Archive of Our Own

He awakes in a fit of terror, sheets sticking to the insides of his thighs, his nightshirt soaked with sweat. He feels as though he’s been running a marathon—his lungs are certainly aching—but rather than running to something, what he’s been doing in his dreams is running from something.

Kaneki sucks in a deep breath and holds it, trying to still the rapid hammering of his heart. He feels lightheaded and his throat is parched, but moving brings on a wave of nausea so intense that he fears he may choke on his own vomit. So instead, he lies still and closes his eyes and immediately opens them, fearful of what lurks underneath his eyelids.

The darkness is far kinder. Kaneki stares up at it, watches as blobs of black slowly undulate across his ceiling. It’s disorienting, but better than the alternative. He slowly slides his eyes over to catch the time glowing on his alarm clock.

04:32. Another sleepless night.

Sighing, Kaneki carefully extracts himself from the twisted cloth, gingerly peels the damp clothing from his skin. He slowly slides one leg off his twin bed, his foot finding purchase on the floor before the other follows. It takes a great deal of effort to turn his body upright, and his vision sways before he catches himself. If he face-plants on the floor, it’ll be another kind of darkness he’ll be experiencing.

It would be way too embarrassing for Hide to find him in an unconscious heap beside his bed, so Kaneki steels himself, exhales all the air out of his chest, and rises to his feet.

There’s no point in going back to bed; he'd probably just end up strangling himself with his sheets in his sleep. Kaneki stumbles over to the small adjacent bathroom and winces when he switches on the lights. The fluorescent bulb buzzes and flickers as it blinks to life. Turning on the faucet becomes a challenging task. His limbs feel heavy, his hands lack fingers. The glass in his hand almost slips off the edge of the sink ledge, and the sudden motion from catching it brings on a renewed wave of nausea. Kaneki almost wishes he’d just let the damned thing fall, but navigating a sea of broken glass in his current condition would have likely bore very bad news for his bare feet, even if the shards couldn’t break through his toughened ghoul skin.

It takes some concentrated effort, but he finally gets the taps to turn enough for a trickle of water to come out. Shakily holding his glass under the stream, Kaneki swallows and is surprised to discover that his throat feels raw. He’s confused for a moment before his cheeks color of their own accord.

Oh. He must have been screaming again during his sleep.

He wonders if his neighbors heard him.

Kaneki doesn’t know why this realization always comes as a surprise: it should be normal by now. He’s used to the nightmares: they’ve become a regular occurrence since he was transformed into a ghoul.

But these recent ones are different.

Instead of hunting, teeth severing flesh, seeing faceless bags of meat wherever he turns, he is the hunted. Kaneki has survived encounters with formidable ghouls within his waking hours, but night after night he runs and is caught, carved up and served before a banquet of feasters.

It’s been weeks since the incident occurred, and he’s suffered the same nightly fate ever since. He’d felt like he’d wanted to die at the discovery. Although the manager had turned a blind eye when he’d learned that Kaneki had been sleeping in the spare room at Anteiku, the moment he’d rushed in, concern written across his face, Kaneki wished he could’ve sunk into the couch and never emerged. Yoshimura had reassured him that things were fine, that he could continue staying as long as he needed to, but becoming even more of a burden on the shop owner was too much for Kaneki to tolerate.

He might have been weak and still a fledgling when it came to living as a ghoul, but he still had his pride.

The tips of his fingers are wet. It takes a few seconds for Kaneki to recognize that his glass is overflowing, and he quickly shuts off the faucet. He holds the glass shakily with both hands, presses it tentatively against his lips. The water eases his queasiness, and his mind feels slightly sharper, but all of his thoughts come to a crashing halt when he finally takes a good look at his reflection.

His skin is dull and ashen. His lips are dry and cracked, peeling at the edges. The bags underneath his eyes are more like pits, dark and bruised, a shade of purple that’s almost like-

Stop.

Kaneki squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, and there’s instant regret. But the image is already there, burned into his retinas.

A room of masks staring down at him. Red smeared in trails along the floor. A circular cage trapping him with corpses: first a man, sawed to pieces; then a woman, cooked alive; and then a large body torn open, a rain of blood descending like an April shower.

The smell of singed meat hits his nostrils violently and he feels like he’s about to hurl, bile rising in his gut. Kaneki scrambles over to the toilet, lifts the lid and seat in time to empty his stomach into the pool below. He retches and retches until there’s nothing left, his gut continuing to hitch for minutes after.

Resting his forehead against the cool porcelain, Kaneki breathes deeply in and out. If he sits here long enough, the sickness is sure to pass.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed, and he doesn’t want to know. Slowly crawling to his feet, Kaneki stumbles back to his bed and throws himself face-first onto it. He lies there for a moment, willing his mind blank.

There’s a whisper tickling his ear. He scratches at it, but it’s not enough to dispel the memory. Blood and gore streaking a beautiful face. A suit dyed an unsettling shade of crimson. A smile so serene it’s chilling.

The sinking despair of betrayal.

A voice he wants to hear again.

Kaneki angrily draws himself up to his elbows and wrenches the curtains next to his bed closed.

He doesn’t like looking at the moon anymore.

“Kaneki. Kaneki.” Someone, somewhere, is calling his name.

“Kaneki!”

“Eh?” He jumps, the water in his kettle sloshing and spilling droplets onto the paper filter below.

“Did you even hear anything of what I said?” Touka tsks with agitation clearly written across her face. Kaneki feels his ears go hot at being reprimanded so openly.

