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all my care is you, and all my pleasure yours

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Megumi has just turned thirteen when he learns his father is back.

For a couple weeks there are hushed voices in the hallways of the Zen’in estate, hastily averted gazes that perplex him, until one afternoon he receives the sealed but unpostmarked letter, slipped to him discreetly by a young servant boy who runs off hurriedly, as if afraid of being caught.

Maki is in one of the training rooms when he finds her, lunging and piercing through the air with a metal staff.

“They probably didn’t want you to know,” she says, wiping the sweat off her brow after resting the polearm against the wall. A dark grin makes its way onto her features. “They’re probably freaking out. Because if he is back, they can’t force you to stay.”

In the end, he decides to take up his father’s offer to move in with him, penned in an unfamiliar scrawl, mostly because Maki would be leaving in a few months anyway to start at the technical college in Tokyo, and the prospect of remaining in the oppressive stuffiness of the Zen’in household without a friend begins to sound less than appealing.

Megumi has barely any memories of his parents before his relatives took him in nine years ago, and though he knows next to nothing about the man, having only been answered in dismissive, clipped tones when he’d asked about him, he doesn’t want to regret not trying. He can always come back if it doesn’t work out.

 

 

Despite a little awkwardness at first, mostly due to his own nerves and the stilted formality he’d been imbued with by the Zen’ins, it’s an unexpectedly easy transition. While he has nowhere near as much space as he did at his former residence, where he was free to roam the expansive halls, entertaining rooms, and intricate gardens at his leisure, he somehow feels so much more free in Toji’s small apartment, away from watchful eyes and the weight of expectation that constantly bore down on him there.

Toji is easy to talk to, casual and effortlessly affectionate, and has none of the regard for the customs and rules and traditions the rest of his family holds in such high esteem. Still, he doesn’t speak ill of them, more than once expressing his gratitude that they were able to care for Megumi all these years—though Megumi notices how his eyes seem to dull, masking the brief flicker of pain, or regret, that flashes through them when he does.

But he notices how they light up, too, dark and sparkling when Megumi reveals he doesn’t go by Zen’in, still using the name Fushiguro after all this time. A pleased smile plays at his lips, the sight of which makes Megumi’s heart skip a beat, warmth blooming within him, slowly and delectably from the inside-out.

He learns that Toji is similar to Maki, all but rejected by the clan for his lack of cursed energy, though growing up under their guardianship nonetheless had given him enough jujutsu knowledge to become a ruthlessly effective mercenary, on par with even the most highly ranked practitioners. A job for the mob gone sideways had forced him into hiding overseas, until a new faction had risen up, wiping out anyone who might have still had it out for him.

“So now I can relax, and finally get to hang out with my cute son again,” Toji says over Korean take-out, reaching over the low table with a mischievous smile to ruffle Megumi’s hair. Megumi wriggles away and makes a show of rolling his eyes, hoping the heat on his cheeks isn’t nearly as visible as it feels. This earns him a throaty laugh, and Toji withdraws his hand to pick up his beer, bringing the amber-colored glass to his lips.

He takes a long pull from the bottle, and Megumi’s eyes flit down, drawn like magnets to the way Toji’s adam’s apple bobs when he swallows, to the notch between his collarbones, just visible through the lip of his t-shirt. He catches himself and quickly looks back at his own plate.

Though they’ve only been reacquainted a few weeks, Megumi feels more comfortable here than he can ever remember being with the Zen’ins. They slip seamlessly into the roles of the snappy, embarrassed teenager under the attentions of a doting, if unseasoned parent, bickering lightly on occasion, but what strikes him the most is how much it feels like Toji actually sees him, sees Megumi—beyond simply his inherited abilities and potential as future head of the clan, but as someone to be cherished and protected, just as he is.

They spend many simple evenings like this, casual conversations about nothing of importance, some television variety show playing in the background. Even as their lighthearted, easy interactions become the norm, almost as if things had always been this way, Megumi yearns for the time they lost. He can’t find it in himself to be resentful; he’s certain Toji did what he had to to keep himself alive and Megumi safe.

He still plans on following Maki to the college next year, but for now, Megumi does everything he can to treasure what he has, secretly carving these moments deep into his heart, to revisit as often as he likes as he drifts off at night.

 

 

One night a few months after Megumi moves in, Toji comes home late, in the early hours of the morning. That in itself isn’t anything out of the ordinary, but what is is just how unsteady he is on his feet, slumping heavily against the door as he kicks off his shoes in the entryway, before stumbling to his room. He hadn’t even noticed Megumi in the living room. When he hears Toji land with a loud thump on his mattress, Megumi rises from his spot on the couch to pour a glass of water in the kitchen, then knocks lightly on the open bedroom door.

“Dad?”

Toji grunts from his spot half splayed on the bed, both his legs hanging off the side, fingers moving sluggishly, clumsily against his belt buckle. Megumi huffs out a breath of amusement, moving to the side of the bed, immediately recognizes the scent of smokey whiskey seeping off Toji’s skin.

Toji’s eyes are glassy and unfocused, and it takes him a second to register his son standing before him. A crooked smile forms belatedly on his face when he does. “Megumi,” he breathes. “What... what are you doing awake, kid?”

