Work Text:
may
Pregnancy, it turns out, changes things.
Yuuji rubs at his lower back absentmindedly, the heel of his palm digging into the spot just above his tailbone, where a new ache has started to build into a low, persistent throb. He’s been staring at the half-finished dinner on the kitchen counter for ten minutes, knife set down mid-chop on a carrot that was simply refusing to cooperate.
It’s only the third month along, and the changes are still mostly internal, subtle but undeniably there. His abdomen feels fuller already, he swears; he can press his fingers in there and feel the firmness beneath – a small enough difference that no one would notice from looking, but big enough that his center of gravity feels like it’s shifted just a fraction.
The apartment smells richly of the simmering miso soup he’s been tending to; Megumi had insisted weeks ago on them trying to eat more homemade meals, some mumbled rant about preservatives, clean nutrients, an assortment of facts he’d picked up from one of his many new pregnancy books. At first, Yuuji had just rolled his eyes, but the care behind the thought had left his chest all warm and soft, and so he’d quickly agreed.
Just as he reaches to stir the soup again, chopping abandoned for now, another twinge of mild pain shoots down his spine; he winces, hand immediately returning to that sore spot low on his back.
The door handle jiggles across the room, and Yuuji turns to see Megumi slipping in through the front door, returning from his quick trip to the corner store. The evening wind from outside has his dark hair slightly tousled, cheeks flushed from the chill. His expression is neutral as always, that calm mask he wears for the rest of the world; but his eyes –sharp, searching– soften the instant they land on Yuuji. His gaze quickly drops, down to the hand pressing into Yuuji’s back.
“You’re hurting,” Megumi says. Not a question – just a statement delivered in that even, steady tone he uses when sizing up a situation, determining how to proceed. Like Yuuji is terrain he needs to navigate carefully, cautiously, with no room for error.
If it were any other time, Yuuji would find the concern silly; but he would be lying if he said the ache wasn’t growing fiercer by the second. Not wanting to be bothersome, though, he forces a grin, waving his free hand vaguely.
“It’s nothing,” he replies easily, attempting to sound reassuring. “Just some small cramps. Been standing too long, I think. But I’m almost done.” He tries to laugh it off, but another painful twinge shoots down his spine when he shifts, so the sound comes out too tight.
Megumi doesn’t smile. He sets his grocery bag down on the counter –fresh tofu, a bundle of negi, two sugar-free drinks, more of the same careful selections he always makes– and crosses the room, closing the distance between them. His hand finds Yuuji’s shoulder, gentle but insistent, guiding him without force.
“Sit down. I’ll finish dinner.”
Yuuji opens his mouth to protest, to point out that he’s not helpless, but the thought of not having to stand anymore quickly wins out. He huffs, but lets himself be led to the couch nonetheless, sinking into the worn cushions with obvious relief.
The living room glows nice and cozy under the warm amber of the corner lamp, casting light and shadows across everything they’ve built together: Yuuji’s old movie posters on one wall, colorful knick knacks scattered about, a small ceramic cat figurine on the television stand that Yuuji bought on a whim once and Megumi never moved (despite numerous threats to). The space is calmed by the contrasting presence of Megumi’s own, quieter additions: a single pothos trailing from the shelf, a neat stack of books, photography prints hung with care.
It’s home.
Megumi sits down on the couch beside him, positioning Yuuji so he can reach his back. His hands press in lightly at first, testing the tension, looking for knots, mapping the muscles beneath his fingertips. Then he pushes his thumbs in deeper, rubbing in slow circles, massaging outwards from Yuuji’s spine. Every bit of pressure applied is measured, thoughtful, careful not to be too rough.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” Megumi murmurs, leaning forward, breath warm against the shell of Yuuji’s ear. His voice is soft, intimate, the kind of quiet he reserves only for close moments like these.
“It’s perfect,” Yuuji breathes in response, eyes drifting closed as the knots in his back begin to loosen under the attention. He can feel the underlying strength in Megumi’s hands – the same strength once used to summon shikigami and shatter curses, now wielded with unwavering restraint, repurposed entirely for this, something so painfully gentle.
It’s one of those tiny, defining ways Yuuji has come to recognize over the years as Megumi showing love: no grand speeches, no fuss, no real hesitation when it matters most. Just steady presence, and wordless action, and undeniable loyalty.
They stay like that for longer than Yuuji expects – ten minutes or so, maybe more. The soup simmers in the other room, halfway forgotten but thankfully not yet burning, according to the smell. When Megumi finally eases off, he stands from the couch and leans over to press a brief kiss to the crown of Yuuji’s head.
“That help any?” he asks.
Yuuji tilts his head back, looking up to meet those dark green eyes that he so desperately hopes get passed on. “Yeah. A lot,” he replies, reaching up, fingers curling into Megumi’s shirt collar to tug him down for a proper kiss. It’s slow, sweet, a simple I love you without words. “Thank you,” he adds when it ends, lips quirking into a lopsided smile.
Megumi nods and makes a low sound in his throat, almost an appreciative hum, and then straightens. Yuuji watches with fond eyes as he returns to the kitchen, movements ever efficient as he resumes chopping vegetables and tending to the soup.
The ache in Yuuji’s back has dulled into something much more manageable, and in its absence, he feels a pool of warmth settling in his chest. His hand reaches down without thought, fingertips brushing along the stomach that isn’t yet showing, and he allows himself to bask in this new feeling:
This is everything. This is ours, he thinks – and unlike so many other things in their lives, it won’t be taken from them.
-----
june
Less than a month later, and there’s the first whispers of a prominent shift: Yuuji’s stomach protruding out in a gentle curve. It’s not too obvious yet, still easily hidden under baggy sweatshirts if he wants – but it’s there, real and growing, a quiet testament to the life they’re nurturing after all they’ve been through.
The nausea that has been constantly plaguing him the past few weeks is receding, at least for the moment; it’s replaced by a strange, buzzing energy that propels him through each day like he’s been mainlining caffeine (he definitely hasn’t; Megumi monitors that, even limiting his own intake in solidarity).
Yuuji’s tackled the living room already, sorting through stacks of old manga and reorganizing the bookshelf at least three times over. Now, he’s moved on to the pantry, one of the tasks that he’s been dreading for ages; the air in here is faintly dusty, laced with the sharp tang of dried herbs and the sweeter notes from bags of noodles and rice. There’s no rhyme or reason to where anything is placed, no sense of organization at all.