“Sorry, Touka-chan. What was it?”

Touka narrows her eyes and looks him over. Kaneki doesn’t appreciate the scrutiny: it makes him feel like he’s some specimen under a microscope, filling him with apprehension. He’s never really liked to draw attention to himself, and that has proven especially true after his operation and subsequent change. Kaneki already feels like a freak enough—he doesn’t need people staring at him, as well.

He knows that isn’t the reason for her staring, but uneasiness washes over him all the same, and he shrinks away.

“Never mind,” she replies, “I'll do it myself.” She places her order pad down on the counter and confiscates the kettle from his hands, sliding the pour-over setup closer to her.

“Sorry,” Kaneki apologizes again, stepping back to give her space, but Touka isn’t looking at him anymore.

“I'll take over the bar,” she offers with a bit more patience as she measures out beans for grinding. After tapping them into the reservoir, she finally looks at him again. “Why don’t you take care of the dishes.” It's more of an order than a request or suggestion, but Kaneki is too ashamed to balk—he’s been spacing out lately, and if he can’t do his assigned task, then he needs to make himself helpful elsewhere.

Moving over to the opposite side of the bar, Kaneki carefully unloads the small washer. The cups are still warm and damp, so he retrieves a clean towel to dry them before storing them in their cupboards. He surprises himself when a small sigh escapes his throat, and he quickly looks over his shoulder to see if Touka noticed.

He lets out a longer, more quiet sigh when he sees that she’s completely absorbed in her task. How is she...so composed? It wasn’t so long ago that they’d killed a person. A ghoul out to harm them, but another living entity, nonetheless.

He wants to get over it. The nightmares won’t allow him.

The front door opens with a sharp ringing, and Kaneki’s head snaps up automatically, the blood draining from his face. The seconds for the patron to come into view feel like eons. But it’s just another random customer, someone he’s never seen before, and so he quickly dips his head down and returns to work.

At one point in time, Anteiku had been a safe space. But now, Kaneki always expects that unmistakable figure to step through the door whenever the bell chimes. Tsukiyama hadn’t been unpleasant when they first had met—strange, yes, and overly familiar—but Kaneki has to admit to himself that the attention hadn’t been wholly unwelcomed. It had been strange. Tsukiyama had definitely treated him like a specimen, circling him with appraising eyes, as though he were an item up for sale at an auction. Leaning in so very close to smell his hair.

That day, Tsukiyama had carried the fragrance of lightly floral cologne, a hint of warm spice underneath.

He’d smelled the same when he’d come to visit Kaneki at Kamii, the scent crisp against the brisk autumn air and fallen leaves. Even dripping with sweat after their squash match, Tsukiyama had smelled sweet.

Kaneki looks out at the cafe floor, at patrons enjoying their drinks, working on laptops with paperwork spread out before them, reading quietly by themselves, easily conversing with friends, sharing a pastry, their faces relaxed and smiling. He wishes he could return to those days. Days where he enjoyed solitude, lines from a new book coming to life in his mind. When “Kamishiro Rize” was still a name unknown to him, its owner just another pretty face he would steal shy glances at. When Hide would tease him mercilessly, his laughter filling the space between them.

The scent of roasted coffee collects in his throat, dark and bitter. He mechanically turns the cups, one after another, in his hands, dragging the towel along their lips.

He’d had that once, with Tsukiyama. Their date—or whatever it had been—could have been a fond memory—a new routine, even. The man, for all his eccentricities, had been intelligent and perceptive, shockingly easy to talk to. Hearing Tsukiyama’s stories had illustrated just how similar he and Kaneki were, despite their obviously apparent polar upbringings. Kaneki had enjoyed discussing books they’d both read, trading recommendations, dissecting lines of dialogue and metaphors. Tsukiyama undeniably had a brilliant mind, and Kaneki realizes with more than a bit of sadness that Tsukiyama had been the first to ever engage him in such a relatable way. He can’t remember the last time someone had reached out to him in a similar manner, wanted to know him, or when someone had hung onto his every word with rapt interest. Hide would always be his rock, but it wasn’t like they shared the same interests.

He and Tsukiyama had been kindred spirits, really. Kaneki wishes he’d gotten to know the other man more, before everything went to hell. Maybe everything after could have been avoided if they’d just had more time.

It’s silly—madness, even—to grieve for something he never quite had or something that might not have even existed at all, but the hole in Kaneki’s chest feels real all the same.

A hole punched through a hulking body-

A shattering sound breaks his train of thought, and Touka is suddenly at his side, muted words spilling from her lips. Kaneki’s ears aren’t working.

Neither are his hands, apparently.

The coffee cup lies in pieces in the sink, cracked from lip to foot, raggedly chipped, its handle broken clean off. The image of Tsukiyama’s own broken cup flashes in his mind: broken segments collected atop a saucer pooled with coffee, the backdrop a different cafe full of old books and large windows. A place to which he’ll never return.

Touka huffs loudly as she sweeps up the pieces in her hands and tosses them into the trash. She plucks the towel out of Kaneki’s hands and bumps him away from the sink with her hip, giving him a pointed stare. “Where is your head today?” she demands as she reaches for a new cup and begins to rub it with vigor.

“I’m...I’m sorry,” is all Kaneki can manage.

Pausing, Touka sets down the cup and turns to look at him. But this time, her gaze is the softest Kaneki has ever seen from her—something like pity, or perhaps genuine concern.

“Just go home, Kaneki,” she whispers.