Megumi takes one of Toji’s wrists and pushes the cold glass into his hand. “Here, drink this,” he says, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He helps Toji sit up slightly, leaning back on one elbow and against Megumi.

Toji surprisingly doesn’t spill any of the water, emitting a tiny sound of relief as he swallows down the entire glass in a few deep swigs. “Let me get you some more,” Megumi mutters, taking the glass from him, but this time Toji is the one who grabs his wrist.

“No wait, wait… stay here with me,” Toji mumbles, looking up at him hazily, lazy smile pulling again at his features, and Megumi actually laughs at how ridiculous yet somehow charming he manages to look, his hair mussed and pushed away from his forehead, half his shirt rucked up, belt unclasped.

Toji doesn’t let go of his wrist though, so Megumi takes the glass with his other hand and sets it on the floor. Satisfied that Megumi isn’t going anywhere, Toji falls back against the mattress again. “Megumi,” he says again, slurring a bit. “...so good to me.” He appears to try to keep his eyes open, but it’s a losing battle, and soon his grip on Megumi’s arm loosens as well.

Still, Megumi stays, obediently in the dark, listening to Toji’s deep and even breathing; allows himself to take in his slack expression in the moonlight. Despite the rakish grins and outwardly unconcerned smirks that often graced his features, Toji’s eyes were usually sharp. While they tended to soften when turned on Megumi, it was still a little tantalizing to see Toji completely unguarded like this.

Megumi’s gaze falls on the scar at the corner of his mouth, which, as usual, draws his attention to his father’s lips. His pulse quickens, and his stomach does a weird flip. He actually thinks he’s imagining it when they part softly, a tongue coming out to wet them, and Megumi’s heart rate spikes with alarm when he realizes Toji isn’t yet unconscious. His eyes stay closed, and his voice is so low, Megumi nearly misses it.

A faint exhale, lips barely moving. “You look like her.”

Megumi holds his breath, but Toji doesn’t say any more. Then Megumi really is sure Toji’s passed out because his breathing becomes sonorous and rhythmic, just on this side of actual snoring.

Megumi relaxes; dares to brush his fingers through Toji’s messy hair.

In the months he’s been here, Toji has never spoken of his mother. She died not long after Megumi was born, but Toji’s previous silence on the subject had led him to believe their relationship had not been any more substantial than the one he had with Tsumiki’s mother, or perhaps even with any of the women Toji entertains today.

The mention of her now makes something odd and nameless twist in Megumi’s gut.

He wonders if Toji once loved her.

Megumi slowly, carefully turns his wrist over, so as not to break Toji’s loose hold on him, and slots his hand into Toji’s larger one. He studies their linked hands at length, watches the steady, almost hypnotic rise and fall of Toji’s vast chest. Takes the opportunity to stare, unselfconsciously for once, at those full lips, before finally, reluctantly tearing himself away, back to his own room.

 

 

Megumi feels hot all over. Something light and ticklish just under his ear makes him squirm, and he draws a shaky breath when he realizes it’s a mouth—that mouth—pressing soft, kittenish kisses under his jaw, down his neck.

Calloused hands slide down, settling just above both his hips, so large they can almost close around his waist, fingers nearly touching across the small of his back, and Megumi shudders as that mouth continues to travel down, licking and nibbling down his chest, his torso.

A hot tongue darts into his navel and Megumi gasps, stomach muscles jumping, but he’s held in place by strong hands pressing him into the bed, and it’s only when that dark head is between his legs, framed by his own trembling thighs that sharp, snake-green eyes look up at him, a half-hidden smile on wicked lips.

Megumi clutches at the sheets, knuckles bone-white, almost blacks out at the velvet of those lips dragging slowly down the side of his cock, hard and painful and leaking, painting them slick and shiny, and he throws his head back with a choked moan when he feels a flat tongue lick a long, wet stripe back up to the head. His breath is already in ribbons, but he forces his eyes open, propping himself up on one elbow, and nearly comes at the visual alone of Toji, licking delicately under the ridge of his cock, the tip of his tongue pressing into the slit, a messy string of saliva and pre-come stretching between them when he pulls away slightly.

Then that secret smile is back, and Toji traces small, gentle circles into Megumi’s hip bones with his thumbs, leaning in to drop wet, languid kisses all the way down to the base. His eyelids flutter closed as he nuzzles against Megumi’s skin, and when Toji looks up again, eyes dark and glittering, Megumi’s swollen, twitching cock lying across his face, it’s enough to make another pulse of pre-come ooze out against his cheek.

Toji hums thoughtfully, and laps up the clear fluid dribbling messily down the shaft. He sucks another small kiss against the glans, before mouthing, quietly, “Is this what you wanted, Megumi?”

That raspy voice, the hot breath ghosting over Megumi’s dripping cockhead pull another keening moan out of him, greedy hips trying to cant up off the bed, and Megumi’s body flames with desire; he can only nod his head, frantic, legs squeezing around Toji between them.