It’s a disaster.
Yuuji stands up on his tiptoes, reaching for the jar of unopened umeboshi on the highest shelf – the pickled plums Megumi had grabbed after Yuuji mentioned wanting something sour during a late-night movie marathon. “These look good,” Megumi had said on their shopping trip the next day, dropping them into the cart like it was his own idea.
Yuuji’s fingers graze the glass, but it’s just out of reach, too far back on the shelf. He huffs out an irritated sigh, rocking on his heels for leverage, the stretch pulling just slightly at his middle – not painful, just enough to remind him of the doctor’s casual “no overextending” note at last week’s checkup. He starts to reach again anyway, feeling particularly stubborn, and figures he can always just grab the step stool from the hall closet if he needs to.
“Almost–” he mutters to himself, mouth twitching into a frown in concentration.
Strong arms slide around him from behind before he can make another attempt, Megumi’s chest slotting firmly against his back like a puzzle piece clicking into place; the warmth of his body immediately seeps through Yuuji’s thin t-shirt, the sensation comforting and grounding. One of Megumi’s hands settles on the gentle curve of Yuuji’s stomach, the other reaching up to pluck the jar down from the shelf with effortless grace.
“Here,” Megumi says, his voice a low rumble right by Yuuji’s ear. He doesn’t release Yuuji right away; instead, he lingers, pressing closer while he sets the jar down on a lower shelf. The hand on Yuuji’s stomach slides upward just slightly, palm settling protectively over the small swell of it – fingers splayed wide, a gentle pressure that’s become a habit these last few weeks, like it’s his own way of silently checking in on both of them.
Yuuji startles for just a split second at the sudden touch, then laughs, the sound bright and warm in the confined space. He twists in Megumi’s hold to face him, eyes crinkling with amusement and faint exasperation.
“Damn, I almost had it!” he jokes, lightly pinching Megumi’s forearm. “You’re like a shadow, sneaking up on me like that. Didn’t even hear you come in.”
Megumi’s brow furrows just a touch, that familiar line creasing – not with anger, just with that quiet concern he always seems to have these days. He’s still in his training clothes, sweat-dampened from teaching afternoon sessions at the school, his hair a bit more disheveled than it usually is.
“You shouldn’t strain like that,” he replies, soft but firm. “You know it’s not worth the–”
The tangents always start out like this; they’re nothing new. One minute the two of them will be doing something boring and ordinary – and the next, Megumi is worrying relentlessly about Yuuji’s blood pressure, or how much he’s slept, or if the temperature in the apartment is comfortable enough for him.
“I know, I know,” Yuuji interrupts with a sigh, but it’s entirely playful, and he finds himself leaning further into Megumi’s embrace.
They stay like that for a minute, simply soaking in each other’s presence, until out of nowhere, Yuuji randomly breaks the silence again: “So, like.. You’re absolutely sure you don’t wanna find out the gender?”
Yuuji can practically feel the eye roll Megumi gives in response.
“That was your idea,” Megumi reminds him, voice low and dry, hand moving to rub along the bump once more. “Remember? ‘Promise me, Megs. No matter what I say later.’ That was all you.”
Yuuji huffs out a laugh, but he doesn’t argue.
-----
july
By the fifth month of pregnancy, the bump is unmistakable.
Yuuji stands in front of the full-length mirror in their bedroom, just enough dawn light filtering in through the blinds to make everything feel hushed and private. It’s probably around seven o’clock, maybe a little later; the city outside is starting its slow wake-up hum, distant traffic and the occasional birdsong, but in here it’s still quiet enough for Yuuji to hear his own breathing.
He’s shirtless, fresh from a brisk shower, towel wrapped loosely around his hips, water still beading on his shoulders and trickling down his chest in slow paths. The bump is more obvious than ever, rounding him out in a way that makes his whole silhouette different, softer; he has to stand with his feet a little wider, shoulders back for better balance.
Openly staring now, he plants both palms on either side of the swell, thumbs resting just over the top of the curve. There haven’t been any real signs of movement yet this morning; it’s just a steady, heavy weight that makes every inhale feel a little bit deeper, more intentional.
Yuuji tilts his head, studying himself almost curiously as the minutes pass: pink hair damp and chaotic, a cowlick sticking up in the back and refusing to lie flat; face slightly tan from all the afternoon park walks Megumi has insisted on lately; eyes lively and bright despite the tired shadows lingering underneath them.
He runs one palm over the curve, pressing in lightly, feeling the firmness give just a fraction before pushing back. There’s a tiny flutter, the first of the day – just a quick one beneath the flat of his hand, as if trying to communicate, trying to assure him it’s really there.
It’s real, he thinks almost distantly. After all the blood and curses and nights where Yuuji didn’t know if he or Megumi would still be there in the morning – this impossible, tiny thing is real. Alive and warm and theirs.
The thought is almost terrifying if he lingers on it for too long, so Yuuji quickly swallows the feeling down.
“Hey, little guy,” he finds himself whispering, eyes glued to the bump. “You’re changing everything, you know that? Not – not complaining, just.. noticing.” He shifts his weight, watching the reflection adjust – his hips tilting forward instinctively, spine curving more than it normally would. “It’s weird. But, like, good weird.”
And it is. It’s beyond strange, seeing himself like this: stronger in a different way – a softer way.
He doesn’t hear Megumi come in; he rarely does, but he feels the shift in the air, the subtle warmth that arrives when Megumi crosses the room. Arms wrap around him from behind, familiar and careful as ever; one hand goes straight to Yuuji’s hip, and the other settles over the bump, directly on top of Yuuji’s own hand.
Megumi’s chest presses flush against Yuuji’s back, solid and steady, chin resting on Yuuji’s shoulder so their gazes meet in the mirror: Yuuji’s bright, softer features next to Megumi’s sharper lines, the perfect contrast. He doesn’t speak right away; he just stands there, holding, thinking, thumb moving in absentminded strokes over the back of Yuuji’s knuckles.
Yuuji finds himself smiling. “Morning,” he says after a moment, turning his hand to lace their fingers together.
