Friends with Benefits | Chapter 2
Chapter title: Kill It With Reason Fandom: Milgram Pairings: 090309 (Mikoto/Fuuta/John) Rating + warnings: M / content warnings for suicidal ideation 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) love some of the lines in this one lol, fuuta and john's emotional constipation is a joy to write. enjoy!
Song the chapter was written to: drop by estrons
EXCERPT
It’s been twelve hours since he saw Fuuta, eight hours since he gave up even remotely trying to sleep, and six hours since he gave in and messaged the fucker. He’s had more than enough time to calm down, but he’s still fucking livid.
This guy, this complete and utter moron had ruined everything. Everything John had done, everything he had planned to do, has gone into a bin over one stupid ginger with a death wish and he wishes with all of his being that he’d just stabbed him and gotten on with his life. He could’ve gotten what he wanted - not quite - had a nice night - not quite - and gotten one step closer to true catharsis.
Instead, he hasn’t slept, he hasn’t eaten, and he’s stuck with everything he feels normally on top of additional emotions he doesn’t want either. All he’s been able to think about for twelve hours has been Fuuta’s face: his stupid, stupid face, the dead inside look in his eyes, and the exact way it felt to look up at him and watch him beg to die with something in his expression that’s made John unable to think of anything else for hours.
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Fuuta wonders to himself, for the billionth time, why he’s not done anything yet.
It’s been six hours since he met with Mikoto. He spent those six hours staring out into his slowly brightening room, unable to do anything other than the mental equivalent of torturing himself.
He’s debated inside of himself for hours. He debates calling the police. He debates putting together his usual checklist - appearance, location, motive, the right audience, the spark that’ll make it - but finds the thought of doing anything like that ever again makes him feel so ill he could throw up. He debates going back there and demanding that that cowardly fuck actually goes through with it. He debates hitting Mikoto in the face and screaming at him for having the audacity to refuse to kill the easiest target known to man.
Fuuta remembers every single thing he has ever said about suicide - cowards, pathetic idiotic cowards that don’t deserve life anyway, he’d never - her funeral, her family, the numbers going up and the sound - he’d never do something like that, he laughs, they laugh, he ignores the way he feels inside of himself and- their tears and the pinging sound of his phone going off, why won’t they just leave him alone, why why why why why.
More than anything, he feels like in this moment that the punishment befits the crime.
He curls up into himself more and digs his fingers into his hair. He smacks his head into the wall behind him and stares out into his dimly lit room with a groan.
What the fuck is he supposed to do now?
Ping.
Fuuta does nothing.
Ping. Ping.
Fuuta curls up even tighter.
Pi-
“Shut the fuck up!”
He scrambles up. He grabs his phone, raises it up with all intent to smash it to pieces, and catches the notification preview on his cracked screen. It’s Grindr. Fuuta feels his stomach drop, hoping he didn’t get some new person going after him. He should’ve deleted his profile, he should’ve...
It’s Mikoto. Fuuta doesn’t know if it’s better or worse than someone else. He finds he can’t help but unlock his phone, sit down, and read what he sent.
Meet me at 11pm, same place. Don’t be late.
Fuuta debates replying. He debates many things. He hovers over the block button, heart hammering, before he decides not to. He’s unsure why. Given his mental state, it could be anything from the lingering suicidal ideation, to boredom, to the equivalent of mentally shrugging and going who cares.
He sends sure with a full stop. He looks at the time, groans at the fifteen hours he now has to kill, and wishes he was... He swallows thickly and puts the thought out of his head. He debates turning on his PC to do what he’d normally do - video games, soccer highlights, checking Twitter - and decides against it. He dimly remembers he has classes, but that makes him feel even worse.
He returns to his spot in the corner, sighs, and goes back to torturing himself.
------------------------------
John is pissed off.
He grips the keyboard a little tighter than he should, dimly wonders if he’s scaring the guy next to him, and takes a deep breath before letting it out.
