this next part just between us both, okay, sugar?”

Another secret.

Why did people insist on confiding things to you so easily?

You don’t recall ever telling anyone their secrets would be safe with you, nor you remember telling anyone you’re comfortable holding information from others — especially from your friends.

Yet, for the second day in a row you’re caught in that same position.

“I don’t know, Satoru…” You start to speak, uncertainty swirling inside your chest as you think of how the others would feel.

Shifting uncomfortably on his couch, you feel your left leg start to bounce a little bit, you begin to overthink the situation already, biting the inside of your cheeks when the cold little finger of uncertainty touches your little damaged brain.

But Satoru, moving from the place he previously stood to walk towards you, kneels in front of the couch you’re sitting on, basically sinking down on one knee between your legs.

Your full attention is on him, and even your anxious leg stops for a moment.

His hands reach for yours and he holds them gently between his own. Leaning his torso slightly in and with a pout on his lips, he barely needs to tilt his head up to look you in the eyes from there, his bright baby blues finding yours with a silent plea.

Who gave this menace of a man such beautiful eyes?

“... Okay, sure, I’ll do it, whatever it is.” You concede, partially unaware of the dangers of agreeing blindly to anything coming from him. Embarrassment is flushing your face, so you avert your eyes from his. “But please remember I have a life and college work to do —ah!”  

As you start to ask for a little consideration before he starts ordering you around, you feel him getting up from the floor and letting go of your hands, but instead of acting normal — again, bold of you to assume he would — he presses his knee on the edge of the couch between your legs and just lets his weight fall on top of you, arms wide open to squish you into a sloppy, and then very tight hug.

“I knew you wouldn’t let me down!” His words are muffled by your hair, his lips are pressed against the side of your head and he leaves a kiss there before rolling to the side to occupy the spot next to a very dumbfounded you.

Are you just anxious with so much proximity or are you a praise junkie?

There’s still one arm casually resting along the back of the couch behind you, the tips of his fingers brushing and tapping sometimes against your shoulder as he speaks.

For the moments you were squeezed between him and the couch, you could feel how warm he is, and how soothing it felt to have his weight pressing you down — even in that uncomfortable way — you felt like you could fall asleep right there.

But you also noticed how hard and fast his heart was beating. To be fair, your heart was probably pounding like crazy too, but your situation is a bit different.

Right?

Satoru is the type of person that will always claim to be the most confident and most composed man alive, but that is the biggest façade he holds to this day.

He's a very agitated, worried and frantic person trying to fit in a pacific shell.

Because of the way you grew up, the things you’ve been through, the trauma and constant need to be aware of everything — it’s almost too easy to notice the small things giving away the true way people feel through their behavior.

A little twinge on the corner of his lips, eyebrow cocking slightly, a squint of his eyes, his hands shaking before he shoves them in his pants’ pockets, the way he flicks his eyes — all the little things that are always there, but people don’t seem to notice.

They just rely on what they’re told.

You don’t feel like you can do it.

This kind of conversation, however, can’t happen now.

You’re too tired, he’s too hyped and too tired at the same time. And amidst all that yapping, you actually want to ask him why.

Why kill something that’s working?

Why throw a funeral for a band that just played its first original song to real applause? Almost a standing ovation. Why not announce Maki’s leaving and another drummer stepping in? It’s simpler, easier.

Satoru Gojo doesn’t do average.

That’s a thing he says many times.

Despite wanting to, you don’t need to ask.

You decide to trust Satoru and his megalomania once again.

You’ve heard his ideas before a million times — wild, messy bursts that sound unhinged until you realize he’s a few steps ahead of everyone else.

But this? This is a bit bigger.

This is setting fire to the old scaffolding and building something people are yet to see.

You feel lucky to be part of it.

*****

The clock on his wall marks thirty minutes past midnight now.

You thought you’d be asleep by this time, yet you catch yourself currently nodding eagerly and agreeing with the plans he speaks of so naturally.

Just a couple of hours ago there was nothing more than exhaustion and a little anxiety swirling inside you, but that tiredness seems to have vanished completely, leaving space for a new born enthusiasm that fills the entire room as he hooks you in his fanciful plans.

Being this close to him is still a little… foreign for you, but not in a bad way — Satoru has one of his legs resting on top of your thigh now, his arm still resting on the couch’s back, around your shoulders, and his long fingers twisting a strand of your hair as he talks nonstop.

Satoru’s pupils look bigger than usual, the blackness nearly engulfing the crystalline blue.

Did he have some energy drink with the pizzas?

That would explain how agitated he is, but you vaguely remember him saying his body is a temple and energy drinks are a hard no.

But sugar is an big yes? So much for a temple, huh.

You also remember how alarmed you got when Maki told you upon meeting Satoru — the most high-spirited, energetic person you’ve ever met — that he didn’t drink coffee.

You’re yet to figure out if it’s due to unholy amounts of sugar that he keeps his spirits high and energy even higher.

Whenever you try to tell him to wait a bit or slow down so you can note things properly, he seems to get a little more uneasy, maybe frustrated, groaning like all the information and ideas will kill him if he doesn’t let them out immediately.

It’s understandable, he is very excited with the future he has started planning in the three hours he had to think about it since hearing of Maki’s departure, but he’s not usually… this frantic, almost frenzied, when he’s just excited.

Perhaps he’s so mentally worn, yet so inspired, that his brain is frying.

Everyone calls him a natural born genius for easily expressing his ideas and ambitions from a very young age.

He’s been born in a wealthy family so there were many opportunities for him in life, Juilliard — which is the conservatory he attended — included. It doesn’t take away his merit, though. He is a brilliant man and you know superficially about the pressure his family puts on him to take on the family business instead of actually following his rock band dreams.

It’s really impressive how much focus he needs so he doesn’t let any of his plans and projects die on the shore, but you start to think there’s a little bit more to his steadiness than meets the eyes.

“And what, Satoru? We just show up in disguises and hope nobody notices?” You snap, sounding a little mean, but that’s just the exhaustion catching up once again.

“Exactly.” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, poking softly the tip of your nose with his index finger.

“People don’t notice half as much as you think they do. A little fabric, some paint, new logo, new name — boom.” He spreads his arms, letting go of that strand of hair that now lays on your shoulder in a tiny curl. “We’re going viral, baby! A new band comes out of nowhere and becomes an instant hit!”

His optimism is fascinating. Or is that just raw, rampant madness?

And you know better than to even think he’s kidding.

He’s dead serious despite that crazed expression he’s carrying right now.

He stares for a while into some abstract point in front of you two, envisioning his ideas being a complete success with not a slight possibility of failure.

And hell, he may be right.

Will you indulge his delirium?

You blink, thinking for a whole second if you should perhaps raise your concerns.

But then he turns to you once more, both hands cupping your cheeks — making your lips become a small pout — just to make you look at him as he lowers his head a bit to stare at you from over his sunglasses rims.

His pale hair brushing against your forehead tickles a little.

“You’ll design it. All of it.”

It’s not a question.

You feel a manic laugh trying to rise from the depths of your core first, then the weight of it sinks onto your shoulders and responsibility clings onto you like wet clothes.

All the designs. Outfits. Concepts. Tone. Arts. Key colors. Band name. Brand.

The whole look of a band that doesn’t exist yet.

And, of course, the new lyrics. 

You want to cry.

Satoru’s brain is an overflowing drawer of half-lines and jumbled metaphors, and you’re the only one he trusts to sort them into something that breathes.

You’re not letting him down.

“I’ll do it.”

You also have a few ideas of your own that may help — half-complete lyrics you wrote as a teenager, mostly about feelings you had, about situations you’ve been through, about… you.

Maybe you can use it for this new band’s whole thing? If Satoru approves, you think you can make it work.

He’s utterly pleased with you and you feel a very warm, fuzzy feeling when you look at his giant smile.

“I already have three assignments due next week, so just...” You sigh.

He chuckles. “Add four more, then.”

Bastard.

*****

You end up sleeping in.

Maki called you at some point between two and three in the morning, worried you hadn’t come home yet, but Satoru took the phone mid-call from you to tell her you’re spending the night, visibly not giving her time to respond before ending the call and tossing you your phone back.

You’re not really a pushover — most of the time you like to think you’re not — but you’re so, so very tired and he has so many rooms in that big house of his… so you don’t feel like a real burden by spending the night just this once.

“I can drive you home tomorrow morning, I’m just too tired to take you home right now and there’s no way I’m letting you call an uber at this time. Too dangerous, can’t trust men these days.” He concludes with a nod, getting up from the couch and reaching out his hand to help you up.

“You can shower before sleeping if you want, the guestroom is a suite and I can lend you spare pajamas if you don’t mind them being a little big for you.” Going upstairs with him, you’re now realising he never let go of your hand, softly pulling you along as he leads the way.

A puny smile unfolds on your lips with the way your fingers are intertwined with his. You enjoy the way he shows affection a lot more than you think. Just like Maki, he feels safe, his touches also feel safe. They would never hurt you.

You two stop for a moment in front of his bedroom’s open door, gazing at his king size bed where Suguru and Goma are sprawled, as comfortable as they can be, occupying all the space their bodies allow them to.

“He’s gonna be so grumpy when you wake him up to make space for you.” You chuckle softly as Satoru groans in realization. You’re glad you’re not gonna be the one dealing with his temper tantrum.

“I’ll grab you something to wear, you can go make yourself comfortable in the bedroom by the end of the corridor,” he tilts his chin toward the closed door, pointing the way, and lets go of your hand.

His guestroom is almost as big as his own bedroom, but you can explore it better in the morning. As of tonight you’re craving a hot shower and the embrace of the mattress.

You take your sweet time under the hot stream of water, letting it run down your body while you decompress and take a deep breath, finally allowing yourself to feel how tired you really are.

There’s no recollection of what you had originally planned for your saturday, or if there was anything at all you wanted to do before being fully consumed by the band’s obligations, and then by Satoru.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to take a week off some time, but that’s something you can’t afford right now. It’s unimaginable for you to leave the boys unattended just because you’re a little bit burned out.

What would they do without you?

You’re pulled out of your thoughts by a subtle knock on the door.

“I got you some clothes, gonna leave them on the bed.” Satoru’s voice is muffled by the shower’s noise but you acknowledge him with a ‘thanks!’ before resuming it.

You don’t know how much time you spent there soaking in the hot water, but you shouldn’t be taking half hour showers at other people’s houses anyway, you’re better than that.

There’s a — really soft — towel waiting for you as you step out of the box and into the bathmat. The fabric caresses your body as you dry yourself fully before wrapping it around your torso.

You so needed this.

The promised clothes are waiting for you on the bed as you step out of the bathroom, but so is Satoru.

He’s in what you suppose it’s his sleeping clothes — plain white t-shirt and dark gray sweatpants — brushing his teeth with one hand and scrolling down on his phone with the other.

His eyes raise from the screen and fix on you. He stops the brushing for a moment and stares, eyebrows raised in what you assume is surprise, and then a faint blush flushes the bridge of his nose.

There’s a ten seconds silence of awe and then acknowledgement before you decide what to do.

Which is to slowly walk backwards into the bathroom, not interrupting the eye contact for a second, and close the door.

Your skin feels hot and you’re sure your face is glowing red.

Satoru’s awkward laugh echoes and he speaks loud enough for you to hear ‘Sorry, sugar. I'm leaving now.’ before walking out.

You hear his bare feet against the wooden floor as he steps away, but only dare to reopen the bathroom door when you hear the gentle click of the door latch.

Peeking out for a second, now making sure it’s just you in the bedroom, you rush to grab the clothes and go back inside the bathroom, where you get dressed properly, not taking any more chances.

The clothes are kind of big on you, but they’re really comfortable.

He lent you a black band t-shirt and white sweat shorts, the latter being mostly hidden under the oversized shirt, but it doesn’t matter now that you’re crawling on the mattress and getting ready to sleep, burying yourself in cozy blankets and resting your head on the inviting pillow.

Then, there’s a knock.

“Come in?” You sound unsure.

Did he forget something?

Entering the room, Satoru has a steamy mug in one hand and your notebook in the other.

Your brows furrow when he hands you the mug before crawling on the bed with you, — it’s a queen size bed, there’s plenty of space — sitting cross legged by your side. You’re now sitting up to grab the mug, your back against the cushioned headboard.

Lychee tea with milk and honey. You didn’t know how much you needed this until you took a gulp of it, almost rolling back your eyes out of cheer delight.

Feels like being hugged from inside.

No, that’s weird, never say that out loud.

You let out a satisfied moan, almost purring in contentment.

“You thought we were done?” He simpers at you, but the face you made upon hearing those words made him quickly backpedal. “I’m joking, you can rest… as soon as you allow me to write a few notes on the designs you drew so I don’t forget what we talked about.”

“Just don’t mess it up.” A soft mumble leaves your lips, making the steam rising from the hot tea swirl before you take another sip, humming happily.

Your eyes are too heavy and the dim light of the bedroom won’t let you fight the sleepiness for much longer. “You… didn’t want to wake Suguru, did you?”

“Nope.” He admits and you scoff lowly, shaking your head softly.

He now scribbles and makes small notes around the designs he likes.

You only get a glimpse of what he’s writing, but soon you give up, focusing on finishing your tea and placing the empty mug on the bedside table before sliding down and laying your head on the pillow once again.

“Sweet dreams,” he croons. You mumble a drowsy ‘g’night’ back before turning to the side and leaving him to scrawl on your notebook, hearing only his occasional deep sighs and the gentle scratch of the pencil tip against the paper as you slip in the world of dreams.

You don’t remember your dreams tonight, nor do you have an episode — probably because of the exhaustion and the reaffirming company.

And how glad you are that you don’t need to explain to Satoru that most nights are really terrible and your nightmares are usually loud.

*****

By the time you wake up you notice a few things.

More weights than just your own are pressed down the mattress.

Huh?

You sit up on your elbows to look at it, bewildered.

Satoru is sleeping by your left side, on top of the blankets, notebook open and resting over his chest, his right arm bent and forearm covering his closed eyes.

Suguru is curled up under the blankets, by your right side, both hands tucked between his left cheek and the pillow.

Goma, — she’s also there! — however, is sprawled across the three of you, belly up, slowly blinking and yawning when she notices you’re awake.

“Morninnnn’” Suguru drawls, slowly unraveling and opening his eyes to look at your seemingly very awake self.

What time is it? And when did the slumber party move to this room?

“Too early.” Satoru tuts as he lowers the arm covering his face to then throw his left arm across your torso, pulling you back down to lay your head on the pillow once again. “Sunday… we don’t get up ‘til noon.” He grumbles — Suguru, submitting to the host’s wishes, closes his eyes once again and breathes deeply, apparently falling back asleep just like that.

“Don’t I have a say in this?” You ask quietly, feeling your skin flushed with heat when they huddle up towards you.

You can feel their breaths brushing ever so slightly against the skin of your neck, Suguru almost nestling his face on the curve of your shoulder and Satoru now moving to be cozy under the blankets, doing the same thing.

“No.” both answer in unison.

Goma rolls and lets out another loud yawn before shifting to lay between you and Suguru, letting you get a whiff of her puppy breath.

With a huff you keep laying still, facing the ceiling as the lethargy slowly touches you again.

It’s okay, you can take today off and rest.

You already have a full plate of things you got to figure out in a week or so. Sleeping in with these two won’t kill you.

Goma might, though.

You feel a rising pressure on your chest ripping you out of your slumber after who knows how many hours.

At first you got alarmed, fearing it was an episode starting.

But when your eyes pry open, you see that giant fluffball of a dog sitting on top of you.

Cold nose approaching as she sniffs your face, and a warm, moist feeling pressing on your cheek following the sniffs.

“Goma!” Calling her name only makes her more excited, driving her to lick your whole face.

You feel her entire body wagging along with her curly tail as she tap dances on top of you. “No, Goma! Stop baby-” Your arms are held captive under the covers as you coo at her, almost begging for this little menace to have mercy on you, but she only gives you some kind of release — allowing you to sit up on the bed — when she notices Suguru woke up again.

And she loves Suguru.

The rest of the day falls uneventful.

Satoru made you and Suguru pancakes for breakfast and drove you back to your apartment.

He also was nice enough to wash and dry your clothes at some point in the afternoon, allowing you to change before leaving.

You spent the rest of the evening helping Maki pack a few of her things up, leaving out just the necessary items to pass her last week. By doing so you can feel your energy being drained, as if your happiness was melting away with every item you placed in a cardboard box.

No time to go through the five stages of grief, babygirl.

You wonder how it's gonna be without Maki. Will your night terrors scare away Yuji? Will you be able to have a good night of sleep without slipping into a sleeping pills addiction?

This sunday night you decide to test it.

You ask Maki not to stay with you until you fall asleep. No texts, no calls, no nothing.

She tries talking you out of it, but you tell her you need to see if you can do it without taking something to shut you down completely.

*****

It’s five in the morning — you jolt awake, gasping, your heart hammering against your ribs, hair clinging to your sweaty face.

The room is empty, but the feeling of dread is a thick, choking fog.

Breathe.

You repeat over and over to yourself.

Just breathe.

You do.

It isn’t real.

Nothing was there.

But your body doesn't believe it.

Your heart is trying to escape your chest, and your skin is ice cold, still, your night gown is drenched in sweat and your face is damp and sticky with sleep-sweat and tears.

What was it this time?

That shadow creature crawling closer and closer in that unnatural, ungodly way?

It doesn't really matter, does it?

Felt real enough to have you probably screaming your lungs out and thrashing in your sleep.

Your first instinct is to grab your phone.

To call her just to hear her voice even though she’s in the next room.

But you don’t.

She won’t be there for much longer, you can’t burden her to babysit you when she has so much to accomplish overseas.

You keep calling her and then what?

She’s supposed to be always there for you? To stop her life to pick up your calls in the middle of the night just because you’re fucked up in the head? Damaged and unable to function properly?

Pathetic. Useless.

You hug your knees to your chest and try to steady your breath.

You wish your head wasn’t so mean.

You wish you could just be normal.

You wish his voice wasn’t always echoing inside your brain.

How are you supposed to close your eyes again?

The moment you do, it'll be waiting for you.

He will be waiting for you.

That feeling of being cemented to the sheets, your own mind a spectator to your horror.

You see the bottle on the nightstand.

Just take a pill.

But then… How about tomorrow night? And the night after?

Do you just drug yourself into a stupor every night for the rest of your life, all because the one person who made the shadows feel safe is moving an ocean away?

Chapter Text

Thread the Needle

Monday.

You wake up early, it’s not even seven in the morning yet.

You’re so very tired, still exhausted from the little sleep you got last night.

A mug of black coffee and some PB&J sandwich are the only things holding you on your feet at college until lunch time.

You have Music Theory in the morning, a group lecture in the big auditorium, and you find it very hard not to fall asleep as soon as you sit down and get comfortable on the worn cushioned chair.

You endure it with eyes already red but wide open and your brain half functioning .

You got this. 

At some point during the lecture you remember that this is one of the classes you have in common with Sukuna, so you catch yourself looking around the auditorium very surreptitiously, just to see if you spot his very characteristic pink hued hair poking from somewhere on the lower seat rows.

It would be nice if everything in your life just aligned perfectly and he sat right beside you, wouldn’t it?

Maybe you two could even engage in chit-chat, talk about your lives and become best friends forever.

You press the bottom of your palms against your closed eyes.

Why is everything so stressful? It's not even the middle of the week yet.

Every time you've seen him in class he looked like he would bark at anyone that dared approach him. You don't remember seeing teachers talking to him either, nor him going to them to make any questions regarding this class' projects.

And as unapproachable as he is, he’s your number one — actually, your only — choice for a replacement drummer for now.

Satoru and Suguru told you they don’t know anyone that would match the new band project.

Maybe you could ask Toji later, he could know someone.

There's still hope.

Knitting together, your brows let your thoughts leak into your face.

Utahime, one of the few colleagues you have on the campus, pokes you with her elbow, taking you off your own little world just to bring you back to this tiresome, terribly long class presentation.

The auditorium buzzes after the presentation is over.

Pages flipping, pencils scratching, the professor explaining something he has projected on the big whiteboard, but you're not interested enough to try to focus.

Not today.

You stare blankly at the document page open in front of you on your laptop screen, but all you can see are Satoru’s manic texts popping up one after the other in the notifications bar.

Toru:

The death of gods
rebirth in ashes
angels in masks!
Makes sense? Ofc it makes put that pen to work ☆

You want to throw away your laptop and your phone altogether.

What the fuck he’s talking about?

Instead, you sigh and sketch the outline of a wing in your notebook.

After your classes, you grab a protein shake to go and head to the record store for your shift at your half-time job.

Sometimes a shake is lunch.

The air smells like dust and old vinyl sleeves.

And you love it so much.

Mr. Takahashi grunts when you clock in, pushing a crate of dusty albums toward you.

“Sort these. No mistakes.”

His grumpiness is no problem for you, honestly.

He gave you a job when you really needed it even though he was pretty well taking care of the store on his own. You do everything you can to help him out, especially the heavy lifting and the tidying up.

And every day he brings you an obento with some fruits and a bottle of tea.

You told him once he didn't need to, but he told you that 'at his age he didn't do shit because he needs to, he does things because he wants to.'

And he brings you food because you remind him of his granddaughter.

His way of showing care reminds you of Toji a little bit. His grumpiness too. You smirk at the thought and go sort the albums.

You like the quiet of the store. The neat rows of vinyls and CDs. The ever so faint music playing on the old radio on the back, sometimes filled with static.

You even like the occasional student who comes in begging for obscure music sheets and albums no one has ever listened to, ever.

Later, taking your break in the backroom, you sit on a crate of unsold CDs, sketchbook open on your lap, pencil tapping against your knee.

You roll your eyes at Satoru’s notes — the ones he made yesterday in bed and you got to see only now — but now your pencil keeps moving, adjusting what you understand of the messy notes.

Wings. Fire. Masks. Robes.

Something interesting is emerging.

*****

Tuesday.

Fluorescent lights hum overhead in the music wing of your college.

It feels so loud, it’s like the low constant buzz is coming from inside your head and it makes you want to rip them off the ceiling with your bare hands.

Maybe you're too overstimulated and sleep deprived.

You recompose yourself, take a deep breathe.

It's fine. Everything is fine.

You need to find the damn papers about music business you worked on so hard and hand them over to Prof. Kento so he can take a look at them and give you some pointers before the due date.

As you scan your backpack the memory of Utahime telling you the professor's age comes back to your mind and makes you chuckle.

You had no idea he was younger than you when you told him you wanted to be as good as him when it came to business and managing your band by the time you reached his age — and in your defense he does seem older and more mature than most people you know, but you guess that's just what the stress and hard work does to a person.

And talking about stress, it's probably what's making your eyes twitch.

Maybe Suguru is right, college does make people start smoking or drinking. Sometimes both.

You have your shoulder pressed against the wall near the door to the teacher’s room and you’re aggressively digging in your bag for your sheets when you feel a shiver run down your spine.

The sensation of something tingling at your nape and wrapping around your neck.

You’re being observed.

You raise your head and turn it to look over your shoulder, ready to deal with someone asking what were you doing or what were you looking for, as if any of it was their business. You’re already fighting with some hypothetical person in your head, that’s never a good sign, is it?

But no one is near when you look around.

There’s only someone else in the hall, eyes transfixed on your back.

Sukuna.

He’s across the short hall, arms crossed over his chest, leaning his back against the wall, scar and black ink sharp under the light.

He’s just standing there, watching you from a distance with a stoic, undecipherable expression on his face. 

This doesn’t feel like just gazing casually, it’s more like watching. Analyzing.

Those crimson eyes seemingly studying your every movement.

The eyeing sears through you. You shove your papers back into the folder quickly, forgetting you actually need to find something.

Your spine suddenly straightens and you cock your eyebrow, pivoting on your heels so your whole body is now facing in his direction.

His eyelids squint very subtly and there's a small curl forming in the corner of his mouth.

You refuse to be the first one to look away.

Yet, you do.

Prof. Kento opens the door just next to you and you’re forced to turn around and face him as he urges you to get in so you two can talk properly.

You’re pretty sure Sukuna sneered as soon as you lost at your own dumb game.

Back at the apartment after you got off work, Maki’s voice seeps through your bedroom’s wall.

She’s probably on another video call with someone you suppose is from Glasgow, — maybe her new roommate at the conservatory's campus or whatever — you notice her Japanese ever so slightly lilting into careful English.

You put your earbuds in to listen to some music before sleeping, but you still hear her laughter through the sound.

It’s bittersweet, really.

*****

Wednesday.

Yuji waves at you from across the same cafeteria you’ve met him for the first time, you take a glance at his tray piled too high with food and raise a brow.

That would explain how he has so much energy to burn between football games and his PE Major.

Megumi, — who if you remember well majors Criminal Justice, — trails after him, expression as flat as every other time you crossed his path, carrying only a bowl of miso soup on his tray.

They’re polar opposites, and yet every time you’ve seen Yuji for the past weeks, Megumi is there too.

It’s kind of funny, you think to yourself and chew on the straw of the melon frappe you’re having.

“Roomie to be!” Yuji greets you with a big smile, already sitting beside you. “I was thinking—when I move in, I’ll do the cooking, yeah? You’ll never have to touch instant ramen again.”

You don’t eat instant ramen usually, but the way he talks like it’s a five stars course meal, too hard to prepare and too troublesome, has you giggling.

Megumi gives him a side-eye.

“You don’t know how to cook.”

“I know enough.” Yuji scowls and shoves an entire nigiri in his mouth.

You hide your smile behind your frappe cup. It feels… safe, somehow, listening to them bicker like an old married couple.

Hopefully this is how it’s going to feel for as long as he lives with you. It would make the departure of your best friend a little easier.

Later, at the record store, a student from your class recognizes you from the band, somehow, and not from... the class.

“Hey—you’re in Gods Beneath, right? When’s your next gig?”

Your throat dries but you smile at him.

The band is already a decomposing corpse by now, but you can’t say that.

“Soon,” you lie. “Keep an eye out.”

*****

Thursday.

The orange and reddish rays pass through the window of the library as the sun sets lazily in the horizon.

You like that specific spot because of the view and the warmth of the sunlight caressing your skin. Your music history essay is due tomorrow, so you’ve been here for hours, fingers cramping as you type on your laptop and once in a while scribble something on the open notebook laying right beside it.

Your pen drifts to the margin, sketching Satoru’s newest “angel mask, but make it ritualistic” idea, when you feel it once again.

Shivers racing along your spine. Nape tingling.

That specific sensation of uneasiness.

Like someone standing too close.

You look up from your notebook’s screen just to catch Sukuna passing by your table.

Your eyes widen and you feel the breath catch in your throat.

He has one hand inside the pocket of his jacket, and the other casually brushes and taps his fingertips against the top of your table as he passes by it. Seems like an absentminded action, but you're sure it isn't. You're sure he's trying to mess with you.

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t stop. Not even acknowledges your presence.

But your chest tightens anyway, like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t.

Yet, when the faint smell of his cologne mixed with the coppery smell of cigarettes hits your nose, you catch yourself turning your head to look at him.

It’s getting annoying.

You have too much on your plate right now, you don’t need another problem adding up.

Why do you feel so apprehensive when he’s around? You feel like he’s onto you, just waiting for the perfect opportunity to do something — like a predator rounding its prey, ready to attack.

But he did nothing to you. He doesn’t even talk to you.

Get your shit together, sweetheart. You're starting to sound crazy.

You’re back at the apartment after an uneventful evening at your half-time job, Maki leans on the counter, hair down and donning one of her prettiest pajamas, an all black set of silky pants and shirt with red buttons.

Looks like she’s ready to go to bed already.

“You’ll be okay, right? When I’m gone?”

You laugh, a little too loud for your own liking, a little too fake.

No. I’m already feeling miserable.

“Of course. Don’t be stupid.”

But your hand trembles when you set the empty mug down, and you know she notices.

*****

Friday.

The rehearsal room at Satoru’s feels a little bigger.

You know it’s just your imagination, though.

No drummer today, of course.

Satoru prompts everyone — Suguru at his right side, Toji at his left side — to hum the chords while he belts lyrics like he’s already performing at the Dome.

Maybe he finally went insane.

You’re sitting on the floor, on the usual corner, jotting down rhythms in your notebook, pretending this isn’t ridiculous.

It’s a little harder to pretend this doesn’t look like a cult activity, though.

They take a break after a while.

Toji nudges a water bottle toward you when you pause to rub your wrist. You look up and thank him with a polite smile.

He doesn’t say anything. Just stares at you until you take it from his hand.

His way of saying don’t fall apart on us.

The true, not absurd rehearsal starts soon after, the first three songs coming together nicely in Satoru's voice.

You already knew they would sound pretty when Satoru performed them, but he really made an effort to make it sound perfect.

No other word to describe.

It’s perfection.

You feel your chest tightening as he sings, the corner of your lip pulling a little, a wave of emotions threaten to overflow but you’re quick to swallow that knot in your throat.

Turning your old lyrics into full developed songs may be a little too much for a very overwhelmed, overworked and underslept you.

But you’re happy.

They all seem to have liked it.

You handled the assignments perfectly that week and there’s still one day left until things change for good.

For the better or for the worse.

When you all take a break to have dinner, — in pizza we trust — you find the guts to approach Toji, to sit by his side on the big couch, and start a conversation.

Have you ever started any conversations in your life?

Not with Toji, that you’re absolutely sure of.

“So… no drummer, huh…?”

You’d rather be slapped across the face than indulge in small talk, yet, here you are, submitting Toji to this torture of sorts.

He turns his head slowly to look at you, half eaten pepperoni pizza slice on his hand. He munches, stares, raises a brow and says nothing.

You need to work on your social skills. Desperately.

“Sorry.” You sigh. “Do you know someone that can play the drums? Maybe a friend?”

Better to be direct. Toji’s slight smirk says he agrees with this.

“I know a guy. Works with me back at the construction site. Has a band and all.”

Your attention is immediately caught, your face lights up.

Hope.

“Really? Do you have his number— or anything, really, I can find him and contact him by myself at some point next week.” You pull your cellphone from your pant’s front pocket, flip it open and get ready to type whatever information Toji feels in his heart he can give you.

“I don’t have his number.” He deadpans.

Your hope flickers and dims, but doesn't die yet.

“Maybe… maybe his name? Anything , really, even his work place— no, wait, that would be weird. Would it be weird to show up there?” You’re rambling now, that’s not really a good sign.

Toji takes another bite of his pizza slice.

“Mm, he used to play with Black Halberd. I don’t think they’re together anymore, though.”

Now your already dimmed hope is not only gone, it’s dead. Shattered on the floor.

“Sukuna?” you whisper.

“Yeah.”

Satoru caught that part of the conversation — at least enough to understand who you’re talking about.

“That dude? He’s not trustworthy!” He states, frowning at the idea of someone from Black Halberd joining the band. “What if he ditches us like he did with his friends?”

“Maybe he had a reason to walk off?”

And just like that all the eyes are on you.

Your eyes would also be on you if that were remotely possible.

You have no idea where that came from.

“I mean, we just have the side of the story the other members told…” You start speaking, your eyes fall to your hands that are pressed on your lap, the discomfort of too much attention already making you shrink. “Maybe… he should have a chance to tell his side.”

But he had so many chances.

He didn’t take any of them, letting the reporters and gossip websites write and broadcast as much shit as they wanted about him.

Satoru shrugged it off after considering what you said for a while, then resumed his chat with Suguru about some new guitar model that just came out and he was dying to have his hands all over it.

Toji was already eating another slice of pizza, quietly enjoying his dinner.

And you, well, you were there with that awkward feeling creeping in, like you don’t belong there anymore.

Maybe talking about Sukuna was a mistake, you know how Satoru despises Black Halbert.

Pathetic.

Maybe Satoru is mad at you and will no longer trust you to write for him — with him.

Useless.

Maybe you fucked it up already, even before the new band could take its first breath.

Damaged.

Maybe you’re no good without Maki by your side…

Ugly little thing.

Toji took you off the downward spiral with a sharp poke on your ribs, earning a squirm and a confused look from you. He pointed towards Satoru with his chin.

“He talked to you and you didn’t respond. You good there?”

Satoru and Suguru were both looking at you with eyebrows raised and a slight hint of worrying in their expressions.

Shit.

“Yeah, sorry, I think I zoned out for a bit there, this week has been… something.”

You try to brush off their worries with a heavy sigh and a gentle smile.

“Then you’re spending the night.” Suguru nods at his own words, deciding your fate for you.

“Maki will be fine, I texted her saying you would sleep in again a while ago.” Satoru states and gets up from the couch, cracking his back and taking a deep breath. “I think we should make it a thing, don’t you think? Pizza night and sleepovers every friday.”

“Hard pass.” Toji scoffs, but makes no mention of getting up to leave yet.

“So kind of you to decide I’ll be spending the night without consulting me first.” Your tone is heavy with sarcasm as you cock your head and raise a brow at him.

“You don’t need to worry that little head of yours with anything tonight, sugar. Satoru Gojo will be making all the decisions.” He smirks and winks at you, making you roll your eyes.

But you’re grateful.

So, so very grateful.

You’re probably gonna be able to have your first good night of sleep in a week.

Shouldn't you feel bad for using your friends like that? Like they are the alternative replacement for the pills.

“You’re missing out on the fun.” Suguru got up from where he was seated and walked around the big couch just to lean in and rest both his arms crossed on the couches’ backrest, right behind Toji, who was still sprawled comfortably.

“I’m too old for sleepovers.” He remarked and tilted back his head, resting the back of it over Suguru's arms and staring at him from upside down. “I’d rather spend my Friday night doing something else.” His tone was plain, but Suguru grinned like a demon with the implication in his words.

And you are sitting right next to them, speechless, unblinking.

You can see first hand how close their faces are, even upside down, there’s some kind of thick sexual tension building up and you’re frowning, really invested in whatever that situation was.

You’re afraid to blink and lose something crucial, you're holding your breath and don’t even realize.

“You know the rules in my house. If I’m not invited, there’s no fucking nor making out.”

Satoru’s words ripped your attention from them to shoot him a flabbergasted look, making you finally realize you need to breathe, but upon sucking up air, you choke in your own spit and cough aggressively.

“Don’t worry, Toru, you know Toji has no interest in gorgeous, fabulous people.” Suguru finally straightens his back, putting distance between his face and Toji’s before giving you a few pats on the back to help with your situation.

“That’s not true. The only one of you who would have a chance with me is her.” Toji remarks, dipping his chin at you.

And once again you yank your head in his direction after you’re done coughing.

Eyes red and watery, face all red from trying not to die, and a giant question mark hangs in the air.

"Me?" you manage to breathe.

What the fuck is happening here?

“Cuz I’m straight.” He concludes after a while.

Ah. That makes sense.

“No fun.” Suguru murmurs and pivots to go find himself something to drink in the kitchen.

“God forbid you let her think you’d make out with her because you find her sexy and desirable, huh?” Satoru butts in the conversation again, hand resting on his hip, gazing down at the two of you with a squint.

You feel like the only thing you’re doing for the past minutes is staring at one, and then at the other, each time more baffled by their words.

Is there a competition taking place at his house this friday night? Are they competing to see which one will make you actually lose your cool first? If so, they’re all winning very soon.

“Never said I don’t.” He shrugs and lets out a yawn, finally getting up from the couch. “Anyway, drop the jealousy. I’m heading out. You kids have fun.”

So he gives your head a brief pat and leaves.

What are you, five?

Maybe he believes he’s really much older than the rest of you.

And what did he mean by 'never said I don't?'

You know what?

The week was too long, you are too worn out, you’re not about to read too much into it.

Let it go and enjoy the night with the boys.

You let yourself relax a little, forcing Satoru to agree not discussing any more band related things until after Maki leaves tomorrow, so you spend the rest of the night watching some horror movies with them.

All of you perched up in Satoru’s bed with a bowl of popcorn Suguru insisted on making.

There’s no movie without popcorn, he threatened, so now the three of you have to make sure no one gets scared enough to drop it on the bedroom floor or over the bed.

Goma is there, unphased, laying over the cozy blankets across the bed.

Suguru spends most of the time with his eyes closed or with his head hidden under the covers, he can’t handle the scary parts.

And neither can you, but you’re putting on your brave face and pretending you’re not absolutely terrified by the horrible creatures showing up on the screen — or the horrifying scenes of gore.

You need to remember to thank Suguru for playing a cartoon right after the movie ended.

Satoru wanted to sleep right away, so you two gave him good night but kept the TV on, which made him huff and groan, but tag along and watch it with you, laying his head on your shoulder and even making a few comments about the episodes being actually nice for a kids’ show.

You don’t remember falling asleep, but when you wake up it's near ten in the morning and you're really cozy, cuddled in Satoru’s arms.

Suguru would be spooning you if it wasn’t for Goma snuggling up between the two of you, his arms around her and his face shoved in her black fur.

Was that okay? Did you hug him mid sleep and he didn’t notice?

You try to slowly peel yourself off him, but his arms are wrapped really tight around you. He grumbles when you try again and slightly opens his eyes, tilting down his head to look at your flushed face through half opened eyes.

You say nothing but your heart is pounding hard when you look up at him, eyes wide and filled with doubt.

Satoru presses his lips against the top of your head and inhales deeply before falling back asleep, bringing you even closer to him. He smells like gardenias, and he's so warm, so comfortable you can't help but softly nuzzle his chest and close your eyes.

Relieved, you breathe deeply and allow yourself to sleep again.

*****

Saturday

The day passes so fast you barely register it. Feels like it all went in a blur.

The apartment is absolute chaos.

Bags backpacks stacked by the door, the faint smell of Maki’s shampoo lingering in the bathroom.

She hugs you hard enough to bruise.

“Call me. No matter the hour.”

You nod, swallowing glass.

You know you won’t.

At the airport, you wave until your arm aches. Then she’s gone.

That night, Yuji drags his suitcase and backpack into the apartment, grinning like he’s about to announce free pizza.

“Don’t worry, roomie, I’ll keep the place clean. And no weird smells. Promise.”

You let out a shaky laugh and help him to accommodate.

Maki insisted you take her bedroom, it was bigger and had her posters and some things she left you in the closet. So, before Yuji arrived, you were able to move your things from one room to the other and clean up the apartment a bit.

“I’ll hold you to that. And the cooking promise, too.”

He gives you a bright smile and thanks you once again for letting him move in.

You notice he starts to motion for a hug, you feel your pulse rising slightly, but he stops himself immediately, giving you a slight bow with his head before going to make himself comfortable in his new bedroom.

Maki told him. Or maybe he noticed by himself.

He's a very good kid.

The silence later that night was already different.

Not empty. Just… lingering.

Chapter Text

Is it Really You?

It’s already afternoon, you didn’t have a terrible night of sleep paralysis or night terrors this time, but you can’t say you slept very well either.

Restless sleep is still bad. The pills don't quite make miracles, you know.

Too many dreams, too many tossing and turning around, and you feel like you’ve slept less than four hours total. So much for planning on having a quiet, uneventful Sunday.

You spent the first part of the day touching up the designs to show Satoru later. The bad mood didn’t interfere much with this task, you actually liked all the projects you doodled, all the small details you added and the overall look of the fantasies.

Going with the full anonymity of the band’s members would be a challenge, but you promised you’d make it work. You just need to think about the materials now, and how to make it in a way they wouldn’t pass out and still be able to breathe, see, sing… and everything else on a live show.

You press the bottom of your palms into your closed eyes and sigh. You better do something else for a while and stop thinking about it before you start crying, you can figure it out later.

There's still time.

The apartment now feels different with Yuji in it. Not worse, not better — just different.

Where Maki moved around with elegant precision and unspoken rhythms you’d long memorized, Yuji bumbles.

He drags his suitcase over the threshold, half-apologizing when it bumps into the doorframe. He kicks his shoes off in the wrong spot, then corrects himself with a sheepish grin.

You don’t actually mind, but you’re glad he’s trying his best to keep it all clean and organized. It would be terrible to share a house with someone that has no regard for the place they’re sharing with you.

He takes up space in the living room like he belongs there already, folding into the couch with a sigh so heavy it rattles the cushions.

You hover at your bedroom’s doorway, arms crossed and a slight crease forming between your eyebrows. It’s not mistrust — you learned to trust Yuji. It’s… dissonance, you think.

The silence that used to be Maki’s, now filled with his chatter and laughter.

Later, you find him in the kitchen unpacking groceries he picked up on the way to the apartment from the game he told you he would watch. Eggs, rice, miso packets, even some vegetables.

It’s more than you or Maki ever bought.

You and her were used to eating out a lot, or to grab some food to go and share in the apartment. It would be nice to have homemade meals every once in a while.

“You really cook?” you ask, skeptical.

He grins. “I try. You’ll be my test subject.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Great. Can’t wait to die of food poisoning.”

He laughs so loudly it startles you, the kind of laugh that ricochets off walls and makes them feel less empty.

Night drags on and you don't do much more than enjoy the apartment and talk with Yuji about his plans and how he’s doing at college.

You lie awake in bed for a long time, staring at the ceiling, tired but the neverending anxiety is there with you. The apartment creaks differently. Heavier footsteps, a cough through the thin wall, the faint buzz of Yuji’s phone, his laugh at probably some text or meme.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re not alone.

He’s safe.

You’re safe.

Sleep paralysis grips you just before dawn.

You wake — or you think you're awake — to the weight on your chest increasing, the room too still, too silent.

You're not safe.

A shadow at the corner of your vision, slowly falling to its haunches before it starts to move towards you, not natural, not human. You try to move, to scream, but your body ignores you.

A familiar panic claws at your throat, leaving you slick with sweat as your tears start to roll out from the corners of your eyes.

It's just a nightmare, it's not real, this isn't real.

You close your eyes tight, whispering to yourself, but it doesn’t make it go away. Your breath starts to catch and become ragged.

It lingers, it crawls up your bed, its weight pressing you down further on the mattress.

More tears roll from the corner of your eyes and a few pool in your ears, others vanish into your hair and pillow.

Even now you hope your quiet sobs don't disturb Yuji.

You keep your eyes shut and pray for it to end soon as you dig your nails in your palms.

It’s the only thing you can bring yourself to do.

*****

By morning, Yuji’s already in the kitchen, humming off-key while he burns eggs in a pan.

He greets you with a sunny “Good morning, roomie!” that feels almost obscene against your exhaustion.

You sit at the table, sipping your bitter coffee, eyes fixed on the steam rising from the cup.

You probably look like shit, god knows it’s exactly how you feel.

Then, casually, like he’s offering you sugar, he starts a conversation.

“So… about Sukuna.”

Your head snaps up, your eyes widen and you look at him, blinking.

“What about him?”

Yuji shrugs, flipping the egg with a spatula that sticks.

“You need a drummer. He’s free. He's good. Did you get to talk to him yet?”

You stare at his back in silence, then you sigh.

For some reason when he talks about him the name is not heavy in the air — opposite to the smell of charred breakfast he’s making.

Everyone that’s into the rock and college bands scene knows Sukuna, or so you believe. Black Halberd is an old and big enough band to be known around the city. Everyone heard or read somewhere about the walk-off. It was even on TikTok.

Contrary to a few, you don’t frown or wince when people mention him or his bad reputation, but right now with Yuji leaning casually against the counter, a plate of what he intends to feed you on his hand and his eyes on your face, you feel a little pressured.

You’ve felt Sukuna’s presence in class, it’s not amicable.

The scar across the right side of his face and all the stories people tell of how he got it, are like a big warning sign to keep your distance.

“You’re serious,” you mutter.

“Dead serious.” Yuji stabs at the egg, gives up, and slides the mess onto your plate.

“Look— he’s rough. But he’ll show up. It may not look like but he’s really responsible. And he won’t let anyone push him around. He’s what you need right now.”

How could he know what you need?

You don’t answer right away.

You sip a little bit more of your coffee, Yuji sits across you at the table with his own plate of toast and eggs. You two are now ready to share the first of many meals this boy plans on preparing — give you both survive this trial.

“Plus, if you need, I know where he lives. We can go there and kick his ass or something if he does something stupid with you or the guys.”

The thought of Yuji trying to fight Sukuna made you chuckle and maybe consider that this boy was a little bit delusional.

You really like his confidence.

“You’re laughing now but I’ve become stronger in the past few years, I can take him in a fight.” He points his half eaten toast at you.

You mutter a totally not convinced ‘sure, sure’ before giving a try to the egg and the toast. It tastes a little burnt, but the seasoning is very good.

Somehow he managed to get a soft yolk with a burned base? Pure technique.

“By the way, why do you know where he lives?” You ask mid-chewing, realizing just now that he said that like it was a very normal information to hold.

“He still lives at our old family house, it’s not far from the campus, and I still have the key.”

Oh.

Our old family house.

Our?

You stop chewing and just stare at Yuji for a moment.

There are some resemblances…

“He’s your brother!?” You exclaim, and much to his delight you look really surprised by that conclusion.

“You didn’t know? We basically have the same hair, I mean…” He sneers at your shock. “But yeah, he’s my older half-brother. It’s good you realized it now before I have to explain why he’s sitting on the couch on some random weekend when you get home. Not that I think he’s coming to visit.”

The idea of Sukuna in your apartment, in your band, makes you a little tense.

Ominous, unsettling, unpredictable — he's like the silence before thunder.

You never know where or when it's gonna hit. But it will.

You also see the logic behind the inevitable decision you need to make.

That’s probably the reason you didn’t get too much out of your way to find someone else. It’s like he’s meant to be the drummer. Like a fresh start not only for the band, but also for him.

Where people won’t know who anyone is behind the masks.

His name now carries weight, bad reputation. Maybe too much of it for any band to recruit him.

And you still think his side should be heard.

You drink the rest of your coffee, reasoning with yourself before you get ready to go to college.

A week.

That’s the deadline you gave yourself to find someone else.

If you don’t, it’s gonna be him.

*****

The music theory classroom empties slowly, chairs scraping across the floor, chatter filling the room.

You say bye to Utahime and tuck your stray notes and music sheets inside your notebook, already rehearsing the to-do list for the night — Satoru’s drafts, half your assignment on Stravinsky, your shift later. And of course, convincing Yuji’s big bro to play in your band.

He could have asked him on your behalf, couldn't he?

When you step into the hall, Sukuna is already there. Again.

Didn’t he attend the class this morning? Or maybe he just left very quickly and… stuck around waiting for someone. Maybe Yuji.

You gave up on trying to understand anything that had to do with him, you don’t have the brains for that today, instead, you gather up every single ounce of courage you have and walk up to him with the best, most polite smile you can pull.

Somehow you feel like you’re walking towards your execution. This knot in your stomach needs to go, nothing is going to happen!

He’s just a guy.

You can try to think of him as a beefier, scarier, straighter, taller Yuji.

Keep telling yourself that in loop, maybe it helps.

Leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest like last time, expression carved from stone. His scar catches the light harshly, dragging your gaze before you can stop yourself.

You feel like you could die right now, explode in a million pieces. What the fuck is this anxiety boiling up inside you?

What is your problem?

Your pulse betrays you, quickening in ways you refuse to aknowledge.

His eyes flick up, catching you. They linger too long on the notebook you hold tight in your arms, pressed against your chest.

“Took you long enough,” he says when you stop in front of him.

Was he waiting for you?

The hall is half full, students crossing, walking, talking and deciding if they’re willing to attend the next class or just skip it.

You pause, fingers tightening on your notebook, eyebrows knitting together. “You know me?”

“Yuji told me about you.”

Yuji told him you needed a drummer? Did he know it, saw you every other monday and decided to say nothing? Does this mean he has no interest in joining the band?

That train of thoughts makes your stomach tighten. You tilt your head, humming sarcastically, like that’s the only way to talk to him without showing how nervous you are.

When one mask fails there's always another ready to be used.

“Should I be flattered or worried?”

“Said you’re breaking your back holding your little project together.” He coos at you, there’s no kindness in his tone. It’s almost mocking, as if he’s testing whether you’ll bend with just a few words. “Also, you look like shit.” He cocks his head, raising his slit brow.

Ugly little thing.

You laugh in disbelief.

What an absolute piece of shit.

You’re aware you have dark circles under your eyes and your skin is probably paler than usual. You haven't slept well since last Friday.

Does it mean he needs to be an asshole about it?

“That’s uncalled for.” You raise your chin and feel something ugly unravel inside you. “But yeah, I’ve been managing some things on my own. It’s called responsibility. You should try it sometime.” Your tone is flat.

The corner of his lips twinges for a second. You grin.

For a heartbeat, his stare sharpens and you feel like it’s cutting right through your veneer.

You don’t look away, though you want to.

That’s what annoys you most — your own nerves, the strange current under your skin when his attention pins you down.

When hurt, you often try to step back, retreat, shrink.

But the only thing you felt at his comment was the need to bite back.

He pushes off the wall, stepping closer and towering over you, the air feels heavier.

Too close.

Your heart is trying to break through your ribcage.

You don't step back and keep your eyes locked in his dark crimson eyes. He stares at you very closely.

“You want a drummer.” he drawls. It isn’t a question.

“I want a drummer that won’t bail on me.” You hiss the answer between your teeth, furrowing once again your brows.

Why is talking to him so nerve wrecking?

He tilts his head, studying you the way a predator studies prey — not quite hungry, but curious about how long it will take for it to realize its situation. He clicks his tongue, annoyed.

“And you think you can find better than me anytime soon?” he scoffs. There it is again, the vicious mockery.

You swallow the lump in your throat, but you force back a polite smile.

“Oh, that’s a lot of arrogance for someone like you. You think you can commit? Or you’re walking as soon as someone disagrees with you?”

That low blow lands with your venomous words.

You don't even know if that's what really happened.

And what the fuck do you mean by 'someone like you'?

His jaw ticks, but instead of snapping, he laughs, a low, gravely sound that sends a chill crawling down your spine and makes you lose your posture for a second. “You’ve got teeth. Let's see if you do more than just bark, brat.” he drawls once again, savoring his words.

You want to ask why he has been watching you.

Why, out of all people, he keeps finding your eyes across the room.

But you don’t. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing you also have been watching him.

Instead, you brush past him, muttering, “We’ll see if you’re worth the trouble.”

He lets you go, but you feel his gaze burn between your shoulder blades until you turn the corner.

You walk faster than necessary, notebook still pressed too tight against your chest. The second corner comes quicker than you expect, and only then do you let your breath slip out, shaky, like you’ve been holding it hostage since Sukuna first opened his mouth.

And you feel like you will throw up and pass out at the same time.

You have no idea of what possessed you to face him like you did, and you’re now wondering if you blew the chances of making him join you.

Pathetic.

You should have been passive, submissive and polite. Maybe beg a bit for him to join your band so you could tell Satoru you finally have everything under control.

You don’t get this nervous around people.

You never let them see you sweat, never let them see you cry. And yet — there is him.

It’s infuriating.

The tattoos, the scar, the tone, the way he just looks at you like he could peel your thoughts back with a glance.

You hate that your body reacts at all.

What are you? A fucking teenager?

Sure, he’s really hot. But he's also Yuji’s older brother. Half-brother. And he’s terrible — and everyone around him seems to agree.

If Maki was still around you could ramble about this to her until she shoved some sense inside your head.

But you won't distract her with your terrible decision making and complete lack of self preservation. She's across the ocean dealing with her new journey and challenges.

She doesn't have time for you.

Heat is crawling up your neck and then there's the tiny flutter in your chest you’d rather blame on Yuji’s breakfast or too much caffeine.

Yuji said it was a good idea.

Gojo said it was dangerous and unreliable.

And still — he’s the best drummer you could possibly get on a week deadline.

You look like shit.

“Well, fuck you too.” You mumble to yourself and bite the inside of your cheek when your thoughts circle back at him.

He knew about you. Or at least, he knew enough to talk confidently about your band.

And your appearance.

Yuji must’ve opened his mouth and spilled things you never intended for Sukuna of all people to hear.

But how much did Yuji know?

Maybe Maki told him more than you thought.

Or maybe she just vented to Yuji about band things and he commented with his brother...?

It doesn’t sound much like her, nor like something Yuji would do, but it’s a possibility.

You’re breaking your back holding everything together.

You want to laugh at the phrasing.

You’ve been breaking your back since you were a child, since your own house turned into a battlefield.

This struggle is nothing compared to that.

And yet you’re doing it again and again — patching holes, keeping the frame from collapsing, making sure no one else sees the cracks in the foundation.

You care so much about the band, about your friends, about this family of sorts Maki pulled together for you.

You can't let them down, no matter what.

You duck into the campus courtyard, slipping past clusters of students lingering in the late spring sun. The air smells like roasted chestnuts from a vendor cart by the gates.

Warm, human, grounding.

Unfortunately, your thoughts circle back to him anyway.

You think you can find better than me anytime soon?

You hate that the answer is no.

No, you fucking can’t.

You hate even more that his arrogance feels so earned.

The rumors, the walk-off, the viral video — they all say the same thing.

Sukuna Ryomen is impossible. But he’s also undeniable.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. A text from Satoru.

Toru:

Don’t forget the lyric drafts by tonight.
Big things coming! You got this, my little star!🌟

You sigh, half a laugh, half exhaustion.

Of course.

Another chore, another plate to spin.

But Satoru’s words are warm, you really don’t want to let him down, of all people.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, Sukuna’s voice lingers still. Gravelly, mocking, mean, impossible to shake.

You tell yourself it’s just an annoyance.

It has to be.

*****

You’re so small when it begins.

Too small to understand why your mother doesn’t come when you cry at night. Why her footsteps retreat down the hall instead of drawing closer.

Too small to know why her new boyfriend’s eyes linger too long on your body, why the air shifts when he enters the room. Why you’re afraid of him since the first time she introduced you two.

You tell your mother you don’t like him. She keeps dating him anyway. Later you understand she's obsessed with him.

At first, it’s words.

Pathetic. Useless. Ugly little thing.

The words repeat so often you start to believe them, like a song played until it etches grooves into your bones.

His voice becomes the one you hear when you hesitate, when you fail, when you’re too loud or too quiet, when the anxiety creeps in.

Stop crying. No one is coming for you.

You flinch at the slam of doors.

At the crack of his belt against the counter.

At the weight of silence that means he’s angry and waiting.

Waiting for you.

You’re older now, but not too old, you’re barely ten.

Then, hands are added to the words.

Worthless bitch. You're a nuisance.

The first time he grabs you, your mother’s in the kitchen too.

She doesn’t look up. Doesn’t see the way his grip bruises your wrist. Doesn’t hear your breath stumble in your throat as you swallow a cry.

Or maybe she does, but chooses not to.

The nights are the worst part of it all.

Touches are added to the words and hands.

Your mother needs pills to sleep since your father passed away. She is always out cold after a while, but sometimes he doesn't even wait for her to be asleep.

The air is thick, unbreathable, when you wake up unable to move out of sheer fear.

Your body is frozen while the shape of a man hangs in the dark corner of your room. A silhouette that feels too real to be just your imagination. His shadow slinks into your bed like it belongs there, pinning you down while you tell yourself it’s just your mind, this is just a nightmare — but your body remembers, you know it’s not a nightmare.

This is real.

Your body knows even though you try to forget it all in the morning.

You're good for nothing. All you have to offer is your body.

You learn to be quiet. To make yourself small. To fold into corners so you won’t be noticed. To avoid him at every cost. But he finds you sooner or later, often at night, often in your bedroom.

Take it quietly. Don't tell your mother. She won't believe you anyway.

You learn sarcasm later, much later, as armor.

But back then, you have nothing.

Just silence. Just survival.

You start to snatch a few of your mother’s pills to sleep. It makes it a little more bearable when he has his hands on you. When his body is pressing yours down against the mattress.

And you're the one left feeling dirty.

You even think of ending it all before you’re even thirteen, but you can’t do this to your mother. You remember how she was when she lost her husband.

You don’t want to hurt her even though she doesn’t seem to care if her boyfriend hurts you.