“Morning,” Megumi murmurs back, squeezing Yuuji’s hand gently. He lets out a hum, deep and content, before adding, “You’re up early. You okay? I was just about to start breakfast.”
“Yeah,” Yuuji replies with a small, almost embarrassed laugh. “Just thought I’d come stand here and gawk at myself like an idiot for a while.”
“You’re not an idiot.” Megumi’s grip tightens just a fraction, his mouth setting into a tiny, unconscious frown. “You’re–”
“Don’t say beautiful,” Yuuji cuts in, rolling his eyes despite the warmth creeping its way up his neck. He sighs, long and heavy and overly dramatic. “I look like I ate a bowling ball. Maybe two.”
As expected, Megumi doesn’t take the bait. He shifts his weight slightly, adjusting so he can better see Yuuji in the mirror across from them. “You look like you’re carrying our child,” he corrects, low and even. “That’s not the same as being beautiful. It’s bigger than that.”
The words settle deep in Yuuji’s chest, genuine and loving, spreading warmth with them. He watches their reflections more intently: Megumi’s dark eyes fixed on the swell of his stomach, the tension in his jaw that always shows when he’s thinking too hard, the way his fingers flex gently between Yuuji’s like he’s restless.
“You always stare like that,” Yuuji says after a moment, then pauses, mulling over his next words carefully. “Like.. if you look away for too long, it’ll vanish.”
Megumi exhales through his nose, short and sharp. There’s a brief flicker of something across his face – fear, maybe, but it’s gone just as quickly as it came. “Old habit,” he admits, voice rougher than it was only moments ago. “Just.. checking. Making sure you’re both still here.”
Yuuji’s throat tightens a fraction. He knows the feeling, all too well – knows the ghosts that linger, the memories of nights where neither of them should have made it back alive, and many others didn’t. He tears his gaze away from the mirror and turns his head to the side, lips brushing against the line of Megumi’s jaw, feeling the scratch of overnight stubble there.
“We’re here,” he finally says. “Not going anywhere.”
Megumi hums in acknowledgment, nodding just slightly. His palm presses further into the bump, like he has to confirm the words with touch to truly believe them. Then, with that same undercurrent of concern that laces everything, “Anything this morning? Moving much?”
Yuuji shakes his head, untangling his fingers from Megumi’s. “Just, like, once. Probably saving the gymnastics routine for when I’m trying to nap on the couch later.” He hesitates for a moment, then adds with a small, teasing grin, “You could say hi sometimes, you know. All the books say they can recognize voices by now.”
Megumi’s ears tint pink – barely visible in the dim lighting, but Yuuji catches it anyway. “I do,” he mumbles.
“Yeah?” Yuuji presses, grin widening. “When’s that?”
“When you’re asleep,” Megumi admits with a huff, shrugging one shoulder lightly, looking the slightest bit embarrassed. It’s ridiculously endearing. “Just.. basic stuff. Keep growing. Try not to kick too hard. That kind of thing.”
Yuuji lets out a laugh, soft and fond and impossibly warm. “You’re such a sap,” he teases, pressing a quick kiss to Megumi’s jaw. “Underneath all that brooding.”
“I’m not brooding.”
“Mm. Sometimes you are,” Yuuji concedes, turning carefully in his arms until they’re face-to-face. Megumi’s hands shift automatically: one stays low on the bump while the other settles at the small of Yuuji’s back, steadying him. Up close, Yuuji can see the faint shadows under Megumi’s eyes, the worry lines around them. He reaches up, thumb tracing lightly along Megumi’s cheekbone as he adds, “I really like the sappy part, though.”
Megumi’s eyelashes flutter briefly at the tender touch, his gaze dropping to Yuuji’s mouth. “Good,” he replies simply, before leaning in to press their lips together in a slow, intimate kiss. Yuuji melts into it, welcoming all the comfort and safety it brings.
When they eventually break apart, Yuuji’s smiling before he even reopens his eyes. “Think it’ll look like you or me?” he asks, glancing down at the bump, and then back up at Megumi.
“Doesn’t matter,” Megumi replies without hesitation, voice barely above a whisper. “It’ll be ours.”
“Yeah,” Yuuji agrees after a beat, eyes stinging faintly in the corners. “Ours.”
-----
august
With month six comes the full heat of late summer.
The bedroom window is cracked, letting in the low drone of cicadas and the occasional whir of a car passing on the street below – but the air still feels thick, stagnant, far too humid. The fan on the dresser oscillates in slow arcs in the direction of the bed, stirring the damp strands of Yuuji’s hair without ever really cooling anything.
They’re already tangled together when the mood shifts, warm as the air around them.
Yuuji is on his side, facing Megumi, one leg hooked loosely over Megumi’s hip. The sheets are kicked down to the foot of the bed, neither of them wanting anything touching them more than necessary. Yuuji’s shirtless, sweatpants shoved low; Megumi’s in nothing but boxers, hair still wet from a shower he took an hour ago, dark strands sticking to his neck.
They’ve been like this for a while – lazy kissing, hands wandering without urgency. One of Megumi’s palms has been flat on Yuuji’s stomach almost the entire time, thumb moving in slow, unconscious circles over the taut skin. Every so often he pauses, just for a moment, like he’s feeling for movement, or maybe just reminding himself what’s there.
Yuuji breaks the current kiss, breath coming out a little bit harder between them. “You’re doing the thing again,” he teases.
Megumi’s brows lift half a millimeter in response, hand still on the bump. “What thing?”
“The checking thing.” Yuuji’s voice is soft, amused, incredibly affectionate. He covers Megumi’s hand with his own, pressing it more firmly against his skin. “I mean, it’s cute. But I’m fine. We’re fine. You don’t need to worry so much.”
Megumi doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans in and kisses Yuuji again – slower this time, deeper, tongue sliding against Yuuji’s in a way that has heat coiling low in his stomach. When he finally pulls back, his voice is rougher, thick with both concern and desire, “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
“I could.”
Yuuji’s hand slides up, fingers curling around the back of Megumi’s neck. “You won’t,” he repeats, quieter. Absolutely certain. “We’ve done this before. We know how to be careful. And I want you. Please.”
