Chapter Text
Denji poked at the food on his plates, having yet to take a bite. His chin to his knee, he idly watched Power feed some to Meowy beside him, the cat happily accepting the offering. The cat meows and she echoes it back, a happy little grin on her face.
It had already been three days since the best night ever, and he had made exactly zero leeway into finding out his girlfriends (Makima was his girlfriend now. The thought still made his spine tingle, even three days after they had become official) interests.
The rays of the morning sun beamed through the paned balcony doorway, casting an amber glow over the living room. The walnut wood table they ate their meals at becoming cherry under its warmth. Denji squinted his eyes and turned away from its glare.
Aki eyed him in annoyance from across the table, his hair down and eyes still drowsy. “You cannot tell me after everything I’ve seen you try to eat that scrambled eggs are your limit.”
He jumped, brought out of his trance. “What? No, I ain’t gonna turn down food.” Especially not Akis’, who had proven himself all but a master chef in the eyes of the hybrid, though he’d rather go back to eating toilet paper out of public restrooms than admit that. Denji felt his gaze still on him, like someone was pressing the butt of a glass bottle against his forehead. A sensation he was unpleasantly familiar with.
He made a decision. If he was serious about dating Makima—and he was, more than he’s ever been about anything, ever—then he might as well start here. “It's just, do you know what Miss Makima likes to do? You know, when she isn’t working and stuff?”
He blinked at the transition—or lack thereof. “I’m sorry?”
“Like, I know her jobs important and all, but it can’t be everything she does, can it?” Go to work then hang out with her dogs then go back to work? Over and over and over? No way that’s her life. Makima was cool and mysterious and crazy hot and kind and scary all at the same time. Her life should be awesome. The kind where she eats new food every day and takes long baths every night before bed. Where all the dumps she takes are big and satisfying. It shouldn’t...
It shouldn’t remind him of his own.
“Makima is a civil servant, Denji. A high-ranking one at that. She is responsible for the safety of tens of thousands of civilians, as well as those who work under her. People with jobs like that don’t have the time to mess around like you do.”
“But...” Was her driving him home last night just her messing around? Or was it work for her? Something damp and cold fell over him. He shook off the feeling, choosing instead to start in on his plate. Why have bad thoughts when you could have breakfast?
“I pity you Denji,” Power said, cramming a fistful of eggs into her mouth. She ignored Aki’s reprimand and chewed with her mouth open, Meowy going after whatever fell from it. “So caught up in your mortal follies. Have you learned nothing from watching how Meowy and I live?” She picked up her can of cola and poured it into her mouth. What didn’t soak into the eggs dribbled from her lips, turning her thin pink shirt a syrupy brown at the chest. The cat took notice, and with the flick of its tail began lapping at the stain.
Denji watched the fabric darken, becoming like stained glass mirror which painted the fiends' lithe body in shades of syrupy brown, sweet in all the ways she wasn’t. He thinks about how soft her body was under his palms, a sudden jolt of arousal striking him. He clenched those hands into fists and readjusted his sweatpants before looking away, a strange whisper of guilt passing through him.
Since when did thinking about boobs hurt? He thought about it for a moment, and a light bulb went off. Maybe it hurt because it wasn’t Miss Makimas boobs? Boyfriends thought about their girlfriends' boobs, right? Not other girls. So, he did—he thought about how soft and warm they were, even under the fabric of her white dress shirt and the bra she was probably wearing. He thought about how big they were. Then, for whatever reason, he found himself thinking about her tie, and how it tickled his ears whenever she leaned over to check his work. He thought of a scent he did not have a name for but could imagine there next to him, if he only closed his eyes. It was warm and sweet, red and gold.
“Him learning from your example is the only possible way things could get worse around here.”
“How dare you!” Power shouted, swallowing the food in her mouth in one big gulp before continuing. “Our way of life is pure, free from the trappings of human frailty!” She began petting her companion, speaking to her in hushed tones. “Isn’t that right Meowy? Aren’t these humans foolish? They’d do well under out dominion, wouldn’t they?”
The cat trilled in what she took as agreement.
Denji watched them, chest aching, thoughts of a friend he could no longer talk to about the stuff that pissed him off; could no longer hold on the bad days where he didn’t ever want to get up—those happened less now, but… But he was alive still, he reminded himself, Miss Makima had said so. He grimaced, watching as Power picked Meowy up and swayed her side to side. He wished she were here so he didn’t have to feel this way. So he didn’t have to think about things he didn’t want to.