Back then, Maki is the first to see you. Really see you.

You meet her when you’re still raw and brittle, a kid with walls instead of skin.

She doesn’t push. She just sits with you. Brings snacks, drags you outside, fights for you when you can’t fight for yourself. She talks to you even though you don’t talk back to her.

Slowly, painfully, you begin to believe that maybe not every hand raised toward you is meant to hurt. Not every word is meant to pierce your skin.

But the scars don’t fade.

They surface when a man raises his voice too loud near you, when someone moves too quick, too close.

They surface in the way your stomach knots if you catch your reflection and hear his words — pathetic, useless, ugly little thing — like he’s still lodged inside your skull.

Now, years later, you carry it with you.

Into every rehearsal, every class, every late night staring at a ceiling where shadows twist into the memory of him.

You laugh, you joke, you keep busy, because if you stop moving, stop pretending, the silence comes back.

And in the silence, you hear him.

You never told the band. Never will.

Only Maki knows. And when she left, you wondered if you were going to break.

Or if you’ll find a way to keep standing alone, the way you always have.

But she was there then, she was always by your side keeping you safe from the episodes without even realizing.

You don't want to burden anyone else with this whole mess that you are, so you clench your mask and press it tight to your face.

At least you have the pills to help you when things get hard.

The bell above the record store door rattles and makes a loud bang against the wall echoes when someone shoves it open too hard. The sound is sharp, sudden, and it hits your chest like a fist. You freeze for half a second behind the counter, fingers still clutching the edge of a vinyl sleeve, your eyes widen and you feel your breath coming to a halt.

It’s nothing.

Just some guy walking in with too much energy, already lost in his own conversation. But the way the metal clangs against the frame rattles straight down your spine.

Your breath shortens for a moment. Your stomach turns heavy. You drop the sleeve back into the crate before your hands can shake.

And suddenly you’re eight again.

The slam of a door, the thud of boots against the hallway floor. Your stepfather’s shadow stretching long across the linoleum. His voice, low and sharp — pathetic, useless, ugly little thing.

You swallow and shake your head softly, but the words don’t leave. They’ve lived inside you for years, calcified in the marrow of your bones.

It’s been a while since something took you back this far.

Since a loud noise triggered any memory and made it all resurface.

The terrible sleep and the stress are catching up to you.

The man’s laugh, the one who came into the store, echoes in your ears too loud, too close. And you’re pinned. Back in that night when you woke up and couldn’t move, body stiff with terror while his shape loomed right above you.

Your pulse spikes. Your nails dig into your palm as if that will anchor you here, in the store, in the present.

“Hey.”

It’s Mr. Takahashi, standing there, looking at you with a kind of concern you didn’t know he had. It pulls you back like a hook to the chest.

You blink, and the shadow dissolves. Just customers now, flipping through shelves, the bell above the door swaying a bit quieter.

You nod once and force your mouth into a small curve.

“Yeah. Just zoned out, sorry!”

You’re good at that line.

You’ve used it a hundred times.

But your heart still beats like you're running.

Your skin hums with the memory. And you know tonight, when you’re alone in bed, the shadows will come back.

They always do.

Chapter Text

Throne

Sukuna POV

Sukuna wipes his forehead with the back of his wrist, streaking gray across skin already smudged with grime. His palms are raw from the jackhammer since he doesn’t wear gloves.

Gloves dull the bite, and he likes the sting. It keeps him sharp at work, and this is a kind of work you need to be attentive at all times if you want to go home in one piece. He has seen men losing fingers, feet and even teeth — all because they were preoccupied with something else, their minds unaware of their surroundings.

Idiots.

Toji is also there, hunched over a stack of rebar, sweat soaking through his tank top.

The man doesn’t talk much. When he does, it’s curt, practical — measurements, orders, the occasional gruff joke about the younger guys slowing them down. 

Out of everyone here, Toji is the only one worth tolerating.

Sukuna isn't friendly and everything about him screams unapproachable.

Six foot five, built thick through the shoulders and chest, his frame is the kind that comes from years of lifting steel and being active — not because he wanted, because he needed to. And definitely not from carefully curated gym regimens.

His body is functional, all dense muscle and sharp lines, with veins that ridge his forearms and crawl up his neck when his temper rises or when he pushes the drums too hard. There is nothing clean or polished about him — he looks like someone carved out of stone and left rough on purpose. His hands, large and calloused, carry the history of work and fights, most of them won.

The burn scar that runs down the right side of his face — temple to jaw — isn’t grotesque, but it’s raw enough to command attention from everyone who crosses his path. People look once, and then again, unable to decide whether to glance away out of fear or stare longer out of compulsion.

He's used to it at this point but he never lets a chance of scare people away go unenjoyed.

Not only the scar brings people's attention to himself, his tattoos are also very eye catching.

Ink covers his body like armor. Not delicate designs or colorful flourishes, but stark blackwork, bold enough to look like it’s etched into him with violence.

Bands bite around his biceps, thick blocks and geometric lines coming down his chest in a hook-like design. The heavy piece across his back spreads up his nape in tapering points, visible when his shirt collar slips. There’s no narrative in them — no dragons, no portraits — only shapes that suggest permanence, weight, and menace. Calamity.

In low light, they give him the silhouette of something ritualistic, as if he wears shadows painted into his skin. On stage, sweat slicking his chest, the tattoos gleam under the lights, turning him into something more than a man — a presence, an altar, an executioner.

He relishes in this vision.

He never slouches, but he doesn’t stand rigid either; his posture is loose in a way that makes people feel nervous, weight carried forward, balanced like he could strike or walk away without hesitation. His gaze is narrow, unblinking, heavy with the kind of attention that makes you feel stripped bare when it falls on you.

He has a habit of tapping rhythms on whatever’s in reach — thighs, counters, his own jaw — as though his body needs constant outlets for its energy. When he does speak, it’s short, dry, clipped, every word sharpened until it cuts.

And when he doesn’t speak, the silence is worse, because people start imagining what he’s thinking, and nobody ever imagines anything good. They're not far from the truth, though.

Yet, you look at him with something he doesn't recognize. There's no fear, no dread, no rejection, instead there's some morbid curiosity that keeps bringing you back even after he shows you no kindness.

It irritates him.

A foreman yells across the scaffolding, voice cracking against the clatter of steel. Sukuna doesn’t look up, he just keeps driving the jackhammer deeper until the ground trembles, the vibration crawling into his bones.

When he finally cuts it, he takes a minute and lights a cigarette right there in the dust, taking a long, slow drag that feels so damn needed.

Someone tells him smoking’s not allowed on-site.

He blows the smoke in their direction and takes another slow drag, knowing too damn well no one is coming to make him put it out.

Break comes, and Toji drops beside him on a slab of concrete holding two bottles of water. They clink onto the ground — one slides toward Sukuna’s boot.

Toji doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look at him, just unscrews his own cap and drinks, watching the other men working, a few pretending to work.

Sukuna holds his cig between his lips and picks his bottle up eventually, drinking it all in a few seconds. He focused so much on getting the job done that he didn’t realize he was so thirsty.

His phone buzzes and he almost ignores it, but the name flashing across the cracked screen makes his lip curl.

Mahito.

Prick:

Heard you’re playing construction worker now. Cute ♡ Wanna come drink tonight?

Sukuna stares at the message, smoke curling from between his teeth before he smashes the cigarette butt against the concrete.

He leaves it on read. No time to spend with this kind of nuisance right now.

Another ping. Needy bitch.

Prick:

Kenjaku’s got us new gigs. Jogo says we’ll bury you. Don’t sulk forever, King ☆

He shuts the screen off. Tosses the phone down onto the slab so it rattles, Toji glances at it but remains unphased, it’s not his phone, it’s not his problem if it breaks even more.

Let them yap. Black Halberd can rot.

He walked out and they know they’ll never find another drummer that hits like him.

It eats at them, that helplessness, and that’s why they keep reaching.

Sukuna stretches his neck until it pops, scars tugging faintly across the right side of his face. The burn aches in the sun, though he never lets anyone notice any sign of discomfort.

Sunscreen something he doesn’t believe in. Never had time for this self care bullshit.

He remembers Yuji staring at it when they were kids, too young to understand what fire does to flesh.

Too young to know it could’ve been worse, so, so much worse.

He lights another cigarette, flicks ash at the dirt, mutters under his breath.

“Trash.”

Toji glances at him just for a moment, smirks and then goes back to whatever the fuck he got to do before finishing the day.

That’s another reason Sukuna doesn’t mind him — he doesn’t pry.

The rest of the shift passes in sweat and monotony. Steel clanging, men cursing, heat pressing down. At least it’s Friday, so he can enjoy the next two days off.

Sukuna bizarrely thrives in this kind of job.

With this part time job he realized he doesn’t need the noise of a stage to feel alive — chaos follows him wherever he steps, and building things, blowing shit up and carrying heavy materials keep his mind occupied.

It’s also a place where he can let his strength and anger overflow when needed.

By evening, when it’s time to clock out, Sukuna nods toward the convenience store across the street. “Beer?”

Toji finally smirks.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

As they walk, his phone buzzes again.

A different name this time. Yuji.

He unlocks it. The message is short.

Pest:

Hey, oniisan . Remember my friend I told you about? She might reach out. Don’t be a dick.

Sukuna huffs a laugh, shoving the phone into his pocket.

Like that’s possible.

Still, the idea gets a hold on him.

He’s heard whispers about Gods Beneath collapsing, and Yuji told him about Maki leaving the band when he showed up to visit their old family house where Sukuna still lives to this day. He liked to show up uninvited to have dinner with him, called it brother bonding time. At least Sukuna made him pay for food delivery, refusing to eat his shitty burnt food.

He’s caught sight of the girl — of you, his brother’s friend — in classes, always scribbling, always tired, barely being able to handle all of your projects and yet accepting new ones. You didn’t seem to know how to refuse something.

Sometimes he catches you staring back at him.

Sometimes he also overhears you talking back to a professor before backpedaling and apologizing. It’s a little entertaining to watch you try to hide your true self behind so many masks and bury your personality beneath layers and layers of what looks like people pleasing.

He knows that type very well.

Carries the world but refuses to show the weight.

His brother also does this kind of shit, it’s nerve-wracking.

He imagines what your voice would sound like breaking under pressure.

Not in weakness — no, he’s not interested in weak people.

He’s interested in challenges and defiance.

He’s interested in potential.

That sharp little tongue of yours, biting back when you should fold.

The thought amuses him enough to make him grin as he and Toji cross the street, boots crunching gravel before the little ding of the convenience store announces new customers arriving.

“I’ll have just one. Gotta rehearse tonight. Will go to the Devil’s Throat after, you’re free to join.”

Toji picks two cans of cold beer from the refrigerator, tosses one towards Sukuna and pays for both without asking.

Maybe he should join him later. He could use some fun after those wicked fucking weeks of dread and disgust.

*****

The bar stinks of beer left too long in warm glasses, cheap cologne, cigarette smoke that clings to the ceiling like fog, and maybe stale piss.

Sukuna shoulders his way in behind Toji, ignoring the people who glance and then look away just as quickly.

He’s hard to miss — even if they weren't huge, there’s always the ink crawling up his neck and face, the scar, and the aura of someone who’ll break a jaw for fun.

They claim a booth at the far back, away from the stage where some half-decent cover band is grinding through a tired Metallica set. Sukuna sprawls into the corner seat, one arm stretched across the backrest, tattoos disappearing under the rolled sleeves of his black shirt. Toji orders an ice bucket filled with beer bottles without asking.

Finally, a night with great potential.

When the bottles land, Toji lifts his with a nod. Sukuna smirks and clinks his own lazily against it. Foam spills down the bottle’s neck when they tip it back.

The first swallow is bitter, ice cold.

Perfect.

Toji sets his bottle down. “You working tomorrow?”

“Yeah, probably.” He should rest and enjoy his days off, he wanted to, but he could use the extra money.

He flicks his lighter, lights a cigarette right there in the booth as the waitress heading towards them hesitates, but decides not to bother him.

“Foreman’s bitching about deadlines. Thinks we’ll magic steel outta thin air.”

Toji grunts, amused.

“You’re still better at that site than most of the kids fresh outta school. And a few old men, too.”

“Low bar,” Sukuna says around smoke. “And here I thought we were bonding.”

The cover band finishes one song, stumbles into another.

Sukuna leans back, tilts his head to rest over the backrest and blows the smoke up, bored already. His scar is twinging a bit still from the excess sun.

At least it’s not bothering too much now.

“Pathetic. Half these assholes can’t even tune their instruments right and still they’re hired to play.”

Toji raises an eyebrow.

“Coming from the guy who bailed mid-set.”

Sukuna’s grin sharpens, teeth bared, he straightens his posture again.

“Difference is— I meant it.”

Toji scoffs and Sukuna’s phone buzzes against the table. A text lights the cracked screen.

Mahito.

Again.

Prick:

Out tonight. Come through. You know you miss it 👅

Sukuna thumbs the screen dark, jaw tightening for half a second before his smirk returns.

“Persistent little fucker.”

“Kenjaku’s still mad you walked,” Toji drawls. He doesn’t ask, just states it like it’s fact. “Mahito too. They’ll keep needling.”

Toji showed up every now and then on Black Halberd shows. He actually enjoyed the band and their sound.

Besides not talking much, they became somewhat colleagues.

Toji was the one who reached out to Sukuna after a few days and recommended him for his boss on the worksite, he owes his current job to him.

But calling them friends seems a bit too much.

“They can needle all they want.” Sukuna exhales smoke slow once again, deliberate. “They’ll never replace me. They know it.”

The waitress swings back to drop another round. She’s flustered when Sukuna’s gaze pins her — too steady — but he doesn’t say anything, just lets the silence stretch until she hurries off.

“You scare people for fun, huh?” Toji chuckles.

Sukuna shrugs, humming.

“Keeps the air clear.”

The band finishes another song, and some drunk college kids cheer like they just saw god descend. Sukuna snorts into his beer.

His phone buzzes once more.

Yuji this time.

Pest:

Moving into her place tomorrow. Told her you might be around. Be nice, oniisan.

Sukuna smirks.

“Be nice,” he mocks under his breath, amused by the joke only he hears.

Toji catches the tone, glances at him sideways.

“What’re you getting yourself into now?”

“Nothing.” Sukuna drains his bottle, smoke curling out of his nose before he puts the cigarette away on the ashtray. “Yet. But you might start seeing me around a bit more.”

He stays restless, even as the night blurs into cigarettes and more bottles.

Because beneath the chaos, beneath the irritation, there’s the itch of something new creeping toward him.

He doesn’t know if it’s trouble or opportunity.

Doesn’t matter.

Either way, he’ll take it.

*****

The second time you come up to him, Sukuna can’t help the little curl that ghosts at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile — more like the twitch of a man who finds something mildly entertaining in a world otherwise dull.

He’s standing outside the campus practice hall, chain-smoking where the faculty can’t complain, when you approach.

Small steps, steady enough, but your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag like you’re bracing yourself for a blow.

He makes you anxious.

He picks up easily on things like that.

You don’t flinch around him, though. That’s what makes you just a little different, more bearable.

Most people see the ink on his skin, the scar burning across his cheek and eye, the deadness in his eyes, and they either retreat or bristle.

But you keep your chin lifted, voice calm, professional even. So polite. And you don't avert your gaze even when he makes it uncomfortable on purpose. You don’t step back when he closes the space between you, even though he knows you want to. He feels your instincts kicking and you fighting them. Fighting him.

You explain again what the band needs as if he doesn’t already know. You briefly mention a deadline, and he knew it very well, it was a matter of fact that he enjoyed toying with your nerves by asking you if you already found another drummer that was better than him just to see your jaw tightening and you brushing him off.

You talk like someone who’s trying not to show you’re asking for a favor.

He should make you beg, that would be fun to watch.

Would your pride be put above the needs of your little band?

Sukuna doesn’t answer you right away, he takes another slow drag, letting the silence stretch as you wait patiently.

He likes watching people twitch in it, but it doesn’t seem to affect you that much. Pity.

You’re just staring, waiting, foot tapping on the grass anxiously.

He flicks the cigarette, exhales.

“I'll let you know, brat.” He deadpans after all that expectation.

Not agreement nor refusal. Just a weight dropped between you both — he wants to keep you anchored. Maybe if he pushes the right buttons you would finally show him a little bit of what's beneath all that politeness. He'll keep stretching until you're so tense you snap, like a rubber band.

When you nod, he notices the faintest quiver in your throat. Not fear exactly.

Pure tension.

The kind that comes from shouldering too much without letting anyone else see.

Yuji’s mentioned you a few times, always telling him to be nice, to be decent, to treat you well because you have too much to deal with already — a poor, little thing.

How you’ve been drowning in the logistics, in the hole Maki’s departure leaves behind.

How you keep the band stitched together with quiet hands no one else notices.

It’s that image that lodges in him.

Yuji made you sound like a fucking martyr, a victim of the world. So many responsibilities, so many bad things happening with this poor girl.

Boo fucking hoo.

You could cry him a river, he wouldn't bat an eye.

He doesn’t do pity.

But you seem different from the version his little brother painted. You don’t want pity, you don’t even seem to want sympathy, you just look like you want to solve the problems you have in your hands and go through with the rest of your day — you look like you want to be left alone.

You seem like a type of person who drags themselves through shit because no one else will.

He knows that pattern.

He’s lived it.

He tells you again he might think about it when you talk to him on the next day.

Doesn’t give you the satisfaction of a yes or no yet.

Then he walks off once again, leaving you to carry that silence too.

*****

It’s already Thursday and he ends up at Yuji’s new apartment. Your apartment.

The kid begged him to come help haul boxes, though Sukuna does most of the lifting while Yuji chatters about campus nonsense.

The place is small, even by campus standards. He doesn’t need to know the floor plan to tell — two bedrooms at best, thin walls, doors that don’t close properly. The new place smells like cardboards and burnt fried eggs. Reminds him of the day Yuji moved out of the family’s house and wanted to cook something for him. Fucked up a pretty good frying pan. But under that there’s a sharper note: ink, fabric dye, maybe the faint acid tang of cigarettes smoked out on the balcony.

He notices because it clings to the curtains.

The genkan’s cluttered — Yuji's shoes piled, not lined, yours are organized. It tells him what kind of place this is: lived in, but not disciplined. Looks like Yuji really did make himself at home in no time. He's way too familiar with his brother's mess.

The kitchen is worse. He doesn’t bother opening the fridge, but he notes the sticky notes, the scrap-paper reminders. Desperate organization that still looks like chaos. 

The living space is a mess, though not the kind that comes from laziness.

Sketchpads spilling off the low table, papers pinned with pens and half-crumpled fabric swatches. He drags his eyes across the posters on the wall — some peeling at the corners, some drawn by hand — and can’t decide if it’s resourcefulness or childishness.

You’re there when he walks in, hair a little messy, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, face bare in a way he hasn’t seen before.

You look up from the floor where you’re kneeling over a half-assembled shelf, and for just a second, you don't put on the mask. No sarcasm, no carefully arranged composure, politeness or charm. Just wide, startled eyes and a flicker of vulnerability before you straighten, tuck it all back in.

Sukuna grins and lingers on the doorway, leaning against the frame after downing the heavy box for Yuji to sort his things out, he remains watching. Silent. He doesn’t have to do anything, really, he can feel you already fidgeting under his gaze.

His presence fills the room heavily, and you feel it — he can tell by the way your hand stills on the screwdriver, by the way your breath hitches before you exhale slowly and by the way your body wants to release tension by bouncing a leg or tapping a foot, but you suppress it.

Yuji’s oblivious, still rambling about how you agreed to help him decorate and how he has been cooking for you both everyday.

Sukuna doesn’t interrupt. He just listens to the endless talk and watches you pull your walls back up, piece by piece, until you’re the same calm girl who approached him on campus.

It’s something intriguing to watch, it may have taken you years to learn how to slip into a state of mind calm enough to cage the chaos.

You even give him a smile when you catch him staring once again, but he knows your true wish was to probably carve his skin with the screwdriver for the anxiety he's making you go through just for his own entertainment.

That’s when he decides he’s joining your project.

Not because the band needs him. Not because of Yuji. But because he wants to see how long it takes to crack your veneer completely. How hard he can push you until you break and unleash your anger or whatever it is that you're so adamant to hide.

He wants to see what's buried deep inside.

Because something about the way you refuse to flinch and retreat around him makes his blood stir.

He doesn’t tell anyone that is the reason, of course.

When asked, he’ll say it’s for the gigs, for the money, for the exposure, for the chance to pound his drums and remind the city he’s still here.

But underneath, it’s the quiet fire in your eyes when you shoot him a glare that makes him want to stay.

*****

Your POV

The apartment still feels a bit wrong without her. 

Yuji fills the silence with his laugh really often, his playlists, his endless energy, and you love him for it — but the absence still presses in when you close your eyes.

And then Sukuna starts showing up.

The first time it’s a Thursday evening when you’re trying to assemble a shelf for Yuji. He’s moving a few of his other boxes from the previous place to his bedroom and you agreed you’d help him decorate. After that you two could eat and watch something together. You didn’t expect his jerk of an older brother to tag along and show up while you fought for your life tightening a screw.

You don’t like new people in your space. That’s rule number one.

Sukuna isn’t just “people,” and maybe that’s worse.

He fills the apartment like he fills every room, too tall for the ceiling, too broad for the hallway, too silent for the amount of attention he drags with him. You tell yourself you’re fine, calm, polite, professional, all those nice words that mean don’t show your throat.

His eyes sweep through the genkan, the kitchen, the living space, like he’s cataloguing weak spots. Shoes piled by the door, sketches and fabric spilling over the table. You know exactly what he sees.

A fucking mess.

At least he was helping Yuji move his things, so you take a deep breath and recompose yourself. You even offer him a smile, as polite as you can be when caught off guard. And he ignores it, of course.

The next time you deal with him is on the following day, Friday night. You’re crouched on the living room floor, laptop balanced precariously on a stack of textbooks while you edit one of Satoru’s endless design requests. Yuji’s fussing with the kitchen, trying to figure out how the stove actually works, and then Sukuna is just… there.

You didn’t see him coming in nor you know when he arrived, but he’s leaning against the kitchen counter.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t offer a hello, but you can feel his eyes eating their way into you, so you fix your gaze on the lit screen in front of you once again after a quick check.

Why would he engage in something as trivial as common courtesy or politeness?

The all mighty Sukuna, above it all, no one is worth his good fucking night.

He stands there and watches his brother trying to impress him for a while.

You still feel his eyes long before you look up, a prickling awareness that makes your neck stiffen. The same hoodie from the previous night insists on sliding off one shoulder no matter how much you pull it up, your hair is… less messy, and you’re uncomfortably aware of how domestic you must look.

You force yourself not to fidget. You force yourself to keep scrolling through fonts, finding better material to work so you can forget about that unnerving feeling creeping up your spine.

When you finally glance up, his gaze doesn’t waver. It doesn’t ask permission either. It just pins you there like you’re something to dissect.

You’re torn between asking what’s his problem and just going back into your bedroom and leaving them be. But Yuji would probably be upset, and the last thing you need right now is this.

Yuji’s voice fills the silence, always oblivious, always excited. Sukuna doesn’t join in, doesn’t comment, doesn’t move, he lets the moment stretch until it feels unbearable, then pushes off the counter and passes by — close enough that you catch the heat of his body, the scent of smoke and sweat.

He locks the bathroom door behind him and Yuji lets you know that dinner will be served soon.

You hate that your heart stutters.

You hate that your hands tremble when you pick your laptop back up.

*****

Saturday comes and Satoru is on another one of his tirades. You’re at his place again, Suguru curled lazily into the couch, Toji perched on the armchair with a beer in hand. Satoru is pacing like a man with lightning under his skin, ideas spilling out faster than you can type.

“We drop vocals first — just vocals, no instruments — make people curious. Tease them. Maybe acapella? Or maybe with a piano…”

You arch a brow, pen paused mid-note. “You… already told us that, Satoru. Actually, you told me about it and asked a million things so we could make it work.” You frown, a little confused. He stops mid pace to look at you like it’s the first time he’s hearing about that.  “Actually the deadline is almost over but I found a drummer.”

“You sure?” He tilts his head a little and shrugs it off. “And of course you did, I never doubted you for a second. I could kiss you right now!”

Suguru mutters under his breath, “She’s brilliant because she’s the only one who puts up with your chaos and bullshit, Toru. We've stopped paying attention a while ago.”

Satoru ignores him. He drops onto the rug in front of you, very close, knees brushing yours. His hand brushes your ankle as he gestures wildly, you just keep up with the notes — because this is just how Satoru is, right?

He’s safe in that way, or at least you’ve convinced yourself of it.

But the look he gives you lingers a beat too long. Makes you think of Sukuna and the way he usually looks at you when you catch him staring randomly.

Like he’s searching for something.

And you wonder, for the first time, if maybe Satoru’s closeness isn’t just about comfort anymore.

Maybe there is something else you’re failing to realize.

He’s been very demanding of your attention lately, very clingy in a way you don’t fully understand. He picks you up more often to join him and he lights up visibly when you approve his chaotic ideas.

The roles seem inverted — it used to be the other way around, at least in your head.

You were the one always looking for his approval, but it looks like he’s keeping you as close as he can. Even Suguru complained that he was spending less time with him, his best friend, to spend time with you.

He says it’s because you’re the order to his chaos, but he couldn’t be more wrong.

He has that annoying, charming and calm façade.

But so do you.

You both wear masks to hide your true selves, and that’s probably why you can understand him and translate his emotions into lyrics so easily.

You’re both really chaotic and messy.

But you’re also broken beyond repair.

You wear your mask so tight, so often, that you think it’s starting to melt into your skin and become one with it.

You may be losing your true self.

But that’s okay, the real you would be a burden in the life of the people you love, so you need to keep this mask up at all times — for the greater good.

You need to be useful.

So people won’t leave you behind when they finish with you.

You try not to think too much about all the things your friends don’t know and never will about you.

This time you don’t spend the night over, Suguru stays but you had promised Yuji you would keep helping him out with his bedroom as soon as the sun is up on Sunday.

Toji gives you a ride. Satoru thinks it’s not a great idea since he just had a beer, but he scoffs and does it anyway.

And then he tells you on the way to your apartment about all the times he drove after drinking more than enough to send you into a coma.

This man is insane and you fear for you life, but just a little.

*****

Back at the apartment, you catch Sukuna again.

Is this fucker living here?

Yuji’s passed out on his bed, half-buried under blankets. Sukuna is sprawled on the three spots couch, changing the channels on the TV, but none seem to catch his attention for long enough.

He raises his eyes lazily to catch yours when the front door closes behind you.

You cross the living room, the exhaustion written in the slump of your shoulders makes him chuckle. You walk fast so you don’t risk hearing again how you look like shit or something else as lovely coming from him.

You want to take a bath. You want to slip in your pajamas and sleep. But you’re not about to leave this man in your living room and pass out cold like your roommate did.

Unlike Sukuna, you’re courteous.

So you let your backpack slide off your shoulder on the corner of your bedroom and go back to sit on the couch with him, distant, almost pressed against the armrest - since he’s sprawled against the other one.

“Did you eat?” You question, glancing at him with tired eyes.

“If I say I didn’t, will you cook for me?” He coaxes, stopping the channel navigation for a moment.

You squint at him.

“No, but I can order something.” You’re already regretting this whole interaction.

“A pity.” He seems to have lost interest for a moment, his gaze traveling back to the screen. But then “I bet you’d look good wearing an apron.”

What a motherfucking cretin.

“Bite me.” You snap. You’re too tired to keep up the good manners around a brute like him.

“I might.” His towering figure shifts as he leans in closer to you. He smiles, his teeth bared. Do people normally have such sharp teeth?  “But I’ll draw blood.” he drawls lowly.

You feel something inside your chest stirring. Blood rushes to your face like crazy and you’re frozen in place, wide eyes staring at his approaching figure like a deer staring into headlights of an approaching car.

A disaster waiting to happen.

You can hear your heartbeat drumming in your ears and nothing else.

What — in the name of the good god — is happening?

He’s closing in.

Crimson eyes never leaving yours like he’s drinking from your despair.

Instinctively, you raise your arm and flatten your palm against the center of his face, like you’re trying to stop an animal from approaching your face.

It works, though, it makes him stop in confusion.

His eyebrows knit together in what you presume it’s dismay, but it’s gone in the next second — when he drags his tongue against your palm, from the bottom of it to the tip of your middle finger, and then falls back to sprawl on the couch where he originally was, grinning.

What the fuck has just happened?

“Careful what you ask for next time, brat.” He comments like it’s nothing and goes back to the channel skipping.

“You’re a freak, you know that?” You hold up that palm he drooled on and clean it on your shirt. Your heart might as well start screaming from inside you, you can hear it as loud as his voice in that room.

“And yet you nearly begged me to play with you.” He coos at you, places his elbow on the opposite armrest and rests his face against his fist.

“Go home, I wanna sleep.” The politeness is far gone, you’re now grouchy and finding it in you not to kick him out physically. Not that you can do it, but you could threaten to.

“Then sleep. Am I keeping you up?” He rasps. “Yuji told me to crash on the couch to help him tomorrow morning with his roomie.” You know he finds pleasure in annoying you, you just don’t know the reason behind it. “Not very polite of you to kick out your roommate’s guest.”

“Great.” You press your lips together in a flat line and push yourself off the couch, you might as well take your bath and go to bed. “Yuji’s guest can—” You cut yourself off and huff, pivoting to leave the room.

And you can see his smug expression as you do because he knows he got under your skin.

You don’t want to deal with another unhinged action coming from Sukuna, so you focus on your quick, warm shower and slipping into your comfortable pajamas.

He’s still there, in the same position, browsing for something that might not even exist on the TV.

You sigh deeply and grab a spare blanket in your closet.  There’s no extra pillow, though. You stay still in the middle of your bedroom, trying to win over your own mind telling you that it’s important to be a good host and it doesn’t matter if your guest is a jerk.

You curse under your breath, grab one of your pillows and walk towards him.

He doesn’t move nor acknowledges you, so you drop the blanket on the spot beside him on the couch and throw the pillow near his lap. Throwing it at his face may have felt better.

He raises a brow and finally looks up at you.

“Don’t drool on my pillow.”

You don’t wait for him to respond, you’re tired — exhausted.

You just want to fall on your bed and sleep.

Chapter Text

Calcutta

So far, how things have been?

Well, let’s think about it for a second.

Your best friend is in Europe, you’re in Japan. You barely talk to her between chores, projects and Satoru needing your help with everything that has to do with the band.

Also, your band, Gods Beneath, the one Maki put together with you, Satoru, Suguru and Toji?

Dead. Puff!

No more.

Gone at the same time she left.

You have been getting less and less sleep, the episodes came back and you found some comfort in the same old pills you thought you’d never have to take again. They don’t make you rest, though, they just make you pass out cold and your body wakes up less tired, but your mind is still exhausted by the time you’re up.

But that’s no one’s fault.

And there’s Sukuna.

Arrogant older brother of your new roommate that takes some kind of pleasure in nagging you and making you want to punch him in the face in every interaction. And you have absolutely no idea of why he likes to mess with you.

Did you do something to him that you don't know about?

He's older than you — you're pretty sure — so you couldn't have done something in your childhood that somehow he resents to this day. You barely existed through your entire childhood.

But he’s the new drummer of your new band.

And he’s insufferable.

And here you thought the hard part would be getting him to agree to joining the band.

Satoru rented a studio for your first official rehearsal as a new unnamed band. You couldn’t disagree when he told you he didn’t want Sukuna in his house yet, after all he doesn’t trust the guy.

The walls of this studio are padded in torn gray foam and it kinda smells like mold and dust when you open the creaking heavy door. You’re eighty percent sure Satoru has the means to rent a better place, a clean, decent place, but you think he rented this garbage on purpose just to see what would be Sukuna’s reaction. Or to send a message you’re not entirely sure about.

Fluorescent lights also buzz faintly overhead and remind you of an assignment you’re yet to finish.

Not even there you’re free from the thoughts of college shit you have to get done with.

Sukuna is already there when you arrive, seated behind the kit. He twirls one drumstick between tattooed fingers, bored, as if you took too much time to arrive and he had nothing better to do.

But Toji is also there, leaning against one of the dusty looking walls, bass hanging on his shoulder and his expression as bland as always. If you didn’t already know, you’d never guess these two worked at the same place. They don’t even seem to acknowledge each other.

Satoru claps his hands, loud. “Alright, gentlemen — and lady. Let’s try not to implode today, hm?”

Suguru has arrived with you two. He places himself near Toji and tunes his guitar lazily as Toji adjusts his bass strap, getting ready.

You set up your notes by the soundboard, pretending not to notice Sukuna’s gaze flicking your way — sharp, brief — and the hint of a grin in his lips.

You refuse to look at him.

You have been avoiding him like the plague since he crashed at your apartment as Yuji's guest.

The pillow you lent him and told him not to drool on? You guess he didn't drool on, but his smell is impregnated in it. His cologne — and that faint smell of tobacco and copper mixed together with something herbal... You tried making sense of the smell by taking a deep breath with the pillow shoved in your face, and even though you did it on the solitude of your own bedroom, you became self conscious too quick, too hard, and since then you've tried to not be awkward.

Which made you act really, really oddly and immediately leave every time you crossed his path.

Every single time but at the rehearsals.

Satoru starts with his usual manic pep that you’re already used to, so you just nod and go along normally.

“We’re aiming for cohesion, for texture, for—”

“Just start.” Sukuna spits.

The room stills. Suguru smirks faintly, as if amused or trying to hold back a laugh. Toji just exhales through his nose, like he saw that coming. Satoru’s smile stretches wider, brittle at the edges.

“Big man doesn’t like speeches, huh?” He taunts, but his knee bounces. “Fine. We play.”

You blink at the scene and hold your phone tight in your hand. You’re not so certain you want to record this rehearsal anymore.

The first run is utter chaos.

Sukuna doesn’t follow anyone — he drags them into his rhythm, heavy, violent, unpredictable, and of course Satoru tries to soar over it with vocals, but the timing slips.

Suguru, adaptable, bends his chords into the pocket Sukuna demands. Toji, gritting his teeth, adjusts his groove until it locks. By the end the song was raw and jagged but alive in a way it never sounded before. But there’s still so much room to improve.

Satoru wipes sweat from his forehead, laughing breathlessly. “See, this is what I mean! It’s unhinged, it’s—”

“It’s sloppy,” Sukuna interrupts again.

Did he find someone else to pick on?

He’s leaning back, sticks balanced across his knees. His gaze sweeps the room, lingering on you a moment longer than the rest.

“But you’ll get there if you keep up.”

You roll your eyes at his disdain, but you honestly hope this works. You can't afford Satoru asking you to fix his attitude.

Toji just nods once, like he agrees with the blunt assessment, but Satoru and Suguru seem to have their doubts. They look at you as if trying to settle that score, but you shrug — you know that you can work with whatever they throw at you. It’s what you have been doing for a while now.

You scribble a few notes, trying not to betray the thrum under your ribs — because in the end Sukuna’s right.

He bends the sound, and if you survive the bend, the music comes out terrific. Dangerous. Just how Satoru told you he wanted.

A song worth listening to.

And as Satoru launches into another manic rant about stagecraft, you catch Sukuna watching you again.

Goddamnit.

You raise your chin and point it at Satoru, signaling that he should be paying attention to him, not staring at what you’re doing in the corner like a creep.

He tilts his head and lifts an eyebrow, then you're looking back at your notebook like it's the most interesting thing in the world.

And they go again.

The song kicks off shaky as Satoru throws himself into the vocals like he’s trying to prove a point.

Suguru follows smoothly, Toji’s bass rumbles steady, and you keep your focus on the notebook in your lap, pretending you’re working. But you can’t ignore the drums.

It’s not just drumming. It’s punishment. Every hit is violent, precise, like he’s driving the sticks through the kit instead of on it. The air actually moves with the force of it. You’ve heard Black Halberd recordings, but hearing him this close is different — he doesn’t just keep tempo, he fucking owns it.

The sound fills your chest, rattles your ribs, demands you listen. Demands your attention. Your devotion.

You catch yourself staring again. At the tattoos tightening and shifting across his arms. At the scar pulling faintly when his jaw clenches. At the way he doesn’t break eye contact with Satoru even once, like the song is a contest neither of them agreed to out loud.

When the last note crashes out, there’s a silence so sharp it could cut. Sweat beads along his temple, tattoos slick under the low lights. He tosses the sticks onto the snare with a clatter, leans back, spreads his legs wide like the kit is his throne.

“Well?” his voice is gravel, eyes flicking your way for half a second before dragging back to Satoru.

Half a second is enough to make you become self aware.

Satoru smirks, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not bad... for a dropout.”

Sukuna’s mouth twists in a sharp grin. “Better than watching you try to keep time.”

The tension crackles. You scribble something useless in your notebook just to have your hands moving and your attention elsewhere. Because for all your sarcasm, all your calm, one thing is clear.

He’s the best damn choice you’ve got.

He's undeniable.

*****

The studio feels colder today. Not the air, but the way everyone carries themselves — like the tension has already walked in and sat down before the instruments were even plugged in. That’s one of the things you feared would happen when Satoru and Sukuna were together in the same space.

Giant egos clashing in a very specific way.

Satoru arrives, loud as ever, sunglasses indoors, spinning on his heel as if the room exists to orbit him. He smiles at you and gives you a tight hug. Tight enough to almost make you forget how stressful things have been. You let out a soft groan when your spine cracks at the pressure and he lets you go, mumbling about you needing to stretch and exercise more.

As if you had time.

Suguru is already set up, coaxing low static hums from his guitar strings. Toji leans against the wall with his bass, never fearing that the crawling mold could touch him, and stripping the label from a half-empty bottle of water without looking at anyone.

Sukuna arrives after you four, no greetings, as you expected. He sits at the drum kit, not upright but coiled, sticks tapping patterns against his thigh already. He doesn’t look impatient, he looks like someone waiting for the wrong note, the first misstep, something to pounce on. Annoying.

“Alright! Yesterday was fun—” It’s the second day straight you are rehearsing. Friday and saturday, but Satoru doesn’t seem tired at all.

“Sloppy,” Sukuna cuts in. Now he’s just being mean. You give him the stink-eye.

Satoru’s bright smile falters only for a blink before he spins a chair around and straddles it backwards. “Sloppy is jazz, darling. We’re aiming for raw. Real.”

You open your notebook at the soundboard, but the pen stalls between your fingers.

Already, they’re circling each other, two storms vying for the same space.

And oh god you’re so tired of the bickering.

Will it be like this until one of them gives up?

“We’re not raw yet,” Sukuna drawls. “You’re out of rhythm. Always trying to sit on top of the beat instead of locking with it. Get your shit together and keep up.”

“And you think you’re the anchor? Bitch, please. You’re a drummer, not god.”

Sukuna finally looks up, grin sharp but his eyes dead still. “I’m the pulse here. Without me, you’re just noise.”

“Then prove it to me, big boy. We’ll run Blasphemy again.” Finally he stands, sunglasses sliding down his nose, defiance bleeding off him.

Suguru adjusts without complaint and Toji mutters something like, “Here we go,” under his breath.

The count-in is rough, and then Sukuna detonates.

His drumming once isn’t just rhythm, it’s violence in time, a raw force that drags everyone into orbit. Toji’s bass snarls low, thickening the ground and Suguru bends together, following his lead with all he can.

Satoru seems to fight to stay on top, voice straining, soaring, until he finally drops the polish and just screams. It isn’t pretty as you’re accustomed, it definitely isn’t clean. But it feels a little more real.

By the time the song collapses into the final silence, the walls still seem to hum.

Or is it just your head?

Your hand shakes around the pen, though your notebook page is nearly empty.

That’s good, but that’s not what this new band is aiming for.

Your teeth find the inside of your cheeks as the sting of anxiety pokes at your chest.

How do you get to show them what you thought without sounding a little too out of pocket?

Satoru wipes sweat off his face, a faint laughter bubbling out of him. “See? That’s it! That’s the bite we needed!”

“Not bad,” Sukuna finally says. Then, after a beat: “Needs to be better, though.”

He’s right again and you hate it.

It was messy in ways it can’t be, it was brutal, but it breathed in a different way.

Suddenly something crosses your mind.

“What if—” Again, all the eyes fall on you and you’re instantly second guessing yourself. “What if we lean towards more complex and broken rhythmic patterns, like…” You stop to think a bit and find what you’re looking for inside your memories. “Progressive metal? Maybe nu metal, too.”

Suguru tilts his head, considering what you said. Toji seems to be having a hard time imagining what the fuck you meant, and Satoru is rubbing his jaw and humming as he walks towards you to peek into your notebook.

You spread your hand over the notebook page and squint at him. “We can use some synthesizers sometimes, don’t you think that can work?” He leans in closer to touch your forehead with his own, looking into your eyes over his lowered sunglasses’ rims as he likes to do so often, you have noticed.

There's a deep silence and all you can see is the pair of bright, sky blue eyes with those big black pupils that feel like two voids sucking you in.

“You,” He drawls and you feel a knot in your throat. “—are creativity incarnated. Genius, sugar.” He has his big smile printed on his lips as he praises you from too close.

He takes a few seconds before pivoting and going back to his spot and you’re left there with a red face and a fuzzy, warm feeling in your chest.

You can’t even pay attention to Sukuna's gaze piercing through you before the rehearsal resumes.

*****

It’s Thursday night when Satoru drags you, Suguru, and poor Utahime into a cramped Shinjuku live house under the pretense of “research.” She was studying with you in the campus coffee shop after your shift when his manic ass basically abducted you both to keep him company and help him and Suguru do a little digging.

The space reeks of cigarette smoke despite the no-smoking signs. Posters layer the walls in chaotic layers — old punk flyers half torn, too yellowed, a shiny visual kei ad plastered on top, the glue is still tacky.

The soundcheck thuds through the floorboards as some local band hammers through their warm-up when you lean against the bar counter, sketchbook tucked under your arm and backpack on your back since you didn’t have time to drop anything at home, while Satoru argues with the sound engineer about mic placement like he owns the place.

Does he own the place? You wouldn’t be too surprised to find out he owns a few places, honestly.

Behind the counter is a boy who looks too young to be working here but does it anyway. Haibara Yu, his nametag says, though he greets you with a grin before you even look. His energy radiates like a warm spotlight — wide black eyes, hair falling into his face, sleeves rolled up as he wipes down glasses with more enthusiasm than anyone should have at this hour or at this job.

“You’re Satoru’s band, right?” he asks, practically bouncing. “Gods Beneath? I saw you guys at Velvet Room last month or so! You did that cover of Dir En Grey’s Obscure and—” He claps his hands together. “That was insane!”

Suguru smirks at the praise and is immediately drawn in. Utahime stares at you, realizing just now that her classmate was, in fact, part of a band and never once thought of mentioning it to her.

Satoru takes full credit without blinking, as expected.

But Haibara’s eyes shift to you, curious. “And you’re… the lyricist? Designer? You’re the one that sort things out, right?”

You blink, caught. “How’d you—”

“Not hard to guess,” he grins. “You looked like you were scribbling the whole time you were at the show. Most people just record with their phones. You were writing. That’s cooler.”

There’s no weight behind his words, no ulterior motive — just genuine excitement that feels almost alien after the weeks you’ve had. He leans over the counter, lowering his voice like it’s a secret, which makes you lean in too so you can hear him over the noise.

“If you guys ever need help getting a slot here, I can talk to my manager. We’re always looking for bands to book, especially if you’ve got original stuff coming.”

He didn’t know about the band dying.

Satoru’s ears practically twitch at that. Suguru, ever the diplomat, takes Haibara’s name and number with a faint smile, but you notice that he’s as defeated as you are at the realization you’re not calling him anytime soon.

You watch the way this boy beams at strangers, like the world hasn’t touched him yet.

It’s refreshing.

And maybe a little saddening, too, but only if you think too much into it.

Another Friday night, but this time Satoru don’t call everyone for practice. He said he’s just being nice and giving you all a break from such a harsh, tense week, and rehearsals can come back next weekend.

But you’re at his place right now.

The house is quiet except for the creak of Satoru’s old piano bench.

You set the phone down at an angle where the frame catches nothing but his hands — pale fingers hovering above the ivory keys, trembling with contained energy.

“Ready?” you ask, your voice is hushed even though no one else is here besides you two.

He flashes that grin, wide and electric, though his eyes are steadier than usual, his pupils aren’t as big as the last few times you remember checking. For once, he isn’t bouncing off walls or babbling nonsense. He exhales slowly, leans forward, and lets his fingers sink into the first notes.

Calcutta.

You’d written the lyrics days ago in a sleepless haze, words pulled out of some half-buried vein inside you. He didn’t question them this time, he just sat at the piano and started weaving a melody around them like he’d known it before you gave it a full formed shape.

His hands move with a control he never manages anywhere else in life. Chaotic, manic Satoru disappears when he plays, and it’s like this every single time.

His shoulders square, his jaw unclenches, and for those three minutes, he’s not the loud, messy man that will hijack you from your place and drag you to his place to work nonstop.

He’s just… sound.

His voice rises soft at first, almost reverent, then stronger, flooding the big room with resonance. It’s raw, imperfect, but uninhibited in a way that no polished studio track ever could be.

You sit just out of frame, notebook balanced on your knees, throat tight as if the words are cutting you open a second time. You chew on your pencil to avoid chewing on your fingernails or the inside of your cheeks. You’re almost hypnotised by his sentimental performance.

When it ends, silence blooms heavy for a while.

He exhales a shaky laugh, turning toward you like he needs confirmation. “That’s the one, isn’t it?”

You nod. You can’t quite get words past your throat, so you just nod again with a smile matching his own.

Later, back in your apartment, you clip the video down — just his hands, just the keys, just the voice.

Nothing that could betray who he is or where the clip has been taken.

You name the account with a string of meaningless letters, upload the file in the dead of night. No tags, no titles.

Just a black thumbnail and a single word: Calcutta .

You don’t expect anything, it’s just an experiment you and he decided to make. Not really a big silent drop to break the tabloids, you think maybe a handful of strangers will stumble on it, leave a few comments you can use to improve, then it’ll sink into the ocean of forgotten uploads.

*****

By morning, the notifications flood your phone. Reblogs. Tweets. Mentions. People arguing over the voice, dissecting the piano phrasing.

You yank open your laptop to check it out.

Too clean to be amateur.

Too strange to be mainstream.

Who the hell is this?

Someone calls it cathedral-like-worship-kind-of-song. Someone else says it feels like the ghost of a prayer. A fan account appears within twenty-four hours, splicing the video into edits with the caption: the voice we don’t deserve.

Some people even go as far as to say it’s AI generated, and it drags out a chuckle from your still sleepy self.

It spreads faster than you can track, like fire jumping rooftops in a narrow street and you’re not certain on how you feel about it. You also need to let Satoru know how it’s going. but not before you scroll down a little more to get that high from all the praises the video is receiving.

Such deep, incredible lyrics.

And you sit there in your campus apartment, phone vibrating against the bedside desk, staring at a video of nothing but Satoru’s hands.

Something private.

Something meant for you and your band only.

Now it belongs to everyone.

I am caught, tangled in
Wrapped and quartered
Tripping up and over
Time lived again
For just a moment
Missing pieces find me

I sweat and I ache for
Your eyes and the way you breathe

And I wake, saying your name
And I wake, saying your name

You are more than warm belief
Melting skywards
More than silence broken
I'm whole again
For just a moment
till the morning comes

And I wake, saying your name
And I wake, saying your name

Oh, she said you'd better believe it
I said you don't know
Oh, you said you'd better believe it
I said you don't even know
Time lived again for just a moment
Missing pieces find me
And I'm whole again for just a moment
Missing pieces find me

Time lived again for just a moment
Missing pieces find me
And I'm whole again, whole again, whole again

Chapter Text

Shelter

You tell Satoru about all the buzz just before noon. You knew he would get all excited and intense, but you didn’t expect him to be knocking at your door less than twenty minutes later, almost tearing it from its hinges.

Yuji thought it was a burglar for a second before Satoru’s loud voice echoed from the entrance hall and you told your apprehensive roommate you knew who it was.

The neighbours will definitely complain about that commotion, but it doesn’t last much longer as you quickly get up from the couch and run to open the front door just to be attacked with a spinning hug that lifts you off the ground and makes you yelp, holding his shoulders for purchase until he puts you down again — his arms still wrapped around your waist and his smile is as big as it could possibly be.

And so are his pupils.

He says nothing, just stares at you with that giant grin, so you are the one to break the seemingly very long silence with a simple question.

“So… what’s next?” You already knew he had something in mind since the moment he started planning this new band.

The original acapella release being his first big project idea, and him somehow knowing that it would do wonders for the internet — which happened in a matter of hours — was enough to get you believing in his new ideas very quickly.

He also hinted he wanted to do some field research in the past week or so, but he didn’t tell you precisely what he was researching exactly or the reason behind it, so you weren’t very useful for that matter.

“A new release, of course. Another original to make them wish for more.” He sounds a little breathless, still grinning, and still not letting go of you. “Next week, same time, same account. I already have the lyrics ready, baby.” You aren’t entirely sure, but you think he got closer to you, you felt the hug tightening just a bit. “We’re gonna be every-fucking-where.”

Those almost-completely-black eyes are too mesmerizing and you don’t find it inside you to step away from him or avert your gaze.

Yuji, who was sitting right there in the living room with his half eaten sandwich in hands all this time, had his torso contorted back just to peek from above the backrest of the couch.

He let out a faint ‘heeey guys’ that suddenly broke the trance you two seemed to be locked in. Satoru snaps his head towards the voice’s source and tilts it, frowning for a second. 

“Sukuna has a brother?” His confused gaze falls back on you, but his arms are no longer wrapped around your body.

You were the only one that took longer than a minute to realize they were really that similar, huh?

“Yes! Sorry, this is Yuji, his younger brother.” You gesture towards Yuji, who you forgot to introduce properly — because you forgot he was there the moment Satoru spun you in that tight hug.

For some reason Yuji has his cheeks already flushed when Satoru approaches him from behind the couch, leaning in to look at his face from a closer distance.

“This is Satoru, we played in Gods Beneath together with Maki before it ended, you know the story. He’s an amazing singer, and… a bit eccentric."

“And this eccentric man is also your best friend.” Satoru drawls, turning his head to look at you from over his shoulder, still leaning in towards Yuji.

“You only say that because Maki isn’t around to punch you anymore.” You raise a brow and find your way back to the couch where you were seated before Satoru showed up.

Your plate is resting over the coffee table and has a barely bitten sandwich on it. The TV, now paused, has a show you and Yuji are watching on a streaming service every other saturday.

“Oh?” Satoru crosses his arms and rests them over the backrest of the couch, now completely bent in, shooting a glance from Yuji’s plate to yours on the table. “Did I interrupt a lunch date?” He croons with raised eyebrows, looking at you with what you perceive as a teasing expression, but that slight pull in the corner of his mouth has you wondering if there’s something else.

“Sukuna has more chances with her than I do, to be honest.” Yuji offers with a playful scoff, but instead of the usual nonchalant response, you have a glimpse of another side of Satoru, one you haven’t seen before.

Satoru clenches his jaw. His lips are pressed tightly in a line, but soon a wide smile shows up, making his eyes crinkle. But there’s something off.

When he turns his head to face Yuji again, the boy falls quiet immediately. He doesn’t know why he’s receiving such a cold stare from this man he just met.

“And why do you think that?” he coos.

You don’t like how his tone is drenched in poison. Like some kind of veiled threat.

“Because Yuji likes men, Toru.” You mutter softly before leaning forward to grab your plate, resting it on your lap and finally get done with your lunch. “You also have more chances with him than he has with me, for that matter.”

Yuji looks at you with a startled expression but you can feel Satoru’s body relaxing slowly as a soft sigh leaves his nostrils and a chuckle rolls from his lips. His gaze is on you again, and his grin is the same as always.

You’re starting to think the stress is affecting his perception of things, or at least the intensity of his reactions.

“And he’s my roommate. Remember I had to find a new one before Maki left?” Satoru looks like he’s trying to remember, tapping his index finger against his chin. “Anyway, we’re watching Malevolent Kitchen season two together, it’s our new roomie thing.” You shrug and take a bite of your lunch, meanwhile Satoru is already walking around the couch to take a seat between you and Yuji, arms wide open resting on the backrest of the couch around both of you as he sprawls like he owns the place.

Yuji straightens his back and sits with a perfect posture, barely letting his body touch the couch’s backrest. His eyes are fixed on the screen.

You just adjust yourself, legs crossed over the cushion and plate resting over your thigh as you munch your sandwich. Comfortable and soon feeling the pads of Satoru’s fingers gently tapping against the side of your shoulder in some rhythm.

“How come we don’t have a thing?” he laments and lets his head fall back, staring at the ceiling through his sunglasses.

The show is back on, Yuji pressed play after he finished devouring his sandwich — and you aren’t even halfway done with yours.

“We literally had a band together, I’m at your place every friday night, and we’re on another project already” You also slept between him and Suguru more than once, and for the past months all of your fridays were his to dictate.

What else does he want from you?

“But that’s different. I mean, like…” He tilts his head back up to glance at you, trying his best to explain telepathically — you guess — since he doesn’t say another word, but you don’t understand what he means by that, nor can you decipher the look he’s giving you.

“I don’t see how.” You mutter before you take another bite of the sandwich. When you look at Yuji, you notice he has a very vexed expression as he locks eyes with you, as if he understood exactly what Satoru meant and you are the only one who’s lost. “But if you want to watch a show together we can do it, I mean…”

Satoru groans and lets his head fall back against the backrest. Yuji, on the other hand, is staring at the TV screen and has this contemplative look on his face. He soon snickers and shakes his head softly, making you wonder if he’s really watching the show now or just thinking about how bold you are.

Anyway, your Saturday afternoon has been pleasant so far. Satoru stays at your apartment until evening since he simply made himself at home and no one told him to leave.

You two started watching a new seinen anime Satoru told you about a few weeks ago. Yuji got too tired to keep watching Malevolent Kitchen at some point and told you he would be meeting Megumi at the mall and probably grabbing something to eat while there.

After a while you thought Satoru was awfully quiet, which was very out of character for him. 

He dozed off before you could even finish the third episode.

When you looked at him you noticed his eyes closed behind his sunglasses. He was still sprawled comfortably on the couch, so his head was leaning back once again and settled on the backrest.

It’s the first time you see him fully asleep from such a close distance. You find the vision as mesmerising as when he’s awake, spurting words nonstop and pacing around, shoving new ideas and nonsense on your lap as you fight to gather them all.

He looks so serene. So fragile.

His chest rises and falls slowly with his deep, steady breathing. The corner of mouth twitches ever so slightly every now and then like he’s dreaming, and you notice his eyes moving and darting under his closed eyelids.

You hadn’t noticed he was tired to the point of falling asleep as soon as he sat down comfortably, but maybe his anxiety kept him awake all night since he really wanted to know the result of your little experiment.

Unfortunately, you only told him when you woke up.

You only realize how close your face is to his own when his head and torso jolts up and his eyes hastily open, meeting yours instantly with a restless look — probably from realizing he unintentionally fell asleep.

You gasp softly from fright and try to lean back, but his arm — that was still laying over the backrest of the couch — quickly wrapped steadily around your shoulders to keep you from getting away from him.

You say nothing. You barely blink.

Your eyes are wide and your heart is pounding hard again.

Badum, badum, badum.

You were caught doing something you shouldn’t.

Satoru doesn’t scold nor tease you, he keeps staring closely, his heavy lidded eyes are fixed on yours, — his pupils are back at their normal size — and he has this mixture of tiredness and hunger in his look that makes something inside you shift and rumble with uneasiness.

