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anseoo · 9 months

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THE ARSONIST’S LULLABY ┊ TODOROKI TOUYA

synopsis: the theory is everyone has a metaphorical part of themselves frozen in childhood. a symbolic, younger version of the self that can still be saved.

dabi comes home with what seems to be a sleeping four year old in his arms and the look of a man who has just seen a ghost.

tags: GN reader, reader is a civilian, sorta established relationship (dabi is paranoid and allergic to labels), accidental child acquisition, angst and fluff, pre LOV (like right before), alludes to past canon child abuse, dissociation, family feels (dabi shithead big brother tendencies)

wc: 8K

“What the fuck—”

“Don’t,” Dabi hushed you frantically, far more frayed than you’ve ever seen him. Affronted, you open the door wider all the same, allowing him inside.

He’s careful with his movements as he kicks off his boots and ducks into the living room. The lump bundled in his jacket does not stir. Dabi lowers to a crouch and settles a young child on the sofa cushions. You note the deliberate care in which he slides his arms out from beneath the boy's body.

The coat lapels have slipped to reveal a child that can surely be no older than four years old. Waxen skin, full cheeks and a wind bitten nose. Most notable is the red hair, thick and fanning across the decorative pillow in undefined waves.

You feel inclined to tiptoe as you approach. Navigating the short space cautiously, knowing where to set your feet; avoiding the creaky floorboards you’ve long since memorised. Dabi lets out a shuddering breath and slumps back against the coffee table. Not once does he look at you even as you enter his vision.

Knelt at Dabi’s side, you evaluate the things laid out before you. The air remains tepid. There are no remnants of smoke clinging to his clothes. Your gaze sweeps over his body. He isn’t running hot, and the sutures aren’t weeping. Not a blood stain nor a burn mark to be seen. He is simply frozen, staring down at the boy.

The child, too, is unscathed. Under a thin T-shirt his small chest rises and falls. He wears an expression that can only be described as tranquil; part of this disturbs you, and tempts you to poke the kid, if only to make sure he isn’t a doll.

You brush your knuckles along his jaw. The kid runs cold but he’s warmer than expected after being rushed through the late evening streets without sleeves. No shoes on his feet either. Odd, considering his socks are clean.

There are a million questions clamouring in your head that you lose the opportunity to ask—that all lead to a single, heartbreaking answer—because the little boy stirs at your touch. His eyelids scrunch together as if to protest his own consciousness, then gradually open, irises as blue as early spring periwinkles peeking through slits.

Nausea grips you. A dark amalgamation of anger, anxiety, confusion and jealousy knotted itself deep in your gut. Those eyes—eyes just like Dabi’s, staring back at you, head tilting with a blank expression.

You take far too long to notice that he’s stopped breathing. Stuck in place, likely frightened to be somewhere unfamiliar, crowded by people he does not know. “Hi there sweetheart,” you say, willing yourself to smile reassuringly. “I know this must be scary for you but I promise you’re safe. We won’t hurt you”.

At that the little boy puffs up. “I’m not scared!”

Dabi scoffs. He hasn’t looked in the boy's direction since he woke up; you nudge his side, brow furrowed in disapproval. “Good. 'Cause you've got nothing to be scared of,” you tell him, glare softening as it slides back to the couch. “Do you think you could tell us your name?”

The silence is oppressive. You’re stared at as if you were a battle to be conquered. You sigh, “Alright. You don’t need to tell me. Stranger danger, right?”

Oddly enough, the boy doesn’t appear disturbed about his surroundings at all. You’d prepared yourself for tears, or some wailing. Instead he casually pushed himself upright into a sitting position and stretched his short arms high over his head, as if waking from a routine nap.

You draw air through your teeth, gasping as his shirt lifts with the stretch and reveals his belly. Dabi’s jaw winds at the sight. The air around you expands, thick with ephemeral warmth. He’s considerate to keep it there, boiling violently under his skin. His reaction nags at your conscience, and you want to grab him when he stands to walk away, but you’ve no choice but to prioritise the situation in front of you.

There are burns around the child’s midsection. Mottled pink and swollen. He rejects your touch as you reach out to examine him further. “You’re hurt, kiddo. We can help. Let me—”

“No!” he yells. You startle at the genuine heartbreak in his voice. He scrambles down and shoves past you. Rabbit footed, he sprints to the bathroom and slams the door. You strain to listen, relieved that he does not turn the lock, and debate going after him. Something about that childlike anger is deeply familiar.

Ice crawls through your chest; it’s a dread that lingers in your periphery yet evades perception the longer you try to put a finger on it. You throw another glance down the hallway as you stride toward the genkan. “Dabi,” you call firmly. His hands, bloodied with the runoff dirt and ash, continue scrubbing at the sole of his boot in an almost mechanical fashion. “Touya,” you try again, quieter, exercising caution when wielding that name. And his movement stutters. “You can’t just—go! Not now. He’s badly burned. Where did you even find him?”

You’re patient as he exhales a harsh breath; seems to grapple with his thoughts, a distant look in his eyes. Seeing him so unsettled is scaring you. “Does it really matter? He’ll probably be gone soon,” he mutters. A wave of defensiveness on behalf of the poor child bubbles to the surface. But before you can argue, he is tugging his cleaned boots on with sudden force.

Dabi stomps to settle the heel and pulls open your front door. It rattles on the hinges. A cold evening breeze billows into the apartment and bites at your bare arms. “I’ll be back later. Just pretend he’s not here,” he grunts. “He won’t notice the difference”.

“Wait, baby—!”

And he’s gone again.

You smother the frustrated yell that follows into your hands. There’s a faint sense of abandonment on the fringes, creeping in and forming a lump in your throat. Dabi always had to run first. You rub at your eyes until the sting disappears and exhale until all the air in your lungs is gone, taking with it your frustrations.

Somehow the hallway stretches that much longer. This time you press weight onto the old floorboards and hear them creak, making your presence known as you approach. There’s no noise behind the bathroom door. Your fingers curl around the handle but a gut feeling begs that you pause.

The soft knock of your knuckles to the frame echoes through the apartment. “It’s me,” you say. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, little guy. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t in pain”.

Your ears prick at the quiet movement inside the bathroom. The latch clicks as the handle turns and you move away as much as the narrow space can afford, the front of your sweater bunched up in your fist; it mirrors the child’s own stance, shifting in place gripping his shirt.

Now under the cheap flickering light you notice an uneven patch of white in his hair. There is something uncomfortably broken about him that you can’t place. A dissonance between his outline and the world, as though he were a pencil drawing in a watercolour canvas.

“M’not little,” he insists with a stomp, looking like he might cry. “Stop talkin’ to me like I’m a baby”.

“Alright. You’re not a baby, you’re a big kid,” you settle on your knees in front of him, lowering your voice in a way a child might consider more ‘grown up’, “But I still have to make sure you don’t need a doctor. So is it okay if I ask about the marks on your tummy?”

This time his reaction is far more subdued. Exhausted from his earlier anger, maybe. Or resigned to the fact that you will not let the injuries go. He jerked his shoulders and crossed both arms, staring down at his feet.

“Has someone been hurting you—did they do that to you?”

The kid huffs, indignant. “No,” he mumbles with a pout. Your eyes follow his fingers where they begin to anxiously clench and unclench. “My quirk”.

The admission is clearly difficult for him, like he has to force the words out of his mouth. You unfold your legs from beneath you and dip to try to meet his eyes, “Your quirk hurts you?”

“Not all the time!” there’s that flash of emotion again, racketing through him like thunder. If he were a kitten you think all the hair on his body would be on end. “If—if I train more I bet it wouldn’t,” he sniffs. “But father told me I can’t do that anymore”.

“Oh,” you’re taken aback at the mention of another father figure. You feel a growing dislike for the unknown man. “Well that’s kinda silly. How will you ever learn to use it safely if you don’t practice?”

Finally, the boy’s glassy eyes snap up and meet your own. He’s practically glowing; awestruck, as though you’d turned his entire worldview on its head with just a few words. “Right, right?” he begins to bounce on the balls of his feet. “I’m gonna be the bestest, strongest hero. Better than All Might!”

Your thoughts stall, reaction delayed. Only Dabi would bring home a kid who loves heroes—that is if they’re related at all. You find it hard to believe. Those eyes do not lie.

“That right?” you let yourself be influenced by his enthusiasm and mirror his grin. Whatever Dabi did or did not omit it’s not the kids fault. “Well, I’ll be cheering you on from the sidelines. How about that?”

“Yeah! You’ll see!” your heart clenches at the sight of his little leg stomping excitedly as he rubs at his eyes. A hiccup wracks his body. Telegraphing your movements you rest a hand at his back, rubbing back and forth to calm him. Such an extreme response to such a simple praise.

After some gentle cajoling you manage to get him to sit on a stool in the kitchen with some apple juice that you miraculously had in the fridge. Your eyes linger on the glass in his hands as you apply the medicated cream to his stomach, barely big enough to hold it.

You exhale, fingers pausing by his waist. The sight is hard to swallow. The tissue is smooth to touch and irregularly shaped, as though the scar had outgrew the initial wound. Even as you reached the inflamed sections he hadn’t so much as flinched; again you're reminded of Dabi, his impassive expression perched on the edge of your bathtub, skin swelling around his sutures, a merry scarlet waterfall weeping from the exposed wounds.

“Where did that man go?” he asks, pulling you from your reverie.

“Ah, he needed to go get something,” the lie is unconvincing even to your own ears. Discomfited, you clear your throat and add, “You can call him Dabi when he’s back”.

You search for his discarded shirt while he tests the name with his own voice. Small mouth shaped around the syllables, da-bi, and spitting it out quick again, dabi. “That’s right. Dabi. You like his name?” the kid staunchly shakes his head, hair falling over his eyes. He pushes it back with both of his hands.

“S’dumb,” he says. The bluntness makes you laugh.

“I bet your name is cooler, right?” that catches his attention. He nods once with a firm hum. “You wanna tell me it now?”

Your efforts seemed to fall flat. The child would not tell you his name; during the numerous attempts in the hours that followed, you got the sense that he couldn’t tell you. And he would get this odd look about him, as if it was you asking that was confusing to him. As if you should already know.

Far more concerning to you is that he never asks to go home. Not once does he mention his mother or father of his own volition. After countless questions you can discern that his knowledge is strangely limited. He seems frozen in time, with no real memory of how Dabi found him.

The hours pass uninterrupted when your curiosity veers away from his circumstances and closer to him. To things he loves, and the like. You carry him on your hip, surprisingly light, and settle him back on the couch as he rambled about Caped Kid and Supertoon and the old All Might animated shorts that you forgot even existed. He kicks his feet along the cushions excitedly when you find some pirated clips online for him to watch.

By the time Dabi comes home the kid has fallen asleep, right back where he first left him. Your arms cross over your chest, the earlier anger rising once more, but something about his expression wills you to temper it.

Dabi is wet through. Soaked to the bone, clothes hanging on his frame. Black streaks are running down his cheeks, and despite your disappointment you hastily tug your sleeve over your hand as you start forward, bringing it up to dab away the dye before it seeps into his sutures.

It’s a relief that he doesn’t flinch away. Not even as his gaze drifts to the TV, which has automatically started up another All Might clip. No vitriol comes. A warm, savoury smell fills your senses and you notice that he’s carrying a plastic bag.

“Brought food,” he rasps. You look back up and meet his eyes, unnerved at how far away he sounds.

“Thank you,” you murmur. Casting a final glance to the young boy on your couch—laying suspiciously still—you wrap fingers around Dabi’s cold wrist and coax him into the kitchen. He sets the food on the counter and in letting go the plastic handle is left upright, misshapen from the responsive heat of his quirk.

He inhales, readying himself to speak, but you gently interrupt, “I think you should shower first. Change into something comfortable. I’ll… I’ll serve the food”.

Dabi sighs but slinks away to the bathroom at your suggestion. You watch him bristle and glare halfheartedly at the head peeking up from behind the couch cushions and the boy shrinks back. Not a moment later the door slams and he flinches, chubby fingers clutching tight to the upholstery.

“Is Dabi mad?” the small voice asks. Sullen in a way that draws you closer to comfort him. Your hand comes to rest on the crown of his head, petting him now that he’ll let you.

“No, no,” you demurred. “Well. Maybe he is, but he’s just having a lot of uh, big feelings”.

“Big feelings,” the boy nods. Then he peers up at you searchingly, “…Is he melting?”

Having expected him to ask literally anything but that, you give a soft laugh. “Dabi isn’t melting. It’s the colour in his hair. He painted it and if it gets wet it washes out, like you saw”.

“Oh”.

The kid is calmer now, no longer ready to bury himself between the cushions. “He brought food back. Smells like curry,” you tell him. “Want some?”

Returning to the kitchen after an enthusiastic ‘yes’—pushed out between a big yawn—you unwrap the takeout boxes and begin to portion them. Dabi finished his shower, dressed in the loose fitted sweatpants and t-shirt you kept for the nights he felt comfortable enough to stay, and accepted the plate you put in his hands.

Together, you eat around the kotatsu in relative silence filled only by the limited ramblings of the child Dabi brought home. He’s the type to express things with his entire body, the type that cannot sit still, and you find yourself shooting Dabi the odd furtive glance, worried he might snap, almost daring him to try.

But Dabi does not snap. He doesn’t look at either of you. You note the tension in his shoulders, winding tighter with every mention of the word ‘hero’, and how his fist clenches and uncurls, knuckles white where the blood recedes. He keeps his head down, forearm curled protectively around the food on his plate as he eats, and doesn’t say a word.

You’ve never met anyone else who can so readily act as though they’re unfeeling. The embodiment of feigned indifference. Dabi was so confident in his detachment, with the scathing comments, comfort in violence and purposefully unapproachable demeanour, but you knew what lie underneath; you can tell when it’s an act and when it’s real, and right now he’s never been more transparent.

The boy starts to droop into his food some time during the next Caped Kid episode. Your hand shoots out to cup his chin when his head wobbles on his shoulders, close to using the rice as a pillow. “He’s all tuckered out again,” you comment aloud, licking your thumb to wipe at the sauce around his mouth. “Can you take the—?”

Dabi is already standing, stacking the plates atop one another without so much as trying to be quiet. You roll your eyes to the ceiling, seeking strength, and tuck the little boy to your front, hoisting him back up into the couch. He stirs and blinks around the room as though seeing for the first time.

“It’s alright. Go back to sleep,” you whisper. He yawns, jaw stretching around such a tiny squeak that you can’t help but to kiss his hair.

Dabi is standing at the sink, back turned to the dirty dishes and leant against the counter. Your eyes meet, but you pointedly look away and say nothing as you step forward to gather the empty takeout boxes and throw them out.

He speaks, if only to fill the silence, “I shouldn’t have walked out”.

It’s the closest to an apology you’ll probably ever get. “Y’think?” you hesitated for a long minute, speaking only as you sensed his presence at your back. “Actually, what the fuck were you thinking?”

Really, your relationship with Dabi has always been chimerical in nature. Some strange patchwork attempt at being human. You fucked, kissed one another at the door, shared parts of your lives that you wished you never had. Labels only drove him away, like identifying the thing you’d woven together would bring it to actuality, make it corporeal, ridding you of plausible deniability.

It was never a question why he brought the kid here. This is where you play house, after all. Dabi’s shoebox apartment was empty, simply a place to go when he wasn’t out doing who knows what, like a waiting room. A space between spaces. Yours was far more appropriate for a child, and you’d thought that maybe—he chose to trust you enough, to finally ask for help, rather than doing it out of convenience.

Heat soaks through your shirt as his mottled, slender hand settles on your waist. You turn on your heel to face him directly, resolve weakening at the careful squeeze of his fingers. You sigh, palms brushing featherlight up the uneven flesh along his forearms and follow as he retreated backward to lower onto the nearby breakfast stool.

“I was hit with a quirk on my way back”.

“What?” your inner conflict falters. Concern superseding your anger you cup his jaw to tip his head back and side to side to get a good look at him. “When? Are you hurt?”

Dabi snorts, relaxed by your gentle countenance and fretting. “Not now. Earlier. Some middle schooler without a handle on her quirk yet. Quit fussin’, I’m fine,” he continues and shakes free of your hands, so you settle them on his shoulders. He walks his fingers behind your knees, cupping the back of your thighs, uncharacteristically restless.

“It’s where the…“ his jaw clenched and he pressed his forehead hard to your stomach, burrowing into the fabric. Anticipation grips your lungs when he doesn’t immediately explain.

“Talk to me baby,” you run your fingers through his hair and they come away stained black. “How did—what does the quirk do?”

“Fuck, I hardly had time to ask about specifics. The stupid kid knocked into me and suddenly I had my arms full,” Dabi’s snarling dwindles. He licks his lips, hesitant, and casts his eyes to the narrow space between your bodies. Quieter this time, “It’s where he came from”.

You register his words. The realisation slides through you with sharp clarity. It swells in you, all encompassing and painful, like love and heartbreak at the same time. “He’s not yours, is he?” you say, reminiscent of a whisper. “He’s you”.

“My inner child. Some pseudo bullshit like that,” Dabi supplies, as though the distinction was important. He looks up, the column of his throat pressed to your sternum, and your chest loosens a little, some of the fear ebbing. “Did you seriously think I knocked someone up?”

“Plausibly, what else was I supposed to think?”

“Not that,” he scoffs. “Either way, I don’t know how long we’re stuck with him”.

“Don’t talk about him like he’s a burden,” you frowned. Dabi’s eyes squint, and he makes a low, dubious noise. “Why didn’t you tell me straight away?”

“Didn’t want you to know,” he shrugs. It shouldn’t sting the way it does. This is hardly the first time Dabi kept something from you. “Thought I could make the kid keep his mouth shut about my family”.

Inwardly you think he needn’t worry about that. They were as secretive and stubborn as each other, in that respect. Hell, it took Dabi three years to give up his name and that was only because he’d been delirious at the time.

“But you left anyway”.

“He woke up,” Dabi says, like that was enough explanation. You give a commiserate nod, cradling his rough jaw, because maybe it is. “Needed to blow off some steam. Figured I might look for the twerp that caused all this but she’d probably run if she saw me again”.

“Don’t tell me you scared the poor girl shitless?”

“Alright. I won’t tell you,” he snorted, biting at the heel of your hand when you mutter his name disapprovingly.

“So we just wait for him to go?” you brush the remaining skin between his eye and his cheek with your thumb, following the curve of his sutures. “Maybe it is psychological then. Make your inner child happy and the quirk might cancel out sooner”.

There’s something dark in Dabi’s expression when his mouth pulls wide into a smarmy grin, eyes burning as his fingers dig into your thighs. “Looking to rehabilitate me, sweetheart?”