He’s on the verge of crying, but for what reason, Kaneki’s not exactly certain.

Walking among the dense Tokyo crowds, Kaneki feels like a tiny raft drifting along a turbulent current. Being sent home early has thrown his routine off, and suddenly faced with a long stretch of free time, Kaneki is at a loss as to what to do with himself. He wanders into a bookstore on the way home and idles between the aisles, glancing along book spines and flipping through pages without really digesting any of the content. Hours pass, and he leaves without buying anything, avoiding the cashier’s watchful gaze. He wonders if he’s always been this pitiful.

It isn’t particularly late, but when he finally arrives home, tired and defeated, Kaneki starts to ready himself for another night of fitful sleep. Dumping his book bag by the foot of his bed, Kaneki strips down to his boxers and puts on a fresh undershirt before climbing under the sheets. He lies still, hands interlaced over his stomach, and stares at the ceiling.

It’s unfair, he decides.

His life has just been a string of misfortunes, lined up one after another. Kaneki has tried to not let them define him, but it’s nights where he’s alone with his thoughts that he allows himself to wallow in a bit of self-pity.

His phone. He hasn’t checked it since he reported in for his shift, and so he awkwardly shuffles across his bed to stretch an arm down into his bag, his abs protesting the angle. Kaneki fishes his hand around blindly until he finds it, then throws himself back onto the mattress, a little more exhausted for his effort. He clicks a side button, bringing the front display to life. Two missed calls, five text messages. He flips the phone open and scrolls through the menus. All are from Hide.

How long has it been since they’d last hung out? It had been a while since their run-in with Nishio-senpai, and Hide would occasionally stop by the coffee shop while Kaneki was on shift, but the two of them hadn’t spent any amount of quality time together since…the incident.

The sinking feeling in his gut can only be called guilt. Kaneki doesn’t mean to isolate himself from his best friend, but he doesn’t want to involve Hide in his mess, either. Ghouls were dangerous enough when they were just an abstract, unknown concept talked about on the nightly news. Now that Kaneki has entered that world—as an anomaly, no less—the danger has increased exponentially. Certainly, humans could be just as much of a threat as ghouls, but at least he’d belonged firmly in that world. Most humans, even if strangers, were allies. Now, both humans and ghouls could bring about certain death. If he ever slipped up, all it would take would be a single phone call-

He doesn’t want to believe his best friend would turn him in, but Kaneki couldn’t exactly blame him if he did, either.

No, Kaneki doesn’t want to drag Hide into his misfortune. Hide had always protected him, ever since they were little. Now it’s his turn to protect Hide, however he can.

The realization that he doesn’t have many friends, even after being taken in by the Anteiku folk, is a little depressing. It never really bothered Kaneki while growing up: he always had books for company, entire worlds to explore along with protagonists he wished he could know in real life, or wished he could be. Reading connected him with his father, someone he never knew. Sometimes Kaneki would replace his favorite characters with the man, and together they would travel into unknown territories, defeating fearsome foes and discovering legendary treasures.

“It’s only when I’m immersed in the world of a book that I can forget myself and everything else. A lot of fiction was what supported me during my painful and difficult times,” he had said with a faraway gaze.

Here, in the stillness of his room, with unanswered text messages waiting on his phone, no one to talk to despite numbers saved within his address book, and a dead man intercepting his thoughts, Kaneki has never felt more alone.

He misses his mother. He misses her gentle smile and touch, the way she would always tuck him in at night, no matter how much work she still had left to complete.

It’s only a few minutes after ten. He could read a little…it would probably be enough to send him off to sleep. He just needed to unwind his brain… Maybe he could finish his reread of Takatsuki Sen’s first novel…

Takatsuki Sen… Aside from her pretty appearance, it was the author’s books in her hands that really made Kaneki notice Kamishiro Rize. He probably wouldn’t have screwed up the courage to talk with her if he hadn’t felt so strongly connected through their similar tastes in literature. And look where it led him: he could practically be a character in the author’s novels. Takatsuki-sensei didn’t need to look elsewhere for inspiration: Kaneki’s life would fit perfectly into the author’s twisted creations.

Maybe reading wasn’t the best idea.

Kaneki sighs heavily and turns onto his side, absently rubbing at the slightly raised line of his scar.

“When Kamishiro-san died, I lost the person I could talk to. But, I felt a feeling that was similar to her from you. All I ever wanted was a friend with whom I could discuss the things we liked in a quiet place.”

How much of that had been true? Had any of what Tsukiyama had said been true?

Kaneki had only wanted the same…and if he were being completely honest with himself, he’d admit that—inexplicably—he wouldn’t have minded if things with the older ghoul had led to something more than friendship. Touka had called him a “nuisance,” but Kaneki couldn’t really blame the man. He lived by his values—perhaps too strongly—and although his actions were coated in deception, the way Tsukiyama lived wasn’t exactly dishonest.

Kaneki should have known better. The tiny ridges of his scar are a reminder of his new life, a new way of thinking he needs to adopt if he’s to survive.

To live is to consume.

The skin around his scar is sensitive, a constant reminder of what he’s lost. He feels utterly drained of energy, his eyelids heavy, but Kaneki considers delaying sleep yet again, up until the moment where he can no longer hold out and it takes him. Only violence awaits him once he closes his eyes, and although he is terrorized nightly, Kaneki is disgusted with himself at how a part of him has come to crave the dreams. Not for the blood or the stench of death, but for the glimpses of the man in a white suit and a crescent moon mask, still whole and breathing and terrifyingly beautiful.

