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“I’m so hungry,” a younger Denji said and hugged Pochita tighter against his chest. His stomach rumbled with the intensity that came from three days of running on empty. Not by choice, of course. He would have eaten a whole pizza. And an entire cake. You know, the ones that were really spongy and that had… What was it called? F-r-o-s-t-i-n-g? Yeah, something like that. But, as it was, Denji had been feeding off the discarded yakisoba containers thrown over his shack.
Damn, damn, damn! Those lucky rich kids in uniform didn’t know how good they had it! Right, Pochita?
As if reading his mind, the aforementioned dog with a ridiculous chainsaw sticking from his forehead barked lamely. Now that was worrisome.
Denji kept on musing about his bad luck and daydreaming of sushi rolls and pasta and the ice-cream cones he sometimes saw other kids shoving into their mouths while he worked. While he held Pochita in his hands as he sliced puny devils open.
A sound of cans alerted Denji to the presence of another living thing in his tiny abode. After scanning the room with his one eye (the other he had to sell for food that lasted them a whole afternoon and had Pochita rolling on the floor with delight) Denji finally landed on the culprit behind the ruckus.
The rat (or a mouse? Denji could never really tell in the dark) tried to scurry away but Pochita caught it in his jaw. Now, the devil dog could have easily devoured the squirming rodent but instead, he presented it to Denji. With the last of his strength, he swallowed around the lump in his throat.
Bile rose up while he watched Pochita enjoying his serving.
--
Life as Chainsaw Man was easy. So easy. If Denji had known all he had to do to actually feed properly was to get killed by a mob of zombies he might have tried to get himself killed earlier on. Well, everything but Pochita’s absence was fine and dandy. And anyway, the dog was still somewhere in there, powering Denji’s heart and revving the machinery inside his body. So yeah, fine, he could deal with this new life.
“Who made this?” Aki asked, all color draining from his face. Denji, who was eagerly eating from the pot Power had used to cook the pork stew, just pointed at her. Busy as he was chugging down the remnants of broth, he only noticed his mistake when Aki scrambled from the floor and rushed down the hall. The door to the bathroom firmly closed, the wooden barrier wasn’t enough to conceal the sounds of retching and gagging.
Now, Pochita’s stomach had always been strong. Way stronger than Denji’s, that was for sure.
And now, with Power knocked out cold on the floor, Denji felt a pang of pain coming from his middle. Hearing Aki’s sounds (which traveled through the apartment walls) was like looking into his future. One that Denji knew would be spent kneeling over their shared toilet, throwing his guts up and crying.
--
“I can’t fit all of it, man,” Denji complained before being pushed down Aki’s cock with a careless shove. Aki sighed and resumed thrusting, not noticing (or maybe not caring, it wouldn’t be the first time) how Denji was struggling to accommodate his stupidly long cock inside his tiny mouth. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant. And then, just when Denji thought he was getting the hang of it, Aki’s dick hit something in the back of his throat and Denji’s eyes started watering.
Aki slipped out right before Denji doubled over, coughing and trying (unsuccessfully) to catch his breath. Rolling his eyes, his friend and reluctant partner threw a towel over his head.
“I told you,” Denji protested, his voice sounding distant and funny. It reminded him of Aki’s own. Well, after he smoked way too many cigarettes. Or that time when Aki pretended not to have been crying, his bloodshot eyes fooling no one. But Denji didn’t say anything back then because that shit was weird and uncomfortable.
It started shortly after that. Right about the time when Himeno died, Aki had started drinking occasionally and cuddling Denji when he thought that he was fast asleep. The feeling of his rough pads (were they like that because of that stupid katana Aki carried everywhere?) wrapping around Denji’s soft middle was too much to ignore.
“Don’t fucking kiss me, dude, that’s not… you’re not a girl, okay?” Denji argued back then, his mind reeling. Aki had laughed breathlessly and — beside them — Power shifted in her sleep. She mumbled something about cats and Meowy being the best there ever was. Oh, followed by some nonsense about eating human flesh and feasting on her enemies. Typical Power stuff.
What wasn’t typical at all was Aki flipping him on his back and pressing his clothed cock against Denji’s, biting his own arm to stop the moans from coming out.
Pathetically soft, Denji had let it happen. He’d taken in Aki in all of his ragged beauty: No longer top-knot (not with his hair falling freely down his shoulders), his eyes were filled with determination. Unseeing, they were fixed on a point in the wall right behind Denji’s head. Something stirred in Denji’s gut and he thought of breakfast that morning and the softness of his skin and how wiry Aki felt against him. Bony hips that jutted out now pressing against Denji, leaving an uncomfortable sensation behind.
That was their first time together but not the last. Denji was an old broken record but even he had to leave his pleas about liking girls behind. He did, you know. And he still wanted to touch some boobs before kicking the bucket (as all devil hunters do, eventually). But Aki’s pull was strong. Always with that cigarette smell that stuck to all of his clothes no matter how dutifully he washed them after his shifts.