Why isn’t he grinning or making a dumb joke?

Does he think you’re a creep?

You feel your mouth open and you start to make an excuse to why you were acting like a creep when he inclines a little further, resting his forehead against yours and never breaking eye contact.

Badum, badum, badum.

From this close you can easily smell the tobacco and a hint of mint from his breath.

All you can hear is the sound of your blood rushing in your ears as your heart seems to try breaking free from your chest.

You feel like anything you try to say will fuck this up.

And what is this, exactly, you’re trying not to fuck up?

Badum, badum, badum, badum, badum, badum, badum.

He looks like he’s about to say something—

Buzzzzz.

Your cellphone vibrates against the coffee table, startling you and making you let out a brief squeal as you dart your gaze to it.

Satoru chuckles finally, and slowly lets his arm slip from around your shoulders as he backs away, stretching himself and yawning loudly.

You reach for your phone in hope of making your heart calm the fuck down and your face cool a little bit when he cracks his neck loudly before lazily pushing himself off the couch.

“I think I’m in need of some rest. I see you next friday?” he doesn’t seem sure, but you have every single Friday night reserved for him — as you had from the past couple of months.

“Y-yeah! And send me the lyrics you wrote for the new song.” You lift your head to look at him as he’s already circling the couch to walk towards the front door.

“How anxious! You’re hearing it first hand next Friday, sung by yours truly.” He bows down dramatically before spinning in his heels to open the door. “And then, after another enormous success, we can let the rest of the band know about it.” He gestures vaguely and leaves, closing the door behind himself.

And for the rest of the night you’re completely restless, but not in a bad way, just in a very confused, overwhelmed and fuzzy way you don’t comprehend.

*****

You are now sprawled across the comforter, on your stomach, your legs bent in a V, heels tapping together rhythmically as you recount the story to Yuji, who has his back supported against the side of your bed, sitting on your fluffy floor mat while scrolling down on his phone.

It’s been a few days since you last spoke to Maki and told her about your day, the college, everything — anything.

You always exchange text messages but you haven’t actually seen her on a video call for at least a week. During this time you noticed you and Yuji have been talking more, interacting more and actually strengthening your friendship — now you realize how you’ve missed having someone you trust physically near to talk to, to laugh with, to have your little rituals and miscellaneous.

“So” he starts, pausing his scrolling and bending his neck to turn his head and look back at you “You’re saying that Satoru has been clingy, demanding and even his best friend said he’s been hanging out with you more often than he hangs out with him, is that right?”

“I guess?” You mumble, knitting your brows together and reaching for the bowl of chips Yuji has brought to your room so you two could snack while gossiping “He’s always been like this, you know? He’s clingy and handsy and loves to be really close to his friends but I feel like something changed a while ago. Maybe I’m reading too much into it.”

“Oh my god, you really don’t see it?” He sounds incredulous, bending his arm back to blindly reach for a chip, almost tipping out the bowl “This man wants you. Don’t you see the way he looks at you? He got upset that you two didn’t have a thing together!”

You open your mouth to say you don’t believe it, but you close it and purse your lips for a while before nibbling on your lower lip.

You thought that last interaction was… something else, definitely not normal, but… Satoru is so fucking gorgeous, he’s extremely talented, wealthy in ways you know you wouldn’t begin to understand and could he probably have the whole world in his hands if he only wanted to, and you are… 

Pathetic. Useless. Ugly little thing.

You’re just a random girl Maki decided to love, bring into her life, introduce to her friends and indulge in your rock band dreams.

You are just someone that is chaotic enough to understand Satoru’s deranged train of thoughts and organize it into lyrics, and that’s probably why he tags along with you.

Maybe he thinks you’re so frail, pathetic and needy that if he offers you an ounce of affection he will have you hooked for as long as you’re useful.

If you stop being useful he won't care about having you around anymore.

Your downward spiraling session is rudely interrupted by a chip being tossed at your face, and to return the favor you clean your greasy and salty hand on Yuji’s hair.

“Hey! You trailed off there for a bit…” he laughs, patting down his hair to try and clean off the crumbles.

“Just thinking about what you said,” you sigh and let your torso flop on the comforter, burying your face on it and stretching your arms forward over it.

You let out a low, tired groan.

“And?” he reaches back with his hand again, this time to pat your head.

Sweet boy.

Actually, scratch that, he’s cleaning his fingers in your hair as a payback but he gets away from you too quickly, crawling across the bedroom floor before you can grab his wrist.

“You gremlin!” you bark but there’s a grin on your lips. “And… nothing, I don’t know what to think. I don’t think he’s into me, why would he? We’ve been friends for a while, he’s been respectful and nice to me.” you pause, another sigh “I just think he likes my friendship and that maybe he’s very excited for this new project and it’s making he send some mixed signals.”

“Most friends don’t get homicidal when someone mentions you having a chance with other people,” And he has a point, but you know Satoru just doesn’t like Sukuna as a person.

And you’re not telling Yuji about his feelings, after all it’s his older brother you’re talking about.

“He’s just protective and he seems to think Sukuna is… too reckless. If you come to a rehearsal some day you’ll see it.”

Yuji squints, and then raises a brow.

“Okay, bet.” he nods and pushes himself off your floor. “Next rehearsal I’m going with you and if you’re wrong, you’re buying me Taco Bell for dinner next week.”

“I’m not wrong, so I’m sure you’re the one getting me some orange chicken on your way home next week.” You shrug and he smirks.

But are you really sure, though?

*****

Next Friday comes, and with it the next song Satoru wants to release.

You’re at his home after your shift, as usual, laying on his couch with Goma on top of you while you wait for him to get changed into something he really wanted to show you.

You think that no matter what he has on, you’re gonna probably get shocked — you can expect anything from this man and yet he will deliver something else entirely.

A couple of minutes go by, you have both hands buried in the akita’s fluffy fur, scratching her lazy head as she snores on top of your chest.

Then a couple more minutes.

It’s been half an hour, where is Satoru?

He usually doesn’t take this long to change his clothes, what is this menace of a man doing upstairs?

As you’re pushing your torso up from the couch with your elbows — waking Goma up in the process and having her get down to the floor — you hear his footsteps coming down the stairs from the second floor, and as he crosses the living room’s door you can see why he took so long.

He is completely painted in black.

All his visible body parts — torso, neck, arms, fingers and who knows what else.

He’s donning a heavy, hooded black robe over his bare — completely black inked — torso. He has a pair of pants of the same material and color, held up by a black leather belt. 

On his head there is an opaque white mask with red carvings that resemble scattered sigils. It covers his entire face, with small, black openings for his eyes and mouth, rendering his expression completely neutral and stoic.

He tilts his head sideways as he presumably stares down at you from behind the couch you’re still sitting on. You stare back at him from over the backrest.

Something in that sight makes your body react, growing warmer.

Uh-oh.

“Amazing, right?” He finally says, spreading his arms and giving a little twirl to let you see the complete outfit. “I had a friend put it together based on your design idea. I think she did it justice.”

You blink.

She really did it justice, this is almost literally exactly the same as your wips and drawings, you had never seen any of your sketches coming out of the paper so it takes you a little while to get used to the feeling.

It’s a really good feeling.

He looks glorious in this outfit.

Oh no, he’s hot.

“Didn’t you like it?” Satoru is closer now, a black painted hand reaches down your face and pinches your cheek, breaking the trance “I can have her adjusting anything you want—”

“It’s perfect.” you interrupt him and finally get up from the couch, walking around it to take a better look at the clothes. You get down on your haunches, and even the boots match your design.

This girl is really good at what she does.

“I think you found yourself an actual stylist.” 

You dare to look up from where you’re crouched in front of him and the raw sight from that angle makes your heart skip a beat.

You quickly get back on your feet and pretend to be very interested in the kind of fabric she used on the robe.

“You’re always going to be my designer, though. She just does the snip snip and the sewing part. Maybe some crafting here and there.” He gestures as he speaks, and starts walking towards the piano room, having you following him. “You’re irreplaceable, so don’t you ever worry about it.”

He says so casually and yet those words hit you like a full speed truck, halting your steps for a moment, dragging you from absolutely embarrassed to overwhelmed and sentimental in less than two seconds. You hope the mask and hoodie makes it a little hard for him to hear so he doesn’t notice your faint sniffle.

You’re a big fucking crybaby sometimes, aren’t you?

The phone is set now a little farther than the last time.

You fix the light ring and focus the camera so it frames his entire upper body, now the anonymity would remain untouched by the complete outfit, you just hope he can sing without losing his breath, and play without staining the piano keys — but he assured you it’s all good and that he made tests to reach perfection.

Whatever that means.

“Let’s see if you didn’t lose your lyricist talent after all this time relying on me to unravel your thoughts.” You joke around, pressing record on the cellphone screen.

He has his fingers already positioned over the keys and his masked face your direction for a while — directly behind the phone to make sure everything is working as it should.

You can’t see it but you know he’s grinning at you under the mask.

When it rains
You don’t take shelter
You don’t take signs from God

When you can’t
Swallow your demons
You become starving
Darling, I’m noticing your flaws

They’re exactly what I want
Even if you won’t believe me
Know it

The rhythm is calm, composed, but his voice is a little raw and heavy in each line. He looks like he’s not only singing, but actually confessing something with the lyrics.

As you become
Part of my waking rituals
I can tell

You gather up
All of my demons
You become starving
Darling, I’m noticing my flaws

And I’m matching them with yours
Won’t you take me where you’re going
This time

And no matter the cost of rain
I will shelter you all the same

And now and then
I notice you laughing
Laughing at perfect death

And then you change
Suddenly hollow
You become starving
Darling, we must have met before

As he sings and plays in perfect harmony, he turns his head again, just barely, and his voice gets a tiny bit ragged, but you can feel once again his gaze fixed on you.

Though I could not say for sure
If we knew what we were in for
And no matter the cost of rain
I will shelter you all the same

You can’t help but clap in pure excitement when he finishes with the song and slowly rises from the small bench. You almost forget to press the stop recording button before he takes off the mask and lowers the hoodie — and the lower half of his face is also painted black, and so is the area around his eyes.

“Thoughts?” He asks as he catches his breath, singing while wearing a mask is probably not the most comfortable thing in the world.

Sweat beads on his forehead and white strands of hair are stuck on his face, so you raise your hand — and stand on tiptoes — to try and slick his hair back to help him out of that heat.

“I think this is prettier than anything I've heard so far.” smiling at him, you see something in his eyes soften as his smile grows larger. “And you look like you lost a fight with an octopus.” you tip your chin up to point at the ink crawling up his neck and face and giggle “Does the ink come off in the shower?”

“Wanna find out?” he purrs, smirks and leans in closer, but upon your widening eyes and heat flushing on your entire face, ears and neck, he chuckles and straightens his posture before resting his hands on his hips. “Don’t worry, it comes out with a makeup remover thingy.”

“A-ah, yeah, okay.” You stutter as you nervously turn off the ring light and take your phone from the stand. “Do you have enough of it?”

He shrugs.

“A bottle will probably do, right?”

His smile slowly dies when you visibly fight to hold your laugh.

You’re on his bed, laying on your back, leaning up on your elbows just to see him coming off his bathroom half clean, half… grayish-black-stained.

He managed to take the paint off his face, neck, chest, shoulders and half his arms, but the lower part of his torso is still stained.

He has his gray sweatpants and nothing more — there’s usually a white shirt, but he probably doesn’t want to stain it accidentally.

A bottle didn’t do, who would have guessed?

And it's too late to go out and find a cosmetic store open on a Friday night, so he would have to live with it for the night.

“Don’t be sad, you will survive. Tomorrow we buy a few more bottles so you don’t get to look like a panda again.” Your mockery makes him throw the damp towel he’s using to dry his hair at your face, but you deflect it with an arm and throw it back at him.

You miss and it just falls on the floor with a slap. He ignores it and walks towards the bed.

“You spending the night?” He sits on the edge of the bed and flops on the mattress beside you, arms open, one of them inevitably falling across your belly since you laid back down after throwing the towel back at him. “Or you have plans with your roomie?”

“Nothing planned for tomorrow.” You shrug “Jealousy is an ugly color on you. Unlike that black—” Your teasing gets interrupted when he suddenly flips his body and quickly crawls up on the bed, one knee between your legs and both hands resting on the mattress by both sides of your head, his body framing  yours and a few droplets of his still lightly wet hair dripping against your stunned face.

“I’m not jealous.” He drawls, voice low and soft. His torso drops just an inch closer to you, narrowing the distance and letting you feel a bit better the heat emanating from his skin “I just like to have your undivided attention sometimes.” And there it is again — the seriousness you’ve rarely seen on those bright blue eyes.

It takes you a few seconds to understand — because your brain and your heart almost stop working at the same time — but Satoru is soon off you and back on the bed, splayed lazily by your side, arm again resting across your stomach.

You feel your entire body trembling like it’s made out of pure anxiety but he doesn’t seem to notice.

You gotta calm down.

Inhale.

Does he do these things to you on purpose?

Exhale.

“I’m spending the night.” You murmur after your heart allows you to speak without stuttering or whining. “Will Suguru come to watch a scary movie together and spend the night too?”

“Nope.” He turns to settle on his side. His elbow presses against the mattress as his fist supports his cheek. “I’ll have that undivided attention I’ve been wanting from you tonight” His impish grin sends a little shiver down your spine and you feel a tingling inside your chest.

It makes you wanna giggle for some reason, but you swallow it down and just shrug.

You agree to watch a movie with him before you both sleep, but no horror this time, so after a while you two settle on some seinen anime — the one he fell asleep while watching last time he was at your place.

This time it’s you who ends up falling asleep, partially snuggled up against his bare chest.

You were resting your head on his shoulder previously, both your backs leaning against the cushioned bed frame and you both snug under the blankets on Satoru’s king sized bed. 

While watching the anime unfold on the big screen TV that hangs on the wall across from the bed, you start dozing off.

You remember hearing him chuckle the moment he realized you were sleepy, before helping you get comfortable in his arms.

You fell asleep to the beat of his heart, the warmth of his skin, the faint scent of his soap and the gentle caress he trailed on your back, going from your nape to the end of your lower back as the episodes rolled.

No nightmares this night, just peace and quiet.

*****

It’s hot as hell outside even though it is still spring — at least until the end of May.

You start to regret accepting going out with Satoru after grabbing him a few bottles of makeup removal from the drugstore and helping him take the black ink off.

You feel like you’re melting.

Usually you wear monochrome clothes, you don’t have many colored shirts, skirts, pants, or general items — mostly black, white, gray, some sand colored stuff, and other mute, sober colors.

And it’s not like you don’t like colorful things, you actually adore them.

You love cute bright things, but you don’t feel comfortable letting people see this side of you. It’s easier to keep it hidden and let people see only what you show.

Let them see the thick skin, let them perceive you as someone hard to approach and therefore hard to hurt.

Having been scrutinized by the man your mother dated for liking childish things since you were a literal fucking child, you began nurturing a deep-rooted fear of showing interest in any cute, colorful, remotely child like things.

You started going for more adult, dull things since you can remember.

It feels like some sort of weakness will be automatically displayed the moment you allow yourself to show a hint of interest for anything remotely seen as cute, and you’re very aware it doesn’t make any sense, but it just comes with your personality — or with trauma.

Unfortunately, today you’re wearing an all black outfit, and you’re sweating buckets.

Your black band t-shirt, black flared skirt, and of course, black leather platform boots start to get gradually soaked with sweat as you walk by Satoru’s side on the busy sidewalk in one of Shibuya’s streets.

Unlike you, he’s wearing a half open button up white shirt — very light and soft material, you know because you touched it with so much envy — and a pair of salmon shorts with white sneakers. And of course he has his sunglasses on, as always.

An absolutely refreshing vision.

You’re supposed to meet his friend in half an hour in a café nearby, he said she wanted to know the person behind the sketches and ideas Satoru has brought her to work with.

It makes you a little anxious to meet new people, especially without Maki, but you need to get your shit together and stop relying on everyone else to be a functional adult.

Until then you wanted to walk around, visit a few stores and see if you got a few more ideas for the outfits and for the general idea you’re going with the new project.

It kills you that you still don’t know the name of the new band to help you out even further with the vibe, but it’s a thing all of the members should take part in creating, or so you believe.

So you just can’t wait for the next rehearsal when you’re bringing that up and talking everyone into agreeing to create a new name as soon as possible.

You also got to post the video last night — at some point between waiting for Satoru to take a bath and falling asleep in his arms.

He even tried talking you into slapping a few filters on the recording to make it even better, but you brushed him off and said it was perfect as it was — raw footage, filled with emotions.

Perfect even in the little flaws.

Today, early in the morning, you received a message from Suguru with the embed link of the new song released — Shelter — in the anonymous account, asking what the fuck you and Satoru were scheming.

So you took the opportunity to invite him to meet with you and Satoru’s friend at the café in Shibuya to break it down to him, hoping he wouldn’t throw a temper tantrum.

But you think he has the right to scold you both, if you’re being honest.

Satoru is his best friend and you know you would be mad, or at least upset, if your best friend kept something like this from you.

This makes you wonder what Maki is up to these days, you haven’t heard much from her even in messages…

Not the time to go there, you have plenty of time to figure your emotions out after the weekend — it’s time to address the absolute hit this second release is.

It seems to have blown up even harder than the first song, the numbers were three times bigger in reblogs, mentions, tweets, subreddits, probably because people were lurking at your random account to see if another song would get uploaded, and when it eventually happened, they were already there.

The discussions were amusing, and the thirst people felt for Satoru’s-half-body-kind-of-reveal was also enormous, his hands were already being lusted over when they were all people could see on Calcutta, but this time there were already edits on social media referring to him as goth cultist and ritual daddy — which made him blush, and you cackle up hard, calling him those nicknames for the rest of the morning.

So this is the sensation of having a little bit of fame and people actively enjoying your work.

You thrive on it.

You could spend your whole day just navigating through the blogs and social media, watching people talk about the new released song, about their own theories, about the meaning they found behind lyrics, but it was a dangerous path to trail.

You could easily become too obsessed with it and it would lead you to places you don’t want to go, mentally.

You walk around and melt some more under the hot sun and muggy weather until it’s finally time to go meet with Satoru’s friend in the café.

But you arrive a few minutes after the agreed time because Satoru had to buy you a little paper fan, fearing you would pass out in the middle of the street.

Maybe it’s time to invest in summer clothes.

Shibuya Hollow.

A minimalist coffee shop near the scramble crossing, they say it’s very good for a late-night cramming, but you’re meeting there mid afternoon and it will have to do.

From the street you only see a thin black sign with white block letters and a glass door that mutes the chaos of the crossing — and of Shibuya in general.

Inside, the first floor is narrow, long, and pared down — white concrete walls, polished dark wood counters, single-origin beans lined up in amber jars.

The baristas move with near-silent efficiency, grinding, pouring, never raising their voices above the low hum of jazz coded lo-fi beats, keeping the overall vibe calm and cozy.

A very fitting soundtrack for the place, you admit to yourself.

A slim staircase leads to the second floor, which opens into a dim mezzanine with scattered low tables and worn leather armchairs facing wide windows. From up there you can watch the blur of Shibuya’s neon while the glass keeps the sound out, making the city look almost unreal.

Maybe you start coming here to sketch or decompress after a busy day. It makes you feel like you’re inside those comfy games you like so much.

You can see a few students spreading books across the tables, some half-asleep, some scribbling notes, everyone wrapped in that quiet pact of concentration even though it is the middle of the afternoon on a Saturday. They must be nearing some deadline or maybe a finishing project for their course.

The whole place smells faintly of roasted beans and rain on asphalt.

How did Satoru not tell you of this place before? 

Upon scanning the whole place, you find Suguru with a few more people than expected.

He raises his arm to grab your attention to the big table he is seated on, near the big windows and the leather armchairs.

It’s a booth more than an actual regular table, with space enough to fit three people on each long leather couch.

There are four of those booths around the cafe’s second floor and all of them are occupied today.

Suguru is usually in an all black outfit as well, but today he wisely chose a crimson, all torn-up tank top, — that shows to the world most of his torso and the many tattoos he has scattered on his body — black skinny jeans and his worn out red all stars.

At least he doesn’t look like he’s having a bad time with the heat.

Between him and the window you spot Toji with a simple v-neck navy t-shirt and probably a pair of worn out jeans that seems to be the only kind of pants he wears everywhere, but you can’t see much from there, you just know he’s entertained by something he’s seeing outside.

On Suguru’s other side there’s a girl you don’t recognize, probably Satoru’s friend who has been seized by Suguru, since he has his arm resting around her shoulders.

Or maybe he knows her as well.

She’s donning a dark orange tank top that shows her belly and the cute shiny piercing she has on her navel, and a pair of off white micro shorts. She has big black lita boots on with golden spikes on its entire back, and you see it matches with the black leather jacket she has folded over the table just in front of her — the golden spikes are the same as the boots’ and they look like they cover both jacket's arms in a large stripe.

Yes, that’s definitely Satoru’s stylist friend.

In front of the trio there’s a sprawled big figure with that unmistakable pink spiked hair, sitting by himself with both arms resting on top of the booth’s couch backrest.

He has a grey sleeveless shirt on, a hand-styled one since the sleeves’ holes are cut downwards, showing almost the entirety of his torso from the sides.

You see where more of his tattoos start and where they end, how fluid the lines and how steady the black bands are, and one can only imagine how interesting the whole design may be when seen in its entirety.

Hold on, don’t go there.

You also catch a glimpse of something shiny inside his shirt — a nipple piercing? You’re not sure but that wouldn’t be too shocking.

He’s also wearing a black pair of pants that seem too hot and heavy for today’s weather, — not that he seems to be affected by it — and his usual steeltoed black boots.

His eyebrows rise and then crease slightly when your gaze goes back up from his boots and meets his face — a second earlier he was facing the ceiling like he’s been bored to death.

“I decided to check with the guys if they were doing something today, and since none of them had anything better to do I told them to meet me here because Satoru wants to announce something.” Suguru explains as you reach the side of the booth, leaving space for the girl to get up and finally introduce herself.

“So you’re the one behind those sketches,” she says, eyes flicking over you quickly, not in judgment but in curiosity. “I’m Nobara Kugisaki. I’m the one who stitched and painted that one pretty design into something he could actually wear on stage.”

Her tone is matter-of-fact, but you feel pride tucked under every word, the kind that doesn’t apologize for itself.

You instantly like her.

She offers her hand, not tentatively — palm steady, black nails immaculate, like she’s daring you not to take it. And of course you take it and give her the firm handshake she’s expecting.

“I told Gojo I had to meet the designer. Couldn’t just work off more of your sketches without knowing what kind of brain they came from, and of course I knew they came from a woman— as if men had the capability to design such amazing things.” She gestures a bit as she talks, and you wonder if she got that mannerism from Satoru. “And it’s good the other guys are here too so I can actually take their measures before starting the new outfits and masks.”

“You seem really young!” You don’t really think before speaking, but a smile crosses her face and she tucks a stand of her short light brown hair behind her ear.

“Thank you, I’m naturally beautiful like this. Can you believe I’m just in my twenties?” she bats her eyelashes at you and you find her absolutely adorable.

She’s as young as Yuji and already so talented, you want her working with your designs for as long as she wants to.

“And you don’t look bad, either. You’re just… too hot? All black and heavy fabric in this weather, boo? Tsk.” she clicks her tongue as she analyzes your outfit from the boots to your hair sticking to your sweaty face, framing it.

Oh.

You look like shit.

You let out an uncomfortable chuckle and look away for a moment, which makes your eyes lock on Sukuna’s — who picks the worst possible times to be looking back at you.

That smirk on his lips stings because you know you look like shit once again, and he knows you’re thinking it too.

This fucking guy, you swear to god.

“Don’t be like that, Nobara. She’s just a hot goth, and despite the name, goths melt in hot seasons.”

The explanation comes from Satoru who’s still standing by your side, his hand softly resting against your lower back gives you some sort of grounding, and you can see Nobara’s eyes flicker to him and back to you with realization.

“I didn’t mean to be rude, you’re gorgeous! Like! Really! You just need lighter clothes so you won’t overheat, that’s all.” she points to the little paper fan you’re still holding tight in your hand.

And now you’re apologising to her and you don’t even know why.

You didn’t want this poor girl to feel like she owes you any kind of sympathy or pity.

You don’t like when people look at you like you’re some helpless girl.

“Can you all shut up about stupid things and tell us what we’re here for?” Toji’s voice cuts through the tension and you remember that you’re all there for another reason.

Sukuna moves to make space by his side on the couch, and since you and Satoru are the only ones standing up now — Nobara is sitting by Suguru’s side again — you know you’re taking the seat beside him.

Satoru and Sukuna would probably bite each other’s faces off if they stayed too close, you fear.

You sit down and slide until your arm is almost touching Sukuna’s, but you avoid it at all costs. You don’t want him cursing you for being sweaty and sticky near him, or something else he can just spit out within a heartbeat, since he’s not afraid of being an asshole whenever he feels like it.

But he only crosses his arms and rests them over the table top, tapping his fingers against his biceps and looking outside through the window.

His arms were always this big? Did he get this strong by being a drummer, by working in construction sites or by simply hitting the gym?

Satoru sits by your side and cleans his throat to grab everyone’s attention, clapping his hands once and resting both his elbows on the tabletop.

“For the past two weeks I’ve been running an experiment together with our beloved angel of a lyricist, so I could understand better how this new band would be perceived and received by the fans.” he’s gesturing as he speaks, and you know the more excited he gets, the broader his gestures are, so you have to be careful not to be hit by his hands.

You sink back against the leathered backrest of the couch, immediately regretting your decision when you feel the cold sensation of your — now cold — sweat drenched shirt pressing against your back.

“The experiment consisted on releasing two original singles, no instruments but the piano, in full anonymity and tracking the numbers and reactions, also administered by our very competent and hard working designer.”

Each new praise Satoru hands you so informally in the middle of his explanation makes you sink further into the cushioned backrest, but you have a smile on your lips, unable to hide how happy it makes you to have been so useful to his genius.

“Suguru has already been hit by the outstanding success of this short experiment,” and as he says that, Suguru lowly rants something about not being included but Satoru extends one of his arms across the table and holds one of Suguru’s hands, which seems to make him less annoyed. “So now I can say we’re basically ready for the new era. And I’m talking about new outfits, full authorial songs and new gigs, darlings.” 

Nobara seems to be the most excited upon hearing the big news, followed by Suguru. Toji nods and asks Satoru to send him the two songs since he’s rarely online and has no social media — which you think it’s psycho behavior nowadays.

You also lear that Sukuna doesn’t have social media either, — not personal accounts anyway — and it just strengthens your previous beliefs.

“And what’s the band’s new name, after all?” Nobara is the one to bring it to the table. “Gojo told me it’s a secret, but I think I need to know if I’m gonna be your official stylist from now on, right? I’m not gonna tell anyone else, I promise.” she’s looking at you with a raised brow, expecting you to tell her she’s right and hand her the name.

You nod before breaking the sad, yet funny news to her.

“The name is so secret we actually don’t know it.” Nobara shoots Satoru an accusatory glance. “Nor does Satoru.”

You chuckle as her thin eyebrows knit together. “But maybe we can figure it out now, right? You can help us.” You offer her a warm, hopeful smile and after a few seconds of frowning she grins and agrees with your proposal.

“I’m not doing shit before I eat something.” Sukuna finally spoke, his deep voice coming out so unexpectedly after a long time of him being silent startled you and made you suddenly turn your head to face him with slightly wide eyes. “What’s that face for, brat? I’m hungry and this is a coffee place. If we don’t order something they’re kicking us out.”

“You just startled me, that’s all. You should eat if you’re hungry.” you mumble and avert your eyes to look back at Suguru who sits directly across you, deciding it’s not worthy to engage in any kind of arguing or quarrelling with Sukuna at that moment.

For the first time in a long while you’re well rested, things are working out fine with the band, there are no more piling projects and college assignments, Nobara is amazing and willing to work with the band, and you’re all just a name away from bringing this new band project fully to life.

He’s not making you lose your temper.

In the end everyone gave in and ordered something to drink and eat.

You order an iced matcha latte and a couple of sorted macarons.

Satoru orders a strawberry shortcake and a strawberry smoothie, he’s a man that knows what he likes and is not afraid to show.

Suguru orders the same as Satoru to eat but he chooses an iced caramel mocha to drink.

Toji orders an espresso and tonic with a tamago sando to eat, and Sukuna has a katsu sando with an iced hojicha.

Nobara doesn’t want to eat anything, she claims to be already full and orders a water bottle.

For once you’re glad Sukuna brought up the food subject amidst the band talk, you didn’t notice you were craving some sugary treats until you gave your drink a first sip.

Your mood immediately improves as the cold matcha slides down your throat.

“Can we please talk about the band’s name now, Kuna?” Suguru croons at him over the edge of his glass and you can feel Sukuna’s massive body tense by your side almost immediately. You glance at him very subtly while picking up one of your macarons from the plate and slowly guiding it to your lips.

Kuna?

“What the fuck did you just call me?” his tone isn’t aggressive or threatening despite his rude phrasing. It’s more like a curiosity, and you can feel his amusement growing by the way he bares his teeth on the large grin he’s wearing.

“Isn’t that your nickname? I thought it was cute. Like Kuma.” Suguru’s elbow is propped on the table, his fist pressed against the side of his face as he tilts his glass at Sukuna in the most nonchalant way, making the metallic straw clink on the glass’ edge. “An old friend of yours asked me if you’re playing on God’s Beneath now.”

Oh, gossip! You’re invested.

And so is everyone else, except for Toji who’s just watching the pedestrians outside while eating his sandwich quietly.

He doesn’t have social media, has no interest in shallow, unharmful gossip, doesn’t care about his work buddy’s old friends... How does he entertain himself?

“No friend of mine call me that.” he deadpans and takes a large sip of his hojicha, his red eyes fixed on Suguru’s. “But I know a couple of fuckers who do. Little shits can’t get off my dick.” he sucks his teeth in annoyance and takes another bite of his food, dipping his chin to stare at you with a cocked brow when he hears you chuckling right next to him — admiring your audacity.

“It’s a cute nickname.” you offer with a slight smirk as you finish chewing on your macaron. “But I don’t see him as a Kuma. He’s more like a… Tora.” you tell Suguru, who agrees almost immediately.

He does look like a big tiger if you consider all the black ink crawling on his body on those interesting symmetrical patterns, his behavior, his size, how each of his movements seem to be preciously calculated—

“Oh, you think it’s a cute nickname?” he mocks you, clicking his tongue and narrowing his eyes as he leans in closer to you.

His broad frame and towering height make him look very intimidating, more so when you think he can probably throw you around like you weigh nothing more than a bunch of grapes if he wants to, but you’re not backing down right now.

You know he’s just messing around, he’s not angry or anything.

Right?

“It’s cuter than brat.” You shrug it off and try your best to keep your breath steady as he narrows the distance between you even further, testing if you’re running away, flinching or stopping him with your hand as you did once at your apartment.

But if you hadn’t done that he would have bitten you back then.

Right…?

You can feel Satoru’s body shifting by your side, apprehensive, and Suguru and Nobara’s unblinking eyes never leaving your face.

“If you don’t like to be called a brat, you shouldn’t act like one, don’t you think?” he purrs dangerously, flashing his teeth in another wide, demonic grin, red orbs pinning you down. “But if you insist, I can find another pet name for you. A more suitable one.”

Once again he’s so close you can smell the hojicha in his breath, and the faint smell of his cologne mixed with that familiar coppery smell of his cigarettes.

Your eyes flick from his eyes down to his bared teeth, — too close, biting distance, careful — and back up to his eyes again.

“Are they fighting or flirting?” Nobara whispers to Suguru, cutting the tension for a brief moment and dragging your confused gaze to her face, but the effort in whispering is useless since the whole booth can obviously hear her.

“Bara, dear, if you find out what’s up with them you tell me, because I have no fucking clue.” Suguru whispers back but less quietly, very aware you’re all hearing them clearly.

The thought of flirting with Sukuna alone made your body shiver and your brows knit together, but something in your expression must have entertained him, because by the time you lock your eyes back with him, he snaps his teeth, biting the air and making you jump softly in fright.

Then he laughs and leans back to his previous position, increasing once again the space between you two.

He also holds one of your macarons between his fingers — he probably snuck it out your plate when you were distracted with the other two whispering loudly across the table.

Fucker.

His eyes dare you to go take back what’s yours, and his smirk is large enough to crease his eyes, but with a heavy sigh you decide to fix your posture, press your back against the backrest and let him have it as you go back to sipping your matcha.

The visible disappointment of Suguru and Nobara came in a heavy sigh.

And by the deep breath you hear coming from your other side, Satoru is relieved you didn’t indulge Sukuna further in his games.

“So, the name.” Toji looks like he’s done with his sandwich and with his drink, now there’s only this matter holding him there. “What’s on your mind?”

Instinctively you wait for Satoru to answer, but you notice Toji’s eyes are on you.

He wants to know your ideas.

You open your mouth, but Suguru raises his index finger and drives his hand forward to silence you before you say anything.

“You tell what you’re thinking first.” he glances back at Toji, who furrows his brows in a puzzled expression. “We save the best for last, so she talks when we all finish vomiting our nonsense.”

His dark eyes find yours and the sly smile across his lips makes you blush harder than the words he just spoke.

You’re a praise junkie and today you’re getting so fucking high today.

“Ashen Crown. Thought it would be fitting after we killed Gods Beneath as it made its first good song.” Toji finally tells his idea and, as Suguru glances at you once again, you understand his intentions quickly.

You grab your phone from your pocket and start taking note of what’s said. Your backpack, notebook, laptop and everything else were forgotten on Satoru’s parked car, you’d have them back when he dropped you back at the apartment.

“You, Kuna. What do you bring to the table after Black Halberd?” Suguru tips his chin at Sukuna, who groans — his upper lip curls back across a single canine.

You have to say you quite like the way Suguru can gnawn at his nerves so easily.

“Hymns for the Unholy.” He sighs and crosses his arms over his chest, leaning further back against the couch after offering Suguru what he wanted.

Do his arms look even bigger when he does that?

“I’m fond of Beneath the Veil.” Suguru speaks, gesturing loosely before letting his gaze fall on Nobara, who widens her eyes slightly before opening a big smile regarding the position of importance Suguru puts her opinion in.

“Based on what I know and what Gojo told me when he brought me the designs, I think Votive Silence is a good name for the new brand you’re going for the band.”

Finally Suguru smiles at Satoru, who has been quietly sipping the last of his smoothie and terribly quiet for a while.

Sukuna’s presence might take a bigger toll on him than you thought, seeming to wear him out and drain him from all his chaotic energy.

“I was thinking something like What Lies Beneath.” He places the now empty cup on the coaster and tilts his head, raising his hand to gesture as he tries to explain. “Referencing Gods Beneath and the new anonymity we’re diving into, but I think it would be too easy to trace back to our original band.” as he concludes you notice his usual cheery spirit is nowhere to be seen.

Nudging at his arm with your shoulder you grab his attention briefly before Suguru calls you to speak.

“I liked the connection you made with Gods Beneath, don’t patronize yourself.” and with that you see the corners of his lips curling up and soon after the usual smirk is back on that face.

“You’re saying this just because you like to keep your muse happy, isn’t that rig— AH!” You hear the thud from the kick Suguru gave Satoru’s sheen under the table before you hear his yelp. “Don’t need to be jealous, Guru, you’re still my muse, okay?”

Leaving all that chatter in the background, you’re back at your phone fusing a few of the ideas you got from what each member suggested, and once you’re done there you can tell Suguru what’s your input for the band’s name.

You try to make all the names work together, you try to bring them all to harmony and brew a particularly good idea, one remarking name, but it’s not coming to you as easily as you thought it would.

Your thoughts are too messy, it’s so much easier to unravel Satoru’s chaos — your chaos is too thorny, too entangled, too hard.

You actually lost track of the time for a bit there, sinking in your own little world while typing, erasing, typing again, opening another tab, researching something — and going back to typing.

At some point you had a pile of napkins scattered over the table and someone’s pen firmly sketching a few ideas  onto the white paper pieces.

The chatter, the rattling of the plates on other tables, the faint lo-fi music — everything else seems to have been muffled, disappearing completely.

You really get stuck deep into your mind sometimes, and from this moment on, all that exists is a big bowl of uncooked thoughts and concepts ready for you to sort them out, turning them into something beautiful.

Something unique.

You wonder why is this taking so long this time when you crumple a sketched napkin inside a fist.

What are you failing to see?

Gods Beneath came so easily for you when Satoru asked what should be the name of this band you and Maki put so much passion into creating.

What’s different now?

Maki’s absence? Sukuna’s oppressive presence? Satoru’s lack of energy?

No, it’s not about them. They’re not the problem, you are.

The sleeping pills are fucking up your thinking abilities and destroying your brain little by little.

Soon you’ll be nothing more than an empty shell.

A husk of what you used to be.

Destruction.

Your eyes flare and you finally understand where you’re collapsing.

Your teeth find the insides of your cheeks and you start to sketch something with more precision now. Rapid, fluid movements creating what you saw in that moment of realization.

A few simple, geometric lines, a human skull, deer antlers, and maybe a sigil.

The taste of iron pools in your mouth and you stop chewing at your own flesh.

You can refine it later, first you gotta make it exist.

“Cenotaph.” 

You breathe softly only to yourself, eyes fixed on the final idea you come with scribbled and sketched on a coffee shop napkin.

And you really like it.

While scribbling and sketching you have hunched over the table and completely covered what you were working creating with your frame — but once you raise your head and drop the pen on the table with a soft clack, you hear Suguru repeating the same thing he said earlier.

“There she is! Told you, save the best for last.” and you beam him with such a bright, content smile that he gets almost immediately flustered.

“You look like a maniac.” Toji raises a brow, but then offers you a slight smirk. “It’s riveting.”

Did you ever show any of your friends such an honest smile?

Or any sort of real emotions with no hidden worries and reservations?

You don’t think so.

After gods know how much time you spent trying to come out with a perfect name that would please everyone, you don’t have enough energy to keep your mask on so firmly.

Whatever you feel right now seems like it’s coming through with full force.

Satoru and Sukuna are inadvertently leaning over your shoulders, trying to peek at the few scattered napkins.

“A Cenotaph is an empty monument that is usually built in honor of a person or group of people whose remains are elsewhere, or lost.”

You start talking and again the eyes of everyone in that booth are entirely on you.

“Most cenotaphs honor individuals, but many noted cenotaphs are also dedicated to the memories of groups!”

Straightening yourself slowly, you hear your body cracking, and the relief that comes after is quick and delicious.

“That’s what I thought for the band’s new name. Cenotaph. Gods Beneath died for everyone else, but there are no remains to be buried since the band didn’t actually die.”

The lo-fi music, the rattling of kitchenware and plates, the distant chatter of others, all of it you’re hearing once again. But you don’t hear another word from the ones surrounding you when you finish talking about your idea.

Oh no.

Studying their faces with a slightly tilted head you still don’t know if they cared for your explanation.

Suguru seems to be contemplating the name, mouthing it quietly like he’s savoring its sounding.

Nobara has her phone in her hands and seems to be diligently typing something.

Toji is hunched over the table to take a closer look at the sketch of the logo and the band name you came up with.

Satoru has his head tilted and one of the napkins with a few scribbles — mending the concept of death and destruction, finally trailing to the cenotaph — held close to his face as he stares at it. Both brows furrowed, really focused.

Sukuna stares down at you with an unreadable expression; slit eyebrow cocked and red orbs like stone when he catches your eyes on him.

They hate it.

It’s not good enough.

But they don’t want to hurt your feelings.

They always try to spare you.

Like you’re some fragile, pathetic little girl that can’t take a no.

They had so much expectation and you delivered absolute hot garbage.

You hide your trembling hands under the offwhite table’s cloth, resting them over your lap with intertwined fingers to increase your purchase and decrease the rising anxiety eating at you.

“I’m sorr—” as soon as you start speaking in that low, almost inaudible tone, you hastily interrupt yourself as Sukuna’s big, warm palm splay over your joined hands.

His hand is so big it covers your shaky, cold fingers with ease.

An alien feeling engulfs you entirely and you’re not sure what’s that overwhelming sensation taking care of your body.

His hands are calloused — probably because of his construction work and from playing the drums — but you didn’t expect them to have such a gentle touch.

And you absolutely, never, ever expected him, of all people, to be the one anchoring you from spiraling down.

Not by offering a calm touch.

Not by brushing of the pad of his thumb against the back of your hand in a calming, circling motion.

Not by— anything, really.

You snap your head to face him, completely bewildered.

Those big deer eyes of yours are flooded with silent uncertainty and apprehension.

Breathe.

Put your mask back on, you’re showing fear. Stop it.

Inhale.

You’re vulnerable, this can’t happen. Not now, not ever.

Exhale.

Then, his lips twitch, corners curling in a growing smirk, staring at you intently as if drinking from your raw reaction.

You feel your stomach sinking, you don’t know what’s happening.

Is he offering comfort or harm?

He tips his chin at the other side of the table before carefully retreating his hand from over yours in a way nobody notices the motion.

And you look at Suguru just in time to hear him talking to you.

“How come people call Satoru a genius when you’re literally there.” he lets out a heavy sigh and crosses his arms over his chest before raising his look from the napkin-covered-table to your face.

Nobara is now looking at the napkin Satoru had on his hands a few seconds ago, and typing on her cellphone again.

“I know we need the other outfits first but I really want to start making merch with this logo… and this name is not registered nor taken by anyone else, so… I grabbed it on most platforms for you. Let’s just do the things!” she whines and uses her phone to take detailed pictures of the napkins, starting with the one Toji had grabbed to analyze first.

She was searching for the name to make sure she could register it on social media first. Fucking brilliant.

“You really liked it?” your voice cracks a little, Nobara nods and lets out a ‘duh’, and you hear a huff coming from your right side.

Turning your head to face the author of the huffing for a moment, you understand he is somehow frustrated with the lack of confidence you have in yourself. Strangely reassuring.

His arms are crossed again and his jaw tightens when you offer him a brief, but honest warm smile.

Looking to the opposite side you catch Satoru still vexed at that one napkin, and his lack of comments are making you nervous again.

Fortunately he raises his look from the thin paper filled with scribbles and locks eyes with you.

A crease forms between his brows and he suddenly slides in closer, letting go of the napkin and cupping your face in both his warm, soft hands.

His touch alone is soothing.

“What’s up with that sad face, sugar?” your initial confusion dissolves as you understand he’s just worried.

Is it that easy to see through you?

You have no idea of what you look like as of now.

You were melting when you arrived, you then became a little manic as you drew and scribbled for a few hours — or so you suppose — and then you almost started bawling your eyes out because you convinced yourself you let everyone down with your stupid idea.

You probably look like shit.

A chuckle bubbles up from your chest and rolls out of your lips.

You take a deep breath as uninvited tears slide down your cheeks before you untangle your fingers and move both your hands to Satoru’s, gently removing his hands from your face.

Then, you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him to a tight hug you definitely needed.

He’s dumbfounded at first, you never initiate those kinds of actions, — he’s pretty sure — yet he’s basking in it, a smile crossing his entire face as he hugs you back, not even caring to understand the reason behind the hug before letting one of his hands caress your back in a calming motion.

Satoru probably feels like he’s always petting and playing with a wary cat when he’s around you, and one day that cat willingly lays on his lap and starts purring.

You’re aware you’re hugging him as tight as you can.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

You’re aware you’re burying your face in the crook of his neck and giving all you’ve got to hold back your tears and choke your sniffles.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

You’re painfully aware your self doubt is huge, annoying as fuck and that it will one day put you in very awkward situations — such as this one you’re in right now.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

You’re aware you probably look crazy.

Satoru makes you promise you’re telling him if something is wrong, but you insist you’re just a little emotional and wasn’t expecting such good reactions, that’s all.

Sukuna scoffs by your side and calls you an impatient crybaby.

He’s not that wrong this time. Still rude and uncalled for.

“Then it’s settled. Cenotaph it is. The logo idea gives a good tattoo concept as well.” Toji seems to have liked it as well.

You’re in deep need of a little self esteem.

And you’re also in deep need of understanding why Sukuna is the way he is. Why he keeps trying to push you to your limits at every single interaction you have.

What an insufferable, complicated man.

Chapter Text

Calamity

Sukuna POV

He is born in silence.

His mother, who wanted so much to meet her beloved son, never makes it out of the delivery room. And for that his father makes sure to remind him of it every single day since.

Every look he gives the boy carries the same accusation — you killed her.

But it doesn’t stay only in the looks, oh no.

It bleeds into venomous, sharp words.

Ryoumen Arata, his father, makes sure to let Sukuna know from a young age that he is responsible for his mother’s own death.

That he, a wretched, cursed child, should have died on that night, and not the woman who gave him life.

That he would trade his mother’s life for Sukuna’s within a heartbeat.

Still, he keeps the boy.

Itadori Haruka. Sukuna’s aunt — his mother’s older sister — is the one who takes care of him, but barely. She just makes sure he stays alive, fed, and clean. There’s no offer of comfort or love from her even though she’s his aunt.

She moves into the family’s house soon after his mother passed away, offering company to his father in an attempt to, at the same time, ease the pain of losing her sister.

Needless to say that it doesn’t work in the slightest, just makes everything messier, worse.

He’s still too young when he learns that when his father is drunk — which is most nights — he’s supposed to stay out of reach. His aunt doesn’t seem to understand or accept it, though, and soon the house turns into a horrifying hostility show.

Shrieks echo, rageful roars blast from Arata, the noise of glass shattering as he tosses a glass in her direction, furniture being smashed shortly after.

Sukuna learned how to hide, how to stay out of the way until only silence remained.

Everything that stays in his father’s way would, ipso facto, be ravaged.

At school, the other children know he’s different. He doesn’t laugh when they do. He doesn’t find their games interesting nor does he take part in their conversations and playtimes. When pushed, he doesn’t push back — he waits, he watches, and then he erupts with a violence too monstrous for a boy his size and age.

One of the most graphic memories he has to this day is from when he was only six years old.

He was expelled from the shogakko at that age.

A boy mocks him in front of the class, not expecting Sukuna to react immediately. And he doesn’t react immediately, instead, he waits for the perfect opportunity.

He waits until this boy is cocky enough, until he thinks he got away — unharmed — with mocking him in front of everyone, and attacks.

It’s bloody and vicious.

He grabs the kid by the nape and just shoves him down face first. Teeth clicking against tile, panicked screaming and crying. Sukuna is mounted on his back, both little hands grabbing his hair in an unrelenting grip and smashing his face against the floor until the teacher drags him off.

He remembers the awful cracking noises of the teeth, the wet sickening sound of meat meeting bloodied tile. He’s dragged off to the principal’s room by a teacher, and he doesn’t react. Just stares, breathing hard, as if daring anyone else to try and mess with him.

He’s six, he shouldn’t be capable of such ruthless violence.

They call him dangerous, but his father has been calling him worse since he remembers, so it doesn’t bother him.

He’s expelled, shuffled into another school. The story repeats.

It’s a vicious cycle — he hasn’t known love, warmth, comfort, sympathy or anything that resembles any of those things his whole life.

Why would he bother showing someone else anything different from what’s been shown to him?

By the time he turns ten, the house has grown colder, if that’s even possible.

His father remarries a woman with tired eyes and a sharp mouth.The same woman who has moved in since his mother died and who has been showing him little more than tolerance through his life.

He marries the older sister of his late wife. His aunt.

She tolerates Sukuna like one might tolerate mold in the corner of a wall. It’s there, tainting an otherwise perfect room, but too much effort to scrape away.

When her son is born, Itadori Yuji, she pours every scrap of care into the newborn boy. She showers him in love, treasures him with her whole soul, gives him everything she could never give her neglected nephew and now step son. And that lasts for about a year or two until she gets overwhelmed with the responsibilities of being a mother and Sukuna is the one left to take care of the infant.

He wonders if the family name is the one that comes with the curse of being the way he is, so maybe Yuji is free from it.

Sukuna doesn’t blame Yuji nor resents the boy, but he doesn’t love him either — not at first.

It starts to change when Yuji wobbles through his first steps, bright-eyed and naive, Sukuna realizes something that this baby couldn’t possibly yet.

Someone has to keep him alive and out of his drunk father’s calamity path.

And it sure as hell won’t be his pushover mother.

The house is a war zone every now and then and this isn’t new to Sukuna. Bottles shatter against walls, fists slam into tables, a wooden chair gets completely wrecked by tremendous force applied when throwing it against the floor. Then, it gets quiet — and it begins again when Yuji’s mother starts sobbing, fueling Arata's rage once again.

Sukuna is used to absorbing it in silence, the difference now is he’s keeping the small, soft little baby company by the crib’s side in his bedroom, keeping him from crying, thus avoiding the devastation to come inside the bedroom.

By the time Sukuna enrolls in high school, he already knows he doesn’t belong anywhere and never will.

He starts dying his hair black before the classes start anyway, the pink reminds him of his father, whom he doesn’t want shit to do with.

Classrooms are cages for him, and teachers are weak men pretending their pretty words have weight. He shows up because attendance keeps authorities off his back and he can’t afford a criminal record this early in life if he intends to leave the hell he lives in, but his eyes never stay on the board for long. It’s too boring.

Uraume sits beside him from day one.

The Kamo kid with skin pale as porcelain, pink hued eyes and silver hair that catches the fluorescent light like steel. This kid has three other brothers in the same school, Sukuna noticed by the family name, but all the other three have stark black hair and dark colored eyes.

They don’t talk much,just share a silence that feels almost like recognition.

Uraume doesn’t flinch at him. Doesn’t whisper rumors behind his back. They just look at him, calm, level, and then pass him their notes when he zones out without any comments or annoying lectures.

That’s enough for Sukuna to take a liking to them.

He doesn’t see them as a friend, after all, he feels like he’s above these kinds of futile relationships, but Uraume is the one person he allows to orbit close, the one shadow that doesn’t bother nor bore him. They follow him into the cafeteria, onto the roof, into fights behind the gym.

Never once do they tell him to stop, but sometimes, their cool voice slips through when things get too bad.

“If you hit him that hard, he won’t get back up.”

It isn't concern for the person being beaten restlessly. It’s advice. And Sukuna listens.

The rest of the school is noise and distractions.

Filled with idiots who test him, then regret it when his fists leave them beyond bruised. Teachers who try to “straighten him out” only to meet that flat, unreadable stare and realize he’s not some charity project they can fix. He’s not a poor kid that goes to state school because their parents can’t afford it.

They’re not sure if he’s a kid anymore despite being fifteen — and he isn’t sure about it either, after all he hasn’t been allowed to be a kid since he was born.

Then, in the middle of the dullness there’s Yorozu.

She’s chaotic, loud, disorder wrapped in a mini skirt, laughter pitched just a little too high, eyes burning with sick obsession.

The first time she sees Sukuna fight, blood on his knuckles, grin slashing across his face, she decides he belongs to her.

She corners him after class, and he lets it happen because her boldness amuses him.

She lets her words spill fast, a lot of promises he doesn’t pay attention to, declarations, nonsense about fate.

He lets it happen because that’s one good way to skip classes as a teenager filled with hormones.

It’s carnal, messy, violent.

He finds out he likes to dominate, command, and take what he wants. He likes to inflict pain and takes pleasure in doing so, and she likes when he hurts her.

She likes his fists around her neck and his slaps across her face.

They fuck in an abandoned classroom near the end of the school period. When it’s over, she’s clinging to him, whispering sweet nothings and telling him how they are really meant to be, they only fucked once and the bitch is already demanding his full attention.

He feels nothing for her, but he indulges her a few more times — he won’t deny a hot set of holes to fuck when he’s in the mood.

He keeps her at arm’s reach, never too close, never too comfortable, but he makes the mistake of letting whatever this is keep happening for a whole year, she’s becoming more invasive, too curious, trying to invite herself into Uraume’s house.

Too fucking annoying.

One day he just tells her they’re done.

“You bore me.” he states when she demands to know why he’s dumping her out of nowhere.

Her voice rises, shrill, carrying down the hallways as she calls him cruel, a monster, heartless, savage — everything he’s already heard a thousand times, so he doesn’t even turn around to witness her meltdown.

For weeks, months even, she follows him.

She shouts his name during class, scribbles confessions into his notebook when he isn’t looking, picks fights with Uraume for no reason, tries to pick fights with him but once was enough for her to leave with a sprained, bruised wrist.

Sukuna ignores her with the same detached calm he ignores most things around him.

The more she claws and whines for his attention, the less he gives.

Uraume is the one who steadies it when Sukuna asks them once what their thoughts are.

“She’ll burn herself out,” they murmur, walking home together.

Uraume lives in the way between the school they attend and Sukuna’s house, which is very convenient.

“Good,” he chuckles. “Let her.”

It becomes his pattern in high school, violence when he chooses it, silence when he doesn’t.

Uraume as his shadow, Yorozu as the ghost who won’t leave him alone, and through it all, Sukuna grows harder, crueler, more malicious. The boy turning into the man who knows the world will never soften for him — so might as well carve it to his shape instead.

And it has been like that for the entirety of his school years until one particularly fucked up night, a few weeks after graduating high school.

Sukuna is back from his rehearsal already.

He’s seventeen and so far he has picked more fights than he could count, started a rock band with a few school colleagues, had his face pierced, tattoos covering many parts of his body and was already smoking cigarettes every now and then.

He didn’t do it inside the house, though, Yuji was too young and already dealing with too much shit to become a second-hand-smoker thanks to his brother.

It happened too fast for Sukuna to avoid it.

Sukuna is studying the sheet music his bandmate sent him earlier that day in the living room. The TV is on, his stepmother is entertaining Yuji while drinking a glass of wine, because why wouldn’t she?

His father is in the kitchen heating up water to make him and his stepmother dinner.

And by dinner he means instant noodles.

Sukuna is around them every time his stepmother brings Yuji downstairs to spend time with her. At least since the day his father and his step mother started a fight while Yuji was playing on the living room floor mat, right in the middle of the drunk driven destruction to come.

They barely acknowledge Sukuna’s presence and he returns the favor of ignoring them completely until it’s time to feed Yuji and take him to bed.

Small, clumsy hands knock the half full cup of whisky — that their father left unattended while heating the water, probably his third glass of the night — off the counter.

Glass shatters, ripping his father’s attention from the stove to Yuji.

The man turns, kettle in hand, boiling water still spitting from the spout. He raises it, drunken fury spilling from his lips, and Yuji is like a deer in the headlight, frozen in place.

Sukuna moves first.

He jolts up from the couch and in a heartbeat he’s standing in front of Yuji.

The kettle crashes into his face. Scalding heat sears temple, cheek and near his jaw, the hiss of skin burning louder than Yuji’s choked gasp.

Pain claws through him, blinding, but he doesn’t cry out nor screams despite the agony and the foul smell of charred flesh — instead he stands there, steam rising from his skin while standing protectively between him and his brother, staring his father down through the haze.

His father falters just for a second, unsettled by the lack of fear in his son’s eyes, but soon he slides back into the drunk driven rageful man he is.

That scar never fades.

After that night, Sukuna knows there’s no staying, he can’t risk Yuji’s safety around his father and his neglectful, enabler, useless stepmother who just couldn’t care less about what was happening right besides her.

He starts making his bag once he puts Yuji to sleep, grabbing the few things he has among clothes and personal items — Sukuna has just enough to survive in his bedroom and nothing else.

He doesn’t remember when exactly was the last time someone wished him happy birthday and gave him a gift, but he knew it was some blunt teacher back at school, who didn’t know how to keep their nose off his life and tried to offer some sympathy and pity.

He threw it in the trash before even opening the box, right in front of them, and left.

He needs no sympathy, he needs strength.

Once his father is passed out drunk on the couch, he pulls Yuji out of bed, small legs dangling as he hoists him onto his back.