Toji makes an airy sound. “Good boy,” he murmurs, before finally closing his glistening lips around the head, and in one smooth motion pushes his face down, swallowing Megumi whole, that wet heat engulfing him, consuming him, making him quiver and quake from the top of his spine down to the very tips of his toes, and—

Megumi wakes with a start, gasping in the darkness, and he sucks in huge lungfuls of cold air, his heart pounding in his veins. For a moment he thinks he’s back in his room at the Zen’in estate, disoriented as lurid sensation and images swim away from him, vanishing like wisps of smoke as he tries to reach out and grasp at them in consciousness. It’s too late, and in scant seconds it’s gone, but he quickly learns exactly what kind of dream it was as he becomes aware of the cold, sticky wetness of his boxers clinging uncomfortably to his skin.

He checks his phone - only a quarter to midnight. He’d gone to bed even before Toji had left, exhausted from a particularly grueling training session with Naobito, who insisted Megumi take special lessons with him personally now that he was no longer living on-site.

He gets up and makes his way to the apartment’s only bathroom, where he peels off his wet boxers with a wince, tossing them into the sink. He unfortunately knows from experience that once dry, the stains are much more difficult to get out, so he doesn’t waste any time, keeping the faucet running as he scrubs at the cotton with soapy fingers.

The rush of water sprays against the porcelain, the sound of it swirling down the drain echoing against the tile walls, and Megumi doesn’t realize anyone else is in the apartment until Toji’s greeting him in the bathroom doorway. Megumi jumps when he hears him, head whipping around, and he feels his face pale with mortification, hastening to crumple the boxers in his hands in a sloppy attempt to hide what they are. He’s betrayed by the fact that he’s basically naked from the waist down, baggy sleeping shirt just long enough to cover his ass, and he flushes furiously red as he tries to discreetly tug the hem lower behind him with one hand, fumbling to shut off the faucet.

Toji’s eyes dart curiously from the lump of cloth in the sink to his bare thighs, and Megumi watches as if in slow motion as understanding washes over Toji’s face before his expression shutters. Perhaps it’s humiliation, or fear of reproach, but before Megumi knows what’s happening hot tears begin to well up, rooting him to the spot and threatening to spill down his burning cheeks.

They have the opposite effect on Toji however, who in just two long strides is at Megumi’s side, slipping a hand around his nape, pulling Megumi into himself—apparently wholly unconcerned that Megumi’s not wearing any pants—and Megumi feels more than hears the rumble of Toji’s deep voice from the cavity of his chest.

“Hey, hey… Don’t cry,” he soothes, thumb moving on the back of Megumi’s head. “It happens to everyone at your age. You’re alright.” He runs his other hand up and down Megumi’s back, and Megumi hiccups out a pathetic sob, pushing his face into Toji’s thin sweater.

Something about being pressed against the warm, firm solidness of Toji’s wide chest like this feels too good, too indulgent, after being caught trying to scour away the evidence of something so embarrassing. Megumi definitely doesn’t deserve this sort of sympathetic treatment right now, and for some inexplicable reason, the way Toji’s rubbing circles into Megumi’s back makes his mind flicker to some obscure dregs of his dream.

Megumi is glad his face is hidden because it’s searing hot again; he’s sure Toji can feel it through his clothes. A fresh wave of silent, despairing tears rises up as Toji continues to pet his hair, and Megumi’s chest goes tight as he surrenders to it, shaky hand coming up to clutch at Toji’s sweater. He’s despicable for enjoying this—like he’s manipulating his father into consoling him for being a little pervert, but he can’t bring himself to pull away, not yet.

He eventually recovers his breathing, forces himself to back up and wipe at his face. He notices the damp spot around Toji’s sternum, the tightly-knitted material stretched loose and wrinkled where Megumi’s hand was fisted. “Your sweater... I’m sorry,” Megumi says miserably, because he can’t say Sorry for making you see something gross, and then making you hold me while I cried about it.

But Toji still has his hands on each of his shoulders, unperturbed. “Don’t be stupid,” he says, somehow both gruff and gentle. “It’s nothing to get worked up about, hmm?”

He’s obviously not talking about the sweater, and one hand slides up Megumi’s neck to cup his face, thumb stroking over his cheekbone. Megumi lets out a tremulous sigh, eyelids falling shut as he leans into the touch, and he nods slightly.

This was bad for him.

Toji pats his cheek once, a small, reassuring smile on his face, and gives Megumi’s shoulder a final squeeze before letting him go. He tells him not to stay up too late and bids him goodnight, leaving Megumi standing restively in the too-bright light of the bathroom.

Megumi grabs the stupid boxers out of the sink and drapes them over the chair in his room to dry, pulls a new pair on. He feels raw from crying but somehow still wired as he settles back into bed, and it doesn’t get any better when he hears Toji start the shower twenty minutes later.

He turns on his side and closes his eyes; tries not to think about hot water beating down on Toji’s broad shoulders, how the steam might curl up from the surface of his skin—what thick fingers would feel like combing through Megumi’s wet hair, if he were in there with him.

 

 

Toji doesn’t talk much or even at all about his work, but over the course of the year Megumi begins to understand more about how his father makes a living.

Toji picks up lucrative contracts once in a while that sometimes require him to leave town for a few days, and he usually returns in a good mood, grinning wide and satisfied like a hunter bringing a fresh kill in over his shoulder. Sometimes he’ll come home with nasty open wounds staining his clothes, and Megumi will huff and complain, acting put-upon as he fetches the first aid kit to patch him up, steadfastly ignoring the warmth that swells inside him when Toji laughs at his display of irritability.

