Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Police sirens pass the car.

They drive right by them, moving in the wrong direction. For what is the first time in his life, Toji debates flagging the patrol car down. Stopping them in the middle of the street and pulling an officer out by the collar of his uniform. Dragging someone out and forcing them to look at the mess curled up in his back seat.

He squeezes the steering wheel and imagines he's gripping the asshole's face. Breaking his nose, knocking a few teeth out, wringing his neck. In his head, the satisfying, long overdue snap, crack, pop his jaw would make rings out. Toji would bash his whole goddamn skull in if that would help put an end to things.

The only reason he hasn't already done it is because he knows it wouldn't do shit.

Megumi is already glaring at him through the rearview mirror like the swelling black eye is his fault and not a parting gift from his shitty boyfriend. Like Toji isn't the fucking idiot playing getaway driver every time his kid calls him in the middle of the night, half angry, half sobbing, pleading, begging, in hysterics, “Daddy, I need to go, I need to leave, please, right now, I don’t know what he’ll do-”

Toji knows.

He knows because this is his third time chauffeuring.

This time he was ready before the call came. 4 am.

He’s not as groggy or as disoriented, nowhere near as panicked as he used to be. This time, he had a blanket ready in the backseat. One of his hoodies that the kid always liked stealing. An even older, ugly as sin, ratty teddy bear Megumi is currently clutching to his chest, picking at the threads. Childhood memento. It might not make it through the drive.

Neither will Toji’s sanity.

Third time.

It’s the third time he’s going through this. He’s exhausted. The third time Megumi is calling him, escaping, then undoubtedly crawling back as soon as the bruises start fading. His memory seems conveniently intertwined with the physical proof left behind. When they disappear, it’s back to being all sunshine and rainbows. Photos posted of the two of them being sweet, domestic, living the dream!

At this point, Toji is tempted to smack some sense into Megumi himself. He never raised a hand, never pushed him around, but, hell, if any jackass off the street with DIY piercings and a bad temper is allowed to–

He clicks his tongue, runs it against his teeth. Chews on his nicotine gum.

He’s not quitting. The cigarettes just aren’t enough on their own anymore. It’s either this or it’ll be something stronger, and soon.

“I’ll get you an ice pack when we get home,” he says, meeting his son’s gaze in the mirror.

Hitting him wouldn’t help because Megumi wouldn’t hesitate to swing back at Toji.

Sukuna seemingly gets free reign. Toji would get bitten, scratched, and thoroughly cussed out. He’s already getting mean looks just for doing what was asked of him.

If he got rid of Sukuna, which he should’ve the first time he caught him in their apartment, Megumi might just cut him off for good. Worse yet, he’d probably find an even worse replacement just to spite his father. Daddy’s attitude, inherited.

Unsurprising, the fact he’s only passed down the worst parts of himself.

“Okay.”

He turns. Slows down, changes gears. Counts down minutes until they get back, until he can take full inventory of the injuries left behind this time around. Toji keeps sneaking little glances back at Megumi whenever they pass under a streetlight. There’s a cut on his arm that looks a little too straight. He has no idea if that’s still a habit, a thing he should check in on. He thought that one hasn’t resurfaced since middle school. Who fucking knows anymore.

What really stands out is the split lip.

Maybe they’ll have matching scars.

Like father, like son, maybe that’s what Megumi needs to finally get it into his head that he’s playing with his life. Worked on Toji.

“Anything else you need, baby? I can stop somewhere. Gauze, pain killers, anythin’? Dinner?”

“No,” Megumi replies.

Not even a thank you.

Toji doesn’t expect him to play polite. Doesn’t need someone beaten up to expend energy stroking his ego, making him feel good about himself. It’d still be nice to get more than a few cold angry words barked like orders.

He’s not the one beating on him. He’s not the fucking root of the problem here.

Is he?

Because he needs it if he plans on staying civil, Toji digs around the passenger’s side seat until he finds a cigarette. The gum’s gone soggy, half melted in his mouth. He keeps the car going straight with his knee under the wheel while he spits it out the window and onto the street, then lights the real thing.

“Okay, baby. Let’s get you home.”

Megumi’s eyes stay glued to the lights passing by them.

More police sirens in the distance.

So invested in other people’s tragedies that he can’t see the obvious, Megumi’s eyes follow their trajectory.

As with everything he does, Megumi gives him no warning the first time he brings his boyfriend over.

“Dad.”

Toji looks up from the stove where he’s making dinner. Nothing special, god forbid, but Megumi asked him to. Pasta and sauce even he can’t fuck up. And on the rare days his perpetually pissed off teenager actually wants to spend time with his father – have a dinner, pretend to be a proper family – who is Toji to refuse?

It's on him that he didn’t question it more, the suddenness of the request. This is what he gets for it. A stranger in his kitchen, with a hand on his son’s back.

“This is Sukuna. Yuuji’s brother. I told you about him.”

Tall. Taller than Megumi, almost Toji’s height. Tattooed to hell and back in thick lines, like he had some big point to prove from the jump, make himself stand out. Make sure he can never get an honest job. Between too much ink and too many piercing to count, Toji doesn’t know where to look or what to say first. Anything along the lines of: what the fuck do you do to afford that or wipe that shit eating smile off your face before I do it for you.

The kid – because that’s what he still is, Toji has to believe for his own sake – extends his hand.

“Mr. Fushiguro. Good to finally meet you.”

Finally.

One sentence, and Toji is already pissed off. The way it comes out suggests they’ve been dating significantly longer than the single month and a half Megumi has reported to him. Worse yet, confirming it is the casual ease between them. The hand sneaking around Megumi’s waist, familiar and possessive. Megumi, leaning into his side, whole body drawn to him by magnetism alone.

Toji wipes his hand on a dish towel and grips Sukuna’s hand too hard, just shy of painful.

“Sukuna,” he repeats, not bothering with returning any of the pleasantries, “Wish I could say the same.”

Preemptively, Megumi shoots him a look. “Toji.”

That’s new. Or rather, that’s old. What Megumi called him when he was pissed off as a kid. They only recently managed to build up to dad again. One guy coming between them is enough to make them regress, evidently.

Without breaking a single finger, Toji releases Sukuna’s hand. He mentally pats himself on the back. Goes back to stirring his pasta. Pretends Sukuna’s general presence isn’t already setting his teeth on edge.

“What?”

Because his son knows him, he mutters, “You’re being a dick.”

Toji wasn’t, he doesn’t think. He was thinking about it, though, he’ll give him that much.

Despite what people assume, Toji isn’t stupid. For Megumi’s sake, he’s willing to turn a blind eye, is all. After all, young and reckless are a package deal.

Young and spiteful, too.

Young and willing to bring an asshole home to piss off your dad isn’t too far beyond the norm of regular teenage bullshit. Compared to the stunts he pulled to spite his own family, Toji considers this one relatively tame. He breathes in, breathes out, and gestures to the dining table.

Dinner is tense at the start.