He knows the only reason he’s still alive is due to a series of (arguably) fortunate circumstances. Tsukiyama had been fasting. The battle had been two against one (Nishio, although he’d contributed to the cause, had been too injured to really count). Tsukiyama had let his own arrogance and hunger cloud his judgment. If Tsukiyama had been at his full power, strength coursing his veins from proper nourishment, things most likely would have ended very differently.

Most likely with Kaneki on Tsukiyama’s dinner table.

It’s for the best. Kaneki is still alive, and one very direct threat against his life has been removed.

He wishes it could’ve ended differently. If the invitation to dinner didn’t include him as the meal.

He’d never met anyone quite like Tsukiyama Shuu. Never even seen anyone like the man. And had never met anyone as remotely interested in him as Tsukiyama had been, despite whatever depraved motives he’d had.

Kaneki’s hand drifts lower, running along the bumps of his boxers’ elastic band, brushing against the fine hairs on his stomach. He swallows roughly, his hand playing hesitantly, before he squeezes his eyes shut and edges his hand under his clothing.

This is just stress relief, he tells himself.

He rubs at the front of his crotch, passing his palm over his cock and curling his fingers around his balls, giving them a slight squeeze. He thinks of hands that aren’t his, taking hold of him, crowding his senses possessively. After a few minutes, Kaneki shifts on his bed, spreading his legs farther apart, lifting them momentarily to tug his underwear down to his thighs. It’s a little embarrassing that he’s already half-hard, but how can he really blame himself, with everything else going on? His body is aching for release.

Hand stroking slowly, Kaneki tries to even his breathing.

If only he had a magazine or something to help him along. Hide was always bringing (and conveniently “forgetting”) them over, covers plastered with the latest gravure idol in suggestive poses, but Kaneki would always toss them after Hide left, too mortified to keep them in his possession. Now he wishes he’d saved at least one.

It feels wrong to think of Rize, but she’s the first image Kaneki brings to mind. The round curves of her chest peeking against the lace border of her dress, bouncing with each delicate laugh. The way her eyes would crinkle when she smiled. Her lips stained cherry red and shiny with gloss, blood dripping down the edge of her mouth, his blood, as vivid as the red of her eyes-

Kaneki’s eyes fly open, his chest heaving, his hand suddenly still.

Wrong, wrong wrong. Everything’s so wrong.

He wills himself to breathe more slowly, calming his racing heartbeat. He waits another minute as insurance before he tries again.

He thinks of purple hair again, but this time it’s a step closer to blue. Broad shoulders and graceful movements. A voice like music serenading him with deceptively sweet words. The subtle sweetness of flowers giving way to warm spice as the temperature of the room increased. Feeling the dampness of cloth each time they brushed against each other in pursuit of the ball ricocheting off the wall and their rackets. The way sweat rolled down Tsukiyama’s body, making his clothes cling to his lithe form. How his skin still flushed lightly from activity as they sat across from one another, those broad shoulders leaning in with overt interest. The softness and enthusiasm in Tsukiyama’s expression when they were discussing their favorite books, the softness of Tsukiyama’s handkerchief—Kaneki had never felt material so fine, until he’d felt the cloth of Tsukiyama’s suit as he’d leaned in, dripping with blood and gore, warm breath tickling in his ear, his body radiating heat.

A black tie against the red of his shirt, eerily reminiscent of the red that had stained his white suit, as red as his blood as it had spilled from each connected attack. How Kaneki’s own gut had clenched every time a wound had opened on Tsukiyama, the strong scent of his blood a siren’s call. How hungry he’d felt, how much he’d wanted to pin Tsukiyama down and devour him between the pews, not caring what the others would’ve thought. How terrifying Tsukiyama had looked with his kagune spiraling around his arm—the true power of a ghoul—yet how beautiful.

He wondered what Tsukiyama would look like above him, under him, fucking him and being fucked. To feel muscles only teased underneath a modest polo shirt, to run his hands through perfectly-groomed hair and discover if it felt as soft as it looked. How it would feel to bite into his supple skin, breaking it, blood flooding into his mouth as he ripped into the flesh.

His hand is working faster, his breaths shallow and labored. His mind is running wild, uninhibited by shame or the questionable nature of jerking off to the image of a dead man. What would Tsukiyama look like, flushed from an activity other than sports? What would he sound like as he moved with Kaneki, against Kaneki, his weight bearing down on him, their bodies slick with sweat.

What he would taste like—not just the flavor of his flesh but of his lips and their soft resistance against his own, how it would feel to move his tongue against him, to feel the lingering heat between their faces-

Before he has time to realize what is happening, Kaneki feels like the wind has been knocked from him, his vision swims bright with flashing stars, and his hips jerk as he releases into his hands. He keeps pumping at his cock until it’s soft and slightly aching, his fingers sticky with cum. Kaneki looks down at the mess on his stomach and his covered fingers, the excitement from just a moment ago fading fast as disgust creeps in.

Really, he’s the worst.

He retrieves a wad of tissues from beside his bed and erases the evidence of his shame from his body, feeling even more wretched with himself. Balling the tissues up, he tosses it over his shoulder, not caring if he misses the wastebasket and knowing that he likely did. He’ll deal with it in the morning.

Closing his eyes, Kaneki slips into sleep’s embrace, uncertain of what horrors he’ll witness tonight.

The weight of his door feels heavier than usual, a slow-moving barricade cruelly separating him from his bed. Kaneki pushes at it with more force, the door creaking as it gives way. The rush of cool air feels like heaven against his skin.