You soon put that to rest, guiding him into a kiss. His grip falls slack, and then returns, more needy than dangerous. Dabi’s lips pressed back, insisted, softer than you thought possible. “Course not,” you murmur, admiring the resentful flush on his face as you draw back. “Maybe I like you as you are. Just a little”.

“Bad taste,” he breathes. His nose scrunches the way it always does when he’s feeling too much, and you kiss that too. You recognise Dabi’s flaws for what they are, and you’ve given yourself to him knowingly. Even so, in the confines of your mind, you do wish he might’ve had the chance to be something better.

This inner child incident could be a small step. You don’t expect his perspective on society will change; he could learn compassion and forgive himself for whatever led him here. But what exactly is an inner child?

The theory goes that everyone has a metaphorical part of themselves frozen in childhood. A symbolic, younger version of the self that can be talked to, supported, and guided—that can still be saved.

Dabi informs you with great reluctance that this little Touya was probably closer to five years old, and stuck in the time right after his first brother was born. You never knew he had siblings.

“Did something significant happen around that time?” you worry at your bottom lip, glancing out toward the living room, shrouded in darkness now that the TV has switched to standby. “Do you remember what you wanted most, from before?”

You hear your name. You’re startled by the intensity in Dabi’s stare, unyielding and sharp. A primitive part of you wants to shrink back from it. “Don’t push it,” he says.

It was on the tip of your tongue to remark something equally catty. Instead you swallow them. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” you muttered. Through trial and error you’ve already memorised the ley lines that make up Dabi’s boundaries and know well enough that prying too far into his past, or encroaching on his future plans, is a hard no-no.

“We’re going to need a cover story for him if he’s here longer than a day,” you continue, a smile creeping in alongside your teasing inflection. “Guess you’re a dad—”

“Not a chance in hell,” Dabi grimaces, skin taut around his scars. “If it comes to it, say he’s my nephew”.

“You’re no fun,” you concede. “Fine. Uncle Dabi”.

The discussion leads nowhere in the end. Dabi is unwilling to delve any further into his childhood and you know a losing battle when you see one. You turn your attention to the sleeping arrangements, and decide that it would be best to roll out your spare futons in the living room, just in case something happens.

And Dabi, despite his objections, despite puttering around with pillows under each arm and cursing under his breath, throws them down and sprawls out across the blankets. You feel his stare as you move Touya—as you’ve taken to calling him in your head—from his resting place to the space between your bodies.

Touya isn’t yet the light sleeper you know Dabi to be. His eyes shift behind closed lids and his lips curl in momentary discomfort but he doesn’t wake. “Does he have to sleep there?” Dabi all but sneers when Touya curls into your warm chest, much the way he would like to.

“Aw. Don’t be jealous,” you pillow Touya’s head on your shoulder and reach across to take Dabi’s hand, entwining your fingers through stubborn means. “He’s just a baby”.

A fresh wave of heat ripples around your hands and Dabi’s grip is solid, as though you’ve been soldered together. “He’s not a baby. He’s already five,” he mutters with a faraway look in his eyes, indifferent to the callousness in his words.

Your palms kiss and you aim for a lighthearted tone, “Stop being a dick. You’ll have me to yourself again soon enough”.

Dabi grunts and some of the tension is relieved from the atmosphere, his face thrown into stark relief by the sliver of moonlight flooding through your curtains. Not for the first time, you wonder if he feels the after aches of childhood—if the hollow inside him felt that much deeper now that Touya was out here, safe in your arms—and suddenly holding his hand is not enough.

You entangle your legs and distract yourself with the feel of his boney ankle. Some things are better left unknown, you reason. A mantra that encompasses your relationship. Better not pick and prod. You’ve done quite enough of it already, more than you’re entitled to. Sometimes you worry that one day you’ll unravel the wrong thread and he’ll never stop bleeding.

Touya clutches tighter to your shirt. Kicks a tiny foot against your pelvis in protest of the movement, surprisingly hard. Dabi snickers at your restrained groan. “Guess you’ve always been a restless sleeper”.

“That's what you get for giving him my spot,” Dabi says, the beginnings of a smile in his voice. “Was worse when I was a kid”.

“Clearly. A fly could sneeze and wake you up,” you remove the heel from your stomach and let it tangle with the blankets. Touya suddenly flips onto his back, arm cast out toward Dabi, not far from smacking him in the face. “Atleast he feels safe, I suppose”.

The night settles, your apartment alongside it. Walls quietly groan as the wind picks up a fraction. “We should take him somewhere tomorrow,” you think aloud, staring at the hairline fracture in the ceiling. “The arcade, maybe”.

“Now why the fuck would we do that?” Dabi’s voice is lower, muffled, and a quick sidelong glance confirms that his mouth is half squashed into the pillow, fatigue starting to weigh on him. “Don’t even have clothes for him”.

“Kano-san might let us borrow some,” you offer tiredly. Though your neighbour's four children were all over five years old you had no doubt she kept hand-me-downs. “It’s not fair to just keep him holed up til he disappears”.

“I refuse…” Dabi mumbled. You snort, resting your chin on Touya’s crown, swaddled by warmth. Shadows creep in and blur the edges of your vision. You’re gently coaxed into sleep, final thoughts being the hope that Dabi would still be there tomorrow.

What you receive is far more. Where soft moonlight once drifted in through the cracks, harsh sun is striking through the dim room, right against your closed eyes. You flinch away from it, turning into your pillow. Half-awake, you aren’t quite in and not quite outside yourself, but you are conscious enough to hear Dabi laugh at your displeasure.

The weight in your arms is gone. Pawing at the yawning emptiness, you abruptly sit up and whip your eyes around the room. They land on Dabi, who is laid on his back and surrendering to his current predicament. He pointedly avoids acknowledging it.

Time stretches thinly as you take in the scene. At some point in the night, Touya had made his way over to Dabi and laid himself on top of him. Chubby cheek squished to Dabi’s sternum, lashes fluttering as he dreams. Fleeting, you consider that he may be trying to crawl right back into him.

“G’morning,” you sigh, blood rushing to your limbs as you contort and stretch. Unable to resist, you shuffle across the futon and press yourself to Dabi’s side, nuzzling into his shoulder. You tilt your head up to find Dabi looking down at you. “Kiss?”

“Your breath stinks,” but he kisses you anyway. His own is hardly better. You nip at his lip, licking over the faint sting and drawing back before he can reciprocate.

“Did you sleep okay?”

“Yeah,” his hands gesture toward the lump on his chest, “until this shit happened”.

“Now he’s taken my spot”. You could point out that Dabi had every opportunity to move the boy through the night, or however long he’d been there, but didn't. “Though it makes sense he’d want to be near you”.

“He doesn’t want anything. He’s not real,” Dabi drawls. He’s betrayed by the arm that supports Touya from beneath as he sits up exceedingly slowly, the other holding the back of his head. Dabi pivots the small figure into his lap, acting like a cradle.

Limbs akimbo, Touya lies on his back, mouth open and ribs expanding with each breath. His clothes are askew. Shirt ridden up his round belly, loose pants bunched up at the knees. To your relief the burn marks look no worse than the day before.

“Even though his body isn’t suited to his quirk, he still…” your voice is but a murmur as you sit up to trace a fingertip over the swell of his pink cheek. “He’s a very brave little boy”

Dabi held the toddler delicately in his arms, a fraction away from his body, and paled whenever he stirred a little. You see how his pupils soften, tension seeping from his shoulders bit by bit. “Or maybe he’s just stupid," he rasps.

“Well, many heroes are both of those things,” you offer, mouth curling as you hold Dabi’s half lidded gaze. His mouth presses thin so as not to give you the satisfaction of making him smile. When your attention returns to Touya an unfamiliar quietude comes over you.

“Last night,” he starts. “I left because I thought it would be harder”.

You pause, peering up from the little boy curled in his lap. “To what?”

“Not to hurt him,” he says, quietly. “Or you”.

Then Touya sputters a first, clean breath, breaking into a drawn out sob that drags you from processing what that could mean. Dabi grows tense and your hand flutters across Touya, rubbing over his chest as you coo and hush. The louder he cries the stronger the tremor in Dabi’s hand becomes.

“There there, little guy. We’re right here,” you slip an arm around Dabi’s back, and suddenly your murmurings begin to soothe Touya’s distress. Red rimmed eyes squint up at you. “Did you have a nightmare, buddy?”

“Heroes—” Touya eventually hiccups and jolts. Frustrated he hits himself, face twisted in devastating anger. “Heroes don’t—have nightmares!”

You move to still his fists but Dabi beats you to it, fingers circling a pair of wrists and holding them firmly. “They will if I have anything to say about it,” he says.

“Really, Dabi,” you admonish, pursing your lips at him. He wrinkles his nose and sticks his tongue out in response. Muffled giggling fills the room and you realise it’s coming from the bundle in his lap.

Dabi looks as if he’s been struck. A finger pokes at the skin above his puckered cheek. “Dabi made an ugly face,” Touya grins.

“Oh yeah?” Dabi growls and leans forward, spine bending uncomfortably just to get into the boy’s personal space. “Well I’ve got bad news for you, kid”.

Whatever the desired effect, Touya’s chime-like laughter only doubles, and while watching their interaction you feel warmth ignite behind your breastbone.

Not long after, you return from Kano-san’s upstairs apartment with a cotton sweater, discoloured patches sewn onto the elbows, and a pair of pants. They’re size five yet too big for Touya, so you roll them to the ankle. “How’s that?” you ask, getting to your feet. “It’s not itchy on your burns, is it?”

Touya wriggles. You’ve come to learn that he really can’t sit still, especially when you’re fussing. “No,” he says, flapping the sleeves that fall over his hands, silently asking that you roll those up too. “Where are we going? I want to train!”

“No training inside. You’re going to set off my fire alarm,” you reply, absentminded as your fingers gently fold back the shirtsleeves to his wrist. “And we’re going to the arcades first. You can beat Dabi at all the games”.

“Yeah!”

“Fat chance,” Dabi calls from the bathroom. Light footsteps echo through the hallway and his voice grows louder. “We’re not going anywhere near Musutafu,” he adds, shucking on his dried black coat over a plain t-shirt and jeans that may as well have been painted on his legs. He pulls something out from his pocket and throws it, “Put that on him to be safe”.

You catch the lump one handed, bringing it down to inspect it. A beanie hat. “Is that really necessary?” you murmur, releasing your grasp when Touya decides he wants the hat for himself and stretches it haphazardly over his head.

Dabi rounds the couch and hooks his chin over your shoulder, watching the kid struggle. “Can’t have him being recognised…” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching at a thought that suddenly crosses his mind. “Or maybe we should. Hey, kid,” Touya’s head whirls around the room in search of Dabi, vision blocked by the beanie; he pushes it up above his eyebrows, periwinkle eyes peeking beneath.

“Wanna go to my old house and scare someone?”

Touya’s lips thin and his nose crinkles, managing to look down at Dabi despite being so much shorter. “Heroes aren’t ‘posed to scare people,” he argued.

“Whatever. This guy isn’t good,” Dabi huffs, wincing at the click in his knees as he crouches in front of the boy to fix the hat seam, and Touya positively preens under Dabi’s direct attention. “This guy hurts people. Hurts his family. Probably deserves it, right?”

You watch in disbelief as Touya hums and begins to consider it. “Okay that’s enough,” you circle and coax them toward the genkan. “We aren’t scaring anyone. We are going to the arcade and we’re not going to cause trouble. Yes?”

Dabi and Touya share a long, knowing look. You can’t say you’re unhappy that they’re connecting—they’re unbearably cute when standing side by side, dithering as you slip on your shoes. “Yes?” you repeat yourself with more emphasis.

They nod in tandem.

“Good. Now who is holding my hand?”

Daylight feeds in through the sparse grey clouds, upper wind guiding them east where they darken, likely raining over another part of the city. The pavements are wet, rainwater fed into the uprooted cracks. A couple smile at you as they pass. It is rare for anyone to glance your way when Dabi’s at your side; he knows the image he projects and he likes it that way. But today, with Touya in the middle holding one of each hand, you paint a far lovelier picture.

You think you must look like a family, on the outside. It’s nothing you ever imagined for yourself. Especially not with Dabi, who was seemingly hell bent on getting himself arrested, or killed, in his spare time—not that you knew the finer details, but you weren’t dense.

“I can feel your street cred depleting,” you quietly tease as you stop at a pedestrian crossing, bridging the gap while Touya is preoccupied with counting down until the red man turns green. “Uncle Dabi”.

Dabi’s upper lip curls and he lurches half a step, as if to attack you, and you pull away laughing.

Your neighbourhood doesn’t see much in the way of funding, or heroes, and that truth is reflected in the surroundings. Buildings half constructed, shutters down, people lingering on the streets. Touya presses a hairsbreadth closer to Dabi, sensing how eyes turn to him, and you catch the way Dabi squeezes his small hand in response.

“Scared?”

Touya straightens, “No!”

Dabi snorts, “Thought not”.

The arcade isn’t far. Well beyond its years, an old musk clings to the carpets despite the open windows. Light bulbs flicker here and there. You can taste electricity buzzing in the air. The machines are outdated, but they work. High pitched, quick paced music paces from all directions. If you had to, you'd describe it as the embodiment of sensory overload.

As luck would have it Touya recognises most of the games, having been released around his time. He steps on your shoes to watch raptly while you try to win him a prize on the claw machines, and he kneels at your feet to steal any ticket away before you can grab them.

He frees himself of your grip the moment he spots Crimson Fighter. You sidle up beside Dabi as if to shield from it all. His knuckles brush the back of your hand and you smile to yourself. So starved for affection yet so intensely humiliated by it—that and the fact that he cannot seem to let Touya out of his sight, only a few feet away.

You loosely entwine your fingers and he relaxes. “Not gonna play another round with him?”

“Why don’t you?”

In that instant you hear the repeated call of your name. Touya bounces from left to right, waving you over. “Look at me! Come watch!” he beams. “Look at me, I can win!”

Dabi’s fingers flex, tighten, digging crescent moons into your knuckles. You shoot him a worried glance but the light in his eyes has dimmed once again, and you tug him over towards Touya like a kite on a string, keeping him tethered until he returns from whatever memory he’s lost in.

“I’m looking, I'm looking,” you titter, standing behind him and tilting to watch the screen. Dabi’s presence lingers. Your heart pangs when Touya stands on the tips of his toes to reach the controls. He picks the Endeavor avatar and the game opens up onto a floating platform, All Might standing at the other end.

“Fight!” Touya whispers in sync with the narrator, mashing all the buttons without direction or strategy. He clicks and clicks and clicks until Endeavor’s quirk bar is maxed out and he releases; pixelated flames burst across the screen, doing significant damage to All Might but not enough—and too much to himself. The Endeavor avatar drops to his knees, overcome by dehydration and exhaustion, defeated by his own flame.

Apparently brought back to the present, Dabi laughs.

“No…” Touya’s eyes grow round in disbelief and then harden. He kicks the machine with as much force as he can muster. Before he can do it again you’ve wrapped an arm under his armpits and herded him outside. “Let go!”

“Absolutely not,” you grasp his elbows and settle on your haunches. Touya turns his head away from you in dramatic fashion. “That isn’t okay. These games belong to someone else. They’re not yours to damage”.

“Shouldn’t’a picked Endeavor,” Dabi remarks.

Your neck aches as it snaps up to glare at him. “Not helping,” you hiss through gritted teeth. He puts his hands up in a show of surrender and you inhale until your lungs feel tight. Exhale.

Touya has fallen suspiciously quiet, chin tucked to his chest, and thankfully nobody inside noticed his brief outburst. “Hey,” gently, you run your palms along his shoulders. “Talk to me, kiddo. I promise you’re not in big trouble”.

Your ears pick up fragmented parts of his mumbling, “Lost… M’weak… Endeavor… stronger… not ‘posed to lose”. Something about his reaction is both fragile and momentous, and with Dabi nearby your instincts are telling you to tread carefully.

“Hey, listen to me. I don’t know much but I do know you’re not weak,” you begin to smooth down his sweater, and fiddle with the seam of his beanie while you talk—fretting, admittedly, and determined to wipe the heartbreak off his face. “You’re the strongest little dude I know”.

Touya sniffs, unconvinced. He waddles further into your embrace and you take it as a win “Gotta be stronger than All Might”.

“One day you could be,” you reason, gathering him against your front and hoisting him up as his legs wrap around your waist. A firm body stands behind you. Dabi is closer than anticipated and you falter, meeting his half lidded eyes. Reality stomps over the little charade you’ve created—recalling that the boy in your arms, so desperate to reach the pinnacle of heroics, will one day be Dabi, the self proclaimed villain.

“Y’know, even All Might didn’t become the number one hero until he was thirty,” you tuck a wayward curl back into Touya’s beanie and use your sleeve to wipe his damp cheeks. “He had to learn to control his quirk and get through hero school, just like you will. It takes time”.

“R—really…?” you’d be remiss not to notice the hope in his voice as he fists at his sweater, stretching the fabric further. “But I need to be strong now,” he insists thickly, a fresh round of tears at his waterline.

Dabi steps closer as more people pass by, nudging you into a dead end alley. There’s heat emanating from his skin, making ripples in the air. You hold his gaze with purpose, turning until Touya is once again enveloped by your bodies, and the boy instinctively reaches for his adult counterpart.

“You are strong,” you tell him, pressing a kiss to Touya’s temple. “Wanna know what Dabi and I were talking about while you were sleeping this morning?”

Touya’s mouth quivers, sneaking a furtive glance. He nods. You narrow your eyes at Dabi, try to tell him that this could be it, and he relents, accepting the weight as it is passed to him.

Touya settles in his arms. “We…” Dabi’s jaw ticks. There’s a depression in his cheek where the inner flesh is held between teeth. “We said that you’re brave”.

You circle your arms around his middle, around Touya, and rest your cheek on his shoulder. Touya blinks in awe. “Brave?”

“Brave for trying so hard to reach your goal,” Dabi continues. The harsh edge to his voice has puttered out into melancholy. “Even when it hurts. Especially then”.

“I am?”

“You are,” you murmur, cradling the back of Touya’s head. There’s an odd sheen to his skin. Translucent almost. Your heart jolts. Conflicting emotions swell in your chest, leaving you torn. “I heard heroes have that in spades”.

Eyes bright and wide, undoubtedly that of a child, Touya looks at Dabi, and Dabi looks back. “You’d be one of the good ones, kid,” he rasps. It comes like pulling teeth but he means it, and Touya must know—the quirk must hear the sincerity, because the little boy beams and the air tastes sharp. He lights up, eyes first, like dusk catching on stained glass windows, robin egg blue overcast with shades of pink, heat suffusing through his bones until—

Your fingers enclose around the limp fabric of Touya’s beanie. Dabi shudders an exhale. The patched sweater falls limp over his crossed arms.