Aki turned back to him. “Listen Denji, Miss Makima is a very private woman. What she chooses to do in her own time is her business, not yours.”
But it was his business! He had to take Makima out on a super date to prove he was a super boyfriend! How could he do that if he didn't know anything about her!
The words sat round and heavy on his tongue, desperate to roll out. But he couldn’t let that happen. She would get upset with him if he couldn't even keep it under wraps for one full week. A super boyfriend doesn’t make his girlfriend upset. “Yeah, you’re right dude. None of my business, yuh-huh.” His voice was terse.
Aki blinked at his easy agreement, but before he could push further his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and flipped it open. “Speak of the devil, it’s Miss Makima. I’ll be right-”
“I got it!” Denji shot across the table, wobbling it precariously and almost knocking his plate to the floor as he tried to swipe Aki’s phone from his hand. The older man grabbed him by his head, pushing him back as he held his phone as far back as possible.
“Like hell I’m going to let you take Miss Makima’s calls on my phone!”
Denji scowled, knees digging into the tabletop, being all that stopped him from tumbling face first into the time-worn wood as he used both hands to make swipes at Aki’s phone. “C’mon dude! She’s probably calling for me anyway, so stop being such a butthole and gimme!”
“Look Meowy, they’re fighting!” The other two ignored Power and the high-pitched chortles that followed. The cat wiggled out of her grasp and scampered off, deigning the chaos not to her tastes.
“Why would she be calling for you!?”
He blinked. “No idea!”
“Then buzz off!” He gave a shove and managed to send Denji back to his side of the table, landing in a heap on top of Power, her laughs turning into muffled shouts.
Aki quickly made his way out onto the patio, slamming the door facing away from the paned door he could talk with a modicum of privacy.
Denji watched him leave, still sprawled over Power’s prone form. She writhed beneath him, trying to crawl out from under his weight, but he was too lost in thought to notice.
Was Makima asking about him right now? Was she-
“Ow!” He heard the tear of fabric, and with it a searing pain in his forearm and the rank stench of blood invading his nostrils. “Did you just freaking bite me!?” He scrambled up, the fiend following suit, and put a hand to the wound. A mess of red and raw nerves met him there, and he flinched at the sudden spike of pain. She had bit him deep, deep enough for teeth to scrape against bone and leave two strokes of her wrath indented.
“Tis your fault for daring to use me as your resting place!” She growled and tackled his stomach, arms wrapping around his waist as she threw all her inconsiderable against his slightly less inconsiderable weight. “Now get back on the floor!”
He braced against the impact at the impact, jostling his arm. Pain and crimson wept from the wound and stained his pajama shirt. Power gave another heave against his mid-section. Her bare feet made for poor purchase against the sleek hardwood, but still some ground was bought.
He took a stumbling step back and knocked into the edge of the table, nearly sending him tumbling over it. “Hey, watch it!”
“You dare to command me!” She turned her head and her horns scraped against his stomach.
“Why do you even want me to get on the floor?”
“You sat on me so now I must sit on you! It’s only fair!”
“That doesn’t make any sense!”
She tightened her home around him before twisting sharply and spinning him to the side, making him lose balance.
He held his hands out, trying to catch his balance. His foot caught on one of the table legs and he was sent tumbling to the ground, face first.
Power grinned as her will was made manifest. Denji cursed and began to make his way up off the floor, but she refused to have all her hard work be in vain. She brought her elbow up and jumped, preparing to smite him with all she had. “Feel my wrath!”
On his knees and facing away from, he only had time to look up before all the breath was painfully knocked from his lungs and he was sent crashing hard back into the floor. Old photographs shuddered where they hung on the wall, but none fell.
Power, now laying on top of the boy, rolled so that she was laying on her side atop him. cheek resting in her palm as she set her elbow on the back of his head. “The glory is mine.”
Her victory was cut shot as Aki came stomping back inside, his call over. “I swear to God, if we get one more noise complaint because of you two, I’m going to—,” he cuts himself off abruptly, taking in the sight before him.
Power beamed at him, all too happy to have someone be witness to her victory. Denji just groaned beneath her.
Aki's worked his jaw tensely. He knew he couldn’t let this go unaddressed, but he really wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear whatever insane logic led to this.