He has already gathered Yuji’s things in the extra space of his half empty bag and also in another backpack.

They were not coming back.

Sukuna ends up at Kamo’s household, Uraume said they could stay for a while with no further questions the moment he saw Sukuna’s half face wrapped in makeshift bandages at his door.

Later, he helps him attend to the burnt wound under the bandages with ointment and some painkillers after letting Yuji settle in the extra guestroom.

Sukuna doesn’t intend to stay long, he needs to fix shit and make sure Yuji is safe until he’s old enough to take care of himself, so he starts to plan.

The following morning is damp, streets still slick from the rain that fell overnight. Sukuna leans against the hood of his stepmother’s parked car, arms crossed, jaw set. His face is half in shadow, the fucked up, soon to be scarred skin catching the first weak light of day. It stings a little less today.

When Haruka steps out, she almost drops her purse at the sight of him.

“What the hell are you doing here? Where’s—” 

“Yuji? Somewhere safe.” he deadpans. “So not there.” he tilts his chin towards the house behind her and grins.

Her eyes widen, outrage pushing through her shock as if she would ever notice he’s gone before nightfall. She leaves early in the morning to go to work and doesn’t check on him, she would realize he’s gone only if she fancies playing with him after coming home.

“You can’t just take him! He’s my son!”

Sukuna pushes off the car slowly, letting the movement stretch, deliberate. “Funny. You only remember that when it’s convenient.”

“Don’t you dare. I’ve been the only one trying to hold this house together while your father—” her face hardens when he cuts her off.

“While he drank himself into the floor? While he swung fists at anyone smaller than him, including yourself? You stood right there and watched without saying a word like the pathetic, weak, cowardly woman you are. Don’t try to rewrite the story now.” Each insult is savoured by him, words drenched in poison as his crimson eyes flare in barely contempt anger, never leaving her face.

She grips her bag tighter, knuckles becoming whiter as he takes a step back.

“You… don’t know what it was like for me… I had no power—” the cracking of her voice does nothing to ease off his wrath.

“I don’t know?” he barks and a bitter laugh erupts from deep inside his chest. “You had a fucking choice to protect him, unlike me. Unlike your sister.” Sukuna snaps back, stepping closer.

His shadow falls over her, and she stiffens. Her eyes are flooded with fear and she looks at him like he’s some kind of calamity approaching, ready to take her life.

Good.

“You could’ve protected him. You didn’t, I did.” He points at the right side of his face. “Don’t stand there pretending you’re helpless when all you did was close your pretty little eyes and hope we’d take the blows for you.”

Color rises in her cheeks, more shame than anger as she chokes a sob and raises a hand to her face.

“I loved Yuji. I love him.”

“Then prove it.” His tone is steady as stone now, and his expression becomes flat. “Keep paying for his schooling. Private, public, I don’t care. If you don’t, I’ll find another way. But if you’ve got even a shred of love for that kid, you’ll make sure he doesn’t rot like the rest of us related to Ryoumen fucking Arata.”

“And if I say no? You think you can threaten me?” her voice trembles, a little high pitched — but he catches a hint of dare in it.

He grins wolfishly at that answer, baring teeth and humming, entertained.

Then he leans down slightly, not close enough to touch but close enough she feels the weight of him, the fucked up, soon to be scarred half of his face stark against the morning light. He wonders if she can smell the charred flesh still.

His voice drops to a murmur that terrifies her more than shouting ever could.

“If you don’t… then Yuji finds out the truth. How his mother looked away while his father raised fists at her. How she left him in the same room when the bottles flew and glass shards could cut his tender flesh. How she never once stepped between him and the fire. How rotten she is to the point of drinking herself to sleep every night and letting her sister’s son take care of her own kid.”

Her lips part, but no words come.

Then, another choked sob.

“He loves you now,” Sukuna coos at her, softer still, cruel in its calmness. “Those eyes still shine when they look at you. You really want to watch that die?”

The silence stretches. She blinks hard, lower lip trembling, and finally looks away.

“You’re a monster, just like your father.” she whispers, cleaning the streaming tears with the back of her hand.

“No.” Sukuna straightens, the corner of his mouth twitches in a humorless smirk as he shoves both his hands into his jacket’s pockets.

“I’m far worse.”

He turns and walks away, leaving her on the curb clutching her bag like a shield, staring at the empty street where his figure fades.

She keeps paying for Yuji’s education and Sukuna takes him to see his mother in public places rarely, only when his father is not around, and only because Yuji asks him to.

There were never mentions of Arata asking about his son’s whereabouts, and Sukuna doubts he did even notice their absence. He would only if they were made of liquor, maybe.

Never once did she beg him to come back home, which Sukuna found amusing for someone who claims to be such a loving mother.

Sukuna starts working as soon as he finds a job willing to take him. Construction, hauling, delivering things, walking dogs, anything that pays under the table. His body thickens with the labor and he eventually gathers enough money to start thinking about renting a small place for himself between a multitude of jobs.

Uraume tells him he doesn’t need to pay for anything, he offers shelter to him and Yuji out of consideration and friendship, but Sukuna pays for everything they consume anyway, leaving the money on his kitchen counter every Friday, never failing to do so.

He pays for their half of energy, water, food and gas, since he allows Uraume’s older brother, Noritoshi, to drive Yuji to school and back.

By now, by living in the same house, he learned that Uraume had been adopted by the Kamo family while still a baby, hence their lack of similarity.

They mentioned not knowing who their parents were or what happened to them. To that Sukuna simply commented ‘how lucky’ and Uraume just shrugged, they didn’t really care.

By the time his father finally dies — liver collapsed, body rotting in an empty house until neighbors complained about the smell — Sukuna barely feels anything, he’s almost nineteen now.

He has no idea where his step mother is, but soon he finds out she passed away a few weeks before his father, and the man didn’t even tell her son nor communicate it to the family.

The old man leaves behind just a ruined house — in more ways than one — and a pocket of money.

Just enough for Sukuna to take Yuji legally, enough to mark the end of a chapter and move out from the Kamo household without any debt and back into the old family’s house with Yuji.

He doesn’t grieve, Yuji does for them both.

He doesn’t want to bury him properly, Yuji insists on doing so.

He just stands at the edge of the funeral fire, scar tight on his skin, tattoos dark against his collar. The corner of his lips twinge before they curl up.

The fucker's dead. Yet, Sukuna prevails.

Yuji clings to him with red watery eyes, sniffling and rubbing out the tears from his cheeks as the few people that show up say goodbye to them. Sukuna doesn’t soften, doesn’t say anything comforting to Yuji, just rests a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder and squeezes hard enough to make sure he feels it.

And that’s enough.

*****

He didn’t have anything better to do, that far was true, but agreeing to go hear about the nonsensical project of Satoru wasn’t really much better than rotting at his couch. Or finding something to work at and earn a few more bucks.

When he arrives and realizes not everyone is there, he’s immediately annoyed. He doesn’t like waiting around for people, but he sits across Toji on the far left booth near the big window, hooking his arms over the top cap of the seat and tilting his head back, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the others to arrive — hopefully before he gets too bored and decides to leave.

The other man just raises a brow at him to acknowledge his presence and goes back to staring outside through the window, entertained by the never-ending traffic of people crossing.

Soon Suguru arrives with some girl Sukuna hasn't seen before, she says hi and offers her steady hand for him to shake and presumably introduce himself, but he only tilts his head down lazily to look at her for a brief moment before tilting it back again, resting it again on the top-cap of the booth.

“That’s Sukuna, he’s the new drummer of the band. He’s just impolite like that, like a feral cat, don’t mind him.” He hears Suguru making excuses for his behavior, and it has him raising his head again from the top cap of the booth to stare him down as he sits by Toji’s side, pulling the girl to sit by his own side.

Now there’s three places taken in front of him and he remains alone on this side of the booth, splayed like a king on a throne.

“What? Do you think I’ll bite her if she sits by my side so you rather sit all cramped there?” he croons, grinning at Suguru, who’s grinning back for a reason he’s yet to find out.

“I know you’re all bark no bite— but no, I’m simply fond of Toji and it’s not always that I see Nobara, so she’s staying here with me.” His tone is witty, but Sukuna doesn’t believe a word he says. “Besides, I think it would be good for you to sit near Satoru.”

His upper lip twitches as he fights the urge to bare his teeth at just the thought.

“Or maybe by her side.” as Suguru concludes he’s already looking at the stairs’ direction and raising his arm high up for you and Satoru to notice him.

Judging by the way your skin is flushed and how sweaty you are, you’re in need of better clothing choices for the summer heat. And just as Nobara comments on it in a way that makes even Toji shoot her a look, Sukuna grins at her boldness.

She might as well have told you that you look like a pile of hot garbage by the face you made, but when your eyes meet Sukuna’s as you try to avoid conflict, he sees the mask faltering a little — just a small crack.

Any hope is gone when you apologize to her in your irrational, unconditional politeness instead of demanding respect or anything else. His brows furrow and he makes way for you to sit by his side on the booth, as he knows you will.

You prefer to be the one caught in the middle of the fire and endure his presence if it means saving your friend a mild headache.

Always a martyr, huh.

Satoru’s explanation and the entirety of his delusional plan do little to catch Sukuna’s attention, as he prefers to zone out. He's craving a cigarette already.

Maybe something to eat could help, and so he interrupts the nonsensical belt of words to have them order something.

Food did make things more tolerable, and it looked like it had the same effect on you just by your change in posture.

So he endures hearing Satoru for a while more, and when it comes to the band’s naming something interesting finally happens.

He watches closely as it unravels right next to him.

You write things that make sense only to you on your cellphone, he can see how fast you go in many directions with your notes and thoughts, how you try to dissect the meanings of each name given by each people to make them work together — which he’s not sure if it’s a good idea, but the way you start to lose yourself in your thoughts is alluring.

Red eyes watch attentively as you gesture vaguely for a pen, barely mumbling what you need when Suguru hands you one and you snatch the napkins off the whole table to scribble and sketch something.

Suguru, Satoru and Toji seem to be accustomed to this, so you do show fragments of your true self to your friends.

But when you’re finally done — and proud of what you achieved — after long minutes, something doesn’t take long to change and shift in the air.

The shift is small at first — the way your shoulders stiffen, the way your hands fidget under the table, like you’re keeping yourself from clawing at your own skin.

Everyone is silent for a little while, either analyzing your work or trying to understand it better, but they are clearly mesmerized by your final piece and explanation.

You don’t see the silence like it is. You see it as a sign that something terrible is coming.

Nobody sees it eating you from inside out, but Sukuna does.

He’s seen it before, plenty of times.

Not in you — in Yuji. Back when the kid was smaller, softer, caught in the blast radius of their father’s rages, the panic always started following the same pattern.

Shallow breath, twitching hands, eyes darting like a trapped animal.

Back then, if Sukuna didn’t stop it fast, the noise would bring their old man storming in, drunk and looking for something to break.

So Sukuna learned.

A hand on Yuji’s neck, a sharp word, a slight pressure to his arm or hands, sometimes just a look — enough to snap him out of it, to shut him up before things got worse.

The memory irritates him now, he’s not here to babysit anyone — least of all this girl who hides her nerves behind sarcasm and stiff pride like she’s capable of dealing with anything that’s tossed at her.

Your breathing is becoming too shallow, too quick and uneven.

It grates on his nerves.

He won’t sit here and watch you crumble like a kicked dog because you have no self esteem nor half the structure you think you have. He doesn’t stomach weakness when it spills into his space.

So he moves swiftly. Not doing much, just wrapping both your hands in his own and pressing it slightly should be enough to snap you out of it if he’s correct.

That doesn’t come from a gentle place nor from taking pity on you.

It’s command, the same way he’d tell someone to shut up.

And it works the same way — you snap your head to stare at him with those big, alarmed eyes, and for a few seconds he can see you.

The real you. Staring at him and asking what the fuck he’s doing.

And it makes his lips curl up in a smirk when he realizes it may be a little bit easier to break through your veneered masks than he thought.

Then he draws a smooth circle with his thumb on the back of your hand, watching as your mind races and your face starts to redden, thoughts scattering and confusion rooting in your mind.

It's really entertaining to watch.

Your breath stumbles a little, then steadies, and the tension in your fingers eases just barely.

With his gaze still fixed on you, he tilts his chin to point at Suguru and retreats his hand before leaning back, satisfied, leaving the others on the table to wrap you up in tender words and compliments.

Not because he cares — he doesn’t really, and if you fall, it’s on you, but he still wants to be the one making you reach the brink of your limits when the time comes.

Just because he feels like it’s going to be really satisfyingly sweet to watch as you realize you aren’t able to shield your friends from everything like a fucking super hero.

Or when you see that you aren’t able to embrace everyone and their problems while you try to hide all of your flaws and insecurities to be perceived as a stronger person than you are.

He’s been seeing you crack and falter constantly before rebuilding and doing it again, and again, and again. He wonders how long it will take for the pieces to stop being able to glue back together.

He wonders what will you do when it all inevitably explodes on your face — all the commitment, the duties, promises you made and oaths you took, the shit you told yourself and others you could handle alone.

He bets you will break beyond repair.

And he bets this will happen as soon as the band reaches a little bit of fame and you have to manage it all, because of course you’ll do it by yourself.

And that’s why he’s gonna keep tagging along. Control feels better than undeserving chaos and anxiety.

He waits for you to recompose yourself, recollect your fragments and rebuild your façade by his side as they accept the new name you chose.

But it doesn’t happen, you simply stay as you are, raw and vulnerable.

You shoot him a gentle look, a warm, teary smile before turning back and wrapping your arms around Satoru to suffocate your sniffles in his shirt.

His eyebrows knit together and a crease forms over his nose as he studies you, stunned.

Maybe he misinterpreted you.

You’re already broken beyond repair, aren’t you, brat?

Just like he is, but you keep trying to pretend you’re not.

He rests his cheek on a curled fist as he keeps gazing at your back.

The harder the game, the better the prize.

Chapter Text

Sundowning

You rub your temples as you stare at your laptop’s screen on the God’s Beneath Official Account instagram page.

You’ve posted a heartfelt text regarding the split of the band and the end of the shows and gigs just a few days after the very first rehearsal with Sukuna as a drummer.

You took too long to do it, you know, but some part of you was still hoping something might change, you don’t even know what you expected to change, to magically happen, but you did.

You honestly didn’t think Maki giving up on her dream college to stay around and play rockband with you was a possibility, did you?

Even considering it makes your skin crawl of how bad of a friend you can be sometimes.

With a heavy sigh you close the laptop’s lid and fall back on the couch, letting it rest on your stomach as you stare at the ceiling. You’re becoming more anxious by the day and you don’t know if it’s just your messy head playing tricks on you or if things have changed as soon as Maki left.

Aside from the bad episodes and you struggling to grab a good night of sleep without relying on pills, you started to notice Satoru’s actions, his soft words towards you, the excess care, the looks he gives you when you two are alone.

Could it mean something other than his usual clingy friendship?

Maybe you want it to mean something else.

Yuji suggested you talk to him, but this could jeopardize not only a friendship you love, but also the band itself. Not talking to him, on the other hand, could drive you slowly insane as you keep wondering if his smiles, his touches and looks at you are the same as the ones he gives his other close friends.

A groan slips from your lips and you reach for the cellphone laying over the coffee table — enough of the big internet, it’s time for the small internet.

You sneer bitterly at yourself for being awfully aware of how much of your time you rather spend looking at anything else and consuming online bullshit than thinking about yourself, your feelings, your life.

But something good comes from this today.

You check the inbox of the anonymous account you used to post both singles and there’s a new flagged message there.

“Management Inquiry – Potential Growth”

Your recent uploads have reached the right ears. I believe I can take this project further than you’ve imagined. If you’re interested in discussing management, contracts, and scaling, meet me this week. Bring whoever you trust. Or come alone. Your choice.

– Mei Mei.

(XX XXXXX-XXXX)

You jolt up from the couch and your laptop almost flies off, but you grab it first and hold it tight as you read the e-mail again.

Is it legit?

A Google search fills in the blanks you needed on Mei Mei — “Tokyo-based manager. Ruthless, strategic and selective. She’s the type who doesn’t court acts unless she’s certain they’ll explode — and drops them just as fast if they don’t.”

You can feel your heart beating like crazy.

Would they rocket if given the right opportunity?

A real manager thinks your songs are good enough to discuss a possible contract.

A few minutes pass while you keep staring, reading and re-reading the e-mail, steadying your breath and thinking you’re gonna have to wait a whole day to call her, it’s already too late for you to call anyone, really.

Maybe not someone.

Your breath catches as you hear Maki’s voice on the other side of the phone call, and you’re smiling so much — it’s been… you don’t know how long.

“Hey, sunshine, it’s been a minute since we last talked, huh? How’s everything? How are you? Did Yuji destroy anything yet?”

“You got time?” you sound hopeful, and you really are.

“For you? Always!”

You’re now sitting upside down on the couch, head hanging from the seat and legs over the backrest as you tell Maki of every single thing you couldn’t tell before. You talk about the singles, the designs, Sukuna being the new drummer, the new band's name, and finally about the manager reaching out to you.

She laughs at the idea of Suguru having to deal with Sukuna in the same room as him, knowing how he feels about Black Halberd, and she tells you she actually came across the singles being shared and she recognized the voice, but upon messaging Satoru he only replied with some cryptid shit she had no time to deal with so she brushed it off thinking it was nothing. Yeah, that looks like Satoru.

So the single exploded a little bit overseas as well, that’s a good sign, it gives you a little bit more hope for your talk with the manager tomorrow.

You hang up after two and a half hours of updating on each other’s lives, and gods, how you’ve missed her. You nearly forgot how much she can make you smile and feel like a person again.

And that night you sleep well.

The next day, you call Mei Mei after you have your much needed morning coffee.

Her voice on the line is smooth, really controlled. She picks the place and you two meet later that same day.

It’s a not so hot evening. A sleek, low-lit lounge tucked into the side streets of Shinjuku, quiet enough for serious talk but upscale enough to make you feel underdressed, and you’ve got one of your best dresses on.

It’s a black bodycon dress with a cropped leather jacket over your shoulders, and you even put on your fancy pumps with not so high heels.

The summer days may be hot but the nights get a little chilly sometimes.

She’s already there when you arrive. You know what she looks like because of your little research last night, but you find her even more stunning in person.

You can see she’s taller than you even though she’s already seated. Her makeup is spotless on her light, peach skin. Her dark purple eyes catch you as you approach the table, so she offers you a smile with her lips perfectly covered in red lipstick.

There is not a single hair out of place in the long, silky silver colored hair that flows back and down her spine except for a long side bang that partially covers her left eye. Her outfit is razor-sharp, off-white sheath dress and black stilettos — looks expensive but not too flashy. 

Everything about her looks so fancy, so… calculated.

She doesn’t stand to greet you, just lifts her gaze as you approach.

“So. The girl behind the band.” She gestures toward the seat opposite her. “Sit.”

You slide in, the leather bench cool against the back of your thighs. She studies you with unnerving patience, eyes glinting like she’s dissecting you before you even speak.

“You’re Mei Mei.” She nods and you introduce yourself politely, saying your name. “Nice to meet you. You reached out, I’m listening.” Your tone is calm, and you’re trying your best not to show how nervous you actually are and how hard your heart is beating.

“Good. Direct girl. Saves me the trouble of wasting time with small talk. Let’s be direct then, the anonymity angle is clever. The vocals are undeniably good. You’ve already stirred curiosity all around the internet, which is the hardest part, congratulations. The question now is whether you want to remain a whisper in the underground, relying on anonymous posting and hopes of becoming relevant — or let someone like me turn yours into a name that fills rooms.”

She’s really sure of herself and speaks like it’s just that simple.

Like you simply let her manage the band and in a heartbeat you will become famous, just like magic. It sounds like making a wish to a djinn, or a monkey’s paw — there must be a twist somewhere, this is too good to be just like that.

“What’s in for you?” You raise a brow. A waiter pours her a glass of red wine and she gestures so he pours you one as well. 

“Money.” She says in that same fine tone. “A cut, of course. Standard percentages, but more importantly, control. I open doors, I set schedules, I decide where your energy is best spent. You focus on creating and I handle everything else.”

There’s a pause, she sips her wine and your gaze falls to the glass in front of you.

It's okay, right? She invited you, she’s paying for this — probably — expensive wine.

“But there’s a catch. You can’t hesitate forever and I don’t work with those who do. The market moves quickly, and mystery has a short shelf life.” A silver brow cocks at you and she gracefully leans in, settling both her elbows over the table and resting her chin over the back of her joined hands. “You either expand now or you’re gonna vanish in the noise, I can see there’s a growing trend of unfaced, masked anonymous people trying to grab a little bit of attention you raised, you need to choose if you want to remain in that same spot or if you’re taking this to the next level.”

Every word that spills from her lips mesmerizes you, she’s like a siren that sings and lures you in, even though she’s telling you about the risks and how she needs you to be certain, it’s all too good not to accept.

Still, you take a deep breath.

“I need to take this with the rest of the band before I give you an answer. What’s your limit?”

“Naturally. And a week.” She tilts her head slightly before grinning softly and taking another sip of wine. “Interesting.”

“What’s interesting?” you blink, caught off guard by her comment.

“You. You think first. You don’t leap because someone with a polished smile and a bag full of promises says jump. That’s rare in this business line.”

Your cheeks flush in heat but you try to divert the attention by taking another big sip of wine.

She rises smoothly, already gathering her bag. You follow her movements with only your eyes as you take a final gulp of the drink.

That was quick, maybe you should spend some more time in the lounge to make something more from the rest of your Sunday evening.

“Bring them to me when you’re ready. Or don’t. Either way, I’ll be waiting until next Sunday. And remember—” her gaze sharpens like the edge of a blade, yet she has that serpent smile coiling on her lips “—opportunity doesn’t knock twice.”

Second-floor rehearsal room, Friday, Shinjuku.

The new space Satoru rented out, less moldy and dusty this time — padded walls, cables tangled across the floor, the faint reek of sweat and cigarette smoke lingering from whoever used it last, which it’s not an issue, your whole band smells like sweat and cigarette after a show. And after rehearsals as well when they’re allowed to smoke inside, to be honest. 

Sukuna’s already set up at the kit, leaning back in the stool resting between the third and fourth song they played. Toji’s tuning his bass by ear, unplucking and replucking strings with that unreadable calm, trying to understand if it’s the cable or the soundbox doing whatever he’s finding odd. Suguru’s sitting cross-legged on the floor with his guitar, scribbling something into a notebook and biting on his nails. You gave him a specific nail polish that promises to make it stop but he’s biting through the bitter disgusting flavor of it as it seems. Satoru’s pacing, restless as always, instead of sitting down for a moment and catching his breath.

You stand by the corner table — there’s a table in this studio, you don’t have to sit on the floor this time — clutching your phone like it’s heavier than it should be. Maybe it’s time to talk to them now that they’ve spent some energy already.

“We’ve been contacted.” you frown at your own phrasing but that word makes them all look up at you.

“Contacted? By who? Please don’t tell me it’s some creep in the comments again—”

“No, not a creep this time, although people still send messages asking if you’re selling your boxers anytime soon.” You hear a scoff in the back. “Mei Mei. Big manager.”

The name lands like a stone in water, rippling through the sudden silence. They know who she is and that you realize by their reaction alone.

Suguru’s brows arch as he realizes you’re serious. Toji just hums low in his throat, noncommittal. Satoru whistles, running a hand through his hair and Sukuna lets out a single, sharp laugh that echoes off the drum shells like he doesn’t believe you.

“Now that’s a big fish. Didn’t think we’d catch her attention this fast.” Satoru falls on his haunches once he stops in front of your chair, tilting his head up to look you in the eyes and tap on your knee with his restless fingers. “She doesn’t do charity work. If she’s reaching out, it’s because she sees profit in us!”

“Which means she’ll want what all managers want.” Toji lets his bass hang by the shoulder strap “She will control everything. Schedules. Cuts. Even outfits, y’all ready for that?”

“And what’s wrong with that? We want to get big, don’t we? This is the point.” Satoru claps his hands together, too loud. “She can actually make us big. We’d be idiots not to at least talk to her.”

“We’d be idiots not to read the fine print.” Suguru sighs but he’s smiling, of course he also wants this, he’s just worried.

All the while, Sukuna hasn’t stopped staring at you. One elbow propped on his thigh, fingers drumming idly against the kit, crimson eyes sharp like he’s measuring something.

He’s known for not liking to be controlled by anyone other than himself, you’re ready for him to give you a headache.

And you’re ignoring that the best you can, but you look at his direction since he’s been quiet this whole time, and finally, he speaks.

“And what do you think, brat?”

It’s not directed at Satoru, Suguru, or Toji.

Just you.

Is this a trap?

You hesitate, aware of all of them watching.

“I think it’s worth hearing her out. Doesn’t mean we sign anything right away… But if she can get us better shows, better reach…” you shrug “We need to at least see the deal, right?.”

Satoru grins, triumphant, getting up from the spot in front of you. Suguru leans back, still cautious, still holding that pensive face as he raises once again his nails to his lips.

Toji just mutters, “Your call,” like he’ll go with whatever the group decides, which is sometimes a relief, and sometimes a pain in the ass when you need someone else to decide something for a change.

Sukuna smirks, satisfied with your answer for reasons you can’t pin down, but you just let it go as Satoru resumes his talking.

“Then it’s settled! We meet her as soon as we can. Can you arrange it, sugar?” He doesn’t even need to look at you and you know he’s talking to you, and only you, each and every time he needs someone to solve, schedule, arrange, or make something happen. So you nod positively. “Worst case, we say no. Best case—” he spreads his arms like he’s already on a stadium stage “—Cenotaph becomes a goddamn empire!”

The lounge chosen again by Mei Mei isn’t neutral ground this time.

It’s hers.

Polished marble tables, low golden lighting, the faint scent of expensive wine drifting in from the bar. The decoration is impeccable and leaves nothing loose. A place designed to remind anyone stepping in that she owns it all and they’re all beneath her.

Or simply a reminder that she’s not all talk, she actually is responsible for a multitude of successful bands, singers, artists. 

Multiple careers skyrocket because of her management style, so there’s… that. That little pressure at your door.

She’s already seated when you and the others arrive, back straight, a glass of red wine resting by her hand, looking at her cellphone screen.

She doesn’t rise this time either, just tilts her head, eyes flicking across each of you in turn — Satoru’s wild grin, Suguru’s composed face with just a polite smile, Toji’s quiet bulk, Sukuna’s predatory stillness and unreadable expression, and finally you, politely smiling and offering a short head bow.

“So. Cenotaph in the flesh.” Her smile is polite and thin. “Who’s the angel behind the vocals?”

Satoru slides into the booth first, sprawling like he owns the whole place before tilting down his head and shooting Mei Mei a charming glance from over his sunglasses’ rims. “That would be me. Enchanté.” he extends his hand over the table and she shakes it briefly.

“Of course it’s you.” She replies with a chuckle like she already expected it to be him, and him to act just like he just did.

Suguru sits neatly beside him, slapping the side of his thigh so he makes space for him to sit with one leg crossed. Toji settles with a grunt, arms folded, awfully quiet since you all arrived, maybe he’s as averse as Sukuna to professional management but will do it for the band. Sukuna doesn’t sit until last, deliberately, dropping into the corner like a shadow.

You take the spot nearest the edge, by his side once again.

“Let’s not waste time. Your first uploads proved one thing, there’s demand for what you’re offering. Curiosity also has spiked and people are trying to find out who’s the man behind the mask. You’ve hooked an audience, this is good. The question is, what will you do with it? Keep feeding scraps until they lose interest? Or let me put you on a stage where they’ll pay to see you burn?”

She’s saying the same thing she said to you when she first met you, and you’re intrigued to see what their reactions will be. Still, you understand the premise, why would she change anything in a winning discourse?

Satoru leans forward, eyes gleaming and eyes still transfixed on the woman across from him.

“We’re not interested in burning out. We want longevity.”

“Longevity comes with discipline and contracts.” She slides a slim folder across the table, perfectly done nails clicking against the leather cover. “Standard percentages. I take twenty-five. In exchange, you get access to recording studios, better distribution, sponsorships. I schedule shows, handle press, and negotiate pay. You play. I profit. You profit.”

Suguru opens the folder before you can reach for it, already scanning the pages. His brow barely twitches.

“What about rights to the music we make?”

“Yours. I don’t touch creative control nor would I like it. I only sell what you give me, but deadlines, release schedules, tours — those are completely mine to dictate, and you to follow.”

Toji lets out a low scoff, it’s the first time he speaks since arriving.

“And if we don’t like your terms down the road?”

“Then you’ll leave with more money and reach than you could ever gain alone. My record speaks for itself, I’m afraid. The bands I drop usually can’t survive without me, but if you think you’ll be different… you need to prove it.”

Your eyes travel through the faces around the table, Satoru’s smirking like he’s already sold.

“I like her. Efficient.”

Suguru sets the folder down carefully and slides it towards you through the table’s surface.

“Efficient isn’t always safe. What we got is safe.”

“Music isn’t safe, I believe you’re aware of this even being as young as you are. Especially the kind of music you make.”

Then her eyes find you as you skim the sheets of the robust contract inside, but her voice gets your attention back quickly.

“And you? You’re the one who designed the masks, lyrics and the whole aesthetic. You’re the reason those uploads had weight. Do you want this band to stay a university distraction — or do you want to watch it devour Tokyo?”

It feels like the air around the table tightens by the second, it gets harder to breathe under this much pressure.

She treats you like you’re the leader of the band, the one whose opinion weighs the most, when you see yourself as the one who’s helping them out.

Like a manager of sorts that just gets things done so they can focus on playing. A handywoman. Out of the spotlights, just making sure they have all they need.

The band could still exist without you, it couldn’t exist without someone playing the guitar like Suguru does, the bass like Toji plays, singing like only Satoru knows how to, and playing the drums like Ma—

Huh.

You blink, they’re still waiting.

Satoru’s waiting for your answer, Suguru too. Toji doesn’t speak, but even he watches you. Sukuna’s gaze is the heaviest as he dips his chin to look at you besides him with no expression you can read.

“We hear you and we’ll review this proposal as a group, if that’s okay.” Your gaze lowers to your hands sitting on top of your thighs, and then rises back to the woman’s face. “If we decide to move forward, we’ll reach out.”

Mei Mei smiles faintly, sipping her wine and with a new hand gesture she calls an employee in.

“You shouldn’t ask if it’s okay to do something you’re legally advised to. Don’t take too long, though. Mysteries don’t stay fresh forever, and this—” she gestures in a fluid motion of her hand to all of you sitting in the booth "is only as powerful and interesting as the myth you build around it. Don’t let it fade away.”

As the employee approaches, she tells him to bring you whatever you wish to drink, on her, and Satoru can barely hold his wolfish grin, already asking for a round of tequila shots and letting you all order a drink of choice — as you all do without much hesitation.

“We’re reviewing this again as soon as we can, I’ll make everyone a copy of it once I’m home. But I do feel like it’s a good opportunity… I’ll talk to Professor Kento in business class if he has some time… no, he’s too busy, I’ll deal with this myself.” What started with you explaining them something ended with you rambling, but you snap back when you hear Sukuna sucking his teeth. “Sorry, got carried away, anyone wants to read it before I—” And you’re cut off by that big hand with a black band inked around the wrist taking the folder from your hands as if you’re a child holding something you’re not supposed to.

You stare at him, blankly, as Sukuna almost throws it to Satoru.

“You’re keeping it safe until we leave, so mind your alcohol.” he tells Satoru, who is staring at him with a mix of confusion and amusement, the corner of his lips twitching and you don’t know if he wants to grin or frown. “You.” his eyes are back on you and you feel an uneasiness rising, already bracing yourself for some kind of blow. “Drink.”

He commands just as the drinks are displayed in front of you by the employees.

Is he concerned about you doing too much or he doesn’t trust you enough to keep the contract safe? You believe the latter most.

“I can take care of the contract, of myself, and even of you all after too many drinks, thank you very much.” You tell him as he’s downing his tequila shot without taking his eyes off you. “Or are you worried about my health, Kuna?” You squint at him, not letting the sarcasm pass unnoticed as you chuckle.

His jaw tightens for a second and you see a soft crease forming above his nose, his upper lip pulling barely before he leans in closer to you, towering once again over you before lowering his head until his mouth is just inches from your ear.

Badum, badum, badum.

Your body is stiff as stone and you feel your heartbeat increasing aggressively.

Badum, badum, badum, badum, badum.

You hold your breath.

“Don’t get your hopes up, brat. You’re just no use to anyone if you break from trying to handle more than you can.”

The still cruelty of his words don’t match the softness of his tone. Nor does the deep breath he takes just to exhale with a low growl against the curve of your neck, inhaling your perfume and making every single hair of your body stand as chills go down your spine.

Useless.

You’re sure you haven’t blinked since he leaned in, and when you finally do your eyes hurt like they’re too dry.

Sukuna is leaning back on his spot, talking to Toji about their job or something similar, you don’t know, you can’t focus, you can only hear your heartbeat refusing to calm down as you stare blankly at your mojito glass still completely full.

Suguru asks if you’re okay when he takes a break from his conversation with Satoru and you just nod once before you down your entire cup in a single breath.

You order another round.

*****

As the morning light cuts across your bedroom, too bright for the hangover building behind your eyes, the first thing you register is the dress still clinging to your body, the light jacket you carried with you just in case thrown over the chair carelessly. Heels abandoned somewhere by the door.

You don’t remember walking home.

The flash comes only when you shift to your side, when your head protests and you hear again the voice that dragged you out of the lounge.

“Quit stumbling, brat. I’m not carrying your ass up three flights of stairs.”

The memory plays sharper than it should in the state you are in, his hand was on the back of your neck, not gentle nor rough, just steering you like a leash disguised as guidance as you tried your best not to fall down. He didn’t let you take off your platforms as well.

You cover your face with both hands and still feel the bitter taste on your tongue.

Oh no, did you throw up somewhere in the apartment?

…Did you try to shake him off?

Yes, yes you did try to make him leave you to get back on your own.

You remember muttering something about not needing a rude babysitter, and he’d snapped back without missing a beat.

“You can’t even take care of your own pathetic self. What the fuck makes you think you can take care of anyone else?”

You’d gone quiet after that, too busy chewing on those words and holding back the tears while he keyed open your door like he’d been there a hundred times before.

Was that your key? Did Yuji give him a spare key?

He didn’t stay. Didn’t check if you drank water, if you collapsed into bed. Just made sure you got inside and then left you with silence.

Now, with the sunlight cutting your skull in half, you wonder if you should be angry at him.

Or if, beneath the insult, there was something else he was making sure you heard while you tried to get his hand off your neck.

No. You should be angry.

You tell yourself that, it’s easier this way.

But the thing about Sukuna is that his words don’t just sting — they fucking stick like chewing gum on your hair.

And they make you as frustrated and furious as you would be if you had chewing gum stuck to your hair.

Steam fogs the air and you pour the water you were heating on a kettle over cheap instant coffee, bitter even before you sip it. You gotta remember to buy actual, drinkable coffee at some point.

You sit at the tiny kitchen table with the cup warming your hands, laptop open again to the contract folder digitalized and already sent to all of the boys.

Did you do it while drunk? Yeah, probably, that sounds like you.

His words replay in your mind, the ones said on the lounge and the ones he told you as he escorted you home.

He didn’t raise his voice once.

Didn’t snarl.

Just dropped it on you like a fact you’d been too cowardly to face.

The words on the contract blur, not because of the hangover, but because you’re trying not to admit how much his jab has teeth. How much you didn’t need to hear them and yet he makes sure to land blow after blow on you when you least expect.

You drink your coffee and feel the warmth slip through your body slowly, comforting, bringing you back to life sip after sip.

The contract is straightforward, at least.

Mei Mei’s cut, her control over every single thing she pointed out last night. Studio time, shows, visibility, schedule.

Everything you’ve wanted for the band, wrapped up in neat legalese.

You know the others will fight about it when you suggest to meet and align the expectations — Suguru with his caution, Toji with his distrust, Satoru with his manic enthusiasm. Sukuna, though? He hasn’t shown his hand yet. He just watches, like he’s waiting for you to hang yourself with your own rope.

You take another sip of coffee  — too big, scorched your tongue — then you open a blank document.

Notes for the band. Questions about the contract.

It’s easier to type than to think or speak it out loud, or so you’ve always thought.

You can organize everything better when you write. Your lyrics, your thoughts, your feelings.

Easier to move forward than circle back to the voice in your head.

But you can’t stop your mind from wandering back to the way his hand had settled at your nape last night, not pushing you forward, not pulling you closer, just there. To the way he leaned close enough for you to feel his breath, his cologne and the coppery smell of his cigarettes, his tone cruel but calm, almost soothing, like he was measuring your reaction more than the words themselves. To the way your heart reacted to his closeness, the way you felt your body heat increasing and your stomach twisting.

Badum, badum, badum, badum, badum.

You’ve been avoiding your softness, your cracks, the vulnerability that has granted you nothing more than pain and distress.

He acts like he saw right through them in one look and will time, after time, after time pry those cracks open with his bare hands until you collapse under his unyielding grip.

What is this man doing to you?

You close the laptop before you can spiral again, pressing your palms against the lid like you could shove all those feelings away with that gesture.

The coffee’s gone cold, and you realize you’re not sure what burns worse — the bitter aftertaste on your tongue, or Sukuna’s voice still curling in your chest like smoke after charring your heart.

By the time the knock comes, the laptop is still shut, the mug is rinsed, and your strong façade has been stitched back together, calmer now. The headache lingers, but you’ve learned how to tuck that behind a shrug and a smile.

Yuji answers before you can, bounding to the door with his usual boyish grin and letting Satoru tumble inside like a storm. Suguru follows, then Toji and finally Sukuna.

You shoot Yuji a look that he knows means ‘explain yourself’, and he just shrugs at you.

“Onii-san sent a message earlier saying they were coming by to review some kind of contract, but I didn’t want to wake you up since you were having such a deep, calm sleep for once… then I forgot to tell you after.”

Your living room is too small for this many bodies.

The table is already cluttered with notebooks, tangled earbuds, and Suguru’s ashtray.

Satoru claims the couch in two strides, sprawling until Yuji protests and wedges himself into a corner. Toji leans against the wall like he has no interest in sitting at first, but soon he drops on the left spot of the couch, almost squeezing Satoru had he not moved fast enough.

Suguru pulls up a chair and starts lining up his notes before asking you what you think of the contract so far.

Sukuna drops into the armchair that gives him a view of the entire living room, and with a turn of his head he can see the kitchen, and the small table made for two people where you and Suguru are going through the notes you had made.

Your eyes drift from the notes for a moment and fall on the tattoos sliding under the hem of Sukuna’s black sleeveless shirt as he settles back, arms wide on the rests like a damn king, but you focus back on the contract before he can catch you staring.

“Mei Mei’s terms,” you murmur, hoping everyone has seen their digital version since your drunk self is way more tech friendly than your sober self talking about physical copies “I skimmed it. Rights to the music stay with us. She takes twenty-five percent, but in exchange we get distribution, sponsorships, booking power. Tours. The whole package. She was being honest yesterday.”

“That’s not a package, that’s a golden ticket, sugar.” you hear Satoru saying from the couch.

“Golden tickets usually end with someone drowning in chocolate, Toru. You wouldn’t like that, would you?”

“I mean… If I’m to die, it may as well be a sweet, memorable death.” Satoru turns around so he can watch Suguru roll his eyes from over the couch backrest. “And everyone would pay millions to have a piece of Gojolate.”

Toji’s low hum fills the pause before Suguru can curse at Satoru. “She’s not wrong about momentum, I admit. Strike while it’s hot, or not at all, is as great advice as any, and if we wait too long we may lose the hype train.” he sighs, not turning his gaze from the TV screen as he talks.

Your eyebrows are so furrowed as you stare at Toji’s nape above the couch backrest.

Excuse you? How did this man with NO social media nor social skills know about internet slang? Hype train?

Suguru touches the crease between your brows with his index finger and chuckles lightly as you mouth ‘hype train?’ at him.

“You’ve read it more than once, even when you were rotten drunk.” Sukuna’s voice cuts clean through the noise, aimed only at you. “Is there a catch?”

The others quiet, almost instinctively. Your fingers tighten around the pen you’re holding out of habit even though you’re not scribbling anything right now, all your notes are on the laptop document. “Nothing hidden. Just… deadlines, release schedules…” your voice lingers as you remember something that startled you on the contract “And the first release of an entire album before the end of the year. No space for hesitation whatsoever. Once we sign, it’s constant output.”

He smirks, but it’s not amusement you find in his expression. It’s like he’s testing the edges of your resolve, seeing if you’ll perhaps neglect something among all the tasks you insist on balancing by yourself.

“And you think you can keep up?”

It’s the same barb from last night, only now sharpened in front of everyone. But you hold his gaze, steady, refusing to give him the satisfaction of breaking down like that, and in your own damn kitchen.

“If I couldn’t,” you say, voice even, “you wouldn’t be here, would you?”

Something flickers in his eyes, too quick to name. He leans back again, silent, letting the others dive back into their arguments as you keep your eyes fixed to him.

Something stirs inside your chest, ugly.

You think it’s anger, it feels a lot like it.

You wanna get up from the chair and scream at him for daring to question your competence in front of your friends. You wanna drag him out of your apartment until he learns how to behave as a normal human being with manners.

But you don’t even argue back or raise your voice at him, that side of you is to be kept concealed, tucked in deep inside you and hidden from the world.

This ugly personality only brings pain, only brings problems, and only grants you harm — ever since you were a little kid, this much you know.

Be polite, smile, be gentle, be feminine, be small, speak softly, comply, do as you’re told and maybe it won’t hurt as much. Maybe he won’t break you as badly. Won’t happen as often.

The weight of his attention doesn’t leave you even after his eyes move to the TV screen along Toji’s, Yuji’s and Satoru’s.

“Let’s do it.” you say after what you feel is an eternity.

Once again you grab the attention of them all, and despite the worried look in Suguru’s eyes, he reaches your hand with his own and holds it gently, intertwining your fingers with his long ones, offering comfort and warmth, and you love him for it.

Satoru beams you with a bright smile and you see as he jumps on Toji for a hug just to be shoved back and fall on Yuji’s lap, who accepts the hug instead, being unable to fight back that hurricane in the form of a bright eyed human being.

Sukuna glances at you, raises his slit eyebrow and lets his gaze linger for a while, studying your expression with his lips pressed together in a flat line, before letting his shoulders sag and relax as he sinks back on the armchair. No comments, no snarky remarks.

You almost expected him to come at you again, but you’re glad he didn’t. You have barely any energy left.

Every ounce of courage you had has been gathered to steady yourself and accept the contract’s terms.

You’re going to have to write a significant number of new lyrics and produce raw demos for the album she wants to release in less than six months. It’s already the middle of May, and soon the finals will be near. College will demand even more of you.

Not to mention your part time job stealing a little bit of your day in exchange for the money you use to pay for your apartment’s half of the rent, your food, your materials and basic shit, so no letting go of that too. If everything goes south you can always think of doing what you used to do to raise a little money, — selling some pics here and there under your old, abandoned internet persona — you just have to find a way to not destroy yourself while doing it. But it won’t come to this, you’re sure.

You’ll find a way to spin all of those plates at once and let none fall.

Six months, it’s all you have.

Five months and ten days actually, since the exact moment you all signed the contract and bound Cenotaph to Mei Mei’s management.

Normally you don’t measure the precise time you take to entirely build the lyrics of a new song. It takes you a month, sometimes a bit more, and Satoru is there whenever you need him to help you out when you’re in a slump.

As you’re always there to help him sort out the mess on that head and make the lyrics work with the tune he’s creating. 

But things are a little bit rushed now.

Nobara, having the measures of all of the band’s members’ bodies, has already been informed of the new contract and the deadline — which made her get you to include her as the official stylist on the paper as soon as possible.

Mei Mei didn’t complain, she approved the quality of Nobara’s work once you got to show her the mask, boots and robe, so she made a contract just for Nobara, then attached it to Cenotaph’s contract.

Her deadline is a little shorter, though, since Mei Mei demands the outfits to be ready before the release of the album. She wants to make a few photoshoots. She also collected both of the raw archives of the demos you and Satoru released — Calcutta and Shelter — and had her team create a countdown website to announce another release in a few months, and then the album would be announced.

She used your anonymous account to create the buzz, and it worked perfectly. The band’s name is still hidden, but she used the Logo you’ve drawn and since refined as the background of the website.

People do love secrecy.

This keeps the hype train from dying, as Toji wisely said once.

So you need a new song already finished, recorded and all in… two months? You do have a few lyrics, but you need the rhythm, and Satoru is the best at it.

But oh god, he depends too much on his sudden inspirations, how will you make it in time?

The cursor blinks at you like an accusation.

It’s past midnight, the apartment is drowned in quiet except for the faint constant buzz of Yuji’s fan through the wall, and you’ve got three open documents scattered across your screen, each more fragmented than the last.

One is nothing but a chorus that doesn’t land no matter how many times you rearrange the words.

Another is a half-poem, half-confession, circling the same metaphor of drowning until you can’t tell if you’re writing about the ocean or your feelings trapped in your chest.

The third is blank except for a title you typed out of stubbornness: Levitate.

You should be asleep. You have a class at eight, an essay due tomorrow night, a shift at the record store right after. But sleep is useless when the pressure in your skull is louder than your heartbeat.

Mei Mei’s voice keeps echoing “The album releases before the year ends, no delays, no excuses. It’s either this or we don’t even start. Got it?”

And you can already feel time rushing past you like a train. Twelve songs minimum. Finished, recorded, alive.

You take another gulp of coffee that tastes like burnt dirt and stale filter paper, and your stomach turns. No money for good coffee so you got the bad, charred bean one, you’re trying not to spend any more than needed in case an emergency happens.

The notebook beside you is a mess, scrawled lines you tore through in class earlier when you should’ve been paying attention to your professor.

spine bent / lungs failing / will the sun wait for me?

Half the page is black from you scribbling over words you hated, but when you look at it again now you think maybe there’s something there, maybe Suguru can pull a guitar line out of it, maybe Toji can weigh it down. You can already hear Satoru’s voice stretching the syllables into something that could hurt and soothe in the same breath.

But for now it’s just you, the sound of your fingers trembling against cheap keys, and the knowledge that the clock is still ticking loudly on the kitchen’s wall right above the fridge.

By day, you’re somebody else’s errand.

Professor Kento with his endless lectures in business classes — which you adore, but you can’t seem to retain any information, you feel like your body is there but your mind is gone.

The record store manager asks if you can cover another shift so he can take care of his health.

Satoru hits you with his texts stacked one after another asking if you’ve arranged studio time, finished designs, checked comments, fixed the damn broken cable in rehearsal. You thought Mei Mei becoming a manager would ease things off your shoulder — and it did, but not enough.

Your life in fragments, pulled by every direction but your own. You smile, you nod, you keep moving because if you stop you’ll fall flat on your face and you’re afraid you won’t be able to get back up. And you’re sure there will be a boot pressing your head back against the floor just in case you forget how weak you really are.

By night, though, it’s worse.

There’s no noise to hide behind, only the silence pressing in until you can hear your own thoughts louder than anything else, and music doesn’t help either. And lately those thoughts aren’t kind. They sound too much like your stepfather’s voice, or too much like Sukuna’s when he spits his little truths that cut sharper than any insult he could throw at you.

You’ll break.

You’re not strong enough.

You’re just pretending.

You hate that those voices might be right.

Another month, another night.

The kettle hisses low behind you and you pour another cup like it’ll keep you steady, like it’ll keep your hands from shaking instead of making them shake even more.

You’re a machine.

A machine that turns shitty coffee into anxiety attacks lately.

You scroll back up, delete a whole stanza, type it again in a different order. The words don’t sound like lyrics, they sound like begging, and you wonder if that’s all you’ve been doing lately, begging the universe to let you hold everything together without collapsing.

You think of Maki, thousands of miles away, chasing her own dream.

You think of Satoru, who throws himself into everything like he’s unkillable, who looks at you like you’re his anchor and who trusts you to do every single thing with perfection.

You think of Yuji, who still thinks of you as the strong, unbreakable roommate that is managing infinite things all at once even though you barely recognize yourself under the weight.

And then you think of Sukuna.

The way he leaned in at the lounge, his wretched, vicious words, the hand at your nape, his hot breath at your neck, the warm palm against your fingers, the gentle circling of his thumb on your skin.

He doesn’t say things to comfort, he doesn’t soothe, he isn’t kind, he acts like a brute, and then he grounds you and keeps you from breaking just so he can be the one to knock you down.

He’s unpredictable, unreliable, ruthless.

He says things that hurt you. And he definitely expects them to do so — because they sound too much like the voice you’ve spent years trying to silence. It can’t be a coincidence.

You slam the laptop shut and press the end of your palms against your closed eyelids like you could trap all your thoughts inside your head and maybe suppress them with the weight of your exhaustion.

This is hell.

But you know you’ll repeat it all again tomorrow night, and the night after, because the songs won’t write themselves, and because you can’t stand the thought of letting anyone down.

Night after night after night of pushing yourself through the limits of your mind and body, and three, maybe four hours of restless sleep before another day can start.

Another month, another night.

You managed to finish the rhythm combined with the lyrics to be turned into a song.

Mei Mei liked the raw demo and so did the rest of the band.

Satoru will be recording it Friday at the studio with the backvocals Mei Mei asked you to find upon deciding this song needs a little bit more.

Utahime, who goes to college with you. Shoko, who’s close with Suguru and he guarantees she sings like an angel. And Yuki, introduced by Toji, and you remember vaguely seeing him with a blonde tall woman on the night Gods Beneath played their first authorial music.

“Levitate” can be read at the countdown website as the numbers finally go down to zero.

You’re supposed to be happy about being able to land it all inside the deadline but you can’t feel anything other than extreme, crushing exhaustion.

The apartment is too quiet.

The air is stale with the smell of coffee and sweat lingering for gods know how long at this point. You hope Yuji doesn’t mind, or at least that he tells you if he does.

You don’t feel like yourself lately, you’re even more depressed, your energy is almost nonexistent and you have no quality time anymore.

Your body aches from the hours you’ve spent hunched over the desk but you don’t move until Yuji shifts in the next room and the sound grounds you just enough to breathe again.

You should sleep, nothing is coming from the lyrics you’re trying to mend together.

You drag yourself to the couch and curl up with the same blanket you’ve had since high school, thin and frayed, but still familiar — Maki gave you this blanket, so it’s special enough for you to treasure it until the end of your days.

For a moment you let yourself imagine what it would be like to hand the weight over to someone else, to let yourself be held, to not have to be the one holding everything up.

The thought makes your chest ache, so you bury your face deeper in the fabric until sleep comes shallow and restless, but at least with no nightmares, episodes — or pills.

By morning you’ll be back at your desk, coffee in hand, deadlines on your back, pretending you’re fine.

Because that’s what you do.

You’re strong, you’re capable of managing everything they need you to.

Because that’s what they all need you to be.

And because if you stop now, everything you’ve broken yourself to build will collapse before it’s even begun.

Sukuna POV

Another day, another rehearsal.

It’s been a while since the contract has been signed and Sukuna is starting to get curious of how you’re holding up, so he shows up without much complaint for the last scheduled rehearsals — even those you called in at the last minute.

What holds his attention in this room isn’t the endless repetition of the setlist, isn’t even the white haired clown pacing like a coked-up animal while Suguru argues about chord transitions.

It’s you.

You’re trying to hold the whole thing together with hands already full of cracks. You think you hide it so very well but you fail to see that your friends are already noticing you’re starting to slip. They are just too afraid of failure to let you rest and gather your strength back. Too cowardly to spare your mind in exchange for something they want as badly as you. So they watch as you crumble under pressure and hope for the best.

That’s all Sukuna can see when he looks at you, then at the others around you.

He has always been good at spotting weakness, at sniffing out where someone’s mask begins to break, but you’re doing an amazing job at keeping all the pieces firmly held together, aren’t you? He can’t say you’re weak, but he can say you’re not as strong as you think you are.

So he does say it, straight to your face, and yet you won’t even snap at him anymore.

He bets you lose a little bit more sanity every time you force yourself to be kind to him as he shows you nothing more than calculated cruelty.

His sadism feeds on it.

But only when he causes it.

When you’re responsible for your own ruin he feels something akin to disgust, but not even him can figure out the reason behind it.

Why does he get so enraged when you’re the one behind your own fall?

Isn’t the result the same in the end?

It has something to do with the process, he has considered.

It’s in the way your fingers shake when you write now, no more quick precision and flare in your eyes. In the bitten cuticles, in the ink blotched too heavy on one corner of the page because your hand stalled mid-thought. In your bruised lower lip you’ve been chewing on. In the dark circles under your eyes from sleepless nights.

Yuji told him you’ve been pulling all nighters trying to make everything work for everyone. He told him you pretend to go to sleep so you don’t worry Yuji and you quietly type in the darkness of your bedroom, probably trying to turn in your college works or even come out with some new lyrics.

Sukuna knows of your sleep terrors and sleep paralysis, but Yuji thinks he made Sukuna promise not to say anything. Not even Yuji lets you know he’s very aware of your terrible nights, he doesn’t want to bring even more concerns upon you.

You’re destroying yourself without help, just by letting everything else suck the life out of you. And it’s not hidden, it’s there, in plain sight.

And Sukuna feels great annoyance in seeing someone who has his interest hooked on them simply succumbing to self-inflicted debilitation.

It’s fucking moronic.

In the way your humor loses its edge, jokes flattening at the end, you zoning out, not paying attention in classes — fuck, you’re even dozing off during Music Theory and your little black haired friend doesn’t have the heart to wake you up and make you pay attention in a class you really need.

There’s silence after rehearsal when everyone else heads out for smokes but you stay behind, hunched over your notebook, headphones in, scribbling and erasing until the page looks like a battlefield.

Quiet, small, like you don’t wanna be seen.

Sukuna doesn’t interrupt you yet, he just leans back on the stool as usual, twirling a drumstick between tattooed fingers, watching you chew on the inside of your cheek like you’re one wrong word away from tearing yourself open.

But this isn’t weakness, not exactly, it’s shaped like desperation clawing at the edges of someone too stubborn to drop the weight, even when it’s crushing them. And every time he sees you you look less and less like yourself and more like a husk of a person.

Just the damn fractured mask with nothing else inside.

You’re burning yourself to ashes and this rotten forged shell is the only thing that will remain.

His nostrils flare and his eyes squint, irritation crawling up his spine.

It reminds him of nights carrying Yuji up flights of stairs after their father passed out in the kitchen, muttering curses under his breath but still doing it, because nobody else would.

So when he finally speaks, it isn’t soft, it’s something he knows will take you out of your own world as it did before.

“You look like shit.”

The words make you glance up, defensive spark in your eyes for a split second as exhaustion drags at your shoulders in the next moment. 

“Thanks. I’ll make sure to use that in the next lyric sheet. Why don’t you go smoke with the guys? They’re better company than me as you’ve made clear.”

Sarcasm, brittle but still standing. He almost smirks at the attempt, but you sound too tired, too weak to leave it as it is.

“You think you can hold this pace? School, work, lyrics, babysitting that clown? If you do, you’re an idiot.” He jerks his chin toward the mic stand, clearly referring to Satoru. “You’re gonna break.”

Your jaw tightens and there’s a muscle in your neck that pulses, but your tone is flat, no energy to fight.

“And what if I do? The band can keep going without me. You’re just gonna find someone else to design and write, it’s not the end of the world.” oh, but you sound just like it would be the end of the world for you. “Why do you care if I break? If I become useless you can just cut me off.”

He chuckles low, slow, letting the sound fill the uncomfortable silence after your little dull outburst.

