Chapter title: Would You Say I'm Worthy?
Fandom: Milgram
Pairings: 090309 (Mikoto/Fuuta/John)
Rating + warnings: M / content warnings for attempted sexual self-harm, suicidal ideation, implied childhood sexual abuse, sexual content implied
Summary: Fuuta finds his life thoroughly enmeshed with Mikoto and John's after a hook-up with them goes wrong. Can the three of them make their peace with themselves, their past, their crimes, and who they really are beneath their respective masks? No Milgram AU, same crimes, eventual poly+queerplatonic 090309.
Author’s note
(lukas) yo! this is my most beloved milgram project where i make all of you perceive the power of queerplatonic 090309 and project a ton of my own shit lol. i have 40k written as of posting this chapter, i'll post updates as often as my adhd will let me.
but yeah have fun, lemme know what you think! cheers!
Song the chapter was written to: bad omens - just pretend
EXCERPT
Fuuta stands outside the door in front of him and wonders for the umpteenth time what the ever-loving fuck he’s doing.
It’s freezing cold, January snow piled around his feet. He’s forgotten his gloves, his coat, everything but himself and his complete lack of self-worth.
He’d feel ashamed of himself if he was even remotely capable of feeling anything at this point. He’d feel angry at himself, angry at the guy he’s yet to even meet, let alone really talk to beyond the basics of where he lived and that he was only really here for one thing and one thing only.
In theory, he should feel… excited? Horny? Anxious, maybe? Instead he feels nothing at all beyond the lump in his throat and the pit in his stomach that hasn’t gone away since he last checked his DMs.
This is probably the last thing he should be doing in response to what happened. Any normal person would’ve... well, any normal person would’ve done a lot of things, he thinks to himself with a pained, shaky smile on his face. It’s too late for any of that at this point. All he can think about, other than the complete lack of feeling inside of him, is the last thing his ‘friend’ had told him before everything exploded.
[Read on AO3 or below]
Fuuta stands outside the door in front of him and wonders what the fuck he’s doing.
It’s freezing cold, January snow piling around his feet. He’s forgotten his gloves, his coat, everything but himself and his complete lack of self-worth.
He’d feel ashamed of himself if he was even remotely capable of feeling anything at this point. He’d feel angry at himself, angry at the guy he’s yet to even meet, let alone really talk to beyond the basics of where he lived and that he was only really here for one thing and one thing only.
In theory, he should feel… excited? Horny? Anxious, maybe? Instead he feels nothing at all beyond the lump in his throat and the pit in his stomach that hasn’t gone away since he last checked his DMs.
This is probably the last thing he should be doing in response to what happened. Any normal person would’ve... well, any normal person would’ve done a lot of things, he thinks to himself with a pained, shaky smile on his face. It’s too late for any of that at this point. All he can think about, other than the complete lack of feeling inside of him, is the last thing his ‘friend’ had told him before everything exploded.
The door in front of him opens.
So as I was saying -
A man - young, hair dyed but mostly faded out, hair brown with blonde at the tips - is stood in front of him.
- it’s kinda pathetic thinking of all those idiot virgins out there that -
A man, dressed in a printed tee, jeans rolled up at the cuffs, and pierced ears. He’s looking down at him with a mix of curiosity and maybe a pang of disappointment. Fuuta tries not to laugh, or throw up.
- wanna call themselves men but can’t even get laid.
Mikoto - if he’s even remembering his name right at this point - gestures for him to follow him inside and up a set of steps, round and round, until they reach an apartment door. Fuuta doesn’t even bother memorising the number before he’s inside.
Mikoto starts rambling at him, not waiting for responses, making light-hearted chatter that Fuuta barely processes.
If you really wanna call yourself a man...
“I hope it wasn’t too much of a wait, it’s pretty cold right now.”
... you gotta prove it, yknow?
“Thanks for coming all the way out here. I hope it wasn’t too hard to get here.”
Mikoto closes the door behind him. All Fuuta can hear is his own completely fucked up heartbeat thudding in his ears as they both take off their shoes. Mikoto then leads him forward, tentatively taking his hand - soft and dry against the clammy sweat of his own palms - and leading him down a short hallway to a bedroom.
But me and you are real men.
“Oh, also I guess let me know if there’s anything you want me to do differently than normal -”
We’re different from those idiots, right, Kajiyama?
“- I’ve never been with a trans man before.”
Fuuta stops being able to think. He watches Mikoto patter about the room, grabbing various things out of bedside cabinets - he catches glimpses of lube, a condom, and something that’s very likely a dildo - and tries to ignore the taste of bile in his mouth. When Mikoto turns to face him, Fuuta has all of a few seconds to try and figure out what the fuck he’s supposed to do other than this.