Unfortunately for him, Power was happy to take the initiative. “Rejoice mortal, for you bear witness to my glory.”
“What?”
“Glory,” Power repeated, voice airy and eyes wide as if in awe of the word. Denji groaned again.
“I…” he pinched his nose and looked to the ceiling, as if seeking guidance. “I don’t…”
“I understand if you are at a loss for words.”
The apartment was silent save for the whistle of wind through the patio doorway.
Aki finally sighed. “Miss Makima wants us to meet with her at her office in two hours. Be ready to leave by ten.” He took notice of the blood leaking from Denji’s arm and drenching the shirt he had given him. And the floor.
At least it wouldn’t stand out, what with all the other bits of color the two had managed to give his apartment walls and floor and somehow even the ceiling, once or twice. He gave up on trying scrub it all clean a few weeks back, when their ability to make messes proved to far outpace his ability to clean them. He figured he either had to accept the damage for what it was or be stuck spending the rest of his life fixing it.
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Denji trailed behind Aki and Power as they went down one of many of Public Safeties man labyrinthine hallways. He gingerly pressed a hand to his still throbbing nose. Power had busted when she slammed his head into the ground, and he wanted to make sure it had healed up properly. Like hell he was showing up with a crooked nose.
After finding nothing wrong, he considered his uniform, hoping to look as proper as possible. To do so, he simply recalled how Makima wore her own.
Shirt tucked in? Check.
Shoes tied? Check.
Wearing a tie? Check.
Clothes wrinkle free? He tried his best.
As he continued down his list, he overheard Power demanding Aki to explain why she had been wrested from her respite. Whatever the reason, he had it to thank for getting him out of patrol today. He'd dice it up and quick as a thank you.
“From what I was told,” he began, arms folding behind his back subconsciously as his voice became monotonous in that way it always did when he gave reports. “Miss Makima had sent two hunters into the hotel we learned of three days ago. Their mission was to investigate for any devil activity.” Aki nodded to any devil hunters they passed, them returning it before staring openly at Denji and Power. The two glowered back.
The trio took a right and Aki continued. “They entered the building at approximately five in the afternoon. Contact was lost within the hour.” His eyes were cold, hard. “This morning, the left hand of one of the agents was found impaled on a tree branch outside the hotel. The rest of the arm was found in some bushes nearby.” They came to a stop outside the office doors. “Miss Makima has taken this as confirmation of a devil presence, and I imagine wants us to be involved in the operation to exterminate it.” He turned to his two wards. “Any questions?”
The office doors were buffered daily by whomever Makima deigned to call on for the monotonous chore. A fact Denji took advantage as he used the lacquered mahoganies shine to examine himself. “Yeah, Dude. Does my hair look good?”
Aki blinked. “I meant about the mission.”
“Yeah man, the mission.” He carded through the short, tangled knots that covered his scalp, before groaning in frustration. Maybe he should start using that conditioner stuff that Aki has? Or a comb?
Aki sighed. They’d have to wait out in the hall for their boss to let them in anyway, so he may as well try to pass the time. “Your hair looks the same as always, Denji.”
“Yeah,” Power piped up. “Like crap.”
He licked his palms and began carding through his hair, trying to tame it. The reflection offered by the door was distorted. His head turned into that of a monster, face stretching and twisting. Slightly parted lips turned into a gaping maw, threatening to swallow all into its void.
“You're missing the back of your head,” Power pointed out.
“I can’t see the back of my head.”
“Worry not,” Power licked her palms and walked up behind him. “I am a master hair stylist.”
“Really?”
“But of course! Allow me to give you demonstration of my capabilities.” Power began roughly stroking the back of his head with her palms, trying to settle the wayward locks.
He nodded in thanks and squatted down in front of the door to make it easier for her to reach. “I want to look like a guy from an action movie, with their hair swept to the side and stuff.” Maybe he’d get the chance to walk away from an explosion on the upcoming mission? Makima would probably think that was awesome. Yeah, he’d kill the sh*t out of the room service devil or whatever the hell they’d find, and he’d report back to her and then she’d caress his cheek just like a few nights ago before saying—
She gripped the sides of his head, turning it this way and that, humming and nodding. “I see, I see…”
“Can you do it?” Maybe she really was good with hair? After all, she had a lot of it.