“That… worked?”

Dabi’s mouth opens and closes, lips shaping around words he doesn’t know how to say. You cannot read his expression at all. You yourself can hardly register Touya’s absence, left like a bruise that you just know is going to start aching the second the adrenaline wears off.

“I guess it did,” he finally agrees, quietly. Not quite whispered, but his voice carried no strength. Through the discomfit cuts an abrupt, shrill beep. Dabi swallows, and after pulling out his phone his expression sours.

“Who is it?”

“An associate,” he says, hands an unsteady counterpoint to the surety in his voice. Another blatant cover that you know better than to peel back. “…He wants me to meet his new colleagues. He thinks I’ll work well with them”.

“Do you need to go now, or…?” your skin prickles with unease, leaning into him as close and psychics would allow, not wanting to part with him.

“Think you’ll miss him?” Dabi asks instead, bordering on hesitation. Your head tilts at the sudden change in topic. His gaze dips low to avoid yours. You rest your hand over his chest. His heart beats against your palm, hard and steady. You wonder what, if anything, Touya’s time here might’ve changed.

“I don’t have to,” you tell him, choosing your words carefully. “He’s right in here”.

Dabi hums in that way he often does when he thinks you’re being ridiculous. Your thumb moves back and forth, shifting the fabric of his shirt. “…He deserved better,” you say, heedless of the cold determination setting into Dabi’s bones. And later, despite being the truth, you would come to regret voicing it.

He looks back at the message on his phone, typing out a reply with his screen tilted away from prying eyes. “You’re right,” he mutters.

“He did”.

1K notes · View notes

anseoo · 9 months

Text

this is actually the cutest fking thing ive read in a while i am so in love with this

» THE TRAIN RIDE HOME ; itoshi rin «

; ↠ itoshi rin sees you every morning at 7. the moment you smile at him, he knows it's all over.

## author's note: i went thru the 7th circle of hell and a pack of malboros while writing this. enjoy! ## contents: itoshi rin x reader, gn but feminine details, crushing, canon-compliant i think? idk ur both like 17 so it works, confessions and fluff! ## wc: 13.2k (i'm unwell)

itoshi rin likes to count the people as they board the train. it's a habit leftover from his childhood, where he'd sit with his little legs swinging, pointing everyone out to his brother. (passenger 4 wore blue every day, and passenger 18 always had cat fur on his coat, and so on.)

he collected minute details to store in his head, a way to de-stress from the rush hour of his life. every morning at 6, he'd go on a run, and then from his final destination, he'd take the train back. rin was a regular, and an observant one at that- so it was only a matter of time before he noticed you.

you sat diagonally from him, always with your hands in your lap, twirling around the loose threads on the cuffs of your sweater. that was the first thing he noticed about you- the white cable-knit zip-up you frequently donned.

it looked nice on you, he thought. you seemed cozy, almost, as cozy as one could be on a train at 7 in the morning. rin wondered where you were going, since you appeared too young to have a corporate job.

you were on the train whenever he boarded and got off 2 stops before he did. and itoshi rin couldn't help but watch as you left. you carried a canvas tote with a familiar character that he couldn't quite place, and you'd always smiled warmly at the sweet old lady to your right. there were paint splatters smudging your shoes and rin wonders if you liked to draw.

he’d never ask, though. because why would he? you were a pretty person on the train, and he was just another passenger.

rin thinks he’ll settle for just watching, for now. he never expects you to look his way.

it’s a cloudy thursday when you aren’t sitting at your regular spot for the first time in at least a month. rin shouldn’t feel a tinge of disappointment, the way he does in the pit of his stomach now. he doesn’t even know you, so who is he to be upset by your absence?

it’s not until he takes his own regular place that he realizes- you weren't missing. you'd just shifted seats. you were next to him, now, bag in your lap and hands rested on top of it.

rin snaps his head away from you as soon as he realizes you're there, and he can feel his ears burning. you're not even looking at him, exchanging amicable conversation with the same elderly woman, who is now across from you rather than next to you. there's a mother with a little sleeping boy on her lap occupying your regular place, and he presumes that's the cause of your breech of pattern.

he's snapped back to reality when the old lady laughs and says a name that sounds so honeyed and sweet that it couldn't belong to anyone but you.

"you're just the funniest," chuckles the woman, "makes me feel young again."

your smile is wry. "i guess i picked that up from you, mrs. sato."

rin doesn't quite mean to eavesdrop on your quiet conversation, it kind of just happens. you were right next to him, how could he not? and he also didn't mean to sneak glances towards you whenever you were turned away. that was also an accident, a slip-up he was very grateful that no one else picked up on.

it wasn't his fault that you looked even prettier up close. it wasn't his fault that he wanted to memorize how you looked when you smiled, down to the minuscule creases and lines of your cheeks.

you bid mrs. sato goodbye with a polite tip of your head when the train reaches your stop. your shoes have new paint stains, and your jacket is collecting more lint. rin wonders if you've noticed. and he watches you go long after you're gone.

he's not expecting to be addressed, so it takes a few tries before mrs. sato gets his attention.

"hello! young man! hello," she waves a wrinkled hand in rin's face and he turns to her.

"so..." her eyes shine with a childlike mirth and rin is a bit scared because what is going on?

"you're not as sneaky as you think you are, boy."

rin stiffens. "what?"

"i see you peeking at my dear friend."

he blinks, unsure how to reply. it's not everyday that the 70-something year old woman your totally-not-a-crush is friends with confronts you about your staring problem.

"huh?" he asks dumbly.

the old woman rolls her eyes and the train lurches to a stop. "well. i'm out of town for who knows how long, and i wouldn't want them to be lonely. i'm sure you wouldn't, either."

she stands with a joking wink and rin fights the embarrassed scowl from creeping onto his face. he's positive that he's red right now, and he's giving his all to not be disrespectful to this elderly woman in public.

"well, be good to them." rin opens his mouth but she's already hobbling away. he sinks back into his seat and wishes it would eat him alive.

rin sees you the next day, sitting in the same place as you were yesterday. he shifts to put a little more space between the two of you, a little embarrassed- his breathing is still heavy from his run, and he's sure he smells of sweat.

you notice and give him a soft smile, though something akin to confusion muddles your eyes. you must be wondering where mrs. sato is, but you don't bring it up.

"sorry," you apologize for nothing. you also scoot a little to the side, and rin almost wants to say 'no, don't move further, you didn't do anything,' but that would be creepy and he doesn't want to be that guy.

so instead he fights his resting bitch face and gives you a sharp nod without meeting your eyes, because his face is already hot from hearing your voice say a single word and he is rather humiliated by his limits. "you're fine."

rin thinks he sounds like a strangled cat and he'd punch himself in the face if you weren't right there. but you give him a smile, and he feels a strange elation, and god, was it always this warm on the train?

"you're on this train every day, right?" your voice is hushed, and rin wonders if it's because you're trying not to disturb the mother and her child (who are still cuddled into your usual spot) or if that's just your demeanor. either way, he wants to find out. he wants to know you.

"i am."

you seem to consider his words for a moment and rin realizes that this means you know him. or, at least, know of him. you've seen him every morning just as he's seen you- the realization sends a strange spark through his stomach.

"where are you headed to so early?"

"home. i run out here and take the train back."

"you're a runner?"

"something like that."

you hum, and before you turn away, rin speaks again. "where are you going?"

he watches as you turn your head back towards him, a genuine smile forming on your face. "i work at a primary school. it's not an official position, but i'm kind of the art teacher."

he raises his brows. "art teacher?"

"yeah! i started off as a volunteer, but i guess i fit better since i'm younger than regular teachers," you shrug, and rin thinks he could listen to you talk forever.

your voice is beautiful, he thinks. it suits your name, and you face, and he can't think about it much longer because otherwise he'll start burning alive. he's still not looking at you when you introduce yourself, because for the sake of his dignity he doesn't think he can.

he already knows your name but he thinks it sounds even prettier falling from your lips. and god, he messed up, because now he's thinking about your lips.

"itoshi rin," he manages to get out when it's his turn to introduce himself.

"itoshi rin," you repeat, and the boy thinks he might die right then and there. what is wrong with him?

you're about to say something more but you get a look out the window and realize it's almost your stop. grabbing your bag, you stand as the train stills.

"this is me. i guess i'll see you tomorrow, then."

"see you."

and then you're gone, just like that. the morning train is silent once more, save for the whirring as it begins to run again and the footsteps of passengers finding their places.

rin decides that he can't wait until tomorrow. he's not sure why.

over the next few days, you and rin grow closer. or, you'd like to think you've become closer. you talk a lot more, about everything, and he sits and listens.

he knows about your favorite student at work, and how he had given you the doraemon tote bag that you always sported for your birthday last year. he knows about your cat named snorkel and how your friends always tried to set you up on dates. he knows about your favorite foods and how you hated sleeping with wet hair.

and rin decided that he would do anything to hear you talk. he acted uninterested, sure, but he hung off every word you said. he engraved every single sentence into the details of his memories, stowing away any information you'd give him in the catalogs of his brain.

it came to a point where every single one of his thoughts were tainted with the knowledge of you. you were all he could think about- he saw you in every crowd and smelt your perfume in the wind even when you weren't around.

it was pathetic, really, the way he searched for you in everything, and the way you appeared to him, too. especially since this 'infatuation' was the product of a few measly mornings and some half-asleep conversations.

this was pitiful, rin thought, he was pitiful. but he kept coming back.

(..and it was especially pitiful because you were kind of annoying.)

your smile was as radiant as it was infectious, and you really, really liked talking. you might've been a little hesitant to speak to rin at first, but that certainly wasn't true anymore. with the way you ran your mouth, anyone would think you'd been friends for years.

rin hated how you left him without things to say. he couldn't muster his usual cruelties when he spoke to you. usually, he just hummed along or gave you minimal replies. but the flow of the conversations you had were never dull, and they became a highlight of his day.

"you'll never guess what happened," you started, as soon as rin took his usual seat next to you one tuesday morning. he uncapped his water bottle and took a sip as you continued.

"yesterday morning, i told you about how we were doing an animal painting activity, right?"

"yeah."

"okay, so i had just finished my example and instructions, and i was helping this one little boy. he's really sweet, by the way, he just doesn't really like... paint. which is kind of counterproductive."

"mhm."

"but anyways, this other kid comes up to me- she's tugging on my sleeve, and she says 'i made you something!' and it's not like i never get paintings from students, so i'm all like 'oh, thank you! what is it!' fully expecting it to be just some drawing, right?"

"right."

"but she hands me my bag!"

it's then that rin notes that you aren't carrying your usual tote bag. instead, you have an old canvas satchel that's cute but not nearly as endearing as your previous one. he frowns.

"it was fully covered in paint- like, it was all over her hands and everything. no way i'm getting that bag back. so messy," you shudder.

"it was the one your student gave you last year, right?"

"yeah. i'm a little sad, but i can't be too upset. she was like, 7 years old. they do that."

you begin to prattle on about some other inane topic, and for the first time since he's met you, you don't have rin's full attention. you don't seem to notice, but he's already adding another item to his mental checklist.

‧̍̊ ˙ · 𓆝 . ° ｡ ˚ 𓆛 ˚ ｡ ° . 𓆞 · ˙ ‧̍̊

the following day, when rin boards the train, he doesn't greet you. he's holding something, and when he sits next to you he wordlessly drops it on your lap.

"what's this?" you fumble with the item in your hands- it's something light in a plain paper bag. rin doesn't reply, crossing his arms and slouching down in his seat. he stares straight ahead, eyes probably burning holes into the side of the train.

"okay, grouch. don't say anything, then."

"just open the bag, dumbass."

"jesus, fine."

you reach into the parcel, pulling out a denim bag. it's roomy and well-crafted, and a set of pins are stuck into the side. you recognize familiar cartoon characters, a paint palette, and a little train. for the first time since you've met rin, you're not sure what to say.

you stare down at the bag. rin stares at you. when you look up to meet his eye he whips his head away. but then he hears a shuffling, and your arms are around his neck, and he's frozen.

you're hugging him, and he can smell your hair, and he can't say a word. he thinks your shampoo smells like peaches. he would ask you if he was right if only he could find the words.

you're gone just as soon as you appeared and rin misses your warmth, but maybe a bit of it has transferred to him because he's all hot beneath the collar of his crewneck and he's feeling his face grow uncomfortably flushed.

he slumps back in his seat as you fiddle with the enamel pins- they're dainty and unique, and you're a little taken aback by how thoughtful they are. "i love this."

if rin were to try and form a coherent sentence, he thinks he might combust. so he just hums an 'mhm' and pries his gaze back to the opposing window, a little humiliated by how difficult it is for him to take his eyes off you.

he thinks he's done a pretty good job of cooling himself down until your hand is on his forearm. the contact feels icy against his hot, flushed skin and it sends a shiver down his spine as he turns to meet your gaze again.

"thank you," you say and your hands gently squeeze his arm, "this means so much to me. really."

this isn't the first time you've left him speechless, but it's the first time you've witnessed just how potent your effect on rin really is. you smile at him again before leaving him be, continuing to fiddle with the bag while he recuperates.

you keep talking at him but it's in one ear and out the other, and by the time it's your stop he's only a little bit better. you stand when the train stops and the window's light trickles through the opened doors and falls upon your lips like they're being highlighted just for him. he blinks the thought away.

"i'll see you tomorrow morning, rin," you say as you hold your bag close to your side, its new contents sitting heavy in the bottom. rin only nods and crosses his arms.

he hopes that little expression can contain the vast expanse of indescribable emotions that he feels for you, but he knows he's unfair for that because even rin himself hasn't been able to comprehend them.

he's not sure why he doesn't see you as a bother or distraction. he's not sure why he'd be disappointed whenever you didn't continue a conversation or praise the littlest things in a way he'd never expect from anyone else. he's not sure why he's so determined to make you smile, and he's even more uncertain as to what the strange, strange sensation he experiences whenever he succeeds is.

he's not sure, he's not sure, he's not sure, but he thinks he loves it.

he frowns. rin loves how you make him feel. his frown grows deeper at the realization. his eyelids flutter shut and he tips his head back against the edge of his seat, a dull thump sounding as it hits the metal.

he thinks he'll ignore this realization, for now.

it's almost a week after rin's gotten you the bag, and it's become your new everyday option. he can't help but think it looks especially good with your white zip-up and he applauds himself silently for his fashion choices.

the bag already has some tiny, colourful fingerprints decorating the sides and streaked up from where you'd presumably snatched your property out of your students' grabby little hands.

the thought makes his lips quirk upwards into a tiny little half-smile, one that's barely there but you pick up on all the same. pausing in the middle of your sentence, you ask him: "what're you thinking about?"

if rin was smooth, and if he was interested in you, he'd reply with 'just you, babe,' or something else that would make you blush and make him want to die inside. but rin is not smooth, nor is he sure how he feels about you.

it's nothing short of sickening, how you continue to take residence in his mind constantly. if he thought it was bad when he'd first started talking to you, it was a thousand times worse now. rin kind of wishes he could go back in time for the sole purpose of beating the shit out of the past him as a warning to not let you do this to him.

because, if he was being honest, he was scared. the premonition that his feelings toward you might be something like attraction was horrific because god, what was he supposed to do?

his entire life was dedicated to being the best. he was born to be on top and he'd die on that podium, looking down on everyone else. in the past, he'd cared about nothing else but winning.

his dreams, for the longest time, were plagued by pedestals and gold medals, and trophies with his last name but someone else's first. he'd fall asleep to his mind's eye envisioning blood pooling in his gut as he bled for his crown, his crown that was always out of reach.

and then you showed up in them. rin couldn't decide if you made his dreams better or worse. (okay, that was a lie- definitely better, but he's not ready to admit that quite yet.)

in the midst of his bad dreams, you'd come to him, sitting pretty on the train next to him. you'd talk but he'd never be able to remember what you said come morning.

this was bad, rin thinks, he was bad. he was awful and horrible and wrong because he should be dreaming about winning and not you. you were distracting him, being on his mind all the time. while he ran to the train stop, a task that usually cleared his tired mind, all he could picture was you, you, you, waiting for him.

that was another thing. you were waiting for him, and he couldn't not show up. rin's considered changing his routine so he could keep away from you for the sole purpose of fighting his maybe-crush and being able to focus on his sport. he's thought about not replying to your texts, which you sent every afternoon to check in and ask how he was.

but then he pictured you, alone on the train, and he couldn't. the thought of you getting friendly with anyone but him made his skin crawl. what if that boy who sat on the other side by the door tried to talk to you while he wasn't there?

no, no, rin couldn't have that. not when he liked you this much- it was far too late to let go. he'd already done this to himself.

so he keeps coming back, every single morning, just to see your face. there was no denying it anymore- rin liked you. too bad he'd never say a thing.

"rin?" your voice snaps him out of his thoughts. "what's up?"

he glares at you like he hates you, but you know better and so does he. "nothing."

you tilt your head. he stares right back at you before conceding. "the paint smudges on your sweater and stuff."

"hm. what about them?"

"your job must be hard."

if he's being honest, rin doesn't really care about what you do. he's just trying very hard to not let the fact that he was smiling thinking about you show.

"it's not that bad," you say, "well, i mean- tedious, sure. plus i hardly get paid, i'm not under contract, and they could just decide to stop paying me at any point since there's nothing making them, technically."

rin raises an eyebrow. "and you say it's not that bad?"

"it's not! really!"

"and you work with kids."

"yeah, so not that bad."

"that's worse." you make a face at him and he fights another smile because how do you do this to him so easily?

"i swear it's not as bad a job as it seems."

"it's not even a job, technically," rin points out.

"okay, okay, you can stop making fun of my position, rin."

your use of his name makes his heart do something weird and nauseating in his chest and he hates it. "whatever."

you hum in contemplation before sitting up in your seat with an idea. "how about you come with me today?"

rin stiffens. "what?"

you don't flinch at his unintentionally bittered tone, and rin feels something strange inside him again. he feels a bit like a fish out of water, being put on the spot like that.

"well, i mean- only if you're free, of course," you twist away from rin ever-so-slightly as you start to backtrack, hands finding their way to fiddle with a strand of your hair, "i don't wanna overstep or anything, and i know you're probably busy and we're just-"

"no."

rin's voice cuts you off. "oh. that's cool, i'm sorry i asked."

oh. that wasn't what he meant to say at all. "no, no, wait. i mean no, stop talking."

"oh. i said i was sorry."

he's really just digging his own grave, at this point.

"wait, wait, wait. i mean.. no, stop talking, yes, i'll go with you."

it's almost comical how you brighten up in a heartbeat, and a strange twinge of pride at the fact that his presence could do that to you zips through his chest.