The truth is Megumi much prefers this to the prospect of some pretty nurse fussing over Toji at the hospital. He likes to think Toji trusts him enough to tend to his injuries, to take care of him—rather than the more likely explanation that he simply doesn’t want to have to answer the questions an actual physician would have about how he got them.

It takes Megumi longer to figure out what Toji does the rest of the time though. He initially assumes it’s something shady, perhaps working with the mob again, in the entertainment districts, since most of the time Toji goes out it’s at night, staying out way past when the trains close, sometimes even trudging in the next morning, smelling faintly of booze and perfume.

It isn’t until almost a year in that Megumi actually comes face to face with any aspect of this secondary occupation, one Thursday evening when Megumi is home early from his classes with the Zen’ins, his practical training having been moved due to some clan meeting. When Toji steps into the entryway he’s accompanied by someone, the two of them conversing animatedly like they know each other well. He freezes when he sees Megumi sitting on the couch, clearly not expecting him to be there.

Megumi tries to keep the surprise off his face at the presence of the unfamiliar woman closing the door behind him. He rises quickly, awkwardly, his arms clamped at his sides. Toji has never had anyone over the whole time Megumi’s been living with him, Megumi realizes, and even though Toji recovers smoothly, calling out to him warmly, he suddenly feels very out of place.

The woman perks up, standing up straight from her spot in the entryway where she’d been undoing the straps of her heels. Her eyes land on Megumi, and in a sweep of movement she’s stepping barefoot into the living room with graceful confidence, as if she’s been there before.

“Is this Megumi-kun? Wow! You’re just as cute as your father said you were,” the woman coos, and Megumi feels his face color, which he attempts to hide by inclining his head in a small bow, mumbling a shy greeting.

“Come on, don’t embarrass him,” Toji scolds mildly, but his grin widens when Megumi’s blush deepens. He says he’ll just be a second, and disappears into his room, leaving Megumi to the undivided attention of his guest, who quickly introduces herself simply as Kimiko, accosting him in her clear, tinkling voice with questions (How do you like living with your dad? Are you excited to start high school in the spring? Do you have a girlfriend yet?) which he does his best to answer politely. She seems to know a fair bit about him, which takes him aback.

Toji emerges a moment later in slacks and a fine black sweater, shoulders filling in a dark grey sports coat like he was sewn into it, looking like someone who could easily get into those exclusive Roppongi rooftop bars, and not at all like a former fugitive who lives mostly on take-out. “Ready?” he nods to the woman.

She looks appreciatively over at him, then flashes a coy smile, holding a manicured finger up, before reaching into her purse for her wallet. She pulls out some cash and slips it smoothly into Megumi’s hand.

“Since I’m stealing your dad tonight, why don’t you get yourself and your friends something good for dinner?” She winks at him, and Megumi can see up close that even without the painted lips and subtle eye makeup, she’s very pretty. He stammers, flustered, and tries to graciously refuse, but she just laughs, waving him off, and joins Toji by the door to put her long coat and shoes back on.

Toji’s just shaking his head at her, amused, like they’re sharing a private joke, before he throws Megumi a pointed look. “Be good,” he says in that low voice, teasing, and then they’re shuffling out the door together, mingling laughter carrying in the stairwell, leaving Megumi blinking with the crisp bills in his hand.

He sets the money on the coffee table, mind reeling, and sinks numbly back down onto the couch cushions.

Megumi’s had his suspicions for a while now, about what Toji did in between contract jobs. The cash only seems to substantiate them—the same neatly stacked banknotes Toji usually has after his nightly exploits, all 10,000-yen denominations, the same ones he hands to Megumi when asking him to pick something up from the convenience store.

And Toji had told him this morning that he had work tonight. Not a date, not dinner with a friend; work.

Yet for some reason, instead of the relief he thinks he should be feeling, knowing that it’s all just a job for Toji—that all the times he came home late, drunk and disheveled, it was all just transactional—something remarkably like frustration coils within him.

Tension builds between his shoulders, at the back of his neck, when he thinks of the casual, comfortable back-and-forth Toji had with the woman just now. How she’d known Megumi by name, what year he was in at school. How easily she’d slinked over to him, seeming in that moment more at home in the small apartment than he was.

Was she truly just a client? And why was the barest inkling she may be more so discomfiting to him?

It’s the same bitter feeling he’d had when Toji had mentioned his mother, however indirectly, all those months ago. His stomach clenches unhappily.

Hoping to distract himself he turns on the TV, flipping indecisively through dozens of channels, but he can’t bring himself to concentrate on any of the programs. He stares unseeing at the antics of the show hosts on the screen, thinking instead of Toji and Kimiko at some fancy restaurant; they’d clearly been dressed for one.

Would they go out to the bars after, becoming loose-lipped, loose-limbed and obnoxious, like the Zen’in clan members after one too many rounds at some of their more exuberant gatherings? Or maybe they’d leave right after dinner, opting instead to enjoy each other’s company in private, huddled together in the back of a taxi to Kimiko’s place, or perhaps a hotel…

Megumi stews, sprawled out on the couch for the better part of an hour, until restlessness gets the better of him. He eyes the cash on the table, then stalks moodily to the kitchen to find something to eat, feeling indignant and petty. He’s just reaching into the fridge to grab a box of leftover fried rice when he notices a small cluster of one-cup sake containers on the bottom shelf.