“Your hair is no good for that. You should get a mohawk instead, it’ll make you seem taller—keep the predators away.”
Aki wondered briefly the benefits of walking down the hall and never coming back.
“Hell no, I’m not getting a mohawk!” He tried to pull away and she tightened her hold.
“Hey, I’m the expert here! What I say goes!” She began to try to force bunches of his hair to the middle of his head, licking each one to make it hold its shape.
Denji shouted and tried to pull away. This devolved into a wrestling match that Aki had to spend the rest of their wait on breaking up.
By the time he managed to pull them up off the floor, Denji’s hair had gone back to the same shag it always was; if unusually moist. His shirt was untucked and streaked with small bits of debris; lint, dust, a rogue paper clip or two. His tie was gone entirely, hung limp in the clenched jaws of his opponent.
“Hey! Give that back!” Denji hurriedly tucked his shirt back into his pants.
“Nuh-uh,” the sound came muffled as she began to gnaw on the black fabric. She crossed her arms imperiously. “To the victor goes the spoils! You should have accepted your fate as a bearer of the hawk!”
Just as he was about to jump her again, the electronic lock on the office door clicked. It was time to enter.
Denji quickly patted himself down, checked for blood, before shoving the others aside to be the first to enter.
Makima watched the haggard boy come in from behind her desk, finger still on the button that allowed his access.
“You’ve certainly looked better, Denji. Rough morning?” There was no real need to ask, but…
He smiled wide at the attention as the others trailed in. “Yeah! But like, not anymore Miss Makima.”
‘Not now that I’m with you’ was left unsaid. She heard it in the whimsy of his breath, the swallow following the words. She heard it in the creak of his shoes against the floor, as if he were fighting the urge to rush to her side.
She smiled and nodded. “That’s good to hear, Denji.” He looked at her as if she personally came and hung the moon in his sky each night. She savored it. That look, the totality of love found there. She regrets, suddenly, not having reached out to him over these past three days. She can’t expect to keep feeling the way she does now if she doesn’t do some upkeep with him, now can she?
Well, with what she has in her breast pocket, that shouldn’t be a problem anymore.
Aki placed a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back and away from the older woman as he took his usual position. She turned most of her attention to him, leaving just enough on Denji to take in his wilting form now that he was no longer the focus of her gaze. This too, she did not find without appeal. Still, a small irk struck her at the sight. She blinked it away.
“You know why you all are here.” They each nodded. “Then let’s not waste time,” she straightened in her chair and clasped her hands together on her desk. “A devil presence has been confirmed in the Pillardine Hotel—the one you suspected.” She heard something like a wet scrunch and flicked her gaze to the one she saw fit to ignore most days. Then she paused. Blinked. “Power, why is there a tie in your mouth.”
“Nuffin.” The words were muffled through the fabric. Her hands were stuffed into her pockets, and she stared off into the same corner Denji had just yesterday.
Makima found herself in a far less lenient mood than she had been then.
“It's not nothing—it’s a tie. Why is there a tie in your mouth?”
Denji answered for her. “We had a wrestling match outside your office while we waited, and she took my tie. She’s eating my tie.” Spiraling amber jewels rimmed with blood penetrate him, crescented by a rare genuine mirth. Frisson strikes him within her gaze, electricity sent coiling down his spine and into his fingertips, numbing them.
Her office clock ticks no more than thrice before the connection is lost. Makima's eyes move back to Power. She holds her hand out. “Give it here.” The fiend hesitated, chewing nervously. She fought hard for her prize, why should she relinquish it just because she said so? Makimas’ eyes hardened, cool amber transfigured to searing gold. Power quickly walked over, stopping just of her outstretched hand. She leaned forward and, with long strawberry blonde hair sticking to the side of her sweat-slicked forehead, she carefully spat out the garment. She was dismissed with a pat to her head and she quickly rushed behind Aki, using him as a human shield.
The tie hung wet and gnarled in her open palm. She traced her thumb along its edge and came with a thin residue of saliva. A trace of something hit her nostril, and she sniffed the air subtly; eggs, cooked in butter and seasoned with salt and pepper. Coca-Cola, syrupy sweet and buried just under the dull poultry smell. Then, just a little further down...
Blood.