And in the middle and the end and every second between those three stages. Megumi sits himself between them, hoping to act as a buffer, shooting warning looks Toji’s way every time he so much as opens his mouth. Overkill, honestly.

“So,” he tries again, stabbing at the overcooked pasta with his fork. “What do you do? You a student?”

“Graduated last year. Business degree. Not that I’m really using it.”

“Trust fund brat then?”

Immediately, Megumi looks at him scandalized. As if he didn’t know what he started here, where he brought his latest fuck up, he hisses another, “Toji.”

“What? It’s an honest question.” Partially. Megumi doesn’t assess people in the same way, doesn’t recognize the goddamn Vacheron Constantin on Sukuna’s wrist that Toji immediately knows he could get five, maybe six grand for tonight, no questions asked.

Rich kid, and a dumb one to boot, considering what neighborhood he’s openly flaunting it in.

Toji takes a bite. Chews. Makes everyone else wait for him. “Kid’s got money. Makes a man curious.”

Strangely un-offended, Sukuna interrupts whatever cuss was inevitably about to come out of Megumi’s mouth to agree, “No, you’re right. My mother runs her own business. This was a graduation gift from her. I myself do consulting work, mainly.”

“Consulting?” Toji repeats. “You’re tellin’ me there are people out there coming to you for advice?”

“That is what I said, yes.”

“And how’s that workin’ out for them?”

“Great. Do you ask everyone this many questions?”

“You always dodge ‘em?”

The fork from Megumi’s hand hits the table. It clatters. He leans back in his chair, bristling.

“Can you two not do this?”

Both of them look at him. At each other. Back to Megumi and his death glare, his ruddy cheeks and the crushed dreams of however the hell he hoped this going any other way.

“Sorry, baby,” Sukuna is the first to say, reaching over to squeeze Megumi’s thigh. The casual intimacy of it grates on Toji’s nerves. He kicks Sukuna’s shin under the table.

Forcing it past his teeth, Toji agrees, “...yeah. Sorry, kid.”

The food is all but gone, as is Megumi’s appetite. Utensils scrape against the plates, making the lack of conversation all the more uncomfortable.

It’s Sukuna who decides to break it.

“What about you? What do you do?”

“Security. Contract work.”

“Private or corporate?”

“Depends on the job.”

Sukuna drinks his beer. Considers him. Sizes Toji up shamelessly, top to bottom. From the hair that always gets a little too long when Megumi isn’t present enough to nag him about trimming it to the miscellaneous stains on his sweats and a hole in his sock. Megumi’s eyes follow the motion.

If his kid wanted something more put together, he should’ve given Toji a fucking warning.

“You used to fight?” Sukuna leans in to ask, “I think Megumi mentioned you used to do that, back in the day. Cage fights?”

Back in your prime, is what Toji hears.

“He tell you that, did he?”

“Yeah. Not that he had to. You have the look.”

Toji doesn’t fall for it. Doesn’t see the point in asking what look because the recognition is mutual. Him and Sukuna could settle this one fairly simply, if Megumi wasn’t intentionally placed in the middle of them. They could do this properly without an audience. Cuss each other out, swing and see who has the better reach. Let the worse man win.

Which explains why Megumi hasn’t moved an inch all night, ass stuck to the chair, leg nervously bouncing. He hasn’t even been brave enough to leave and go piss, rightfully worried about what he’d find when he returns to the scene.

The worst part of his night is that under all the shit – the ink, the clothes, the too cocky grin – Toji sees something far more uncomfortable. A twenty-year old reflection stares back at him, eyebrow raised, wordlessly asking, What are you gonna do about it, huh?

He doesn’t get it.

Toji will never get it.

All the statistics, he’s heard. From Shiu, from the cheap quack calling herself a shrink sitting in his AA meetings, from online forums he scrolled through in the dead of night, listening to Megumi’s shuddery breaths. Wheezy lungs, bruised ribs, soft snores once he finally stopped shaking and fell into shallow sleep.

The statistics. Tactics. Proper steps to take, even if there’s no neat, organized 12 step guide to follow. Only alcoholics are blessed with such simplicity.

Wait it out. Support him. The average woman tries to leave her abuser seven times before she manages to get out. Don’t judge. Just be present, be understanding, listen.

In the past two years, he’s accumulated enough pamphlets and self-help books cluttering his apartment to open a shelter of his own. If he was still allowed to indulge in the habit, Toji would be willing to bet his turnover and success rates would be about the same.

Do nothing. Be passive. Sit on your ass on the sidelines and watch your only kid get treated like a punching bag. That’s what it all sounds like to him, after stripping away all the careful cushioning of therapy talk.

It took him three tries to get past fucking step two, as everyone adores pointing out, so surely he should get it, no?

No.

Not at all.

Toji does not fucking get it, even with all the statistics, pamphlets, and books shoved into his face over and over again. He could keep rereading them until he’s as blue in the face as Megumi is currently, and it would still not make a lick more sense than when he first reached for one.

His old man used to beat on him. Belt him. Put out cigarettes on him. Did a whole lot worse. Things Toji refuses to think about. Broke his nose in a way that never quite healed right, always stayed crooked. Tried to break far more. It’s Toji’s spirit he was aiming for with every hit, the one thing he never managed to crack in the end. Never in a way he hoped he would.

As soon as he could, Toji packed his shit up and left. One and fucking done.

He changed his address, his last name, his postcode. Slept on the street, in cars, in shelters. In random women’s beds, if that’s what it took to have a roof over his head. Anything and everything beat going back to the people who’d spit on him. The kind who’d do far worse to their kin, blood relation be damned.

That’s exactly why he doesn’t fucking get it.

Sure, Megumi doesn’t need to know that kind of desperation – the drive to escape – Toji never wanted him to. He’d rather die than have his own kid grow up the way he had to. But it has to be there, under the softness a near middle class upbringing gave him. In traces, at the very least. It’s supposed to be inborn, reflexive, present from that very first gasp of air that’s taken. A natural instinct to survive.

What other animal exists, stupid enough to do this?

None.

Gazelles don’t limp back to the lion that missed its mark. Rabbits don’t crawl into the fox’s den to personally apologize for running. No other animal presents itself belly up, encouraging, right here.

Just Megumi, apparently.

Toji moves the kettle from its stand, pours boiling water over the two tea bags in Megumi’s mug. The images of different dog breeds printed on it are chipped away, flakes of color missing over their snouts. Toji adds sugar and lemon into the warm drink, mixes it with a spoon. Favorite mug, favorite tea – ginger and lemon – favorite shirt. The room with a better view and a bigger bed than the one Toji has been sleeping on even after Megumi left for college. Megumi’s space is always untouched, remaining exactly the way he leaves it between visits.

And for what, he thinks bitterly. All the sacrifices he’s made, the overtime, the coddling to make up for his own bullshit–

All of it for Megumi to mope around, skip school. Text Sukuna in a few days, as soon as Toji leaves for work, to tell him daddy dearest is no longer playing watchdog. For a dickhead with mommy’s cash to show up at their apartment with an empty apology, an emptier promise and a dozen roses, to take his blessing away once more. For the cycle to start anew, attempt number four.