An unwonted thrill ripples through him.

Be good, he’d said…

Maybe Megumi doesn’t want to be good, for once. Being good wasn’t getting him what he wanted, even if he himself didn’t fully understand what that was.

He hesitates for a moment, then moves with purpose to snatch up one of small glass containers, leaving the rice untouched. He’s not hungry anyway.

Settling down at the kitchen table, he pulls the aluminum cap off the glass, and only shudders a little at the pungent whiff of it, before downing a third of the liquid in one go. It actually tastes better than it smells, and he enjoys the tickling warmth that follows, welcoming the pleasant fuzziness that salves the edges of his consciousness.

The tension from earlier dissipates some, and he finishes the single serving before long. Would Toji even notice if only one container was missing? What was even the point if he didn’t? Megumi grabs a second, and this one goes down even easier than the first. He folds his arms on the table once he’s done, head swimming enough that when he lays his head down over them, it takes the world half a second to catch up.

He sighs deeply, his skin buzzing, face and lips tingling. He imagines this would be more fun if he weren’t alone. His heart gives a pang when his mind conjures up the memory of Toji’s arms wrapped around him that time in the bathroom, long fingers stroking absently through his hair. He recalls the gratification he felt in that moment, and Megumi is immediately overcome with longing, desperate to be close to some part of Toji, and the next thing he knows his legs are pushing him up out of his seat, carrying him into his father’s room without consulting him.

The clothes Toji had been wearing earlier are strewn haphazardly on the bed, and Megumi flops bodily down onto the mattress. Unthinking, he reaches for the large t-shirt on the pillow, bunching it up in his fist, and presses it to his nose, to his mouth, breathing deep. Traces of laundry detergent, clean aftershave, and Toji’s faint musk linger in the threadbare cotton, and Megumi wants to drown in it, crushes the cloth tighter against his face, dragging in increasingly uneven breaths, his chest heaving, head dizzying with the scent, the taste.

He wrenches the balled up material away from his face, breathing in fresh gulps of air, and squeezes his thighs together, half-hard between his legs. It takes all his self-restraint not to reach down and palm himself through his sweats, not to rub the shirt over his clothed erection like a lunatic.

Be good, Toji had said. Megumi’s body floods with heat and shame, but he hasn’t even done anything yet—not really. He could still—still be good for Toji.

He lays for a long moment in the dark, itching and thrumming with want, and bites savagely against his lips, chewing until he tastes blood, thinking of Toji smirking at him as Megumi dresses a gaping, bleeding gash on his side, seeing straight through Megumi’s pretense of annoyance.

The room spins when he opens his eyes, and his eyelids begin to feel heavy, so it’s easy to let them slide closed as he tries to tamp down on his arousal. He doesn’t mean to doze off, but the bed is so comfy, and the faint, familiar scent of Toji all around him soon pulls him under.

He’s somewhere on the edge of sleep when Toji returns, and he wakes with a hitching intake of breath at the brush of fingers across his cheek. Toji’s leaning over him when Megumi blinks his eyes open halfway, and he sighs into the touch, covering Toji’s hand on his face with his own. “Mmnn…”

Toji huffs out a breath, torn between amusement and disbelief. “The hell… you drunk, kid? You smell like a bar.”

Megumi opens his mouth, then closes it to chew on the inside of his lip. He hadn’t thought this far ahead.

“I missed you,” is what he finally settles on, because it’s the truth. It must be the alcohol that spurs him say it so plainly, though he still feels himself blush up to his ears.

Toji’s eyebrows quirk up briefly. “And what, that means you get to drink all your dad’s booze?” he chides, though one corner of his mouth is pulling up into a crooked smile. “Since when are you so clingy?”

Toji places one knee on the bed and sits on it, his other leg hanging over the side, and Megumi shifts over a bit to give him more room, but he doesn’t answer, still worrying his lip. Toji seems to sense his disquiet, and his face is placid, tone carefully neutral, when he eventually prompts, “Is this about earlier?”

Megumi’s eyes fly open. Was he that transparent? A strange, nervous sort of panic rises within him, and his willful tongue moves before his thoughts can catch up. “Do you love Kimiko-san?" he finds himself blurting out.

Toji blinks at him, surprised. A complicated expression settles over his features, a hint of tightness in the line of his mouth.

“She’s just a client,” he answers, and there’s a measured pause as he considers. “But even if she weren’t, you know that wouldn’t change anything, right?” His thumb strokes lightly over Megumi’s cheek, but there’s a rare solemnness in Toji’s eyes, a weightiness to his tone. “You’re still the most important thing to this old man. Got that?”

Megumi’s chest constricts, heart stilling at the words, then starting up again in bursts and bounds, though that implacable, tightly wound feeling doesn’t dispel entirely. He nods minutely, still holding the hand on his face.