“You don’t fool me. You’re desperate for someone else to take the wheel, you’re just too fucking proud and stubborn to admit it.”

That shuts you up for a beat. You glare down at your notes, pressing your pen too hard until the tip threatens to tear through paper.

Sukuna studies you like he’s studied opponents in alley fights, bandmates in shitty bars, strangers stupid enough to pick him as a target.

You want to be untouchable, but the truth’s written all over you — in the way your shoulders slope under invisible weight, in the sleepless shadows under your eyes.

Even in the way you shiver and your breath hitches when he gets too close to you. In the way you look at him with wide eyes every time he manages to confuse you enough to receive one of those wonderful pathetic reactions that have him grinning like a demon — That leave him wanting more of you.

You’re too soft beneath it all, and once your layers shatter and your walls break the world will devour you whole.

He plans on doing it first.

He respects persistence, even when it borders on self-destruction. That’s probably what holds him here, behind the kit, listening to your voice scratch raw from too many fixing Satoru’s timing and lyrics, watching you force yourself to carry every responsibility like a shield.

But you won’t hand that softness to anyone. And that’s what makes him want to tear it out of you with his own hands and teeth — he wants to see if you have the guts to bare it willingly.

The others return to resume the rehearsal, but you keep quiet until the end.

When practice ends, Satoru sprawls over your shoulder to look at the lyrics draft, Suguru offers edits that sound more like poetry critiques, and Toji simply mutters something about tempo, which is what he mostly pays attention to. Sukuna watches you gather everything together, pretending to understand and note it all like you always did.

As they leave for good, he brushes past you deliberately on the doorway, walking slowly and leaning close enough for his words to sink in quietly, just for you.

“One day, you’ll figure out you don’t have to guard everything. Until then — keep pretending, brat.”

And then he’s gone, leather jacket slung over his shoulder, motorcycle helmet under his arm, leaving you standing in the studio doorway with that hollowed expression still on your pale face, looking too dead inside to give him a proper reaction.

He liked it better when you looked at him with those big eyes filled with unsaid insults.

Chapter Text

Chokehold

You feel like you could sleep forever.

Okay. Maybe not forever, but for a few weeks, that could do some repair to your mind and body.

May is gone, June came and went away hastily and it’s already the beginning of July - it’s been two days since Levitate got out on the website and the streaming numbers were absolutely insane, as Mei Mei said they would be.

You didn't have energy to celebrate with the band, Nobara and the backvocal girls, so you say you’re too sick to get out of the house and tell them to drink on your behalf.

So you decide to take the day to yourself. Just one day. A day where everyone else will be busy with the festival, so you can afford to be lazy in your bed for once, right?

Wrong.

Guilt crawls up on your chest and nests in your brain soon after. You need to finish an essay for Prof. Atsuya on the main problems found in the music industry business in its beginning, comparing the scenario with the modern one.

It’s not due until next week but as soon as you finish it you can start working on other things and maybe the creative spark for new lyrics will come.

As if.

Your brain feels like it’s dried out completely of ideas and of its own juices. You sleep badly, eat badly, can’t focus on your classes, can’t enjoy your friends for more than a few minutes without thinking about work, can’t… exist and function like a proper human being.

You’re fucked and you know it, but still this weakness will die with you.

Maybe you need a Cenotaph to honor the memory of your missing body, because you feel like sooner or later it will simply dismantle and vanish completely. Like fine dust in the wind.

You could use some strength.

Some energy drink with lots of sugar may work every once in a while to give you that kick, you think.

Yeah, you should do just that.

With herculean effort you drag your heavy body out of your bed, almost crawling to the kitchen to check if your stash of monster energy is still thriving. You lost count of how many nights you had to rely on them, but you sure as hell wouldn’t tell Satoru you were choosing to spend money on energy drinks instead of one or two meals a week.

He would freak out on how bad for your health the caffeine can be and yada yada yada.

One of those things would help you function, and a delicious bowl of rice with steamed vegetables and strips of pork wouldn’t be it...

You would kill for one right now, but what you find is an almost empty freezer, luckily there’s a peach flavored monster can waiting for you. Zero sugar and all the energy you can get, and you sure can get all the energy that it's thrown a you.

The ‘tschhhhhh’ sound of the can being opened seems to have summoned Yuji from his bedroom, since you barely made any sound walking from your own bedroom to the freezer.

He blasts his door open, you yelp with fright and he immediately apologizes, but he seems to be incredibly happy with something — or at least his smile tells he’s about to say something really good. You could use some good news, honestly.

“You’re resting today!” He beams and pulls a chair on the small kitchen table for you to sit, and you do as you nod. “Finally, you’ve been working yourself nonstop for… months?” He risks but you actually think you’ve been working yourself nonstop for ages. Years.

“And you don’t plan on going to Tanabata today? I thought you’d invite Megumi.” You raise a brow and take a big gulp of the energy drink.

It’s so cold and so sweet you can feel the instant punch bringing you back to life — to a manic version of life that can only be proportioned by too much taurine and caffeine mixed together on an empty stomach.

Divine.

“Oh, I plan on going, that you can be sure, but Megumi is going with his older sister and family, so I’m taking someone else.” his smile, as adorable as you find it with those same pointy canines his brother has, is starting to make you feel a little weirded out.

You hum and widen briefly your eyes to show you’re listening. You take another sip and look at him sitting across from you on that small table, smile wide, shiny eyes, fingers intertwined.

You squint when he tilts his head slightly.

“So—”

“Absolutely not.” you deadpan when he starts to speak, already knowing he wants you to come with him.

“C’mon I really want to go but I have no one else to go with me!” he lies, you know this boy has more friends than you have bad nights.

“Call your Onii-san, he wouldn’t tell you no.” he absolutely would but you’re suppressing your little grin with the can pressed against your lips as you take another gulp.

“Pleeeeeease please go with me.” He settles his elbows on the tabletop and joins his palms in a praying position before lowering his head and pressing his forehead on the wooden surface. “I promise I’ll buy you any food you want, it’s on me, please? It would be nice to go with a pretty girl by my side so no one else comes at me.”

You stop for a moment at the realization Yuji thinks you’re a pretty girl.

Your cheeks redden and you drink some more of your peach flavoured poison.

“I don’t think I can, I have to start an essay…” You start and let a heavy sigh roll from your lips. “No. Sorry, Yuji, I’m not going. and that's final.”

Not only do you go with Yuji, you go pretty well dressed.

The streets are awash with light, lanterns dangling in rows that sway gently above the crowd like captured stars or little contained bonfires.

Tanabata always transforms the streets of the whole estate into something dreamlike — paper streamers brushing shoulders, bamboo trees set up along the main streets bristling with pastel slips that catch and flutter in the afternoon breeze.

The air is a mix of grilled yakitori, sweet caramelized apples, and the faint burn of small fireworks waiting to split the sky.

Despite loud, sudden sounds startling you, you try to endure it when it comes to fireworks.

They’ve always caught your attention on how beautiful something so dangerous and volatile can be. 

Yuji had insisted so much you came, dragging you out of your apartment with the kind of reckless enthusiasm you’ve never learned to fight against and with the promise of buying you all the food you want.

But in the end you accepted because you just can’t say no to him.

You can’t stand to see someone you care about being disappointed or sad at something avoidable — especially if it’s something you can do to help.

He’d shown up wearing a navy yukata patterned with thin white stripes, the sleeves rolled loosely up his forearms, geta clacking confidently against the pavement. He looks so at ease, so bright, grinning as though festivals existed solely for him.

This boy has that protagonist aura you’re always hearing people talk about.

Not the bad kind who thinks the world revolves around them — that would be his older brother, — but the kind that makes the world seem to revolve around them, you know?

He just shines too bright to be ever out of focus.

By contrast, you feel like a child in borrowed skin.

The indigo yukata you slipped into earlier wraps snugly around your frame, the fabric soft and breathable against the heat. A pale lavender obi is tied around your waist in an imperfect bow that Yuji tried to fix twice before you swatted his hands away.

He tells you how pretty you are and you know he means it, the bridge of his nose even blushes when you smile at him. You really feel like you’re his aunt or an older sister by the way he treats you alone.

Maki would have loved to see him all dressed up, so you take a picture of him with your phone to send her later like you would to a kid living far away from his mother, and he insists you two take a selfie together so he can have it printed out in the future, so you do.

Your feet ache already in the unfamiliar geta, their wooden clack sharp with every step, and you think you should’ve layered with a haori for when the night air chills, but it’s going to be okay. You have your hair done in a twisted bun, a little loose and with side bangs, that’s usually used when wearing a yukata, and you even slid a delicate decorative hair comb in it, just for the flavor.

You keep tugging at the fabric, adjusting, fussing, unable to shake the feeling that you’re too dressed up for a night you shouldn’t have allowed yourself.

You should be writing.

You should be practicing.

You should be working.

Instead you’re wrapped in tradition, clutching a taiyaki Yuji bought you, letting yourself get swallowed by a sea of strangers.

The guilt coils tight in your stomach once again a bit later, but you try to drown it out with a large sip of green tea you got on another stall and a big bite at your warm, delicious takoyaki Yuji bought you as well.

You’ve missed eating delicious food so much you could cry.

You could just sit at some bench and spend the rest of the festival eating, drinking and watching the traditional music performances — shamisen and taiko playing beautifully as the dancers perform nearby. 

But Yuji’s joy is infectious — pulling you from stall to stall, pointing out fox masks, splashing too much money on goldfish scooping, — not his lucky day, no good prizes — and bragging that he’ll win you the biggest stuffed toy at the shooting booth.

He does win you a medium pink tiger plushie, though, so he wasn’t that unlucky after all.

He beams every time you laugh, even when your laugh feels fragile and thin, even when you know you’re not fully there. But none of your laughs are fake. Tired, yes, but you’re really happy to be there.

You’re really happy Yuji could drag you out from the apartment before you became a pile of worries and bad thoughts.

As you walk past a few more stalls and stop to appreciate the giant, beautiful paper decorations you hear a familiar voice.

“Yuji.” that almost flat tone calling out to your roommate is unmistakable.

Megumi looks so good, wearing a maroon yukata with small wavy patterns that are just a bit darker than the fabric itself. Geta on his feet clacking against the floor, of course, and a white haori loosely settled over the yukata. Elegant young man, looks like a prince.

“Megumi!” his attention is immediately snapped to the black haired boy who approaches you both with only a hint of a smile in those lips. “I thought I wouldn’t be able to see you! You look— amazing!”

Yuji is scratching the back of his head. The color creeping up his cheeks and the giant smile on his lips reveal you something interesting.

You see they’re matching, somehow, one wearing each other’s color, like they were meant to come to this festival together.

And hell, they were meant to!

“Where’s your family, Megs? Ditched them to come find Yuji?” you shoot him a look with a cocked eyebrow and squint slightly.

“I… Yes.” he almost faltered, but upon seeing the look you gave him, you see the corners of his lips curling up ever so slightly.

“So I think I’ll be leaving him in your care. Besides the fireworks will soon begin and I don’t think I want to be around all the noise.” you lie, but you’re okay going back to the apartment to rest or to jump into your essay. Even though the energy drink’s effect is starting to wear off.

“You can walk with us!” Yuji offers bluntly and you chuckle. He’s naive, oblivious to the things in front of his nose, but Megumi doesn’t seem to find that a bad trait.

And you're one to talk about being oblivious.

“You already dragged me here—” You start and you see his smile slowly vanishing. “—and for that I’m grateful. Thank you, I needed it.” and the smile is back up, full force, shining at your face so bright you might need some sunglasses. “But I know how much you wanted to bring Megumi to Tanabata and watch the fireworks with him, so I’m giving you that.” you grin at his already red face and pivot to take your leave, almost falling because of the damn geta.

It’s when he walks off with Megumi for another game that it happens.

You’re walking now against the crowd flow, moving to a better spot to watch the fireworks before leaving. The evening has settled after a beautiful sunset painted the sky with lazy reds and oranges, and the weather is pleasant, not cold, not too muggy nor dry.

You feel a cold breeze blowing at your skin, and a shiver runs up your exposed spine.

Something is not right.

They drift toward you like carrion birds.

Two first, then a third — they surround you when you’re nearly arriving at a Tori gate. Loose yukatas hanging open at their chests, sake staining their breath, their voices already too loud. They lean in, uninvited, circling with slurred grins as you press the stuffed animal Yuji earned you against your chest.

Shit.

“Pretty little thing, where’s your date?” one asks, his gaze crawling across your neckline. Another nudges your wrist before you pull your hand up to meet the other over the pink tiger, laughter spilling from his mouth. “Come have a drink with us. It’s early, too early for you to be going home already.”

You stiffen and freeze with words lodging in your throat.

No, thank you. I’m waiting for someone.

The sentences falter, caught on the edges of your teeth like they would know you’re lying and you’d be punished for that.

The crowd presses too close, the paper lanterns swing overhead, the fireworks have already started, and they crack open above sound too much like something breaking.

When a disgusting hand brushes your jaw, unwanted and deliberate, the panic claws fast and merciless inside you. Your chest tightens, your mind spinning.

You recoil like a scared animal and they thrive on the look on your face.

You tell yourself to keep, to stay polite, to not anger them or it will be so much worse.

But your breath stutters, and the noise of the festival recedes into the rush of your own pulse.

One of them slides his arm around your waist and your stomach tries to fight you and throw out everything you ate so far. You don’t allow it, you fight back trying to focus on something else.

You dig your nails into the plushie, and at least you’re winning your inner battle because, apart from that, you’re being escorted by the three drunk strange men to a less crowded place as your mind is shut within itself.

You’re walking like you’re not there.

Your eyes are fixed on nowhere in particular on the floor in front of you but you can’t see where you’re going. You’re being dragged by them and by your own body shutting your mind out and letting the control be taken away from you.

Because it's easier like this. It's less painful.

You can hear them saying things like ‘see how easy it was?’, ‘I bet she was just waiting for some hot shots like us’, ‘we’re gonna have so much fun tonight, princess’.

And then — complete silence.

Not silence in the world, but silence inside the space you occupy. Inside your head.

Did they stop talking?

It cuts sharp, thick, suffocating, tingling at the back of your nape in a very familiar feeling.

He’s there.

You raise your gaze from the floor and you can see him.

Sukuna doesn’t wear the festival, he wears himself.

Dark pants, black tank clinging to muscle and ink, a loose black haori draped over his shoulders like he couldn’t care less about tradition but couldn’t resist mocking it either.

Lantern light crawls over the tattoos that coil up his throat, face and arms, catching on the scar on the right side of his face.

His crimson eyes flare up under that dim warm light and you wonder if the fireworks stopped or if you just deafened.

You can’t hear anything, you’re stuck in his eyes.

They’re like fire.
And you’re a winged insect drawn to a funeral pyre.

His presence alone carves a path through the crowd as he approaches.

The men falter, laughter stuttering into uneasiness and trying to act cool as they fall silent.

Sukuna tilts his head, the corner of his mouth lifting in something crueler, darker, than his usual grin.

Badum, badum, badum.

“Got lost, boys?” His voice is low, lazy, but it sounds very clear through the festival’s noise.

At least to you.

That’s enough.

They scatter, stumbling back into the sea of lanterns, muttering excuses as they try to blend into the crowd — too drunk to argue but sober enough to understand the threat before them.

You’re left standing there, heat buzzing through your skin, breath caught tight in your chest and the knot on your stomach still insists in wanting to throw up.

Sukuna doesn’t close the distance. Doesn’t ask if you’re alright. He doesn’t need to. 

Then he moves, not toward you but past you, brushing by close enough that the air shifts. Smoke, sweat, faint herbal smell like burning incense — a scent that curls in the pit of your stomach and eases the nausea for a while.

He doesn’t need to approach you because your hand is the one grabbing his wrist as soon as he walks past you.

Your body may still be in fight or flight but that’s not a good fight to pick.

That’s not a fight you’re winning anytime soon.

Badum, badum, badum, badum, badum.

He stops when you grab him and slowly turns his head to look at you, but your eyes are once again lost somewhere far away — glued to the floor — as you try your best to calm down, but your shallow breaths are making you spiral deeper, your eyes are filling up and your vision is blurry.

Why did those things happen when he was around? Why couldn’t it be anyone else?

You don’t know. But you know he’s the one who saved your pathetic sorry ass that night from a terrible time.

A minute passes, your fingers and nails are digging into his banded wrist and he finally smacks his lips and pulls his arm free from your grasp, tired of waiting for nothing.

Useless. Pathetic. Ugly little thing.

You feel your body shiver for a second and you’ll have to be smart, you’ll have to be lucky to go straight home and avoid every single man in the way.

Wearing this stupid outfit was a mistake.

But he didn’t leave, he broke his arm free so he could turn around, stand in front of you and fall to his haunches, his red eyes now finding yours, ripping you forcefully from the place you have been lost inside your mind.

“Steady the fuck up, brat. Breathe.” he commands, looking deep inside your eyes and somehow preventing yours from drifting away again, his forearms resting over his knees, not touching you, but still anchoring you.

Breathe.

You do.

“Again. Deeper.”

Breathe.

You do it deeper.

“Good. Now do it again.”

As the tears trail down your cheeks and drip to the floor you feel the turmoil inside your chest slowly vanishing.

You feel the chill air of the night flow into your lungs and bring calmness with it, steadiness, and the faint coppery smell mixed with herbs as well.

He’s still there, watching as you slowly recompose yourself. Watching as you ground yourself back right in front of him.

You’re picking up piece by piece of your mask from the ground and shakily gluing them all back together over your face while his orbs study you attentively.

He sees as the shards cut through your soft skin each time the mask breaks and you have to glue it back.

He sees that you grow less and less resilient, and more and more tired every time you show him this side of you, unwillingly.

You didn’t want to burden him with the mess that you are, and he doesn’t want this burden. 

He doesn’t want you to fuck things up for the band, and neither do you.

Yet, he stays close until you finish rebuilding that ugly, completely cracked mask that covers your face.

He finally gets up and turns away.

The haori flares slightly as he walks, like a shadow dragging behind him, until he pauses by the bamboo displays nearby where paper wishes sway like fragile ghosts.

You didn’t realize you were this close to the bamboo display area, but by the face you made the moment it struck you, he definitely noticed.

Your strip is there, you tied it between one game and another when you and Yuji stopped to write your wishes.

For a moment, the world seems to hold still as his gaze lingers on each and every strip.

He couldn't possibly know which one is yours.

He would have to know your handwriting.

He has a sharp tilt on his mouth, and then he shoots you a look and furrows his brows.

You’re still in the same spot you were, looking at him as you drag the back of your hand on your cheeks to clean the wet trails, the other holding tight the stuffed pink tiger.

“You coming?” he finally asks, annoyed that you didn’t guess you were supposed to follow him.

Dumbass.

Yet you find yourself walking fast to go after him, so relieved that you don’t need to walk back alone after everything, and you almost — almost — reach for his hand like you’d do with Satoru, Suguru and even Yuji, but you stop and jolt your hand back just as your finger brush the calloused palm.

If he felt it he didn’t let you know, so you both walk for a few meters, go up a few stairs, until you reach a higher place with a good view of the sky and part of the matsuri.

He walks to the grass covered large spot enclosed with a red wooden hedge and a large tree a little to the right. That would be a nice place for a picnic.

You don’t wait for him to call you because you know he won’t. He sits on the grass and leans back on his elbows, tilting his head slightly back to stare up at the sky. You go sit beside him, over your folded legs, and rest your hands over your lap after placing the pink plushie on the grass by your side. 

You’re closer than you ever allowed yourself to willingly sit next to Sukuna.

“The second firework burn starts soon.” he says without looking at you at first, but he catches you staring at him with the corner of his eyes. “What?” he rasps, frowning again.

“Thanks.” you mutter, fingers already digging on the fabric of your yukata.

“Thanks?” He finally turns his head to properly look at you and you see that grin starting to grow on his lips. “For what?”

He’s toying with you now.

You feel a cold wind blowing, which makes you shiver, and then you let out a heavy sigh as your shoulders sag with that exhaustion catching up to you.

“You know.” you don’t wanna entertain him like this. You're too tired, and still too shaken.

“Enlighten me, will you?” he drawls, straightening his posture.

You remember how much bigger than you he is from this close.

Your eyebrows are knit together now and he’s grinning.

“Why are you thankful for, brat?” he leans in towards you, staring at your almost pouty face from above, pink hair softly swaying as another blow of the wind hits you both — and you hold your ground for about ten seconds this time.

The trembling comes from the chilly air, that’s your alibi.

“For—”

“A-ah. Look at me.” he interrupts you to demand, and your eyes dart from your hands, firmly grabbing the fabric of your yukata, back to his face.

Your wide eyes and increasingly warm face are now facing him.

You are once again drawn to his ravenous eyes.

“Thank you for saving me back then.” you finally mumble, but he’s still there, still close. “And for helping… with the anxiety.” you wanna avert your eyes so bad. "And everything else..."

You hear your heart beating in your ears again and it’s so loud you’re afraid he’s hearing it too.

But even if he’s not, you know your skin is flushed with heat, and the nervous trembling can’t be that hard to spot.

You’re a mess, girl, and he’s always there when it slips and shows.

You feel seen in a way that makes your pulse stumble.

He’s still too close and you can still feel his warm breath against your face as those crimson eyes sear through you. And you keep your eyes locked onto his.

The grin widens and he finally — very slowly — retreats to sit straight again.

“There. Was it hard?” he coos at you and you remember to breathe. Breathe deeply.

The fireworks start to rise and crack, and the noise still makes you flinch, but your eyes follow them up as the colors reflect beautifully on all the surfaces.

You get scared for real when something is suddenly thrown at you. You lose your equilibrium and squeal, but Sukuna’s big, quick hand grabs your body by the waist and pulls you back against his body so you can sit over your folded legs once again. This time closer, your left arm is brushing against his right arm — and despite the loud sound of the fireworks you can hear him laughing.

A grave, deep laugh that comes rumbling from his wide chest.

It’s his haori that has been thrown at you.

He knows your trembling comes from the cold — most part of it at least. So you wear it and it’s still warm, and smells like him.

You’re saturated with him.

And his hand is still settled on the curve of your waist as you watch the fireworks bloom overhead, shattering the sky into red and gold.

You press your lips together until they ache, trying not to think about the chokehold he seems to have on you.

Fill your mind with other things.

Anything.

At least for the night.

Chapter Text

Vore

You went back to the apartment carrying the weight of that night with you.

Not only that, you also carried Sukuna’s haori draped heavy over your shoulders long after the fireworks faded away.

You’re saturated in his smell, and this is making you wonder a few things on your way back.

How does Sukuna spend his days?

Between working on the construction site, — you remember you conversation with Toji — college and rehearsals, what else keeps him busy? Does he have a hobby?

Does he light up incense inside his bedroom or his house?

You can catch a faint whiff of something smoky like myrrh and cinnamon from the haori, — and of course, the lingering coppery smell — you’re pretty sure it comes from burning incense in a closed space.

He doesn’t strike you as the kind of guy who lights up incense sticks to purify the room, nor to meditate, but he also didn’t strike you as the kind of guy who would lend you his haori to keep you from shivering and freezing, yet here you are, warmer and safer.

Your steps echo in the quiet streets that unfold after the festival, geta clacking, the spot his hand was settled in your waist still feeling warmer than the rest of your body.

You tell yourself you’ll rest soon, that tomorrow you’ll take the day off since you actually had an eventful day today, that maybe you’ll wash your hair and drink something warm and allow your body to loosen after weeks of dragging it through sleepless nights and overworked mornings.

You’re such a bad liar not even you believe in what you keep telling yourself.

Yuji has found you after the fireworks ended and you two walked back together, you wouldn’t be courageous enough to go back by yourself and you’d rather sleep in the festival area than ask Sukuna to walk you back — babysit you — again.

You can’t even take care of your own pathetic self. What the fuck makes you think you can take care of anyone else?

Once again those words circle back into your mind. You exhale a deep sigh and try to focus on Yuji telling you all about his date with Megumi — of course he doesn’t use the word ‘date’ as he describes all the things people do on a tanabata date; sharing star-shaped konpeito and manju, writing their wishes on tiny papers before bonding them to the bamboo, watching the music presentation and, of course, the fireworks.

You smile at him as he denies that it was a date. He also deflects your point by asking you if you were dating his brother, which made you turn so suddenly to face Yuji walking by your side that you almost fell once again for tripping on your geta.

“N-no! Why- don’t be absurd! Why would you even think that?” thank god you didn’t overreact, huh?

“You tell me Megumi and I were on a date, albeit it’s you I find watching the fireworks on an empty spot with my brother’s arm around your waist while wearing his haori?”

You’re pretty sure your face and body are warm to the point you’re actually seeing steam rising from your skin. But you don’t wanna tell Yuji about the situation preceding that scene. You don’t wanna think about that ever again.

“It’s not like that, shut up” you insist, your voice is too shrill for your own liking, as he looks at you with a raised brow and all the disbelief he has inside his body. “It’s not! Yuji! He sees me as nothing more than a troublesome brat.” you find yourself almost begging for him to believe in you, and after a scoff he lets you think he believes your words.

The thought of dating Sukuna doesn’t repulse you, but you are sure it would repulse him immensely.

Based on how many times he told you he thinks you’re of no use, or that you’re ugly, or how many times you fell apart in front of him, you think it’s safe to admit he would barb you even harder upon hearing such a wild thing.

You’re immediately afraid Yuji tells him anything akin to that, and then he thinks you’re some insane woman telling everyone you’re dating him just because he took pity on your lame ass and kept you safe from some weirdos — and watched the fireworks with you, sure, but after you had a meltdown in front of him once again.

You don’t need that.

Yuji hums and considers for a while, but he shrugs it off and says he believes in you when he feels the urgency in yout eyes. He also says he always wanted to try this haori and Sukuna never let him — but you’re washing this as soon as you’re home and returning it to him as fast as possible. 

You’re terrified of him thinking you’re stealing his clothes.

You’re also a little paranoid and anxious, that far you’re aware, but it always gets the best of you.

The stuffed pink tiger is still tucked under your arm, too.

It gives you a feeling of fake nostalgia — you haven’t in your entire childhood, experienced this kind of happiness and joy on a Tanabata.

It’s like a fragile piece of proof that you’re still capable of laughing at something as stupid as Yuji bragging over a half-rigged shooting booth even when your energy is as drained as it is now.

Even when your life seems like a complete havoc.

But the moment your room swallows you and the smell of his haori lingers once again, you know you were really lying to yourself.

The laptop is waiting for you, and so are the new blank pages of your notebook.

The album completion doesn’t care about fireworks or festivals or the way your head seems to be closer and closer to physically exploding. And a contract won’t wait for your exhaustion to fade, your body to relax and your mind to clear.

You sit on the bed with the screen lighting your face and the first keystrokes come like tapping on glass. 

These lyrics feel too hesitant to be approved or liked, too hollow, convey no feeling, no emotion, no nothing. Satoru wouldn’t sing something shitty, it would feel like debauchering his talent.

Still, you force your fingers into motion, every hour wasted not being productive is another nail hammered into the coffin of the band’s chances.

Your guilt is heavier than your exhaustion.

You’re fine, you got this.

You can do it.

August growls at you, an alert.

The month settles with a suffocating heat that melts over Tokyo like a second skin.

The cicadas scream outside your window while you grind your teeth over a line that doesn’t fit the melody Suguru sent you. Sweat runs down your back and you hate yourself for not getting up to open the window because it would mean admitting you’re distracted, unfocused, weak.

This, of course, makes sense only to you.

Energy drinks pile up in the corner — you thought you were better than that but guess what, you’re not. An addiction takes other addiction’s place normally, but you pile them up as well.

Your laptop hums like a tired beast in the corner of the table, screen littered with files named demo1, draft2final, lyrics_pleasegod.

Word documents pile into one another, lines spill across margins in fragments that don’t sing yet, don’t breathe yet, but you force them anyway because deadlines do not pity you and Mei Mei will definitely discard you before showing you sympathy.

You told her you could take the blow and this is what you need to show her.

Hide your wounds and stop your own bleeding, if you need to scream, do it while you work yourself tired. If you need to bleed, do it over the pages and turn it into something the band can use.

If you need to die, make it profitable.

Make it beautiful.

You keep telling yourself the next cold, sweet monster energy can will help you break through the haze. Your hands shake too much sometimes, too much caffeine, too little sleep, but you steady them over the keyboard and tell yourself it’s fine once again.

For once in your life you’re so grateful the boys don’t see it. Their obliviousness keeps you from feeling like a bother and a nuisance atop of everything you already feel. You wouldn’t be able to deliver everything you promised if you had to keep making sure your friends wouldn’t be worried sick about you all the time.

At some point on the second week of the month Satoru barges in the studio with his huge, manic grin and endless chatter about the new riffs, the new visuals being so pretty in the photos he took, the way Mei Mei wants to schedule a mini-tour even before the album’s finished because the singles are still climbing, still spreading, and he’s so drunk on the numbers, on the glory and promised — like they’re a drug.

Maybe they are to him.

You notice a few moments when his energy turns sharp and pointy, too sharp, when his hands twitch a little harder and his eyes glaze over like he’s somewhere else entirely, and Suguru’s jaw tightens in that way that says he knows, he also sees it, but won’t speak about it, won’t tell you he’s seeing something dark unravel in front of him.

You tell yourself it’s none of your business.

You have enough on your plate.

And yet you catch yourself telling Satoru he needs to take a deep breath and calm down or he’s gonna burn out, he needs to rely on you as he always did, he needs to let you take care of the rest as he focus on singing, composing his beautiful samples and helping Mei Mei setting the tone on the preview photoshoots.

You can’t help but worry about his health, about his energy getting too high and something bad happening — something you don’t even know.

You don’t think being too excited and optimistic can cause something terrible, but you simply cannot shake that feeling that Satoru needs to tone down or he will be poisoned by his own energy.

Rich coming from you, again.

Yuji nags you to eat, brings you bowls of rice and eggs when he notices your hands trembling too much over the keyboard, or maybe your empty glare at the laptop’s screen — you could escape briefly from his worries when you worked inside your bedroom, until he starts to actually go after you and bring you food.

You wave him off more often than not, stuffing the food into your mouth with the same guilt that fuels every attempt of reaching a good result on a paragraph. 

You can’t blame him for being mad at Mei Mei, at the band, at the boys. He doesn’t understand the weight of it all, the deadline sitting on your chest, the stress of finishing the album growing like a tumor inside your skull. How could he?

Yuji leaves small snacks outside your bedroom door too when he thinks you’re asleep and doesn't want to interrupt your so needed rest — onigiri wrapped in cling film, cups of yogurt, whatever he can find that he thinks will be good for you. He even sneaks some vitamin pills on a tray near the snacks every now and then. 

Sometimes you eat them, sometimes they spoil. He doesn’t complain, only watches you with that canine-bright worry and offers to wash your laundry when the pile overtakes the chair.

Sometimes you snap at him, and the shame that follows is enough to keep you awake even when your eyes sting. You cry yourself to sleep when that happens.

He always tells you he knows it’s just the stress and he never once took what you say to his heart but you feel like dying every time you’re rude to him out of nowhere. He is keeping you from falling apart every single day and he doesn’t even know, yet, you’re a rude bitch to him whenever your brain is too overwhelmed.

The first recording weekends in the studio are long, so, so long.

Satoru always arrives buzzing, always ready for the day, always sharing some of his limitless energy with you.

His sunglasses hanging off his nose, his hair wild like static, eyes wide, shiny, engulfed in black with barely any bright blue around left.

He strums the keys with hands that move too fast, and when the others stumble, he fills the silence with jokes, then with another line of melody, then with laughter.

He feels endless, tireless, terrifying.

Toji barely speaks but brings the grounded weight of his bass, a counterweight to the madness. Suguru smooths the chaos with a low voice and steady rhythm, catching transitions when Satoru’s tempo runs away.

Sukuna is a storm all his own sitting behind the kit like a king on a throne, eyes cutting through every mistake Satoru makes, scrutiny dripping from his gaze in a way impossible to be ignored. He doesn’t berate nor explain — he simply stops playing and waits until the rest of them fall in line.

The silence is heavier than criticism, heavier than anger.

The pressure of his silence reaches you, too.

You feel like even though Satoru is the one messing up the tempo, his irritation is solely aimed at you — who’s not even playing, just sitting at the little table in the corner doing your best with the demos for Mei Mei.

Maybe that’s somehow your fault in his head.

September bares its teeth at you, a final warning.

It’s a blur of train rides to the studio, notebooks filled with abandoned metaphors that don’t work, your body starting to fold under the constant stretch.

You are always moving, always grasping, always running from a task to another, to another, yet the ground feels like quicksand.

And in quicksand the more you move, the faster you sink.

Classes start piling essays on your desk, professors with tired voices reminding you about group projects and exams. 

Exams are closing in. Fuck.

You nod and write it down, but your mind is always orbiting back to the band, to the unfinished songs. You sit in the back of classrooms with your laptop half-hidden behind a notebook, trying to wring blood from the stone of your brain while everyone else discusses theories you’re supposed to care about.

Utahime still hands you notes but you can’t even bring yourself to study them at home anymore. The apartment becomes a graveyard of half-finished things, including lecture notes scattered under the couch, unread, a mug abandoned with curdled milk at the bottom, sticky notes that don’t even make sense hanging from a few walls. Your college essays receive marks barely above passing and you skim the comments without letting them sink in.

“Unfocused,” one professor writes.

“Promising, but rushed.” You want to laugh at the irony.

The new single drops in early September — a slightly softer, stripped down, piano ballad Satoru insisted on recording in a single take that almost cost your sanity.

Mei Mei posts a teaser on the newmade website for the band, and the sudden rise of clips online, teenagers mouthing lyrics you wrote at four in the morning while your stomach cramped from too much caffeine.

You watch them loop your words, your pain, your exhaustion turned aesthetic.

You don’t know whether to feel proud or exploited by yourself.

A third, secret thing, actually. You feel like dying.

Things are already dreadful, now the dynamic shifts in the studio too.

Satoru pushes faster, louder, and more daring. How the fuck does he keep his spirit up? How the fuck does he have the energy to argues with Suguru over structure, over wanting longer bridges, wilder crescendos while Suguru stays calm but you see the way his jaw sets tight, his eyes darting to you like he knows you’re barely keeping afloat.

You want to thank him for noticing how unreasonable the orders are, but you’re too tired to let gratitude out right now.

Satoru’s outbursts are probably because of the unavoidable deadline approaching, his nerves are on edge, he has every right to push you to… you don’t really have an edge anymore, you’re already swimming in the pit of madness as you have been for the past months or so.

Sukuna perceives the situation in his own way. When your hands shake too hard to hold a pen steady he steals the notebook from you, scrawls a few words himself, and tosses it back. They’re crude, sometimes jagged, but he also gave you full verses on more than one occasion.

And they all work perfectly.

How?

The first week of September bleeds into the second, then the third. Days vanish. You measure time in drafts and rehearsals, in how many hours until the next class, the next demo due. The next shift at the record store.

When you catch your reflection in a train window, you hardly recognize yourself.

Guess how you look.

By the end of September, the fatigue is no longer private. It’s etched into your face, your posture, the way you drift during conversations. Yuji nags, Megumi sighs, Nobara complains that you never text back.

You promise you’ll rest, but you never do. There’s always one more verse you could complete, one more note, one more task…

You cling to the edge of the cliff you managed to climb back by your bloodied, raw, slippery fingertips, telling yourself you’ll catch up later, after the album’s done, after you can breathe again.

Except there is no later.

October lurches at you and drags you under.

This autumn strikes colder and darker than last year’s, and your body begins to revolt.

Sleep abandons you completely some nights; other nights you crash for twelve hours and wake up more broken than before. Meals are irregular, your weight dips, and when you faint in the studio bathroom one Saturday afternoon, you brush it off as dehydration.

Weakness is a language you never want to speak aloud.

Mei Mei’s reminders grow colder and less patient.

“Delivery means delivery, girl.” her voice snaps, and you hate how her voice still sounds like silk even when she’s twisting the knife inside your guts.

You agreed to that. You told them you could do it — they could do it.

So you will fucking do it.

You start pulling more intense, rougher all-nighters, the walls of your bedroom glowing with the ghost light of your screen while Yuji sleeps soundly behind his door.

Sometimes you go days with only four hours of sleep. Total.

Sometimes you hear Yuji stir, pad into the kitchen for water, pause outside your room like he’s about to knock, then retreat.

You wish he would.

You wish someone would drag you away from the desk, but at the same time, if they tried, you’d fight and claw your way back, because the guilt is bigger than the exhaustion, and the fear of failing them all is bigger than the need to breathe.

It’s almost unbearable now.

Satoru sees the stumble but doesn’t stop. He claps you on the back, shoves a bottle of water in your hand, and shouts that you’re “his little rockstar in training.”

His grin is wide, his pupils wider.

You’ve stopped noticing Toji for a while, but today he sits in silence with you while the others take a break to smoke. He doesn’t talk to you directly but he doesn’t ignore you, either.

He’s just there, chair pulled next to yours, looking at your scribbles with that usual impassive expression, his steadiness feels like finding a big rock you can climb to rest over, after fighting to survive a sea storm after a shipwreck.

He reaches into his baggy pant’s pocket at some point and pulls a protein-rich-cereal-bar from it, which he forces into your hand after easily removing the pen from it.

You don’t whine, you just feel your chest rumbling lowly with a soft chuckle and you eat it quietly, offering him a nod in appreciation.

The arguments after the break grow sharper. Satoru rants about tempo, about flow, about needing more, faster, bigger. Again and again Suguru pushes back with reason, reminding him of deadlines, reminding him that not everything needs to burn at once. 

Sukuna doesn’t intervene, just sits at his kit, spinning a drumstick between tattooed fingers, and when the shouting grows too loud to the point he gets annoyed, he slams into the snare with a force that silences Satoru immediately.

The sound echoes long after Toji’s amused smirk at his creative solution fades.

You squint at them when you realize this is all too familiar.

It feels like a cycle repeating. Every week, every month, you feel like you’re reliving the same month again and again inside the studios, except it becomes worse and more hostile.

You’re living the same hell over and over, and it’s feeding from your exhaustion, despair and dread.

You just wish you could escape this fucked up Samsara Wheel.

Mid-October, you hand in an essay late for the first time in your academic life.

The shame is a dull blade twisting in your stomach but you’re so used to it right now you don’t know if you can beat yourself over it. You just sigh heavily and endure it.

You also don’t tell anyone. You bury it under more lyrics, more nights clawing at your keyboard until the letters blur.

You start dreaming of sleep the way starving people dream of food.

Now even when you take sleeping pills to ease your way into some shitty restless sleep, nightmares come.

Old memories resurfacing, traumas you’ve buried breaking through. You wake with your chest aching again, your body shaking, the taste of fear clinging to your tongue.

This time you’re sure Yuji noticed.

He’s awake, you notice the light bleeding from under his bedroom’s door when you walk past it to go to the bathroom.

You wash your face, grab another energy drink, and keep writing since your head won’t let you rest.

This time you write a song with Suguru’s powerful screaming voice in mind, you name it Gods.

You send him the lyrics, and when he replies to your text within a minute, so you scold him for being awake so late like the hypocrite you are.

You two end up video calling and keeping each other company. You let yourself sprawl on the big couch, earbuds in, cellphone resting over your chest, skimming through the pages of your notebook as you two mutter about nothing in particular. You can’t raise your voice, it’s past three in the morning already and you don’t wanna disturb Yuji nor the neighbors.

He needed this as much as you. He sounds so relieved to talk about mundane things, about random internet gossip, about how he feels you would look so badass with another piercing, another tattoo. He makes plans for you to go shopping, for a makeover, for strolls in the park…—

— You wake up in a jolt on the following day as your alarm rings.

You fell asleep on the couch talking to Suguru on the phone even after downing a full can of energy drink.

Maybe you needed this a little bit more than you thought.

The band has its first real public showcase scheduled for November and of course Mei Mei insists on perfection — as if you would want to deliver anything less than that.

But there’s this feeling… like you’re looking down the barrel of a gun.

It’s around then you start noticing Satoru more closely.

He seems so, so different from the man you spent your Fridays and weekends with.

Or are you just losing touch with reality?

He’s brilliant, terrifyingly so — the ideas spinning out of him like sparks keep helping you immensely with your lyrics, with your verses — but you see the aftermath, the slump in his shoulders when he thinks no one’s looking, the way he rubs the bridge of his nose with shaking fingers, the sclera of his eyes redder each time.

It’s happening more often.

He’s hyperactive, of course, but he’s so much more irritable. He’s nervous, anxious, wary of everything.

Is this what the stress is doing to him?

You want to ask, you want to know, but you already know the answer would sit on you like a weight you couldn’t carry.

You know it because the one time you managed to ask Suguru if he also noticed Satoru growing more and more manic and erratic by the day he told you he’s been worse and you should not worry your little head with it this far down the road.

He told you he got this.

Whatever it is.

You don’t insist.

You’re a shitty friend.

November claws and bites at you with sharp teeth. You’re barely surviving.

You write until your vision blurs, then write more, because the alternative is silence, and silence is failure, you can’t afford failure. Songs are piling up — not all good, some of them barely coherent, but enough for Suguru and Satoru to help you shape them into something better once you send them in, or for Toji to anchor to his suggested rhythm.

You show up to rehearsals with shadows under your eyes, your voice brittle from lack of rest, but you barely talk between songs anymore so they won’t notice, you just note any and all ideas you can grasp from the practice and you go back to work.

Sukuna doesn’t ask you anything, but his scrutinizing glare is transfixed on you every single time you gather courage to raise your eyes from your notebook to his kit. He scans you, and sometimes you wonder if he sees how close you are to unraveling, or if he’s just waiting for you to break so he can say he told you so.

You sneer to yourself at the thought of it.

He did tell you so.

The worst nights are the ones where the words don’t come, and yet you’re too agitated to sleep.

You sit at the kitchen desk, hands hovering over the keyboard, and nothing.

Not a single crumb of creativity sparking inside your brain.

Just the echo of your own pulse, too fast, too loud, your chest tightening with every second wasted. You want to scream, to tear the room apart, but instead you press your palms to your eyes until stars bloom behind them and whisper to yourself that you’re fine.

You’re fine.

Just keep going.

Your body starts betraying you in new ways. Tremors in your hands are so intense you can’t really shake them off anymore. Blurry vision happening at random times. The constant ache in your temples. Gaps in your memory are also new.

Sometimes you’re staring at the screen of your laptop and there are whole archives you don't remember writing. Whole conversations you don’t remember having with Suguru and Nobara. Whole designs you don’t remember drawing on your notebook.

Yuji catches you once half-collapsed at the kitchen table, forehead pressed to the wood, and he begs you to rest.

You promise.

You never do.

Because you’re a shitty friend to him as well.

Satoru keeps burning brighter than ever but his mania is a double-edged sword.

His charisma fills the rehearsal space, his voice soars, his laugh crackles, but he misses cues, forgets lyrics, snaps at Suguru without reason while Suguru’s patience only thins.

His voice sharpens as he puts Satoru back on his place and you notice something in his eyes. You see it in the way he watches Satoru.

He looks like a man waiting for an old nightmare to return.

You know their story goes way back to their childhood.

He fears something. Has something taken the same pattern with Satoru before?

The showcase comes and goes in a blur. The crowd is smaller than what’s coming, but still larger than anything you’ve faced during Gods Beneath. People cheer, phones record, and you feel like you’re hearing your written words screamed back at you for the first time.

It should feel triumphant. Instead, you feel hollow.

When it’s over, Satoru is the last one off stage, basking in the attention. Suguru drags him away before he can do something reckless like throw himself into the crowd and getting his robe and mask ripped off him. 

December snaps its teeth around your neck.

You’re not sure if you’re a person anymore or just a machine built out of deadlines and caffeine. You don’t even have the settings to turn caffeine into anxiety anymore.

You work until your eyes bleed, until your fingers stiffen. You forget what day it is. Yuji offers to cover your shifts when you can’t stand up, and you know Mr. Takahashi could use the help and company so you call him to make the arrangement. Nobara calls, you don’t answer. Professors send warnings, you delete them.

The album is nearly done, the songs stitched together out of your blood and sleeplessness, but you can feel the cracks spiderwebbing through you. You laugh less, you eat less, you exist in fragments — a smile for Yuji, a nod for your professors, silence for yourself.

When Mei Mei announces the release date, your stomach knots so tight you almost throw up. 

Not from dread nor relief, it’s for the feeling that there’s no turning back.

And through it all, Sukuna is there. Not kind, as if, but at least he’s constant. His barbs dig deeper now but sometimes — sometimes — you think you catch something else in the way his gaze lingers when your hands shake, in the silence that follows after he cuts you down mid self doubt.

Honestly you might just be hallucinating. Too many pills to sleep, too many energy drinks to keep awake.

You can’t name it, and maybe you don’t want to, but the memory of his voice at Tanabata still lives in your chest and it warms you. 

It’s stupid, you feel stupid.

Steady the fuck up, brat, breathe.

Oh, how much you hate that sometimes, when the words blur on the screen and your lungs lock tight, you hear it again and obey.

You tell yourself again and again you’ll rest after the release. After the shows. After the album is alive and the world finally sees Cenotaph at its full glory.

You tell yourself you can keep pushing, keep crawling, keep bleeding words into the void until then.

But the cracks are running out of surfaces to break.

And you know it’s only a matter of time before it simply disintegrates into dust, and you can’t fucking glue dust together to rebuild a wall — a mask.

The final weeks blur together again. You deliver the last song hours before the deadline and you don’t even remember doing so. The band approves. Mei Mei is satisfied. It’s done.

You are not satisfied though. You don’t remember writing half of it.

But it doesn’t matter, does it? The release hits like lightning, numbers spike, TikTok loops your words, videos spread like fire, the indernet does the thing it does better and gives Cenotaph a rabid fandom that grows in number by the hour.

Mei Mei’s promise is fulfilled. Fans flood in. Fame arrives overnight.

The album is out.

The world is listening.

You are falling apart.

You have become the voice in my head
Only recourse we're left after death
Your viscera welcome me in
Welcome me in

My life is torn, my bones, they bleed
My metaphors fall short in the end
Your flesh and bone welcome me in
Welcome me in

Are you in pain like I am?

Will we remain stuck in the throat of gods?
Will the pain stop if we go deeper?

So let's get swallowed whole
I wanna go where nobody else will
Ever go

Walls of flesh, so warm again
We step into my suffering
My only need, welcome me in
Welcome me in

There is always something in the way
I wanna have you to myself for once
Follow me between the jaws of fate
So I can have you to myself for once

So let's get swallowed whole
I wanna go where nobody else will
Ever goThere is always something in the way
I wanna have you to myself for once

Are you in pain like I am?
Are you in pain like I am?
Are you in pain like I am?
Are you in pain like I am?

Chapter Text

Gods

Suguru POV

Suguru notices.

Of course he does. They’ve been glued together since childhood, long before they even knew what it meant to choose a friend, a best friend. Back then, their families chose for them.

Suguru Geto and Satoru Gojo — heirs of two dynasties whose names held enough weight in the business world to crush anyone beneath them.

It was inevitable they’d be thrown in the same classrooms, dressed in the same uniforms, sitting at the same long tables at private dinners where the adults drank too much and whispered too loudly about mergers and markets.

Boring, but necessary, or so they told him.

He’d hated those dinners. Satoru never did.

Satoru turned them into a stage, grinning too wide, laughing too loud, throwing jabs across the table until even his father’s face twitched in irritation. 

He was born knowing how to bend a room.

Suguru? He learned to watch Satoru, to study the silences around him, to see the hairline cracks no one else wanted to admit were there. He knew Satoru was putting on a show to entertain him now, and later he would be corrected by his father.

Didn’t matter how many times Suguru told him it wasn’t necessary, Satoru would always brush him off saying things like ‘Enjoy the show while it’s free, soon people will have to pay to see me perform.”

And that’s why, when they’re sixteen, Suguru knows the first time Satoru snorts coke.

It’s in some lacquered bathroom at a classmate’s house party, the music too loud, the air thick with perfume and beer, the kind of scene Satoru thrives in completely. He tilts his head back, thumb pressing against one nostril, sniffs hard and then flashes Suguru that careless wild grin, like he’s done nothing more than sip from a soda can.

“It helps me think faster!” Satoru says, nose red, eyes brighter than they should be, pupils growing and turning the bright blues into black voids.

Suguru doesn’t call him on it then.

He lets his shoulders sag and tells himself it’s just experimenting, just one of the thousand stupid things Satoru does because he’s bored, because he can with no repercussions, because his family won’t support his dreams of becoming an artist.

Everyone’s got a vice at that age, he thinks. Better coke than crashing his father’s imported car into a tree and dying.

But then the years stack, and Suguru watches it shift from a stupid thing to something bigger, worse.

By the time they’re in college, music school against the Gojo family’s wishes, Suguru sees how it hooks its claws in.

He knows the tells now — the way Satoru’s knee never stops bouncing when he’s high, the way his jaw clenches and releases as if chewing on something invisible, the way he talks faster, louder, convinced he’s stringing brilliance together when half of it comes out as chaotic tangents no one else can follow.

Suguru laughs along, because he always does to keep Satoru from spiraling. But in private, his stomach knots.

His best friend is being dragged under.

He knows the pressure that drives it. The Gojos don’t waste words on subtlety. Every phone call, every meeting, every dinner — it’s the same script.

“Music is a child’s hobby, not a life.”, and “Once this phase ends,” they say, “you’ll come back to the firm, take your place where you belong. Don’t embarrass us further.”

It doesn’t matter that Satoru is brilliant. That he’s been brilliant since the day he was born.

That when he stands on a stage, mic in hand, he can command more people with one note than his family ever could with money.

That brilliance doesn’t count in their world.

Suguru sees it hollow him out. The coke isn’t just to “think faster” anymore. It’s armor. It’s the shield Satoru straps on before he walks into another lecture knowing he hasn’t slept in two nights. It’s the fuel that lets him stay up until dawn scribbling lyrics and melodies like if he stops for even a second the music will vanish.

And Suguru lets him.

Because every time he tries to bring it up, Satoru laughs, says, “What, you jealous? Want a line?” and the moment passes, smoothed over with that grin that’s half charm, half dare.

His best friend is an impossible man.

But then comes the night Suguru can’t laugh it off.

It’s winter, second year.

Their apartment reeks of smoke, sweat, incense and cologne, papers and books stacked like barricades on every surface because Satoru needs to study everywhere.

Satoru hasn’t gone home in weeks — home being a word that means little more than a penthouse prison, anyway — and he’s been pushing harder, faster, chasing something no one else can see, not even his closest friend in the whole world, and it makes Suguru restless until he finally returns.

Suguru’s sermon is met with that same wild grin, the same croon asking if he missed him that much, if he wanted to come with next time. Suguru wants to punch him, but he seems too… frail.

He’s too pale, his eyes don't shine that bright anymore.

The silence is the first thing Suguru notices on the next day.

Usually Satoru fills every inch of space with noise, with his voice, his music, his manic tapping against the table.

Tonight, there’s nothing.

Just the faint hum of the fridge, the whistle of wind sneaking through a cracked window.

Something is wrong.

Satoru didn’t go out did he?

Suguru calls his cellphone, the familiar ringtone echoes from his bedroom twice before he hangs up.

Something is very, very wrong.

Badum, badum, badum, badum.

Suguru can feel his heart beating against his ribcage, strong, fast. A sense of dread and panic crawling up his body and a bitter taste taking his mouth.

No.

He rushes to Satoru’s bedroom and slams his door open.

He finds him in there.

Satoru’s sprawled on the floor, back against the side of the bed, head lolling, white hair plastered damp to his forehead. The familiar little mirror is still balanced on his thigh, streaked with white residue.

His pupils are blown wide, chest rising too fast, too shallow, the tendons in his neck straining with every breath.

Suguru freezes.

For one terrifying moment he thinks — no, he doesn’t let himself finish that thought.

“Satoru.” His voice is soft and trembling, cutting the silence.

No response.

“Satoru!” tone sharper now, louder.

He drops to his knees in front of his best friend, hands already shaking as he grabs Satoru’s shoulder, shakes hard enough to jolt his limp body.

“Stay with me, idiot! Come on, fucker! You don’t get to do this!”

You don’t get to leave me!

A rasp of air rattles out of Satoru’s throat, wet, broken.

His lips are pale, almost blue at the corners. Suguru’s chest tightens with a kind of fear he’s never known before, raw and suffocating.

He’s losing Satoru.

Badum, badum, badum, badum.

No time to think, he needs to act immediately.

He pulls the mirror away, shoves the baggie under the bed with a violent sweep and sits on his calves before he handles Satoru onto his side over his thighs, making sure his airway stays open like he remembers from a first aid seminar.

He’s watched everything, read everything since Satoru started snorting coke.

His hand slaps hard against Satoru’s cheek, over and over, coaxing, demanding.

“Breathe, damn you! Breathe! Now! Satoru!”

Nothing.

He lowers him back to the floor, joins hands and presses them over Satoru’s chest, forcing the base of his palms down in a rhythmic movement. No response means Start CPR.

The minutes stretch, cruel and endless.

Badum… badum… badum… 

The thoughts inside Suguru’s head are heavy, terrible, nightmare fueling.

“SATORU!”

Suguru’s heart slams against his ribs, throat raw from shouting Satoru’s name and commanding him to fucking breathe as he massages his best friend’s chest tirelessly.

And then — a cough.

A sputter.

Satoru’s body jerks, and Suguru feels something like life crawl back into the dead weight he’s been clutching.

He stops for a moment and tilts his body sideways, letting him vomit on the bedroom floor what has been constricting his airway.

Relief floods him so hard it nearly knocks him flat. His hands are still trembling when he pushes damp hair off Satoru’s face, when he sees those blue eyes blink open, unfocused but there.

“You stupid, reckless motherfucking cocksucking impossible bastard,” Suguru mutters, voice breaking, tears streaming endless down his sweat damp cheeks, though he’ll deny it later. “You almost—” He can’t even say the word.

Satoru tries to smirk, but fails. His lips barely twitch.

“Relax,” he croaks, voice rough, shredded. “Told you I could handle it.”

Suguru almost hits him. Almost shakes him until his teeth rattle. Instead, he sits back on his heels, presses the heel of his palm hard against his eyes, and lets himself cry in relief as the silence settle around them again — this time thick with something heavier than fear.

Because Suguru knows.

This isn’t the last time.

Satoru POV

He doesn't feel the moment it tips.

At first it’s fine. More than fine — it’s clean, electric, sharp enough to carve through the noise in his skull.

The coke lights him up in all the right places, cracks open the dam, lets everything rush out at once. Every idea connects, every sound has weight, every lyric, every riff — it all makes sense.

He’s not drowning anymore.

He’s untouchable. Unstoppable. A motherfucking God.

That’s what he tells himself. That’s what he’s told Suguru a hundred times, that it makes him better.

A better version of him.

Faster. It cuts through the drag of exhaustion, makes the world move at his speed for once. Without it, hed’d choke on all the pressure crammed down his throat by his family, by their empire, by their smug certainty that this — music, art, his entire fucking heart — was nothing but a childish phase.

Without it, he’d crumble.

He snorts again, wipes his nose with the back of his hand, doesn’t bother with the mess on the mirror. His chest feels tight, but that’s nothing new, just his body catching up.

He laughs under his breath — the sound is too sharp, too dry this time — and starts scrawling another half-line of lyrics on the notebook scattered across the bed.

Then the pen falls out of his hand.

It’s stupid. It just slips.

But his fingers don’t close again, don’t obey.

They twitch against the sheets like they’re not his anymore. He frowns, tries to bend down, tries to grab it, and the floor comes up too fast.

The world turns and revolves.

The air claws at his throat.

His lungs can’t catch.

