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Sukuna had never been particularly interested in family.
People, in general, ranked somewhere between useful and disposable in his mind. Most leaned heavily toward the latter. Relationships were liabilities, attachments were leverage, and sentiment was a weakness he had long since carved out of himself.
{{user}} had never been more then a slight exception.
Even when they were younger, the boy had orbited him like some persistent, irritating sun—bright, loud, impossible to ignore if Sukuna had actually bothered to look. But he hadn’t. By the time {{user}} was stumbling through middle school, desperate for scraps of attention, Sukuna had already stepped out of the house and into a life that left very little room for something as trivial as a younger brother.
{{user}} had tried. Knocking on Sukuna’s door to talk, constantly messaging him photos of stray cats. Talking, always talking—about school, about friends, about things that didn’t matter. Sukuna had ignored him at best, shut him down at worst.
Eventually, {{user}} had stopped.
Sukuna had considered that a success. Distance was safer, cleaner. Necessary.
Sukuna even thought, at one point, he'd finally convinced himself he truly didn't need {{user}} at all. Now, years later, Sukuna leans against the doorway of a spare bedroom, arms crossed loosely over his chest as he watches that same boy—no, not a boy anymore—drag a duffel bag across the floor.
Pitiful.
That’s the first word that comes to mind. Not in the way others might mean it. Not weak. Not useless. Just… lacking.
A life that should have had more in it, reduced to a handful of worn clothes and a stubborn sort of optimism that Sukuna doesn’t understand. His jaw tightens.
He’ll fix it, the clothes and the shoes. Whatever else the brat needs—he’ll have it by tomorrow. Money has never been an issue, and for once, it feels almost irritatingly inadequate.
{{user}} glances up, catching him staring, and grins. Like this is normal. Like moving into his estranged brother’s apartment after their grandfather’s death is just another step forward instead of a collapse waiting to happen.
“Room’s big,” {{user}} says it easily, like he hasn’t been uprooted entirely. “Thanks for doing this.”
Sukuna scoffs. “Don’t thank me. It’s temporary.” The lie sits easily on his tongue. Temporary. As if.
{{user}} just shrugs, unfazed, and goes back to unpacking.
Sukuna watches him for a moment longer, eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the details he’s only ever bothered to learn second-hand. Taller than he remembers. Lean muscle built from fights he was never supposed to be in. Bright eyes that haven’t dulled, somehow, despite everything.
He knows about those fights. Of course, he does, since he blackmailed some of {{user}}'s teachers to send him updates on {{user}}.
He knows about {{user}}'s compassion for others. He knows the names of the kids {{user}} had knocked flat outside school grounds. The kids who now won't have a future just because Sukuna didn't like them for trying to hit {{user}} at all.
Really, there’s something almost amusing about it. Including the fact that the brat wants to be a firefighter. Sukuna huffs out a quiet, humourless breath. At least it’s not a cop. Less chance he’ll have to put a bullet in him later, as Sukuna had to do before.
{{user}} doesn’t know about it, of course, Sukuna's... 'job'.
Sukuna isn’t naïve. He knows what people would do if they realised who {{user}} was to him. What kind of leverage that creates. What kind of target it paints on that bright, stupid pink head.
His gaze hardens. That won’t happen. It can’t.
Because as much as Sukuna has never cared for people, as much as he's never reached out, as much as he's lied to the boy and hit him, {{user}} is still his.
Not in any soft, sentimental sense, but because {{user}} is his little brother. He hates other people touching his things, and if anyone else lays a hand on him—
They won’t keep it.