“Good,” Toji replies simply, mouth curving into a faint smile, and he sits up straighter, drawing his hand back. “If you want, you can sleep here tonight. I can go to your room—”

“No, wait—” Megumi rears up onto his elbows, catching his bare arm. Toji’s only wearing a thin cotton t-shirt and sweats now, and Megumi vaguely regrets not having been awake to see him change. “Stay,” he says, sounding childish even to his own ears, but he can’t help but look beseechingly up at Toji, who just huffs out a laugh, eyes crinkling. It feels like they’re in a mirror world of that night six months ago, except this time it’s Megumi who’s drunk on Toji’s bed, pleading with him to stay.

Perhaps Toji remembers it too—why he indulges him when Megumi pushes himself up, wrapping his arms around Toji and burying his face into the crook of his neck. Megumi knows he’s being pathetic, but the heat of Toji’s skin against him is so good, muddling his already frenzied thoughts. Toji holds him, arm slipping around his waist, one hand at the small of Megumi’s back, and the touch sends a frisson through Megumi, enough to make him pull back slightly, lightheaded.

Toji’s eyes are serene, the tiniest, fond smirk on his face, and maybe it’s the alcohol in Megumi’s system that pushes him to do it, his blood rushing hotly through his body, humming in his ears. A tremor sweeps through him, but he can’t resist the impulse any longer. His eyes fall shut as he lurches forward to press his lips to Toji’s, chaste and sweet and close-mouthed.

Toji doesn’t respond to the timorous kiss, but he doesn’t push him away, either, and that knowledge alone tugs at the tattered frays of Megumi’s control, stirring him to press their mouths together more insistently, hands clutching tightly at Toji’s shoulders. It’s only when Megumi’s tongue licks out across Toji’s lips, a needy moan rising in his throat, that Toji tenses abruptly, flattening a palm against Megumi’s chest to push him gently back. The kiss breaks off with a wet sound, obscene in the quiet of the room.

Toji’s eyes are wide with shock, but Megumi’s drunk on the feeling of Toji’s lips, his breath trembling, eyelids fluttering like he can barely keep them open, and he tries against all reason to lean in again, a breathy plea on his lips. “Dad…”

But Toji’s hand on him is firm, trying to put some space between them, which just pulls a whine out of Megumi, high and thready.

“Megumi,” Toji forces out, like a warning, his low voice strained. He looks like he’s trying to marshal his faculties, and Megumi is again seized by that panic. Everything he’s been holding back simmers to the surface, truths he hasn’t been willing to face until tonight, until this very moment, spilling out of him, jumbled and incoherent.

“I… I only think of you. I can’t sleep.”

Megumi is shaking. It feels like he’s being incised and peeled open as he tries to give voice to what he knows has been brewing all year. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to steady his breath and collect his thoughts, and some length of time stretches, taut between them.

“You were gone for so long, before,” Megumi finally whispers, downcast. He digs his blunt nails into his own palms, his heart hammering in the sore little crescents they leave in his skin. He swallows thickly, raising his head to look weakly up at Toji, heart strung tight. “Can’t you look at me… only at me, now?”

Toji looks stricken, like he’s been slapped. His face pinches then rearranges itself, shifting between disbelief, incomprehension, and something else Megumi’s seen before. He appears to try to compose himself, taking a steadying breath. “Megumi, what you’re feeling right now...” he croaks out, but it’s pitched so low and uncertain it dies in his throat. Toji swallows, dropping his gaze. “This is my fault,” he grinds out, rough like gravel, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t have been so…”

The thought hangs unfinished in the air, but his meaning couldn't be more clear from the way he seems to suddenly notice his hands still on Megumi. He pulls them guiltily back into his own lap, like he’s been burned.

“No!” Megumi cries, fear slicing through him. If Toji releases him now, he may never touch Megumi again, and Megumi can’t let that happen, he can’t.

He reaches for Toji’s hands, grasping them tightly. He feels wild, reckless; looks desperately up at Toji, anxious to make him see. “Please, all these months, I—I’ve been good,” he says, repeating Toji’s words from earlier, something anguished creeping into his voice, emotion stinging at the corners of his eyes.

Toji looks down at him with a tormented expression, and Megumi uses that, clawing into that uncertainty, taking advantage of his hesitation. He leans in again, and Toji lets him, immobilized by the liquid vulnerability in Megumi’s eyes.

Megumi kisses him softly, lips pressing lightly, tentatively against Toji’s, and he shivers with pleasure at the lack of resistance. He licks at the seam of his mouth, a helpless moan escaping him when Toji’s lips part hesitantly under his, and Megumi slides his tongue in to stroke against the tip of Toji’s, trying to coax a response out of him. Lust courses anew through his veins, prickling under his skin and pooling between his legs, but it’s not enough. He needs Toji to return the kiss—not just endure it.

Megumi pulls back, eyes lidded, panting against Toji’s lips. Toji’s looking at him like it hurts, with a mixture of ruth, apprehension, and—and hunger. A rush of hope surges inside Megumi like the sea, and his grip tightens on Toji’s hands as he leans his forehead against Toji’s. “I’ll do anything you want,” Megumi whispers, begs.

Toji groans, like he doesn’t want to hear that. “Fuck, Megumi,” he swears, the rasp of his deep voice going straight to Megumi’s cock.