“Power,” she started, voice cold and hard—mercy devoid. It’s subject trembling under its intensity. “Did you drink Denjis’ blood?” It wasn’t concern that drove her—no. But for as long as she chose to engage with Chainsaw Man’s host as she has been, he was hers. Hers to build, and hers to break down. Hers to receive love from. She would not have some whelp fiend interfere with that. She doesn’t tolerate other people putting spit on her property.
“No!” Power's voice was a harsh squeal, choked under the weight of Makimas’ scrutiny. She shot out from behind Aki’s shoulder to defend herself, but the moment her eyes met Makimas’ she scurried back behind him. Her voice was demure with her next words. “No, of course not Miss Makima. Twas’ only when he felled me during breakfast that I was forced to act in self-defense!” Her eyes darted frantically all about her office, as if in search of a hiding place. But none was to be found in the spartan room.
Makima’s lips quirked slightly, and she couldn’t help feeling some vindication from Denji’s comments yesterday. This was why she kept her office bare, so that no one could escape her wrath within it. Every trinket or bauble she kept on her desk; every painting hung on her walls, was a shelter from her gaze. She almost wanted to keep Denji behind so she could explain this to him. It should prove easy with an example to offer.
The boy in question stood off to the side during their stand-off, feeling strangely put out. The bite mark on his left shoulder, though fully healed before they ever entered the building, gave phantom aches. The idea of Makima getting so angry over him; over something that had been done to him—it put something fuzzy in his stomach, like he had eaten a hairball or something. On the other hand...
He didn’t like Makima being upset. He especially didn’t like it when he was the cause of it.
So even though he totally blamed Power for what had happened, he stepped forward, arms raised in a placating gesture. He gave as disarming a smile as he could with his pointed fangs. “It’s all good Miss Makima,” their eyes met once more and once more he couldn’t look away from them even if he wanted to. His fingertips feel like tv static as he continued. “It was an accident anyway. No harm no foul, right?”
She absently ran her thumb along the ruined tie still draped along her hand. “Is that so, Denji? No harm no foul?” The rays of the sun behind her struggled to break through the thick clouds coating the sky, casting the room in bleak clarity.
He nodded, suddenly hesitant. He could heal from basically anything it seems, so wasn’t that the case? If nothing could injure him permanently, then nothing could really hurt him. Not like before.
She turned her attention sharply to Aki, who stumbled slightly under its weight. “You’re responsible for these two, Hawakaya. Would you say that Power consuming blood outside her allowance is no harm no foul? That attacking her coworkers is acceptable behavior?”
The man in question shifted his weight from foot to foot, as if weighing two scales.
One bore his responsibilities as a devil hunter; revenge, justice—the slaughter of the gun devil. The death of his world and so many others’ that had gone unavenged.
The other, his newfound burden of looking after the two half-devils. Annoyance, endless disruption, the pranks. But deep down, a small flame of tenderness. Kindled, swirling ash so well hidden that not even the one who bore its flame could feel its heat.
He makes his choice.
“With consideration to the fact that I was not present during these events.” He feels Powers finger press into his shoulder blade, hears a whimper as she shakes him slightly from behind. He stared resolutely at Makima’s forehead. It was a trick he picked up—a way to make it look as if you were meeting someone’s eyes even if you weren't. “We as devil hunters cannot tolerate any disobedience from the fiends we employ. She knew the rules she had to follow if she wanted to work for us. She broke them willingly.”
Makima nodded and smiled. “I’m glad you have a more sensible view of things. It’s true that we can’t tolerate any insurrection from those under us. I’ll schedule a blood draining for Power to get her back to the proper levels.” Her eyes were stuck on Denji as she spoke. She needed to ensure he understood the futility of trying to stand against her decisions. Judging by his expression, the lesson had landed.
Aki can feel her fingers turn to ice picks digging into his shoulder. Shots of hot breath brush across the back of his neck, fear riddled. He does not look back to see her expression. It wasn’t as if he did not feel some pity for her, loathe as he was to admit it. He was not sure of the details but anything that could be referred to as a ‘blood draining’ left little to the imagination. He wasn’t sure why Makima was taking this so seriously when this was far from the first time something like this had happened between the two. She hadn’t seemed to care much then, so what had changed?
He shakes off Power’s grip and steps forward, reaching out to the tie. “Here Miss Makima, I can take that for you—”
“No,” she drops it unceremoniously onto her desktop. She leans back in her chair. “I think it’s taken enough of our time for today. I’ll dispose of it myself after this meeting. I’ll be ordering a replacement as well.”
