Chapter Text
Uraume isn’t quite sure what to make of the newest addition to the royal household. Perched just outside of the privacy screens and listening to the verbal duel between the newly wedded couple, Urame got the distinct sense that Megumi would not be like the others.
They lead him through the silent, wood-paneled halls of Ryoumen Sukuna’s grand palace, and feel his presence looming large behind them. Larger than his slight body would suggest. Perhaps this is what their master sensed in the whelp. As is the custom, he is being given his own set of rooms in the central villa. They are not immediately next to Sukuna’s chambers - he values his privacy more than he values easy access to his spouse - but they are a short walk away, which makes Uraume’s life easier.
They have served Sukuna since before the war, since they were as young as Megumi himself is now. They have seen Sukuna at his pinnacle and at his nadir, and they have been his constant servant, companion, confidant, and, should Uraume dare to be so bold in the confines of their own thoughts, his friend.
Uraume hopes this marriage will be the last, even though Megumi has done nothing yet to endear himself to them. They are ill at ease with upheaval in their limited domestic domain, and would very much like not to have to bury another malformed, lifeless babe in the soil of the sacred gardens.
Their musings come to an end as they reach the finely decorated fusuma that mark the entrance to Megumi’s personal chambers. The outer doors of the palace are heavy, each carved from a single oak tree, but inside the villa there is no need for such caution. Uraume slides the door open, and it glides easily with only a whisper of wood against wood.
Megumi had not spoken on their short walk over, and he makes no sound now.
“Enter, your grace,” Uraume prompts, bowing their head with merely a portion of the deference they show to Sukuna himself. “These rooms belong to you now.”
“Do they?” Megumi asks, mouth twisted in a sour pout. “They seem more like a prison to me.”
Quite fine for a prison , Uraume thinks acidly, but does not voice their scorn.
“A bath has been prepared for you,” they say, gesturing towards the large wooden tub lined with a linen sheet in the center of the room. A copper pot sits among a bed of coals in a brazier, keeping warm until it is needed, and the water in the tub is already steaming.
“Thank you,” Megumi says shortly, as though he has remembered his manners. Or perhaps he does not see Uraume as an enemy. It does not matter to them.
“Of course. It is my duty.” Uraume speaks as they settle their hands over Megumi’s shoulders from behind, curling their fingertips into the loose neck of the robe and beginning to strip it from him. He flinches away, eyes wide and glassy, and clutches the fabric about himself.
“What are--”
Uraume scarcely has collected themselves when they reply. “To bathe you, your grace.” They sound more harried than they intended, but Megumi is already proving to be a testing presence. “You cannot bathe clothed, that will ruin the silk.”
“No, I-- I know--” Color is rising in his cheeks, staining them unevenly. “I can bathe myself.”
Ah. So this was modesty. “You need not do so.” And would not. Uraume has their orders from Sukuna -- to evaluate the boy once he has left his presence. And they cannot do so if they are dismissed so soon. “Allow me, you must be tired from your journey, and I have been trained in the arts of massage and acupressure.”
“Do I actually have a choice?”
Oh, this was going to be an evening , wasn’t it?
“You may do what you like for all of your baths for the remainder of your days here,” Uraume says, tonelessly. “Except for tonight. I have been asked to make sure you are physically whole.”
Among other things, but the boy doesn’t need to know that.
They stare at each other. Slowly, like a coaxed puppy, Megumi unfurls from his hunched posture, eyeing Uraume sharply all the while. They keep their hands folded in front of them, meeting his gaze without challenge.
“Very well,” Megumi says at last, still clearly uncomfortable. “My legs and shoulders are sore from riding in the carriage all day, if you could assist with that?”
It is an amusingly transparent attempt at mollifying them, but they temper their first impression by reminding themself of Megumi’s age.
He’s only fifteen. Even if the Zen’in are content to marry him off for whatever political machination their leader has in mind, he’s a child in most of the ways that matter.
Sukuna always says that Uraume’s handle on their explosive temper is a fearsome thing to behold, and right now they are failing him. They resolve to do better, and reach out for Megumi’s thin shoulders again.
He does not fight them this time. They strip him out of the robe, using the opportunity to quickly scan him. They did not get the chance when they intruded upon the couple in bed at Sukuna’s behest, and with a jolt of shock they realize they can see the vague shape of Megumi’s ribs through his skin.
He’s not just thin. He’s starved. It’s a miracle that he’s even begun bleeding, let alone that his monthly blood is, well, monthly .
Megumi crosses his arms in front of his small breasts, and Uraume feels something they have never felt before. It’s hot and sticky and sits heavily in their chest, and it is not until they are helping Megumi into the steaming bath that they recognize it.
Pity .
Sukuna has always hated the Zen’in, and so Uraume did too, adopting the position of his master on matters of state, as was proper. But this--
They think of their own embattled childhood, full of cruel hands, and bruises and never enough to eat.
Uraume does hate the Zen’in, after all.
Megumi is quiet as Uraume bathes him. They scrub at his skin with a soft sponge soaked in rosewater, and press their practiced thumbs into where they know will bring him the most relief for his aches. He keeps his knees up to his chest while Uraume’s hands dance along his back, as though he cannot conceive of taking up so much space. Only when Uraume makes him does he unfold his legs, and when they have finished their acupressure work on them, he curls into himself again.
When Uraume holds his thin ankle, they can nearly loop their hand around it, finger to thumb. They do not have large hands.
Megumi does not speak at all until Uraume has begun to pat him down with a fresh linen sheet.
“I haven’t ever had a hot bath.”
There is only a slight aberration in the way Uraume swirls the cloth over his skin. “How did your grace find your first?”
“I should like to have another,” he replies, voice almost fevered with desire for it. “Tomorrow? And you may bathe me again.”
“Of course. It would be my honor.”
It’s what they’re meant to say, but Uraume finds themself meaning it in earnest, if only just.
They leave Megumi just after midnight, when they have draped him in his nightclothes and bundled him off to bed like an errant child.
Uraume is no nursemaid. They find the rapid beginnings of affection for the boy stirring in their heart alarming.
There has been too much death in this house. It would not do for them to grow attached.
They close the fusuma when they go, and for one brief moment they allow themself to rest their forehead against the wood frame, mind swirling.
There is much Uraume must convey to Sukuna. If this discarded Zen’in is to thrive, as he declared was his intent, Sukuna’s impulses would have to be bridled, and soon.
And
that
Uraume knows themselves to be capable of.