For several seconds, all Megumi does is study his face, eyes dark and conflicted. Then he gives a small, almost imperceptible nod, and shifts; he gently rolls Yuuji onto his back, propping two pillows beneath his head and another under his lower back without having to be asked. The movement is well-practiced at this point; they’ve figured out the angles that work, the ones that don’t put pressure on the bump or strain Yuuji’s spine.
Even so, it seems Megumi is intent on worrying.
He settles between Yuuji’s open thighs, quickly removing both his own boxers and Yuuji’s sweatpants, tossing them to land in a heap on the floor. For a long moment, they just look at each other – sweaty, flushed, breathing uneven and shallow. Then Megumi’s gaze drops to the bump, and back up to Yuuji’s face.
“Tell me the second anything feels wrong,” he says. It’s not a request.
“I will,” Yuuji replies softly, reaching up, thumb brushing the corner of Megumi’s mouth. “Promise.”
Megumi lets out a shaky exhale and nods again, then leans down to capture his lips in another kiss – open-mouthed, hungry, but still so, so careful. One of his hands slides down between their bodies, fingers wrapping tentatively around Yuuji’s length, stroking slow and steady, building the pleasure gradually.
The heat pools low in Yuuji’s gut, every motion eliciting a fresh gasp out of him. Before long, he’s aching all over, and fully hard, and the insides of his thighs are sticky with slick. He stutters out a broken plea, and Megumi finally relents, releasing his grip on Yuuji to instead line himself up between his legs.
Megumi pushes in slow – agonizingly slow, leaning back to watch every flicker across Yuuji’s expression; searching, undoubtedly, for even the slightest hint of discomfort or pain. When he bottoms out, he stills entirely, voice strained as he asks, “Good?”
Yuuji nods, eyes half-lidded. His hands reach up, finding Megumi’s shoulders, nails digging in just enough to ground them both. “Yeah. I’m – I’m okay. Keep going.”
So Megumi does. He moves with deliberate care, thrusts measured and controlled, never anywhere near rough. One arm stays braced on the bed next to Yuuji’s head; the other rests lightly on the side of the bump, steadying as always. Yuuji rocks up to meet his movements when he can, legs wrapping loosely around Megumi’s hips, heels pressing into the small of his back.
The room fills with a symphony of quiet sounds: their mingled breathing, the soft creak of the mattress, the low whir of the fan still going. Sweat beads at Megumi’s forehead, dripping down the side of his face; Yuuji reaches up to wipe it away with his thumb, then pulls him into another kiss – messier this time, edging into desperate.
“Harder,” Yuuji mumbles against Megumi’s mouth when they break for air. “It’s okay. I can take it.”
Megumi hesitates, hips slowing instead, pulling back slightly to search Yuuji’s face again.
“Please,” Yuuji adds, softer. His fingers slide up into Megumi’s hair, tugging gently for emphasis. “I want to feel you.”
Something shifts in Megumi’s expression at the words – worry finally giving way to want, to the innate need to give what Yuuji asks of him. He nods again, then changes the angle just slightly, thrusts picking up both depth and pace. Yuuji gasps, head tipping back against the pillows.
“God, yes,” he stutters, eyes rolling back slightly. “Oh, just – just like that, Megs.”
Megumi keeps the rhythm, steady, focused, every movement attuned to the sounds Yuuji makes, the way Yuuji’s body responds. His own breathing grows uneven, ragged; and he drops his forehead to Yuuji’s shoulder, panting, lips brushing against flushed skin.
“Yuuji–”
“Please,” Yuuji breathes, barely able to get it out around another gasp, voice wrecked and raw. His hand slips between them, wrapping around his own length, stroking in time with Megumi’s thrusts. “You feel so – so good. Please. Don’t – don’t stop.”
Megumi doesn’t. He keeps going until Yuuji’s back arches, a low moan tearing out of him as his orgasm hits in a dual release; he spills over his own hand and stomach, and simultaneously clenches around Megumi in shuddering pulses. Seconds later and Megumi’s own climax is hitting him; he buries himself deep, hips stuttering, a muffled groan pressed into Yuuji’s neck as he spills inside.
They stay locked together like that for a long while, breathing hard, hearts hammering wildly and out of sync. Megumi doesn’t pull out right away; he stays all the way in, one hand sliding back to the bump of Yuuji’s stomach, palm shaking, like he needs the contact as a way to anchor himself.
Eventually, it starts to get a little uncomfortable, and Megumi eases out, still slow and careful as ever; he grabs the sweatpants from the floor and wipes them both clean in gentle swipes before tossing them aside to deal with later. Then he settles back into the mattress, rolling onto his side and pulling Yuuji with him so they’re facing each other again.
Already starting to drift off, and exhausted beyond belief, a lazy grin tugs at the corner of Yuuji’s mouth. “See?” he mumbles, satisfied and content. “Still in one piece.”
Unable to deny it, Megumi only huffs in response – quiet, affectionate, and rolls his eyes. His hand quickly finds its way back to the bump, right where it belongs – thumb resuming its slow, never-ending circles, the motion incredibly warm and soothing.
Yuuji’s still smiling when sleep takes over.
-----
september
Walking starts to become a real struggle around the seventh month.
Every passing day seems to bring new, annoying challenges like this: swollen ankles, a back that protests with every minor step, and a stomach so prominent that he has to turn sideways to fit through narrower aisles and crowded walkways now.
It’s early afternoon on a weekday, so most people are still at work, and the local supermarket is quiet at least – peaceful, almost, with the soft hum of the overhead lights and the occasional beep of a cash register. The air smells like the fresh fish drifting from the seafood counter, mixed with the sweet steam rising in the hot deli section, where tonkatsu and croquettes sit under the heat lamps.
Yuuji’s stomach growls faintly.
They only came for “just a few things” – Megumi’s words, delivered firmly after Yuuji had mentioned offhand that the fridge was down to a single yogurt and some sad, wilted greens. Yuuji had laughed, said he could handle the trip alone, but Megumi was grabbing his keys and the reusable bags within seconds. No argument to be had.
So now they’re inside the store, together just as they should be – Yuuji slowly pushing the cart, both hands braced on the handlebar for support, while Megumi walks half a step behind, eyes scanning shelves and people alike.