It’s been twelve hours since he saw Fuuta, eight hours since he gave up even remotely trying to sleep, and six hours since he gave in and messaged the fucker. He’s had more than enough time to calm down, but he’s still fucking livid.
This guy, this complete and utter moron had ruined everything. Everything John had done, everything he had planned to do, has gone into a bin over one stupid ginger with a death wish and he wishes with all of his being that he’d just stabbed him and gotten on with his life. He could’ve gotten what he wanted - not quite - had a nice night - not quite - and gotten one step closer to true catharsis.
Instead, he hasn’t slept, he hasn’t eaten, and he’s stuck with everything he feels normally on top of additional emotions he doesn’t want either. All he’s been able to think about for twelve hours has been Fuuta’s face: hisstupid, stupid face, the dead inside look in his eyes, and the exact way it felt to look up at him and watch him beg to die with something in his expression that’s made John unable to think of anything else for hours.
He can’t pin it down to anything in particular. He can’t understand why. It just makes him so unbearably angry and uncomfortable that he can’t stop thinking about it. Something about this guy wanting him to take his life, when by all intents and purposes he’d come there to get laid... why, why would he do that?
John has met many pathetic people in his life. He’s killed people who begged him not to, people who screamed, who cried and pissed themselves and threw up and coughed up blood as they faded away from life. He watched and killed and threw their bodies away and never once did he hesitate or feel much of anything.
This is the first time he’s ever felt something and it’s infuriating.
He hates it. He despises this guy for doing this to him. He can’t stop turning it all over in his head - the laughter, his expression, his stupid, stupid expression - and he wants it to stop.
He decided after trying and failing to sleep that he had to do something about it. He spent hours figuring out what he wanted to do, and all he could settle on was he had to make sure this guy didn’t fuck anything else up for him.
He could go to the police. He could tell people. He could ruin everything and hurt the one person John cared about and he was not going to let that happen.
If he couldn’t kill him, couldn’t bring himself to take this stupid pathetic fucker’s life, then he’d just have to make sure he stays quiet. He can keep tabs on him. He can make sure he doesn’t say a word. Maybe in the meantime, John can move on from all of this and get back to...
Well, what exactly? John stops typing, vision blurring at the edges, and closes his eyes. Catharsis. He needs to get back to catharsis. He needs to get back to the way it feels in his dreams, when he...
“Kayano-san, I need you to -”
Gone, in a flash. Mikoto blinks, looks up from where he’s been gripping the keyboard so tightly his knuckles have turned white, stares up at his co-worker with confusion for a moment, before plastering on a smile and getting on with it.
In the back of his mind, John watches, and waits, and goes back to the mental equivalent of torturing himself.
--------------------------
It’s 11pm and Fuuta finds himself wondering, yet again, what the fuck he’s doing with himself.
It’s cold - though he remembered a coat this time, and a mask - and it’s still snowing way too much, and he still feels like shit, but at least he knows what to expect... sort of. He wonders if this’ll end the way he’d originally intended it to, or the way it ended up being towards the end, and realises he kind of doesn’t really care at this point about the whole thing.
He’s tired, it’s cold, and at this point all he really has left in him is a morbid curiosity about where this is all gonna go in the end.
The door opens. John is stood there, wearing a similar outfit to the day before - different t-shirt, same jeans - and seems, well, definitely not as jovial and bubbly as he had been the day before. He seems... angry, frustrated, tired.
Fuuta doesn’t particularly care, but finds it interesting all the same. John doesn’t do anything but turn around and walk upstairs, not bothering to see if Fuuta follows him. This is also interesting, given the level of attention Fuuta got yesterday, but he doesn’t say anything. Fuuta follows behind with a raised eyebrow.
John opens the door, holds it open for Fuuta, giving him a look that makes clear what will happen if Fuuta does anything but walk through into the apartment. Fuuta tries not to swallow too loudly and steps through the door.
It seems about the same as it was yesterday, except the cigarette smell is worse. Fuuta wrinkles his nose but decides saying something isn’t worth getting pushed into a wall. He takes off his shoes, his coat, and pushes down his mask. He watches out of the corner of his eye as John takes off his shoes and looks away before John realises he’s watching him.