He blinks and the room slides sideways. His heart is a wild drum, but it doesn’t feel like rhythm, it feels like terrible chaos, like too many beats tripping over each other until they blur into something monstrous.

B̶͚̮̋͑̚a̸̠͓̜͚͌̀̇̊̏ͅd̸̪͚̮̮̯̏̐͒u̴͈̩̓̐͛ͅm҈̭͚̟̙̔͛̐̉,̷͚͚͔̳́̒͋ b҈̪͔͓͕͓̾͋a̶͙͇̠̣͈͌̓̽̋d̶̙͖͉̫̳̆͊̓̈́ū̸͎̿̍ͅm̴̱͍͔̘͔̅̽̃̈́͌,҈͇͕̟̒̆͆̇ b҈̜̮͎͉̈͌͂ȧ̴͙̩̣̾ͅd҈̩̮̳̀͒̐̒̌ụ̶̖̲̥͙͐̈́͂̆̏m̴̫̯̾̒̀,̶̭̜̱̖̊̄͑ b̷̲̤͖̱̂͆a̸͓̫̐̓d̶̬̫̜͕̠̿̒u̸͓͎͚͛́͌m̷̘͓̃̔,̸͇̗͆́̔͊ͅ b̸͉͚̳͉̪̐͒ä̸͉͙̩́̀͊̿d̵̫͍͚̂͒͋͌͋u̴̬̠̖̘͐̅̂m̴̝̝̗͈͂̾́,̴͖͈̀̄̐͛̊ͅ b̶̥͎͇͓̦̔̊̃̓a̶͖͖̖̯͆̊d҈̫͑̾͗̋ͅu̸̮̲͛̉͊m̶̦͓̅͐̉,҉͇̬̠̝͉̋́ b̸͓̳̱́͌̑̏̚a̴̘̖̲͓̎̔̀̍̈́d̸͈̗́͛͋̒u҈̰̬͙̉̀̒͊̄m̴̰̣̫̩͖̆̄,̸̙͖͎͉̞̎́ b̵̘̮̪͕̈̄̉a҉͙͙̩̎̓̅̎d̶̩̣̥̂̊̂u҉̜͎̘͔͖̆̔̊͋m҈̬̟̉̑̀,̶͚͓̟̓͑͆̚҈͖͚͚̒̈́̀͗͗

He tries to tell himself he’s fine.

He’s been higher than this before many, many times.

He’s had your chest seize, his head spin, his jaw lock — it always passes.

He always comes out grinning.

But his body doesn’t listen this time and it’s starting to scare him a little.

He can’t get a full breath.

Each inhale is thinner, shallower, and his vision fuzzes at the edges.

This doesn’t happen often. It actually never happened like this.

Maybe he outdid this time, with no rest between the days, his body probably needed some relief he denied for almost a week.

There’s a cold burn racing down his arms, pooling in his fingertips, and his skin feels like it doesn’t fit right.

Is he dying?

His mind keeps firing, faster, faster — he needs to stand, he needs to drink water, he needs to ride this out, he needs to—

“Satoru.”

The voice cuts through, soft and embedded in fear.

Suguru.

He’s here.

He tries to answer, tries to throw him some stupid line about catching him in the middle of the not so beautiful part of brilliance, but his throat seizes and nothing comes out but a broken rasp.

Hands on his shoulder, shaking him, grounding him to the floor he didn’t realize he’d hit.

The mirror’s gone. Suguru’s face swims above his pale, eyes wide in a way he’d never seen before.

He wants to laugh at him, tell him not to look so scared, but his lips won’t move right.

They’re numb. Cold.

“Breathe,” he says and his voice sounds like he’s underwater.

He tries.

God, he tries.

But his chest is a cage and his heart is a hammer gone wild inside it, slamming too fast, too hard, like it’ll shatter bone.

For a split second, the thought cuts through the haze.

This is it. This is how he goes.

Not on stage, not in the middle of some triumphant finale, but here on the floor, white powder still clinging to his skin, his best friend having to witness his failure.

Pathetic.

Something in him wants to fight it, wants to claw his way back if only to prove the world wrong. He’s not done, goddamnit.

He hasn't even started.

Then the world jerks — a cough, a sputter tearing his throat raw — and suddenly air scrapes back into his lungs with a taste that’s too similar to iron.

He’s back ragged, burning, but real at least, he breathes, he lives.

His chest stutters, but the drum doesn’t stop. Suguru’s hand is hard against his cheek, his voice sharp enough to bring him back.

He clings to it, even as shame coils hot and ugly in his gut.

When his eyes finally focus, Suguru’s looking at him like he’d almost broken his best friend. And that scares him more than the coke ever could.

He mutters something, anything, about being fine, about handling it, because the alternative — admitting the truth — is unbearable.

And for years, he carries that night like it didn’t happen. Suguru doesn’t talk about it again, and he doesn't either.

He doubles down.

More charm, more brilliance, more powder to keep the wheels spinning.

He tells himself he’s in control.

Until he’s not.

Now.

It’s after the first Cenotaph live show.

The one that lit the stage up like it had been built for them, that fed the crowd’s roar straight into Satoru’s veins.

Vessel has never sounded better, never felt more alive.

The band had never looked so fucking amazing. For the first time in years, he thought maybe he had finally proven it — proven that this wasn’t a phase, that his family’s sneers would choke on what he’d built.

But the high doesn’t land too right this time.

It’s the same climb, the same frantic brightness, the same gnawing edge at the corner of his chest, coming from too many rehearsals, too many nights cut short, too many lines just to keep the machine moving.

He should be riding the high.

Instead, it feels the same as once before.

The coke in his system isn’t enough anymore, not after weeks of pushing, of rehearsals that devoured his nights, of nerves he drowned with one line after another.

His jaw aches. His chest is too tight.

And then it hits him — that same wrongness, that same tilt, that same panic he’s swore he’d never let touch him again.

The memory slams through him all at once.

Suguru’s broken voice, his hands, the mirror slipping off his thigh, the desperate claw for air that wouldn’t come.

B̶͚̮̋͑̚a̸̠͓̜͚͌̀̇̊̏ͅd̸̪͚̮̮̯̏̐͒u̴͈̩̓̐͛ͅm҈̭͚̟̙̔͛̐̉,̷͚͚͔̳́̒͋ b҈̪͔͓͕͓̾͋a̶͙͇̠̣͈͌̓̽̋d̶̙͖͉̫̳̆͊̓̈́ū̸͎̿̍ͅm̴̱͍͔̘͔̅̽̃̈́͌,҈͇͕̟̒̆͆̇ b҈̜̮͎͉̈͌͂ȧ̴͙̩̣̾ͅd҈̩̮̳̀͒̐̒̌ụ̶̖̲̥͙͐̈́͂̆̏m̴̫̯̾̒̀,̶̭̜̱̖̊̄͑ b̷̲̤͖̱̂͆a̸͓̫̐̓d̶̬̫̜͕̠̿̒u̸͓͎͚͛́͌m̷̘͓̃̔,̸͇̗͆́̔͊ͅ b̸͉͚̳͉̪̐͒ä̸͉͙̩́̀͊̿d̵̫͍͚̂͒͋͌͋u̴̬̠̖̘͐̅̂m̴̝̝̗͈͂̾́,̴͖͈̀̄̐͛̊ͅ b̶̥͎͇͓̦̔̊̃̓a̶͖͖̖̯͆̊d҈̫͑̾͗̋ͅu̸̮̲͛̉͊m̶̦͓̅͐̉,҉͇̬̠̝͉̋́ b̸͓̳̱́͌̑̏̚a̴̘̖̲͓̎̔̀̍̈́d̸͈̗́͛͋̒u҈̰̬͙̉̀̒͊̄m̴̰̣̫̩͖̆̄,̸̙͖͎͉̞̎́ b̵̘̮̪͕̈̄̉a҉͙͙̩̎̓̅̎d̶̩̣̥̂̊̂u҉̜͎̘͔͖̆̔̊͋m҈̬̟̉̑̀,̶͚͓̟̓͑͆̚҈͖͚͚̒̈́̀͗͗

And then it hits. The same tilt, the same drop.

The same suffocating wrongness he swore he’d never feel again.

The lights backstage smear and double.

His knees give.

He tastes metal in his throat.

The floor shifts under him. The lights backstage blur.

And it’s not Suguru who finds him this time.

It’s you.

Why, from all the people, it had to be you?

You come stumbling into the wrong corridor, maybe chasing quiet, maybe just lost — and instead you find him crumpling, breath stuttering, his skin cold despite the sweat soaking his collar.

Your voice breaks on his name the same way Suguru’s did.

He feels a sour, painful grin that never reaches his cold lips.

Your POV

You don’t know how long you stand there, frozen in the corridor.

The world narrows to the sound of his shallow, hoarse breathing — if you can even call it that — the wet, rattling rasp like something stuck in his throat.

His name leaves your mouth on half of a breath and it’s small and useless against the way his chest is failing at the job it’s supposed to do.

“Satoru please breathe!” It comes out again, firmer now despite the increasing panic you feel clawing up your spine, a pebble thrown into a pond that barely ripples.

He doesn’t look at you.

His head is tipped to one side, mouth slightly open, skin the wrong color under the backstage lights — a waxy pallor that makes the veins in his temples stand out like blue rope.

Sweat beads along his hairline, matting his white strands to his forehead.

He’s barely conscious, pupils blown too wide, eyes rolling like they don’t know where to rest.

You see the tiny white residue crusted at the edge of his nostril and at the corner of his lip and a hot, hollow nausea uncoils behind your ribs.

All the training you don’t have — every textbook you half-read for a course, every first-aid kit you’ve ever opened for curiosity — virtually collapses under the weight of the real thing.

You can feel the panic like a pressure on your tongue and it tastes like metal.

For a breathless second you think of running — finding someone, anyone — but your legs respond before your brain does. 

No time for that.

It’s on you.

You need to do it.

Satoru will die.

And it’s going to be your fault if you leave.

You crouch automatically, the way you used to when Maki taught you to steady someone who might fall.

You press your fingers against his collarbone and feel the faint flutter of a heartbeat, erratic and too quick, a small animal trying to escape its cage.

You shove your hand under his neck, awkward and clumsy, tilt his head the way you’ve seen it in videos whose details you can’t fully trust, the motion a mimicry of competence.

He coughs once, a small, raw sound that doesn’t clear his throat.

You try to get him to blink, to squeeze your hand, anything.

Anything, Satoru, please.

“Satoru, hey! — wake up. Satoru, focus. Look at me!” Your voice cracks and you hate how thin it sounds, you hate that there are tears streaming endlessly down your cheeks, you hate that you need to ground yourself while you try to save the life of someone you love.

He responds with a wet wheeze that makes your skin crawl.

No no no no no.

He tries to form a smile, some ridiculous go-to of his, but it blows like a paper boat on a tide. 

Then he goes slack, and your hands are suddenly full of a heavy weight that isn’t sleeping.

 It’s going under.

You strip off your sleeve with clumsy fumbling and pat his face with cool fabric.

Cold touches the sallow hollows of his cheeks and his eyelids flutter.

Not nearly cold enough.

You know you should call for help, call someone who knows exactly what to do, but phone calls feel impossible when your fingers are shaking.

You’re gonna make them possible then.

You pull your phone out with one hand, thumb hovering over the emergency number before your training — poor and improvised, but more than nothing — forces you to decide.

“Yuji.” You need to find him, he came with you.

You dial. The phone trembles in your hand, the corridor seems longer by the second.

He answers on the second ring, breathless and loud with the after-glow of the show. 

“Hey—what’s—are you okay? Where are—”

“Stay where you are, call an ambulance and give them this address, now! Telll Toji and Suguru to get to backstage after. Tell Sukuna too.” You bark it out because you don’t have time to be polite. “Right now, Yuji, please, I need you.”

There’s a pause, then frantic compliance on the other end. The relief that rips through you when you hear the panic coil into action on his voice is small and immediate.

Someone’s coming. But you can’t rely on someone getting here fast enough — your body knows the tilt, the abrasion of a heart that slips.

You’re weirdly, horribly aware of how Satoru’s been pushing.

The shows, the rehearsals, the late nights. The desperation he masks as manic brilliance. 

You remember things you’ve seen — his jittery hands, the way he sometimes laughs too loud when he’s tired, the way his eyes stop being a million things and go hollow.

You just didn’t know it came from fucking coke addiction.

You turn your gaze back to him.

Your hands know what to do in a way your brain won’t steward into order. You ease him slowly onto his side, careful with the rustle of fabric and the tremor in your own muscles, checking that his airway is clear, feel the safety of the motion as if it were a promise you can keep.

He coughs and gags and then settles with uneven breaths that still worry you. You loosen his collar because you can’t bear the thought of constriction, of anything making the job of breathing more difficult for him.

Your mind grabs fragments, you need to keep him cold, keep him on his side to ensure he’s breathing, don’t let him swallow his own vomit — little clips of instruction from impossibly quick reads and frantic internet searches on your cellphone in the seconds you steadied your hands enough after talking to Yuji.

You force yourself to move, to act, each step like pushing through water. You find a bottle of water nearby, fumble with the cap, splash cool liquid at his lips, at his face.

His response is sluggish but he takes a sip and spills, but his throat opens slightly and you let out a sound that could be a laugh or a sob. Maybe both.

He mumbles something — enough for you to catch a word, “sorry,” slurred, ashamed — and then his fingers curl weakly around yours. The contact jolts something raw and immediate inside you, a furious, unexpected protectiveness that makes your chest ache.

You’re so tired from your own life, from deadlines, the studio, the mask you don’t take off, and it’s only the beginning of it all.

Will it get worse?

Will you be forced to see him like this another time?

Seeing him like this splinters something in you, you can’t let this happen again. Never again.

You shout again when you hear boots thudding and voices, practised fury and worried noise, rushing corridors — Yuji, Suguru, Toji, the others.

Suguru bursts through the door like an avalanche, eyes already cutting to Satoru’s pale face, face creased into something far worse than anger. 

He kneels without hesitation near the both of you, checks pulse, checks breath in the way he’s done it once before in the past that hangs heavy in his bones.

You notice his hands shake just a fraction and it makes you wonder for a second before he speaks.

“Call an ambulance, now” Suguru orders, voice flat but urgent.

Yuji tells him they’re on their way already, a kind of frantic efficiency you haven’t seen from him before.

Toji is moving through the small room like he’s assessing exits.

Suguru’s hand finds yours and squeezes it, a quick, half-apologetic pressure.

His eyes flick to you and for a breathless second you see — under the half stoic half flirty armor — a memory that looks like cheer terror.

You know then, suddenly and without asking, that he knows what this is.

That he’s been here before.

The way his jaw tightens is not anger at Satoru.

It’s a wound being reopened forcefully.

The corridor fills with a rising sound of still too distant footsteps. You can hear someone calling out instructions from down the hall, paramedics on their way.

You and Suguru keep him stable, Toji goes after the paramedics to bring them in quickly, and Sukuna is there too, you haven’t even noticed his arrival amidst all of this — Sukuna’s voice drops to you like something dangerous and oddly soft.

“You did the right thing getting him on his side,” he says. “Don’t let him slip on his back.” He leans down and steadies Satoru’s head again so he stops jerking, the gesture feels mechanical. “Keep his airway clear. Don’t let anyone do anything drastic until they arrive. Move back if they tell you to.”

His words are curt and you follow them because your hands are still shaking too much, and you are sniffling too loud, and because his certainty steadies you.

You didn’t know you would be so glad he is watching you collapse once again.

A medic arrives and floods the room with much needed professionalism.

They take over and your role narrows to the thing you do best, observe, note, remember — because there will be a thousand words later, every decision second-guessed, everything you missed catalogued like a murder report.

They check him, talk in clipped sentences to you that blur into a loop, but Sukuna is there still, and he’s listening close. Suguru steps aside when the lead medic asks what happened. His voice is a low rumble as he explains, giving the history in clinical fragments that you realize he’s practiced saying once before.

Yuji leans into you, face painted with a stupid, surreal kind of worry, and you feel more tired than you have in months.

One of the paramedics slaps a monitor to Satoru’s chest. The beep is a wild, jagged thing for a second, then steadier.

You want to crash.

Instead, they leave with Satoru and Sukuna nudges you to move. You follow Suguru outside as they prepare to transport Satoru, and you’re suddenly running to be by his side.

When the EMTs move him towards the ambulance, Satoru’s hand twitches in yours for a second — an absent, sleepy grasp. His eyes find yours and, for a moment, they’re lucid, the light sharpening in them like it’s trying to remind you of a promise he’s made to himself and everyone who keeps helping him.

He manages a crooked, exhausted grin and the word slips out, barely a whisper

“Sorry.”

You don’t answer. You want to scream and cry. You want to hug him so tight and don’t let go. 

Words feel useless and brittle. You offer him the warmest smile you can while your face is a mess of sweat and tears.

Then he’s taken inside the ambulance, you can’t go with him.

You put your hand to your temple and feel the headache bloom. Somewhere inside you, something knits itself into a new, terrible determination. There will be calls to make, explanations to assemble, apologies to write and songs to finish.

There will be a new album to deliver and deadlines that will gnaw. And now, an emergency that will refuse to be simplified—

You stop suddenly, standing in the parking lot as people move around, as the ambulance is loaded and soon heads to the hospital.

Satoru almost died and you’re thinking about the things you will have to fix.

Your friend, someone you love, had a coke overdose and you’re worried about how you will solve everything else since you can’t solve this one problem.

You’re becoming someone you don’t recognize.

Maybe Sukuna was right, maybe the layers you wear, the masks you have are turning you into someone else. Into someone ugly.

The cold night outside hits your face like a wash of reality and snaps you back after a ride you don’t remember.

You stand under the weak buzz of the hospital parking lights and watch, and the present dissolves into memory like sugar into hot tea. Toji drove you and Suguru there following the ambulance.

Suguru’s shoulders are ragged, as if the night has already carved something in him. He says nothing for a long time, and then, in a voice so small you almost miss it.

“He almost didn’t make it this time, huh.”

The words don’t belong to the bright, mocking Suguru you know.

They belong to someone who has watched a person he loves almost disappear and who still wakes in the dark from the shape of that event.

You press your palms together to stop them from trembling. Your own exhaustion is a different animal from Satoru’s — yours is the slow, deliberate burn of too many sleepless nights, of listing tasks until your chest is full of stones.

You’re standing under the sickening bluish hospital lights now, watching Suguru’s face close into itself, you understand something in a way that makes your throat ache.

Brilliance burns, but it can also, fatally, devour the one it feeds.

The pressure from the world, from managers and labels, from your own impossible promises — these are not abstract forces.

They are bodies pressed to the throat of a person who can still laugh like a god five minutes before their heart betrays them.

Suguru looks at you then, directly, with a weight in his eyes that loosens something private wide inside you.

“When he wakes,” he says quietly, “we’ll be honest about what happened. No glossing. No jokes. He needs to know what this does to us.”

The ambulance’s taillights vanish into the wet street.

The hospital doors slide closed.

You are left under the hum of neon, and the thin, metallic taste of fear sits at the back of your tongue, bracing you for what comes next — what confessions you will have to make to yourself, what compromises will be demanded, who you will have to be for a man who gives everything onstage and almost gave everything away to powder and silence.

*****

The beeping is unnerving and doesn’t stop.

It burrows under your skin, crawls through your ears, settles in your chest like a second heartbeat — mechanical, too steady, too clean. Not human.

Every time it chirps, you’re reminded that the only reason Satoru’s chest rises at all is because a machine is watching him closer than you ever could.

The antiseptic air tastes sour on the back of your throat and the fluorescent lights above you hum faintly, like some cruel joke about clarity, when everything inside you feels like sludge.

You’re so tired.

Your eyelids are raw from lack of sleep, but you can’t leave.

He would never leave your side if the situation was inverted. Actually, you’re sure he wouldn’t let things get to this point.

He would have noticed, unlike you, and you beat yourself endlessly for that.

But he didn’t notice how you’re barely a husk of the person you were, did he?

You don’t even remember sitting down — just that you were standing in the hall, some nurse asking you if you were family, and your mouth opening before you could think. Yes. That’s what you said.

Yes. You are.

Now you’re here, curled stiff in the chair by his bed, one hand twisted in your own shirt, the other hovering near his.

You haven’t touched him again since the nurse left. You’re too afraid that if you do, something in you will crack, spill, flood the room with all the things you refuse to say out loud.

He looks wrong like this.

The strongest person you know — not strongest in muscles, not even in music, but strongest in sheer noise, spirit, in presence, energy, in how he can burn oxygen out of any room — looks like a porcelain figure left too close to the sun.

Pale, fragile, a crack just waiting to split through him.

His hair’s a mess, sticking to his forehead, damp with sweat. There’s a shadow of dried blood under his nose, missed by whoever rushed him here. The oxygen tube curls like a leash over his cheek.

You hate him for it.

Not for almost dying — though, yeah okay, that too — but for leaving you to watch.

For making you sit in this chair, drowning in helplessness.

You’re good at fixing things, at organizing, at carrying the chaos of the five boys present in your life and a band and a dream stitched out of nothing.

But this? This is flesh, blood, addiction, something bigger than you.

You can’t fix this.

You press your nails into your palm until it hurts.

The monitor keeps chirping.

Hours blur. Nurses in, nurses out.

Yuji tries calling twice; you miss the calls.

Suguru sent a message earlier — let me know if anything changes — but you couldn’t bring yourself to type back.

Toji hasn’t reached out at all.

Maybe he knows. Or maybe he doesn’t want to.

When the first twitch comes, you think you imagined it. Just your mind playing tricks in the static silence. But then Satoru’s fingers flex against the sheet, slow, weak, and his chest rises deeper. His eyelids flutter, lashes clumped with sweat.

You sit up so fast your vision swims.

“Satoru?” The name sticks to your tongue, hoarse, your eyes widen and you’re filled with bright hope. You don’t even know if you should call him that here, in this sterile cage, but it slips out before you can stop it.

He groans, head rolling slightly to the side you’re talking from.

The oxygen tube tugs. He winces. His lips part, cracked and dry, and when he finally rasps something out, it’s not what you expect.

“...the lighting in here’s terrible.”

Your laugh is broken, half a sob, half a bark, muffled behind your palm.

Of course.

Of course the first thing out of his mouth would be something like that.

Dumbass motherfucker.

He shifts, tries to push himself up, but the IV jerks his arm and he hisses through his teeth. 

His eyes find you, blurry at first, then sharpening into recognition.

And he smiles. Weak, lopsided, but still that same unbearable grin. A grin you feared so much you wouldn’t see again.

Your heart aches.

“Hey. You look like shit.”

He teases and you chuckle at first before the anger bursts through you like a wave breaking against stone. Your blood boils to the point of seeing red. A few seconds ago you wanted to hug him, to kiss his face, to have him close to you and never leave again.

Now you’re considering ripping his head from his neck with your bare hands.

“You almost fucking died!”

He blinks, as if the words don’t make sense.

Then he shrugs — actually shrugs — and mutters.

“Didn’t, though.”

You slam your hand against the bedrail, the clang loud enough to make him flinch and wide his eyes at you.

“Don’t you dare joke about this. Don’t you dare make me—”

Your voice cracks, splinters, but you don’t stop.

“I thought you were dead, Satoru. I got to the hospital with Suguru and I thought you were fucking gone, and you’re sitting here smirking now like it’s nothing?” you seethe, your exhaustion boiled away in sheer wrath.

His smile falters. The bravado slips for a heartbeat, and in that gap you see it — fear. Shame. A flicker of something he doesn’t want anyone to catch, and then it’s gone, smoothed over with another chuckle.

“Relax, sugar. I’ve handled worse.”

“You haven’t handled anything!” The words rip out of you before you can hold them back. “That’s the problem! You keep running and snorting and pretending you’re invincible, but you’re not. You’re just—” You choke, heat rushing to your face. “You’re just a fucking idiot who thinks coke makes him a genius.”

He thought you were done, but oh boy you aren’t.

“And the biggest issue— is that when you’re a fucking dumbass and when you’re dead you are not the one suffering. We are! We’re left to grieve, to think about you, to—”

“I’m sorry.” he snaps, and then again, softer. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

The room is too small for your fury, for the tremble in your knees. You force yourself to stay standing, to stare down at him, to let him see all of it.

Satoru licks his lips, stares at the ceiling for a long moment, then back at you. His voice is quieter now, almost careful.

“You don’t get it. I can’t slow down. If I slow down, everything—” He gestures vaguely with the hand not tethered to wires. “Everything slips. The band. The music. My family. It’s the only way I keep it together.”

You shake your head.

Unbelievable.

“No. It’s the only way you’re tearing yourself apart. And one day—” Your throat locks, but you force the words through. “One day you won’t wake up.”

Silence swells. The monitor keeps chirping, oblivious.

He doesn’t argue.

He doesn’t promise he will stop.

He just looks at you, really looks, like maybe it’s the first time he’s seen how much you’re shaking. How bad you fear losing him.

And for once, he doesn’t grin.

Your hand hovers over his, hesitating, before you finally let your fingers settle on his knuckles. Warm. Alive. For now, that has to be enough. He lowers his eyes to where your hands meet.

You whisper it because you can’t keep it in.

“Don’t you dare fucking leave me and Suguru alone. Don’t you fucking dare.”

His chest rises, slow, shallow.

His eyes raise back to yours and linger. He doesn’t know how to act when your voice breaks.

And maybe it’s the exhaustion cracking him open, or the way the IV needle glints like a reminder of what almost didn’t happen tonight, but Satoru doesn’t reach for another joke. He just breathes, shaky, uneven, and lets the silence stretch until you’re almost sure he’ll retreat again.

Then, softly.

“You scare me.”

You blink.

The words land wrong, like you misheard. But his eyes are on you, pale and sharp even through the glaze of whatever drugs still run his veins, and he repeats, voice thin as paper.

“You scare me, sugar. The way you look at me like I’m… like I’m worth something. Like I can’t mess up. You don’t say it, but it’s there, hovering. You look up to me and see me as someone worth running yourself down for—” His lips twitch into a humorless curve. “And then I go and do this, and I see your face when you walked in, and — fuck.” He tips his head back against the pillow, eyes closing. “I’d rather take another line and burn out than see that look again.”

Your chest tightens, as if someone pulled a cord through your ribs and yanked hard.

“Then don’t make me see it again, Satoru.”

“That easy, huh?” He huffs, more breath than laugh, then turns his head to the side, studying you like he’s trying to memorize the cracks.

His voice lowers.

“You think I don’t know I’m killing myself? Of course I do. But I’ve been—” he falters, swallows dry. “I’ve been running since I was a kid. Family, pressure, business, image. Coke just… it quiets the noise. Makes me think I can outrun it a little longer.”

You want to scream.

You want to shake him until that justification rattles loose. Instead you grip the edge of the chair you’re back sitting on so tight your knuckles ache.

“And when you can’t outrun it anymore? What then? You expect us to just… bury you and move on?”

He flinches. This time he doesn’t hide how those words scare him.

For a moment you both just breathe, machines humming, light buzzing above, a thousand things unsaid filling the sterile air.

Then he shifts again, slow, deliberate, like every word takes effort.

“I saw you.”

You frown at the sudden subject change.

“What?”

“Tanabata.” His voice softens further, so low you almost have to lean closer to catch it. “Me and Suguru were walking back after fireworks, and I saw you. With him.”

Your breath catches. 

The memory floods back, and it’s warm. Lantern light, yukata fabric stiff around your ribs, him on his haunches in front of you, making you breathe, those red eyes like they could strip you bare. You look away before Satoru can read it on your face.

“You were—” he hesitates, choosing his next words carefully, “—different. I’ve known you long enough to tell when you’re about to break. And you were breaking that night in front of him. I don’t know what he did to you, but you don’t need to endure it.”

Your nails bite into your palms again.

He knew you long enough to see when you’re about to break and yet he let you run yourself into this? Into the mess of a woman you are right now.

But you knew something wasn’t right with him either, and you did the same, didn’t you?

You both stare at each other in silence.

You don’t answer.

Satoru exhales through his nose.

“I don’t like it.” He says it flat, like stating the weather, or like he had any say on what you do or don’t do. “Not because I don’t trust you. I do. But him? He’s not… He’s not safe. He’s a wildfire, and you’re already burned raw. I don’t want you to end up hurt.” his eyes dart to your hands and back to yours again, sharper this time despite the weakness in his frame. “Promise me you’ll be careful. With him and with yourself.”

The silence after is suffocating.

You open your mouth, close it, then finally force words out before the weight crushes you. 

“You almost died tonight, and you’re worried about me?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t soften his tone. Just deadpans. “Always.”

Your throat locks, tight and hot.

You want to be furious again, want to tell him he has no right, but the truth in his gaze makes the words collapse before they can form.

How can someone be a genius and a fucking idiot at the same time?

You drop your face into your hands instead, dragging air into your lungs, shaky and uneven.

And in the quiet that follows, with the monitor’s chirp steady, with the sterile air pressing in from every corner, you let yourself believe him just for a heartbeat.

You spend the night by his side, you let Yuji know and ask him to tell the others that Satoru is awake.

The quietness of the next morning doesn’t last long, they run checkups on him, there are a few exams he needs to take so you are free to walk around the hospital and have a little snack you buy from a snack machine.

You’re back by his side in the afternoon, just talking, actually talking about life. Talking about his family, about his feelings, everything that is not band related. You refuse to talk about work with him and you cut him off if he even starts to slip into music matters.

The door cracks before you can answer it. A rush of hallway noise leaks in — footsteps, chatter, the faint squeak of rubber soles — then cuts again as it shuts.

Suguru enters first, tired but composed, a bouquet of convenience-store blue flowers in one hand and his guitar case slung over his back like he came straight from rehearsal.

Yuji is at his side, eyes darting everywhere, relief flooding his face the second he sees Satoru propped up in the bed.

Toji lingers at the threshold a beat too long before stepping inside, arms crossed like he’d rather be anywhere else but still came anyway, of course he came, despite his posture he cares about Satoru.

And Sukuna — last, always last to come — fills the doorway with broad shoulders, expression unreadable but his crimson eyes immediately cutting to you, and then to Satoru.

Satoru, of course, grins. The smile is weak, cracked, but it’s still his masks his frail self, sliding into place like it never left.

“Well, well. Guess I’m more popular than I thought. Should’ve overdosed sooner.”

Yuji winces, Suguru’s sigh is sharp as a blade, Toji frowns and calls him an idiot, Sukuna doesn’t even move, just watches with back against the closed door, deciding whether the room is worth stepping into after Satoru said that.

Suguru sets the flowers on the side table, ignoring the half-smirk aimed his way.

“Don’t.” Just one word, quiet and loaded, making Satoru shrug, but his gaze flicks to you, almost imperceptible.

Yuji moves closer to the bed, blurting too fast

“You scared the hell out of us. Don’t—just don’t do it again, okay?”

His fists are clenched by the sides of his body, knuckles white. He’s still a kid in so many ways, and the fear in his voice makes your stomach sink a little.

Sometimes you forget he’s really younger than you all.

Satoru ruffles Yuji’s hair with shaky fingers. “Relax, little man. I’m not going anywhere.”

And Sukuna finally steps forward, his gaze slicing through the tension like he’s bored of watching the scene play out. He doesn’t say anything at first, just runs his gaze at Satoru and lets his lips twist into a little scowl.

“When you’re done fucking up our schedule you let me know.”

It’s all he says before his gaze rises only to fall on you. He studies you for a moment, huffs and turns around to leave the room.

Even after he left the room feels still too small, too crowded with unspoken words, and you realize the private moment you had with Satoru is already dissolving, swallowed by the band.

Satoru exhales, tilts his head back, tries to laugh it off, but the sound falters. You can see the shadow flicker across his face, that brief glimpse of the weight he carries, the pressure coiled around him like barbed wire.

“What do you all want me to say, huh? That I fucked up? Congratulations, you win. I fucked up.” His tone isn’t angry, it’s too tired for that.

The admission just slips out like smoke.

Toji finally speaks, his voice is deep, even, but startles you because you’re not that used to hearing him talk.

“Then stop before you don’t wake up next time, shithead.” His arms remain folded, eyes fixed on the wall like he doesn’t care if Satoru listens or not, but his words land anyway. You see it in the way Satoru’s gaze falls on his own hands.

You shift in your chair, hands knotted in your lap. The urge to say something presses against your ribs, you swallow down the ache and just breathe.

Yuji sits down hard on the bed edge, wiping at his face.

“You matter too much for this. To all of us. Don’t you get that? She’s been awake for two whole days and she didn’t leave your side.” he gestures at you and you realize that it’s true. But you don’t feel tired, the adrenaline must be keeping you up. “I may not have known you for long but you’ve been nothing but bright and kind.”

His voice trembles but doesn’t break, earnest as the boy he still is. And for a flicker of a moment, you see something soften in Satoru’s expression. Another crack. The grin slips, replaced by something closer to guilt, or maybe love, some raw and unguarded feeling.

But he shoots you a glance from the side of his eyes, worried. He frowns and you avert your eyes — you will not let him turn this situation into something that’s not about him.

Suguru reaches out, resting a hand lightly on the rail between them.

“I’m not letting you do this alone. You’ll come home with me when they discharge you. Until you’re steady. I’ll make sure of it.” his tone brooks no argument.

It’s not a request nor an offer. It’s a verdict.

Satoru looks at him, something unreadable flickering in his pale eyes.

He doesn’t fight it, not this time at least, and you feel something inside of you relax a little.

He lets out a small breath and mutters.

“Yeah. Okay.” his voice is too soft for him, stripped of the bravado, almost grateful.

Around you, the tension thins but doesn’t vanish. Your chest feels tight, like you’ve been holding your breath since the door opened.

The reality of it all sits heavy in your gut.

The fragility under Satoru’s glitter, the way this band you’re holding together by threads could unravel at any second.

And the image of him slumped pale in this bed will haunt you long after you leave.

You press your palms into your thighs, grounding yourself, reminding your lungs to keep working.

You can’t afford to break down.

Not here. Not now. Not soon.

And when Satoru finally tilts his head toward you, a soft grin tugging at his lips despite everything, you know he remembers and cherishes the words you two shared before the others came. The mutual sharing of feelings, of thoughts, of your stories. The reason behind his addiction, the struggles.

The weight of it presses against your ribs.

The night presses on, and though you leave with the others when visiting hours end, the sound of Satoru’s rasp, shallow breaths, his gray lips, his pale eyes, — everything follows you out into the dark.

They coil together, whispering promises of fracture.

I see the Gods avert their gaze from me
My fucking form is but a wreck beneath them
And there are always people I can call on
It's all so easy for me

No more taking chances
No more teeth to bite with
No more smiling faces
I am alone again

You want to talk
You want to talk it out?
'Cause the joke's on me and I'm laughing too
You want to watch me bleed 'cause I bleed so well?
It's all so easy for me

Eternally, eternally

And do you like the way it feels?
Like fire from the heavens
Carving past the surface into you

And do you like the way it feels?
Like fire from the heavens
Tearing me asunder beside you

It's all so easy for me

It's all so easy for me

Chapter Text

Take me Back to Eden

The automatic doors sigh closed behind you and for the first time in hours you feel the weight of sky above, heavy with Tokyo’s city glow, clouds bruised violet against the lights.

Yuji is the first to break the silence. He’s been walking beside you since you left Satoru’s room, fists shoved deep into his hoodie pockets, head ducked like he’s trying to hide the way his eyes are still rimmed red.

“He’s really gonna be okay, right?”

His voice cracks halfway, a little boyish despite everything he’s lived through.

You want to say yes, to promise, but the word lodges sharp in your throat, you don’t know if that’s true. You can only hope.

You only nod, that kind of nod that’s more a prayer than certainty.

Toji lingers a few paces behind, hands jammed into his jacket, broad shoulders sloping with a kind of resigned calm. He’s the wall none of you asked for but still lean on.

Suguru stays with Satoru tonight, and he’s taking him home on the following day.

And Sukuna — he’s the furthest back. He didn’t leave the hospital as you thought, he waited for you to leave and walked along. You still feel  the weight of his eyes like claws at your spine.

He hasn’t spoken to you. 

The walk to the station is half-empty, rare for this city, like Tokyo itself is giving you a corridor to breathe. Toji offered a ride back but you couldn’t accept it, you can manage the way back like a functional adult.

Vending machines glow against shuttered storefronts, cicadas scream from the shadows of trees along the avenue still. Their sound is soothing among the artificial humming and buzzing.

Your geta from Tanabata are long gone, but you remember the sound of them, how they felt like another life. So, so distant now.

You turn your head slightly and catch Sukuna’s profile, the cut of his jaw lit sharp by neon bleeding from the station sign.

He isn’t looking at you, but you feel like he knows you’re looking.

Yuji keeps by your side and waves him goodbye, he doesn’t ride the subway according to his brother, he has a motorcycle, he said something like YZF-R6? — but you don’t know the difference between motorcycles, not even cars if you’re being honest, so Yuji just chuckles lightly and tells you it’s a Yamaha.

You find it very fitting for him. He looks like he’d ride a motorcycle.

And be menacingly mesmerizing doing it.

You shake your head to push back the thoughts and take a deep breath.

You’re carrying too much already. Remember that.

The exhaustion, the burnout, the music, the deadlines, the essays, the exams approaching, the weight of holding it all together. But as the train howls into the station and the people around begin to scatter, you know it won’t be long before something drags him closer again.

He seems to be around every single time you’re fighting for your life.

Sukuna POV

Bitch:

We need to talk.
Koenji, Six Eyes Studio near the station.
See you there.

Sukuna’s upper lip tugs up in irritation.

He had absolutely nothing to talk to Kenjaku, nor anyone else for that matter.

He’s sitting on a stack of wood, smoking quietly as he checks his messages. Yuji once again asks him to lend him the haori you annoyingly hand-washed and gave him back on the next rehearsal.

He didn’t ask you to and yet you made sure to even fold it properly and let his haori smelling like jasmine and vanilla.

It smells like your clothes now.

He finishes the cigarette he’s been smoking and pushes the butt against the concrete floor, throwing his head back and exhaling heavily.

He’s been awfully annoyed since the Tanabata ended.

No, he’s been annoyed since the first time you showed him you’re remarkable and yet you are completely incapable of reaching your full potential because you’re too idiotic and can’t say no to anyone around you, like a polite little slave of your friends’ wishes.

And no matter how much he tells himself he’s pushing you away, he’s always around when you’re inevitably crumbling, and if it’s not the most insufferable thing he has to handle nowadays he doesn’t know what is.

This coming from someone who works in a construction site where he can die at any moment, or worse, he can be forced to train some new hire to not to die.

He tells Toji he won’t drink with him after their shift, he’s going to meet his previous bandmates and see what kind of shitshow they’re on about.

The studio they’d chosen was sleek in a way that grated. Too much polish. Too many clean edges. A place trying too hard to look like success but Sukuna only sees it as counterfeit.

The elevator doors open onto a hallway already humming faintly with soundproofed silence — expensive acoustic padding muffling everything down to the click of his steeltoe boots. 

The smell inside is sterile, lemon cleanser and faint ozone from the electronics.

When he pushes into the studio proper, the space greets him with glossy black floors, walls painted in matte slate grey, everything designed to look intentional, curated.

They’re trying to impress him, why is that?

Framed platinum records lined the wall in symmetrical rows, so precise they look less like trophies and more like an exhibit in some museum.

The furniture gleams too. Leather couches wiped down, glass tables shining without a fingerprint.

No clutter. No forgotten cable coils. A studio that looks like a random office with no personality.

Not a single empty beer can left to rot in the corner.

A room without life, without pulsation.

He lowers himself into one of the couches anyway, posture loose, forearms on his thighs, head dipped slightly forward, the lazy slouch of someone who couldn’t be bothered to pretend he was impressed.

They are already there, quiet, just looking at his every movement.

Across from him, Kenjaku is the first to move. Always the one to speak first, to set the stage, that didn’t change it seems.

They lean back against the other couch, suit jacket draped carelessly over a chair behind them, the crisp white shirt beneath unbuttoned just enough to signal “relaxed.”

Every flick of his eyes betray calculation.

Their mouth curl into a smooth smile.

“It’s been a while,” they say, tone practiced. “We weren’t sure you’d come.”

Sukuna let a heavy, groaned sigh roll out from his lips, bored already.

Kenjaku’s smile tightens.

On the other side, Mahito sprawls across his chair with theatrical ease, one boot on the low table, chain hanging loose against shredded denim.

A drumstick twirls in his fingers, stolen from the kit behind him, flick-flick-flick as his grin spread wider.

“Course he’d come,” Mahito drawls, eyes glinting with private mockery. “Curiosity kills, doesn’t it? Thought you’d at least want to see how we’re doing without you.”

The bait in his tone is too obvious, he thinks, cutting edges wrapped in laughter.

Sukuna doesn’t bite it, he lights a cigarette to make that shit more bearable, drags on it slowly, crimson eyes half-lidded but sharp beneath.

Still quiet, waiting.

It was Jogo who cracks first, as expected.

The big man shifts in his seat, restless bulk betraying unease.

His hands work the strap of his bass case like he couldn’t stand the quiet stretching across the room.

“The shows are still packed,” he blurts, words tumbling out before he could stop them. “Crowds screaming, tickets selling out in minutes. But—” He swallows. “It’s not the same.”

Kenjaku’s glares snap to him like a whip, but too late.

The words already hung there. Very little entertaining, though.

Mahito chuckles, leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees as he twirled the drumstick lazily.

“Not the same is polite. Without you, the beat’s gone soft. Chousou plays fine — clean, even. But clean don’t set a stage on fire like you did.” His grin grows wider. “You were fire, Kuna. You know it.”

The cigarette is nearly burned down to the filter now. Sukuna lets the ash lengthen until it threatens to drop onto their perfect rug.

He still doesn't answer.

All the silence and air heavy with his disdain are making their skin prickle, getting on their nerves visibly.

The silence thickens when they realize he’s still not talking, content with the smoke curling upwards from his parted lips.

He doesn’t need to say anything for a good while — his stillness being louder than their words so cautiously practiced.

He could see them unravel under it, their rehearsed poise cracking at the edges.

Kenjaku clears their throat, shifting to cut through the quiet once for all.

“You built this with us, Kuna. Your sound is in every track that made us. Your lyrics and verses are our history. Don’t tell me you’re content wasting it elsewhere.” Their tone is soft, longing. Their smile returns, brittle. “Whatever grudge you’re nursing, let it die. We can make space. We want you back.”

Not need. Want.

Pride wouldn’t let them frame it any other way.

Mahito leans further forward, grin gleaming like a blade.

“C’mon, don’t act like you don’t miss it. The lights, the roar, the rush. You think anyone else can give you that? You think anyone else can even keep up with you?”

The filter singes his fingertips.

Finally, Sukuna leans forward, pressing the cigarette down onto the pristine glass table. The hiss of smolder against glass leaving a dark smear of ash and burn, a scar on their perfect fabricated lie.

When his voice comes, it is low, rasped, final.

“Chousou definitely can do better than you.”

The silence that follows is a blade across the skin of them all.

“I’m not coming back.”

He scoffs.

Jogo’s mouth opens, then shuts. Mahito’s grin flickered, cracked, the edges fraying. Kenjaku sat very still, jaw tight, eyes narrowed with calculation like they were sifting through every angle that still might work. As if.

But Sukuna is already rising.

The leather couch creaks beneath his weight, the sound loud in the hush, he doesn’t look at them again, doesn’t offer a handshake, a farewell, not even a smirk as parting salt.

Just the rhythm of his boots against the immaculate floor, door opening, door closing.

The door shuts behind him with a muted click, and just like that, the noise in his head levels out.

Inside, they’d been all sharp words and cracking facades, desperation bleeding through silk voices. Outside, Tokyo breaths steady, indifferent. The kind of indifference he prefers if being honest — unsentimental, honest in its refusal to notice him.

The corridor stretches long, but his steps carry him quickly enough to the elevator. 

His reflection stares back in the brushed steel doors. The scar dragging down from his temple to his jaw, the ink curling symmetrical over his face, down his jaw and throat, the faint line of tension at his jaw. He looks like he always did — unbothered, unreadable.

But his eyes are lit with the same low, simmering fire that never left him.

The doors open.

He steps into the empty box and presses the ground floor button with the edge of his knuckle, leaning back against the cold mirrored wall. The hum of the machinery fills the silence. 

What stuck with him isn’t the plea dressed up as negotiation, nor Mahito’s grinning need to provoke him at all cost. It is the way the room itself felt… dead, hollow despite the shine.

Like they’d built themselves a coffin out of glass and steel and wanted him to crawl back inside with them.

He’s better alone than buried in that with them.

Although he’s not alone.

They were still chasing validation, screaming for relevance, calling him back not out of loyalty but because without him their noise had lost teeth. And they thought they could dress that need up in platinum frames and leather seats.

As if he couldn’t see right through their pathetic attempt.

The elevator chimes. He steps into the lobby, ignores the receptionist’s attempt at a polite nod, and pushes through the glass doors.

The city wraps around him immediately.

Neon buzz overhead, gaudy signs crowding each other out for dominance, throwing fractured color across slick pavement.

The air smells of rain yet to fall — ozone, exhaust, fried batter from the corner stall. A steady undertone of engines, laughter, footsteps pressed close, then peeled away as strangers passed.

Tokyo is a truly living beast.

He moves through it like he always did, not weaving through the crowd so much as forcing it to bend around him.

People shift instinctively, parting without knowing why, leaving him a clear line down the pavement. His boots struck concrete in a rhythm more certain than the chaos of voices and horns around him.

He drags another cigarette from his pack, lit it with a flick, inhaled deep enough for the burn to scrape his lungs, and let the smoke coil upward.

He takes another drag of smoke, exhales through his nose, watches the neon burn against the haze.

His mind didn’t spare time to even think about the pros and cons of going back to Black Halberd, it was already chewing on something else.

On you.

Not consciously, not intentionally, but you thread your way through his thoughts whether he invited it or not, like a curse.

It’s plaguing.

The way you looked when your mask slipped for the first time in Shibuya Hollow, panic cracking through that carefully stitched surface. The way you clung to composure like a drowning thing clawing at driftwood. The way you hide behind sharp words, brittle sarcasm, acts like nothing can touch you. But Sukuna’s lived long enough to recognize when someone is fraying from the inside out. He knows the sound of breaking bones before they split. He knows the way someone rots under pressure until there’s nothing left but ash.

And you’re close. Really close.

He saw it at the festival too, the way you nearly vanished inside yourself when those drunk bastards cornered you. Saw how your hands shook even after he steadied you. Saw the crack in your armor when you finally whispered a thank you with your lips trembling and eyes stubbornly locked to his.

You have no idea what you’re doing to yourself. He’s watched you burn the candle from every end — the band, the college, the job, the lyrics pouring out of you until you’re a husk running on cheap caffeine and guilt.

It’s infuriating. It’s stupid. And it’s—

Magnetic.

Sukuna hates that word, hates the truth in it. He doesn’t simply get drawn in.

He doesn’t circle anyone else’s orbit.

But there’s something in your contradictions that won’t leave him alone. 

Too soft to carry what you insist on carrying, too stubborn to drop it.

He wants to pry you open, force you to admit you’re breaking, force you to stop pretending you can handle it all when you can barely keep yourself upright. He wants to understand why you think you can confront him with no repercussions.

What’s that inside of you that makes you think you’re so brave, so strong, so capable of carrying the world like it weighs nothing.

Is it stupidity at its finest or is there something else?

Most women flinch from him, fear sharp in their eyes.

You don’t flinch next to him. Not exactly, you bristle when you’re tired. You bite back when you’re alone. You look at him like you’d stab him if you could, and he finds himself almost daring you to try.

What kind of person would want that?

He would pay to see you come at him the way many others came for a fight. Just because he knows you want to punch him more often than not, yet, you smile and feign a laugh so you don’t erupt. Or simply throw sarcastic phrases like a child to try and get away from the feeling. Irritating.

That edge, that defiance, it’s the only thing keeping you from collapsing into dust. And it makes him want to test just how far he can push you before you stop fighting the urge.

He exhales smoke into the night, lips curling around a bitter laugh.

He’s not built for softness. He’s carved from rejection, rage, survival. Everything that ever touched him either left scars or burned out quick.

Kenjaku’s offer reminded him of that — loyalty’s just a leash, and he doesn’t wear leashes. 

Not anymore.

So why the fuck does he keep thinking about the brat?

The image of your face — flushed, furious, defiant when you snapped back at him instead of cowering like every other woman he’d known. Even Yorozu cowered, the most insane of them all. The crack in your voice when exhaustion weighed too heavy and you didn’t have the strength to keep your mask up and embrace the façade. The softness you tried so hard to suffocate.

You aren’t like them. Not desperate in the same way. Not begging for him to fix what is broken.

You broke yourself instead, piece by piece, as if destruction were proof of loyalty.

Idiotic. Moronic. Imprudent little brat. And yet—

The neon that bleeds down the wet street is stretching his shadow long and crooked behind him now, swaying with the crowd. He flicks the spent cigarette into the gutter, watches the ember die against water, and lights another.

A chain smoker. Always moving. Always restless.

The beast in his chest paced, never satisfied, never still.

And that was when he sees you.

Half a block ahead, caught in the fractured spill of light from a flickering sign, terribly oblivious, your figure cutting sharp against the blur of strangers.

You hadn’t seen him yet.

But he is already moving toward you.

He crosses the street, step after step, slow, deliberate, the weight of his boots clicking paced against the pavement in a rhythm that wasn’t meant to be subtle, and still, you didn’t look up until he was too close.

You’re such an easy prey.

Your head lifts fast when he’s already in your space, eyes wide at first, then narrowing into something sharp — sharp, but fraying at the edges like glass about to crack.

“What the hell,” you snap, though your voice isn’t really steady. “You’re bailing, aren’t you?”

He cocks a brow and lets the silence draw long with you too, letting it wrap around your question until it sounded like you were asking him for something more.

Sukuna stops just short of you, close enough that you could see the faint play of muscle beneath his white shirt, the way the black ink of his tattoos climb out from under the sleeve and around his neck like it wanted to strangle him.

He knows you wish you could strangle him.

You take half a step back. Not much, but enough for him to notice and curl the corner of his lip into that grin he wears.

“You’re running your mouth a lot lately,” he drawls at last, voice low, bored almost. “Careful before you choke on things you say, brat.”

That’s how he opens, not an explanation, not a denial, just the cut of teeth sharp enough to make you bristle once again. He sees it in your face, the way your eyes flash, the way your fingers twitch against your sides as if gripping words before they slip.

And then you say it — the thing he can feel burning in you before you even spoke it out loud.

You’re so transparent when you’re like this.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” The words break hard and ugly out of you. “You talked to them. You’re gonna go back to them. I should’ve known better than to—”

He chuckles, it sounds like it rattles in his chest, old and heavy, mocking you without even trying.

“Back?” His tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek as he studied you, the disbelief rolling off him as if the idea alone was funny enough to linger on.

But you aren’t laughing. You are unraveling, right there on the sidewalk, voice rising, your breath quickening.

Oh, you are so scared of the idea of him leaving, aren’t you?

“Don’t look at me like that. Don’t fucking— I saw you. I saw the way you looked at me when we signed the damn contract, like you were already halfway out the door. You think I don’t notice? You think I don’t—” you stop for a moment to catch your breath before going back to barking at him. “Mei Mei sent me after you because this meet up of yours with your old band reached her! Now I’m babysitting you, how does that look?”

He steps closer. One more pace and your back would be against the glass of the corner building, and he wonders if you’d even notice it happening or if you’d just keep talking until you trapped yourself.

And you’re on fire, simply barking and yapping like you haven’t talked in an entire year. Spitting what you think are facts.

It’s a little amusing in the beginning, but now he’s growing tired of your insolence.

“You think you can fool anyone? You’ll leave the second they offer you more than we can. That’s what you do, right? Tear through things, throw them away, move on.”

“You don’t know a thing,” he deadpans and huffs.

Sukuna lets it wash over him, the accusations, the bitterness, the unprocessed fear tangled beneath it all. And instead of fury, instead of rejection, he feels a dark, cruel amusement curl up inside him.

But you push harder anyway, because that’s what you do when you can’t control yourself — tear yourself bloody against brick until something gives.

“Of course I do,” you hiss, voice catching, anger and exhaustion folding over each other. “Everyone leaves. That’s what people do. And you— you were never supposed to stay in the first place, right? Just filling time until something better came along.”

The crack in your voice betrays your rage.

He catches it, and he lets the silence sit heavy once again, long enough for you to hear the sound of your own breathing, the pulse hammering inside your skull.

“I was wrong to trust you. I should’ve known you’d leave. You’re not reliable. You’re not—”

He tilts his head, silence stretching until your voice catches and dies, until you’re  trembling in front of him, teeth clenched like you’ll bite yourself in half just to stay standing. 

Then he takes a step forward. And another. Until he’s close enough to tilt his chin down, crimson eyes cutting into you.

You finally are forced to stop. You’re backed into the chilled glass of a shuttered storefront, neon washing red across his tattoos.

“Done?” Your pulse thunders in your throat, visible. Fast.

You come quickly to the realization that you are cornered.

Finally, he tilts his head back, eyes narrowing, nose flaring, lips curving into something that’s not quite a grin.

“You think I dragged myself through this city, sat in your little rehearsal caves, listened to your whining and your tantrums, just to fucking leave?”

His voice is low, threaded with danger, but not the kind that pushes you away. The kind that pins you.

“I don’t walk out on something worth my time.”

He leans in, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath against your temple.

“You want to think I’ll leave because it’s easier than admitting you’d care if I did,” he rasps. “But I’m not going anywhere. Not until I’ve seen what you’ve really got.”

Your eyes snap up to his, wide and disbelieving, and he feels that pull again — the soft core you fight so hard to bury.

Magnetic.

“You should’ve known better,” he murmurs, low enough that you have to strain to hear. “I don’t run. I don’t bend. And I don’t fucking leave what I’ve already claimed.”

The last word lands heavy, heavier than he meant, but he doesn’t take it back.

You take from it whatever you understand.

You swallow hard, lips parting like you want to argue, to ask what he means by that, but no sound comes out.

Sukuna straightens, stepping back just enough to let you breathe again, though his gaze never loosens its hold on you.

“So quit flailing. You’ll burn yourself out faster if you keep fighting shadows. Focus on the shit that matters.”

You’re still standing there, breathing like you just outran death, eyes wide and glassy, and he can practically hear the gears in your skull grinding.

Too proud to cry.

Too proud to admit you’re falling apart.

Always stitching the mask back up even when it’s in shreds.

Sukuna huffs a laugh, low, mocking, and tilts his head to the side.

“You’re really pathetic when you get like this. All wound up over some shit you imagined in that fried little brain of yours.”

Your shoulders stiffen, and there it is — that flash of anger is back in your eyes, the one thing about you that actually makes him grin.

"Then why the fuck—why the fuck let them meet with you at all? Why talk to them? Why keep me in the dark while you—while you—”

Your throat tightens, voice once again feeling too small for your own liking, your hands clenching at your sides.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like for me, for us, to keep building this when I don’t know if you’ll vanish tomorrow?”

“Say it,” he mutters finally  “Say what you’re really thinking, brat. Quit dressing it up.”

“You don’t get it—” you start, voice fraying, but he cuts in before you can spin yourself into another panic.

“No, brat, you don’t get it.” He takes a step closer, heavier this time, watching you press yourself harder against the glass.

“You think you’re strong ‘cause you keep carrying everyone else’s weight without saying a word. Like that makes you tougher. Smarter. Better.” He coos in a cruel tone, lip curls in a scowl.

“But all you’re doing is killing yourself slow, and for what? So the rest of us don’t have to look at you and see how fucked up you really are? You want to be the next one in a hospital bed barely surviving due to your own foolish choices?”

Your mouth opens, but no words come out again. Just that look — wounded, furious, desperate — and it lands in his gut harder than he expects.