"oh, i'm great. i mean- that's great. this is great. i'm so excited." you fiddle with the sleeves of your sweater and the enamel pins on your bag that he got you jingle and rin thinks that he's stupid for ever considering avoiding you.

and again- if he was a better man, he'd say so. but he's not, so he side-eyes you instead. "are you sure this is even allowed?"

"i am. as long as you're not some kind of criminal, or whatever." you look back at him, eyes creased with amusement. "you're not, yeah?"

"nope. just a few aggravated assault charges." he's only kind of joking (because injuries on the field do not count against him outside of it), and his voice is dry with sarcasm. he's not expecting you to laugh but you do, and he thinks everything he's done to lead up to this moment has been worth it.

"lovely. then you'll be fine. i hope you're good with kids, rin."

his mouth falls into a frown. he'd forgotten about that. he's about to say something but the train lurches or a stop and you're standing, prompting him to follow.

it occurs to rin that this is the first time the both of you have stood next to each other. the slight widening of your eyes at his obscene height is something that amuses him, but he chooses not to comment on.

he also keeps silent about how your beat-down and paint-smudged pair of shoes squeak ever-so-slightly as they exit the train. you move with a slight bounce in your step that makes the shoes pivot and squeal a little in a way that should irritate rin and not endear you to him the way it does.

it's only a short way to the school you work at from the train station, and you talk about menial things the whole way. rin's arms are crossed uncomfortably over his chest as he walks, and the plush insides of his deep blue sweater suddenly feel too hot, and he's feeling clammy even though the sun is hardly out.

you walk through the front office with rin in tow, tailing you while looking incredibly uncomfortable the whole time. the front office ladies chuckle like they know something he doesn't when you check him in and rin kind of wants to punch them. he doesn't, though.

when you lead him to your classroom (or, more precisely- a large storage room that was reassembled with tables and chairs to become a classroom) he's not surprised to find it colorful and bright.

the walls which aren't big windows are practically covered in various pieces- hand turkeys, landscapes, various misshapen animals, crude imitations of people- and a few pieces that are undoubtedly from a much more skilled artist. there are beautiful scenes that look like they're from movies, and there are unique interpretations that seem like they took painstakingly long to create.

he walks up to one- a faceless pair of women. one is sitting on the kitchen counter and the other stirs a bowl of something that looks like cookie dough. it's simple, it's sweet, and it's beautifully made. "you painted this?"

you're placing your bag down on the chair that sits behind the teacher's desk, which is just a repurposed old table. "i did. that's really old, though. kind of embarrassing."

"it's not." his finger traces his newest observation about the painting- your name scrawled in the corner. "it's not."

he's not looking at you, but he knows you're staring at him. he won't look back now, but he wonders what you're thinking. he imagines your quizzical expression, and he imagines the sun filtering in through the windows making you shine as you absorb every colour in the room.

he imagines you looking at him, and he thinks it's the prettiest sight he's ever thought up.

the bell rings after a beat of silence passes. the shrill noise draws you both from your stupor, and rin turns to see you walking around, busying yourself with placing a piece of thick watercolour paper on each desk.

"well," you say, and rin might be imagining it but your voice is a little choked, "we've got.. 2 classes? yeah, two. both will be 7-year-olds today. think you can deal with that?"

rin's eyes narrow. "i thought you said i wouldn't have to deal with any kids."

your face contorts into a smile. "yeah. i know. you can just sit in the back and watch. i'll get them to not bother you."

you gesture to a tiny little desk situated in the back corner of the room and rin cringes internally as he walks up to it. he sees you biting back a laugh and glares. as he takes a seat, his knees are up to his chest and his arms are draped uncomfortably over them.

"this isn't funny," he deadpans as you bite your tongue. with a humiliating amount of effort, he removes himself from the tiny chair and walks back over to the teacher's desk where you stand, crossing his arms over his chest.

"in my defense, i didn't compensate for how tall you'd be. you can just be at my desk, i don't mind."

you place your bag down onto the floor in the corner and rin moves to take your seat. all you have on your desk is a pile of books that are collecting dust, and a dingy computer setup that seemed like it was from the stone ages. there's a series of sticky notes on the black screen- he knows he shouldn't, but he reads a few.

there's a few about restocking some supplies, and even more about various lesson plans. rin thinks you put an awful lot of work into a position that technically isn't legal. and then, his eyes land on his name- in pink pen that stands out on the yellow paper, 'itoshi rin' is scrawled on with a myriad of stars and hearts and squiggles surrounding it.

rin blinks, half expecting the message to vanish. it doesn't. his hand reaches out to take the note but he's interrupted by the room door slamming open and a gaggle of children bursting in.

their teacher seems exhausted, and rightfully so, especially considering it was barely 8 in the morning. she takes a seat close to the exit and slumps over, seemingly asleep, as the students spread around the room.

they take places behind desks and fist the provided paintbrushes in their little grubby hands, chattering amongst themselves as if it's not insanely early. rin watches as you bounce around the room, conversing with the kids who call your name.

his gaze doesn't leave you once, as you move to the front of the classroom to begin your speech on today's assignment. he's only half-listening, but he catches short phrases. it's something about practicing watercolour responsibly and learning to work with a new medium.

rin's never been an art kid. he's never seen the appeal. but the way you seem so excited to be there, and so genuinely happy to teach, makes him think that he should be listening, too.

the kids start to paint, now. he notices how some of them start with a pencil, tracing crude outlines of whatever they're trying to make, while others dive headfirst into the watercolour. you weave around desks lavishing them in praise, and rin wonders what you were like when you were their age.

little feet begin to scramble around the classroom as the assigned seating chart dissolves with time. you don't seem to care all too much, continuing to help a student- a little girl, with tiny, short pigtails tied off with purple scrunchies.

he doesn't realize he's been watching you until the girl catches his eye and says something he can only kind of make out. "who's that guy lookin' at you all mean?"

her finger points straight at rin, and he promptly pretends like he was very invested in the blank screen of your 1900s computer. he sneaks a glance back to see your eyes fixed on him before returning to the girl with an awkward laugh.

"ah, him! he's.. my friend. he's just sticking with me today," you smile, and feels himself sink into the chair deeper. he's not sure what he feels at the use of the word 'friend' but he doesn't think he likes it.

but it was a fine answer. it was decent, it was true- what, did he expect more? if he did, clearly he wasn't the only one because the little girl with the pigtails gives you a look. rather loudly, she exclaims "you mean your boyfriend?"

you blanch at her words and rin's subtle gaze returns to a full-on stare as he watched your reactions. "asami, not so loud! indoor voices," you try to sound authoritative but your voice splinters and sea of little faces is suddenly turned to face you.

and then, slowly, like a horror movie, the 20-something 7-year-olds pivot to face rin.

a little voice speaks up. "you're ms. teacher's boyfriend?"

in a normal scenario, rin would probably linger on the fact that you were addressed as 'ms. teacher' as if you had no other name. but with an ocean of inquisitive eyes, yours especially, he felt a little frozen. just as he was about to snap open his mouth to say something probably cruel and snippy, you jumped in.

rushing to the front of the crowd you wave your hands frantically, trying to maintain your cheery disposition while sweating through your clothes with anxiety. "no, no! he's- he's not my boyfriend! and don't bother him, please, he doesn't.. speak the language! he's from.. germany!"

it's a bad lie. horrible, even. and it would take a fool to fall for it- either a fool or a collection of unbelievably innocent children.

"oh!" one pipes up, "is that why he's so mean and doesn't talk?"

you furrow your brow. "we don't call people mean, remember."

and just like that, everything is back to normal. or, at least, however normal this situation could be. the students resume their artistry and continue scurrying like mice around the room to show off their creations or grab fresh sheets of paper.

you walk up to rin, and he hopes his ears have turned less red at this point as you sit on the desk in front of him. "see? not so bad."

he narrows his eyes. "are we in the same room right now? did you not just see that?'

you sigh dramatically and place your hands behind you as you slouch back. "maybe they're right. you are mean."

"okay?"

"you should be ashamed of yourself, y'know."

"you really do sound like a schoolteacher." at this you laugh and swat at his shoulder, eliciting a tiny could-be smile from rin. "never say that to me again."

and it seems like cutting rin off is a fun activity, because a little boy with messy brown hair skips up to the desk and basically shouts, "hello!"

the thing is, he's not talking to you- he's talking to rin. big, doe eyes are fixed on the striker expectantly, and he rolls back and forth on heels while clutching something in his hands behind his back.

rin blinks. "hi."

he sounds mean, he's sure, and definitely not german, but the kid doesn't seem to notice or care. "i think germ-in-ey is so neat! i made you this!"

the country is pronounced like he's speaking with rocks in his mouth but the boy's smile is bright and he holds a kind-of crumbled piece of watercolour paper in his hands.

it's still dripping and incredibly poorly done. what appears to be a house? or a building of some kind? is splattered onto a green line that might be grass. a blob that could be a body if you squinted hard enough is attached to a big oval with messy dark hair, angry eyebrows paired with neon blue eyes, and the biggest eyelashes the world has ever seen. they extended from all the way inside the eye to the sticks that rin supposes must be hands.

a random rectangle with doodles inside is in the top left corner. a little label reads 'german flag' in pencil.

rin blinks at the paper and looks dully at the kid. he feels your eyes staring into him, too, and he opens his mouth before closing it again, unsure of what to say.

"this looks bad," he speaks before he knows what's coming, eyes widening at his own words. a deep pit of guilt opens in his stomach as the boy retracts his hands with the paper. oh, my god, what did he just say?

he is unbelieveably lucky that you are still next to him at that moment, because you jump in to save the day yet again:

"haru! don't worry about him- he's german, remember? he doesn't know how to say what he means! bad in german actually just.. uh.. means really, really good!"

the boy instantly brightens up again, like a wilting flower back in bloom. "really? that's so cool! i didn't know they spoke german in germ-in-ey!"

you return his bright smile. "how crazy! what a small world!"

the little boy skips away, leaving his masterpiece in your hands, and rin lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"oh, wow," you say with a sparkle of amusement in your eyes, "i didn't know you were this horrid with kids."

a grumble of annoyance leaves him, but he's more embarrassed than anything at this point. "and i didn't know i was german."

you shrug. "it was the first thing that came to mind. it worked, didn't it?"

rin ignores your question. "i can't believe you let that kid go off thinking 'bad' means good. he's gonna go around telling everyone that."

"i.. did not consider this," you purse your lips, "it's his teacher's problem. i don't even work here, technically."

"so you're a random person who comes onto campus and spreads lies to children."

a smile splits your face. "at least i'm a nice liar."

"nice?"

"oh. ouch. okay, thanks rin."

and he exhales, and it's no longer just a half-smile, because you see it so clearly on his face- the way his lips turn up at your words as he speaks. "yeah. anytime."

it's then that itoshi rin has a moment of infinite clarity- he's fallen for you. he doesn't like that fact, nor does he understand the intricacies of this romance.

he likes you. that's all there is to it. rin doesn't see why there needs to be any more. it's not like he'll tell you and even though the feeling of repressed and realized emotions in his chest is something a little unbearable, he's dealt with worse. and he thinks he'd rather keep his mornings beautiful than run the risk of messing it all up.

so rin thinks he'll settle for being in your background, as he watches you hop off the desk and move to help the students as they finish their paintings and clean up.

they sing a stupid jingle about keeping things neat that makes you laugh in the way you do where your head tips back just a little, and rin swears it's his favourite sound in the world.

it's another hour and another class before you're finally done with your work. the second one was thankfully a lot less strenuous for rin- none of the students paid him much mind at all, save for the occasional curious glance every so often.

"bye ms. teacher!" the final student belted before leaving, slamming the door with a resounding thud. you wave cheerfully and take a deep breath as soon as the kid is out of sight. "and we're done! how was that, rin? you just got the full fake-teacher experience."

rin stands from his place behind your desk and stretches out his limbs, slightly sore from being in one place for so long. "as bad as i thought it'd be."

"you're always so negative."

"glad you noticed."

you roll your eyes and grab a spray bottle and washcloths off the highest shelves. "help me clean?"

wordlessly, he catches the rag you toss and the other bottle. the two of you work in silence for a few moments, wiping down the desks that the students had done their best at keeping neat. the only noises were the muffled sounds of the cafeteria during lunchtime outside and the ever-present squeaks your shoes made.

the lighting through the window lit the scene golden and turned all the colors and textures and works in your classroom even more beautiful. and not just them- rin thinks that you look breathtaking in the sunlight. a part of him suspects that it was invented just for you.

"what did you think?"

rin looks up at your voice. "hm?"

"what did you think? about this, i mean."

he looks at you for a moment. this is a new expression, the one you're wearing- at least, one he's never been able to observe unobstructed. you almost seem bashful, in the sunlight, refusing to meet his eyes.

"i think," he says, and he's so careful because he thinks he'd die of embarrassment if he misspoke and insulted you again, "that this makes sense."

"what?"

he frowns, not wanting to explain himself. "you loving this. it makes sense."

"i actually have no idea what you mean by that."

he scoffs, "whatever," but you keep pushing, curiously leaning over the table and placing your washcloth down.

"you can't just 'whatever' me. i'm curious now."

"you're irritating."

"i'm aware." you keep looking at him and it's no surprise to him when his conviction crumbles into dust and ash.

"you just seem like an art person." he tries and fails to get his point across. you raise a brow. "are you profiling me? what, do i seem like your starving artist trope?"

"no, no," he grumbles, "like, you're.."

and he's not sure.

rin has no idea how to follow up his words. because he thinks so many things of you- he thinks you're kind, in ways he will never be, and he thinks you're pretty enough to rival the sun, and he thinks you're flat out lovely- but he can't convey it all into one word.

"you're just you," he says. it's a simple statement, said with a conviction that doesn't match the quiet tone of his voice. he speaks softly, like he's afraid you might disappear if he was too loud.

blinking, you meet his gaze, and rin hopes you can see yourself how he sees you in the reflection. he hopes you see yourself like gold, and all the colours in the world, and as the essence of creativity- he hopes you know that he sees you as art, plain and simple.

but your expression is unreadable. he wonders if his is, too. and rin also wonders what you see when you look at him, because you're suddenly inhaling sharply and pivoting, busing yourself with straightening up jaws that don't really need to be fixed.

"well, rin," you say, and your voice is a pitch higher, "i didn't mean to keep you so long. i'm sorry you got held up here."

you're laughing, but it sounds strained, and rin wishes he could go up and smooth whatever's bothering you out from your skin, but that's creepy so he'd rather not.

"i didn't stay so long because you made me or anything. i wanted to."

"oh." you freeze for a split second before continuing to scrub a little too vigorously, "uh. thanks."

"i like your paintings," he blurts out. it's not fitting as a response, and he should've just said 'you're welcome' and moved on with his life, but he feels like he needs to say something, and relieve at least a fraction of the burden off his chest. he likes your paintings, and he likes you, but he can't say that quite yet.

"oh! i didn't take you as an art connoisseur."

"i'm not."

and he was telling the truth- rin knew virtually nothing about art. he remembers his own experiences with the subject, all limited to his pre-teen years in school, where he'd been forced to make whatever the teacher commanded.

his work had always been lopsided and a little fugly, but in the spirit of learning no one had ever said anything. it was always 'that's so good!' or 'you're so creative!' or 'nice cat!' when it was meant to be a tree.

"not even a little bit?" you hum as you lean onto your tiptoes, struggling to push a bottle of cleaning solution back into the space. rin moves to your side, placing it on for you. he misses how you go breathless at his actions.

"was never an art kid," he says simply.

you purse your lips in that stupid way he's noticed you do when something doesn't go right, and shake your head. "i don't buy it."

he raises an eyebrow. "what?"

"i don't believe that."

"you're just.. rejecting my statement?"

"yeah. everyone's an art kid."

rin considers your words before shaking his head. "no. you're just weird."

rolling your eyes, you're suddenly gone again to the front of the classroom, rifling through a set of overworked cabinets that seem to be bursting at the seams. you come back to the desk rin was standing by with a full arm of various supplies- he recognizes paper, canvas, pencils, gouache paints, and brushes.

"everyone's an art kid," you repeat, "you just never had anyone show you right."

"you sound fucking crazy."

"yeah, probably," you reply, motioning for him to sit down on the chair. he complies, and you hop up to take a seat on the desk again.

"and cheesy as hell. like a stupid nickelodeon character."

"that's a little far. be nicer to me! i'm about to give you free painting lessons."

"ones that i didn't ask for."

you sit back on your hands. "you could leave if you wanted."

rin is silent. you smile. "lessons it is."

‧̍̊ ˙ · 𓆝 . ° ｡ ˚ 𓆛 ˚ ｡ ° . 𓆞 · ˙ ‧̍̊

you might have been a little bit incorrect in your approach. rin is kind of a little bit hopeless with art.

"just a straight line," you're practically begging, "just one. you can do it."

rin proceeds to draw another very un-straight line to go with all the other ones on the piece of paper.

that was okay, though! maybe pencils just weren't for him. you could live with that. you'd brought out some paints just for this possibility, after all.

painting is difficult to mess up. you slap some colors on a canvas, call it modern art, and you're set- that was your philosophy. anyone could paint. anyone, you now think, except for itoshi rin.

"are you colourblind?" you say, and you're not trying to be mean, you're genuine, because he had just used the most horrendous choice of color palate he could have had.

"shut up," he scowls, covering his face with his hands. "you're a shit teacher."

you gawk at him. "how is this on me?"

"your stupid 'art kid' philosophy. plus, you've just been staring, not teaching."

you frown. okay, yeah, maybe you had been a little bit stare-y, but it's not really your fault. he just has one of those faces that would be criminal not to stare at. an idea pops up in your mind, and you hop off the desk.

rin turns his head to follow you as you move behind him. "what are you doing?"

"i'm teaching," you bite back playfully, leaning over his figure. you take a hold of his hand with the paintbrush, and you're both so close that you can hear his heartbeat speeding up inside of his chest. you wonder if he can feel yours do the same.

your hand ghosts his before you take a hold, grabbing it gently. his palms are warm and his whole body seems to radiate heat. the skin of his hand is rough and calloused.

"like this," you instruct, dragging the brush slowly across the canvas. it's already a smoother, straighter line than his previous ones. rin remains speechless, but he lets you take control of his movements. you direct him gently and he moves in return, like a slow dance on canvas.

after some time, a scene is playing out on the formerly blank space before the both of you. it's the classroom, complete with the yellowed lighting of the sun coming through the windows and the blocks of color to represent the various works hanging on the walls. it's a crude imitation of reality, but a piece of you and a piece of him, and you think that makes it beautiful.