Instead of leading him to the bedroom, John takes him through a door to the left into a small living room with an equally small kitchen tucked away in the corner. Fuuta would’ve admired it - and wondered how much money this apartment must cost - before John starts speaking.
“Sit.”
Fuuta turns to look at him, sees the dark look in his eyes, and sits down on the couch. John stays by the door, leaning against the wall. It’s dark, with only the light from the hallway and a small kitchen lamp to brighten the room.
John makes no attempt to make it brighter, or more comfortable, which seems strange given the way he behaved yesterday. Fuuta wonders if he’s just tired. He finds himself feeling more on edge given this is how John acted when they argued, and wonders if he’s in for similar treatment again.
John looks at him for a moment then raises his voice to speak.
“Have you told anyone?”
Fuuta blinks. He waits a moment before responding. “About... what? You?” John nods. Fuuta gives a short, sharp laugh. “No way, I’d rather fucking die.”
John raises an eyebrow. “Seems like you’d rather fucking die over most things, asshole.”
Fuuta bristles but doesn’t say anything, still remembering the way this guy looked at him the night before. John seems to relax a little bit before he continues speaking.
“So no-one knows you came here.”
Fuuta’s starting to get annoyed. “Yes, moron. No-one knows. Why the fuck would I tell people I -”
He doesn’t finish, he can’t finish. John understands without him having to say anything and doesn’t comment on it. He shoots Fuuta a darker look.
“You’re not going to change your mind, are you?”
Fuuta pauses, sees and hears the veiled threat behind John’s words, and laughs. “You really brought me all the way here to make sure you don’t get caught? That I won’t tell on you?”
John bristles but doesn’t say anything. Fuuta takes a moment to appreciate the irony of it all before shaking his head, refusing to meet John’s eyes when he speaks.
“Maybe if this had happened before now, sure.” John immediately stiffens, eyes widening. Fuuta doesn’t notice. “Now, though?” He pauses, thinks about everything that’s happened, and gives a pained smile. “No, I’m not gonna tell anyone.”
John blinks a few times, thinks about it, then speaks softly. “Why not now?”
Fuuta doesn’t reply for long enough that John starts getting annoyed before he eventually does, barely speaking above the hum of the room.
“I really can’t talk. I’m no different than you.”
John doesn’t know what on Earth to say in reply to that statement. He looks at Fuuta, truly looks at him, and raises an eyebrow. The haunted look in his eyes immediately makes him uncomfortable, but it’s not enough, not enough to truly believe him.
“Right.”
John’s voice is cold, dismissive even. Fuuta scoffs, feeling anger rise up in him. “What, I don’t seem the type?”
John blinks, deadpan. “I mean, yeah. Considering you’re, what, 160cm tall?”
“165.”
Fuuta’s tone is so scathing that John can’t help but laugh. Fuuta glares at him, hands curled into fists.
“Listen, asshole. I didn’t come here for you to fucking mock me. What do you want?”
John pauses, thinks about it, then smiles. “I don’t know, what do you think I want?”
Fuuta can’t reply for a moment, considers what he was asked to come here for in the first place, and rolls his eyes.
“Considering you asked me to come here to fuck you, and then you try to kill me, I honestly have no idea what the fuck you actually want.”
John glares at him. “Well, you seemed pretty certain I lure people here to kill them, so isn’t that good enough for you?”
Fuuta mutters under his breath. “Not when you then won’t go through with it like a fucking pussy.”
John steps forward, hands curling into fists. “What did you call me?!”
Fuuta turns to him, stands up, and grins. “A pussy. I called you a fucking pussy, you idiot. What’re you gonna do about it?”
John considers things - a few, very different things, all involving Fuuta receiving bodily harm - before he sighs and turns to look at the wall.
“Honestly? Nothing. You creep me out.”
Fuuta laughs. “I creep you out? You’re a fucking weirdo!”