Mug in one hand, bowl of stale biscuits in the other, Toji raps one knuckle against the door.

To get into a room in his own apartment that Megumi left two years ago now, that he’s sure not paying for, Toji knocks. Announces his presence, softens his voice.

“Got you some tea.”

This time, he drops the pet name. Megumi is a little better by now. In other words, more likely to bite off his head for showing any kind of care.

“Come on in,” Megumi calls. When Toji listens, he finds him on his bed, flat on his back. Wrapped in Toji’s hoodie and worn-out shorts, staring at the ceiling fan spinning above him. The bear is limp behind him, head half detached as a byproduct of the nervous picking.

Grown unused to talking, filling the silence between them, Toji narrates, “I’ll put this down here. Let it cool down for a bit.”

Belated, but finally arriving, “Thanks.”

“Anytime. Just… Let me know if you need anything,” he repeats.

Frustration. That’s what he feels. Frustration at being stuck in place, twiddling his thumbs. Not knowing what he can do. There’s a car crash in front of him, sparks going off near the gas tank, and instead of acting, he’s observing from across the road, mentally calculating how much the aftermath will cost to clean up. Toji is already comparing the prices of coffins and lengths of sentences, weighing them against one another. The likelihood of convincing anyone it was man one instead of premeditated.

Like he’s doing his poor old man a huge favor, Megumi says, “Stop hovering already. You can sit down. And stop looking at me like that.”

In truth, Toji doesn’t want to look at him one way or the other.

He will.

Always, he will.

Death, blood, guts, gore – it all comes with the jobs he takes. Toji doesn’t seek it out, has never found pleasure in it, but he’s not the type to look away from violence or its consequences. Only when it comes to Megumi does he have trouble staying impassive.

Seeing his split lip causes more of a visceral reaction than seeing actual intestines could ever hope to. It’s more grotesque. Megumi is too young looking for this kind of thing. Too sweet, too pretty, too similar to his mother. Toji ghosts a thumb over it, then taps Megumi’s scratched chin up to get a better look.

“I ain’t looking at you like anything,” he lies. “Just wondering if you’ll need stitches.”

Immediately, Megumi protests, “It’s not that bad.”

Right. Sukuna’s defense attorney, always at the scene of the crime. Perfect little beaten wife jumping to his rescue.

Smaller – playing it up – Megumi changes his response to a question.

“…it’s not that bad? Right? You don’t think it is?”

Toji hates him. Hurts for him. Thinks about driving out tomorrow night, right back into the dark and fixing the problem the same way he’s always fixed everything for his blessing. Megumi would hate him more than he already does.

Right now, he’s not sure it’s enough to convince him against it. He has a few days to make the call. At least a week before the inevitable, considering the severity this time around.

“No, I don’t think so. Probably won’t even leave a mark.”

Hopefully.

Toji likes that Megumi takes after his mother. He’s not sure he could go through this if the kid looked any more like him. A funhouse mirror of his past looking back, advertising all the ways he’s failed everyone involved. Permanent reminder of all he can never outrun.

“Promise?”

The voice Toji hears is his son’s. Adult. The boy he sees in front of him is a nine-year-old with scraped knees, bloody and filthy, too embarrassed to ask his daddy to kiss it better, to make it all go away.

“Promise, Gumi. You’ll be just fine.”

Toji chances it and leans down to kiss Megumi’s forehead. Inhales the scent of mint shampoo and thinks.

He’s nearly as good at fixing things as he is at breaking them.

Machines, bikes, Megumi’s broken remote-control car when he was five, young enough still to sob about some other kid carelessly stepping on it – Toji made them all work again. He thinks about how fucking great life would be if fixing Megumi was half as straightforward.

When Megumi finally excuses himself to the bathroom, that first night, they stare at each other from across the table. The cramped apartment turns into Wild West. A duel at high-noon, silent quickdraw.

Never blinking, Toji reaches for his pocket. He lights a cigarette. Doesn’t pretend to feel pleasant enough to extend the pack towards his opposition. Sukuna pulls out his own, smiling to himself at the blatant disrespect. At the dislike oozing from Toji he feel no need to hide. It’s some foreign, imported shit, predictably expensive.

They still smell like shit.

“You hate me,” Sukuna points out.

“Don’t know you enough to hate you.”

“You sure want to.”

“You’re too old for him.”

“Three years.”

Toji raises an eyebrow. Sukuna laughs yet again. Concedes, “Four years. Five, maybe.”

There is nothing Toji wants to say to that.

“He’s legal.” As if that absolves him or settles Toji’s nerves in any way, hearing his child discussed like a porn category, Sukuna states, “Barely, sure. But legal. I’m not an idiot.”

“Just an asshole, then.”

“That, I’ll own.” Sukuna takes another drag. Ashes the cigarette right on the table, on what’s Toji’s nice tablecloth. Smoke wafts around them. Megumi will be pissed at them when he comes back. At Toji, most likely. If only to stop himself from bludgeoning him with it, Toji pushes the ashtray towards Sukuna.

Sukuna continues, “Look, I get it. You see some tattooed prick sniffing around your kid and you want to break my nose. Relive the glory days. I get it.”

“You’re still here. Clearly you don’t get how tempting that sounds.”

“You won’t,” Sukuna concludes, completely certain. “He’d hate you for interfering. He’d double down to spite you. Probably do something stupid to prove a point.”

“Don’t talk like you know my son.”

“I’m saying we both know him. He does the same shit to me. You push, he pulls away. You say no, he says fuck you and does it anyway. Sound familiar?”

It does. Regrettably. Unfortunately. It’s an apt summary of the last eighteen years of Toji’s life.

It sounds like Toji at eighteen. At twenty. At twenty-five.

Hell. At forty.

“He’s stubborn as hell,” Sukuna says, “Holds a grudge like no other. And he’s desperate to prove he’s not a kid any more.”

Toji says nothing. He eyes the ashtray. Megumi’s handiwork. Other kids made pinch pots in third grade. Saucers and ramekins and clay heart trays. His kid knew the only thing Toji would get use of.

Would be a shame to break it over something as meaningless as a boyfriend.

Sukuna feels the need to end it with, “You don’t believe me, and you don’t have to, but I like him. It works. We’re good for each other.”

It’s the biggest lie of the night.

The first time it happened, Toji nearly cried.

It’s the closest he has been to it in decades. He hasn’t shed a single tear since his own mom hanged herself, since he found her, cut her down, but fuck did Megumi get him close. Reminded him he’s old, pathetic, that his dried-up tear ducts have retained their functionality.

The physical part of it wasn’t that bad, the first time he picked Megumi up.

It never starts bad. They don’t keep you around by going all out from the jump. They all ease you into it with a forgivable offense.

There were signs before, little things. The softest chime of warning bells. Incidents that made Toji double check, raise an eyebrow. Playfully remind Sukuna to take care of his boy, or else. There’s a shotgun by the door and a gun in his nightstand and a too hard clap on the shoulder and none if it does shit in the end.