"see?" you say, breaking the silence, "you did that."

you move to release your grip on rin's hand but he clasps his other one over it without thinking. you blink at him. he lets go, embarrassed.

"you did most of the work," he shrugs off, but it feels like he's just talking to himself, "i was just there."

"hm. you're right, but come on! give yourself some credit."

your attempt to lighten the heavy tension in the air falls onto deaf ears. "i should go," he mumbles, standing.

"oh."

"bye." his words lack the usual edge, and he seems more confused than upset. still, you wonder if you've overstepped and a pit forms in your stomach.

"bye," you say, but he's already out the door.

you try not to be too upset about it, but it's a little difficult. you've liked rin since before you even knew his name, and you were far too stubborn to let it go just yet.

you'd been almost 100% he felt the same, too. but again, your pride wouldn't allow you to make the first move. and his reaction to the closeness didn't bode well for your intentions.

a surge of disappointment consumes your chest and everything suddenly feels a lot heavier. your regular cable-knit feels itchy and too hot on your skin. you bite your tongue.

your friends have mocked you for your infatuation with this faceless 'itoshi rin.' they've encouraged you to move on from this crush that was seemingly going nowhere until almost a month ago, even going as far as to try and set you up with someone. maybe you should finally look into that offer,

you sigh to yourself and flop back onto the hard wood of the desk. oh well, you think, you'll see him tomorrow anyway.

the next week of early morning train rides is missing something.

rin notices it almost right away- how you sit a little farther from him, you you're just a little more skittish and quick to leave. it's a stab in the gut every single time, and he's not sure how he can mend the undeniable rift forming between the both of you.

he's not sure what happened. was it his leaving? had that upset you? why?

the invisible wound of unspoken words festered like mould as the morning conversations grew shorter and stiffer, and he felt helpless like he never had before.

and then, you bring something up that makes his heart plummet.

"this afternoon? i think i have a date, actually."

he shouldn't be mad. he shouldn't be upset. but doesn't he have the right? the person he likes, and ew, he hates admitting that, is going on a date with someone else.

"oh."

"mhm. my best friend's friend- she's been trying to get me to go out with him for ages."

"oh."

"tomorrow night, i think it is."

"hm."

"i hope it goes well."

"why?"

again, rin's mouth runs separately from his conscience. he wants to hit himself. you have no obligation to answer, because the both of you are just friends, maybe even less.

you blink, looking over at him. "i mean.. why not?"

the rest of the train ride continues in awkward silence until you get off. you give him a brief smile but you don't say goodbye, and rin watches your figure walk away until the train starts again and he can't anymore.

there is a very strange emotion, that rin is experiencing. he recognizes parts of it- that same bitter, green envy that curls around his lungs and squeezes til he can't breathe. he's familiar, but never in this context.

and then there's something darker that hurts his chest. it reminds him of growing pains, and of valentine's day, and of things he never thought he could have wanted. it reminds rin of you, and he is so, so distraught.

that afternoon, he waits for your text. usually, your messages are usual, like clockwork. you'd message him around 1 when you were on the train ride home, either to update him about your day or send him a game pigeon game.

he always indulged your messages, and he'd never let you see but you were one of the pinned contacts on his phone.

that day, however, your text never comes.

he's so pathetic for how he sits in the locker room at 2, alone, staring at his phone screen. he's sad for how he's taking a break from practicing at 3 just in case you message. he's stupid for how he spends the next few hours just waiting for a notification that he knows will probably never come.

it's 10 now, and rin has never felt more tired.

he's about to go to bed, having his night clothes lined up on his bed and brushing his teeth in the bathroom mirror. it was an average, regular day- there was nothing special nor abnormal, but everything just felt so wrong.

he wonders if you were on your date then, as he spits his toothpaste into the sink. he wonders what you wore- if you donned your white cable-knit or your squeaky paint-smudged shoes. he wonders if you carried the bag he got you, pins and all. he wonders if your date held open the door like he would have, or if he joked around with you like he did (kind of.)

rin wonders where you were. he wonders if you were okay.

and then, his phone rings.

your name lights up his screen and suddenly, he's not so exhausted. he answers a little too haistily on the 1st ring.

"hello?"

there's a short pause, but he can hear the way your breath comes in short huffs on the other side of the line. this was strange- the both of you had never called before.

"rin?" your voice is crackly in a way he could accredit to the poor reception wherever you were, but something in his heart wrenches and there's an undertone that is undeniably distress in your voice.

"yeah? what's up?" he's already bustling around his home, though, grateful he hasn't changed yet as he pulls out his shoes.

"are you doing anything?"

"no," he lies.

"i'm sorry then, 'cause i know it's late, but- um, yeah. i'm about to get on the train. like usual, just the night one. but, i don't want to bother you, so-"

"no. keep going."

another silence follows rin's words before you continue. "could you.. come here? i know it's dumb, askin' you to ride the train here just to come back with me but," and your voice cracks, "i don't really want to be alone right now."

rin exhales. he's already outside, walking briskly through the cold night air with his free hand stuffed in his jeans pockets as he makes his way to the train stop.

"i'm on my way."

‧̍̊ ˙ · 𓆝 . ° ｡ ˚ 𓆛 ˚ ｡ ° . 𓆞 · ˙ ‧̍̊

when rin gets on the night train, you're the only other passenger on board. you're huddled up in your usual seat with your knees drawn up to your chin and eyes misty with something dismal. you look at rin and he's heartbroken for you, because nothing should ever make you this upset.

but you offer him a weak grin and move to sit normally, patting his seat next to you. he notes that you are indeed carrying the same bag he got you.

the new distance isn't present when he takes his place beside you. in fact, he's so close tonight that he can almost feel your thigh brush his. he eyes you cautiously, unsure how to begin. thankfully, you answer his questions before he needs to ask.

"remember my date?" rin nods. how could he forget?

"it was kind of awful," you concede with a watery laugh. "he was all fine, at first- but i just wasn't interested. he asked for a second date, and i said no thanks- he just- he yelled at me. called me all sorts of things. i dunno."

his heart tightens in his chest as you keep going. "it's not a big deal but i didn't really- i'm not sure. i'm not sure."

he doesn't think too much about his next actions, as his hand curls around your shoulder. you're all too complacent, letting yourself be pulled into the warm fabric of his crewneck. he hopes you can hear his heartbeat pick up its pace. he hopes yours does the same.

rin allows you to bury yourself in his warmth, to acquaint yourself for a few moments before he starts talking. "last week i went to the grocery store and i saw this lady with her cats," he said.

you glance up at him quizically but his arm holds fast, keeping you there as he continues: "she was old. probably too old to be toting around all those groceries.

"i would've offered to help but then i took another look- she was ripped."

a muffled laugh escapes you. "for real?"

"yeah. i mean it."

"a ripped old lady with cats, huh? what was she getting?"

"blueberries."

he thinks he feels your smile against the fabric of his clothes. "blueberries. that's nice."

"and just a few days ago, i think, i was on my run and i passed by this apartment, right?"

"mhm."

"and i hear yelling. so i stop."

"yeah?"

"on the balcony of the apartment, there was this woman and some guy. they were in their 20s, i think. and she was screaming at him."

"oh? what about?"

your voice is thickening again, but this time with exhaustion. the occurrences of your day were finally weighing on you, rin presumes. he keeps talking.

"something about him being unfaithful. then she threw his gaming console off the balcony."

"oh," you say, with a slight yawn, "that sounds so funny. i wish i was there."

"me too."

rin really should break this habit he's beginning to form. it definitely isn't a great idea to share all his innermost thoughts with you always- but lucky for him, you seem too tired to notice the accidental compliment.

"good for her," you mumble.

"good for her," he repeats.

you tilt prop your chin up on him to meet his gaze. your eyes are heavy with exhaustion and bags are formed beneath your eyes, and your hair is frazzled and messy but rin thinks this might be the prettiest he's ever seen you.

you're dead on your feet, but you're still looking at him. you're feeling so many things and you're still you. his hand absentmindedly flutters accross the back of your head to flatten your hair as you begin to speak.

"you're so nice." is all you say. rin looks at you, incredulous.

"you are," you insist, breaking away from him for a moment with your hand pushing yourself off of his chest. "you wanted to help that old woman. you heard yelling and stopped in case someone needed help. you're here at 10pm after i messed everything up."

rin blinks.

you've always been the kind of person to make him think. you made him reconsider his own future, his capacity for love, his interest in romance- you made him think about it all. but there was one thing that was a constant, that he didn't think even you could make him reconsider- the fact that he wasn't a good person.

it's then that it dawns upon itoshi rin- he doesn't see himself as worth loving. his life's purpose was success, and without it, was he even worth caring about? and on top of all that, he was cruel.

he cared about no one. he was blunt, and he was unfriendly, and when he was in school people walked away. the neighborhood kids all hid from him, and his teammates never bothered to even try and introduce him to new faces anymore.

itoshi rin was mean and cruel, a fact that he had decided for himself and then been enforced by the people around him. itoshi rin was not worth anything without a gold medal to demonstrate his value. itoshi rin was not worth caring about, because he'd just hurt you. itoshi rin didn't think himself even capable of wanting anything but to win.

and itoshi rin was proven wrong the day he met you.

because he'd fallen for you, with your shoddy footwear and worn-out zip-up that could hardly be considered white anymore. he'd fallen for you and the way you always had something to say, and he'd fallen for you, who could see the art in anything- even hideous artwork made by unskilled 7-year-olds, even teenage boys who couldn't find it in themselves to admit that they loved you.

you must've changed him, he thinks, or at least brought out a part of him that he'd long since forgotten had existed. because now, on this train at 10 pm with you still staring at him with intent, tired eyes- he thinks he sees it, too, in a way that he thinks you might've been trying to get him to see from perhaps the very beginning.

he sees himself, itoshi rin, as artwork. and he sees you- the artist.

it's beautiful, how the world explodes into colour at that moment. the night sky outside the train window has never been quite so beautiful, and he thinks he can see all the stars in the world even though he's not even looking at them. his eyes are trained on yours, and there's nothing left to do, say, or realize, so he just pulls you back into himself and keeps talking.

"and then two days ago, i think, i was at practice. and my teammate opens his locker, and a squirrel falls out. nanase- that's his name- was terrified."

it's almost comical, how the roles have reversed. usually, you were the storyteller, and he was the patient listener. he doesn't remember the last time he spoke to someone in such a one-sided fashion for so long, but he doesn't really care anymore.

"apparently it was bachira. no one was really surprised."

he looks down at you, and you're finally asleep. your breathing is even, and he can only partially see your face. your cheeks are patchy from previous tears, but the way your features are relaxed amends for the hurt. his hand holds your head close, still, fingers absently massaging your scalp.

the silence carries on for a few beats. he watches your inhales and exhales when you do. when he finally talks, he's even quieter.

"i missed talking to you," he finally admits. it's almost as if he's admitting this to himself rather than you, with the way he leaves the words to hang in the air.

"so much," he adds, "it was fucking gross."

he continues to speak. perhaps this was his confession- he'd tell you his truths, the fact that he liked you, and the fact that he'd never be able to say it to your face. he doesn't see the harm, not on the empty night train with just him to hear.

"when we were all.. distant. i hated that. i had so much to say to you. i guess i always have. because," he lets an aggravated sigh, "i just didn't know.

"you're rubbing off on me, i guess. you and your stupid.. i dunno. just you. you make me so weird inside."

he pauses like he's waiting for you to say something, even though he knows you can't even register his words. he frowns and rewinds:

"that day. a week and a day ago. i left.

"you were so close to my face, so close to me- i dunno. i guess- i guess i just panicked. because i shouldn't like you. you're so.. you. and i'm nowhere near that. so i left.

"i wanted to kiss you. i want to all the time, it's fucking awful. when you told me about your date today? i hated every second of that. i just wanted to tell you but i couldn't. i don't know why, though.

"i still can't tell you. don't know if i will. but it's out there, now. i like you," rin laments, the last words foreign and unwelcome on his tongue.

"i like you. i like you a lot."

rin thinks his words should be followed by silence. he thinks that they'll hang and vanish in the air like his breathe, and he thinks it'll be gone forever, just like that. he thinks the next morning, he'll find a new morning routine and delete your contact.

but your breath hitches, and your body stiffens ever so slightly against rin's as his confession exits his lips. rin freezes, his hand falling dormant in the air behind your head.

you rise from his chest, and an empty cavity of dread is left in your place. the quiet is so poignant that you could hear a hairpin drop. he stares at you. you stare at him.

"rin," you start slowly, voice rough around the edges with sleep.

(the train rumbles distantly in the background. faintly, rin wonders when his stop would be.)

"you like me?"

he is silent. you blink once. then twice. and then you move. from your place next to him, you take his hand in both of yours and shift it to your lap.

"you like me."

it's not so much of a question now as it is an answer. your skin is cold against his, and it reminds him of the afternoon spent in your classroom where he learned of his limits for the first time.

"and you said you want to kiss me all the time," you continue, and rin thinks he'd be utterly humiliated if he wasn't so frozen.

"so why don't you?"

your question is one that lingers, hanging in the air like a heavy mist or smoke, and his lungs feel like they're being weighed down by the steeled sky.

you're right for asking, because why didn't he? why had he run, that day in your classroom? why had he let you grow so distant from him in the week that followed?

rin has always been one for pushing his limits. even when his body was broken over his sport, but he kept going because that was what was right to do. it was his purpose, and he didn't matter much outside of that.

but things were different now that he'd met you. rin decides that he just might be worth something more than a victory, because you look at him with a reverence, an affection, that tells him that he's maybe more than that.

you hold his hand in yours like it's glass, and your expression is soft with a curious lilt, and his hand is on your side and traveling to your back, and his other one is in your hair, and his lips are pressed on yours like he needs you, because fuck it, rin decides, he's never cared much for limitations anyway.

you kiss him back before long. it's messy and crude, and all teeth and bumping noses, and a long time in the making. you pull away before he does and he chases your lips like a starved man. but you duck your face into the crook of his neck, body as close as you could manage on the uncomfortable train seat. he feels you laugh into his neck, and he can't help the smile that spreads on his face.

"fucking finally," he says quietly, more to himself than you.

"finally," you agree, as the train slows to a stop. you glance up to check the destination- oh. it's your stop- your apartment block was only a short walk from here.

"this is where i am," you say, trying to find it in yourself to stand up. rin beats you to it, emerging from his seat and pulling you with him.

"i'm walking you home." he's no longer holding your hand, but his pinky finger is interlaced with yours, and he gives a surprisingly firm tug as he ushers you to the exit. "let's go."

you skitter along right behind him as the cold air rushes against his face, planting rosy, frosty kisses against his skin. you swing your joined arms with a wicked grin like you know it'll annoy him but he's not about to tell you to stop.

and if rin thought you were the prettiest in your classroom, or prettiest on the train, he was sorely mistaken because you're nothing short of gorgeous now, in the night air holding his hand, with a big, dopey grin on your face and his name on your lips.

he thinks he'd like to kiss you again, so he stops in his tracks on the sidewalk. you lurch to a halt, and call his name questioningly. he kisses you again because he can now, and you kiss him back, and he can do this again, and again, and again, because what's stopping him now?

the weeks following the emergence of your newly formed relationship are nothing short of blissful.

neither of you discussed your relationship status- it was just implied that he was your boyfriend now, because rin is almost sure he'd implode if he had to consider his feelings any longer.

your routines had both amended themselves around each other. every day, you'd meet on the morning train. he'd come to your classroom and sit through your lessons with you, and the both of you would go to either your apartment, his house, or whatever other destination was on one of your to-do lists. he'd go off for practice in the afternoons, but he never missed you too much.

he knew your texts would be waiting to be answered, without fail, and he knew you'd always be waiting for his call. and it felt nice to have someone- someone who cared for him, someone to call his own, someone who waited for him, someone he'd won.

rin thinks that he'd follow you to the ends of the earth if you asked, and especially if you didn't. he sees it as mature and responsible- someone has to keep you in check. you just call him clingy.

this is how he finds himself at a farmer's market. it's bustling, and nostalgic, and crowded, and probably not his scene. but you're there, so he'll make it work.

"oh, there's so many things. uh, let's see," you fumble with your phone, pulling up your list from your phone, "naomi can't have peanuts. asami is allergic to.. strawberries? how sad. and hiroshi will probably start crying if he sees cucumber. god, kids get weirder and weirder by the day."

you've been roped into helping host the graduation party for this year's oldest elementary students, most of which you knew by name. you'd been stuck with the food prep which rin didn't really understand assigning to you, since it's presumably the hardest task and you're not even a real employee.

"what's left, then?"

"uh.. i think we can make blueberry pie or something. and if they don't like it, it's not my fault because i tried."

"i'm not helping."

"no, no. you are. you don't have a choice in this."

he scoffs, and is about to reply, when-

"ms. teacher! hi, hi! hi!"

a little tiny pair of legs attached to a blur of brown hair as a small boy hurtles into your legs, capturing you into a hug the best he can. you let out a huff as the wind is knocked out of you.

looking down, rin recognizes the same kid- the same one who had made the watercolour painting of him and was surprised that they spoke german in 'germ-in-ey'.

"haru? hi yourself! what're you doing here?"

you almost instantly kneel down to meet his eyes and haru immediately giggles and taps the side of your head. "bonk, bonk!"

you laugh. "that isn't an answer, buddy."

the boy rocks back and forth on the heels of his feet with his hands fidgeting with each other in front of him, and rin is both enamoured by your endless warmth and feeling very out of place, standing awkwardly behind you like a scared child.

"my mama runs a fruit shore. yum, fruit! 'nd, i get to ex-spore! 'cause they're all busy with the fruit shore!"

"really? how cool!"

"yeah, yeah! 'nd, why are you here ms. teacher?"

you pretend to be in deep contemplation, tapping your finger on your chin. "well, if i tell you, you've got to keep it a secret, 'kay?"

"pinky swear! swear it!"

"it's for a surprise party."

haru looks like you just told him nuclear secrets. "oh my gosh!"

he squirms where he stands, running around in circles. "a sur-pies party! a sur-pies party!"

and then he stills, looking at you with the utmost serious expression that cracks a grin onto even rin's face. "i swear i won't tell anyone about your sur-pies party."

"thank you very much, haru. i appreciate it," you reply, with equal seriousness.

and then, haru's eyes wander over to rin.

"mr. germ-in-ey!"

rin cringes. he wasn't mentally prepared for this, not today. "hi."

haru seems to have forgotten that people from germany tend to speak german, because he converses with rin like there's no implicit barrier there. "hey, hi! i didn't know you went outside the school!"

rin's brows furrow and you stand, laughing. "what?"