The angles of his long body contrasted well with Denji’s. And with Power and Meowy… Well, there was some balance to their group. Something like camaraderie and friendship. Plus blowjobs because Aki did like how Denji’s throat constricted around him and Denji liked the challenge. The button hidden somewhere inside threatened to make him spill, burst all over Aki’s hard length. Yet, it never did happen.
They slayed devils and people died.
A bounty was put on Denji’s head and tons of funny characters came out of, like, woodwork to hunt down the great Chainsaw Man. That’s when their family got bigger: Angel came with the new arrivals and the nights of keeping quiet or else Power might find out were over.
And Denji was sort of happy about it.
He was.
Really.
--
“Do you miss them?” Denji asked, staring at the night sky in a simple bathrobe. Aki huffed and gave him a stare that was equal parts amused and annoyed.
“What do you think?” and then the strangest thing happened. He offered Denji a sad smile.
There was some kind of rabbit inside of Denji’s body because right then he could feel a heavy thumping in his chest. Maybe it was Pochita trying to tell him something but as to what that might be, Denji had no clue.
The sleeve hanging loosely next to Aki’s body was haunting. They had narrowly escaped death and Aki had gotten lucky. He’d said so himself. There was the fact that others, like Angel, had lost both arms and were rendered useless. And with Beam dead, well, Chainsaw Man was more alone than ever. Except for the usual group of three. Power had been terrified after their encounter with that darkness devil and yet she didn’t seem to notice the change in Aki. Denji just wished he could follow her example. Easier said than done, right?
That night, when Aki held him for the last time, Denji’s mind kept going back to that pitch black darkness and Angel with no arms. The way Aki’s breathing hit his face, leaving a wet trail behind, was insufficient to bring him back to his present circumstances.
With empty eyes, Aki just kept pushing, rearranging Denji’s insides. Who could say what was lurking in that head of his? Topknot was never good at sharing but Denji had listened in on him crying for Himeno. He’d asked Makima then if he was still a good person. If he’d cry ever again.
It was such a silly question but now, with Aki hovering over him, Denji wanted to shed the extra skin off his torso. If he had anything to bet, he’d bet that Aki never gave Angel that empty stare. That he actually enjoyed that tiny, scrawny (and deadly) body. So unlike Denji’s.
--
There was a door in Denji’s dreams.
And he wasn’t exactly the same as always. It was Denji from before: A tiny Denji, with clothes that he found in the garbage and were two sizes too big on him. The undershirt had once been white but now it stood somewhere between yellow and beige. And it stank. Plus no left eye. He’d sold that one for profit and food and shelter.
It wasn’t Aki’s apartment surrounding him, with its familiar smell of home and Power lounging on the couch while Meowy scratched the sides of every furniture like they were hers. It was a dirty, smelly place with just one door that undoubtedly led to the great outdoors. Whatever that might entail in that weird dreamland.
But one thing was for certain: Aki was behind that barrier that separated Denji from the rest of the world.
He always woke up right before touching the handle.
--
Would I cry if he died?
Nope.
--
It was ironic. At least, Denji thought it was. In truth, he wasn’t too sure of what that word meant except that Makima had said something along those lines once and the word had stuck in his mind because her lips had rounded around it as if she was blowing smoke into the wind.
He wasn’t hurt anymore. The Chainsaw forever revving inside his makeshift heart prevented all harm that came his way. Except Denji didn’t feel all that great for beating the Gun Devil.
Aki had smiled one last smile and Denji wished to open his stupid little head, peek inside that brain and see what was he happy about right before croaking. Sure, there had been no other alternative. Maybe the Gun Fiend might have found a way to end Denji for realsies and then what? Could it have been prevented? At all? Aki had turned and there was no bringing him back. In a way, he’d died way before Denji opened the door to their shared apartment (where Aki’s stuff was still lying, untouched, inside his room). In any case, Denji hadn’t felt the need to empty himself from all that was foul and nasty since before Himeno. He had counted that as a win.
Except nothing about his circumstances was triumphant.
He bought a popsicle and sat on a bench and the whole while his stomach kept churning and aching, the images of Aki’s death and the memory of the Gun Fiend sticking his rifle through Denji’s open chest still too fresh. Too close to the forefront of Denji’s mind. Impossible to shake off.
Winner.
That’s what the stick said.
When the nausea got a bit much, Denji doubled over and cried.
--
"One more to go," Denji said out loud and Makima's dogs barked in agreement. Maybe they knew —instinctively, of course— that their owner was stored in neatly arranged containers inside Aki's fridge. So far, Denji had counted out loud after each meal just how many containers full of Makima he had left.
Shoving down the meat wasn't the problem. Keeping it down? That was another issue entirely. His body wasn't used to the protein after years of questionable food choices. And Denji got bloated. No wonder humans never tried to eat devils as vengeance for always being the ones devoured.
He slept in Aki's bed now and it was a struggle to even get a wink of sleep. Between the dogs and the memories (and his stomach, always occupying too much space inside him) the apartment had never seemed so small and foreign. It was all kinds of wrong but Denji had won.
He'd beaten the control devil and now he was making sure she wouldn't come back.