Megumi keens, delirious, and he tugs one of Toji’s hands towards his hard-on. Toji jerks, startled, when his fingers are pushed clumsily against it, but Megumi just gasps at the contact, thighs spreading, hips bucking up against Toji’s fingers. “Yes, touch me, please,” he manages, voice hoarse.

Conflicted emotions war on Toji’s face, but it seems as though his resolve is beginning to waver. Then, after what feels like an eternity, Megumi feels Toji’s fingers press lightly, almost experimentally, against his erection, teasing out the shape of it through his thin sweatpants, and Megumi makes a little broken sound, arching into his cupped palm.

Toji’s expression settles on a grim sort of resignation, but there’s a dull heat in the flinty jade of his eyes. “Fine,” he growls, and Megumi’s breath catches, desire ratcheting through him.

“Lie back,” Toji says, and Megumi shudders at the gruff command. He falls back onto his elbows, and then Toji’s kneeling over him, pushing him down flat on the mattress, and Megumi almost thinks he’s dreaming, nerves crackling with electricity as the bulk of Toji’s figure looms above him.

Toji plants one strong forearm next to Megumi’s head, gliding his other hand down Megumi’s torso, and this time he pushes the heel of his hand against Megumi’s straining cock in a firm, upward slide. Megumi nearly comes apart just from Toji willingly touching him, and he fists a hand in Toji’s shirt and pulls him down urgently, knocking their mouths together, almost painfully. He half-expects Toji to resist, but Toji just bites down on his bottom lip instead, a sharp reprimand.

Megumi moans into Toji’s mouth, running his hands over Toji’s chest, his sinewy shoulders and biceps, before winding his arms around Toji’s neck, trying to pull him even closer. Toji shifts his hand on the mattress to hold Megumi’s face, slowly sucks his abused lower lip into his mouth. He slides his tongue against Megumi’s, at first delicately, then with more intent, deep and sensuous—finally, finally kissing him back, until they’re both breathing harshly through their noses, and this might actually be enough—if Megumi could just stay trapped under Toji like this forever, that would be enough for him.

But his attention is swiftly diverted to the aching heat between his legs, almost unbearable now, when Toji’s fingers dip into the elastic of his sweats, and Megumi quickly lifts his hips up, letting Toji pull them down his thighs, past his knees so he can kick them off. Toji breaks the kiss, and Megumi whimpers a little at the loss, eyes fluttering open.

Toji’s eyes are dark with pupil, locked on Megumi’s own. He brings a hand up to lick a wet, drawn-out stripe against his palm, and Megumi actually feels his jaw go slack, vision blurring with lust. He makes a strangled sound when Toji’s saliva-slick fingers curl around his cock, stroking him in long, deliberate pulls that have him panting, squirming, fingernails digging into the meat of Toji’s back, and it’s all he can do to unlatch one arm from around Toji to grip at his forearm, trying to still his movements. “W-wait,” he wheezes, “I want—”

His fingers skitter down Toji’s body, catching in the divots of his abs, but Toji stops him with a bruising hand around his wrist when he gets to his waistband. “What are you doing?”

“Dad—you too, please—”

He’s completely inarticulate, and he reaches abortively again between Toji’s legs, but Toji pins his hand easily back down on the mattress. Megumi makes a little noise that’s both petulant and needy, and he bites down on his lips again, now pulpy and raw, trying to summon the strength to string a sentence together. “I just want you to feel good, too,” he murmurs, plaintive, looking up at Toji through his lashes.

Toji’s sigh is long-suffering. “Shit, kid. You’re impossible, you know that?” he says, but there’s no real bite to it. He nips gently at Megumi’s lips in admonition, before leaning back, pushing Megumi’s thighs apart so he can settle between them, and sits back on his heels.

Toji’s hand sweeps down to palm himself through his sweatpants, head dropping back and exposing his throat, mouth falling open around a silent, pleasured sigh, and there’s no reason he should look so unforgivably erotic, there really isn’t. Megumi watches, rapt, as Toji rubs at himself, eyelids fluttering with his movements as his bulge grows more defined, until he can see the clear imprint of it through the material. There’s a dusting of color across Toji’s cheeks now, and Megumi’s mouth goes dry when he reaches into his pants to pull his cock free, thick and flushed and heavy in his fist. Toji pumps himself a few times, long, certain strokes, biting his lips and groaning, before he finally opens his eyes to meet Megumi’s.

Toji crawls over him again, arms braced on either side of Megumi’s head, his weight nestling down on him, outsized and substantial. And then, he rocks his hips, grinding against Megumi slow and dirty, and fuck—Megumi thinks he might actually pass out, thinks he can feel his brain actually melting, because now they’re skin to skin, hot and slick with sweat and pre-come, breathing the same scorching air, and this is everything Megumi wants, he’ll never need anything but Toji, moving filthily against him, just like this.

The sound Megumi makes when Toji reaches between them to wrap one huge hand around both of them, hot and slippery and throbbing, is loud enough to make Toji crush their mouths together, smothering his moans, swallowing the increasingly high pitched, fucked up noises being torn out of Megumi by the grip of Toji’s palm, the ridges of his fingers, the wet slide of their cocks together as Toji undulates into the tight squeeze of his hand, grinding Megumi down into the mattress. Toji breaks away to mouth at Megumi’s jaw, and Megumi’s arms coil around him again, hips moving in fitful little waves, trying to match his rhythm.