"you're always in ms. teacher's classroom. in the back, all sad."

he frowns. "i'm not sad."

haru surveys him, and he feels a little ridiculous getting once-overed by a 7-year-old. "no," haru agrees, "not anymore!"

at this, you chime in. "oh? what changed?"

rin glares at you over his shoulder and you return with a bemused expression. haru mimics your previous posture, with his hands on his chin like he's stroking a beard.

"you guys are in love!"

you freeze, shooting up straight with wide eyes. rin stares at the kid.

"come again, haru?" you manage to choke out, perhaps hoping that you heard him wrong.

"you guys are in L-O-E-V-E!" haru sings the words out, spelling it wrong but still reinforcing his previous statement.

rin is flabbergasted, and you choke on your saliva. bystanders are beginning to look at the scene unfolding, and you attempt to straighten yourself out while rin takes a step away.

"uh, haru," you say, letting out a breath and an awkward laugh, "why don't you go find your mom? tell her i say hi."

haru hums before nodding like he'd entirely forgotten the previous conversation. he scuttles away with the speed of a scared cat. rin directs his gaze to you and shoots you a look.

"your students are so fucking strange."

you sigh, "yeah. yeah, they are."

he pauses. and lets out the heaviest, most resigned sigh he thinks he's ever managed before. "but they're not wrong."

you look at him blankly, before you process his words. and then you're positively beaming as rin makes a face.

"ugh, gross. forget i said that. that was vile."

"awh, rin!" you say, disregarding his statement, "you're so cute! so, so cute!"

you close the distance between him and you, and he ducks his face away but makes no real effort to move. "i hate you so much."

"i don't think so," you hum, getting infinitely closer to his face. he's sure you can feel the heat radiating off him at your proximity, as you continue: "i think that you are obsessed with me."

your lips are ghosting the corner of his mouth and he doesn't realize he was holding his breath until you pull away, eyes suddenly wide with realization.

"oh my god," you say, all the teasing removed from your voice and instead replaced with a daunting sobriety, "haru is going to tell the entire class. the entire school."

rin blinks. "okay? and?"

"no, you don't get it!" you grab his arm, a genuine terror that is almost comical shining in them. "i'm going to be trampled."

your boyfriend shrugs. "i don't see how that's my issue."

"you idiot. you come with me every day."

"so?"

"you're never going to know peace again."

rin finally gets it, and he frowns deeper than he thinks he ever has. "i'm breaking up with you, then. no way am i dealing with that."

you roll your eyes and sigh, and rin laughs- it's quiet and short but real and genuine, and he sees the love brimming in your eyes as you follow his movements.

"god, i love you."

your words catch him off guard. but he takes your hand as a response. rin doesn't think he can say it back, not right now- but you know he does, and this time, so does he.

because rin loves you, and you love him, simple as that. there are no limits, there are no rules- just brushstrokes on a canvas, just an artist and a muse.

in that moment, in the middle of the bustling farmer's market, you and rin are all alone, and he thinks to himself: he would spend forever counting the passengers on a train if it meant he would meet you.

he'd spend years if he had to, waiting for his girl, the one with a white worn-out zip-up and shoes that were on their last few wears, and a denim bag smeared with paint and decorated with pins, and a smile to rival the sun.

he'd give it all to meet you again, and he'd give even more if you asked. in truth, there's nothing he wouldn't do to fall in love with you all over again- but he doesn't need to imagine, because you make it happen every day.

because truly, it may have started in just a few mornings, but it would always end with you.

(3 weeks later, mrs. sato appears on the morning train again.

you and rin are seated in conversation, bodies turned towards each other as he listens to your words. you're both interrupted when the train doors shut and a voice calls your name.

"ah, what have i missed! do my eyes deceive me, or is there a lovely new couple in my presence?"

you grin at her arrival. "oh my gosh, mrs. sato?"

the older woman hobbles over to sit down in front of you. "you have so much to tell me," she states, wrinkled smile gleaming with childlike joy.

rin frowns. why is it such a common trend to make him the 3rd wheel in his own relationship?

rin listens in as you narrate the course of your relationship, thankfully skipping out some more personal pieces, with a pink face and blood warming the tips of his ears.

and in turn, you learn that in mrs. sato's absence, she'd been partying all over the bahamas on a cruise, making a few crude and suggestive jokes about ship crew boys. "ah, but i can't say that anymore, can i? not with your boyfriend here. girl talk."

rin crosses his arms over his chest, looking and feeling a bit ridiculous with your bag on his laugh. mrs. sato cackles. he thinks she reminds him of a witch, just a little.

"ah, well, i hope you didn't miss me too much, dear. i'm off again- to jamaica this time!" mrs. sato exclaims and you smile supportively even though rin can tell you're more amused than anything.

"when do you leave?"

"tonight," she laughs, "i'm going to the airport right now."

when mrs. sato leaves and bids you and rin farewell with a hug and wink respectively. rin looks at you questioningly. "i can't believe you speak to her."

you grimace. "she's terrifying. i think if i wasn't friendly she'd hunt me down."

"probably. wouldn't be hard."

"i should send you to jamaica with her."

"i'd take some cruise boys over you any day."

"i'd pick them over you, too"

rin smiles. his hand taps a rhythm onto your knee. "so what're we doing today?"

"after school, i think it's finally time i buy new shoes. it's been long enough."

he frowns. "i like your shoes."

"they're like, a million years old. there's a hole in the sole."

"oh."

"you can pick them, since you clearly seem to think your fashion sense is better than mine."

"it is, actually."

"you're horrible, y'know that?"

"yep."

the train stops, and you stand before he does. you extend your hand for him to take.

he takes it without hesitation.)

##: if you read this long, hey! writing this actually made me insane i'm not gonna lie! but it's finally out, and genuinely would mean the world if u left a like, reblog, or comment :,) feedback keeps me motivated!

#i dont normally read for rin but this ??#this was too fking cute #absolutely in love with how adorable this is #blue lock !!#fluff fluff fluffity fluff #serotonin booster

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anseoo · 10 months

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last line punched me in the gut then kicked me when i was down wtf

gen school headcanons

so i’ve gotten a few asks for some more high school fluff?? so here’s just a short compilation that I quickly pulled together!

↳ you and shoko have horror movie marathons. the gorier the better. the two of you watch anything from shitty low budget horror movies to western classics. gojo and geto occasionally crash the party in case you need a shoulder™ but you’re never scared. if anything you’re fascinated by the visual effects and have to stop the movie several times to ask shoko if body parts really can twist and snap like that or if the amount of blood spurting from the hero’s punctured eye is proportional to the injury. you beam at her when she smiles and responds with her own very detailed explanation of trauma wounds and blood loss while the two just stare.

shoko has and will kick gojo out when he unintentionally?? spoils the movie or can’t keep his mouth shut.

geto is allowed to stay on the basis that he behaves, but when he accidentally predicts the entire surprise ending to the movie, you and shoko point to the door. once you fell asleep on his shoulder though and he has never been the same ever since.

Keep reading

#ive been binge reading everything under your jjk tag i am addicted to your writing style op #and the way you write everyone is so lovely #i am devouring every word #jjk !!

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anseoo · 10 months

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shoko 4 life 💯💯

how to be a human being

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader x geto suguru / shoko x fem!reader warnings/tags: child neglect. toji is a deadbeat father. angst with a happy ending. repressed childhood trauma. dubious ideas about consent. unhealthy toxic relationship dynamics you definitely shouldn't replicate. mandatory gojo warning. gojo and geto enable one another. toji is a teacher au. one jealous gojo satoru. one jealous geto suguru. word count: ~19.7k read on ao3

You are wide-eyed and breathless and your chest hurts and you don’t remember ever crying, not like this. Not even when they had forced you to remove your cursed technique on your father’s corpse. He’s gone. He’s not coming back. Let him rest now. You angrily swipe a hand over your face, over your blurred vision. He won’t. He won’t fight for his child and you are reeling at the injustice of it, at how much you feel like a helpless child all over again. You might be sick.

It’s late at night when Satoru finds you holed up in the library, underneath the lamp light angled at the desk you are seated at. There is a look of great annoyance on his face, shadowed in by the sharp lines of the pitch dark library outside the glow of your lamp.

Satoru takes one look at you.

“What,” he says flatly, narrowing his eyes at the phonebook in front of you, “are you doing.”

There is a stack of books right next to you, and he wouldn’t be surprised to hear you managed to get through them in the hours you’ve been shut in here.

You don’t reply. Instead, concentrating on your efforts to make your way down the list of names and the home numbers paired next to them.

His eye twitches. You don’t even need to look. He’ll get a permanent tick if he keeps that up.

Fushiguro, Fushiguro, Fushiguro, Fushiguro—

Your finger stills on a particular combination of kanji next to a woman’s name. The kanji matches. After three and a half books, your eyes are going blurry from the small font. Of course, you’d find your closest lead the second Satoru walked in. You don’t get your hopes up, but you do memorize the number and address.

A hand slams down on the book in front of you, covering it. You startle, looking up at the perpetrator.

“Oi, don’t ignore me.”

“Sorry.” You attempt to pull the book from underneath Satoru’s hand. It doesn’t budge.

His fingers take your chin, nearly yanking your gaze upwards. There’s a discerning glint in his eyes as he closes the distance until his nose brushes yours and his breath is light on your lips. If he was sleepy before, mysteriously roused by your absence, he’s wide awake now.

You stare back at him, unblinking.

“Well,” he mutters, not meeting your eyes as he pulls back, fingers fidgeting with a certain charged energy. “At least you aren’t drinking.”

“I’m not an alcoholic.”

“That’s what all alcoholics say,” he deadpans. “Suguru hid all of Shoko’s liquor by the way.”

You refuse to answer him, and your throat burns.

“Now,” Satoru says, glancing down. “What do we have here?”

You try to slam the book shut, fingers tightening around the top edges, but Satoru easily pries it from your grip and rips it away as he turns out of your reach, holding the book to his face. His searching eyes plunder the information from the page. It doesn’t even take a full second, because the book immediately slams shut in his palm.

You sense the shift in atmosphere as his face darkens, displeasure quickly taking root.

You make an annoyed noise in your throat. “Satoru—”

“Gotta crush or something?” The words feel sharp, processed through gritted teeth. Your eyes nearly sting from Satoru’s gaze, alight with an irritation that looks accusatory in the surrounding darkness. “Get all buddy buddy from your night out in the city together?”

You’re bewildered, even more so at the sudden animosity that is not directed towards you. You haven’t heard Satoru sound like that since the two of you were first years. It shows when you blankly stare at him, unable to respond.

There’s a silence.

“Yeah, right.” He exhales, and the tension leaves his shoulders. Somewhat. There’s a rough, barely decipherable mutter of something that sounds apologetic. Somewhat.

It’s as close to an apology as you’ll get from him right now.

The frown doesn’t leave your face. “I’m going to sleep.”

Without another word, you flick the light off and turn on your heels, catching the unhappy downturn of his lips in the process. To your great annoyance, Satoru keeps up with you slowly, legs moving almost languidly next to your faster pace in an attempt to outpace him.

You can tell he’s deep in thought as the two of you walk towards the dormitories. Though you can sense him staring at you. As of now, you’re sure you are the only one who knows Fushiguro-sensei has children. Children he has not visited in months. As of now, you have no intention of sharing the knowledge with Satoru or Suguru or even Shoko.

There are two children out there somewhere, living alone. You shouldn’t feel as passionate about this as you do, but something tugs at you every time you try to wipe the indistinct image of Fushiguro-sensei’s children from your mind.

There is a memory, from the unwelcome depths of your childhood that is suddenly drawn to the surface of your thoughts. It is hazy and grainy and not real, but it is.

You are eating alone at the dining table in your childhood home, but all you can taste is the smokiness and sandalwood of the incense lit right next to you. The food, you realize, as you swallow it down, does not taste like anything. The pantry is thinning and you are running out of your cup ramen rations and the one thing there is an over abundance of in your home is incense and bottles of your mother’s favorite homebrewed amazuke in lieu of food.

After your mother’s death, you had gotten used to the neverending tendrils of smoke rising from her altar. And your father, who glided through the house like a ghost and tended to your mother’s altar daily with a devotion bordering on religious zeal, had forgotten all else.

In the days before your father took his last breath, he had been praying. He looked too small hunched over in front of the altar, bones oddly jutting out against the back of his shirt, looking like a starving animal in the throes of death.

You stop in front of your room. Your head feels light, and you feel unanchored, as if you might float away if you don’t regain any sense of feeling. Your toes curl against the wooden floorboards, and you reign in all thoughts of a childhood you had lost in order to survive.

“Satoru,” you have his attention, and you moored to the floorboards,

Suddenly, you are slightly ashamed at your behavior. “I don’t…mean to make light of your feelings. Thank you.” You stare at the darkness surrounding your feet. “For worrying about me.”

He peers at you through his sunglasses in silence, chin tilted down.

“If that’s the case,” he starts lowly, and he’s close enough that you are knocked back, elbow clumsily hitting the door. When Satoru’s hands slap down on both sides of your shoulder to crowd you in, you stare. He scowls.

“No. More.”

You blink.

“No more gallivanting off into the night with weird, strange men who take you to hostess clubs . Keep your phone on you at all times—”

You meekly nod as Satoru proceeds to list all of your wrongs over the past months. You have a feeling you are only getting the surface of Satoru’s bottled up criticisms of your so-called reckless behavior, and a part of you might be honestly surprised he’s held it in for so long.

He’s never really been good at holding his tongue. But all this criticism seems specifically directed towards…

“— Stop following weird strange men who tell you they’ll give you alc—”

“You said that twice.”

His lips thin, the exasperation plain. “Had to make sure you were actually listening.”

It wasn't as bad as he’s making it out to be, you want to say. It wasn’t as if Fushiguro-sensei had taken you to an empty dark alley and finished off what he hadn’t all those months back. Though, you don’t think Satoru would be quite receptive to you pointing that out.

You had met a nice woman by the name of Marie who also happened to be a hostess, gotten pleasantly drunk, learned Fushiguro-sensei had two kids, and then had been dropped off at the school. Fushiguro-sensei had taken one look at the three figures standing at the Torii gates, quickly snatched the bottle of alcohol from your hands at an impressive speed, and flung it to the ground in a bad attempt to erase all evidence.

Nobody was amused.

Satoru squints at you, observing you with a look on his face you don’t like.

“Good night!” he huffs, arms falling away to allow you your freedom.

You don’t want to see him turning your back towards you.

You reach out before he can step away, fingers brushing his wrist. He stops. You don’t want to go to sleep. You do not want to dream that dream where you sit next to a corpse in the same bed you used to spend happy Sunday mornings in, and play pretend.

“Do you…” your voice is impossibly small, and all of sudden you are a child. The child whose voice had disappeared from disuse, the child whose pleas and cries and whimpers had dried up in their throat when the man that used to be their father began to look straight past them. “Want to play some…cards?”

Satoru does not enjoy being subtle. Finds it a waste of time. It’s a fact that he’s made known to everyone again and again. But you think he’s being unusually considerate as he takes your wrist and pulls you to his room without another word.

—

Somehow, as Satoru plucks a card from the pack in your hands, turns it over, glares at it, and throws it in the mess of a pile in between the two of you, you think things may be alright.

—————

You stare at the number on your phone, eyes tracing over every single number on the call screen. Thumbs hovering above the call button, you deliberate.

Fushiguro-sensei hadn’t said anything about a wife or even a caretaker which led you to wonder who was taking care of his children. If they were even being taken care of.

It’d be difficult to survive without a source of income for long. Maybe they could spread out the food for a while, but then there were bills to pay. Gas. Water. Electricity. It wasn’t cold yet, but heating in the winter would add up quickly. If utilities were shut off, it would be possible to last a couple of weeks making do with candles and occasional trips to the nearest bath house by scrounging every last coin.

And after that…

Then there were all the questions. A concerned neighbor. Teachers who stared too long at a uniform that hadn’t been cleaned in too long. An inquiring police officer wondering what a child was doing out at 1 in the morning to go to the convenience store, where there would be less prying eyes.

You wouldn’t pry like those well intentioned yet harmful adults. Wouldn’t ask more questions than necessary.

You press call before you lose your nerve.

Someone picks up on the third ring.

You clear your throat, and hesitantly venture into the unknown. “Hello?”

“This is the Fushiguro household!” There’s a girl too. Seven. The daughter. She sounds pleasant. Polite. “Do you have any business with us?”

“Ah…” you’re suddenly at a loss. What exactly are you supposed to say here? That you wanted to check up on two most likely neglected children? That their philandering father has yet to muster up enough courage to face the kids he had semi-abandoned? “That’s…Is your mother home?”

The answer is perfectly practiced, bold enough that most people would not recognize it for the lie that it is. “She’s out at work right now, but she’ll be back later. Can I take a message?”

It becomes a bit difficult to breathe as your suspicions are confirmed. “And your father?”

“Oh, he’s o—”

There’s a loud shuffle. The sound of a chair scraping against wood.

“Wah—! Meg—”

“Fushiguro Toji is dead,” a boy says into the phone curtly. There is an overt sense of irritation that permeates from the other end. “Whatever business you have, take it somewhere else.”

The line goes dead.

—————

There’s a neighborhood in the outskirts of Tokyo where the gleam and perfect infrastructure of the inner city give away to weathered, dust stained buildings.

You approach the dilapidated two story apartment building. It’s all familiar to you now; the faded stop sign, the slightly uneven layered pavement, the worn white paint of the street, the peeling streetlamp flickering on and off and the gathering of moths and flies that surround the light at night. The location is also isolated enough that you don’t feel your stomach turn at the amount of people surrounding you. A couple passerby here and there, but nothing that would prompt rushing to the nearest empty alleyway, sinking down and clutching your knees in panic.

It had taken multiple phone calls, various internet searches, and the help of an auxiliary manager who had accepted your promise to secrecy on the condition that you handle his increasingly distressing communications with Satoru, but you had finally gotten your hands on an address.

Since then, it’s been three weeks, and the only thing you’ve accomplished is not-so successfully convincing Satoru that you had no interest whatsoever in Fushiguro-sensei’s business.

Fushiguro-sensei had called out of his classes for the time being, according to a disgruntled Yaga-sensei. From the look on your sensei’s face, you had an inkling that instead of a notified leave, Fushiguro-sensei had simply ignored all communication and his obligations as a teacher. You wonder what he’s off doing, if not seeing his kids, but something tells you that there’s really only one thing he could be doing.

Tsumiki, whose name you had found out when Megumi had called it earlier in the week, is about seven years old. Megumi, on the other hand, looks to be six. Every morning they leave for school around eight in the morning and come back around three in the afternoon. You’d occasionally see Tsumiki leaving the apartment and coming back with groceries. Sometimes, they go together. You’re glad to know that money is coming in from somewhere, that if anything, they can at least put food on the table and keep the lights on.

