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Past midnight, hours later than he promised, Megumi gets home. It's raining out, and there's no way he didn't miss the last bus. The squelching of his socks is telling enough that he had to walk back in that downpour. As Megumi puts away his coat and shoes, Sukuna watches him from the kitchen table—doesn't stand up to help, doesn't ask where he has been, just sits quietly and waits, avoiding glancing at the dirt tracked through the house.
"Sorry," Megumi says, and Sukuna can see the mud and blood smeared across his cheeks, his red-rimmed eyes and the bruises circling them. "Sorry I'm late."
In the pause that follows, he seems to deflate. Waiting for assurance, perhaps? Ever since Megumi walked through that door, only a small, fine thread held him together, and Sukuna hasn't given him anything studier to grasp onto. It's cruel, maybe, but Megumi promised to be home. He's been out all day.
Sukuna missed him. It isn't easy being apart from Megumi. In all the time they've been together, there's rarely been a need for it. Always beside one another. And then Megumi went and ruined Sukuna’s good mood, ruined his plans for the evening in this act of selfishness.
Just as it seems that he might shatter, Sukuna speaks up. "Who were you with?" He asks, because there's cum splattered in with the other mess and Sukuna isn't stupid.
At that, Megumi’s breath hitches in an awful, little gasp, and he shakes his head. Once, twice, and then a few repetitive, quick jerks; Sukuna can't be sure if he's denying the claim or if he's shaking loose an image from behind his eyes. But he doesn't stop.
"No–" Oh, the way his voice tremors is heart-breaking. "I wasn't–"
Megumi sounds so pitiful, so broken. He's returned fractured. He allowed someone to damage him, and has scurried back to Sukuna begging for help piecing himself back together.
Sukuna hums. "I don't like it when you lie, baby, you know I really don't like it."
"It was… I was on the bus…" He starts, and he stands there shaking like a leaf. Through all the hiccupping sobs and the hyperventilating, Sukuna can hardly hear a word. Not that it's important—Megumi’s side of the story doesn't matter. He promised to be home.
When Megumi stops to step into the hallway light, it illuminates all the other mess he'd managed to hide before. He’s a wreck. His jacket is ripped beyond repair and those jeans are certainly stained—Sukuna can see Megumi’s bloody knees, the skin scraped up and weeping. Poor thing. Not even a long, scalding shower will clean him up, wash the night from his body.
It’s a shame, really, because Sukuna thought the jacket suited him well. There’s a second of silence where Megumi clearly doesn’t know what to do. Anything he says, Sukuna will consider an excuse, but lying by omission is even worse. Punishable. His expression is lost and confused, and beneath it all is that bone-deep exhaustion Sukuna could hear in his voice.
“What did he look like?” Sukuna asks, standing and crossing the room to fill a glass with water at the sink. “Your… fling. Was he handsome? Was he worth it?”
He takes a long drink to hide his smile when Megumi falls to his knees. “No, I– Sukuna, please, please, you know it wasn’t like that–”
“I know a lot of things, sweetheart. And, unfortunately, one of those things is that you’re a slut. Aren’t you?”
Without any warning, Megumi vomits onto the hardwood floor. He gags and heaves where he kneels, making an even bigger mess for Sukuna to mop up, retching for a long time after everything has been emptied from his stomach. It takes a lot of deep breathing for Sukuna to get a handle on the anger ready to erupt from him, to resist the urge to yell and shout. An outburst will not help.
He laughs instead, dragging a hand through his hair. Megumi hasn’t moved at all but his arms are trembling, and if Sukuna doesn’t carry him to the bathroom soon, he’ll collapse into the puddle of his own vomit. More mess, more mess. Sukuna’s skin itches.
“Finished yet?”