Yuuji pauses in the produce section, eyeing the daikon radishes thoughtfully, one hand drifting to his lower back. It’s particularly sore today, and combined with how his feet already ache, every step feels like he’s wading through sand.
“These look pretty fresh,” he muses, reaching halfway over the cart with his free hand in an attempt to grab one of the radishes; the stretch pulls at his side, and he winces just barely.
In an instant, Megumi is there – one hand on the cart to steady it, the other guiding Yuuji’s back down to the handle. “Hold on, I’ll get it.” He picks two up without hesitation, the ones Yuuji was eyeing, and carefully places them into the cart. “You want the smaller ones for pickling, right?”
“Yeah. Thank you.” Yuuji lets out a deep exhale, hand dropping to rub at his stomach absentmindedly. The baby gives a lazy roll in response, just under his ribs, like it’s weakly acknowledging the moment of direct attention. “I swear this kid’s heavier today. Stubborn, too. Wants to stay in one spot.”
Megumi’s mouth twitches into a rare smile. “Probably takes after you, then,” he remarks, pointedly ignoring the playful glare Yuuji shoots his way. He follows as Yuuji starts to push the cart forward again, one hand on the edge of it, intentionally keeping the pace slower than necessary. “We need yogurt next. And milk.”
They move toward the dairy aisle. A woman with a toddler cart rounds the corner a bit too fast, and Megumi steps slightly in front of Yuuji on instinct, setting one hand on his waist to stop him. The woman smiles apologetically as she passes; Megumi just nods once, expression neutral.
Yuuji catches the look, bumps Megumi’s shoulder lightly once the aisle clears and they can head down it. “You know I can dodge a cart, right? I’m still me.”
“I know.” Megumi doesn’t look at him, just starts scanning the numerous shelves of yogurt. “But if you move too fast, your back’s done for the day. And then you’ll be up all night, and neither of us will get any sleep.”
Yuuji snorts. “That’s fair, I guess. But you don’t have to be, like, a bodyguard.”
“Someone has to.” Megumi grabs the usual pack of plain yogurt, then pauses as he glances over the flavored ones one more time. “You want strawberry? You mentioned it yesterday.”
Yuuji’s eyes light up, and he nods. “Yeah. And maybe the peach, too?”
Megumi adds both without further comment, then walks down to the section full of milk cartons, and grabs Yuuji’s favorite low-fat brand. After he sets everything in the cart –nice and organized– one hand wanders down to rest on Yuuji’s lower back for a second, thumb pressing into the usual sore spot. The movement is quick, casual, but Yuuji feels a wave of relief nonetheless.
“You’re too good at this,” Yuuji mutters, leaning into the touch.
Megumi shrugs like it’s nothing, but the tips of his ears turn pink. “Practice.”
They press on, pace ever slow, making their way through the small grocery list on Megumi’s phone: to the rice aisle (Megumi lifts the 5kg bag before Yuuji can even think of reaching for it), the tofu section (Megumi checks the expiration dates meticulously), and eventually the snack corner where Yuuji lingers over the display of chips and rice crackers.
“I shouldn’t,” Yuuji mumbles, mostly to himself, staring directly at a large bag of salted kelp crisps – the exact ones he gravitates to every single time they stop by the supermarket. “But..”
Megumi picks up the bag, adds it to the cart.
Yuuji watches the movement, unable to stop the cheesy grin that spreads across his face. “Now you’re just enabling me,” he teases with a click of his tongue, eyes narrowing in playful accusation.
“I’m preventing you from raiding the vending machine at 2 a.m. again.” Megumi’s tone is flat and dry, but his eyes are undeniably soft when they meet Yuuji’s gaze. It absolutely melts him. “Balance, Yuuji.”
They continue on their way after that, heading for the fresh meat counter. Yuuji eyes the chicken thighs thoughtfully, then the selection of pork loin. “We could do tonkatsu tonight,” he hums, then quickly adds, “Or – I mean, we don’t have to, I can–”
Megumi just nods, cutting his rambling off before it can truly begin. “Tonkatsu. You need the protein.” Without allowing time for a response, he goes to order from the attendant, asking for the meat to be cut extra thin, just the way he knows Yuuji likes.
As they wait for it to be prepared, Yuuji starts to get restless, shifting uncomfortably, hand pressing into his side. “Gonna need the bathroom soon,” he warns, grimacing slightly. “This kid’s sitting right on my bladder.”
Megumi glances around, spots the restrooms up near the entrance, and tips his head in that direction. “Go ahead. I’ll finish up here.”
“You sure? I can–”
“Go,” Megumi repeats, taking the cart handle from him, gentle but insistent. “I’ll meet you by the registers. Don’t walk too fast.”
Grateful, Yuuji gives a little nod and waddles off to the bathroom. When he exits a few minutes later, Megumi’s already waiting in line nearby, cart loaded up with everything plus a few extras they hadn’t discussed: a jar of umeboshi, some fresh ginger for tea, and –Yuuji notices with a quiet laugh– a bottle of the non-alcoholic amazake he likes for the evenings when his heartburn hits the worst.
“You got the amazake,” Yuuji says fondly, coming up to stand beside him.
“You finished the last one,” Megumi responds matter-of-factly, not looking up from where he’s starting to scan the items with the self-checkout machine. “And I got ginger. In case the nausea comes back.”
Yuuji leans his weight against the edge of the cart, watching him work, knowing better than to offer assistance. “I’m starting to think you might be a little ridiculous,” he jokes lightly, mouth twitching up into a small smile.
Something about that gets Megumi’s attention. He pauses, card in hand, and finally turns to meet Yuuji’s eyes; there’s no laughter in his gaze – only honesty, raw and serious. “You’re carrying our child,” he replies, voice much softer than it usually is. “It’s not ridiculous.”
A familiar warmth stirs in Yuuji’s chest at the words. Ours. He reaches over without thought, his hand covering the one Megumi has resting on the cart handle. “I know,” he replies, achingly genuine. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” Megumi murmurs, flipping his hand over to lace their fingers together for just a moment, squeezing gently. “Just.. let me.”
They finish checking out. Megumi insists on carrying all three bags, guiding Yuuji toward the exit with his free hand. Outside, the afternoon sun slants across the empty street, bringing with it a new wave of heat. Yuuji pauses at the bench near the entrance, needing a second to sit and catch his breath.