In comparison to what comes later, it’s far from the worst of it.

A bruise on the kid’s forearm where a hand closed over it. The imprint of Sukuna’s ring on Megumi’s cheek. Without asking, Toji could recreate the scene.

Toji stays up all night, holding him. Keeping watch.

Or rather, Toji takes him to the cops first. Drives straight to the station, willing to solve it through proper channels before going over and doing it himself, if only to say he gave the right way a chance. He sits in the car for the better part of two hours, coaxing, pressing, talking. Explaining that he’d be there, that Megumi just needs to make a statement. Have it on record. Get a restraining order.

After the repeated refusals and reasons why he doesn’t want to do any of that, Megumi puts an end to the conversation by saying, if you make me go in there, I’ll tell them you did this.

Toji drives him home.

He sooths the welt left on soft skin until it goes away. Has a fucking vigil in Megumi’s bedroom, pious for the night. Shakes from pure rage for hours on end, like he’s suffering from withdrawals all over again.

Megumi promises it will never happen again. That he’ll never put either of them through it.

He thanks Toji a million times over, sticks to his side like a persistent burr. Sleeps in Toji’s bed, claiming he can’t stay asleep otherwise. Says he’s grown used to sharing a twin bed to know what to do with all that space in an empty king. Megumi makes breakfast and talks about moving back in for a while, getting away from the dorms. Says he feels safer with his dad than in there, all alone. Says it’s nostalgic, that he’s missed it, that he has no idea why their phone calls ever tapered off from daily to biweekly at best.

With Megumi’s history, Toji never pushes him away. He bends over backwards to be accommodating, understanding. Suffers through cold toes on his shins, elbows jabbing his sides. Sneaky cuddling and waking up from all the violent trashing nightmares bring.

Frankly, he’s missed having around. His son isn’t the only one who feels comfortable in the nostalgia trip.

Then Megumi goes out for coffee with “Yuuji” and comes back with a pair of keys to his brand-new shared apartment. Their apartment. Sukuna’s apartment. Grand gesture, heart eyes, a lovesick runt that’s never been given an ounce of attention before being pulled back in. Swept off his feet, leaving with a petty Toji, you don’t get it. He loves me. It’s not like that, it’s never been like that. I started it. God, you’re so overprotective, you’re suffocating me, I’m not a little kid. You don’t want me to have my own life. This is why I have to leave, we love each other-

Now Megumi sleeps in his own room when the break ups happen.

Toji can only handle so much. His patience has gone straight past frayed thin and into exposed nerve territory.

He’s tried angry, tried talking, tried shutting the fuck up. Tried listening and nodding and hugging his child so tight hoping Megumi might click into place again, go back to being himself. No matter what he tries, the end result ends up being the same.

Megumi stops coming back after every fight.

Now it’s only these kinds. The ones that leave marks, big ones. The dramatic ones. Three for now, and close to two dozen unannounced, impromptu sleepovers with no particular reason given.

The better of the Itadoris, the one Toji wishes Megumi dated instead – who Megumi might have dated if Toji liked him just a little bit less – keeps him in the loop. Yuuji tells him when Megumi crashes in his or Nobara’s dorm instead of in his fancy gilded cage of an apartment, when he thinks Toji should probably-maybe-most definitely check in on his son.

Even if Toji listens to the dollar store shrink and doesn’t say it to Megumi’s face, obviously he’s judging him. Smart enough to know as much, Megumi doesn’t come to him unless he’s exhausted all other options.

Those are fewer by the day, though.

Everyone is judging. People are getting sick of it.

Yuuji is judging. Nobara is no longer speaking to him, from what Toji has gathered. Even Sukuna’s parents think Megumi isn’t all there in the head since he keeps going back and expecting a different result.

Kaori stops by exactly once. She looks around the inside of their apartment and clutches her purse tighter. She refuses to sit down, looks mildly disgusted at the idea of drinking from any of their glasses, and then very politely implies Toji’s parenting is at fault.

Slightly more direct than her prim and proper approach, Toji tells her he will leave her oldest a head shorter if he ever so much as sees him, context aside. The visit is brief. Sukuna is the only Itadori smart enough to understand Toji isn’t bluffing.

It’s why their pick-up drop-off routine runs so smoothly. Megumi knows he’ll never be followed out, as long as it’s Toji who he’s calling.

Toji thinks – thinks, thinks, all he can do is think about it all – as he scoots a little closer on the bed.

He kisses Megumi’s forehead twice more. The second time, Megumi pushes his face away with a soft huff. There’s no full laugh, too soon for it, but it’s better than nothing. Toji goes for three and is met with a, “Stooop.”

He slips a hand under Megumi’s shirt to a similar protest, then tugs it up to assess the damage. Get a better picture.

There’re bruises on his hips. A purple blotted mess. Sukuna’s fingerprints left all over. Toji can recognize them by now. Could make a photo ID of his hands alone, testify to all his favorite places to grab. Toji knows too much. Knows things he can never unlearn.

As much as he hates it, by now he also knows those are more than likely consensual. Heavy quotation marks needed, as always.

Intentional might be a better descriptor. Megumi had to tell him that, blushing scarlet when Toji was rightfully horrified the first time he caught a peek in passing, when summer and shorts rolled around. The mess of discolored skin, bruises on bruises, created long before Sukuna officially raised a hand to him.

That little embarrassed “I asked for those” was his tipping point. Toji had to leave the room and walk around to clear his head.

Between the varying degrees of fading blues and purples, gradients of yellow to green, Toji can make out some that look less “consensual”. Bigger. Fresher. Straighter edges. A ring mark here, a welt there.

The line between what Megumi wants and what he thinks he wants is nonexistent. What he’s been convinced he wants by an opportunist with a silver tongue.

Toji wants to explain that to him.

Toji doesn’t want to be punched in the face for daring to point it out.

He gets no higher in lifting the fabric than Megumi’s purple ribs when a hand pushes at him again. Toji is too busy looking at how his ribs are too prominent to notice it, so Megumi pinches. Digs his nails into marred skin and refuses to release.

“Toji, stop. I’m- God. I don’t have a binder on. Stop it.”

“So?”

“So?” Megumi repeats, horrified. Toji thought they were past all that. Past shame. He’s had to run him baths before. Wash off crusted blood, wrap his arms up. There’s so little he hasn’t seen. His son insists, “So, stop already. I told you. I don’t want you to look. It’s weird.”

It’s not fine, but Toji acquiesces. Bargains, “Just your back. You know I’d never compromise your delicate sensibilities.”

Megumi turns over with a put-upon roll of his eyes. He rests a cheek (the not swollen one, the side which doesn’t hurt to touch) on his folded arms.

His back is clean. Unmarked save for a single dime sized patch of blue above his tailbone, to the left. Toji brushes a thumb over it. Megumi hums but doesn’t move. Can’t be too painful, then.