John glares at him. “And you willingly came to this weirdo’s house. What, do you still have a fucking death wish?”
“Yeah, maybe I do.”
Fuuta wasn’t intending to be that honest, and John wasn’t expecting him to say it. Fuuta looks visibly uncomfortable before John laughs - short, sharp, without humour - and shrugs.
“Well, sorry to say, but I just don’t feel like killing you.”
Fuuta blinks. “Then what am I here for then?! You asked me to come here, asshole! Is it...?”
John scoffs. “I don’t wanna fuck you either, no.” He smirks, leaning closer. “What, do you want to?”
Fuuta blinks at him, trying to ignore the flush creeping up his neck. “No, I don’t! Why the fuck would I? What do I look like, gay?”
John genuinely can’t respond for a moment before showing his phone to him. “You’re on the app meant for gay hook-ups and you’re not gay?”
Fuuta sputters, face reddening. “I, look, listen, I -”
John pinches the bridge of his nose, frustration mounting. “Listen, I don’t care about your sexual preferences, or your apparent suicidal intent. I’m not your sex toy, your therapist, or something to slit your wrists with.” Fuuta takes a step closer, infuriated. “All I wanted was to make sure you don’t go around outing me to all your friends or the police.”
Fuuta rolls his eyes and huffs. “Yeah, well, you’ll get what you want. Is that all you have to say? You could’ve just told me that over the phone without making me come all the way here.”
John glares at him. “What, and risk you recording me? No.”
Fuuta nearly says something but realises in any other situation he would’ve done that. He looks anywhere but at John’s face and sighs.
“Fine, you got what you wanted. Can I go now?”
Fuuta starts to leave but John puts a hand on his shoulder, none too lightly. He seems to consider something before smiling serenely.
“Sure, but you’re gonna come back here. Regularly.”
Fuuta blinks, mouth hanging open. “What?! Why?!”
John’s smile takes on a sharp edge. “So no-one gets suspicious.” His hands dig into Fuuta’s shoulder just a little. “And so I can make sure you don’t change your mind.”
Fuuta raises an eyebrow, uncaring of the implicit threat in John’s voice. “What, so everyone can know you’re not just a weirdo but a whore too?”
John considers several incredibly violent things before his smile widens, a knowing glance in his eyes.
“What, would you rather it look like that for you, Mr. One Nighter?” Fuuta winces, looking anywhere but John’s smiling face. “No, I’m tutoring you. There’s your neat little explanation so no-one thinks anything about you, me, and your apparently not-gay ass.
Fuuta freezes. “How do you know I...?”
John blinks and picks at Fuuta’s hoodie. “It’s literally on your clothes, and your profile, dumbass.”
Fuuta processes that and relaxes, the embarrassed flush returning to his skin. John realises he might have more fun terrorising this guy than he first thought and has to resist the urge to smirk at him over it. He watches Fuuta’s embarrassment fade and keeps talking.
“You’re gonna come here once a week for a few hours. If you don’t -” his hand digs into Fuuta’s shoulder again “- I’m gonna make you regret it.”
Fuuta shrugs off his hand and walks past him. “Fine.” He turns back, genuinely pissed off. “And you don’t have to threaten me, asshole. I’m -”
“What, the same as me?”
John tries to sound mocking but there’s something hollow behind his words that makes Fuuta’s stomach turn. He can’t reply for a moment then scoffs.
“I don’t know, I guess we’ll find out.”
Fuuta puts his coat and shoes back on, waits to see if John has anything more to say, then leaves. He slams the door, uncaring of the consequences, then walks down the stairs and out the front door.
He’s angry. He’s fucking livid. This stupid asshole is really going to do this to him: the threats, the refusal to even believe him, all of it. He stamps his way through the snowy streets of Shibuya, grumbling to himself. He replays the conversation over and over again, finding more and more things to be pissed off about.
It takes him until he’s on the subway to realise that for the first time in days, he’s felt something other than the pit in his stomach and the hollow empty feeling inside of his chest.