Stumbling home from his Anteiku shifts has become his nightly routine, but this night feels different, somehow. The strength has been sapped from his muscles. He feels like someone has doused his body with kerosene and lit a match. The skin at his joints is uncomfortably clammy, and his stomach is a barren, keening thing.

Turning on the overheads would stress his already strained eyes, so Kaneki somehow makes it to his kitchen and flicks on the light over the sink, hoping it’ll provide enough light to prevent him from crashing into anything.

He braces his hands on the countertop, his vision zooming in and out of focus. He needs to eat. He has nothing to eat.

Coffee. He has coffee. With shaky hands, Kaneki fills the reservoir of his small drip machine and turns it on. The machine burbles loudly, the sound echoing in his ears. His grip tightens on the ledge. He sneaks a few beans into his mouth as he waits, crunching slowly with his teeth.

Minutes later, he’s pouring his first cup. He’s lifted the mug halfway to his lips before his eyes catch the small glass canister next to his coffeemaker. Normally, one or two is enough, but tonight Kaneki dumps a handful of brown cubes into his cup and watches as they disintegrate, swirling the dark liquid around.

It’s gritty and flavorless. He chokes it down anyway.

This has become his new routine. He knows it will only last for so long, but this is all he can manage. Sometimes he wonders why he tries. He pushes those thoughts away each time and struggles through another day.

His clothes are a burden. Kaneki tugs his tie off and shrugs off his button-down, kicking them into his hamper. His pants follow suit. Breathing has become slightly easier, but he still feels like he’s burning up. Do ghouls get sick? Is this a complication from his transplant? Is his body finally—blessedly—rejecting Rize’s organs?

He doesn’t want to think. For once, he is eager to fall into oblivion, to forget everything around him and submit to sleep.

Kaneki turns a corner, prepared to flop into bed without another thought, but he stops abruptly, the blood in his face and arms draining, a sharp contrast to his internal inferno. A cold sweat spreads across his forehead.

His curtains sway lightly, playfully. His window is open. He is not alone.

“Why are you here.” His voice sounds like an echo, not his own.

“I came for you, of course.” The voice is like honey, smooth and rich. It’s familiar. It shouldn’t be.

This isn’t possible.

The man known as the Gourmet is perched in his open window, clad in a well-fitted suit, a white mask in the same crescent as the moon outside shielding half of his face. The last time Kaneki had seen him, Tsukiyama had been missing half of it.

His limbs won’t work; he’s pinned in place. Why is this happening? Tsukiyama Shuu is dead. They killed him themselves, left him bleeding and broken in that abandoned church.

His stomach pitches. Suddenly that coffee seems like a very bad idea.

This is it. This is his end. Tsukiyama has returned to finish what he started, take what he demanded. Kaneki’s heart thuds sluggishly, the heat from before now transformed into an ice bath.

A disconnected part of his mind is relieved. Tsukiyama is alive.

He’s not a murderer.

Tsukiyama chuckles lightly from his place before he’s walking over to Kaneki, his steps lazy and confident.

Kaneki takes a deep breath—when had his last been? And then Tsukiyama is there, filling his senses, pulling him in. He’s sure his heart has stopped. His stomach feels scrambled. He scrunches his eyes closed, feels teeth along his neck.

He sucks in a breath—surely his last. He waits.

This is it.

The teeth disappear, replaced by a wet tongue, licking and sucking. Kaneki lets out a short yelp, but Tsukiyama pulls him closer, restricting him, his mouth curving into a smile against Kaneki’s skin.

“Ahh, why such a cold welcome, mon petit?” Tsukiyama breathes. There’s weight heavy against Kaneki’s own, the words a ghost across Kaneki’s skin, it all feels so real, but it shouldn’t be. It shouldn’t-

Somewhere, someone is laughing.

He’s sitting on the edge of his bed. Somewhere in the past few seconds, they traversed the three meters from his kitchen to the back of his small apartment. His heart starts in his chest—he’s lost time, however short. He has no recollection.

“I have it on…personal authority…that you and I taste pretty good,” Tsukiyama says as he shrugs off his jacket, the fabric settling into a wrinkled pile on the floor. His hands are heavy on Kaneki’s shoulders, his lips close to Kaneki’s ear, just like that time-

“I’m so very hungry, Kaneki-kun.”

What a horrible host you are.

“Can I eat you up?”

Why not give him a taste?

One of Tsukiyama’s hands is loosening his tie, the other playing with the hem of Kaneki’s undershirt. He hooks a thumb under the fabric, dragging it up, the pads of his fingers gliding along Kaneki’s chest.

You want this, right? Be honest with yourself. It’s no use, really… Why deny yourself when you can take what you want?

He can feel the smile in those words. Feral. Predatory. Kaneki swallows. He still has grit at the back of his throat. His hands are on Tsukiyama’s arms, his only defense.

Weak.

He dips his head down sharply and clenches his jaw. Tsukiyama chuckles again, his breath tickling Kaneki’s exposed skin. Kaneki shivers.

Tsukiyama pushes him back against the bed, crawling over him as Kaneki shuffles away, his back colliding with his headboard. It’s hard for him to breathe, to even think—his brain isn’t getting enough oxygen, Tsukiyama is too close-

Not close enough.

There are hands on him as he’s never felt before. Tsukiyama nips at Kaneki’s neck, drawing down Kaneki’s body with his mouth, and Kaneki’s breath catches, his body shuddering as the wet trails cool. It’s mortifying. He gives a pathetic attempt at shoving Tsukiyama away before his arms are pinned at his sides.