Out of things to do and useful things to say, Toji puts a hand on Megumi’s back and starts rubbing circles into soft skin. He tries to imagine the circumstances around it are nicer. Normal. An average father taking care of his average kid, soothing him. He dreams of Megumi openly asking for love in less than life threatening circumstances.

“Mm,” escapes Megumi, twisting into the touch. “That’s nice.”

“Doesn’t hurt?”

“No, he didn’t…” Megumi pauses. Catches himself right in time.

God forbid he acknowledges the bruises don’t magically appear on his body. That a person put them there. A boyfriend Toji has stopped commenting on because there’s only so many secondhand excuses he can hear before he blows a fuse. Before he reaches for a gun.

“That’s okay. Doesn’t hurt at all. It’s just my face.”

This time.

“And the ribs,” Toji mumbles to himself, drawing nonsense patterns with his index. Looping shapes with no direction or logic to them. Mindless. Better than those Mandalas they had them try drawing in rehab. Same idea. Repeat ad nauseum and pretend your hands aren’t shaking.

Megumi doesn’t confirm or deny. If the idea of having them didn’t sicken him, Toji would take a picture. Evidence to show Megumi, in case he forgets again. Right there, fresh from the scene of the crime, look at what he’s doing to you.

“Thanks for coming,” his son says instead.

Pointed, laced with meaning, “Any time. You know you can always call me.”

On his worst days, Toji damn near wishes he wouldn’t. He wishes he was strong enough to put an end to it all. Take at least one person permanently out of the equation, doesn’t matter who.

He doesn’t say that. He murmurs a quiet, “Love you,” and brings his lips to the top of Megumi’s spine.

After Sukuna is done helping clear the table, Megumi walks him to the door.

“He hates me,” Sukuna tells him, lingering, intentionally loud enough for their out of view observer to pick up. He knows Toji is listening, doing a shit job of pretending not to.

“He doesn’t hate you,” Megumi soothes, hands holding Sukuna’s wrists, placed over the tattooed bands. “He’s… he’s protective. He’ll get used to you.”

“Or kill me.”

Megumi lets go to shove at his chest. His hands relocate, gripping his boyfriend’s shirt and keeping him close. Smiling up at him, stupidly in love.

“Shut up. He’s not like that.”

Toji is very much like that. Used to be. Might still be, as he watches Sukuna pulling his only child in closer and kissing him in the doorway where he know Toji can see. Another practiced motion. A dance. Established routine. Toji mentally tries to put the pieces together, see when it could have started to calculate how pissed he has the right to be.

A mistake, he tries to convince himself. A phase. Megumi trying to make a point, shove it in his face. The more he looks at them and sees himself in the kiss, walking Megumi’s mom home, looking at each other starry eyed, the less he believes it.

When they break apart, Sukuna finally starts minding his volume. He whispers something in Megumi’s ear and kisses his cheek. Megumi beams. Turns his head to catch one more peck before he nods.

The door closes. Megumi stays where he is, smiling to himself. He touches his lips.

“So,” Toji says from his spot in the kitchen.

“Jesus. You scared me.”

“That’s your boyfriend.”

Defensive already, Megumi stares him down as he says, “That’s my boyfriend.”

Toji takes a long drink of water. Swallows it down along with what he really wants to say.

“He seems… fine”

Megumi steps closer. “Fine?”

“Don’t make me repeat it, kid. He’s fine. Bit of an asshole, but okay.”

“You maybe said three words to him that weren’t an outright interrogation.”

“More than three.”

“Hardly.”

“This is as much of an approval as I can give for a douchebag like him, Meg. Take it or leave it.”

“Are you… Is this saying you like him?”

“I’m saying I don’t hate him. Yet.”

That’s the best he can offer. The only tactic he has. If he tries to talk Megumi out of it, he’s bound to dig his heels in.

“Glowing endorsement.”

They both know that coming from Toji, it is.

“Don’t fuckin’ push it.”

It’s hard to keep his voice flat and detached when Megumi is smiling at him. Properly, relived the answer isn’t worse. When he’s stepping closer, walking right into Toji’s arms. A part of Toji hates that he’s relieved too. Hates that Sukuna wasn’t worse. Hates seeing anything mildly familiar in the men Megumi chooses to bring home. More than anything hates that under different circumstances – if Sukuna wasn’t fucking his son – they could maybe get along.

“He’s too old for you, though,” he still says, just to make his disapproval on that front loud and clear.

“He’s twenty-one,” Megumi whines, clicking his tongue.

“Try that one again and assume I’m not a moron.”

“Twenty-three. But so what?”

“So you just turned eighteen.”

“I’m an adult.”

“You’re a kid.”

Toji’s kid. His kid, his baby, his firstborn that can’t seem to ever stop growing.

“I’m not a kid and you don’t get to decide who I date.”

There it is. The line in the sand he knew was coming. Toji could try and push. He could forbid it. could do a lot of things. Could risk losing his son to a relationship that he’s hoping will fall apart before college starts. Winter break, at the latest.

“I know.”

Megumi softens. Burrows into his dad, tucks his face under Toji’s chin and inhales. “You do?”

“Just be careful. Alright?”

“I will.”

He won’t.

Morning finds Toji sluggish. Eyes heavy, half lidded, stumbling around after too much tossing and turning. Too much thinking with too little to channel it towards. Nothing sits worse with Toji than being powerless.

He finds Megumi already making coffee, dressed in nothing but panties and the same shirt from yesterday, hanging far too loose on his frame. The shoulder seams drop halfway down his biceps, hem to his thighs.

It’s too early in the morning to examine how deliberate his motions seem, slowed down. The bump against Toji as he reaches for the mugs, what few clean ones remain in the cabinet. Bad habit of his. Without Megumi around, cleaning falls wayside. It’s not as if he has company over.

Meaningful company, anyway. The people that come here aren’t people Toji cares about impressing.

“Morning,” Megumi greets, voice sleep rough. His hand goes to Toji’s back while he scoots past, digging around for a spoon.

Toji tenses up. No good reason for it, nothing beyond basic instinct.

“Put some pants on, Gumi.”

“Why? It’s just us,” Megumi dismisses.

Why, indeed. Why? It has never bothered him before. Toji himself runs hot, wears less than that on the regular. Walks around in his ratty underwear whenever the AC breaks down.

Why?

Because it’s just the two of them. Because there’s fingertip bruises peeking from underneath the too big sleeves, more of them along his thighs, on his ass. Because he didn’t plan on knowing how his kid’s underwear choices have changed in the past few years, how cheeky and small they’ve gotten. Because morning tends to bring back clarity and shame, the distance Megumi usually cares about keeping.

Typically, he holes himself inside his bedroom for the better part of the first week. Nurses his wounds in silent shame, refusing to let anyone sees the damage for too long.

“Put some fuckin’ pants on before you get sick,” Toji grumbles, waiting for his coffee.

It’s only when he registers the faint smell of something burning that Toji spots the pan, sizzling on the stove. Megumi’s attention snaps to it, too, abandoning ship in favor of trying to salvage the lightly charred scrambled eggs.