You know, like a hero.
--
How to describe Yoshida? Fuck, Denji had no clue. The dude was sort of a mystery wrapped in a conundrum and… Or did the Chinese box come first? Anyway, yeah, Yoshida. Denji couldn’t even begin to unravel what he was all about. What was his deal, right? And he’d hardly ever noticed Yoshida back when he sort of helped Denji out. He had that octopus devil eating from the palm of his hand and bro, even his freaking smile was weird.
A little bit tilted to the side, as if to say ‘gotcha’. Yeah, that was it. Yoshida had a creepy smirk drawn all over his face, with a permanent marker.
And it grated on Denji’s nerves.
So, when Yoshida had barged back into Denji’s life, insisting to take him out to eat… What was Denji supposed to do? Reject the perfect opportunity to stuff his face? He lacked the necessary scruples to turn down a full meal just like that. Even when it came from such a disreputable, frankly weird source.
They went to a popular (but secluded) coffee shop. One of those trendy, overly girly cafés with tons of pink decor plastered everywhere. Right above their heads hung so many framed paintings it almost sent Denji into a frenzy. Why? Was it because one of them featured a bird jail all empty but with the door to it closed? What kind of morbid, fucked up message was that sending out? And then Denji calmed down again once the food arrived.
Of all the things he (or more precisely, Yoshida) had ordered, the one that stood out the most was the strawberry shortcake. There it was, right in front of Denji in all of its sugary glory. From experience, he knew that the soft sponge and the cream would most definitely go down easy (and back up again, if need be). Boy, oh, boy! Did his mouth water at the sight of their scrumptious banquet!
That’s when Yoshida decided to take away his fork.
“If you don’t promise to stop turning into Chainsaw Man,” he started with a level tone, “I won’t let you eat.”
Won’t? Whatever could he mean by that?
Denji felt his gut churning and his eyes began to water. He should have expected such an outcome but he was nothing if not resourceful. Huffing, he lounged for the cake, his fingers sinking into the sponge, cream going under his nails as Denji helped himself to a big chunk of the cake. Yoshida stared and smiled that mysterious smile of his before tilting his head to the side. It was like a little boy at the zoo, finding the animals in their enclosures just so so so cute.
It was kind of a fitting image because Denji sometimes didn’t even feel human anymore. Digging into the (now utterly destroyed) cake with his bare hands, he found that he couldn’t stop. The sugar and the strawberries and the cream started to sicken him but he kept going.
Pride was a powerful drive.
--
“What did I say about teeth, princess?” Yoshida chastised Denji while at the same time encouraging him to keep going. His fingers carded through Denji’s stringy, unwashed hair. Huffing, Denji tried his best to hollow out his cheeks to make the going in of Yoshida’s cock easier.
He still didn’t know the first thing about his new partner. Except for the clear way in which Yoshida usually laughed: It was a subdued laughter that rang true nonetheless. It was distressing how someone could be so insincere yet sincere at the same time. Such a thing should be impossible. Hell, Denji thought, maybe Yoshida was every bit as much of a devil as Denji was. Two halves wrestling inside one single entity.
And for whatever reason, Yoshida had insisted (quite vehemently and stubbornly) that Denji was stupid, and silly, and that no girl would ever want him if he was a virgin who couldn’t pleasure another human being.
Denji had dumbly scratched his head then, and, like the dunderhead that he was, brought up Aki as his sole reference. Clever. Aki wasn’t there to verify his credentials but Yoshida’s eyes had turned murderous after his admission. His easy smile (that same one that always pulled at the corners of Yoshida’s lips, like it could hardly be contained) had died, leaving a hard cold stare in its stead.
That had been a couple of weeks from now.
If Yoshida’s mission was to keep Denji from transforming into Chainsaw Man then, mission accomplished, you know? Denji had scarcely had any time left to think of transforming into his other (more chaotic) self. What with being occupied learning all the new ways in which his body could feel good and stuff. Yoshida had turned out to be quite the master in all things related to sex. Not even Aki had been so rough with Denji.
Yet, there was some sort of mushy, soft kind of thing between them.
Denji wouldn’t even bother trying to define it. But, witless as he was, Denji still could tell that it wasn’t all about business for Yoshida. And what was he getting out of this anyway? He muttered again and again that Denji was pretty as he folded his legs in half, like some sort of human pretzel. All that while driving into Denji like his life depended on it.
Of course, there were the times when Yoshida was cruel as well. Denji let him because deep down it was more raw and, like, believable than when Yoshida called him all sorts of affectionate nicknames. This was way better. Aki would also ram into Denji, using him like one of those fleshlights. Not that Denji had seen one, ever. But he imagined they likely served the same purpose: Getting off. Simple. None of that romantic shit that only complicated everything.
“I’m close,” Yoshida stated, barely above a whisper. There was nothing in his intonation to indicate that he was the least bit bothered by Denji’s lack of reaction. And then he shot down Denji’s throat, punching so deep, the corners of Denji’s eyes filled with tears.
This is better, he thought when the tears spilled.
Undoubtedly better.