Megumi waits without complaint. When Yuuji’s recovered enough and starts to stand, Megumi immediately offers him a hand to slowly pull him up – never rushing, always patient, always content to support whatever Yuuji needs.
Just moments after they start walking again, the baby kicks once, hard and defiant. Yuuji flinches mid-step, then brushes it off with a quick laugh. “Okay, ow,” he jokes lightly, glancing down at his offending stomach. “We’re going home now. Message received. I’ll hurry up.”
Megumi’s free hand moves to the bump instinctively, palm flat. “Easy,” he murmurs – to the baby, to Yuuji, to both. “We’ve got plenty of time.”
Yuuji looks up at him, at the soft line of his profile in the golden sunlight, and feels everything settle at once –the discomfort, the heavy weight, the worries– all of it infinitely lighter with Megumi here, always willing to bear more than half the load.
They cross the street together, bags swinging gently, hands intertwined, and head home.
-----
october
By the time they’re halfway through the eighth month of Yuuji’s pregnancy, the apartment has turned into something between a nursery construction site and a hazardous nest.
The living room feels smaller every day, corners claimed by half-assembled and barely organized baby things: the crib frame leaning up against the wall, still in its sealed box; piles of tiny onesies stacked in precarious towers on the coffee table (most of them having been purchased by a gleaming Nobara – the highest of qualities, she’d said proudly); and a green rocking chair Megumi ordered online that’s sitting awkwardly in the middle of the floor because neither of them has found the perfect spot for it yet.
Yuuji is sprawled across the couch, legs propped up on the ottoman Megumi dragged over for him when he started rubbing at his ankles. He’s wearing one of Megumi’s oversized hoodies –black, soft inside, sleeves rolled up because his wrists are the only part of him that isn’t swollen at this point– and loose sweatpants that sit low under the large curve of his belly.
There’s an “expecting parents” book open across his lap, but he hasn’t turned one page in nearly twenty minutes. Distracted, his hands rest on either side of the bump, fingertips pressing in just slightly; the baby is active today, little jabs and rolls that have him huffing in amusement every so often.
Between kicks, his thoughts drift: baby names, breathing exercises, whether they’ve baby-proofed the apartment well enough. He’s just starting to daydream about how exactly they’re going to fit all of this nursery stuff into the spare room when the craving hits out of nowhere – sudden, sharp, nagging insistently at the front of his mind. He blinks, head falling back, mouth nearly watering at the mere thought.
“Takoyaki,” he groans, mostly to the ceiling. “Spicy ones. Ugh.” It’s not loud, barely more than a yearning sigh, but the apartment is quiet enough that the words carry.
Across the room, Megumi pauses mid-fold. He’s standing next to the dining table, turning a tiny sleeper inside-out with the same careful precision he uses for everything. The laundry basket at his feet is almost empty now – just the last of the unsorted baby clothes, and a few of Yuuji’s larger shirts that still somehow fit.
Megumi tilts his head slightly, dark hair falling into his eyes, but he doesn’t look up right away. He just finishes the fold he’s working on, sets the sleeper on the newest stack, and straightens.
Yuuji doesn’t notice the shift at first; he’s too immersed in his thoughts, too busy imagining the crispy octopus balls, the mildly sweet takoyaki sauce, the spicy tang of kimchi mixed with it. When he finally glances over, Megumi is already moving toward the entryway – silent, efficient, the way he always is when he’s decided something on his own.
“Hey, where are you–?” Yuuji starts, but the front door is closing behind Megumi before he even has time to finish the sentence.
For a long second, he just stares at the closed door, mouth hanging open; then he blinks and glances down, laughing under his breath, one hand rubbing slow circles over the large swell of his belly. “Your dad really is a sap, you know that?” he huffs out. “Don’t ever let him tell you otherwise.” The baby kicks once, hard, right underneath his ribs as if to express its sincere agreement; Yuuji grins wider.
He settles back into the couch cushions, closing the book in his lap and setting it aside. He could get up, grab his phone to text Megumi to wait – tell him he’s fine, he’ll survive without the takoyaki. But he doesn’t, because he knows exactly what this is: Megumi’s unwavering version of love, quiet and immediate. More than he could ever ask for. More than he deserves, really.
So he waits.
The clock on the wall ticks past twenty minutes. Then thirty. Yuuji dozes a little as the time passes, head tipped back, one hand still cradling the curve of his stomach. As he drifts, he distantly thinks about how different this all feels compared to just a few years ago – back when “home” was just a temporary place for them to crash between missions, when “ours” was nothing more than a faraway dream.
Now they have an ours, and they have a home – and it’s filled to the brim with love, and tiny pairs of socks, and the constant, grounding presence of the very person he never thought he’d actually get to keep.
The front door finally opens again, and there’s the sound of a soft click when it closes, as well as the shuffle of shoes being kicked off.
Megumi steps in carrying a plastic takeout bag, steam curling out from the top even through the tied knot. The smell wafts across the room and hits Yuuji almost immediately: hot batter, octopus, sweet-savory sauce, the faint smoky char of bonito flakes.
Yuuji’s stomach growls audibly.
Not wasting any time, Megumi crosses the room, sets the bag on the coffee table, and then kneels to unpack it: a tall paper container, still hot to the touch, lid popped to let the steam escape; two pairs of disposable chopsticks and napkins; a small cup of extra sauce and sheets of nori; and –of course– a chilled bottle of the peach oolong tea that Yuuji’s been drinking nonstop for weeks.
“Spicy,” Megumi says simply, like that’s the only explanation needed.
Yuuji stares at the steaming spread, then at Megumi, who is now kneeling on the floor beside the couch and watching him with that quiet, steady gaze.
“You went all the way to Takoyaki Tanaka-San?” Yuuji asks, voice coming out rougher than he intends; his throat suddenly feels thick, the air hard to swallow.
Megumi shrugs one shoulder. “They do the crispy ones right. And the place by the station uses frozen octopus.”
Yuuji laughs – short, warm, a little unsteady and watery at the edges. “You – you checked?”
“I always check.” Megumi reaches over and takes a set of chopsticks, picks up a piece of takoyaki and dips it in the sauce; he blows on it once, and then holds it out in Yuuji’s direction. “Careful,” he warns. “It’s hot.”