“You’re gonna burn the place down.”

Offended, Megumi frowns. He’d protest, but Toji is already nudging him aside and taking over, previous tension taking a backseat in favor of having something to do with himself.

As Toji fixes what can be saved from their breakfast, Megumi hovers close. Too close. Keeps breathing down his neck, mumbling instructions. Micromanaging, peeking over Toji’s shoulder. He passes the salt by placing it directly into Toji’s palm, making sure he closes fingers over it.

“Remember when we used to do this every week? On Sundays?” Megumi prompts as they settle at the table, one eggy oversalted mess split between them.

They never did it every Sunday.

Maybe half a dozen of them total, when Megumi was much younger and Toji was between jobs. When he was working, stacking overtime, Sundays were reserved for sleeping in until noon in an attempt to fight off his constant exhaustion. Morning cartoons and Lucky Charms parented his kid until he managed to drag himself out of bed, feeling like a fresh corpse. But Megumi says it like it was a cherished tradition, habit in some perfect domestic unit.

“Sure,” Toji agrees flatly, all his attention redirected at his barely edible food. Not Megumi’s dreamy look, not the little thong between his spread legs, the knee tapping against his own, seeking a coconspirator. An affirmation of a blatantly untrue recollection. Folie a deux.

“I missed it,” Megumi continues, chattier than expected. Usually he sulks the morning after. “Really. The food on campus sucks.”

“This can’t be better than that.”

In Megumi’s head the only qualifying factor seems to be, “I like it better.”

With a smile, he’s sure to add, “And the company is much nicer.”

Sukuna shows up at the apartment unannounced. Megumi's at class.

“He's not here,” Toji says through the cracked door, bolt in place.

“I know. Came to talk to you.”

Toji considers slamming the door. Doesn't. “About?”

“Can I come in?”

"No."

Sukuna sighs. Pulls out a pack of cigarettes, offers one. Toji takes it. He doesn’t let him in, but he does come out, still in the work clothes he slept in. They smoke huddled together in the hallway like delinquents.

“I need a favor,” Sukuna says.

“No.”

“You don't even know what it is.”

“Don't care.”

“It's about Megumi.”

Toji takes a drag. Waits.

“His birthday's coming up. I want to throw him a party. Small thing, just friends. But I wanted to check with you, see if you’re alright with it.”

“He's eighteen. Doesn't need my permission.”

“No, but he'll feel guilty if you're not on board.” Sukuna ashes his cigarette. “Meg hates leaving you alone, especially around the holiday season. It’s annoying sometimes, how much he worries about it.”

Bitter, Toji smiles. Has a funny way of showing it, his kid. They’ve spoken once this week. Megumi’s been blowing him off with texts, perpetually in the library, cramming. Allegedly. Toji has his doubts.

“Where?”

“My parents have a beach house. Two hours north. I'll have him back Sunday night.”

“Your parents gonna be there?”

“God, no. They're in Europe.”

“You want to take my son to an empty beach house for a weekend. For his birthday. For Christmas. And you want me to sign off on it.”

“When you put it like that, it sounds bad.”

“It is bad.”

“Look.” Sukuna turns to face him. “I'm going to be honest with you. We're going to do exactly what you think. A lot. Whether it's in that beach house or in his dorm or in the back of my car. That's happening regardless.”

Toji's jaw clenches.

“But,” Sukuna continues, “I'm also going to make sure he has a good birthday. Good food, good music, his friends around. I'm not trying to isolate him or whatever you're worried about. I'm just trying to give him a nice weekend. A nice holiday he can remember. A proper party.”

“Why do you care what I think?”

“Because he cares. And I care about him.” Sukuna's voice softens. He follows the trail of smoke with his eyes. “I know you don't believe that. But it's true.”

Toji looks at him. Really looks. Sees something genuine under the bravado. Sees, in his head, a proper tree. Gifts underneath it. A memory he failed to give his child when it counted and how every year since has felt bland. How the two of them do a piss poor job of pretending the season is anything but depressing for their family.

Toji drops his cigarette onto the ground. He steps on it.

“…Fine. You got my blessing. Have fun,” he answers.

Light from the bathroom’s open door illuminates Megumi’s shape. The general figure of him, too skinny, still. Back to being all knees and elbows, the way he looked in middle school when the growth spurts hit him one after the other in rapid succession.

He’s twisting a towel between his hands, unsure what to do with himself. Standing right on the precipice, one foot on the tiles, the other outside, shifting his weight back and forth.

“Can you…”

Toji doesn’t know when this bullshit started.

Love doesn’t come naturally to him the way violence does, but Toji likes to think he did a decent job of it when Megumi was a kid. Spent enough time braiding and unbraiding unruly hair until it was just right, playing ponies and puppies, learning the names of various cartoon characters. Whenever flu season hit and the kid inevitably got sick, stuck in the house with nothing to do, Toji gave up his beer budget to buy him Pokémon packs and cough medicine.

Why Megumi now struggles to ask for anything close to gentle is beyond reason – one more thing beyond Toji’s understanding.

“What?”

“It’s stupid.”

All of this is, Toji doesn’t point out.

“Try me.”

“Can you run me a bath.”

There’s no real question to it. Toji looks up from his phone, sees the way Megumi’s eyes are averted, pointed to the floor. Squeezing the towel for all it’s worth like he’s trying to wring its neck.

The last time he was brave – read, feeling awful – enough to ask, Megumi was twelve. Had pneumonia, hacked up half a lung. The last time Toji had to do it, Megumi was sixteen. Toji found him passed out, shoved fingers down his throat. Had emergency services on the phone and a cold spray of water on Megumi’s face at the same time. He drew a proper bath a month later in place of an apology.

“You’re almost twenty, kid. Pretty sure you can figure out a tap.”

“I know that,” Megumi answers, too mumbling to sound mean. “Forget it. I just thought–”

He turns to leave, stops. Mumbles another petulant, teenage, “Whatever. Forget I asked.”

Knees popping, Toji finds himself already getting up. What’s happening inside Megumi’s head is blatant. Being sized up and directly compared to someone is a feeling Toji will never get over. He never wants to know for certain how he stacks up in Megumi’s eyes. Where he falls on the scale of fucked up.

“Give me five minutes.”

As if it’s the one outcome he wasn’t prepared for, Megumi startles. Snaps up, smiles, looks away once more. Tries to fix it with a dismissive, “Cool.”

Toji finishes his drink and turns up the sound on the TV before he stands up, making his way over to where Megumi is sitting on the closed toilet seat, knobby knees to his chest, waiting. Curled into a ball, feet tapping against the plastic. Arrhythmic tap tap taps. Hutched forward, wounded bird folding in on itself.

The bubble bath set is right where he left it, tucked away in the cupboard under the sink. Untouched since the last time Megumi was here. Here, small, here, bruised and bleeding. The lavender scent Toji got solely because the kid was raving about the jacuzzi bathtub in his new place, rainfall showers, heated floors. Lush gift sets that had him smelling cloying, unrecognizable. The beg-pardons.