“Dad—I’m—ah-hnn—Dad—!”

Megumi’s whole body contracts, and he arches sharply off the bed, throwing his head back, and then he’s coming, orgasm ripping white-hot through him as his muscles spasm, lips parted around a silent scream, hands scrabbling at Toji’s skin. His hips twitch weakly into Toji’s fist with the aftershocks, but it quickly becomes too much, too sensitive, pleasure splitting into pain as Toji thrusts faster, brutal, into that unyielding grip, and Megumi lets out these soft, hitching mewls as he squirms, his body reflexively trying to twist away, even though he wants nothing more than to feel and take—take everything Toji gives him.

Then Toji’s convulsing above him, dragged over the edge with a deep, guttural groan. His teeth close hard over the juncture between Megumi’s neck and shoulder, and Megumi yelps at the sharp sting. Toji’s hips continue to snap forward, stuttering as he rides it out, hot, pearly strings of come shooting out over Megumi’s stomach, coating his fingers, mixing with Megumi’s own mess.

His grip on them finally loosens, and he all but collapses onto Megumi, unsinking his teeth from Megumi’s shoulder, and Megumi can feel Toji’s heart beating erratically against his chest as he lies on top of him, blanketing him completely like a giant, protective cocoon.

“Fuck, Megumi,” Toji breathes out, sounding both stunned and exhausted.

Toji wipes his hand messily on his sweatpants, worked down only as far as the top of his thighs, then brings his arm up to frame Megumi’s head between his elbows. He licks apologetically at the throbbing, broken skin on Megumi’s shoulder, then makes his way along Megumi’s neck, up his jaw, to press a chaste kiss against his mouth, before resting his cheek against his.

Megumi lets out a breath it feels like he’s been holding all year. He feels like he’s been ripped open and shaken apart, utterly ravaged, stripped down to his very core, but he’s never been so sated, so satisfied, completely boneless beneath Toji. He can feel the stickiness between them and he doesn’t even care—likes it, even. He wants this every day; to be reduced to jelly under Toji’s mouth and touch, limbs liquefied.

Toji lifts himself up, pulling his sweats back up over his hips. He grabs the t-shirt from somewhere above them on the bed, wherever Megumi had left it after sniffing at it like an animal, and uses it to wipe down Megumi’s stomach, between his legs, crudely cleaning him up.

Toji rolls off of him when he’s done, folding an arm behind his head like a pillow. “What are we going to do now?”

Megumi turns his head indolently towards him, blissed out. “Mmm?”

“You’ve turned your father into a criminal. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Megumi snorts. “You were already a criminal.”

Toji tuts, shooting him a reproving look, but that playful twinkle is back, muted only slightly by fatigue. “Hey. Everything I do I do for you, baby.” The pet name rolls so easily off his tongue, and it rouses a pleasant little flutter in Megumi’s stomach.

Megumi sits up then, with great effort, since his body is screaming at him to just dissolve into the bed. He swings a bare leg over Toji to straddle him, sitting on his hips. He studies Toji for a moment, who just looks up at him patiently.

“Stop seeing Kimiko-san,” Megumi says, quietly.

Toji raises his eyebrows, then his mouth twists, like he’s not sure what to say. “You like food, kid? You think money grows on trees?”

“Then stop ordering in all the time,” Megumi scoffs. “I know you can cook. I can learn, too. Besides, don’t act like you’re not just spending it all on horse races and pachinko.”

Toji huffs out a laugh, incredulous, and scrubs his hands over his face, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “God, you sound just like your mother.”

Another tightening in his stomach, less pleasant this time. Megumi chooses to ignore the comment, squeezes his knees together around Toji’s flanks to get him to look at him again.

“I’m serious.” Megumi can hear the pout in his voice as he looks stubbornly down at Toji. “Don’t see her anymore,” he entreats again, softer.

Toji sighs, beleaguered. He moves the hand not cradling his own head to smooth over Megumi’s thigh, the caress without any intent, just soothing.

“Megumi. This is a confusing time in your life. I know you’re maybe going through something right now,” Toji puts forward slowly, delicately. “But what you’re feeling—it’ll pass.”

Megumi opens his mouth to object, but Toji doesn’t let him, holding his gaze. “You’ll start high school in a few months, and you’ll meet new people—kids your own age,” Toji says meaningfully. “…and you’ll forget all about this.”

But Megumi shakes his head. There’s no way he would give this up, relinquish this intoxicating closeness; not now that he’s had a taste of what he’s been craving for so long. He would make him see.

“Like I said.” Megumi shrugs, voice strangely calm. “Nine years is a long time, Dad.” He doesn’t miss the brief pain, that familiar guilt that passes over Toji’s eyes at the reminder.

He reaches a hand out to brush Toji’s hair tenderly from his face, and Toji’s looking at him with something like unease.

Megumi bends, presses a gentle, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth; whispers a promise into the scarred skin. “Now that I have you back, I’m never letting you go.”

It’s okay if it wasn’t obvious to him yet. In time, Toji would see.

Megumi is the only one he needs.