Megumi learned early that silence could bruise.
He remembered once tugging on the sleeve of Toji's coat, wanting something he didn't know how to ask for. Toji glanced down, not confused, not annoyed, just distant.
Detached. Then he shook Megumi's small hand off his sleeve as if it were nothing.
He didn't raise his voice.
He didn't hit him.
He simply didn't care.
Megumi held onto that moment longer than he should have. It settled inside him like a seed that would grow into something sharp.
People didn't need cruelty to hurt you.
Sometimes neglect was enough.
Tsumiki tried to patch the cracks Toji left behind, even when she was too young to know how to do it.
When Megumi broke one of his mother's old toys she had given him, he stared at the pieces on the floor with a blankness too mature for a child. Tsumiki sat cross-legged beside him and began fitting the pieces together.
"You don't have to," Megumi said.
"I want to," she replied.
"It'll break again."
"Maybe," she admitted, "but not today."
He watched her hands move. Gentle. Careful. Not clumsy like his. When she was done, she handed it back like it mattered.
Megumi didn't understand why she tried so hard.
And he didn't understand why it bothered him that she did.
A week later, she tripped on the way home and scraped her knee. Blood welled up in a red bead. Megumi stared at it, chest tightening. Not fear, anger.
"Who pushed you?" he demanded.
"N-No one," she said quickly. "I just fell. It's okay."
"It's not okay."
"It happens, Megumi."
"It shouldn't."
She blinked at him. He didn't like the way she laughed softly after, like she thought he was being dramatic. He wasn't. He had just learned too early that people who said "it's okay" were always the ones who got hurt again.
Later, when she dozed on the couch, Megumi brought her a bandage he had awkwardly made out of toilet paper. He didn't say anything. Just put it beside her.
Tsumiki smiled in her sleep.
He hated how soft she was.
He hated how much he wanted to protect that softness.
When Megumi was six, he saw a boy shove another kid into a puddle. Water splashed everywhere. The kid cried. The bully laughed.
Tsumiki gasped beside him. "That's so mean! Let's find a—"
Megumi was already walking.
He planted himself in front of the bully, who looked annoyed more than threatened.
"Move," the boy said.
Megumi didn't speak.
He didn't have to.
Behind him, the shadows stirred. They darkened, thickening into the suggestion of a growl. The air chilled. The bully's bravado vanished as fast as it formed.
He backed up, then ran.
Tsumiki rushed to Megumi's side. "You scared him!"
"He deserved it."
"You don't know why-"
"He pushed someone who didn't push him first."
"That doesn't mean you can scare people!"
"It does."
"Megumi…"
"They won't stop if someone doesn't make them."
He walked away. She followed, confused but relieved nothing worse happened.
The kid they saved whispered a trembling thank you.
Megumi didn't respond.
People should say thank you by not being cruel again.
Words meant nothing.
Actions mattered.
The Divine Dogs padded after Megumi as he stepped into the living room, their paws silent on the floor. Tsumiki was kneeling by the low table, sorting her pencils for homework. She looked up and her whole face lit up.
"There they are!" she gasped. "Hi babies!"
Megumi froze. "Don't call them that."
Tsumiki crawled closer, reaching out. One of the dogs leaned into her hand immediately, tail swishing through its shadowy form.
Megumi scowled. "They're supposed to be intimidating."
"They're not," she said, scratching behind one ear. "They're sweet."
"They aren't sweet."
"They're letting me pet them."
"So."
"That means they're sweet."
Megumi stared at her blankly, unable to find a hole in her logic but unwilling to admit defeat.
Tsumiki giggled, rubbing the dog's head. The other dog flopped dramatically onto its side, demanding attention.
"You're making them soft," Megumi muttered.
"They're happy."
"They don't need to be happy."
Tsumiki looked at him sideways. "Everyone needs to be happy sometimes."
"No they don't."
"You do."
Megumi's throat tightened. He didn't respond.
The dog nearest him nudged his knee insistently. He shoved it away half-heartedly, and it came right back, pressing its head into his leg as if refusing rejection.
He didn't know why they did that.
He didn't know why they reacted to Tsumiki the way they did.
He didn't know why their presence felt like warmth instead of weight.
Later that night, lying on the futon, Megumi stared at the ceiling. The dogs slept curled at his sides, breathing in slow, steady rhythms.
He thought of how Toji behaved after him mom died.
How Toji never reached out.
How he never lingered in doorways.
How he never carried Megumi when he was tired.
How he never asked if Megumi was happy.
Maybe that was why the dogs mattered.
Maybe that was why Tsumiki's gentleness bothered him.
Maybe affection didn't mean anything.
Or maybe he just didn't know what to do with it.