Moving slowly, trying not to stretch too much, Yuuji leans forward and takes the bite. The exterior is perfectly crisp, the inside molten and soft, octopus tender, sauce tangy with just the right amount of burn. It’s exactly what he’d been craving. He makes an involuntary sound of pleasure, eyes slipping closed for just a second.
Megumi watches him eat the first one, then the second, expression mostly neutral except for the tiniest softening at the corners of his eyes.
“You’re not gonna eat?” Yuuji asks around the third bite, sauce dripping down to his chin. He wipes it away hastily with a napkin, one eyebrow raising in question.
“No,” Megumi responds, glancing at the spread on the table and then shaking his head. “Not hungry. Have as much as you want.”
“Liar,” Yuuji immediately accuses; he picks up a piece of takoyaki with his own chopsticks, blows on it, and then holds it out in offering. “Come on, try. I can’t finish this all by myself.” The last part is probably also a lie, but he’d much rather share – especially after Megumi went to such lengths to get the food for them.
Megumi hesitates, just for a heartbeat, then leans forward and takes the bite. He chews slowly, like he’s judging, and then nods once in approval. “It’s good.”
They eat like that for a while, trading bites and small comments. Just as Yuuji is starting to get full, the baby gives a few more kicks, along his left side this time – and Yuuji winces, laughing as he sets down his chopsticks.
“Okay, jeez,” he hums, rolling his eyes affectionately before glancing down at his stomach. “Too spicy?”
Within a second, Megumi’s hand is moving, sliding under the hem of the hoodie so it rests directly on the bump. His palm is warm, steady, calming in a natural way that feels beyond words. He doesn’t speak; he just waits, thumb brushing in a slow arc across the stretched skin. The kicking settles after a moment, like the baby recognizes the touch.
Yuuji watches him, chest tightening in a way that’s becoming increasingly familiar as the months pass. His vision blurs a little, tears rapidly and unashamedly threatening to surface.
Of course, Megumi notices. His gaze flicks up, dark green eyes scanning Yuuji’s face with thinly-veiled concern. “What’s wrong?” he asks, voice low.
Trying to quickly quell any surfacing worries, Yuuji shakes his head, and lets out a rough laugh that’s mostly just strained breath. “Nothing, nothing. It’s just.. you didn’t have to do that. Really.”
Megumi just stares at him for a long second, processing. “You wanted it.”
“Well, yeah, but–” Yuuji gestures vaguely around at the mess of the room, at his body, at everything combined. “It’s late. And I know you’re tired. I could’ve waited. Or gone myself tomorrow. You didn’t have to drop everything and–”
“I wanted to,” Megumi interrupts gently, thumb resuming in its slow arcs across Yuuji’s stomach. “You said it, and I was here. So I went. Why wouldn’t I?”
Yuuji blinks, feels the first traitorous tear spill over his lash line and slip down his cheek. He swipes at it quickly, embarrassed. “God,” he mutters, almost to himself, wondering exactly when he became so disgustingly soft. “Hormones are the worst.”
“It’s okay.”
“I’m crying.” Yuuji laughs again – wet, shaky. “Over takoyaki. Real dignified, huh? What’s happening to me?”
Megumi doesn’t smile, but his eyes soften further. He shifts closer on his knees, until he’s fully settled between Yuuji’s legs. “It’s not about the takoyaki,” he says quietly. Not judging, just observing.
A few more stray tears fall as Yuuji looks down at him – at Megumi’s messy hair, the faint flush on his cheeks from the wind outside, the steady way he holds Yuuji’s gaze. “No,” Yuuji admits, barely above a whisper. “It’s not.”
Megumi waits patiently, gives him time to gather his thoughts.
“It’s you,” Yuuji continues after a beat, voice cracking. “You just.. do things. Like it’s nothing. Like running across town because I had a silly little craving is just.. normal. Or expected. And I–” He stops, swallows hard. “I don’t – I don’t know how to handle it sometimes. How good you are to me.”
Megumi’s expression doesn’t change much, but his hand finds Yuuji’s, fingers lacing together on instinct. “You’re doing the hard part,” he says simply. “Everything else is easy. I can take care of it.”
Yuuji lets out another shaky breath, squeezes Megumi’s hand tighter than he needs to. “You’re gonna make me cry more,” he chokes out, trying weakly to joke like normal, but the words wobble and betray him.
“Then cry,” Megumi says softly. “I’m here.”
Unable to help it, Yuuji actually gives in and does – not dramatic, just tears silently slipping down his cheeks while he laughs at himself. At the absurdity of it all. At the beauty of it all. Megumi stays right where he is, hand warm where it holds onto Yuuji’s, the other still resting on the bump.
After a while, the tears slow into little more than sniffles and deep breaths. Yuuji wipes his face off with the sleeve of the hoodie, sighing heavily.
“Better?” Megumi asks. He shifts, moving to sit on the couch next to Yuuji, pulling him flush against his side.
“Yeah,” Yuuji replies with a small, tired smile. “Thanks for the takoyaki.”
-----
november
The ninth month feels endless in the best and worst of ways.
It’s the middle of the night when Yuuji wakes for the second time – half-conscious, body heavy, mind still floating somewhere between reality and dreams. He’s lying on his left side, because that’s the only position he can semi-comfortably sleep in these days – one pillow wedged between his knees, another tucked behind his back.
He registers the solid warmth first. Then the faint brush of hair tickling his bare skin.
Megumi’s face is pressed close to the curve of his stomach – not quite touching, but near enough that Yuuji can feel each slow exhale against his skin. Megumi is curled toward him, one arm draped loosely over Yuuji’s hip, the other resting flat on the swell, fingers splayed wide.
Yuuji keeps his eyes closed. He doesn’t move, doesn’t dare breathe differently. Something tells him that this is private, something Megumi only allows himself to do when he thinks no one is watching – and that if he opens his eyes too soon, whatever this is will stop.
For a long minute, there’s only the sound of Megumi breathing. Then, so quiet that Yuuji has to strain to hear it:
“You’re really in there.”
Megumi’s voice is low, rough with sleep and something else – something softer, unguarded. He doesn’t sound like he’s talking to a baby, exactly – more like he’s talking to someone he’s known for years and is finally getting to meet in person.