Water runs. The tub slowly fills.

He pours the soap inside, knowing that it hardly compares to Megumi’s newfound living standards. At its full capacity, the tub still doesn’t let Megumi submerge himself, stretch out. The ceramic is yellowed around the edges – and not with that cozy, intentional warmth that pours over a room from mood lightning and lit candles.

It's the un-cleanable yellow tint of aged plastic. Piss yellow.

Lavander aroma spreads through the bathroom as steam rises, fizzles out. Megumi gets up to close the door, trapping it inside. Them, right along with it. When Toji looks up, Megumi is working his shorts down his legs, so his focus stays on the frothing, rising bubbles. Rolling up his sleeves to reach into the bath, stirring them up and checking the temperature.

While he’s never been a natural, slipping into the role of dad is easy. He has nearly two decades of firsthand experience. The longest he’s held a position.

He stops the water only when it’s near overfilling, foam to the very top. Too much of it, fluffy and inviting, identical to when Megumi was a kid. The bath toys are still under the sink, too. Rubber duckies, elephants, and water wheels that inevitably ended up soaking most of the bathroom.

Out of the corner of his eye, Toji can see more clothes dropping. He goes to stand up, but a hand on his shoulder stops him. Megumi uses his crouching form as a crutch while he carefully lowers himself into the warm water.

For the second time, Toji tries to leave.

Megumi’s hand drops to his wrist.

“Stay.”

Genuine confusion colors Toji’s face. Unable to say no to that voice Megumi abuses, he listens. Stays. Waits. Once a Zenin dog, always a Zenin dog, Toji sits at the edge, bubbles wetting his shirt.

Megumi passes him a washcloth. Gentle, Toji starts moving it over the expanse of the Megumi’s back, taking his time with it.

Like some mockery of a 50s pin-up – down to the ugly yellow-green fading circle around his eye, committed to being period accurate – Megumi keeps his arms squeezed over his chest, hiding it from view. Obscured by strategically placed bubbles, then his knees while Megumi curls back into his favorite position.

Like Toji would look. Like he isn’t more aware of it all than Megumi is, as he drags the washcloth up and down spindly arms.

“You’re losing weight again.”

“Stop,” Megumi answers before it has a chance to start, defaulting to his favorite catchphrase.

“Just saying.”

“Well, don’t say it.”

Toji works his way back to Megumi’s shoulders. Down, then, beneath the water line. Dipping along the curve of his spine, thumbing at protruding bone, mind elsewhere. He thinks about calling Shiu. Thinks about smashing Sukuna’s head against the corner of his nice marble counter. About what kind of parent raises the kind of child who lets himself rot like this.

Caught in his mind, Toji isn’t sure when Megumi starts looking back at him.

There’s no clear expression on his face. A quiet, heavy stillness and droopy eyes, mildly sad looking. the expression he makes when there’s too many things happening inside his head. Too many emotions he chooses to sit inside, shutting himself inside with them. A self-made coffin to suffocate in. A death sentence.

“You okay?” Toji asks.

No answer. Megumi’s eyes go down, flicker to where Toji’s hand is moving. It’s enough to make him pause, follow the silent idea behind his son’s eyes.

When it happened, Toji doesn’t know, but his hand has travelled to Megumi’s stomach of its own volition. Flat against it, warm, scrubbing away like he’s done to everything else. Thumb over his bellybutton, circling over it. Megumi’s eyes meet his, pupils blow out to the point of only a sliver of green being visible.

Trying to make it better, Toji pulls away, slowly.

Again, louder, more fatherly, “Megumi. You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Megumi snaps, too fast. “Jesus. I’ll- I’ll tell you if something is wrong. Stop asking every three seconds.”

Toji frowns but picks the washcloth back up again. Puts it on Megumi’s knee, scrubs the inside of it. He washes every curve and crevice, trying to remove Sukuna’s touch from them.

Then it happens. Megumi drops his arms. Shifts forward. Closer. Just a hair, a flicker, nothing substantial. Wide eyed glances at Toji’s mouth, lips parted.

A fraction of a second, movement close to nonexistent, yet more than enough for Toji to go still all over. Frozen solid on cold tile.

There’s heat building up. Crawling too close, sickening. Not desire, not anything approximately similar. Only the horrible awareness that something inside this makeshift sauna is not right. Toji can’t hear the TV announcer from the other room anymore. The bathroom goes quiet the same way a forest does when something is so deeply, unnaturally wrong.

He stands up, drops the washcloth. Megumi protests, sitting up. Bubble clad Venus rising out of the fizzling foam, hand clutching the edge of the tub with pruning fingers.

“Toji, what-” he goes to ask. Justified, considering Toji moved like the floor is burning through his soles, a demon walking on sacred ground. Projecting his own issues, clearly, as there is no other explanation he’s willing to acknowledge.

Megumi’s hand around his wrist again, handcuff, chain. Voice wavering just right – not overdone, earnest sounding to maximize how it tugs at heartstrings.

“Nothin’. Nothin’. Got a cramp,” Toji answers, “Getting too old to be doing this.”

Temporarily placated, Megumi releases his grip. Goes back to soaking, eyeing Toji wearily.

“…can you wash my hair too? Please?” he asks, puppy eyed. Toji takes out his toothbrush out of the cup it resides in and puts it aside, sitting right back down. He scoops some water up, tilts Megumi’s head back.

“Feels nice.”

Toji only hums in acknowledgement. In for a penny, he gets the shampoo. Squeezes out a dollop into his palm and gets to washing, liquid frothing against black strands. Megumi’s hair is longer than it was when he left. Rinse and repeat.

“You’re good at this,” Megumi says.

“Got a lot of practice.”

Rinse. More shampoo. He misses when Megumi was smaller, when they fit in there together. Rubber toys floating around them, puddles left on the tiles from all the splashing. Back when no problem was beyond fixing by Toji’s unpracticed attempts at TLC and a few scoops of ice cream.

Nostalgia paints his vision looking back. Everything that used to annoy him feels like child’s play now that he’s been through it once. He’d give an arm to go back to the things that used to piss him off.

Little kids, little problems.

But Megumi is still so little, curled in on himself, and yet the problems keep getting bigger and bigger with no end in sight.

It’s when he sees Sukuna drunk that Toji allows himself to entertain the fleeting thought he’s misjudged a person, just this once.

A rare thing. Being a cynic has done him good so far. Going through life expecting everyone to be a piece of shit helps. It levels the standards he sets. Few people manage to rise above them.

What Toji expects is a mean drunk. Loud, aggressive, volatile, looking for a fight. When he sees Megumi half dragging his body through the door – unannounced, always without any kind of warning – already making some kind of excuse about his boyfriend misjudging his limits just this once, how they were in the neighborhood after a party, and he wasn’t about to let Sukuna get behind the wheel, Toji readies himself for conflict. Verbal or physical. Both, first one leading to the second.

He expects the kind of mean that always follows inhibitions dropping. The kind of drunk Toji used to be.