You think that’s enough. You should go back to the school, now that a majority of your worries and fears have been put to rest, and keep out of business that isn’t yours. Yet you keep on coming back on the basis of trivial things. Megumi is old enough that his cursed technique must be on the verge of manifesting if it hasn’t already. Cursed energy strong enough that you had to exorcize several curses that had been attracted to the strength of his residuals.

There was only so much children could do, a limit on what children should have to do.

“Are you looking for something?” Someone asks.

You look down.

The girl’s hair is styled into a high ponytail, long bangs framing the sides of her face. There’s a well worn, battered, dark red randoseru on her back.

Fushiguro Tsumiki smiles at you, and all possible answers wilt on your tongue.

You hadn’t expected to be seen.

“No,” you say quickly. “I was just in the neighborhood and decided to drop in.” Your gaze flicks to a small sign tacked into the front of the apartment advertising empty units. “I’m looking for…” you gesture towards the sign.

If there’s anything wrong with a high schooler apartment hunting, it doesn’t show on her face as it brightens. “Ah,” she says knowingly. “The Kimuras just moved out a couple of days ago!”

You smile and introduce yourself.

“I’m Fushiguro Tsumiki,” she replies. “It’s nice to meet you!”

You’re overcome with relief when Tsumiki doesn’t question how your apartment hunting is coming along because you aren’t sure you could come up with an adequate response. “Same here.”

You almost don’t notice the approaching figure. Megumi stops next to Tsumiki, gazing at you with a hard suspicion that doesn’t look out of place on his face. It makes you a bit sad.

“Stop talking to strangers,” he says, voice toneless with a steel edge.

The smile turns into a pout. “You’re always—”

“You,” Megumi turns his attention upwards. You still.

You?

There’s a sharpness to his eyes, a flinty edge to his gaze that looks more like Fushiguro-sensei’s the more you look at him. Up close, the resemblance is extremely uncanny.

He…he kinda reminds you of Satoru.

It’s an odd thought to have. You suppose it’s because you haven’t been on the receiving end of anything so antagonistic since you were a first year and Satoru had deemed you a nuisance at first sight.

“Are you stalking us?”

The words are laid out plainly. The boy’s face doesn’t reveal anything like fear, but his body is clearly positioned between you and Tsumiki, blocking her from your view. In response, you imperceptibly shift your own body, hiding the katana slung across your back against the lines of your body.

Stalking…the definition of stalking…

to harass or persecute (someone) with unwanted and obsessive attention.

Oh.

“Yes.” You hesitate. “I don’t…M-maybe.”

Megumi stares at you. Tsumiki owlishly blinks.

Damage control. You shake your head, excuses rapidly flying up in your head as an unusual fluster slams into your full force, embarrassment crawling over your skin like spiders. “I’m not—a bad stalker!”

“There are good stalkers?”

You and Megumi both say: “No.”

You wince. Straighten, and decide to go for the truth. Because you can remember how it felt to be six and utterly alone in the world, faced with the cold reality that adults lied, and that their lies hurt.

“I’m an…acquaintance of your father’s. Fushiguro-sen— san .”

Tsumiki looks surprised. “Toji-san’s?”

“You’re a high schooler,” Megumi says flatly. He doesn’t look convinced. You are reminded of your phone conversation. Fushiguro Toji is dead.

You sigh, sagging. “It’s a bit complicated…” You fall quiet, awkward on your feet.

“Then why don’t you come inside?” Tsumiki tilts her head towards the apartment building.

“No way,” Megumi refuses curtly. “She’s a stranger.”

“That’s right,” you agree and Megumi eyes you as if you’ve grown two horns and sprouted a tail. “You shouldn’t invite strangers into your home so easily.”

“It’s fine, Megumi!” Tsumiki must have decided on your innocence, because she giggles. Then to you: “Because I can tell you’re a good person!”

You’re taken aback.

Megumi is peeved, fingers tightening on his own backpack. “Don’t go around just deciding things yourself—”

Tsumiki is already up the stairs to their apartment, as if deciding to rush up before meeting any more of Megumi’s resistance. “C’mon! I bought some nice tea from the supermarket yesterday!”

You and Megumi are left on the ground. You look at each other.

Without another comment, he begins to make his way up the railing up to the second floor, but not before casting you a final look with narrowed eyes.

You suppose that it’s your signal to follow.

You murmur a quick greeting as you enter, and seat yourself at the small table that takes up a quarter of the living space, on a pillow placed on top of the tatami flooring. You are a little awed at how smoothly Tsumiki moves through the small kitchen as the kettle boils emitting steam and high pitched whistle. You were nowhere near as efficient at seven. You had struggled with making cup ramen.

Megumi is across from you, but his eyes are directed towards the katana you had unconsciously laid against the table before sitting down.

The two of you sit in silence.

Luckily, Tsumiki comes in with two steaming cups of tea, placing the cup in front of you as you accept it graciously.

“I’ve always wanted to serve guests tea,” she says cheerily, taking a seat next to you. “But we rarely have visitors, so…”

“What’s your deal?” Megumi asks, straight to the point.

You take a deep breath. “It’s true that I’ve been…” you fluster, “W-watching you.” Two pairs of eyes look at you. “Your father’s alive.”

Megumi’s expression doesn’t change, but Tsumiki’s eyes go wide.

“Megumi!” The girl whirls around to her brother, indignant. “Are you going around telling people Toji-san is dead?”

You blink.

…What?

The frown becomes pronounced on her face. “That’s wrong! We’d be out on the streets if it weren’t for Toji-san’s checks every month!”

Megumi refuses to respond, lips going flat. But you think he sinks into a chair too large for his body.

The girl turns back to you. “Toji-san sends us checks,” she explains, a tinge apologetic, at your surprise splayed open on your face.

“I-I see…”

Tsumiki is still unhappy. “How could you say that Megumi?”

“Say what?” Megumi suddenly says, voice a lash of a whip. His shoulders become rigid as his eyes narrow. “He was here one day, then he never came back. He’s gone.”

The two of them hold a stare; Tsumiki’s lips holding an unhappy arch while Megumi looks unrepentant.

Unrepentant, to any outsider. But you can see the hurt in his eyes.

“If he cared,” Megumi says coolly, before turning his entire face away, “he’d be here.”

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, your father sobs. Why is he apologizing? I can’t stay here anymore.

You are buffeted by a sudden rush of emotion, and blink it away.

Tsumiki softens. Then as if remembering your presence, effortlessly brightens once more out of reflex.

“Then in that case,” you say gently, continuing, saving her from having to pretend anymore. Megumi wrenches his gaze towards the floor. “When I heard Fushiguro-san had children, I was a bit worried about how the two of you were faring…” You swallow, and realize there is a lump in your throat, and you are a bit embarrassed at letting yourself unravel in front of two children. “Regardless of whether or not you get money, I think there are some things that children shouldn’t have to worry about.” You suddenly remember the weight of Riko’s face pressed to your lap, shoulders heaving with tears. Then you remember her beaming in the picture she had sent the other day in front of a statue of Nobunaga Oda in Aichi for a class trip. “In the end, these are just my feelings. Obviously as a stranger, I don’t want to intrude anymore than I already have.”

You take out a slip of paper from your pocket with your number scrawled across it. “But if the two of you need anything…”

————————

Rikoooooooo

Kuro tried to make spaghetti and meatballs for dinner tonight ٩(＾◡＾)۶ [sent, 15:33]

Tomorrow it’ll be my turn to cook! Any ideas? [sent, 15:34]

————————

In the grand scheme of things, you believed yourself to be an easily forgettable person. You didn’t have as grand a presence as Suguru and Satoru nor were you as powerful. You weren’t as important as Shoko. From a logical viewpoint, it was obvious that you were the replaceable variable, as succinctly pointed out by many of the opposing members of the Kyoto team during last year’s goodwill event.

In light of these cold, hard, facts, you believed your outings every other week to be nothing more than a passing thought in the minds of others. Barely noticeable.

That is your first mistake.

It is your first Saturday off since the beginning of the month, and you promised to take Tsumiki and Megumi to Seibu Ikebukuro. You have barely crossed the boundary of the Torii gates before a voice stops you, calling out your name.

You turn in recognition at the figure walking towards you and brighten. “Suguru!”

Jogging towards him, you meet him halfway, underneath the large trees that line the entrance, their sprawling branches ripe with leaves that flit to the ground.

“Yo.”

“Welcome back,” you greet eagerly. It’s been a while since you’ve seen him, and you scan his face for any hints of additional strain. The summer and its influx of curses have begun to wind down, and you know that this particular summer’s seen him overextend himself to take in as many curses as possible. You worry about him and the nights he’s alone at the school, hunched over the toilet, choking on the bile burning his throat that contends with the concentration of malice in his gut. You worry no matter how many times he tells you with a barely trembling voice that he’s fine.

Numerous sleepless nights spent in the bathroom; Satoru rambling about the latest shonen jump issue as Shoko would play with an unlit cigarette, eyeing the smoke detector attached to the ceiling. From the floor, you would stare up into the humming fluorescent light of the bathroom that washed everything in a harsh sterile white that seemed especially in place as the three of you tried to play at normalcy amidst Suguru’s heaving breaths.

“Something on my face?” A gentle prod, rewiring your thoughts back to reality. “You’ll make me self conscious.”

“Are you alright?” You ask suddenly, fraught with worry. “You haven’t been pushing yourself too hard have you?” You don’t take your eyes off his face, intent on catching the slightest indication of a lie.

“Now that you mention it…” He closes his eyes, as if pained. When your eyes go wide in worry, he breaks into a snicker.

You narrow your eyes. “Not funny.”

“Sorry, sorry,” his voice catches on the remnants of his laughter. “I like seeing you worry about me.”

“You shouldn’t.”

Suguru winces. Then he glances behind you, down the cement steps. “Heading out?”

Oh, you think as you involuntarily freeze in place. This is bad. I’m in trouble.

“That’s right,” you say, trying to keep your voice light in the midst of Suguru’s trusting smile. “I thought I’d go into the city for some shopping.”

It’s a believable lie you tell yourself. It’s not technically a lie either. You are going shopping. Guilt churns in your stomach. You don’t like lying to people; never saw the point in it when you were younger, which probably speaks to your lack of finesse in the art.

Satoru would catch onto your indecision with the nose of a bloodhound: would demand an actual answer immediately. Suguru only patiently waits you out, watching yourself dig yourself deeper into a lie until you eventually let something slip. At this moment, you are being especially cautious of your words.

You aren’t sure if he buys your lie because the smile stays firmly in place. Sometimes, you just don’t know. “Mind if I come with?”

Your mind scrambles to find another adequate excuse, one that will firmly impede Suguru’s weirdly determined efforts to ensure you don’t leave the premises without him while also thinking back to all the other times you had slipped away from the school on a free day. Missions have been winding down, and soon Shoko’s questioning probes about your disappearances will become unbearable.

You don’t like keeping secrets from Satoru and Suguru, and especially Shoko.

“You should be resting, I couldn’t possibly ask you to follow me around all day—”

“I was actually thinking I’d make a trip down to the city. Satoru’s been pressing me to try some bakery’s special Yuzu custard tart” —and buy him some in return even though he’s loaded are the unspoken words — “he promises it’s the best thing he’s eaten in years.”

When you open your mouth and nothing comes out, he’s grinning.

“The truth is,” you hold his gaze, looking as serious as possible. “I’m going shopping for a bathing suit.”

There is an ugly jagged scar cut in the shape of an uneven blade that travels up the length of your abdomen. It’s a scar that wouldn’t look out of place on a corpse in Shoko’s morgue. It’s a wound that invites stares and more importantly, questions. So. You doubt you’ll ever be wearing a revealing two piece swimsuit ever again in public, but you aren’t bothered by the idea.

You’re alive. Riko is a breathing, happy junior high student, entering her senior year, and to you, that’s all that matters.

However, you watch, fully invested, as the flush starts from the base of his neck and rises until his face and ears are engulfed with a particularly vibrant shade of scarlet. There might even be some steam coming out of his ears.

Soft laughter rushes from your lips. He really is a teenage boy at heart.

“That’s why,” you say quickly, taking advantage of the momentum. “I think it’d be better for me to go alone. I’d hate to make you sit through something like that.”

You’re already halfway down the steps, pushing forward despite the arrows of more guilt stabbing into you. You throw a glance behind you at Suguru’s frozen stature. “I’ll be back for dinner though,” you call out, and smile. “Satoru’s coming home tonight, so let’s all get something together, okay?”

If you leave quickly enough, maybe you’ll have enough time before Suguru catches onto the fact that you were shopping for the beach at the start of Fall.

—————

“It’s pretty late, y’know.”

You nearly drop your shopping bag in surprise when the light to the dormitory entrance flicks on, revealing Shoko with a cigarette in hand, leaning against the door to your room. She’s still in her white coat that tells you she must have just finished a late shift in the morgue. But it’s late enough that the trains had stopped running, forcing you to call a taxi to get back to jujutsu tech.

“S-Shoko?” You blink, eyes wide, clutching the bag to your chest Tsumiki had insisted you take. “Shouldn’t you be—”

“Asleep?” She shrugs, eyeing your bag. “Probably. Well, enough about me. Let’s talk about you.” She pushes off the wall and you shrink, unable to meet her gaze.

She stops in front of you, and raises an eyebrow. Her arms are crossed. “You’ve been gone these last couple of weeks.”

“Yeah…I…that…” your words fall to a mumble. “I’ve been…out.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm.”

She leans in. Your stomach is nervously set aflutter as your back hits the wall. Even after a 12 hour shift in the morgue she smells good.

She masks the scrutiny in her gaze well enough. “Are you hiding something from me?”

“No! No.” You shake your head furiously, and a rush of blood floods your ears. You had gone over this scenario multiple times; resolved to stay strong in the face of Shoko’s questioning, but theoretically, going over how you’d evade Shoko’s blunt questions is different from the reality of disappointing and lying to your best friend.

It’s not your place to say anything about Megumi and Tsumiki. It was wrong to break their trust in you like this.

You close your eyes. But a hint of cypress tickles your noise and you jolt yourself back to the tangible present.

You’re sweating, as Shoko stares into your eyes. “I w-wouldn’t… c-can’t—”

“Job?”

You shake your head.

“Gift shopping?”

You shake your head.

“Extra errands you couldn’t turn down?”

You shake your head.

“Boyfriend?”

You blink, baffled. “No…”

“Hm. This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with Fushiguro-sensei, would it?”

Your split second of hesitation has her sighing and (regretfully) drawing away from you. “I trust you,” she says finally, “If you believe what you’re doing is right, then I won’t pry.”

You’re touched. “Shoko…”

“But,” she says firmly, looking at you. “Promise me you won’t get carried away. Don’t get caught in his business. Or else…”

“Or else…?”

She smirks. “I’ll tell on you.” She kisses you on the cheek (peach chapstick) and then she’s off, turning on her heels and walking towards her room. Your face warms, despite the confusion running through your mind.

“To Yaga-sensei…?”

—————

Rikoooooooo

My classmates and I went on a school trip to Hokkaido but it was rained for three days straight (╯•ᗣ•╰)

[sent, 13:58]

I know you're busy, but Kuro says that you can visit soon! ( ๑‾̀◡‾́)σ" you'll come, won't you? [sent, 14:01]

————————

Satoru watches your figure at the base of the Torii steps all the way down to where the mountain evens out as you pass through the final barriers of jujutsu tech to the outside world. This is the sixth time this month you’ve weasled your way out of meals and agreed on plans when you thought nobody was watching.

It hasn’t gone unnoticed, not by him, not by Suguru, not by Shoko, despite all of their varying schedules.

You’re going somewhere, a place you don’t want anyone— him —to know about if you’re going to such lengths and he’s itching to know where.

Irritation is hot in his blood as his fingers curl into air, twitching to slide right into place of a technique that brings catastrophe and destruction. You hadn’t even been able to stomach the train during rush hour, and you still can’t without devolving into a mess of sweat and tremors, even with his infinity wrapped around you.

(Nothing is going to touch you, not when he’s around.)

You’re pushing yourself. Again. No matter if you had nearly died in his arms not even a couple months ago.

You had been looking up Fushiguro Toji’s address. Looking for him.

That single thought is enough to make Satoru grit his teeth in annoyance, and a feeling he’s long identified as jealousy. He’s not as naive as to think your sudden interest in the man’s personal affairs and your sudden disappearances aren’t connected, especially not when they specifically aligned.

He could make you tell him, and you would. Probably. If he pushed all the right buttons relentlessly, you’d fold faster than a house of cards in the way you have a tendency to do when it comes from him, Suguru, and especially Shoko. You don’t like keeping secrets from them, and Satoru and Suguru don’t like you keeping secrets from them.

Satoru hears his own words: Gotta crush or something?

Your wide eyes had stared back at him blankly, and he wondered if you even recognized the symptoms of a crush in yourself. Your midnight bender with the very man who had left you but a sliver of survival had infuriated and boggled him. Your complete disregard for your own safety even more so.

There had been so much blood, all over his hands. He had never been more terrified in his life than the day you had almost died, and he was no stranger to shed blood.

Satoru thinks there’s only so much he can take, and his already thin patience is waning, but Suguru had insisted thatyou’d be better left alone for now.

Our girl needs space.

He snorts. Words Suguru himself didn’t even believe from the way his knuckles had tightened around the brush in his hand. Restraint is something Satoru has never had to practice; at least not until he had met an infuriatingly thick headed girl who slept too much and could be absolutely incomprehensible at times. Satoru hates when Suguru denies himself the most, hates all his carefully crafted words and thin lipped smiles. And Suguru has never denied himself more than when it comes to you.

It’s never as simple to Suguru as it is (as it’s always been) to him. Satoru has always needed all of Suguru as much as he needs all of you.

And he plans on it.

He contemplates following you when he feels Shoko approaching.

She makes a face at his empty hands. “The drinks?”

“Suguru,” is his only reply, gaze still on where he had last seen you.

Shoko mutters something that sounds like ‘useless’ and then follows his own line of sight down. She gives him a knowing look. Satoru turns to her, and throws all pretense out the window.

“Where’s she going?”

Shoko shrugs, eyes glued to the phone in her hand as she texts away. “Who knows~”

She’s not going to make this easy, is she?

“And last week? When she was out on Sunday?” You had uncharacteristically woken up early to slip out before the dawn broke, and Satoru knows this because he had come back from his mission a little after, and while trudging his way straight to Suguru’s room, had stopped by yours to find your bed made and nothing else.

“With me, duh.” Shoko answers lazily without missing a beat and Satoru narrows his eyes. He knows for a fact Shoko had been cozy in her own room, was just as usually recalcitrant to early mornings as you.