He paused, hand outstretched to nothing now. He formed it into a fist to cough into. “Of course. Was there anything else we needed to know?”
“Regarding your upcoming assignment, there is one thing. It is believed that the devil you are hunting is in possession of a piece of the gun devil.” She studies his reaction. She watches Power move from the corner of her eye, darting behind Denji, who stands forlorn, almost pouting. Such a needy thing, she thinks.
Akis’ eyes turned to cobalt shards of flint, small and hard, reflecting nothing. His lips pursed to a pale slit across his face. “Understood.”
Denji startles. He feels Power grip the back of his shirt, drawing him from his moping. She tugs at it and he looks back, seeing the desperation in her eyes.
He didn’t know what she wanted him to do. Makima had already told him no. What would arguing do except get her more upset with him? Why was she so scared of a little blood draining anyway? It’s not like she wouldn’t heal from whatever they do to her.
Makima addresses him, and his attention is drawn back to her. “I do have something for you Denji.” She reaches into her breast pocket and pulls out a little plastic rectangle, showing it to him. It was a sleek grey and she flipped it open to show a screen and a keypad. “A reward for all your hard work,” she explains. “For now, it only has Hayakawas’ number, but it will allow you to communicate even when seperated.”
He shakes off Powers’ grip and steps up to the desk. “That’s awesome Miss Makima!” He shoved Aki to the side so he could have all her attention, the older boy giving a grunt and scowling.
Just as he leaned over her desk and shot out a hand to claim his reward, she pulled it back. He was left swiping at thin air.
“Ah-ah-ah, Denji,” she scolded, almost sing song in tone, dangling the flip phone tantalizingly out of his reach. “What do you say when someone is gifting you something?”
“…Thank you?”
“Very good,” she smiled. She handed over the phone and he took it eagerly.
After fiddling with the device and Makima taking it back and showing him how to operate it, Denji stepped back to a still petrified Power. He started showing off his new prize but after she tried slapping it out of his hand, he ignored her.
The meeting was concluded shortly thereafter. Makima told them that the operation to exterminate the devil would be held in four days' time, and that they were to meet with the other team at the front entrance in the morning.
Power had made it a point to kick the back of Aki’s seat the entire way home, stopping only when he bribed her with some Family Burger. But then Denji complained when he didn’t get any, so he had to drive around back through and get him something. He decided that this would be their dinner for tonight and grabbed a meal for himself as well, even though by his watch's count it wasn’t even two in the afternoon.
The rest of the day was spent in relative peace at the apartment. Power watched cartoons and split her fries with Meowy. Aki got a head start on that week's laundry, stopping at regular intervals to complain to the other two about the endless stains they managed to accumulate on their clothes, bringing out the offending bits of fabric to show them.
This only served to incite the two, and they went back to the laundry room to compete to see who had the worst messes. Aki groaned but followed them, hoping for the opportunity to impress upon them the importance of having a basic standard of hygiene.
No such opportunity presented itself, and a winner was decided when Power pulled out a pair of her sweatpants. Purple, brown, and yellow blotched and swirled from the front waistband down along the right pant leg. The garishness of the mess inspired even Aki to join the duo in attempting piece together what had caused it, like a team of archaeologists weaving the histories of long-lost civilizations from bits of old pottery and shards of slabs writ in tongues long lost.
Only, instead of uncovering the story of countless people's collective attempt to persevere, they recalled the time Power snuck a bottle of purple ketchup into their cart during a grocery run. She had then demanded a hot dog from a street vendor who had made the mistake of setting up shop just outside.After breaking the parasol that covered the man's cartin an act of intimidation, the man hurriedly surrendered one. A fuming Aki was left to pay for the food and the act of vandalism asshe then took out the purple ketchup as well as some chocolate sauce and poured copious amounts of both onto it. She ate the abomination in four bites and seemed fine at first. It was only after she and Denji made use of the playground near the apartment building on the walk home, that consequences reared its ugly head.
She had stopped in the middle of the road, bent over, and began pushing out chunks of half-digested hot dog. Tears stung in her eyes and the force of her vomit pushed bits of her sick out her nose. In the end, it was akaleidoscopic rainbow regurgitation that stained her pants, the sidewalk, and the minds of all who bore witness.