Being drunk, instead, turns Sukuna unfamiliarly tame. The only thing he seems to care about is Megumi and keeping him in his view, within arm’s reach. He ends up sitting on the floor, cross-legged, staring up at Megumi’s sleeping face like Toji’s son is the one who singlehandedly hung up the moon and the sun and every other star in the sky. As if, to him, Megumi is the reason the Earth itself keeps spinning.

It's disarming. Uncomfortable, seeing the tender way he drags his index over Megumi’s cheek, carefully brushing hair away from his face.

“He’s so fuckin’ pretty,” Sukuna slurs to no one in particular. “Look at him. Fuckin’ beautiful. Can’t believe he’s real.”

Toji comes back from the kitchen with two glasses of water. He tries to hand one to Sukuna, telling him, “You should probably drink this.”

Too busy staring, Sukuna only manages a murmur of, “In a minute.”

Feeling unwelcome and intruding in his own apartment, Toji mutely stares.

Finally tearing his eyes away with a dopey smile that in no way suits the sharp face it’s currently stretched on, Sukuna looks up at him. Continues with his drunken tirade with glassy eyes that can never truly focus. They look at him, past him, through him.

“You… you made somethin’ perfect. You know that? You know how… Never mind. Doesn’t matter. I don’t know how you did it, but you did.”

“Sukuna…”

This is worse than violence, whatever it is that he’s getting to see a peek of, a sliver of unprecedented intimacy. A moment reserved for lovers.

“Seriously,” he insists, cradling Megumi’s limp hand to his cheek. Sukuna kisses his palm, the spot right below his pinky, then his ring finer. “M’serious. He’s the best thing I’ve ever–” His voice cracks on the word. “The best. I don’t even deserve him. Know I don’t, but I’m gonna try. Gonna be so good to him. Always”

Toji has both made and seen too many drunk declarations to believe them. They’re usually bullshit. The promises evaporate right along with the hangovers.

But Sukuna looks at Megumi so stupidly earnest. Megumi is the only real thing. Everything else in this room is white noise to him.

“I love him,” he hears Sukuna say. “And you won’t believe me. Nobody does. Don’t think Meg does. Everyone… everyone thinks it’s jus’… That I’m jus’ fuckin’ around cause that’s all I do. But I’m not. I really-”

His forehead drops. Sukuna rests his head on the couch, eyes closed, room probably spinning, bent over like he’s bowing. “I really love him.”

Hating him is easier before this. Now, it’s too personal. Ridiculous, how seeing a drunk kid painfully in love with his son is what tips him over the edge. Toji sits down on the floor next to Sukuna and talks. Shares.

There are not enough people in his life who he gets to share this with, who love Megumi as much as he does, who are willing to listen to a sentimental old man talk about his son’s first Halloween costume or how he always made Toji pick out pieces of bell pepper when they ate shish kabobs. How, after watching Hachiko, Megumi sobbed every time they were near Shibuya Station.

Sukuna listens to it all. Soaks up every mundane detail. Nods at every revealed preference, a second away from taking notes on how Megumi has always loved non-fiction best. He shares his own stories, detailing a side of Megumi Toji is no longer privy to.

He still talks in his sleep. He still hates the smell of beer. Still likes his hair played with and his back scratched.

“You’re good to him,” Sukuna decides, eventually.

“You're drunk.”

And he doesn’t know Toji beyond this. That does the heavy lifting as far as the evaluation goes.

“Yeah. But I mean it.” Sukuna goes back to playing with Megumi's hair. Gentle. Reverent. “I'm gonna take care of him like you did. I promise. I'm gonna- I'm gonna be good, too. Better than I am. Better than I've been to anyone.”

And looking at him – this version of Sukuna, unguarded and soft and completely devoted – Toji believes him.

Wants to believe that not everyone who is like him is destined to be a fuck-up, that he’s projecting onto the poor bastard for no good reason.

Needs to believe that maybe, just maybe, he was fundamentally wrong. That Sukuna isn't the worst thing that can happen to Megumi.

Toji’s only got the single good in his life, after all. The living, breathing proof he’s not a piece of shit that failed on all fronts. Something good came out of him. And Toji has always known that Megumi couldn’t possibly stay solely his forever. He can’t and won’t and would never ruin his son’s life by trying to keep him under lock and key, but that doesn’t make it easier for any of them.

Megumi is his. A piece of him. and Toji needs that to be safe. Taken care of. Needs to know that it’s good hands he’s handing him to. Since this one is, apparently, determined to stick around.

“I will. I will, really.”

Sukuna won’t.

That night is the last time Toji feels anything close to friendly towards Sukuna.

The first bruises come two weeks later.

The radiator makes odd, gurgling noises. Traffic moves outside. They both end up staring at the unmoving fan above them.

Abruptly, Megumi rolls over. He hides how he winces at the pressure on his right side. Big green eyes blink up at Toji. He gnaws on his bottom lip, mulling over his words.

Before Toji can say his usual “out with it” Megumi scoots closer. Rests his face on his dad’s shoulder, then tucks himself under Toji’s chin like he’s still the same kid deep down and nothing has ever changed. He’s never left.

“I’m done with him,” he states. Toji wishes he could believe it. He doesn’t quite roll his eyes, yet skepticism coats his voice. It’s a lie he can’t make convincing.

“Okay, baby. I’m glad.”

“You don’t believe me.”

Obviously. Toji’s been given no reason to believe any of the shit that comes out of his mouth.

“Gumi…”

“No. You don’t believe me,” Megumi protests, looking up. He frowns but doesn’t move away. Gets closer, if anything, all but falling right into his dad’s lap. Megumi puts his hand on Toji’s shoulder, tucks a finger under the strap of his wifebeater, touch cold as always.

“You don’t, but I’m serious,” this time, “I know I was stupid before, and I- I thought it’d get better. But it won’t. Now I know it won’t and I’m not going back.”

The sad thing is, Toji wants to believe him.

“…don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad,” Toji says far too quickly. “Not… not mad. But you get why I’m not jumping for joy just yet.”

“But I just said–”

Pause. Deep breath. Megumi tries again.

“I know I did this before, Toji, I do. It took me too long, okay, but I do know better. I blocked him this time. And I talked to Yuuji. And my, well, not mine, but the counselor at school. I talked to her. She booked me an appointment, gave me a book.”

“I believe you,” Toji tries once more. He could say that a copy of whatever book Megumi got is probably already somewhere in the apartment and has been for months. That instead of reading it, Toji could quote it to him from memory, front to back. “I’m proud that you did that. Kid, I’ll be the happiest fuckin’ guy if you manage to cut that loser off. I’m gonna be over the moon.”

It’s not quite what he wants, so Megumi gets huffy. He tucks himself back like he’s twisting a Tetris piece, forcing it to fit in the wrong space. Toji lets him. He throws his arms over too boney shoulders and rubs his hands over Megumi’s arms, warming him up. In return, he gets a proper lapful of his kid, nuzzling into his body.

“I’m not going back. Ever. You’ll see."