The next morning, Tsumiki tugged on his sleeve before he fully woke up.
"Megumi, come here!" she whispered excitedly.
"What?"
"Hurry!"
She dragged him outside to the tiny patch of garden in front of their apartment. A single small flower. Weak, uneven, stubborn, had pushed through the soil.
"Look! It finally bloomed."
Megumi stared at it.
"It's a flower," he said flatly.
"It's my favorite one."
"It looks the same as every other flower."
"No it doesn't," she insisted, smiling.
Megumi didn't understand what she saw in it.
He didn't understand why she wanted him to see it too.
He didn't care about flowers.
But she looked happy.
So he stood there beside her until she finished admiring it.
He didn't know why he bothered.
He followed anyway.
At eight years old, Megumi got detention for the first time. Not because he threw the first punch, he didn't but because he threw the last one.
Tsumiki patched the bruise on his cheek with a shaky sigh. "This is getting worse, Megumi."
"They were picking on somebody."
"You could've told someone."
"They don't do anything."
She put the bandage on too hard. He winced. She softened it quickly. "You can't solve everything with fists."
"I didn't hit him with my fist."
"Megumi!"
"What?"
"You can't keep doing this."
"People mess up sometimes," she whispered.
"They shouldn't."
"And you shouldn't hurt them back."
He stared at her like she had said something insane.
She smiled sadly because she knew that look.
He smiled back because he didn't know how to argue with her soft voice.
But he didn't change either.
When she forgot her umbrella in a storm, Megumi shoved his into her hands without looking at her. He walked home soaked.
She scolded him when she realized. "You could've gotten sick!"
"I don't get sick."
"That's not-Megumi! You're dripping everywhere!"
"Stop yelling."
"I'm not yelling!"
"You're loud."
"I'm worried!"
"You shouldn't be."
"But I am!"
Megumi blinked as she tried to towel his hair dry.
He didn't understand why she bothered.
He didn't understand why he let her.
Sometimes she skipped lunch because she spent her money helping someone else.
Megumi pushed half of his tray toward her. She gasped.
"Megumi! You need to eat too!"
"I don't care."
"Well I care."
"You shouldn't."
"But I do!"
He stared at her, then looked away, mumbling, "Just eat it."
He hated how easily she forgave people.
He hated how quickly she helped anyone.
He hated the fear he felt every time she said "It's okay, Megumi."
Because it wasn't.
But he never said that out loud.
When she twisted her ankle at age nine, he carried her on his back the whole way home.
She laughed. "You're too dramatic."
"You're clumsy."
"You're so mean to me!"
"You fell."
"You don't have to carry me!"
"You can't walk."
"I can hop!"
"You'd fall again."
"Megumi!"
"Stop yelling."
"I'm not yelling!"
"You're loud."
"You're annoying!"
"You're heavy."
"MEGUMI!"
He smirked. She pouted. The dogs trotted behind them.
He didn't say, "Don't scare me like that again."
He didn't say, "I was terrified when you fell."
He just carried her higher on his back so she didn't slip.
And she never questioned it.
When she was ten and he was eight, she burned dinner trying to make curry. Smoke filled the kitchen. Megumi coughed so hard he fell off the chair.
Tsumiki panicked. "Are you okay?! I'm so sorry, Megumi!"
The Divine Dogs barked like maniacs.
Megumi waved the smoke away and said, "You're stupid."
She froze.
Then he added, "I'm hungry."
Tsumiki burst into laughter.
He didn't.
But he liked the sound.
Years passed softly, quietly, in small moments that stitched them together.
Every bruise Megumi got was from protecting her.
Every tear Tsumiki shed was from worrying about him.
Every argument ended the same way: her sighing, him looking away, and the dogs collapsing between them like fuzzy surrender flags.
He grew into his philosophy slowly:
People are selfish.
People hurt others.
People leave.
People walk away.
People don't deserve forgiveness.
Good people get hurt.
Heroes forgive too much.
Heroes are stupid.
Mercy is dangerous.
Punishment is fairness.
Tsumiki didn't fix this worldview.
She didn't confront it.
She didn't challenge it with long speeches.
She simply lived beside him, quietly good, annoyingly kind, frustratingly forgiving.
And Megumi hated that about her.
And Megumi loved her for it.
And Megumi feared it every day.
Because she was everything he didn't trust in the world.
And the world was going to hurt her for it.
He knew it.
He felt it.
He dreaded it.
But for now, she leaned her head on his shoulder on the apartment roof, mumbling,
"You're a good person, Megumi."
"No I'm not."
"Yes you are."
He didn't answer.
The Divine Dogs rested beside them as the city lights flickered.
And Megumi thought, not for the last time:
"Good people get hurt."