“Non, non, that just won’t do, Kaneki-kun,” Tsukiyama smiles down at him, beatific. “Remember what I told you? You should take responsibility.”

Absurdly, Kaneki thinks he’s right.

Tsukiyama is alive. Kaneki is not a killer. The thought sends a rush of relief through Kaneki, his fear minutely abating in lieu of gratitude.

He closes his eyes, the tension from his body slowly draining. Just let it happen. You want this, remember?

Yes. No.

He doesn’t know, doesn’t care, does it even matter-

Hands trail down Kaneki’s thighs, pulling his boxers off one leg before sliding back up to push Kaneki’s shirt up to his collarbones. The exposure is more embarrassing than Kaneki had ever anticipated, and he can feel the flush rise to his cheeks as he stares up at Tsukiyama, still mostly clothed.

A chuckle, and then hands encircle his own, directing. Tugging at shirttails, unlatching a belt buckle. Kaneki can feel Tsukiyama’s desire underneath the fine fabric, and he swallows audibly.

Tsukiyama smiles, but all Kaneki can see is that mouth, full and perfect. He wants to remove the mask—to see Tsukiyama’s face—but Tsukiyama has his wrists again, a slight pressure. Tsukiyama draws down Kaneki’s body with his mouth, pausing to briefly suckle a nipple, grazing teeth over ribs. Kaneki’s stomach stutters.

One wrist is released as Tsukiyama spreads Kaneki’s legs, wrapping his fingers around his cock. Kaneki lets out a gasp, bites on a knuckle as he feels Tsukiyama’s tongue drag from bottom to top, flicking underneath the head. No one’s ever held or touched him in this manner. He’s never wanted anyone so badly. He never expected it like this. He can’t prevent the groan that escapes as Tsukiyama takes his cock entirely into his mouth, a tiny reverberation of amusement pulsing around it. It’s warm and wet and entirely new, a pleasurable pressure surrounding him and flooding his senses.

Kaneki almost whines as Tsukiyama rises up, his lips glistening with saliva. “You taste as wonderful as I remember,” Tsukiyama purrs, and Kaneki wishes his bed would just swallow him whole, but before his embarrassment can get the better of him, Tsukiyama’s lips wrap around him again, rising and falling along his length.

There are teeth on the underside of his cock, and Kaneki knows he should be alarmed, but he can’t bring himself to care. If this is the first and only time he’s going to experience the touch of another, then he wants to feel good, and oh, does it. Tsukiyama’s mouth is hot and soft, his tongue circling around the tip in ways that make Kaneki want to thrust up into that heat. But his hips are pinned by Tsukiyama’s warms hands (when had his own been freed, and when had they found their way into Tsukiyama’s hair?), who chuckles lightly with each restrained jump.

When Kaneki more or less settled, Tsukiyama traces his hands up, walking fingers along Kaneki’s abdomen, chasing along the taut skin of his scar. Kaneki involuntarily lets out a sharp bark of laughter before the hand finds its way to his mouth, roughly pushing a set of fingers into it. Without thought, Kaneki begins to suck on them, moaning as they press against his tongue and hook into the hollow of his cheek.

Before Kaneki can find release, Tsukiyama lifts up from between Kaneki’s legs, swiping at the wetness on corner of his mouth. The fingers Kaneki had been sucking on also retract, and Kaneki watches breathlessly as Tsukiyama cautiously licks the tip of one wetted finger and smiles, a scimitar upon his face. Tsukiyama rubs his fingers together, spreading the saliva before pressing the pad of his thumb against Kaneki’s entrance.

Kaneki sucks in a sharp breath. He feels like he’s suffocating. The room is hot, the heady scent of sex making him feel even more lightheaded than when he came home. He pulls his knees up closer to his body.

Tsukiyama works the pad of his thumb in slow circles. He curves it so that it presses ever-so-lightly into Kaneki’s ass and pulls down gently. If Kaneki didn’t know better, the person atop him almost seems tender.

Kaneki knows better.

Hooking hands underneath the backs of Kaneki’s thighs, Tsukiyama pushes Kaneki’s legs up and lowers his face between Kaneki’s spread cheeks. Kaneki nearly jumps off the bed when something wet and warm flicks over his hole, but then Tsukiyama’s tongue is slowly tracing the ring of muscle, pressing harder and deeper with each circuit, venturing inside.

It feels weird, especially with the sharpness of the mask bumping against him, yet Kaneki’s hands have found their way back into Tsukiyama’s hair, pressing against the back of his skull, holding him there. As expected, the strands are soft, softer than Rize’s long hair when she’d leaned in close to bite him.

He’s been biting at the inside of his cheeks, but Kaneki can no longer control his voice as he feels Tsukiyama’s tongue dart in and out and around, trailing up to lick at his balls before going back down. His stomach is a cage of butterflies. It’s starting to feel too good to feel embarrassed anymore, and if his neighbors have heard him during his nightmares, what’s another night of questionable noises coming from his flat?

As Tsukiyama works, tiny, appreciative moans escape from his throat. Kaneki’s surprised at himself for holding on this long—it’s not like he has experience to hold him back, but perhaps the lingering pit of fear in his stomach has kept him somewhat present.

After all, this will likely be his last night on earth.

His hands drop to the bed and twist into the bunched sheets near his hips. Tsukiyama lifts his head, runs the back of his hand across his lips, and crawls forward, nudging the tops of his thighs under Kaneki’s own.