Sukuna leans down, close enough that you can’t escape his stare, his voice dropping to that low rasp that always makes your breath hitch.

“You could’ve asked for help. At Any. Fucking. Point. But you’re too stubborn, too self-absorbed, too much of a people-pleaser to even imagine we’d back you up. You’d rather bleed yourself dry and call it strength.”

He raises his hand and cups your jaw, fingers pressing into your cheeks and black nails threatening to mark your soft skin, tilting your head up so you have no choice but to meet his crimson eyes scrutinizing you.

Your lips part under the pressure, breath coming fast, pulse visible at your throat.

“Look at you.” He mutters, and squeezes just enough for you to feel the power in it, not enough to hurt. “A mess pretending to be unbreakable. And you think I’d waste my time watching you crumble without stepping in?” His mouth curves, sharp and merciless. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

You tremble, your eyes are already barring water but you don’t avert your look from his own.

Why is that?

Then he finally lets go of your face and takes a step back.

You stand there, stiff like someone had nailed your shoes to the pavement, arms folded too tight across your chest now, chin trembling from words you hadn’t managed to spit out.

He lets you sulk in silence for a while, and then another cigarette gets lit up and placed between his lips.

Crimson gaze dragging down the line of you like he is cataloguing every fracture you couldn’t hide. The way your shoulders cave under invisible weight. The twitch of your jaw like you are trying to grind the sting out of your teeth. The faint shake in your hands that you think you are disguising by fisting the fabric of your light blouse tighter.

Pathetic, he still thinks. And yet he can’t look away.

You are still replaying his words — he could see it, feel it in the way you wouldn’t meet his eyes anymore, the way you almost swayed where you stood.

He’d left you no footing, and you hated him for it. That hatred gleams sharper than anything else about you now, and it makes his grin widen around the filter of the cigarette.

“You done sulking, brat?” His voice comes rough, half-laughed, pitched just low enough that it doesn’t echo across the empty street.

You startled at the sound, eyes flashing to him, and for the first time since your outburst he catches something other than fury in them.

Exhaustion. Unbridled, clinging exhaustion that made your anger look fragile, like paper lanterns set alight from the inside.

He knows that look. He wore it once, years ago, before he learned that exhaustion was useless unless you sharpened it into something else — into violence, into dominance.

“Go fuck yourself,” you breathe, voice hoarse and choked.

But you stay there. You keep looking at him.

That is the important part.

Sukuna chuckles low in his chest, flicks the ash from his cigarette, lest it scatter on the wind. 

Then he steps forward once again, even closer, completely invading your space, close enough that you have to tilt your chin up to keep glaring at him. Close enough that he feels the way your body emanates that heat that crawls up until your face is red.

He bends at the waist slightly, the curve of his grin cutting deep against the scar on his cheek, creasing his eyes.

“There she is,” he drawls, smoke curling from his teeth. “Little puppy knows how to bite.”

Your lips part and you’re baring your teeth at him like you want to bite back, but the words die in your throat as your eyes falter and your face gets flushed in heat.

He watches that happening and savors it.

He straightens, exhales the last drag, tosses the stub into the gutter. His hands slide into the pockets of his black jeans, shoulders rolling under the loose haori draped across them, the ink on his skin shifting like shadows when he moved.

“Come on.”

You blink, thrown. “What?”

“You heard me.” His tone leaves no space for argument. “You’re walking back with me. Or do you wanna keep trembling out here alone until someone else gets the bright idea to bother you?”

The way your face tightens tells him you hate to agree with him.

He turns without waiting, long strides carrying him down the quiet stretch of pavement, knowing full well you’d follow.

And you do — reluctant, dragging your feet, but you follow. He didn’t look back, didn’t need to. He could hear your steps behind him, uneven, like the balance was off, like you want to stomp but couldn’t.

When the silence stretches too long, Sukuna breaks it, voice lazy.

“You are really idiotic if you think I’d ditch Cenotaph for those corpses. Black Halberd’s nothing. You—” He almost says something he`s sure to regret, instead he curves it into something crueler. “—you’d die without someone holding your leash and pulling you back before you run into the fire. Admit it.”

You freeze mid-step, breath catching loud enough for him to hear the gasp.

Then—finally—you snap.

“I don’t need a leash, you asshole! I don’t need you. I never needed you!”

He stops walking. Slowly turns. The neon catching his tattoos, paints his face in slashes of red and blue, light and shadow as he looks down at you.

You stand rigid, eyes wet though you probably told yourself you’d never let him see you cry  again, fists trembling at your sides.

Do you feel helpless?

The sight pulls something deep in his chest, something unfamiliar, something he hates acknowledging but can’t deny.

Still he relishes on it.

He pushes further because how delicious it feels to be the one making you cry.

“You keep saying that,” Sukuna murmurs, almost soft, though the edge never left his tone. “And yet here you are.”

You shake your head like you could dislodge the heat building in your chest.

He steps closer again, towering over you until his shadow swallows yours, until you have nowhere left to look but up at him.

Only him.

“You’re mine in this,” he says softly, final as stone. “Not Mei Mei’s. Not theirs. Mine. You’ll learn it sooner or later.”

And when your breath stutters, when your eyes are pure confusion, when your lips part like you want to scream but only a ragged whisper comes out, he smirks again — because that is enough.

That was victory, sharp and clean, watching you fight yourself and lose.

He knows he’s the one that keeps you stable. And now you know it too.

Sukuna doesn’t move right away after the words left his mouth, letting the silence spread thick between you two — aside from the neon buzzing overhead, the wet pavement glistening, and you standing there trembling and trying to figure out something.

This time it isn’t fear. He knows the difference.

He can feel it in the way your chest rises and falls, shallow and fast, in the way your eyes try to burn a hole through him but flicker too quickly away when he leans just slightly closer.

“You hate me,” he says lowly, half amusement curling at the edges. “Good. Better than indifference. Hate means I’ve got you wrapped around my finger.”

You spit back before you even thought about it

“You don’t have me!”

He grins wide, teeth bare, scar creasing deeper and a low rumble rising from his chest. 

“Don’t I?”

He turns then, starts walking again, as if the conversation was finished.

You stare at his back for a long second before your feet betray you and follow him like a puppy.

You definitely hate that he is right — hate more that he knows it.

The streets thin as you move toward your building, the street sounds fading into the distance. Only your quick steps and the drag of his boots filling the air.

Sukuna’s head tilts once, catching your reflection in a storefront window, your mouth set tight but your eyes betraying something else when aimed at him.

Longing. Weariness. That softness you tried so damn hard to bury. He almost laughs at it. Almost.

At your block he slows, just enough that you have to fall into step beside him. He doesn’t look down, already feeling the heat coming off you, the way you keep your arms close to your sides like touching him would set something off inside you.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you mutter suddenly, sharp and desperate. Eyebrows knit together.

“Like what?” He lets the words roll lazy from his tongue.

“Like you know me.”

Finally he laughs, deep, rasping, enough to make you wince.

“I don’t know you, brat. Not yet. But I see you. That’s worse, isn’t it?”

You press your lips together tight and he knows he'd struck.

He slows his pace as you reach the building’s steps, then leans one shoulder against the wall, arms folded, watching as you dig for your keys with fumbling hands.

“You think I’m walking away,” he says, voice quieter now, though no less sharp than all the other times he’s talked to you. “You think I’ll drop you the way everyone else did. That’s why you’re cracking in front of me.”

You freeze again, the keys in hand, your back facing him.

This isn’t your day, is it?

He pushes off the wall, steps closer until his shadow falls over you as he circles around your body and stops in front of you. His hand shoots out fingers catching your chin, tilting your face up before you could resist.

His grip slid, thumb and forefinger pressing your cheeks until your lips parted slightly, helplessly.

The glittering eyes make your expression even better in his opinion.

“Listen close,” he rasps, leaning down until his breath touches your face. “I don’t run from something worth my time.” his crimson orbs narrowed, searching yours like he wants to dig straight through “You are not going anywhere. And neither am I.”

He releases you abruptly, turns on his heel, starts back down the street as if he hadn’t just branded the words into your bones.

You stand on the steps, shaking, keys digging into your palm, pulse hammering so loud you could hardly breathe. His silhouette grows smaller, swallowed by the dark, but his presence lingers heavy, coiled around you like smoke.

You hate him.

You want him.

You hate that you want him.

And Sukuna, lighting another cigarette as he vanished into the night, wears that grin like he already knew every single thought storming through your little head.

He didn’t go straight home. He rarely goes nowadays. Nights like this, with your face still fresh in his mind, demanded air, distance, something to bleed the charge running through him before he let it rot in silence.

Tokyo after dark has its own pulse, and Sukuna thrives in it, walking with shoulders square, stride slow but certain, cigarette glowing at the corner of his mouth, eyes traveling through the reflective surfaces and dark corners.

You weren’t behind him anymore, but he still feels you there, stubborn little phantom carved into the back of his thoughts.

Black Halberd wanted him back, wanted his fists on the skins, wanted that old fire that only he brought. He could let them twist, let them think they could drag him back into a place he’d already set ablaze.

And then there was you.

You, spitting fire at him in a half-empty street, trembling but refusing to bend. You, with your matter-of-fact-speech and tired eyes, daring to accuse him of walking away.

He should’ve laughed, dismissed it. Should’ve let you choke on your own paranoia. But he hadn’t. He’d stopped. He’d touched. He’d promised.

He is now beating himself for that. Scowling and walking.

What the fuck was he doing, letting someone like you crawl under his skin?

He’d fucked before, taken what he wanted when the mood hit, left without looking back.

But this wasn’t that.

This wasn’t lust burning itself out in a night.

This was slower, heavier, like the way your eyes cut him when you dropped the polite act, like the way you looked at him as if he was both your worst mistake and the only anchor you had left.

By the time he reaches the quieter streets near the river, the city noise thinned enough that he heard his own thoughts too clearly.

Uraume had sent a message earlier in the week, something about meeting, catching up. He’d ignored it, as usual. But now he thumbs a reply, two words only — open door — and shoves the phone back in his pocket.

When he gets to the small flat tucked above an empty ramen shop, Uraume was already at the window, pale hair catching the dim light like it always had. They didn’t greet him with warmth, just a quiet tilt of the head, eyes scanning him like they know he carries a storm inside.

“You look like you killed someone tonight,” Uraume says simply, their voice is flat but not unkind.

“Not yet,” Sukuna mutters, kicking off his boots and tossing his haori across a chair.

He sinks onto the floor by the low table, lights another cigarette, and exhales hard enough to sting his lungs.

Uraume sits across from him, studying, waiting.

They’d been doing that since high school, never pushing, never prying — just waiting until Sukuna’s walls crack enough for something to slip through.

“She got under your skin.”

It wasn’t a question, it was more a realization that they let roll from his lips.

Sukuna doesn’t answer, just taps ash into the tray, jaw tight, eyes snapping to them in some kind of accusatory way.

He hates how transparent he must look, and hates even more that Uraume sees it so easily.

“She’s not like the other girls you’ve met,” Uraume goes on guessing. “That’s why you’re restless.”

Sukuna’s lips curl into a scowl.

 “She’s a fucking mess. Soft. Too damn stubborn to admit she’s breaking. And she’s fucking killing herself. Not my problem.”

“Then why are you here?”

Silence.

Smoke curling thick between them.

His crimson eyes drop, not in shame, but in that rare, begrudging acknowledgment that Uraume has cornered him with nothing but truth.

Fucking hell. What a nuisance.

He thinks of you again — your voice shaking but trying your best to steady it, the way you’d grab his wrist on the Tanabata like you’d drown if you let go, the way you’d looked up at him when he forced you to meet his eyes.

Fuck.

Sukuna crushes the cigarette out too early, sparks snapping in the tray. His grin returns, sharp as broken glass.

“She doubts my loyalty,” he says, more to himself than to Uraume. “But I’m not going anywhere. Let’s see how long she lasts before she breaks for real. Before I break her.”

Uraume’s expression doesn’t change, but their gaze lingers on him for a long moment, steady, almost pitying.

Sukuna ignores it.

He leans back, stretching his shoulders, and stares at the ceiling until the neon outside blurs.

You haunt him.

And for the first time in years, Sukuna wonders if haunting is the same as wanting.

Uraume pours sake into two small cups, the pale liquid catching the neon bleeding through the blinds. They slide one across the table without a word. Sukuna takes it, downs it in one long tilt of his head, and sets the cup down hard enough to make it ring.

“You’re wound too tight,” Uraume says finally, voice calm, unflinching. “More than usual. I can tell because you came here instead of crawling into someone else’s bed like usual.”

“Don’t talk like you know me.” His grin sharpens, but his tone doesn’t hide the truth — they did know him.

More than most.

Uraume is the closest to a friend Sukuna has. Unshakable loyalty.

“I don’t need to know you. I just see what’s right in front of me.” Their gaze doesn't waver, pale pink eyes locking on his like they always had since high school. “She’s not Yorozu. She’s not some stranger. She’s different, and you don’t like that you can’t box her in.”

Sukuna scoffs, leaning back until the tatami creaks under his weight.

“She’s nothing but trouble. Burns herself out like it’ll win her some medal. Too soft to survive the world she’s in. She’ll crack again and again before she shines. I’ve seen it.”

“Yet you stayed when she cracked in front of you.” they say even, a blade sliding under Sukuna’s armor. “And you didn’t walk away tonight as it seems. Not the other times it has happened.”

His jaw flexes. He reaches for another cigarette, lighting it slow, the fire catching the ink across his knuckles. Smoke curled thick around his head.

“She’s weak,” he mutters through his teeth. He doesn't believe it though.

“Or maybe you’re afraid she’s strong in a way you don’t understand. You don’t entertain weakness. You want her softness for you.”

The silence that follows is too heavy, broken only by the faint city hum outside.

You aren’t strong like him — fists, scars, blood, violence, presence, dominance.

But there is something in the way you keep dragging yourself through the fire, stubborn enough to bark back at him even when your knees are shaking.

Maybe you are just too dumb to know. No, it’s something else.

And he takes a like on that. 

“She looks at me like she’s trying to figure me out. No fear.” He doesn’t mean to say it. The words slip out, low, almost to himself.

“She is afraid,” Uraume counters softly. “That’s what makes it real. She still looks despite being afraid.”

For a moment, his crimson eyes narrow, the memory of your face flashing — the anger, the way your breath hitched when he leaned too close but you didn’t look away. Like you were constantly attracted to his eyes the moment they laid on you.

His pulse had kicked then, and it pisses him off to remember it now.

He exhales smoke hard again, as if it would purge the thought.

“Doesn’t matter. She’ll learn. Everyone does.”

Uraume tilts their head, studying him, lips curving in a ghost of a smile.

“You say that, but the way you’re talking tells me she’s already under your skin.”

Sukuna barks a low laugh, bitter, shaking his head.

“You think too much.”

“And you feel more than you want to admit.”

That one lands. Low blow.

He flicks the cigarette into the tray with unnecessary force, watching the ember die. Uraume doesn’t press further.

They just let the silence settle again, waiting for him to choke on the weight of what he wouldn’t name.

Finally, Sukuna stands, pulling his haori back over his shoulders.

“Enough of this shit. I’ve got what I needed.”

Uraume doesn’t move, doesn’t rise to stop him. Just speaks, calm as ever.

“Be careful, Sukuna. Not with her. With yourself.”

He doesn’t answer. Just slides the door open and steps back into the night.

The streets are empty now, the sky paling with the hint of dawn.

His boots strike the pavement in steady rhythm, but his mind stays caught.

On you.

Always you.

You called him unreliable in that ragged way like it pained you to do so. You trembling when you almost reached for his hand. Your fire when you stood your ground, knowing he could crush you with a word like he did many times before.

He grins into the morning air, teeth flashing.

You thought he’d leave?

No. He wasn’t going anywhere.

I dream in phosphorescence
Bleed through spaces
See you drifting past the fog
But no one told you where to go

We dive through crystal waters
Perfect oceans
But no one told me not to breathe
And now the weightlessness recedes

My, my, those eyes like fire
I'm a winged insect, you're a funeral pyre
Come now, bite through these wires
I'm a waking hell and the gods grow tired
Reset my patient violence along both lines of a pathway higher
Grow back your sharpest teeth, you know my desire

I will travel far beyond the path of reason
Take me back to Eden
Take me back to Eden

Take me back to Eden

Well, yeah, I spit blood when I wake up
Sink porcelain stained, choking up brain matter and make-up
Just two days since the mainframe went down and I'm still messed up
Room feels like a meat freezer, I dangle in like cold cuts
Missed calls, answer phones from people I just don't trust
Mirror talk, fake love, but I'll take a pound of your flesh
Before you take a piece of my pay stub
White roses, black doves, Godmother, rise up
I need you to see me for what I have become

My, my, those eyes like fire
I'm a winged insect, you're a funeral pyre
Come now, bite through these wires
I'm a waking hell and the gods grow tired
Reset my patient violence along both lines of a pathway higher
Grow back your sharpest teeth, you know my desire

I guess it goes to show, does it not?
That we've no idea what we've got
Until we lose it
And no amount of love will keep it around
If we don't choose it
And I don't know what's got its teeth in me
But I'm about to bite back in anger
No amount of self-sought fury
Will bring back the glory of innocence

My, my, those eyes like fire
I'm a winged insect, you're a funeral pyre
Come now, bite through these wires
I'm a waking hell and the gods grow tired
Reset my patient violence along both lines of a pathway higher
Grow back your sharpest teeth, you know my desire
When we were made

It was no accident
You know my desire
We were tangled up like branches in a flood

I have travelled far beyond the path of reason
Take me back to Eden
Take me back to Eden

Chapter Text

Do You Wish That You Loved Me?

Sukuna POV

The small house smells faintly of broth and dried herbs, steam curling from the pot Uraume set on the low table between them.

Sukuna sits in a Burmese position, almost cross-legged, shoulders bent forward, black haori half slipping from one arm as he leans into the quiet.

He’s annoyed.

Annoyed that every time he takes a deep breath the scent of jasmine and vanilla reaches his nose and floods his lungs and it’s impossible to push away the thoughts of you.

Last time he was at Uraume’s house he went back home with the sensation that he knew exactly how to solve his problem.

The problem being you, mind you.

The thought of you and how he enjoys watching you come undone in front of him. How he would enjoy watching you come undone beneath him.

But he has yet to actually try out the solution he has in mind.

Until then, he huffs the thoughts away.

The walls at Uraume’s house are pale, almost clinical, bare save for a shelf with neatly stacked dishes and a single framed print of some mountain range. Feels erased of personality on purpose — which is what Uraume prefers, no clutter, no residue of people.

Reminds him a little of his own bedroom, since he just had what he could afford back then — barely anything as a kid.

It suits him tonight, though.

The city has been gnawing at his nerves all week, all month or even more. Neon burning into his eyes, traffic and chatter hammering the inside of his skull. He doesn’t usually hate it but he’s been particularly irritable for a while, and it has little to do with the successful release of the album early December, nor it has to do with the white haired clown almost sniffing his way into the grave.

It has to do with his own thoughts and a few feelings he refuses to acknowledge.

Here, there’s just the simmer of broth, the soft scrape of Uraume’s chopsticks, and the muted clack of rain against the window.

He eats quietly.

Chopsticks carrying to his mouth thick slices of simmered daikon while the pot of rice billows with hot steam waiting for its turn, accompanied by the bitter salt of pickled greens. 

“You’ve been busy.” Uraume’s voice drifts in a comment but they don’t raise their eyes from their own food.

Sukuna hums low in his throat, eyes fixed on the sheen of oil on the broth as he thinks of how he’s been spending his time.

Working, studying for the final exams, studying for the upcoming shows that are yet to come and making sure you don’t fucking die.

And then, deliberately casual, Uraume says the one name he didn’t expect to hear so soon.

“Yorozu.”

He freezes for a second, chopsticks holding a chunk of rice close to his mouth. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t ask. Just resumes his action of eating the rice, chews, swallows, then sets the sticks down with the smallest click against porcelain.

“She’s back,” Uraume continues, tone flat, but there’s always that edge of amusement, like watching insects crawl under glass. “Word is, she’s already found herself a new stage. Black Halberd, of all places.”

The name drags across his nerves, not because of the band — they’re desperate, floundering, irrelevant to him — but because he can see her image in his mind.

That way she smiles too wide, the way obsession clings to her like perfume, he knows she’s still the same even though he hasn’t thought of her in years, doesn’t want to.

Uraume slurps quietly, then wipes the edge of their mouth with a napkin.

“Thought you’d enjoy the irony.”

Sukuna lets the silence stretch until the air feels taut. His jaw ticks once. He pushes the bowl away, unfinished.

“She’s nothing.”

His voice is low, clipped, and finally he raises his orbs to meet Uraume’s.

No hint of emotion on that pale, small face.

Then they tilt their head.

“She doesn’t think so.”

Sukuna sucks his teeth and leans back, haori slipping completely now. He looks at the ceiling instead of Uraume, because he doesn’t need to indulge this further.

Yorozu doesn’t matter.

Unfortunately, you do.

And yet—

He can actually use the opportunity in his favour. He might indulge in her madness once again before discarding her if it means he can solve both problems at once.

He exhales sharply, dismissing both ghosts at once for now — Yorozu’s manic grin, your exhausted eyes. He doesn’t want to think about either.

“Pour me another,” he says instead, gesturing at the bottle near Uraume’s elbow.

And just like that, the subject dies.

Yorozu POV

Chousou stands with arms crossed, his expression unreadable, but the disgust in his stance is plain. He’s done. They know it before he even opens his mouth.

“You thought I wouldn’t hear about you three begging for Sukuna to take back his place as drummer?” he says calmly, but he’s already moving. “I’m not wasting my time with a sinking ship, you want to keep scraping the bottom, do it without me.”

No fight, no drama, just the sound of the door clicking shut, leaving the rest of them in a silence that tastes of failure.

Jogo shifts uncomfortably under the scrutinizing gaze of Kenjaku. Of course they blamed him entirely for cracking, for spilling the beans as soon as the silence became too much for his stupid brain. If only Sukuna didn’t know how much they actually wanted him back—

Their eyes snap to the door, the sound of heels on the laminated floor. A new sound.

Yorozu steps into the space like she owns it, much like Sukuna would do when he was around, and that’s not mere coincidence of course.

Her long hair loose, catching the dim light in dark waves that cascade down her back, her purple eyes too bright, fever-bright. She doesn’t glance at the posters, at the amps, at the worn-out faces staring.

She looks at the drum kit.

His drum kit.

Her chest aches.

She can still see him there. Sukuna. Back arched, muscles taut, tattoos gleaming with sweat under the hot glare of stage lights. The way his sticks blurred, the way the air itself seemed to bend around his rhythm. She remembers every detail because she carved them into her mind like scripture. She saw every single show, she’s been closer than he could ever thought this whole time. She tried to audition for Black Halberd once he walked off but they found someone else.

She befriended this someone else, Chousou.

She needed to know if he would ever leave — and he told her. He told her he’d leave this rotting nest of hypocrites.

Now she walks toward the kit, each step echoing like a promise.

“You need a drummer,” she says simply at the three people staring at her, trying to understand who she is and what the hell she’s doing there when they booked the hour.

Her voice is laced with certainty and a little flirt. “I’m here.”

The others exchange glances — skepticism and surprise mostly, but they don’t stop her. No one moves before she sits behind the kit, fingers brushing the worn sticks, her pulse thrumming at the thought of those sticks in Sukuna’s hands.

She could lick them, but she knows they’ve been in other hands since, so she wouldn’t.

Her skin prickles as she settles in — the kit feels wrong without him, too light, too empty, but she will fill it.

She will make them hear him through her.

She starts to play.

Not sloppy, not hesitant at all — too fucking precise. Her arms move with muscle memory that isn’t hers, but his. Every fill, every roll, every punishing strike of the snare is one she studied, mimicked, perfected in the dark hours of obsession.

The sound rips through the space, sharp, brutal, alive.

The band stares, caught between awe and unease. This isn’t just skill. This is mimicry made flesh, an echo of someone greater, someone they once had.

Yorozu feels their eyes but doesn’t care, she’s too deep in, she’s grinning and playing like that’s all that matters.

All she feels is him. Sukuna, bleeding through her wrists, her hands, her pulse.

Her smile stretches, too wide, as sweat beads on her temple.

“He’ll hear me,” she breathes, each strike of the kick drum pounding it deeper. “He’ll know. He can’t ignore me.”

The others can’t hear her through the vicious sound, but she’s talking to herself, so it doesn’t really matter.

When she finally stops, the silence is thick once again, ragged. The others exchange quick looks — impressed, desperate enough to bite that bait she set perfectly for them. She already knows they need her, they want her, they’ll embrace her and serve their purpose as a way to make Sukuna see her once again.

Kenjaku finally speaks.

“You’re in.”

She exhales slow, smile sharp as broken glass. Victory is near.

Not because she cares about them.

Because this is just the first step.

Sukuna will see her again.

He will.

When the first show comes, two nights before her actual goal, she barely remembers climbing onto the stage. The air in the venue tastes like bodies pressed too close, wet cotton and a mix of cigarettes, pot and perhaps a few more things. The lights are cheap, harsh, buzzing against her skull, and the crowd is restless, muttering like a mouth that won’t close for a second.

But Yorozu doesn’t care.

The only thing that matters is the skin of the stool under her thighs, the reverberation when she sets her foot to the pedal, the knowledge that Sukuna will see her there, powerful, shining bright.

She knows his posture by heart — the tilt of his spine, the way his forearms angle low, shoulders loose but always coiled.

She imitates it with religious devotion.

She studied him for so long, he would be so proud of how far she came.

No, he will be so proud when she talks to him at the frat party.

The band starts, but she doesn’t hear them — she only hears the ghost of his presence, the phantom of his breath at the back of her neck, and she shivers with that manic grin already spreading in her red lips.

Every strike is a declaration. The crowd may think it’s for them. Black Halberd may also think it’s for them while fumbling with riffs and trying to look dangerous.

But it’s for him. It’s all for Sukuna.

Her arms ache, but she doesn’t relent a single bit. She chases the violence of his sound, the unholy precision.

It isn’t mere imitation — it’s invocation.

The audience screams and she imagines his eyes cutting through them, crimson and merciless, recognizing her, finally seeing her.

The last crash echoes like bones breaking. She’s drenched, strands of hair stuck to her lips, heartbeat drilling through her ears. She’s trembling, not from exhaustion but from something hotter, something sharp and intimate — the conviction that he must have felt her somewhere, across the city.

Like a string pulled taut between them, vibrating with every hit.

The others grin, slap her back, call her the missing piece. They already adore her. She barely registers them. Her hands shake because she’s already thinking of the next show.

The real one.

The frat party where she knows he will be.

Your POV

The rehearsal room still hums with leftover distortion, cables coiled like veins across the floor, cymbals trfembling faintly from the last strike. Everyone’s sweat is still drying when Mei Mei arrives — not in person, of course, but through the screen propped on the corner table where you’re sitting with your laptop, turning the screen towards the boys so they can actually see her as she speaks to you all.

Her face, pristine, fills the frame, the sheen of her lipstick unbothered by the chaos she addresses. You could never imagine she could be the main reason behind you almost running yourself to the grave once or twice a week.

“Well,” she begins with her voice smooth as lacquer, “you didn’t implode during rehearsal. Nor during release week. And your debut show actually managed to make people scream in the right way. So, congratulations.” Her eyes flick over the camera as if she can see each of you through it, weighing, dissecting you all even being miles away. “Cenotaph is no longer a whisper. You’re now a rumor with teeth. Let’s not lose them, hm?”

Suguru leans back, cigarette already dangling and you haven’t even noticed him lighting it up, faint grin tugging. Satoru is back already after a few days of recovery with Suguru.

He sprawls with a smugness that says of course we nailed it, and it doesn’t even look like he has been found half-dead on the backstage corridor just after said show. Your heart still aches from the memory you’re not forgetting anytime soon.

Toji only hums low, unreadable, while Sukuna sits in silence, drumming a single stick against his thigh with the patience of a predator waiting for the point.

Mei Mei continues, unfazed. “Here’s your prize. Four weeks. Rest. Indulge. Drink yourselves stupid if you like. Because once January actually kicks, I will grind you down until you bleed music. You’ll curse me and thank me in the same breath.” She tips her glass toward the screen as if toasting.

Relief ripples through the room, though no one says it aloud. Four weeks of freedom is a rare currency.

“But—” her smile sharpens, serpent-slick, “before you scatter to your dens, one more performance. Fraternity event. Conglomerate of universities in Tokyo. End-of-year carnival. Multiple bands, multiple stages, and—” her pause is deliberate, dangling like bait, “Black Halberd.”

That name drops like a stone in water as you can sense Satoru and Suguru wanting to look at Sukuna.

“Wear the masks, keep the mystery. When the set ends, you can strip the uniforms in private and vanish into the party. No one will know who you are. Unless you decide to let them.” Her gaze lingers for a fraction longer, like she’s testing whether anyone will be foolish enough to consider it.

The silence after is tense. Satoru breaks it first, grinning wolfish

“So, four weeks off, free booze, and a chance to rub shoulders with the competition? Sounds like Christmas came early.”

Mei Mei’s smile is unreadable, but something in it always makes you think she can see into your soul. “Remember, children—mystery is currency. Spend it wisely. I’ll see you on the other side.”

The call clicks dead, leaving only the faint hiss of the amps.

Sukuna POV

He’s not even that close but it already smells like spilled beer and fried grease long before the frat house comes into view, that particular stench of currish college boys trying to build an empire of decadence with discount alcohol and smoke machines.

The building itself glows too loud for its bones, paper banners drooping from the second-floor balcony, students already spilling down the steps and onto the street. Music from the first stage bleeds into the air, bass rattling cheap windows, the whole block infected by it.

Sukuna leans against the Yamaha parked a block away, cigarette between his lips, hood pulled low even though he doesn’t need it. He watches you laugh at something Satoru said as you walk ahead with Suguru, Toji lagging behind.

You’re in that stage-wear coat Mei Mei picked, sharp lines and dark palette, but it doesn’t matter — your presence draws his attention quicker than the blinking neon lights, and that pisses him off more than he’s willing to say.

He crushes the cigarette out on the bike frame and follows. 

Uraume’s voice still runs through his head from two nights ago, calm, merciless as always.

“I can tell because you came here instead of crawling into someone else’s bed like usual.”

Fucking jerk knows him too well and it should bother him more. But it only does when it comes to you.

If he can’t kill the fixation, smother it.

Drown it in something else.

He gotta remind himself you’re not the only body alive.

That’s what he got from his talk with Uraume.

And Yorozu — insane, hungry Yorozu — had practically announced her return the second she showed up with Black Halberd. Of course she’d use the drums. Of course she’d use his weapon, the one she mimicked since high school.

She wants him to see her. To watch. To remember.

Perfect candidate for distraction.

The rehearsal earlier had been routine, the sound check sloppy, but Mei Mei hadn’t cared. “Play the set, then vanish,” she told them. “Masks stay on until you’re behind closed doors. You don’t exist offstage.”

He hadn’t replied. What’s there to say?

Now the frat house swallows him whole, noise and bodies pressing tight. The makeshift stage is shoved against one wall of the common room, wires snaking across sticky tiles. Half the crowd doesn’t know who Cenotaph is. The other half pretends they do.

This will be fun.

Sukuna takes his seat behind the kit, drumsticks twirling lazy in his hands as he watches you checking the wires, the sound, everything you don’t need to do when they’re playing for a fuckton of drunk, careless boys that only care about drinking, fucking and having fun.

He doesn’t let himself notice you for too long this time, in the way your fingers tremble when you adjust the stand, or how your chest rises too fast when you check again the crowd. He forces his eyes down to the skins and cymbals, he’ll be hitting them harder than this room deserves.

By the time the set ends, people are howling. Cenotaph slips offstage, Mei Mei’s shadow already moving them toward a side corridor, away from eyes.

The masks come off. 

Later, the house is even louder. The shows have dissolved into chaos already. Bottles clink, music blasts from a playlist now that the bands are done, and the whole frat feels like it’s melting under sweat and bodies. Sukuna claims a corner of the couch, long legs stretched out, arms resting wide across the backrest.

A predator at ease like he knows what’s coming.

And then she arrives.

Yorozu moves through the crowd and it opens for her, hair wild, yukata discarded for leather shorts and a glittering top that clings like oil. Red lips and makeup redone. Her eyes find him instantly. She doesn’t ask before she sits, sliding onto his lap like she’s been there all along, arm curling around his shoulders.

She’s too comfortable but he indulges. He allows her to think she’s finally got him to see her.

She talks about him, how she knew he would see her, how she always feels his eyes on her — in reality he hadn’t seen her in years and have completely forgotten about her existence up until Uraume brought her up mid conversation, but at least she would serve her purpose as she did once before.

A body to warm his bed. A set of holes to fuck.

This might be the way to end once for all the maddening cycle of thinking about you whenever he doesn’t need to.

And you—

You’re somewhere across the room.

Yorozu is sliding her finger lazily on his jawline and his eyes finally meet hers, pretending to listen to what she says. Pretending to care about whatever nonsense she’s still spilling about fate.

She’s insufferable but his mind is already set on this.

He doesn’t need to see you clearly, he feels the way your presence shifts when you spot it, the way your whole body goes tense.

You see them.

Good.

It helps distracting him.

But why does he feel like this?

Your POV

You are so delighted by the upcoming vacation weeks that this show started and ended in what looked like a few minutes despite being a whole playlist.

You help them take out their outfit and the ink staining their bodies — lesson learned and more bottles of makeup removal had been bought. So they are now ready to blend into the drunk, agitated crowd and actually have a good time.

The weakness and exhaustion you have been feeling for half a year, maybe more, seem to ease off on you and allow you to have one good day.

One farewell party to the insanity of this year and a calm welcome to the next one.

You don’t know anyone so you tag along Satoru and Suguru, and they party like animals — maybe you’ll need to take care of them, make sure they stay safe. You can’t afford to have another emergency so soon, your heart can only take so much and it’s already taking a toll from all the energy drinks.

Despite your introspective nature you’re smiling, you’re laughing with your pair of best friends, you’re letting yourself go of the binds and responsibilities for a little while. Just for a moment to actually be present and have fun with people you love, without thinking about all the things that need to be done.

Satoru is waiting for his turn on the disorganized beer line and Suguru is taking a drag of his mentholized cigarette right next to you when someone you half-know approaches.

“Hey girlypop!” he talks to you and your eyebrows knit together as you try to figure out what’s up “I’m talking to you, hun. You don’t know me but I’m a huge fan. I know all the work you have to do to make sure the band performs correctly and with no shit happening during the show.” His voice is a little loud and excited and you catch yourself entertained. “Anyway I just wanna say you’re looking fine as hell and you should be more appreciated, since all the love goes to the stinky boys of the band, amiright?” The laugh he gives seems high and maybe a little fake, but that’s you being mean, probably. “I brought this to you, someone told me you’re a fan of mojitos so I made sure to snatch you one before they ran out of them. Just a token of appreciation for those unseen.”

You should let the prejudice against Black Halberd die.

They wanted Sukuna back, he wouldn't come back. That’s final.

And as the lead guitar comes to praise you and even offer you a drink you think to yourself how childish you were being.

They’re just guys. Like your guys. Just a different band.

The drink tastes too sweet, but you enjoy it anyway.

That’s the first thing you notice, and the last thing you manage to think clearly before the noise of the party starts warping into something sharper, closer, pressing against the inside of your crown. 

Did the drink hit you wrong? Maybe your tiredness is mixing with alcohol in a way that your body is making you take a step back, though you can’t bring yourself to care in the right way. 

You’re too warm, your skin feels two sizes too tight, and the music rattles inside your chest like it’s part of your body.

You try to laugh with Satoru when he leans into your space, but your voice catches halfway through and turns into something else, breathy and strange. He doesn’t notice — too drunk himself already, too busy talking too loud. Suguru is on your other side, calmer, always calmer, watching you in that quiet way he has, but you can’t focus on him either.

Your eyes slide across the room without meaning to, searching, and then finding.

And there he is.

Sukuna sprawled on the couch like he belongs to it, like the room bends around him and he’s the center of the attentions. He’s not for anyone else, though, just for you.

A woman is draped across his lap, her hand splayed against his chest, her mouth too close to his jaw. He doesn’t move her. Doesn’t shove her off. He just sits there, eyes half-lidded, cigarette smoke curling from the corner of his mouth as if this is nothing, as if she’s nothing.

But your chest burns like it’s you under her weight, you with her hands where they shouldn’t be, you with his indifference slicing you open.

You shouldn’t care.

You don’t care.

You tell yourself that again and again, but there are chemicals in your blood that laugh at the logic right now.

You’re not only drunk, there’s more to it.

Your head feels heavy, spinning, but every time you blink, you see her pressing closer to him, his tattoos dark under the low light being caressed by her hands, his hand lazily tapping the couch back as if he couldn’t be more bored.

It’s worse that he doesn’t look at her.

Worse that his eyes lift just once, and for a second, they meet yours.

Cold.

Your stomach twists. The room tilts. Suguru’s hand is on your wrist, grounding you for a heartbeat, but all you can think is how wrong it feels to stand here while she takes the place you’ve been pretending you never wanted.

Then body moves before your mind does. 

Maybe you sway too close to Satoru, maybe he steadies you with a grin that’s too soft for someone as loud as him. Maybe you lean into Suguru’s shoulder because it’s safe, because he’s solid, because he knows how to catch you when you stumble.

Their voices blur together, laughter and comfort, and you let yourself sink into it, because it’s easier than staring across the room at the one man who keeps pulling you apart without even touching you.

The drink burns in your veins, in your face, in your eyes, in every single place. Too hot. You’re too hot.

The noise in your chest grows louder. You don’t know what you want anymore — only that you can’t stand the sight of that woman’s hand still spread over his chest like she owns something that was never hers.

Suguru is the one who notices first. His hand tightening on your arm when your knees don’t bend the way they should, when your laugh slips too jagged, when your eyes keep darting back toward the couch where Sukuna sits like a statue under the woman’s weight.

Satoru notices second, but louder.

“She’s cooked” he laughs, pulling you against his side, but there’s a note in it, the kind that says he doesn’t like what he’s seeing. His grin is all teeth, his pupils are wide but he told you he’d ease off the coke. He’s had enough to drink that he shouldn’t be steadying anyone, but his arm hooks around your waist anyway, steering you toward the stairs like he owns gravity itself.

You want to tell him to stop, to tell both of them you’re fine, but the words get stuck somewhere between your throat and the bitter taste on your tongue. The plush carpet on the steps muffles your stumble, and you let yourself be pulled, because fighting would take more than you have left.

The bedroom is someone else’s, dark and too warm, the smell of sweat and stale perfume clinging to the sheets.

Suguru closes the door behind you, quiet, careful, while Satoru flops onto the mattress like it’s his own. He tugs you down with him, laughing, too close, too bright.

“Easy, sugar,” he murmurs, his breath sticky-sweet against your cheek. Suguru sits on the edge beside you, steadying your shoulder, his eyes cutting through the dim light, searching, measuring. He’s worried and you know. He’s always worried.

About Satoru, about you. He’s been worried every single time. He doesn’t deserve that, he deserves to be taken care of, it’s not fair he’s the one always looking out for his friends, right?

The door is shut close and it feels more and more like the whole party shuts with it, the bass downstairs reduced to a dull throb under your feet, muffled voices like you’ve been plunged underwater. Your head is still swimming, too hot and too cold at the same time, the air pressing down on your skin like steam. Yet you want to tell Suguru you’re okay, you’re fine and he doesn’t need to worry.

But you can’t talk properly.

You sink onto the mattress even more because standing feels impossible, because your legs don’t know which way to move. Satoru props himself on an elbow by your right side, grinning, eyes glittering, his hair a white blur in the dim light. “See? Much better,” he slurs, dragging you closer until your thigh brushes his hip. His palm slides warm over your knee, and you can’t tell if you want to shove it away or cling to it like a lifeline.

Suguru sits on your left side, his thigh pressed against yours, his presence quieter, heavier. He doesn’t say anything at first, but when your hand trembles against the sheet he catches it, folds it into his own, grounding you like he learned to do.

It should be safe.

Two of your closest friends.

It should be safe.

But your head won’t stop spinning. Every time you close your eyes you see her— that woman — leaning over Sukuna, laughing in his ear, perching on his lap like she belongs there. His face blank, letting her. The way your stomach dropped when you saw her arm around his neck, when his haori shifted under her weight and he didn’t shove her off.

You don’t want to think about it, but it burns behind your eyelids.

You’re dizzy.

You’re hot.

The fabric of your clothes itches against your skin, too much, too tight.

The heat curls low in your belly and climbs up your chest, wrong but irresistible. You lean toward the nearest relief — Satoru’s mouth brushing yours, messy, eager, his hand sliding down your arm like he’s been waiting forever.

Suguru exhales slowly, like he’s going to stop it, but when you turn into him instead, your lips catching the corner of his jaw, his hand only tightens on yours, and there’s another on your waist, gripping harder. 

You should stop. You should stop right now.

But you don’t.

So when Satoru tilts your face back toward him and kisses you, sloppy and eager, you don’t pull back. His mouth is sweet with alcohol, clumsy, and you let it happen because it drowns the fire in your chest, because it smears over the image of Sukuna.

Suguru breathes out through his nose, low, and you lean into him next, and he also doesn’t stop you.

His lips catch yours softer, slower, but his hand is firm at your waist, pulling you closer until your body is wedged between them.

You can’t think.

Something was wrong with that drink.

You’re not that lightweight for alcohol.

Something is making every touch feel too much, making every doubt dissolve into heat. Satoru’s laugh against your mouth when he drags his fingers under the hem of your top. Suguru’s exhale when your hand fists in his shirt.

The mattress rocks with you between them, heat pressing in from both sides, the dizziness making it hard to tell where one set of hands ends and the other begins. Satoru is louder, greedy, tugging at your clothes like he’s unwrapping some present, laughing when you gasp, burying his face against your throat and tracing sloppy kisses and small bites there.

Suguru is quieter, steadier, but no less insistent — his palm firm at your hip, his mouth tracing the corner of your jaw like he wants to memorize the shape of it and going up until he’s nibbling at the shell of your ear. His body — so hot — pressing against your back, and Satoru’s clinging and pressing against your chest.

You’re sandwiched.

You can’t breathe.

Or maybe you’re breathing too much.

Every inhale sharp, ragged, dragging heat deeper into your chest. You can’t tell if it’s the alcohol, the spiked drink, or just the sheer weight of them pressing in on you.

Satoru pulls your top up, grins when he sees your skin in the dim light, mutters something like “fuck, you’re gorgeous” and it twists sharp inside you.

You shouldn’t want to hear that from him. You shouldn’t want any of this. But the shame burns right alongside the heat, indistinguishable now, tangled.

Suguru shifts you toward him and Satoru makes a mock-offended sound before leaning back in to kiss your shoulder, your collarbone, everywhere he can reach while Suguru claims your mouth.

His kiss is slower, but it holds, and it pins you more surely than Satoru’s wild hands.

You’re spiraling.

You know it.

The part of you that still thinks clearly keeps whispering wrong, wrong, wrong, but the rest of you is drowning in sensation.

You can’t hold onto the thought of Sukuna across the room anymore. You can’t stop imagining his eyes if he saw you now, between his bandmates, too drugged and too weak to push them away.

A soft sound escapes you and you hate yourself for it, because it’s pleasure, it’s need, and it makes Satoru groan against your skin. Suguru deepens the kiss like he’s taking advantage of that tiny slip.

Theres a warm, greedy hand palming your chest over your bra and you feel like it’s burning. The touches feel like lava, and yet you’re whining, yearning from it, wanting more.

Oh gods how much did you want to be touched?

For how long have you feared being touched like this?

How long have you avoided every single touch from people around you in fear?

You thought that man had ruined everything. Ruined you. Your mind. Your body.

Yet you’re melting in each touch they land on your soft, flushed skin.

Your hands tremble against their shoulders, tugging them closer even as your head screams no.

You want to disappear.

You want to be wanted.

You want to stop wanting anything at all.

You can’t.

You jolt up for a moment. They freeze.

You let them guide you back onto the sheets, your hair fanning around you, your chest heaving. Satoru’s mouth is at your stomach now, warm, wet, messy, and Suguru strokes your cheek like he’s trying to reassure you this is fine, that you can let go.

And you do, for one long dizzy moment, until the guilt surges up again — cutting, a knife inside your ribs.

You’re a terrible friend.

You’re ruining everything.

You’ve always ruined everything.

Every single bad thing that’s ever happened is your fault.

You deserved it all.

You’re taking advantage of your friends to forget you want him.

You’re rotten.

The mattress dips as they press closer and closer, and your hands — shaking, clumsy — catch at fabric once again, unsure if you’re pulling them closer or pushing them away.

Satoru is everywhere at once, fingers fumbling at the button of your jeans, his laugh breathless against your skin when he finally pops it open. Suguru steadies you, palm firm at your cheek and pulls your face to meet his, the heat of his mouth sealing over yours again so you can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t decide if you’re resisting or yielding.

The room is spinning, tilting sideways, and you can’t tell if it’s the alcohol, the drugs, or just you unraveling under them. Your shirt is gone completely now — when did that happen? — and Satoru groans at the sight once again, dragging his mouth down your ribs while his hands tug your jeans past your hips.

You hear yourself make a sound, thin and high, half-plea, half-sob, but it doesn’t stop him. It only makes him grin up at you like he’s winning something.

And he is.

Suguru murmurs something low against your lips, softer, almost coaxing, as he helps Satoru peel you bare. Their hands skim your thighs, your stomach, your waist, everywhere at once, too much, too fast, and you can’t keep up. You’re burning alive. And you feel your core pulsing like you’re going to explode. You’re melting. You’re sweating — at least there’s something pooling between your thighs. You want to scream but the word dies in your throat, choked by the heat pulsing through you.

You’re down to your underwear now, sprawled open between them, and shame claws at you viciously. This is so so wrong. This is betrayal. You’re the worst kind of friend, the worst kind of person, and yet your body is trembling with need, arching into their touch without your permission.

Shit.

Satoru bites lightly at your hip, makes a crude comment you can’t even process, and Suguru hushes him with a look before leaning down to press kisses across your collarbone, your throat, your jaw.

The tenderness burns more than the roughness — it makes you want to cry, makes you want to believe you’re worth it, makes the guilt sink deeper into your gut.

You don’t know whose hand slips beneath the waistband first. All you know is the sudden jolt of sensation, the sharp gasp that rips out of you, the way your fingers clutch at the sheets like you’ll fall straight through the mattress if you don’t hold on.

Pleasure swells, shame swells harder.

You’re spiraling — groggy, hot, guilty, needy, terrible, delicious, despair, lust.

Every bad thing in your life, you think, has been your fault, and now you’re proving it again.

You ruin everything you touch.

You ruin everyone who touches you.

And still, you don’t stop them.

Your vision blurs, your chest heaves, and your lips part around another broken sound as they push you further under.

You think of Sukuna. He doesn’t care. He never did.

And here you are, pathetic and pliant between the two people you swore to protect as friends, betraying them and yourself in the same breath.

You’re burning alive in your own skin, and you don’t know if you want it to end — or if you deserve it to.

But still, your body arches into their hands.

It’s wrong. It’s so wrong.

But you let it happen.

A hand slips between your legs, inside your panties and you suck a breath though your teeth. Suguru’s mouth trails kisses from your jaw to your collarbone, down the side of your neck, through your chest, down your belly… and Satoru emerges again in your view, all consuming, eager, claiming your lips with hunger while allowing Suguru to slither down, pulling your underwear off completely with both hands — so that hand brushing lightly the fingertips through your pubes is Satoru’s, maybe. You think. You don’t care.

Your body jerks when Suguru’s breath hits your bare cunt, when his tongue follows after, broad and wet and devastating. The sound you make is humiliating, desperate, and your hands fly to the sheets to anchor yourself, nails tearing at the fabric.

“No—wait, I—mmh” The words don’t finish, cut off by another wave of heat as he licks into you, shameless, groaning like you taste better than anything he’s ever touched.

Satoru is the one who steadies you when your hips buck, his palm sliding up to your belly hold you still, fingers splayed warm against your stomach. “Breathe, sugar” he whispers against your lips, voice maddeningly calm like you haven’t seen before, and kisses you again until your protests melt into another broken moan. And he drinks it.

He drinks each and all of your moans.

You’re spiraling.

Every nerve is alive, every muscle trembling, and your chest is a storm of guilt and want and fear. Suguru’s laugh rumbles low when you jerk again under his mouth, and it twists your gut with both pleasure and disgust. He’s your friend.

Your friend.

You’re ruining him.

You’re ruining Suguru.

You’re ruining everything.

And still—still—you don’t stop them.

Your thighs are spread wide now, shamelessly, because Suguru’s hands are holding them there, because Suguru is kissing your pussy, eating it so tenderly, and then so voraciously you can’t think.

Your body betrays you, arching, trembling, chasing every stroke of tongue and every careful press of lips.

When Suguru slides two fingers inside you, you cry out, loud and ragged, biting Satoru’s lower lip hard enough to taste blood. You apologize against his mouth, babbling nonsense, but he only hushes you, his thumb stroking your cheek as if you’re allowed this. As if you deserve this.

You don’t.

The shame is worse than the pleasure now.

The pleasure makes the shame worse.

It coils hot in your belly, rising fast, uncontrollable, and you’re clawing at Satoru’s shoulders now, nails digging into him as Suguru fucks you with his mouth and hand, greedy and relentless.

How did this happen?

Did they switch personalities?

Is it you who’s making this? You fucked them up?

You’re crying. You don’t know when it started. Tears slide hot down your temples, into your hair, and Satoru kisses them away, murmuring your name like a prayer, like it will keep you from drowning.

You’re going to cum.

You don’t want to.

You want to.

You can’t.

The release hits anyway, brutal and blinding, ripping through you so violently your whole body arches off the bed, Suguru’s laugh vibrating against you as he drinks you down like a victory.

You collapse, shaking, sobbing, empty.

And they don’t stop.

Satoru trails kisses down your chest, reverent, and Suguru slides up your body, his mouth wet and smug against yours, making you taste yourself.

His jeans are undone, his cock hard against your hip, and Suguru’s fingers are curling at your waist, tugging you closer, and you realize — horrified — that you’re helping, you’re reaching, you’re pulling at their clothes too.

Shirts fall away. Denim drags low. Skin presses to skin.

You’re lost in them.

Suguru’s mouth replaces Satoru’s at your throat, soft and careful, while Satoru grinds against you, groaning, pushing closer like he’ll split you open if you let him. Your hands tremble against them both, guilty, frantic, needy.

It’s too much.

It’s never enough.

You’re gasping their names, begging them — though you don’t know if it’s for more or to stop.

You’re everything you swore you’d never be.

A failure.

A sickness.

The reason all of it goes wrong.

And still, you don’t stop.

Your body won’t stop trembling. Ever. You feel like it’s going to shake forever.

Every nerve sings, raw and overstrung, while the room narrows to the press of hands and mouths that are too much, everywhere, until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

Satoru is the heat, blunt and greedy, grinding against you like he wants to climb inside your skin, his laugh cut sharp with groans when your thigh brushes him just right. Suguru is the anchor once again, slower, coaxing, sliding his palm down your ribs like he’s memorizing every fragile inch of you before you break.

The sheet burns under your back as well. Your hair sticks damp to your cheeks. The air is thick with sweat, with the taste of alcohol and salt, and you keep thinking they’re going to hate me, this is terrible, I’m ruining them even as your body arches up into it, begging for more.

Satoru’s mouth leaves you gasping as he pulls back just enough to mutter against your ear, his voice low, wrecked.

“You’re so fucking hot like this.” His teeth catch your earlobe and you flinch, your fingers clutching desperately at Suguru’s shoulder.

And then Suguru is the one kissing you again, like he’s trying to quiet the panic that leaks through every sound you make. Through every tear falling from your eyes. His thumb strokes your jaw as if to remind you that you’re not lost, even when you are.

Your hand betrays you, sliding down between Satoru’s body and yours, fingers trembling as they brush against the hard line of him through his half-open jeans. He groans into your hair, bucking against your palm, and you feel another wave of shame swamp you because you’re helping, you’re part of this, you can’t even blame the drug entirely.

Suguru pulls your hand away gently, threading his fingers through yours, grounding you again. But Satoru is already pushing lower, fumbling to shove his jeans down further, lining himself against your thigh, hot and heavy and terrifyingly real.

Your breath stutters.

Your heart hammers.

You freeze.

No.

Suguru catches Satoru’s wrist, voice low but firm for the first time that night.

“Stop.”

Satoru snarls a protest, drunk and high and desperate, but Suguru holds his gaze until even he falters.

And you — shaking, crying, trembling with confusion and leftover pleasure — you fold in on yourself, clutching the sheet to your chest, whispering apologies you don’t even know how to finish.

The three of you stay like that, tangled but halted, breathing ragged in the dim light of the room. The air reeks of sex and sweat and something sour inside your chest, and you can’t stop thinking I ruin everything, I ruin everyone.

I ruined my best friends.

Suguru strokes your hair back, whispering something you don’t catch, and Satoru collapses on the mattress beside you with a frustrated groan, covering his face with one hand.

It doesn’t matter. The damage is done.

Your skin still hums from their touch, your thighs still ache, your lips still swollen from their mouths — but all you can feel is the weight of your own spiral crushing down, the certainty that every bad thing that’s happened, every wound, every failure, leads back to you.

And you — your whole body curls in, like you could fold yourself small enough to vanish into the mattress. Your skin burns with the imprint of every touch, every kiss, every press of teeth, yet it all curdles into shame the longer you breathe. You taste salt at the corner of your mouth and don’t know if it’s sweat or tears. Maybe both.

What have you done?

It’s louder than the music still thudding faintly through the floor. Louder than Satoru’s restless sigh. Louder than Suguru whispering your name like he’s asking if you’re still there, still awake, still breathing.

Suguru is cradling you now, cuddling you in his arms as you apologize again and again and again. Satoru pushes himself up to settle behind you, pressing his face against the back of your shoulder and hugging you — and Suguru — as well. He hushes you softly, pepper small kisses against your shoulderblades, nuzzles behind your ear until you’re calmer.

Until your heart doesn’t feel like it’s going to explode.

Until your eyes hurt because you feel like you can’t cry anymore.

You’re not sure if you care, you’re so, so fucking tired.

You’re tired of fighting everything, everyone, yourself.

Maybe if you burn enough tonight, there will be nothing left tomorrow for you to ruin.

An hour passes or so and you’re a little bit calmer, but you’re still pretty sure you fucked it up.

You lie there in the dark, the air heavy and sour, silence thick as the bodies around you settle. Suguru is half-propped on one elbow, breathing evenly, his hand brushing your hair back as though he’s afraid to let go too soon. Satoru has rolled again onto his back, jeans still open, one arm flung across his eyes, the other fisted in the sheets like he’s holding himself together. His chest rises and falls too fast for someone trying to look casual.

You mumble something you don’t even recognize as words, twisting away from the heat of both their bodies. The sheet comes with you, dragged tight against your chest like a shield. You can’t look at them anymore.

Not when your brain is replaying the way you touched back, the way you leaned in, the way you wanted even as every nerve screamed you shouldn’t.

You stagger up before either of them can stop you. Your knees nearly buckle and your legs feel too heavy, but you manage to find your clothes scattered on the floor, fumbling into them with clumsy hands. Your fingers shake so badly you almost rip a button off, and the shame digs deeper with every failed attempt to steady yourself.

Suguru starts to rise and reach you.

“Wait—”

“No.” It comes out too sharp, too fast, your throat raw. You can’t bear the thought of him being kind right now, not when you’ve ruined everything.