Probably anything other than this. Anything but trying desperately to feel like he’s anything other than a catastrophic failure of a man, of a person. His stupid, idiotic virgin ass - well, not quite - who has never kissed another - not quite - has never had sex with another - not quite - has never amounted to anything at this point beyond 120,256 followers on Twitter and someone else’s blood on his hands.
Mikoto pulls him closer. Fuuta wants to run, rip himself out of his own skin, but this is all he’s probably good for at this point. He lets Mikoto pull him down on top of him, smells stale smoke and sees something in Mikoto’s eyes that makes him feel like...
Everything stops. Whatever he saw in his eyes is gone. Mikoto is deadly still, something like steel in his eyes instead. He’s looking up at Fuuta with a look that he could only really describe as... disinterest. Mikoto pulls Fuuta closer, their noses brushing. Fuuta forgets how to breathe, a ghost of a warm breath passing over his lips - six years old and everything is - before he feels something cold and sharp against his throat.
For a second, he doesn’t really process it. He feels something warm against the cold. He watches as something dark and red drops onto Mikoto’s face, who looks up at him with something in his eyes that Fuuta couldn’t name if he tried to. He just knows the man below him is smiling but there’s anything but light in his eyes.
Fuuta lets out a breath. He takes another one in. And he laughs. He laughs until his whole body is shaking and he’s barely holding himself up above the man below him. He doesn’t really know where it’s come from, or why, but this whole situation makes him feel like someone, somewhere, is simply fucking with him. Or maybe they’re giving him everything he’s ever wanted: his way out, his one way to redeem himself.
Fuuta looks down and sees something akin to concern - or disappointment, or anger, or - in Mikoto’s eyes and he laughs harder. He puts a hand on the hilt of the knife pressed against his throat and smiles. The man below him can’t see any light in his eyes either and Fuuta won’t know for a long, long time how much this moment, more than anything, will haunt this man beyond comprehension.
“Do it.”
Silence. Fuuta tightens his grip on the knife handle but doesn’t move it any closer to the small cut on his throat.
“Do it. Go for it. I do not care.”
He does. He does care. Doesn’t he?
“Do it.”
More forceful. Mikoto is still staring at him like he’s grown another head. Fuuta’s beginning to feel something like frustration that’s swiftly turning into rage.
“Do it!”
The man below him seems to finally snap, letting out a yell and kicking Fuuta off of him. Fuuta hits the ground hard, hard enough that he can’t breathe for a moment. He has little to no time to react before Mikoto picks him up by the scruff of his shirt and shoves him into a wall. The dull ache in Fuuta’s chest gives way, just a little.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?!”
Somehow it’s like the man Fuuta met earlier has completely vanished. There’s no trace of the man who held his hand and with some form of eagerness - desperation, hopeless dread - had pulled him on top of him. No, this guy was pissed and seemed angry at Fuuta for encouraging the very thing he seemed to want to do in the first place. Fuuta feels his rage mount even more.
“What the fuck is wrong with me? With me?!”
Fuuta grabs Mikoto by his shirt and stuns even himself with the force with which he pulls him down until they’re at eye level.
“You think something is wrong with me, for telling you to, to -”
Fuuta’s mind starts processing the situation but he still can’t fathom why he’d even be angry at him for it. He growls and jabs a finger into Mikoto’s chest.
“You wanna kill me, right? So do it! What’s wrong with you, huh?!”
Mikoto blinks at him for a few seconds before laughing, somewhat hysterically, before regaining his composure.
“You - I -” he brings the knife up to Fuuta’s face and practically shouts his next words. “You think something’s wrong with me? Who the fuck reacts to something like this like...?”
He falters, looks at Fuuta again, truly looks at him, and finds for a moment it’s like looking at something incomprehensible. He sees anger, rage, desperation, some sick, almost pathetic kind of hysteria that makes his stomach turn, and behind that... nothing. Nothing at all. A deep, hollow kind of dread that John wishes he...
“No, fuck you. Fuck you!” John pushes Fuuta against the wall, so hard it hurts. “You ruined this shit! You’re not meant to -”
“What, not meant to let you do it?” There’s a cold anger behind Fuuta’s words that pisses John off even more. “What, am I not a good enough victim for you, huh?!”
John laughs: short, sharp, immensely pissed off. “It’s not that, it’s -”
He pauses. What even is his problem anyway? He wanted to kill him - kill all of them, every single disgusting person who had the audacity to touch - so what was the harm? Who cares! If he wants to die that badly...
John tries. He really does. He raises the knife, he presses it against Fuuta’s neck, he watches the emotions in the younger man’s eyes and feels something inside himself that makes him want to scream.