“Time for the main course,” he murmurs. Kaneki concentrates on his breathing, his chest heaving in clipped motions. He hears the pulling of a zipper, raises his head up just enough to see Tsukiyama stroke himself as he gets into position.

“This will probably hurt,” he says almost clinically before he pushes in.

It does hurt—it feels like scorching fire, like his body is severing—but Kaneki is in too much of a haze to register most of the pain beyond a sharp hiss. For once, he is thankful for his ghoul body, because this probably hurts a lot less that it would have. The fire has abated to a moderate sting and uncomfortable stretching, the skin mending before there’s a chance for lasting damage. Just thinking about what they’re doing and what’s happening gets Kaneki’s heart racing once again, but before his embarrassment has a chance to return, Tsukiyama is moving.

It gets better. Progressively, surprisingly, better. There’s movement all around him: Tsukiyama above, the rubbing of his clothing against Kaneki’s bare skin adding to the rolling friction of their hips. Behind him, as his shoulders repeatedly strike the wooden slats of his headboard. There’s a frightening rumbling in his lower back where sweat has begun to collect, the skin coming dangerously closer to bursting as Tsukiyama fucks him. The veins underneath his left eye are singing with a rush of blood, turning his eye that disgusting shade of black. All of the nerves in his body seem to be aligning, colliding, tangling in his belly and sending a surge of pressure to his groin.

“Kaneki-kun...you feel…tres magnifique,” Tsukiyama pants, the fingers holding Kaneki’s legs up digging harshly into lean muscles. The way he smiles stirs terror into Kaneki’s chest.

The hunter is here.

Abandoning his hold from Kaneki’s legs, Tsukiyama bends heavily over Kaneki, forearms planted on either side of Kaneki’s head. He’s close enough that Kaneki can feel his breath mingling with Tsukiyama’s, sweltering and damp against his cheekbones.

Tsukiyama’s kagune bursts from his shoulder blade, ripping through his dress shirt and curling into a spiral midair. Kaneki has only seen it once before, but he’d had the comfort and security of companions then. Alone in his room, the instrument of his death perched before him and ready to strike, Kaneki is afraid.

The kagune is sharp. Massive. It could easily disembowel him with one downward sweep.

“I wonder,” Tsukiyama begins as the tip of the kagune straightens itself over Kaneki’s left eye, “what kind of flavor a human eye spiced with ghoul would produce.”

Kaneki can’t think straight. Between the mounting pressure between his legs, the hard aching of his cock, and the adrenaline that’s rushing all throughout his body, his brain is a chaotic disarray. He fears. He desires. He wishes this were over, for Tsukiyama to fuck him even harder, for it to never end. There’s a sinking sense of shame when Kaneki thinks this wouldn’t be such a bad way to go, considering how the rest of his life has been.

He squeezes his eyes closed, and he’s sure he’s making an ugly face, but while he knows death is imminent, he doesn’t want to watch it coming for him. His hands clutch onto Tsukiyama’s shoulders, wrinkling the fine fabric.

Tsukiyama laughs, and it’s warm and rich and throaty. “Calmato, tesoro mio,” he hums, licking along the spiderweb veins of Kaneki’s kakugan. Kaneki’s head is yanked back by a fistful of hair, and that’s all the warning Tsukiyama gives before he bites into Kaneki’s neck.

The acerbic scent of copper fills Kaneki’s nose. He gasps, a fish out of water, grunts through clenched teeth as Tsukiyama continues to bite down, his kagune slithering around Kaneki’s neck. Tsukiyama thrusts into him with more urgency, his hips jerking off-pattern from the rhythm he’d maintained throughout this whole encounter. Kaneki’s legs scramble for purchase against the mattress. He grasps tightly onto Tsukiyama’s arms as his body is overtaken by a large tremor, bracing his knees against Tsukiyama’s hips.

His vision momentarily blackens.

After the darkness ebbs away, he is still on his back. Tsukiyama is looking down at him. As Kaneki breathes thickly through his nose, he realizes that they are still joined. His whole body feels boneless.

He is entirely vulnerable. He is a perfect meal.

Kaneki watches as Tsukiyama swipes his fingers through the cum that’s spilled onto his stomach and tastes it. That same dagger-like smile, marked by his own blood, returns. Kaneki begins to count the last seconds of his short life.

Tsukiyama leans forward slowly, and he’s all that Kaneki can see: an accent of violet against a pale moon arc, red lips, and sharp teeth. Their lips meet; Tsukiyama’s are very soft. Tsukiyama pushes his tongue into Kaneki’s mouth, running it languidly along the roof of Kaneki’s mouth. It sends a trill up Kaneki’s spine. Kaneki musters enough strength to cup Tsukiyama’s face at the jaw, drawing him closer.

If Kaneki could forget how this all came to happen, he might think it was gentle. It is his first.

He finally manages to bat Tsukiyama’s mask off as the other pulls away. It lands with a silent thud near his hip. When he looks up at Tsukiyama, Tsukiyama’s eyes are so very, very red.

Kaneki falls back into darkness, the taste of himself on Tsukiyama’s lips lingering on his own.

In the morning, Kaneki wakes up covered with sweat, his boxers half-on and a dried mess on his stomach. His body is achy and chilled. His window is slightly ajar. Rising shakily to his elbows, Kaneki rubs at his eyes. He feels raw—like he got hit by a truck. After taking a moment to collect himself, Kaneki shifts off from his bed and readies himself for work.

