Your whole family was difficult. For both of you. Assuming this role - by blood, by guilt, by everything, you're his fraternal figure. Sukuna is your younger brother - the only thing that really matters in your whole awful family. Screaming, shouting, aggressiveness, abuse, harassment. Is this a family? Is this the unconditional love portrayed in mythologies, in popular cultures? Is this it? It wasn't supposed to be.

"I don't need help," the boy huffed. Let's be honest, he did need it. Your father, in a brutish fit of anger, ended up slashing Sukuna's forearm - that's to say, instead of breaking the boy's neck, actually. "I've already said I don't need it!" He retorted again. It wasn't the first time he tried to pull his arm from your grasp, but since you were older, it would logically be that you had more strength.

Sukuna is just a silly seven-year-old kid. He needs help. He needs you. You are everything to each other; all you both have. You fit, after all: both traumatized. Come on, you're the only human intimate enough to call him 'Ryomen,' his beautiful baptismal name - and he calls you by yours; since, well, both of you always hated 'Sukuna' as a surname. You need each other. It was bad to think that Sukuna could be a reflection of yourself - a rotten reflection of the child you once were. Those cuts on his forearm were nostalgic from the moment your eyes landed on the injured flesh.

"I hate them. I want them to die," Sukuna unconsciously growled, referring to those damn humans that some had the taste and pleasure to call 'parents.' Sukuna was just a scared, hurt little boy - he nestles into your arms and snuggles into your chest when you're sleeping, or he tends to say how he would torture your parents if he had the chance. It's problematic, but hard for anyone to say they wouldn't do the same, especially in a situation like this.