There’s a small shift under Yuuji’s skin, the baby pressing outward, right where Megumi’s hand is. Megumi makes a tiny sound in a response to the movement – a huff, almost a surprised laugh.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I know.”
His thumb moves again, marking tender circles over the spot. “Been a long time coming,” he adds after a minute, still barely loud enough to make out. “Your dad, he’s – I don’t know how he does it. Every day. I know it’s hard on him.”
Yuuji feels his throat tighten. It takes absolutely everything in him to keep still.
Megumi’s forehead finally makes contact – pressing into the curve light and careful, like he’s afraid of jostling Yuuji too much in his sleep. “You’re gonna be strong,” he mumbles to the bump. “Like him. Probably stronger. You know you’ve got him wrapped around your finger already, don’t you?”
There’s another small kick. Megumi exhales through his nose, the sound almost fond.
“I know it’s crowded,” he continues, tone dipping into something soothing. “I know you’re impatient. I get it. Just.. a little longer, okay? We’re almost there. Go easy on him. Please.”
His hand shifts, sliding lower to support the underside, where the weight sits heaviest. The touch is so incredibly steady, anchoring; Yuuji’s felt that same hand in that same place hundreds of times over the last few months – always checking, always calming, always protecting.
“I’ll be there,” Megumi says. “When you’re crying. When you’re scared. Every single time.” There’s a long pause where he just breathes against Yuuji’s skin, like he’s trying to collect his thoughts. “I’m not good at this stuff,” he finally confesses, hoarse. “Talking. Saying the right thing. But you’ll figure me out. You’ll know. Because I’ll show you. I promise.”
The baby rolls, slow and heavy, pressing into Megumi’s palm like it’s answering. Megumi lets out another rough laugh, cracked at the edges. “Yeah,” he whispers, lips pressing into Yuuji’s skin with a lingering kiss, light as air. “I feel you.”
He stays like that for a long time – forehead against the swell, hand steady, breathing deep and even. Yuuji can feel the warmth of his face, his palm, the faint prickle of stubble and the way his hair tickles the skin of his stomach with every movement.
Eventually, Yuuji can’t pretend anymore.
He opens his eyes. The tears are already there, silent and hot, slipping down the side of his face and into the pillow. “Megs,” he mumbles, voice thick.
Next to him, Megumi goes completely still; he doesn’t lift his head right away, just stays exactly where he is for another few seconds, like he’s contemplating whether to pull back or not. Finally, he does; he raises his head, dark eyes adjusting to meet Yuuji’s in the dim light.
“Didn’t mean to wake you,” Megumi says quietly, apologetic.
“You didn’t,” Yuuji assures him without hesitation, fingers finding Megumi’s hair, threading through it gently. “I was already up. It’s okay.”
Seemingly thinking something’s off, Megumi searches his face more intently, sees the wet tracks going down Yuuji’s cheeks. His expression shifts again – just a flicker of something tight, rapidly edging into worry, the look he defaults back to anytime something is even slightly amiss. “You alright?” he asks.
With a shaky nod, Yuuji lets out a small, rough breath that might have been a laugh. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he sniffles. “Just – you’re really good at this already.”
Megumi looks back down at where his hand is still resting on Yuuji’s stomach; he leans back in, pressing another chaste kiss to it. “I’m trying to do this right,” he murmurs against the stretched skin. “For you.”
And unspoken: for me, too.
“You’re not trying,” Yuuji says softly, tugging on the hair between his fingers, coaxing Megumi even closer. “You’re doing it.”
Megumi doesn’t argue.
Against his palm, the baby gives one last, lazy nudge – and then everything goes still. There’s nothing more than the rhythm of their breaths, Megumi’s hand on Yuuji’s belly, and the last stretch of waiting, hoping, together in the dark.
-----
december 3rd
She’s small.
Megumi mentions it first, voice soft, almost lost in the low hum of the hospital room. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand resting on the sheets, the other hovering just an inch above the blanketed bundle being held against Yuuji’s chest.
Yuuji looks down at her in her swaddle. She is small – small enough that she fits comfortably in the cradle of his elbow, curled against him like she remembers exactly where home is. She’s breathing steady and even (perfect, the nurses had said, and Yuuji had felt his heart swell), eyes squeezed tightly shut as she sleeps, one hand curled into an impossibly tiny fist under her chin.
Her hair is dark and thick, just like Megumi’s, already sticking up in defiant little tufts near the crown no matter how many times Yuuji smooths it down. Even now, she hasn’t opened her eyes a single time, already proving to be truly stubborn in her own way – and Yuuji finds himself silently hoping once more that she also has Megumi’s eye color.
But it doesn’t really matter, in the end. She’s more beautiful than he could have ever imagined.
“Yeah,” Yuuji finally whispers in agreement. His throat hurts. His heart hurts. Everything hurts – but it’s distant, faraway, like a pain that belongs to someone else’s body. All he can genuinely feel is the solid weight of her against him, the faint rise and fall of her chest, the way heat seeps through the blanket and into his skin. “She is, isn’t she?”
”I thought–” he continues after a moment, but quickly breaks off. He swallows, tries to laugh, though he doesn’t know why. It comes out feeble and wet. “I thought she’d be bigger. After all that kicking.”
Megumi doesn’t respond right away. He just keeps his gaze glued to his daughter’s face, almost as if he’s hypnotized, stuck in place, afraid the moment might shatter right in front of him if he moves. For the first time since the day Yuuji met him, Megumi’s eyes shift to hold something that isn’t vigilance, isn’t quiet fear, isn’t the constant strain of waiting for the next loss.
Yuuji sees it happen in real time, and it melts him from the inside out: the tension at the corners of Megumi’s eyes eases, the faint crease between his brows smooths out – and for once, the focus in his gaze isn’t because he’s scanning for threats or bracing for inevitable pain.
It’s just peace.
Quiet, hard-won, miraculous peace – like he’s finally allowing himself to believe that the world might actually let him keep this one precious thing.
After a long minute of silence, Megumi drops his hand all the way down, fingers still trembling with leftover adrenaline and something deeper. He brushes the pad of his thumb over the curve of her cheek, so light and careful that it can barely be considered contact at all.
“She’s here,” is all he says. It’s more than enough.