Chapter 3: Bath Time Battles
The damp hand towel hit the floor with a sound like a defeated sigh. Megumi stood there, skin pebbled from the shower’s residual chill, hair plastered to his neck and shoulders in dark, dripping ribbons. He clutched the large, worn bath towel Sukuna had thrown at him like it was a royal robe defiled by common thread.“It scratches,” he announced, his voice a fragile thing trying to sound imperial.
“It dries,” Sukuna countered, not looking up from where he was wringing out Megumi’s discarded clothes over the sink.The water ran gray. “Be glad it’s clean.Could’ve used the one from the floor.”
Megumi’s nose wrinkled. He watched Sukuna’s back, the lean muscles moving under his thin t-shirt. The memory of those hands, firm and unyielding, guiding the bar of soap over his spine, his hips, the swell of his ass, ignited a low heat in his belly.It warred with the humiliation. He’d shrieked.He’d actually shrieked when the water hit him. And then he’d gone silent, paralyzed by the strange, shocking gentleness of Sukuna’s fingertips when they’d swept the suds from his inner thighs.
“You’re staring,” Sukuna said, his reflection catching Megumi’s gaze in the fog-mottled mirror. He turned, leaning against the sink, arms crossed. “See something you like, your highness?”
The old taunt, but it landed differently now.Megumi lifted his chin. “I was contemplating your inelegant form.You move like a lumberjack. All brute force.”
A smirk tugged at Sukuna’s mouth.“Brute force got you clean. Brute force’s gonna get you dry.Turn around.”
“What?Why?”
“The hair. It’s a hazard. Looks like a pissed-off squid.”
Before Megumi could formulate a protest, Sukuna had stepped forward and maneuvered him by the shoulders. A second, smaller towel descended over his head, blotting out the harsh fluorescent light. Then, strong fingers began to rub, slow at first, then with a brisk, thorough efficiency that made Megumi’s scalp tingle.
It was… not unpleasant.The pressure was firm, grounding. The rasp of the cotton against his ears created a private, muffled world. He could smell the cheap, citrus-scented shampoo Sukuna had used on him, mixed with Sukuna’s own scent—stale coffee, worn cotton, something faintly metallic like the city air. He found himself leaning back, just a fraction, into the touch.“See?” Sukuna’s voice was closer, vibrating through the towel. “You can behave.You even kinda shut up.Miracle of the age.”
The moment broke. Megumi stiffened, pulling away.The towel slid down to his shoulders. “I am permitting this because I choose to! Not because of your… your commoner commands!”
Sukuna just snorted, gathering the damp towels.“Keep telling yourself that.Get dressed.The comfy clothes. Not the silky nightmare you showed up in.”
The ‘comfy clothes’ were a pair of Sukuna’s own sweatpants, hemmed drastically with clumsy stitches, and a soft, faded band t-shirt.Megumi had scorned them before. Now, feeling the clean, dry cotton settle against his skin, he felt a shudder of pure, simple relief.It was overshadowed immediately by pride.
He emerged from the steamy bathroom into the cooler, dimmer apartment. Sukuna was in the kitchenette, dumping instant rice into a pot.The mundane normality of it was a slap.
“I demand proper sustenance,” Megumi said, drifting toward the small table.“You’ll get curry rice. And you’ll like it.” Sukuna didn’t turn around.“Sit. Before you fall over.You’re swaying.”
Megumi was. The adrenaline of the shower confrontation had drained, leaving a hollow, shaky exhaustion. He sat, folding himself into the chair with as much dignity as he could muster. He watched the set of Sukuna’s shoulders, the precise way he measured the water.There was a competency to his movements that was utterly foreign. In Megumi’s world, competence was delegated.It was beneath notice.Here, it was everything.
“At the store,” Megumi began, his voice quieter. “You said… you said I had to learn.”
Sukuna glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised.“Yeah. And?”
“Is this learning?” He gestured vaguely at himself, the apartment, the pot on the stove.
“This is survival.Learning comes after.” Sukuna stirred the rice. “You picked out your own snacks.That’s a start.Didn’t burst into tears when the hot water ran out. That’s a win.”
The acknowledgment, backhanded as it was, sent a weak thrill through Megumi’s chest.He looked down at his hands, pale against the cheap tabletop. “I am not entirely without merit.”
A beat of silence. Then the sound of a cabinet opening, two bowls being set on the counter.“Never said you were,” Sukuna muttered.
The curry was too salty and from a package, the rice slightly overcooked. Megumi ate every bite, his manners deserting him for the blunt urgency of hunger. Sukuna watched him, a strange, unreadable expression in his tired eyes.Afterward, Megumi felt heavy, warm. The exhaustion returned, a wave this time.He slumped at the table, his eyes drifting shut.
“C’mon.” Sukuna’s voice was close.A hand nudged his arm.“Bed. You’re dead on your feet.”
“I can retire myself,” Megumi slurred, but made no move to stand.
“Sure you can.” With a sigh that was more performative than weary, Sukuna hooked an arm under Megumi’s knees and another behind his back, lifting him from the chair.Megumi gasped, his arms flailing before locking around Sukuna’s neck. “Unhand me, you–!”
“Shut up. You weigh nothing.” Sukuna carried him the short distance to the futon, depositing him onto the rumpled sheets with less care than he’d used in the shower, but more than was strictly necessary. Megumi bounced once, his damp hair fanning out.He lay there, looking up. Sukuna stood over him, backlit by the kitchen light, his face in shadow.The power dynamic was clear, absolute. Yet, the man had just carried him.Fed him.Cleansed him. A confusing cocktail of resentment, shame, and a desperate, clawing gratitude tightened Megumi’s throat.
Sukuna turned to go.“Wait.”
He paused, half-turned.
Megumi’s pride screamed, but a deeper, more terrified part won out. The memory of Sukuna’s threat at the convenience store—the threat of being locked in, alone—was more vivid than any humiliation. “The… the light.From the hallway.”
Sukuna stared at him. Megumi couldn’t meet his eyes.“You want the door left open?”
A barely perceptible nod.
For a long moment, Sukuna said nothing.Then, a soft, almost imperceptible grunt. “Fine. But you try any midnight wandering, try to touch the stove or the window latch, and it’s closed for a week. Understood?”
“Understood.” The word was a surrender.Sukuna walked to the doorway, flicking off the main light. He didn’t close the door. A thin wedge of yellow illumination cut across the floor, painting a path from the futon to where he stood.He looked back once more. “And Megumi?”
“What?”
“You did okay today.”
Then he was gone, his footsteps retreating to the couch. Megumi lay in the semi-dark, the unfamiliar words—“You did okay”—echoing in the silent space where his royal accolades used to reside. He curled onto his side, facing the strip of light, and for the first time since arriving in this wretched, magic-less world, he fell asleep without crying.