Except for Denji. Denji thought it was hilarious.
After this event was pulled back into his mind from the dark corner he’d locked it in, Aki kicked the other two so he could continue his chores in peace. Power went back to her show and Denji went back to what he had been doing ever since they had gotten home—hovering over the unnamed number that sat just below Aki Hayakawa in his contacts. It didn’t take him long to figure out who that was supposed to let him reach.
Makima had given him her number in secret. Her personal number, presumably. He had become someone she wanted to talk to in personal.
He mouthed the numbers silently, like some sorcerer incantation which would excise all the bad things in life. That would have him eating corndogs and chocolate and getting stroked on the cheek for the rest of his life.
813-214-5144.
The thought sent a silly smile sneaking across his face, and he fought to keep it down before one of his roommates grew curious and tried figure out what had put it there. Still, his mood could be found in how he scrunched his toes in the carpet where he sat on the floor. In how his brown eyes boldened in color until they looked like the chocolate he never even dreamed he could try before meeting her. If listening to Miss Makima and keeping them on the low-down had him feeling like this, well...
If he could feel like this every day for the rest of his life, then there’s nothing he wouldn’t do to keep it.
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It was only after dark, when the others went to bed, did he gather the courage to sneak out onto the balcony and punch in the numbers. He was dressed in an old pair of sweats and a ratty t-shirt with a and logo long faded; they had been Aki’s before his, given to him after the older man learned of his clothing situation. That is to say he didn't have any. Nada. Zilch. All that he could call his own was sliced to ribbons right along with him that night in the warehouse.
Thin tendrils of nicotine smell reached him, and he grimaced at the bitterness. He looked at what he knew was the cause; a patio table to his left where sat an ashtray. It was chipped at its lip and a dirty gray; by design or constant use Denji didn’t know. Aki had made a nightly ritual of sitting there and smoking one, two, sometimes three cigarettes before snuffing them out. The butts each standing to attention, tall and proud and uniform like a row of soldier's tombs. Making a graveyard all his own, each night growing fuller and fuller. A cemetery with cigars for headstones and ash for soil and Aki the only warden. Night after night, fuller and fuller.
Denji didn’t like it when he smoked. Didn’t like the memories that set on his tongue as he watched him inhale death and exhale life. He thought that if Aki wanted to die so badly, he should go do it away from the people who wanted to live.
He sighed, walked to the other end of the balcony, folding his arm over the edge. He pressed the call button and held it to his ear.
Ring...
Ring...
Ring...
A cold wind blew over him, swept through his hair. The stars blinked in and out, he traced shapes from those he could see, making maps of a world that does not exist. Then, a voice.
“Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice messaging system,” a woman intoned. Her voice was robotic, cold in a similar way to how Miss Makimas’ could get. It had him almost dropping his phone over the balcony railings and into the bushes that lined the apartment building. He fumbled with his phone for a bit before pressing it back up to his ear just as the voice spoke again. “Please leave your message at the tone.”
A Message. He didn't have a message! All he wanted to do was chat with his girlfriend, was that too much to ask? A dull beep sounded in his ear and he rushed to have something for her.
“Uh, goodbye,” he blurted out before frantically flipping the device closed.
He rushed back inside. almost slamming the balcony door closed and he stood shock still, listening out for any groan or stomping feet. All was silent save for the ice maker in the fridge—Denji almost shushing it as it whirred and deposited new cubes for the morning. His breath was heavy in his lungs, and his ears tingled where they met his temple. For some reason it was only just now hitting him; he was leaving a message on his phone for his girlfriend.
Makima was his girlfriend.
He knew that already. It wasn’t like he could ever forget last night, even if he tried. But somehow, it was in the mundanity of the act of leaving a voicemail (To tell her what? He should probably figure that part out before trying again.) for her that clarity hit him; Makima was his girlfriend, they were going to kiss and hold hands and go on dates and do all the other things that couples did that he had yet to discover. They were going to...
He rushes to the bathroom with all the grace and stealth a horny teenager could manage. He closes the door behind him, flicking on the lights and tugging down his sweats, kicking them off into the corner. He yanks his underwear off and sends them flying after them. He plops down onto the toilet, seat always left up no matter how many times Aki yells at them about it. He grasps himself and a scene comes to mind easily.