Not when Satoru is still sprawled across the bed behind him, silent except for the sound of his ragged breathing. Like he’s losing a fight with himself. Like you lead him on just to let him crash.

You shove your shoes on without socks and nearly trip over the carpet in your hurry. The air in the hallway is cooler, less suffocating, but it doesn’t wash away the taste of their mouths or the sting of your own mistakes. The door shuts too loud behind you and you flinch like someone might come chasing, though you know they won’t.

The staircase tilts under your feet. You grip the railing hard enough to hurt, blinking against the blur in your eyes, forcing your body down step after step until you stumble into the noise of the party again.

Lights smear. Voices overlap. The crowd swallows you up.

No one notices the girl with mascara streaks and lips still swollen.

No one cares.

You push through, out, into the night air. It bites at your skin and clears nothing. You fold against the cold brick of the frat house wall, covering your face with both hands, shaking, whispering apologies to no one who can hear.

Because you’ve fucked it all.

You’ve proven again what you’ve always known, every bad thing, every spiral, every wound — your fault, your fault, your fault.

You’re useless, pathetic, rotten.

And the worst of it, the part you can’t shake even as your stomach lurches, is the memory of Sukuna sitting still, looking at you as another woman dragged herself against him. He wanted you to see that. Did he want to hurt you? Did he know…? Not even you know. You didn’t look away, you couldn’t, and now it claws at your chest worse than the shame, worse than the drugs still fogging your brain.

You don’t know what to do with that.

Your POV

The apartment door clicks against the lock when you shove it closed behind you, your body leaning more of its weight on the wood than you’d like to admit. The hallway spins with shadows that stretch too long for its narrow space, and your shoes feel like anchors. You don’t bother slipping them off, just stumble two steps forward before your knees threaten to buckle.

The backpack you carry around slips from your arms and thuds against the floorboards, rolling onto its side as you press your palm flat to the wall, cold paint steadier than your legs.

Yuji’s door cracks open down the hall. His hair is a mess, his eyes bleary, but the second he sees you his face sobers so fast it’s almost painful. “Hey—” he says, too loud, too awake now. He moves to you, bare feet slapping against the floor.

You try for a word, something easy, like fine or tired, but what leaves your mouth is closer to a broken hum, throat dry, head hot.

You blink, and the kitchen’s light swims in your vision like it’s underwater.

“Shit.” Yuji catches you just before your legs give.

His arms are strong and young and trembling with worry as he pulls you against him.

“You’re burning up. What the hell — did someone —” He doesn’t finish, jaw clenching, his voice dropping softer.

“What did they do to you?”

You want to tell him nothing.

You want to tell him everything.

Instead your head lolls against his shoulder and your breath stutters, shallow, uneven.

He curses again under his breath, carrying you toward the couch with all the awkwardness of someone too panicked to think about balance.

He lowers you gently, pulls a throw blanket from the backrest, and tucks it over you even as your fingers claw weakly at his wrist like you don’t want him to leave.

“I got you,” he says. But his eyes dart to his phone. His lips press thin. He thinks. He debates. You know that look on him — the one he gets before he does something reckless, something he thinks is necessary.

And then his thumbs are moving fast, typing out a message, then deleting, then calling instead.

The phone rings once. Twice. Then a voice answers, rough, irritated, but clear.

“...What.”

Yuji swallows.

“It’s her. She’s—”

He looks at you, curled on the couch, shivering even under the blanket.

“She’s not okay. You need to come.”

A pause. Silence heavy enough you’d think the line cut. Then, flat.

“Fine.”

Yuji hangs up after, staring at the screen like he’s not sure he’s just unleashed the right storm. He kneels by your side, brushing damp strands of hair from your forehead, whispering promises you’re not awake enough to fully hear.

And less than ten minutes later, the storm arrives.

Sukuna POV

The sound of the motorcycle rumbles up the street, low and sharp, cutting through the quiet of the hour.

He doesn’t come up right away. First there’s the grind of boots on concrete, the pause outside your door. Then the lock clicking like it knows better than to resist.

Sukuna fills the doorway before Yuji can even rise from your side. His frame eclipses the weak light of the hall, hair disheveled, that same black haori thrown careless over his shoulders. His eyes land on you immediately.

He doesn’t ask what happened. He doesn’t ask who did it. He just looks. Long enough for Yuji to shift, uneasy, trying to explain, “She— she came home like this, I don’t know if she— if someone spiked—”

“I don’t care what you don’t know,” Sukuna cuts. His voice is calm, too calm, the kind that makes silence follow in its wake. Dangerous.

Yuji bristles, but doesn’t argue. He just nods once, lips still pressed thin, and steps aside.

Sukuna crosses the room in three strides, crouches by the couch. His hand doesn’t touch you at first, just hovers above the blanket, fingers flexing as though debating if contact will burn him. Then he grips your chin, tilts your face up. Your eyes flutter half-open, dazed, catching on the crimson gleam above you.

“You’re truly an imbecile.” he mutters, though there’s no heat behind it. Only that same grim edge that cuts cleaner than shouting ever could.

He stands, his decision already made.

“She’s coming with me.”

Yuji jerks.

“What? Where?”

“Somewhere she won’t kill herself trying to be everything at once.” His gaze cuts to Yuji, sharp as a knife. “You think coddling her here is going to fix shit? She’ll crawl back to her desk the second you blink.”

Yuji flinches, guilt flashing across his face because it’s true. He’s watched you grind yourself raw, promising you’ll rest, promising you’ll slow, and then breaking every promise within hours.

Sukuna doesn’t wait for more protests. He bends, scoops you up with no strain, the blanket falling away as your body folds against his chest. Your head tips against him, lips parting, breath warm against his collarbone.

Yuji trails after, voice low, urgent.

“Don’t— don’t be cruel to her.”

Sukuna stops at the door. Turns his head just enough for Yuji to see the faint curve of his mouth, sharp and humorless.

“Cruelty’s the only language she listens to.”

Then he steps out into the hall, carrying you like dead weight and inevitability both.

The motorcycle waits at the curb, its black frame catching the orange cast of the streetlight. He settles you against the seat with one arm while he shrugs out of the haori, draping it heavy over your shoulders. He climbs on, pulls you forward, your chest flush to his back.

Your arms stay slack until his hand finds your wrist and yanks them around his torso, locking you in place. “Hold onto me,” he says, voice low enough you feel it in your ribs.

You snap back. Your hands press tight against him, your arms wrap tighter even.

There you are.

Drugs got nothing on your stubborn ass when he orders you around, apparently.

And when the engine growls alive, the night swallows everything else — the apartment, Yuji’s worried silhouette in the doorway, even your own hesitation.

All that remains is the machine’s vibration under you, and the man you cling to as if the road itself might tear you off.

The bike eats the streets with a low, relentless growl, and Tokyo thins out behind him in streaks of neon and concrete. You cling tight, your grip uneven at first, fingers slipping, but survival instinct locks them across his chest with sudden desperation the first time he leans into a turn. Your face presses into the back of his shoulder, breath catching with the rush of cold air, hair whipping loose strands that sting your eyes.

Sukuna grins to himself. He feels every twitch of your hold, every shift of your weight. The faint tremor in your arms says you’re scared out of your mind but too far gone to think of letting go.

You’d die if you did, and he knows you’re a survivor.

A moronic one, but still.

The city’s pulse fades completely now. Lanterns and high windows give way to sodium lamps, then long stretches of dark road that cut through sleeping outskirts. The roar of the engine is the only constant. Fields spread out on either side, low and skeletal, and the horizon glows faint orange where Tokyo still bleeds into the night.

You’re quiet. Too quiet. Not asleep, not awake — just suspended in that dull half-place where thought has slowed to sludge and the body moves on borrowed instinct. He can feel your warmth seeping through his shirt, searing against the ink that coils his skin, corroding him in ways he doesn’t tolerate.

He hates the way it stirs him, hates the reminder that he tried distraction already and it didn’t fucking work. Yorozu’s hands, her mouth, her whole unhinged devotion — none of it scrubbed you out.

And now here you are again, clinging to him like you’ll vanish if you don’t. Your small, delicate hands grabbing the fabric of his shirt, your heart beating fast against his back, even some faint sounds escaping your lips every now and then. And your eyes, he can’t see them but he bets they’re wide, glittery and staring into the almost complete darkness of that road.

He throttles harder just to drown the thought.

The highway opens wider, emptier. The night air cuts colder, sharper, snapping your senses enough that you whimper faintly against his back, pressing closer as if you could crawl inside him for shelter.

The sound needles him. Not pity — he’s incapable of pity. It’s possession, irritation, a throb in his jaw that says he’d rather gut the whole world than hear that sound from you again. It makes him feel too many things he can’t even name.

Jesus fucking Christ, he’s furious.

By the time the road narrows into two lanes shadowed by tall cedars, the clock on the dash clicks past midnight. The turnoff is almost invisible — just a break in the guardrail, gravel crunching under tires as he slows the bike. The headlamp cuts through the dark path, branches arching overhead like skeletal fingers. You shift against him, small noise caught in your throat, and he grips your wrist over his stomach, grounding you in a touch without a word.

The house rises after a curve — old, two stories, wood darkened with age, set back against a slope that rolls down toward a lake barely catching the moonlight. Curtains drawn, silence thick, no sign of life but the faint gleam of a windchime swinging at the porch. Uraume’s place, or rather, a place Uraume knows he can use without asking.

Sukuna kills the engine. The sudden absence of the bike’s growl leaves the night too still, too loud with cicadas and the faint slap of water against the shore. Your hands stay locked a moment longer, then slacken, your body slumping as though the ride wrung the last thread out of you.

“Oi.” His voice cuts against the quiet. His hand closes around your forearm, firm, pulling until you jolt just enough to respond, your fingers tightening once more. “We’re here. Move.”

You blink at him, dazed, lashes sticky, pupils wide in the faint light. You don’t move until he pries your hands off and swings off the bike himself. Then he drags you down with a grip under your arm, steadies you when your knees almost buckle again.

You smell of sweat, of cheap alcohol, of something chemical he can’t stand. The thought makes his lip curl. You let yourself get hit with whatever poison those bastards slipped you, and now you’re soft in his hold, half a corpse, clinging when you should be clawing.

He hates it.

Hates how easy it was for them to break you.

The porch creaks under his weight. He shoulders the door open like it’s his, leads you inside. The air smells of wood, faint dust, lake dampness. Sparse furniture, nothing personal, just enough for shelter. He doesn’t bother with lights until he’s dropped you onto a futon in the downstairs room, blanket dragging half off its fold to cover you.

You groan faintly at the shift, roll onto your side, pulling the fabric close with small, childlike fists. For a moment your face softens, caught in the dull glow of the single lamp he flicked on.

Not guarded. Not sharp. Just tired. So fucking tired.

Sukuna stands over you, arms crossed, eyes narrow. He tells himself he’s measuring your weakness, calculating how long before you snap out of it. But the truth gnaws, he’s looking at you and thinking he’s never seen anything more infuriating than the way you refuse to break clean.

You rot yourself from the inside instead, silent, smiling, pretending.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” he mutters, too quiet for you to answer.

And still he doesn’t leave your side until you’re awake.

Do you roll with the waves?
Or do you duck into deep blue safety?
Is it always the same?
Do you wish that you loved me?
Do you pull at the chains?
Or do you push into constant aching?
Each and every day
Do you wish that you loved me?

Is there something you give, that you will never receive in return?
Do you know what it is?
Do you wish that you loved me?
And are you trying to live like everything is a lesson to learn?
Can you ever forgive? — Yourself
Do you wish that you loved me?

And my reflection just won't smile back at me likе I know it should
And I would turn into a stranger in an instant if I could
And there is somеthing eating me alive, I don’t know what it is
Maybe not that you conceal your feelings, they just don't exist

Do you ever believe that we can turn into different people?
It's getting harder to be — myself
Do you wish that you loved me?
Can we ever release?
Is it better to just not feel?
Can we hit Delete?
Do you wish that you loved me?

And it’s been so long that I'm forgetting what it feels like
But I'd rather not remind myself and leave it all behind
And I've tried so hard to fix it all, but nothing seems to help
But I cannot hope to give you what I cannot give myself

Do you wish that you loved me? — Smile back
Do you wish that you loved me? — At me
Do you wish that you loved me?
Do you wish that you loved me? — Please
Do you wish that you loved me? — Smile back
Do you wish that you loved me? — At me
Do you wish that you loved me?
Do you wish that you loved me?

Chapter Text

Mine

You wake to the pale wash of winter light bleeding through paper screens.

Your body feels heavier than stone, and for a moment you don’t even know where you are. The air is colder than Tokyo’s cramped apartment heat, it smells faintly of cedar, old wood, maybe incense and dust, and the futon beneath you creaks with the weight of someone who hasn’t moved for hours.

You’re still wearing the clothes from yesterday, skirt wrinkled, shirt loose at the collar, underwear… is there, okay, every thread of fabric pressing into your skin like you’ve been embalmed in them. Gross.

You’re disgusting, you feel disgusting, and it’s not because of the sweat.

When you shift, when your eyes finally force open, you catch the sound of footsteps on wood. Someone walking with purpose towards the room you are in, weight carried with authority.

And you start to remember slowly the day before.

The party, the fooling around, the dizziness, the hands, the heat, the kisses, the touches, the sobbing, the despair, the pain, the feeling of the cold air hitting your face as you clung to Sukuna like your life depended on it.

You hear the footsteps closing in.

He’s been up for hours.

Of course he has.

The door slides open, the sound too loud against your temples, and Sukuna fills the frame perfectly. He doesn’t speak to you. He doesn’t ask how you slept, doesn’t ask if you’re thirsty, doesn’t even look surprised that you’re awake. He stands there like a stone pillar, arms crossed over his chest, tattoos dark against the plain white sleeveless shirt he wears, a loose black haori you recognize well thrown over his shoulders like it’s a nuisance he hasn’t bothered shrugging off.

His eyes cut down to you and stay there until you’re forced upright, blanket slipping into your lap and you’re suddenly a little too self aware.

You want to ask where the hell you are, what he’s done, why you’re here — but your throat feels dry, tongue glued to the roof of your mouth. Maybe after a glass of water you can actually bark at him.

He answers before you speak.

“You’re in Uraume’s family place. Empty most of the year.” His voice is flat. He doesn’t bother explaining more, like who’s Uraume or why you are in their family’s place. “You’ll stay until you stop looking like something the gutter spit out.”

Your pulse spikes at his words and at the thoughts of all the things you need to do in the four weeks off.

You need to work on your things during this time. You need to actually take a deep breath and understand if the lack of a deadline will allow you to work with less stress and headaches on creating a few more verses and the next concept of outfits. You need to gather a few more insights, come up with a new twist for the next album so the band doesn’t fall on the same-thing-forever. You need to be productive so when the break is over you—

You feel a sting in your chest as more of the past day comes to you.

The fog in your head breaks fast with anger, and you lurch up to your knees, the futon groaning beneath you.

“You dragged me here without— without my things, without even telling me? I have work to do, Sukuna. I have the band to take care of. I can’t just vanish for—”

He cuts you off with a tilt of his head, unimpressed.

“You already vanished. You think anyone’s blind to it? You’re half a corpse every time you open your mouth. Work. Band. That all means fuck-all if you collapse.”

You grit your teeth, fists knotting into the blanket.

You’re fine.

You can handle it, you’ve been handling it.

A few collapses are common when you’re aiming for success. It’s business. You agreed to this lifestyle.

“You don’t get it! I have deadlines. Mei Mei expects—”

He laughs, sharp and ugly, the sound scraping against the walls.

“Mei Mei expects product. That’s all. And you’re so desperate to please you’ll bleed yourself hollow just to hand her something with a bow on it.” His eyes narrow, much colder now. “You’re too stubborn to see you’ll burn it all down, yourself and your little friends, if you keep crawling at this pace.”

Your voice cracks as you push back.

“It’s not your decision to make! You can’t just— kidnap me, or whatever the hell this is—”

The laugh dies.

He steps forward, the air tightening around him, and when he crouches to your level, resting forearms over his thighs, his face inches from yours, the weight of him makes your spine lock stiff. His eyes squint slightly, a twinge of irritation in his lips.

He doesn’t touch you but you feel like a fist is wrapped around your neck. His voice sinks low.

“Call it whatever you want. But you’re not leaving until I say you’re not useless anymore.”

The words slap hard enough that your breath shudders and you feel a gasp catching in your throat. You look away, ashamed and furious and terrified all at once, but his hand snaps out, rough palm cupping your chin, forcing your face back to him. He squeezes until your cheeks ache, his thumb pressing the corner of your mouth.

“I told you once, you could’ve asked for help at any point. But no. You’d rather play martyr, bury yourself alive, and smile through it like it’s noble. You’re not noble, brat. You’re a self-absorbed little moth who’d rather die than admit you can’t carry everything.” His grip tightens. “And you think that makes you strong? Flying directly into the flames and killing yourself?” A slit brow cocks up as he keeps his eyes locked in yours. “That’s idiocy.”

You’re paralyzed and mesmerized by how beautifully scary he is.

Your eyes sting, hot, furious, your breath trembling through your nose. You don’t break away, though. You can’t. His gaze pins you to the floor more than his hand does, crimson and merciless, and some treacherous part of you swears it’s not cruelty alone there — it’s something else, something that burns even as it holds.

When he finally lets go, your jaw aches, but you don’t crumble in front of him at least, a small victory for you.

You drag your knees beneath you, force your spine straight, even though your chest feels like it’s caving in. He watches you, lips curling faintly, like the defiance is exactly what he wanted.

“Get dressed,” he mutters, jerking his chin toward the corner. “But bathe first. You reek.”

You follow the gesture and notice the low wooden chest, its lid pushed open just enough to show folded fabric inside. Traditional clothes — kimonos are the ones you immediately identify but there are more pieces, definitely, all neatly pressed but carrying that faint musk of cedar closets and old paper.

Your stomach knots.

They’re relics, not yours to use, they’re from another family, nothing to do with you, and the thought of wearing them makes your skin prickle. You’d taint them.

They’re a cage stitched from another family’s history.

“I’m not—”

“You are.” He cuts across your protest. “Yours stink of sweat, cheap cologne and alcohol. You’ll wear what’s here.”

You want to refuse.

You want to throw it back in his face.

But the thought of slipping back into yesterday’s clothes after bathing, of carrying the stink of that party, of those warm hands and that poison, makes you feel like retching.

So you drag yourself around the house to find a shower when he leaves the room.

The house isn’t large, and it isn’t modern at all. You notice that as soon as you start wandering it in the quiet moments when Sukuna disappears to the kitchen or outside for a smoke.

The floorboards creak beneath your feet, polished smooth by age rather than upkeep, and the smell is a mix of cedar and faint ash, like the place has been shut for months but never truly abandoned.

You wonder if this is where Sukuna spends time when he wants to be alone.

Or when he wants to distance himself from everything.

Does he even get that urge to leave all the buzz behind?

Is he keeping this place whenever the family is away?

The walls are plain wood with sliding shōji doors, paper screens that filter the light into soft, hazy squares. There’s little furniture — a low table in the main room, a couple of cushions, the futons Sukuna tossed out for you, and shelves that are mostly empty.

It feels like a house meant for transience, no family photos, no clutter, just a shell people pass through and then leave.

When you peer into the small side rooms, you find closets where fabric hangs. Kimonos, haoris, hantens, neatly folded yukata. They smell faintly of camphor, the kind of protective scent used to keep moths away, and you realize these must belong to Uraume’s family.

There’s a sense of preservation, like these clothes are waiting for another time, another generation, but never used.

You don’t remember having met Uraume nor hearing about them from anyone.

Sukuna’s friend, maybe? Family?

It’s a bit funny, you think. Sukuna having friends is not a thought that has ever crossed your mind.

Aside from the Black Halberd band members per se, which… well, he wants nothing to do with anymore, you’re sure you haven’t seen him interacting with another human being willingly.

Maybe only with you but it wasn’t always friendly.

There was that woman from the day before at the frat party, though.

Was that Uraume?

Was that his girlfriend?

No, it can’t be.

She doesn’t strike you as the kind of person who would have a house like this one… but it’s not entirely impossible as well.

It’s better not to think about that, the thought alone is already bringing your stomach to knot and twist.

It takes a while before you realize what’s missing in this house.

You search the rooms, small kitchen, — Sukuna is there, preparing something — even a storage alcove, but there’s no bathroom, no shower, nothing that matches what you’d expect. 

Just a shallow basin for washing and a stack of towels.

You go back to the kitchen to find Sukuna and mention the lack of a place to clean yourself. He barely glances up from where he’s sharpening a knife against a whetstone.

His mouth twitches in that near-smirk of his.

“Behind the house. Path’s marked. There's a hot spring.”

You blink and frown, not sure if he’s serious.

“A hot spring?”

“You don’t know how to swim?” he coaxes and sneers upon you leaving him there, stomping your feet in some kind of protest not even you understand fully.

You’re mad because he kidnapped you to the middle of nowhere?

Did your friends know you’re with him?

Yuji probably told them, or so you hope.

Or are you mad just because of his tasteless sense of humor? 

Maybe because you remembered the woman in his lap the day before?

But that shouldn’t matter, right?

You were in the bedroom above messing around with two men, at the same time!

You have no right to be mad at him.

Although you only went upstairs because of—

Doesn’t matter.

You let a heavy sigh escape your parted lips and keep walking until you reach the back of the house. When you follow the path while hugging a towel tight against your chest, the morning air cools and a freezing wind blows against your tired body, but soon you find it.

A natural pool cradled in rock, steam lifting in white ribbons into the air, surrounded by trees whose branches curtain the place from the pale winter sunlight.

It’s quiet, secluded, the water hot and inviting.

It makes sense now — why there’s no bath inside.

Why the house feels built around something older, something belonging to the land rather than the walls.

And you can’t quite shake the thought that it’s the kind of place that feels like it doesn’t want to be found, only endured, only borrowed.

It suits Sukuna, a place like this.

You can see how well he would look wearing a Kimono, maybe a hakama underneath, and sitting on the small tables to have lunch.

You can almost picture him dragging on a kiseru, all sprawled like a king against a few cushions.

Why are you thinking about him?

And why is your blood roaring in your ears as you do it?

The water hisses softly when you lower your hand into it — hotter than you expected, a heat that seeps fast into your skin and makes your bones ache with anticipation.

Steam drifts up in veils, catching the pale, almost non-existent sunlight, and for a moment you just stand there at the lip of the spring, arms folded tight across your chest pressing the soft fabric of the towel, body torn between wanting to sink in and the sharp unease of being so exposed in a place like this.

The trees crowd close, tall cedars and pines hemming the spring into a hidden hollow, their trunks dark as shadows shielding the sight, more or less at least.

It’s okay, you’re alone.

No one is coming to peek.

Overhead, the sky is but a pale strip between branches, a spill of clouds blurred by steam. 

You can still hear the faint creak of the house above the slope, but here it’s quieter, almost sealed off.

You slip out of the crunchy, dirty clothes slowly, letting them fall on the edge of the hot spring as though someone might be watching, though the woods feel empty. The entire place feels empty, honestly.

It’s just you and him out here. No one else.

Just you and him.

You don’t know if that’s comforting or worrying.

The fabric of your clothes pools at your feet, you get rid of your underwear that falls light against the moss, and you step into the spring finally.

The shock of the heat drags a gasp from your lungs, but then it settles smoothly — enveloping, pulling the fatigue from every tense muscle.

You sink down until the water laps your collarbones, arms floating, hair sticking damp against your temples. It’s deep. You dive in and submerge for a few seconds, letting that natural warmth wrap you entirely. 

You could definitely drown in it, but you know how to swim and float. And you know how to take a bath, for god’s sake.

For the first time in forever you feel your body give way.

Not really resting but something close to it at least.

You needed this so badly and you didn’t even know.

The heat holds you in place, loosens the grip of exhaustion, makes your mind sluggish.

That’s when you hear the crunch of gravel on the path.

You stiffen instantly, pulse rushing, body jolting and splashing hot water around. The sound is unhurried, heavy, and deliberate. You know who’s coming.

The figure comes into view soon — broad, tall, dark haori loose around his shoulders, hair catching faint silver from the pale sky. Sukuna.

Of course. Who else?

He just comes to stand at the edge of the spring, looking down at you with that calm, sharp stillness that always makes you feel like prey pinned in a predator’s gaze.

His hands rest in his pockets, his head tilts slightly, and he takes in the sight of you in the steaming water like it’s his right.

You sink deeper easily, the murky water barely doing something to cover you up. 

“Seems like you know how to float, at least.” he coos at you, mockingly.

You pull your arms closer over your chest, though the water already shields most of you. 

“You could’ve warned me you were coming too.”

He smirks faintly, eyes gleaming.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

The silence stretches. The steam curls higher. You feel his eyes on you, heavier than the heat, and you can’t decide if you want to sink deeper into the spring until you disappear or climb out and shove past him just to breathe.

But you don’t move, you remain floating, still and waiting.

Waiting for what, exactly?

“Stop staring, creep.” You feel terribly exposed under his gaze.

Sukuna crouches by the edge, resting one elbow on his knee, leaning forward just enough that you can see the sharp lines of ink across his chest where the haori parts and his shirt slacks.

“Relax, brat” he drawls, almost a mocking purr. “If I wanted to watch you drown, I’d have left you at your apartment.”

It’s still cruel, but softer than usual — the kind of cruelty he wears like a second skin, almost playful, testing you. Irritating, truly. And you hate how your stomach twists a little more, not just with unease but with something else you refuse to acknowledge for now.

He doesn’t get inside for a while. He just stays there, crouched, watching you through the steam, crimson eyes steady and unreadable fixed on your face.

And the longer he lingers, the more you feel it — that pull you can’t shake, the heat that isn’t only from the spring but rises within your body, from your core to your chest and spreads to your face.

You feel like begging for him to stop staring just because the pressure is too big.

And it’s not lust in his eyes, nothing… gross, he’s just dissecting you, his eyes are transfixed in yours, never lowering, never trying to take a peek of your body.

He isn’t polite enough to look away, not even for a heartbeat, and you hold his gaze, defyingly.

“Well? Are you just gonna stand there or…?” Your brows press together and the top of your nose creases. He should go back to do whatever he was doing and leave you to bathe.

His grin widens and he raises a brow. You see in his face how he turned this into you asking for him to join you instead of leaving.

Maddening.

You should really pick your battles better, why would you defy him like this every once in a while?

When you bite back he seems to relish, to actually enjoy. 

You should just agree, lower your head, do what you do best and comply, smile, so maybe he leaves you alone. Maybe he lets you do your thing, lets you overwork yourself until there’s nothing else left.

You frown at your own dark thoughts, not just at him.

You shift deeper into the water, but the spring doesn’t give you the cover you crave, no matter how hard you try. It clings instead, hot and heavy, and you feel every drop sliding against your collarbones as if his enduring gaze sharpens the sensation.

Your pulse skips when he finally pushes to his feet, haori sliding from his shoulders.

The ink across his chest and arms catches the weak sunlight, lines and curves stark against his skin.

You feel your eyes widening and your heart thundering in your chest.

“Don’t look so shocked,” he mutters, tugging his tank over his head without hurry, letting the fabric fall to the ground beside the haori, baring his chest for you to watch among the billowing steam. “What, you thought I brought you to a house with no bath just to watch you stew alone?”

The tattoos per se are really alluring, a very interesting and symmetrical work, the ink seems fresh in every single moment like he just had them made. The black of his tattoos never fade, the artist must be amazingly good.

And you see that again, what you thought you’d seen that day on Shibuya Hollow. The glittering shine on his nipples as the pieces reflect some of the pale sunlight. He has nipple piercings, you knew it!

And he’s stripping.

And you’re staring now, like a creep.

He’s really joining you.

You’re naked!

He will be naked as well.

You finally avert your eyes after you got a really good look of how his chest tattoos are, and now you know there are a few more lines guiding down his abs and something else across his stomach — though you held your gaze for too long on his pectorals, you didn’t figure out what are the lines crossing his stomach.

You hear the sound of fabric shuffling as he gets rid of his pants, you suppose.

You’re too busy now looking down at the spot just in front of you, having sunken until the water covered your mouth, very interested in the billowing steam rising from it.

At least the heat pooling in your cheek’s apples and ears have a pretty good excuse to be there.

The water ripples when he steps in, sinking down until his shoulders disappear beneath the surface. The spring, although it’s really big for you, feels so much smaller with him in it — or maybe it’s just the weight of his presence, the sheer size of him, the way the steam can’t blur the shape of his body so close to yours.

He doesn’t crowd you but the space feels fragile.

Every time you breathe, the mist parts enough that his gaze cuts through, molten and steady. You don’t know where to look — at the scar biting across his face, the sharp lines of his mouth, or the chest that rises and falls with unshaken calm.

You shouldn’t be looking at him, for starters.

“I’m not seeing anything, relax.” he drawls lazily again, quieter this time. The word feels more like a command than comfort, but it still sinks into you like heat, steadying, heavy.

He leans his head back and rests it on the lip of the hot spring, doing the same with his elbows when he spreads his arms to rest over the edge, sighing deeply, allowing his body to relax.

You don’t allow yourself to relax.

But you stop clutching your arms across your chest, let the water hold you instead, though your shoulders remain tense.

His mouth curves — not a smile, just the suggestion of one, like he knows he’s already winning a battle you haven’t admitted to.

The silence after that stretches a little bit more. The spring hisses softly, and the world feels narrowed down to this pool of heat, to this man who shouldn’t matter but does.

You try to blame the fatigue, the months of carrying everything by your own, the haze of still being worn thin. But you can’t deny the pull, the gravity that keeps you fixed even when every instinct screams to swim away. Get out of there. Run.

Sukuna tilts his head back up, leans his body back slightly, arms spread against the stone ledge, broad shoulders cutting the steam. His eyes fall on your puzzled face and never leave.

“What?” he asks at last, voice lazy, almost mocking. “You’re still scared I’ll bite you?”

You pout at his suggestion.

You don’t trust your voice not to crack. Not when your heart is breathing so damn loud, so strong and fast.

Are the drugs from yesterday still working on your body? This isn’t normal.

And he sees it — you know he sees it, the way his grin grows sharper, the way his tongue drags briefly over the edge of his teeth.

He might bite you now. Like he almost did once before.

The thought of it makes your heart thunder even harder. Makes your core pulse and you avert your gaze to look back at the water in a not so subtle way.

He doesn’t move closer at least. The air between you is already taut, pulled so thin it could break with a single wrong breath.

And beneath the heat, beneath the silence, lies something heavier, the realization that you don’t want him to move away. You might want him to bite you.

Did you want him to move closer?

Did you want him to—

You are ripped from your thoughts when he moves.

He doesn’t bother looking away as he tosses something your way — a folded cloth, faintly rough, worn soft at the edges.

“Use it to clean yourself.” he says, and though his tone is no more than the same cold one, the gesture isn’t. It lands on the stone beside you instead of the water, neat enough that you catch the care hidden in it.

You dip the cloth, squeeze it out, press it to your face. The warmth seeps into your skin, down your neck, washing away not just sweat but the weight of the last days. It has you letting out a soft, content hum that catches him off guard. He raises a brow, stiffs his body for just a second, but then the curl on the corner of his lips shows up.

You wring it, dip it again and wash yourself slowly, carefully, like that small cloth could wipe away so many things, so many mistakes, so much of the exhaustion that seems to cling into you like dust and ash. Like oil in feathers.

When you look up again, his back is to you, scarred and marked with ink, muscles shifting as he rests his arms on the ledge. He gave you some privacy, and even though that’s bare minimum you feel your lips curling up in a faint smile.

The words leave your mouth before you think them through.

“Want me to wash your back?”

You expect him to scoff, to sneer, to spit some biting remark — but instead he tilts his head just enough that one crimson eye flicks back to you. His mouth curls, but his face is unreadable, somewhere between mockery and something softer maybe. You’d like to think so.

“Tch. Don’t make offers you’ll regret, brat.”

But he doesn’t refuse either.

Why would you regret it?

And when you move closer through the steam, cloth in hand, the space between you tightens in ways that have nothing to do with the spring’s heat.

Will he feel how your hands are shaking?

Can he feel how hard your heart is beating through your palms and the small cloth?

No, right?

You’re safe.

The steam curls and clings to your skin as you step closer, the water lapping softly around your thighs as you climb to the shallowest part of the hot spring, suddenly trusting him not to turn back and catch a sight of your bare front.

Sukuna doesn’t move when you settle just behind him, cloth in hand, but you can feel the air change — heavier, charged, the silence of him waiting to see what you’ll actually do.

You know he doubted you’d actually do it. Like he thought you’d be afraid to touch him.

Maybe he realized you’re not fond of people touching you, but he’d been so many times in your space, mostly to prevent your spiraling, but still.

And you want to do it out of spite, despite the gratitude for every single unhinged thing he has done and that actually helped you.

You dip the cloth again, wring it until it drips hot across your wrist, then place it carefully against his back. The first press makes you hesitate.

You can see scratch marks.

You see red, long marks made by hands dragging nails across his back.

You freeze with the cloth pressed against his back as something swirls inside your chest.

Something ugly, rotten that makes your lips press tight and the corner of them turn upwards, but it’s not a smile.

So they fucked.

It doesn’t matter.

It’s not your problem.

He notices you’re staring too much, so you keep going.

His skin is firm, warmer than you expected under the spring’s heat, every shift of muscle caught under your palm. You drag the cloth slowly, tracing over the lines of his tattoo you already know from a distance but have never been allowed to touch.

The ink moves with your hand. Black bands and curves that coil across his shoulders, run sharp down the ridges of his spine, flare out over ribs and hips.

Tattoos you’ve only stolen glances at when he stripped his shirt off after rehearsal or when he leaned too close, now vivid beneath your fingertips.

They are all consuming, marks that make him something more than flesh. They make him look regal, like some kind of king, or even an old deity.

Marks that make him Sukuna.

You try to be careful, almost reverent.

He’s a man who snarls when people so much as look at him too long, yet here you are smoothing water across the slope of his shoulder blade, letting the cloth glide down until it catches at the jut of bone.

Your hand lingers a fraction too long. You can feel the edge of your own breath catch, and you hate how much it betrays you.

“Don’t treat me like glass,” his voice cuts low, unhurried, vibrating through the steam and into your chest. “If you’re going to do it, do it right.”

You swallow, nod even though he can’t see you, and press harder, sliding the cloth down his spine, over the curve of scars that mark his ribs.

Your other hand steadies against him, bare palm flat on ink. The contact burns, not because of heat but because of how close it feels, how much it feels like you’re trespassing where you shouldn’t be.

A low rumble of contentment rises in his chest, you feel it through your palm, you can’t avoid the thought that it feels like he’s purring.

He has a lot of scars, you notice. You wonder where they come from.

Fights? Probably.

When you finally reach his lower back, you pause.

The water drips from your wrist, splashes faint into the spring. He tilts his head, red eyes cutting heavy lidded toward you from the corner, waiting, daring.

The faintest smirk twists at his mouth, like he knows exactly how flustered you are, how much your hands shake when you run them down the last stretch of tattooed skin.

The world narrows to the sound of water and the black shapes beneath your hands.

To the thought that you’ve never touched anyone like this, and that he’s letting you.

It feels like bathing a dangerous beast. A tiger, maybe.

An apex predator who is just relaxed, letting you groom him while knowing full well he can end you in a second.

And you think — against all better judgment — that you want to keep touching him, keep memorizing every mark that belongs to him, until you don’t know where the ink ends and where you begin.

The cloth slides easily now, as though the first careful hesitation has already cost you too much.

You press deeper, slow circles across his shoulders, dragging heat into every coil of ink that crawls across his body. He doesn’t flinch nor laugh. Not even a sneer or a bitter comment. 

He just stays there very still, muscles shifting under your hand, watching the steam curl off the water like he’s got all the time in the world to wait for you to either shy away or keep going.

You choose to keep going.

The tattoos draw your eyes into patterns you can’t follow without losing yourself.

You work across one broad shoulder, down his strong arm, tracing the band that loops his bicep. The cloth trembles when you wring it out again, scalding water running over the ridges of his ribs, dripping off his side.

“You’re thorough,” he says with just a notch of amusement in his voice. Just enough weight to remind you he knows exactly what you’re doing. How you’re staring. How you’re going beyond his back. How you want to touch his tattoos and trace them with your fingertips.

You clear your throat, too aware of your own breath in the thick steam.

“I said I’d wash your back.”

“That’s not just my back, brat.” He shifts deliberately, arm flexing as he adjusts himself, dragging your gaze down over every line of ink, every mark carved into him. A dare, subtle as it is brutal.

Your stomach knots but you don’t pull away. The cloth drags lower, over the planes of his spine, across the curve of his waist, the ink twisting there like it’s alive under your hand. Your face is burning. You know it’s impossibly red. All you can hear is the blood rushing and roaring in your ears.

When you pause, it’s not from fear, it’s because you want to keep touching him, with your palm instead of the cloth. 

You want to know if he’d stop you, if he’d let you.

He doesn’t move when you do it — when you finally set the cloth aside on the lip of the hot spring and smooth your hand flat against his back, thumb brushing over the thickest curve of the tattoo.

His breath doesn’t hitch, but his shoulders roll once, slow, like he’s adjusting to the new weight of you. You feel your body shiver, like electricity is running through it, starting on the palm pressing against his back.

You’re hypnotised.

The air thickens even further.

You lean forward before you can stop yourself, cheek brushing the damp skin of his shoulder, lips parting with words that don’t come.

What are you doing? What the fuck are you doing?

He’s alluring, the tattoos are magnetic and you can’t look away but this isn’t just looking. It’s touching. Too much touching.

You don’t even know what you’d say.

He tilts his head just enough that his eyes catch yours over his shoulder, red, sharp, and burning with something that roots you to the spot.

Can he see the admiration in your eyes?

“Go on then,” he murmurs, voice low, deep, a calm rumble hidden in the steam. “You offered. Don’t stop now.”

Your fingers tremble as they move across his broad frame again, slower, following the ink down his side, across his ribs, dipping dangerously low until the water hides the rest. His body shifts under you, controlled, patient, but the silence stretches tense, too much to bear.

Too much for you.

You’re washing him with your bare hands.

You’re sliding your fingers through his skin, his scars, his tattoos.

You’re cupping both your hands together and bringing them above him to wet his pink hair.

You’re running your fingers through his strands, cleaning as well as you can, too focused on trying not to freak out because your chest is pressed against his muscular back.

So you breathe, shallow and shaky, before you murmur.

“Your turn then. I washed yours. You wash mine.”

The devilish smirk curves on his mouth before he even turns fully toward you.

He grabs the cloth you set aside before you realize you’re already reaching for it to give him, his hand brushing yours like a deliberate theft.

You’re already turning your back to him and trying to steady your heart and breathe.

He doesn’t speak right away nor does he smirk the way he usually does when he catches you off balance. He just leans forward slightly, towering over you from behind, the steam curling around his frame, and presses the cloth to the top of your shoulder blade.

You find yourself becoming rigid, tense.

The first drag is slow, heavy with heat. 

It feels like the exact opposite of what you thought it would — grounding, invasive, unbearable in its steadiness. He doesn’t skip patches. He doesn’t rush. The cloth slips down over the line of your spine, damp heat chasing the shiver that rises there.

He doesn’t fool around.

No disrespect, no line crossed.

“You’re stiff,” he says simply, matter-of-fact, as though cataloguing yet another flaw he spots on you. His knuckles graze your side as he rinses the cloth and presses it again.

He isn’t gentle, but he isn’t a brute either. He’s testing, mapping, forcing you to stay still while he works every inch he decides needs it.

You try not to think about how close his breath is to your ear when he leans in, how it scalds hotter than the spring itself. You feel the heat of his body from that distance.

You try not to think about the way his fingers spread deliberately against your hip after a while when he steadies your unbalanced self, or the way he smirks when you stiffen or shiver under his touch but don’t move away.

You try your best to stay still until he’s done.

By the time he wrings the cloth and sets it aside on the rock, you’re flushed in ways that have your head spinning already. 

He then does the same for you, bringing the water above your head to let it rinse your hair, and then he slowly rubs the pads of his fingers on your scalp. You’re caught off guard and let out a small sound of pleasure, bringing your hands to cover your mouth in the next second.

He doesn’t comment on it.

He doesn’t announce he’s done either. He just lingers, eyes dragging over you like he’s made a point.

“You fall apart too easy, brat” he mutters finally, a rough hum deep in his chest. “But at least you don’t run away. Even when you’re supposed to.”

You don’t answer. Can’t. Your throat is too tight, your heart in your mouth.

So you slip out of the water first despite the fact that he’s going to see you naked for a few seconds, wrapping yourself in the towel you left on the edge, skin prickling from the cool air. 

His eyes follow you, not hidden and not even a little apologetic, but you keep walking, back toward the house.

The wooden porch creaks when you step onto it, the lake still hissing faintly behind you. You don’t turn until you hear his heavier tread following, water dripping from his frame.

By the time he joins you inside, the silence is thick, but not suffocating.

Back in the house, the warmth of the spring lingers on your skin. You move toward the chest from before, fingers shaking as you lift the first layer of cloth. Indigo silk, faint white cranes stitched along the hem and the trim, weight heavy against your arms, beautifully made.

You dress in silence, your back turned to the door, the fabric whispering as it slides over your skin. When you tie the obi clumsily, you can hear him walking back to meet you in that room.

When you finally face him, he just looks — eyes raking from your throat to your ankles, slow, unreadable. He’s wearing a similar kimono, though the shade of blue is deeper and has textured stripes all over it.

A light gray hanten is draped over his shoulders and you think you should look for a haori maybe, but you can’t manage to move while he’s just there staring at you, pink hair wet and almost falling over his eyes, with locks curling around his ears and clinging to the back of his neck.

He slides his hand on his hair and slicks it back.

As if just waiting for you to blink out of your admiration for his image, he turns, wordless, and walks down the hall.

You follow because what else can you do?

The kitchen is small, stripped down to essentials like a low table, gas burner, shelves of dried goods, pots lined like soldiers. The air smells of rice steaming, miso warming, something earthy like mushrooms.

He’s already cooking, sleeves shoved up, scars and ink flexing as he moves with practiced efficiency. You pause in the doorway, the sight so at odds with the brute you’ve always seen in him that you almost forget yourself. He’s oddly… domestic.

“Sit.” He doesn’t glance up.

You sit.

Lowering yourself onto the cushion by the table, hands tight in your lap, eyes fixed on the wood. He sets a bowl in front of you a minute later — rice, miso soup, pickled vegetables, grilled fish, nothing fancy but warm, solid, alive.

It looks delicious, it smells even better.

But your stomach twists with something foreign and a twinge of shame still pesters you even after your long shared bath.

You don’t move.

“Eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

He raises his eyes to meet yours and you wish he didn’t.

His gaze sears into your skin, burns. He looks mad.

“Don’t waste my time. Eat.”

Did something happen between him washing your back and now?

Did he get mad just because you refuse to eat?

Your throat locks. You lift the chopsticks with stiff fingers, take one mouthful.

The rice sticks in your throat, but the warmth spreads, loosening something that’s been bound too tight. It tastes good, so good.

Homemade food.

You take another bite, then another, until the bowl empties and you feel satiated after a long while.

He doesn’t praise, doesn’t even look satisfied. He just clears the table, turns his back, like feeding you was no more than fixing a broken gear.

You sit in silence, the sound of water running and dishes clattering filling the air.

By evening, the house feels like a cage.

You’ve wandered the rooms — empty, bare, old wood and tatami that creaks under every step. No TV, no laptop, no sound but the cicadas and the wind sliding through the trees. He keeps his phone tucked away, silent.

Yours is nowhere in sight.

You try to protest again, voice louder now, anger breaking through the dull fog.

“I can’t just stay here doing nothing, Sukuna! I have to work on something, I have lyrics, I—”

He cuts you short with a look that pins you like a knife through paper.

“Doesn’t matter if you’re six feet under.”

You tremble, rage and despair tangling tight, but no words come. He watches until your shoulders drop, until your fists unclench, then turns away like the matter’s closed.

That night, you lie on the futon in a kimono that still smells of cedar and dust, staring at the ceiling.

You hear him in the next room, a low creak of floorboards, the faint sigh of his weight settling.

Your chest is too tight to breathe properly.

You don’t know if you’re furious, terrified, or — Gods help you — relieved.

Because for the first time in months, no one is asking you to produce, no one is waiting for you to deliver. No one is expecting anything from you.

Maybe he’s expecting something from you but you have no idea of what.

He’s an enigma in every single aspect.

You can’t read him at all and it seems that he can read you too well.

The silence is unbearable. The stillness is worse. But underneath it all, some part of you knows — you’re safe here. Not comfortable. Not happy. But safe.

And that knowledge is what keeps your eyes open long into the night, listening to his presence across the wall like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the world.

The morning breaks pale through the thin curtains, a flat wash of light against the tatami floor. Sukuna sits at the wooden table on the corner of your room with a cigarette dying between his fingers, smoke threading up into the rafters.

The sound of your restless shifting on the futon is enough to tell him you’re awake. You stir, groan faintly, then try to bury yourself deeper in the blanket as if you could roll back time.

He exhales through his nose, a sharp thing that isn’t quite a laugh.

“You planning to rot there all day?”

When you finally push upright, hair tangled, eyes swollen from too little sleep and too much of everything else, the first thing you notice isn’t him.

It’s the clothing folded neatly at the foot of the futon — pale linen, a soft blue kimono, a darker haori laid across it carefully. The fabric smells faintly of cedar smoke and something floral, incense perhaps.

You blink at it, then at him.

“I’m still tired.” You rub your eyes. You could sleep more.

Sukuna leans back, stretching long legs under the table. His eyes flick once toward the folded clothes and back to you, unimpressed.

“Wash. Change. Eat. You’ve got three jobs here, brat, and none of them involve whining.”

“How long do you plan on keeping me here as your captive?” You start to raise slowly, pushing yourself to rest on your elbows. “Isn’t this illegal? Kidnapping and stuff.”

“Spare me. You want me to call your precious manager and explain you’ve been too busy puking into gutters or working yourself to the point of fainting so she can see how weak you truly are?”

Heat stings the back of your neck.

“That’s not— fuck you, that’s not what happened—”

“That’s exactly what happened.” He grinds out the cigarette, pushes himself up. “Change. Kitchen. Five minutes.”

He leaves you with the clothes and the silence.

You raise from the futon and obey.

The kitchen smells of broth when you shuffle in, kimono wrapped too loosely, haori hanging off one shoulder. Sukuna doesn’t comment on the fit. He stands at the counter, ladle moving slowly through a pot, steam fogging the edges of the small window.

The table’s already set — bowls, chopsticks, pickles in a small dish, rice perfectly portioned.

Your stomach growls but the last thing you want is food, it’s been like this for the past… weeks? But the smell stirs something low and undeniable inside you.

“Sit.”

You sit.

He serves you without flourish, without looking at you, and only after he sits opposite does his gaze pin you in place. You pick at the rice, too aware of how steady his eyes are, how he doesn’t eat until you take a first bite.

The soup is hotter than you expect, savory, too good for the silence around it.

“You chew like you’re afraid someone will notice.” His tone is casual, not cruel in its accuracy.

Your chopsticks clatter against the bowl.

“Maybe because someone is staring at me.” you mutter softly.

He smirks, finally eating.

“If that’s all it takes to make you start to shrink and crumble, no wonder they slipped shit in your drink without you noticing.”

Shame curdles under your tongue. You want to throw the bowl at him, want to spit that it’s not your fault, that you didn’t ask for any of it — but you don’t.

You should have known better than to accept drinks from a stranger.

Even though it was a stranger from his old band.

You eat too fast now, cheeks hot, eyes low, brows knit tight.

He lets the silence fill your head with a turmoil of thoughts, satisfied.

Later, he drags you outside. No explanation, just the weight of his big hand closing around your wrist and pulling you out the door, across the porch, down into the slope where cedars rise tall and dark.

The air smells of damp bark, the earth soft underfoot, the lake a sheet of dull silver behind the trees.

You try to dig in your heels.

“Let me at least write something, damnit! I need to—”

“What you need, brat—” he cuts in, turning just enough to glance over his shoulder, “—is to stop mistaking collapse for progress. Move.”

The trees close around you. You trail fingers along the rough bark while his pace never falters. He doesn’t speak again until you reach the water’s edge, where the lake laps soft against the rocks.

“Do you know how to relax or do I have to make you do that as well?”

You should push him into the lake.

But you surely can’t outrun him when he crawls back from it, so you don’t.

You want to tell him he doesn’t understand, that you can’t just pause while the world moves on, that Mei Mei doesn’t hand out second chances and this is Cenotaph’s big — maybe only — chance. 

Instead, you stand there with your arms crossed, glaring at the reflection of the cedars in the water, and feel the air sear your lungs in spite of yourself.

He watches you in silence.

When your shoulders finally sag, just slightly, he turns back toward the path.

“Good enough. Lunch in an hour.”

The days settle into rhythm.

Morning food.

Afternoon walks under the cedars.

Nights when you collapse onto the futon, he stays in the kitchen, cigarette glowing faint at the open window.

He doesn’t hover near, but he doesn’t leave you, either.

When you wake up he’s always there, on the room’s corner table.

When you protest, he cuts you off.

When you snap, he bares his teeth in a grin that makes your anger feel small.

And yet — every meal is there.

Every blanket pulled into reach.

Every night for the first three nights he’s right in the next room, awake until you fall asleep.

He doesn’t mention it.

You don’t mention it.

But in the quiet between, in the way he stares too long at your mouth when you speak, in the way his gaze drags down your throat when you swallow, you feel something gathering, waiting, heavier than the damp, cold winter air.

Sukuna POV

The fourth night at the house is thick with lake damp and a strong sandalwood incense smell that he lit in the living room.

Sukuna leaves the window cracked despite the cold because he hates the air turning stale, hates when silence closes in tight enough to choke.

The cigarette burning between his fingers throws a faint orange glow that rises and dies with each drag, ash tapping into the dish at his knee.

You sleep two paces away from the wall he has his back pressed against, on the futon, curled small under the blanket, face turned from the lamp he left dim.

Your breathing has been uneven all night, catching on some rhythm he can’t map.

Yuji told him about your loud nightmares, how sometimes you screamed in your dreams. He wondered if that would happen at some point, so he keeps a close look every night after you fall asleep.

He’s not surprised when it breaks.

It starts low.

A murmur, sharp and sudden enough to draw his eyes. Your shoulders twitch, your hands clench, your mouth pulls tight.

He watches, jaw tense, tells himself it’s nothing he needs to interfere in, you’re just having bad dreams, a few screams never hurt anybody.

But then your legs kick once, violently, and a sound tears out of your throat — not words, not even a cry, just raw panic grinding air into something inhuman.

Your hands cling to nothing, and then they cling to your own arms, scratching, tearing skin almost.

He snuffs the cigarette, stands, crosses the floor in three quick steps.

The moment his hand touches your shoulder you bolt upright, eyes wide but not seeing a thing in front of you, breath ripping too fast.

And then you’re on him — nails cutting, dragging and clawing across his arm, fists shoving, voice cracking into half-formed words, trying to get away, trying to get free from his grasp.

“ss—stop, don’t, please. I’ll be good! no!”

You cry and shove.

You don’t see him.

He realizes that in an instant.

Your pupils aren’t here, they’re glassy, locked somewhere far darker.

He catches your hands before you rake his face, holds them down firmly between your bodies to avoid you digging nails into your own hand, his grip iron.

“Oi. Wake the fuck up, brat.”

It doesn’t reach you.

You writhe harder, twisting, your voice climbing in broken pleads that snap his patience and tug something far worse.

You’re not fighting him.

But you’re fighting for your life.

You’re fighting a ghost of someone, something, and in your body’s desperation he recognizes something he hasn’t seen before — not the brat who mouths off, not the one who swallows hurt behind that practiced smile.

This is a core stripped raw, and it is feral. Vicious. It’s fighting for survival.

He pins you down, knee braced against your thighs to keep you from thrashing off the futon. 

You slip one leg off, kick against him, heel glancing his ribs, nails digging bloody crescents into the back of his hand where he refuses to let go.

“Wake. Up.” His voice cracks like a whip between teeth, a low growl edged with command.

Still nothing.

You’re sobbing now, face twisted, calling someone else’s name, calling for your mother, spitting out half-syllables that don’t belong to him.

“mom—don’t!… please.”

The words catch. His lip curls in a scowl.

Something inside his chest pangs and he doesn’t know what to do to bring you out of it.

He shakes you once, sharp, forcing your head to rock against the pillow.

“Brat!” His big hand clamps your jaw, turning your face toward him. “Look, damn it.”

Your eyes flick, unfocused, but the pressure forces them to him.

Crimson flaring against the dark.

A growl low in his throat to anchor you, to bring you back from this fucked up place you’re at.

“You’re not there. You’re here. With me. You’re safe. Breathe, brat.”

The fight in you wavers, claws dulling against his skin.

Then the sob breaks through. Your whole body folds, recoiling, shoulders curling in like you could make yourself vanish. Tears spill hot against his hand still holding your face in place. 

You try to twist away but his grip doesn’t ease on your wrists nor your face.

“No hiding.” His words are quieter now, something softer reaching them, his eyes transfixed on yours. “Don’t hide from me.”

You choke, sputter, breath ragged. Your fists slacken. Your nails leave his hand where they could sink into, your arms drop back, shaking. You’re still crying, but it’s quieter, crushed, muffled against the hand he hasn’t released from your cheek.

Sukuna stays where he is, crouched over you, keeping both your hands pinned until he’s sure you won’t lash out again.

Your pulse hammers against his fingers.

He can feel every tremor in your body through the press of his knee against your thigh. He knows you’ll bruise where he held you down, and he doesn’t care.

Better bruises than whatever hell your mind dragged you into.

He wants to hold you entirely. He wants to scoop you in his arms and shield you from whatever this is that haunts you so terribly. He wants to protect that soft part he always scrutinizes and mocks.

When your breaths finally even, not steady but less jagged, he eases his hold. Only a little. He doesn’t let you go fully — not yet.

Your eyes flutter open wide and wet and so tired and scared.

The tears clinging into your long lashes are something beautiful. Even after all of this he still thinks you cry prettily. He’s aware this is a fucked up thing to think.

He studies you, searching for some fragment of the brat who snaps back at him, who stiffens her spine in the face of his barbs, who will yell at him for daring to call her pathetic.

You’re not there. Not right now.

What’s left is stripped, shuddering, raw and tormented. It’s small and fragile, already broken and scared.

He hates it.

Hates that he doesn’t know the shape of what broke you.

Hates more that it burns in his chest to see it.

“Who was it?” His thumb presses against your jaw, enough pressure to keep you awake, focused on him as he speaks lowly between his teeth. “Who the fuck are you seeing when you fight like that? Who hurt you?”

You shake your head, small, automatic. Tears trail into your hair.

“Don’t give me that,” he snaps, grip tightening until your lips purse against the squeeze. You look even more helpless. “You think I’m blind? You weren’t fighting me. So who was it?”

Your throat works around the words, but nothing comes. The silence stretches, broken only by the lake water slapping faintly against the shore outside.

His upper lip tugs and raises into a snarl that doesn’t come.

Sukuna leans closer, the scar on his face pulling with the curve of his grin, though it isn’t cruel this time. It’s something sharper, a little heavier. Darker.

“You don’t tell me now, I’ll drag it out of you later.” Something inside him needs to know who did it, so he can find it, and he can solve the problem in his own ways. “And I will have the name.”

Your eyes flick to his, finally, truly.

It’s enough. He sees the panic there, the hurt, the way you bite your tongue to keep the truth locked down like you’re used to.

Like you’ve been taught to.

Trained to.

And he understands — not all of it, not the details, but enough to know the ghost has a face.

A man. Related to your mother maybe.