“Fuck!” John throws the knife down. He doesn’t care. He’s beyond caring. He grabs Fuuta by the shirt and with sheer and utter rage slams him into the wall again. “You...”
John’s voice is shaking with anger. His hands are trembling against the clamminess of Fuuta’s skin. Fuuta is staring up at him, anger swirling in his eyes, as well as something else that John thinks he prefers to whatever the fuck this guy threw at him earlier.
“You’re just a fucking freak.” Fuuta flinches at that one. “Why come here to, to fuck someone and then you - ?”
“Yeah, well, what kinda fucking monster decides to stab the guy you asked to come fuck you?!” Fuuta’s voice is shaking now, heavier, weighted with something John can’t currently fathom beyond how uncomfortable it makes him feel. “Is that what you do? You just lure people here to...?”
Something in Fuuta dies and he slumps, looks away from John, from everything, and laughs.
“Honestly it doesn’t even matter. I don’t even care.” Yes, yes he does. He cares, he does care, he does, he has to. “If you find it that weird, I’ll just stand here in silence and let you do it. I’ll fight you off, whatever your sick fucked up brain wants to -”
John loses his temper and for a second, Fuuta thinks this guy is finally going to do it. Sheer, unbridled rage sits in his eyes, and for a second Fuuta wonders if he really wants to have it all end here, his phone cracked and blowing up at home - no, not home, just somewhere to stay while he wastes away his three years at - while the guy he intended to shame-fuck stabs him to death in his shitty, stale smoke smelling...
John aims a fist. Fuuta doesn’t react, just turns to stare him straight in the eyes and begs him, without words, to just get on with it. Except, unknown to him, John sees something else in him, something Fuuta would’ve been ashamed at himself for feeling, and changes his mind. He lowers his fist, lets out a curse, and tries to walk away.
Fuuta feels his rage turn into something like desperation.
“Don’t you fucking dare -”
Fuuta grabs John by the shirt and practically drags him to the ground. John lets out a frustrated growl and pins Fuuta down. Fuuta is furious.
“Don’t you fucking dare do this shit to me!” He grabs John by the shirt, breathing heavy, beyond all kinds of caring. “Either kill me, or - or fuck me! I don’t care!” He cares, he cares, he cares he cares he cares he - “Just do something!”
John holds Fuuta down at the wrists, his body on top of him. The young man beneath him is staring up at him with an emotion that makes John simultaneously want to kill him, throw him out into the snow and never see him again, or... or something else, something he doesn’t want to understand right now. He’s beyond giving even a remote fuck about it all.
He leans down. He sees Fuuta stiffen. He feels something flip in his stomach and it has nothing to do with the body heat below him, or the panicked breaths ghosting his lips, and everything to do with the way Fuuta turns his head to look at anything but him, something in his eyes that makes John feel a million miles away, years back into a time when he...
“No.”
John lets go. He gets up. He sees Fuuta refuse to move and forcefully lifts him up by the wrist, none too lightly. Fuuta glares at him before finding the way this man is looking at him right now is more terrifying than any single moment before now.
“Get. Out.”
Fuuta considers refusing but the look John gives him makes his blood run cold. Ironically, now more than any other time, this is a man who could kill him in an instant.
“Get out. Right now.”
Fuuta listens. He looks around, wondering if he even brought anything with him that he’s dropped somewhere, before realising he doesn’t even care. John is still giving him the same unblinking, terrifying look and Fuuta finds himself wanting to be anywhere but here, anywhere but near the man who seems like something set loose.
Fuuta turns. He walks. He finds his own way out, puts on his shoes, and opens the door. He catches a glimpse of John putting his head in his hands and collapsing onto his bed before the door slams shut. Fuuta walks down the stairs, out into the January snow, and stops.
It’s as if there’s a huge abyss before him. He thinks of his tiny little room, with his phone probably still pinging messages - how could she have done something like that, why would she do something like that, why why why why- and legitimately thinks he was better off going back, even if he died.
What worth was there in himself?
He considers it. He turns. He looks at the door still half open and debates it. He remembers the way it felt, how easy it was to just... give himself up like that. He feels something akin to shame settle itself in his stomach, then anger, then self-hatred, then... nothing. He remembers the way John looked at him and realises with a sick feeling in his stomach that John, more than anything, seemed angry at himself.
Fuuta curses, slams the door shut, and leaves. Fuck this guy, he’ll just...
He’ll just... what? He thinks for a moment of train tracks and bridges and - sobbing and black clothes and the smell of incense as he watches her family mourn - and finds he feels too sick to do anything more than walk, step after step, back to his room to curl up in a corner and stare out into the dark.