There is a package from Yomo on the floor when he opens his front door. It’s small and unassuming, wrapped with plain brown paper and twine. Kaneki slowly picks it up, his stomach screaming, and holds it for a while before putting it in his refrigerator.

Later that day, Aogiri takes him.

All he can see is black and white. Even his blood, splashed across the tiles, dripping down his legs and spreading like starbursts underneath his mangled feet, appears dark and colorless.

Kaneki himself has become a caricature sketched in positive and negative spaces. Repeated regeneration has caused the black of his hair to seep into his nails. He doesn't need Yamori to tell him that his hair has gone white: in rare moments where his eyes focus, Kaneki can see the tint in his bangs, now long and in his face.

His world is a dull monochrome.

It’s all so ridiculous that it’s hard even to be mad. His moods vacillate between expansive numbness and sharp hysteria. It’s begun not to matter if he’s alone or if there are visitors to determine which mood strikes. Sometimes, Kaneki’s ears ring with laughter when a needle is inserted into the corner of his eye; other times, his mind is as quiet as an abandoned city as his fingers are cut off by the joint.

Kaneki breathes in, his chest a cave, air rattling his ribs like a windchime. Something catches in his throat. He coughs, spits. Swallows. His mouth feels so dry. The tooth that is starting to regrow is a tiny nub at the back of his mouth.

He was a fool.

How could he protect anyone? He is weak. So very, painfully, weak.

It must’ve been a fluke when they’d defeated Tsukiyama.

Ah, there it is. The first flash of color in who knows how long. Kaneki clings to it, to the memory of before, to the vestige of life outside this circular chessboard.

Kaneki tugs on his restraints for what must have been the thousandth time. Perhaps more. He’s lost track of time here. He hasn’t even seen sunlight once since he entered. The blood that has crusted around his injuries itches.

If their roles were reversed, Kaneki is certain that Tsukiyama would’ve already freed himself. Slaughtered everyone in sight. Perhaps would have enjoyed it—just another sport. Tsukiyama was strong. He probably wouldn’t have gotten himself into such a position to begin with.

Of course not, another part of his mind tells him, but a corpse can’t do much of anything.

His head hurts, and his heart has begun to pound uncomfortably. The voice that speaks to him is not his. It is not here. It should not exist anymore.

But it is his only company here in this prison, and Kaneki at once craves it—anything to alleviate this loneliness, a witness to bear testament to his suffering—and fears it with every fiber of his being.

Arms wrap delicately around Kaneki’s shoulders. A cascade of purple—the wrong shade—falls over his shoulder. The breath against his ear tickles.

It’s a shame, isn’t it? Rize says, indicating buckets of his body parts rotting at his heels. All that meat going to waste. If he were here, he would have appreciated every bite.

He feels like this body isn’t his. His vision shorts, distorting with television snow that reminds Kaneki of his father’s old VHS tapes.

Maybe if he waits long enough, he’ll reach the end, and everything will rewind. He can start over again.

But life isn’t a movie, Rize’s voice pulls him back to the present. You may be the lead actor of this story, but there are no re-dos. You have a choice. You’ve already been hurt this much...will you just wait for the end?

Kaneki remains silent, but Rize continues speaking. This is not a matter of kindness. The only one hurting is you. Weak, little you.

There’s a loud creaking as the only door to this place secluded from time opens. Heavy footsteps follow, a steady beat. The room fills with static.

Do you want to be strong?

Thin lips pull over large teeth. They are very white. “Do you know about Chinese red-headed centipedes?”

A brief flicker of color squirms in front of his face.

Rize tells him to start counting.

There is a splash of color, brighter than anything he’s seen in a very long time.

A familiar smile, a scent that bursts with vitality. Kaneki wonders if he’s dreaming.

But no, this is real—of this he is sure—the last ten days were a delusion, but the sharp, cold air in his lungs is real, the soft and damp grass beneath his bare feet and the warm breaths exhaled in white clouds are all signs that he is still alive.

His stomach does a stupid flip. Unconsciously, Kaneki cracks a knuckle.

The voice that speaks to him is melodic, a siren’s call that Kaneki heard a lifetime ago. “I will be the ‘sword’ that clears away your thorny path. I will become your knight,” the figure on its knees professes.

This is unexpected. Kaneki never thought he’d see this person ever again. But this, too, is something he must decide upon. Up until now, everything has been his fault: all his poor choices, his weaknesses, his ignorance.

He’s different, now. At the core, Kaneki is sure he's the same—still the same lonely, quiet child who prefers books to people—but there are experiences one cannot come back from unchanged in some manner. He knows he cannot trust. Others will hurt, betray, disappoint. One can only believe in oneself and the power they hold within their own two hands.

He has power.

He has a purpose.

Bad beans must be plucked.

And so, when Kaneki accepts Tsukiyama’s proposal, he believes not in the person kneeling before him, not in whom he wishes this person to be, but in himself. In the existence he’s become. In what he’s able to do.

Inside him, Rize is silent. Kaneki ate her. Because living means eating others, as the taste still lingering in Kaneki’s mouth punctuates.

If this is how the rest of his life will be spent, Kaneki has worse options. At the very least, if his body were to be taken from him, it wouldn’t rot in buckets. Before him is a hunter, a predator, someone who would devour him should he let his guard down and leave no traces.

It would simply mean he wasn’t strong enough.

There is no longer any deception. Despite the acts Tsukiyama may choose to put on, they know exactly where they stand.

One monster staring back at another monster, waiting. Watching. Assessing.

For this, he is glad.