It was of him and Makima, f*cking in her car instead of her driving off into the night. In this version he says something suave—in the haze he can't think of something exact but whatever it was led to Miss Makima laying on her back in the rear seat, pants around her ankles, belt buckle clinking as he thrusted into her, slick and wet and hot. He’s in the street with the car door open, pants completely gone as he stands between her thighs. Bliss would drive her tosqueeze her eyes shut and look away, but he would hold her cheek as she did his and they would look into each other's eyes. Her eyes are searing into him, and he feels a strange urge to complement each and every ring.
They were kissing too—he doesn't know what this is supposed to feel like, so he purses his lips and worries at them with his teeth to feel what he thinks it's like. Then, he is spreading her legs and grabbing at her tit* and stroking her hair and they are holding hands all at the same time, his lust decaying the dimensions of his fantasy. Various positions and scenarios overlapping in his mind.
He imagines them talking. She is telling him how good of a job he is doing, how only he can satisfy her like this. He tells her things as well.
“Do you like it?”
She groans out a yes, eyes screwed shut and hair a bloody curtain around her neck and face, her braid coming loose as they entwine. The car rocks gently against the curb.
“Hold me.”
And she does. Warm and soft. He hates himself for not having better words to describe what her arms around him feel like. It’s just warm and soft.
Do you love me?
With the last one she looks right at him, and her eyes are so warm, like two tender suns through which she sees the world, sees him. And she would pull herself up and grasp his cheek and say—
He cups his palm and comes into it, harder than he thinks he ever has before. He is left panting, folded over himself with his head throbbing from the force of his org*sm. The images of his fantasy fade with each pulse of his temple; every thrust and gasp and shudder and dirty word they shared leaving him. All except for the one—Do you love me? He never heard her say it, not even in his reverie did she say the words. He knew it was stupid to let it bother him. Of course she loved him, she had kept him in her office after the report yesterday and told him that she felt the same way he did... It just would have been nice to hear her say it in just those words—I love you, Denji.
He was being stupid.
He reached his sem*n slaked hand into the toilet, shaking it and sending strands flying onto the side of the bowl. He wipes the rest off with toilet paper and tosses that in as well. He risks a flush—he had made the mistake of leaving this sort of mess for Aki to find in the morning before and he’d rather risk waking him up five hours early than going through that talk again—and washed his hands. He stumbled back out onto the balcony, legs still weak, torecord another message. When he walked back outside there had been a pigeon perched on the railing and it did not fly away as he leaned over the railing beside it. He starts speaking.
-----------
“Hey, uh, Miss Makima. I know it’s late and all and you’re probably super busy with work or,” a pause. “Or I guess you're probably sleeping, it’slike eleven after all. Sorry if this woke you up or whatever, and sorry about that last thing I sent, if you got it. I was being stupid and sent that on accident.” A pause, a swallow. “I just wanted to say that was I like, really happy, when I saw that you gave me your number. And that it's a really good idea too! We can be super stealthy about meeting up if we don’t have to always talk face-to-face! Keeping it a secret will be easy this way.” A sigh, small and not meant for her to hear, she thinks. “I also wanted to know if you would be cool with us hanging out? I’m off tomorrow and if you're not that’s alright, I’d be fine just being in your office with you while you worked.” Tender hope. For her and only her. “Um, call me back I guess if you want to do that. I'll definitely answer if it's you, Miss Makima. Goodnight. I love you.”
The message ends. The automated voice messaging system asks her if she’d like to play it again.
She does.
“Goodnight. I love you.”
She leans back in her living room chair as the words wash over her. Again and again.
The idea of gifting him a phone with which he could contact her at his leisure had been borne from the same pool as all her other thoughts. Control. By giving him the illusion of easy access to her at all times, she lowers the odds of him randomly bursting into her office while she was holding a debriefing, or during any of the other myriad opportunities he would have to try for an ill-timed tryst. Give a little to stop someone from trying to take a lot. A strategic retreat, in a sense. These are her justifications.
She thinks she will take him up on his offer. The chance to feel like she did when he held her that night, was too much to pass up on. Especially when it would be on her terms, in her space.
“Good night. I love you.”
She plays it again. The window is open and the cold night air breezes through her domain, but still she feels warm. A little sun in her head, and in her chest.
“Good night. I love you.”
She holds a mangled tie in her hand, watches it twist and turn, no more than a silhouette in the dark, and runs her thumb along the fabric.