Shoko eyes him and his hard expression, and then sighs. “Fine. She was picking up a book in Jinbocho. Y’know, the one with the…'' her index finger sweeps up and down in the air, “talking animals? The one she was talking about with Suguru?”

No way in hell is he going to fall for that lie. Satoru knows you had already picked up that particular title because Suguru had been reading it in bed last night, one hand holding the book open, his other hand pressed to Satoru’s bare back.

Shoko blinks innocently at his unconvinced expression. “What?”

“Cut the bullshit,” he says sharply, a frown digging into his face. “‘fess up.”

The guiltless expression drops from her face as she scrutinizes him. She straightens, hands slipping into the pocket of her jacket for her box of Seven Stars. “Must be her boyfriend.”

That draws a scoff from him. A boyfriend? Laughable. He doesn’t believe it for a second. The world of jujustu sorcery tests the limits of sanity and insanity every day, but the sky would fall before you get a boyfriend.

“ Right,” he says dryly. If Shoko’s joking about you having a boyfriend, it can’t be that serious after all. The tension leaves his body. “You could’ve at least tried for something believable,” he exhales with a laugh.

Shoko only shakes her head, lit cigarette in hand. He thinks he catches a glimpse of an eyeroll. “I’m serious, you know.”

The two of them look at each other.

Satoru blinks. Seriously asks, “Are you fucking with me?”

“Think about it.” She begins to tick her fingers off. “The excuses, the secrecy, the civilian clothing, the stuffed plush—”

“The—” he sputters out, shock tangling his tongue in knots, “—Whah?”

Shoko tilts her head to the side. “You didn’t see the Rilakkuma on her shelf?” Slowly, Shoko begins to grin, so widely it reaches her ears. He’s too busy processing the information to call her out on her sadistic enjoyment at his expense. His head is spinning. The world screeches to a halt. “I heard it was a claw machine. How romantic.”

Satoru stares at the shorter girl.

Something dully hits the ground and rolls. From behind Shoko, Satoru meets Suguru’s stunned gaze, his outstretched, empty, hand curled in the shape of a can.

—————

It’s one in the morning when you re-enter the school. You had spent the day with Megumi and Tsumiki: taking them to one of your favorite used bookstores in Jinbocho, a cafe, and then back to their apartment. You had then spent the night helping them with their homework before taking the last train back to the station nearest to Jujutsu Tech.

Today has been an exceptionally good day.

You are in a great mood, the lightest you’ve been in days, and the bag holding your new books swing at your side as you enter the dorms and make your way to your room in the darkness.

That’s weird.

Your lights are on. You were sure you turned them off when you left this morning.

You open the door, step inside, and then take a step back.

Satoru is lazing on your bed while Suguru is seated on your chair, pulled out to face the bed.

They must have been mid conversation because they turn to you immediately.

Your gaze falls on Suguru’s lap where your Rilakkuma plush sits. Its black eyes stare at you, as if pleading for help.

You take another step back.

You could spend the night in Shoko’s ro—

Satoru is in front of you, body trapping you against the wall and it is all too reminiscent of the night he found you holed up in the library. His hand snaps out to encircle your wrist before you can pull the door back open.

“We need to talk.”

Everything feels like a blur. You remember Satoru’s hand reaching out to close the door from behind you. You remember how it clicked as it locked. You remember Satoru’s hands on your shoulders leading you forward.

Now you sit on your bed, hands on your lap, becoming increasingly antsy as Suguru and Satoru stare you down as if you’ve

You lick your dry lips and force yourself to look up from your lap. The two of them are waiting for you to speak, to incriminate yourself. They paint an especially intimidating picture, arms crossed, expressions unreadable.

“Did something…happen?”

“I wonder,” Satoru answers flatly, glare especially condemning with his sunglasses removed from his face.

You sweat.

Suguru clears his throat. “What Satoru means to say,” he says, a bit more gently, a touch consolingly, “is there something you aren’t telling us?”

You see Fushiguro-sensei’s somber face. I saw his face. It made me remember something important.

It’s not your secret to tell. It’s not your secret to tell. It’s not your secret to tell. It’s not your secret—

“I…” you swallow tightly, unable to meet their gazes.

“Friends,” Satoru emphasizes pointedly as the guilt twists your insides, “don’t keep things from one another.”

Friends. Friends. Friends.

You aren’t alone anymore. You have friends now. Sometimes, you forget that there are people who care about you. That your days of navigating the world alone are over. Your high school days are filled with bright memories you’ll remember fondly and cling to tightly. It’s more than you could’ve ever asked for. It’s more than you deserve.

Suguru kneels down in front of you, and he gently takes your hands. You stare at them. “We’re just worried about…” his hands momentarily tightens around yours, “this guy letting you walk home alone this late at night,” he finishes. And the disapproval is clear on his face.

Your gaze snaps to his face. “Wha—”

“Don’t play dumb,” Satoru says testily, arms crossed, finger tapping his arm impatiently. “Your boyfriend.”

Then he lightly flings the Rilakkuma plush at you. You let it hit you in the face, falling to the bed as you dazedly blink. “Boyfriend?” You hear yourself saying.

“Did you really think we wouldn’t notice?” Satoru retorts, plopping down next to you so there’s no space to move, body nearly pressing into your own. “This guy makin’ you space out even more than usual?”

He sounds offended.

You don’t know what to say to that. You aren’t sure what to say to Satoru and Suguru who are mistakenly under the assumption that you have been sneaking out to see a boy. There’s not much you would give up for the precious time you spent with Satoru, Suguru, and Shoko and you treasure every second of it. The three of them are the most important people in your life. You aren’t sure you’d give it up for some faceless figure who would…who would…

You open your mouth to clear up the misunderstanding. You freeze. And tell them what instead? About Megumi and Tsumiki?

You can’t. Not yet!

If anything, letting them believe you had a boyfriend was much more harmless. A more convenient excuse than whatever other excuse you had been trying to make up.

You close your mouth, and then your gaze is downcast at your lap. Suguru is still holding your hands.

“You look…good,” Suguru finally says, a light prod, entertaining the silence he is mistakenly interpreting as sullen. You slightly perk at the compliment, stomach warming. When Suguru compliments you, he isn’t joking around or poking fun. You hope anyway.

Satoru is staring at you, as if grasping your unusual change of clothes. It seemed odd to wear your school uniform on a weekend, especially in the company of two younger children, so Shoko had lent you a skirt and a sweater.

His eyes linger on your bare legs. “He could be some pervert for all we know,” he huffs. “Only you would pull some otaku NEET who—”

“Satoru,” Suguru says. “We talked about this.”

They talked about this? Interrogating you? Your face burns in embarrassment.

Satoru’s lips reluctantly purse straight, face stormy.

You aren’t sure how to feel about Satoru boldly proclaiming your non-existent boyfriend to be a pervert. You wonder if you are so unlikeable that it is impossible to think that your potential partner could be anything but a degenerate. You force yourself to swallow the lump in your throat.

“We have a few questions about him,” Suguru tries for a smile, but it falls flat and doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You note it worriedly. “We just want to make sure he’s treating you well.”

You straighten, “He treats me just fine," you say tightly. "Great actually." You ignore Satoru’s increasingly irritated look. You squeeze your eyes tight so you don’t have to look at Suguru. “He makes me unbelievably happy! We’re very happy together!”

It comes out a touch defensive, but you think that your non-existent boyfriend deserves at least that much after Satoru has condemned him as an otaku NEET pervert on the basis of being your boyfriend.

From the greatly aggrieved look on Satoru’s face, you’ve done it now. It’s do or die; all or nothing. You don’t want to think of what you’ll be subjected to if Satoru finds out you lied. About a boyfriend no less. He’ll be relentless. But still much less disagreeable than if he finds out that you were spending the days with Fushiguro-sensei’s children. A cold chill runs down your spine at the thought.

You’d much rather that than the other.

Besides, this is nothing but compulsory talk. They’re just worried. You’ll be completely free after pacifying them. This is a one time thing. The other day you had been watching a drama with Shoko on her bed. The heroine had hidden her relationship with a popular boy at her school from her parents precisely because of the scrutiny that would follow from her overbearing parents.

You figure if you still had parents, it’d be something like this.

You set your shoulders and nod. “What do you wanna know?”

Suguru’s lips press thin and it looks like a grimace. He looks as if he’s marching towards his death. Maybe you really are beyond help if Suguru is assuming that any prospect of you being in a relationship involves some shady character.

You can’t dispute that it feels…nice to be worried over, even though you hate to make them worry.

You’d like to think if you were in a relationship it’d be with someone…nice. Normal. Someone who’d treat you well. You didn’t need anyone beautiful or wealthy or powerful more than…kind. Ideally, you’d like to think Shoko, Suguru, and Satoru would approve.

A quiet, content life. Assured in the promise of another’s love.

That is, if you were even someone worth loving in the first place.

You’re thinking too highly of yourself. It’s not as if you’ve ever had much to offer in terms of personality or looks. Not even a full life. Love was never in the cards for you.

“Well, for starters, his name and age,” Suguru says. “How the two of you met. The highschool he goes to, his grades—”

Fairly normal questions. You’re relieved.

“—hobbies, address, friends, political affiliations—”

Eh? You blink. Wait this is getting a little—

“Blood type,” Satoru cuts in. A pause. “Height.”

Height!?

“—any records or arrests—”

Satoru scoffs. “We can get those, easy. Hospital records too.”

Your head is spinning. You are also greatly alarmed at the increasing severity of the questions and the dispassionate invasion of your (non-existent) boyfriend’s privacy. “He, he’s a private person so I don’t think—”

“ You’re the one that asked us what we wanted to know.” At your panic, Satoru turns slightly smug. The slight curl of his lips tells you he’s enjoying this.

“But I thought you meant things like—” You break off helplessly.

Normal things. Easy things. Your mind is racing, trying to cobble together a makeshift profile of your supposed boyfriend, a person you’ve never even met before.

You push down your panic and clear your thoughts.

Name, first and foremost. You need a name.

Two gazes bear into you.

“His name is [———],” you say slowly, hoping you don’t sound too nervous. You wonder how you should look. What face you should be making. This is someone you are (supposedly) in love with.

You can’t imagine it. You are drawing a blank in every field imaginable.

Someone who loves you.

Someone, who’d never leave you.

“He goes to Tsubame-Nishi and he’s a senior…We met at the p-park about two months ago…” The more you speak the more you feel yourself shrinking and sweating at Satoru’s glower. Suguru gently squeezes your hand, offering you a modicum of comfort even though his brow is furrowed, thinking.

“You were alone? Where was I? Suguru? Shoko?”

You gape at him. He’s making it sound like you need a babysitter. You close your mouth. “It was when I came back early from that mission in Hokkaido…You and Suguru went up to Kyoto for that meeting with the elders, remember?” You inwardly wince. You hate lying to them.

You hate lying to them.

“And Shoko was in the morgue. Some new bodies came in so I went by myself,” you mumble.

Satoru’s begrudging silence tells you to continue.

You, however, do not have anything more to say. In fact, you don’t know what else to say without giving your precarious position away. Say too much, and you’ll trap yourself in a lie too twisted to get yourself out of. Say too little, and you’ll raise even more suspicions. You doubt they’ll go to the lengths they previously described just to catch you in your lie.

You should have more than enough time to find Fushiguro-sensei before this lie spins out of control.

“Have you kissed him?” Satoru asks sharply.

Suguru chokes. Your head snaps towards Satoru, eyes wide, mouth parted. “H-ah—?”

You wordlessly open your mouth, and then close it. Open it. You focus your gaze at something that isn’t Satoru or Suguru, all too cognizant of the rush of heat spreading over your face. “That’s—I—um—” You clear your throat, still refusing to look anywhere else but the wall behind Satoru. “No.”

Never have you wished Fushiguro-sensei had finished that job of killing you so much.

Satoru is burning a hole into you.

Your face is feverish. Just more teasing fodder for him to add to his folder. You try to push down your mortification, but you can’t, so you bring your gaze to your lap, to Suguru’s hands, and focus hard on anything but. Suguru’s hands are large and, you think, nice to look at and focus on. Callused from years of weapons training and martial arts. You trace the veins from his knuckles that stop short of his wrist. You’ve never seen Suguru with a katana. Not his style. Too long, more difficult to control than a weapon with a smaller range of—

“Ya in there?” Satoru throws out coarsely, interrupting your thoughts. You’re surprised he hasn’t physically knocked on your head yet, knuckles lightly rapping into the side of your head.

You blink, looking up at him, mortification forgotten for a few seconds of bliss. “Sorry. I was admiring Suguru’s hands.”

Suguru chokes again, and it dissolves into a cough.

You see a flash of amusement in those blue eyes; a wearily resigned look of endearment. “You’ve sure got some nerve…”

“It’s late,” Suguru says, rising. He smiles, and this time even though it looks more genuine, it’s still a bit strained. “We’ll talk about this more tomorrow.”

You inwardly shudder. You’ll sneak out tomorrow. Early in the morning.

Suguru leaves first. Satoru is caught between your doorway when he stops. He hovers, and you know at once your interrogation isn’t over.

He looks at you silently. Then: “Does he know?”

You stare at him.

“About all this,” Satoru gestures to the room that encapsulates your life.

You are a jujutsu sorcerer. In the end you are beholden to the duties that a life like this begets. There’s no room for your personal feelings. For a lover.

You’ll never leave a lover behind.

You wordlessly shake your head. It’s the only thing you can do.

Satoru’s jaw works.

“It’ll never work out,” he says quietly. Not unsympathetically, but also not consolingly. In the way that’s always been characteristically frank of him. “Not with a guy like him.”

There is a ragged hole in your chest, freshly healed before being torn open by his words. You’re unsure of why you feel so much. It’s the truth, after all. Any relationship started with you is doomed. Your happiness in that specific capacity is something out of reach.

Those are the words he leaves you with.

—————

“What’s this about a fight?” You ask softly, silently appraising the boy in front of you for injuries.

Megumi is sitting on a bench just outside his school when you find him. Bent down, you run your thumb along the flimsy tan bandage placed at the height of Megumi’s cheek, right below his eye, and frown. He twists away, and your hand falls back.

“Nothing,” Megumi says as he gets up. His knuckles are scraped, and he eyes you like a grumpy cat unwillingly roused from its slumber. Fingers curl around the strap of his backpack. “It’s over.”

“Did someone disinfect your cut?”

He stays silent.

“Someone should’ve looked at it,” you say, glancing at the school, disapproving. “Why are you alone out here? Didn’t anyone call the house?”

“They don't,” he says in a way that tells you he’d rather be saying nothing. “Not anymore.”

Oh.

“C’mon let’s get you home. I’ll look at it.” You smile morosely as he starts to walk away in the direction of the apartment.

You catch up with him a few strides, and take his hand. He lets you.

His hand is small, curled in yours, so small. It’s hard to believe that once upon a time, you had been that small. Small enough that your father could have engulfed your hand with his own. You wonder if you still carry the warmth of your father’s gentle hand, even if you don’t remember it. Even if you don’t remember anything but the hand that had rejected you and left you all alone.

You don’t. You know you don’t. It’s meaningless to attempt to console yourself with meaningless thoughts.

“Megumi, do you miss your father?”

The two of you walk side by side along the dimly lit streets. One hand tightened around another’s. One arm wrapped around a brown bag of groceries you had bought prior to getting a call from Megumi’s elementary school.

Megumi doesn’t respond as he stares straight ahead, one step ahead of another. You don’t wonder if he heard your question, but the silence has you faltering. Suddenly the question strikes you as impudent, and you are embarrassed.

“Ah…” you trail off, glancing down at the boy. “I’m sorry—”

“There’s nothing to miss,” he says lamely. “He was barely home even when he was around.”

You look down at him, then fix your gaze straight ahead. “I see.” You hold the paper bag around you a bit tighter. “My father’s dead. My mother too.” And nowadays, you have been missing them more and more, until you’ve become a festering mess of a gaping wound being pried open with unrelenting fingers and brutalized, over and over again. As if you’re a child all over again, pressing the behinds of your swollen eyelids into your knees until they ache, wondering if you remembered how it felt to be loved, if you had ever been loved in the first place.

You hadn’t meant to ask. You don’t know why you did. You also don’t know why it hurts so much. Shallow breaths. It didn’t hurt this much when you repeated it a thousand times before. No, they’re dead. No, nobody’s coming. No, I’m alone. I was young. I don’t remember them much. Not anymore. People always asked questions. Satoru asked questions your first year. Called you an orphan too, while Suguru had been utterly chagrined at the carelessness of his words. It didn’t hurt back then, because the truth had ceased to hurt.

You feel as if your chest might cave in. It hurts more than it did when you were dying.

“It’s okay if you miss him.” You hold his hand tighter. You expect him to pull away, but he doesn’t.

Megumi doesn’t look at you.

“Sometimes I hate him.”

—————

You get a text message from an anonymous number.

There’s no identification, no context, no explanation. Just an address.

Fushiguro-sensei has been missing for nearly three months when you walk into the stadium and horse racing venue. The scent of damp grass and manure rises into your nose as you navigate the empty rows of the stadium to find your truant teacher.

It doesn’t take you long. Slumped over in his seat, feet kicked on top of the railing overlooking the large grassy field, he stares at the empty field. There are no horses though, and only a few people are milling around the stadium, some cleaning, others smoking. You get a few curious glances as you make your way over.

“Fushiguro-sensei,” you greet as you approach. “Have you gone to see your children yet?”

He snorts. “Y’know, I like that about you. Straight to the point. Some people talk too much.”

He hasn’t answered your question, but you already know the answer. You take a seat, and out of the corner of your eyes, look at him. He looks fine, you suppose. Normal. Though, you can’t exactly speak to normal when it comes to Fushiguro-sensei. Sometimes, your opinions on him wildly oscillate. Sometimes you forget that this man almost killed you in a cruel manner, and all you can think is that this man has been hurt before.

“Yaga-sensei said you were on a sabbatical.” You think the stress of thinking anything else would have caused your other sensei to lose even more hair than he had over Fushiguro-sensei's sudden absence.

“Somethin’ like that.”

Below you, the field has cleared out, leaving you the only two in the stadium. It’s an odd feeling, and you’re all too conscious of how small you are.

“...Are you planning on seeing your kids? It’s not safe for two children to be living alone.”

Fushiguro-sensei doesn’t look surprised. “You stalkin’ my kids?”

You can’t even deny it. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t ask you any questions. Nothing about how you acquired the address, how much you know, whether or not they’re fine. He only laughs.

“They’re better off without me,” he says, sporting a superficial grin. “Whaddya call it, hands-off parenting?”

“You shouldn’t assume that,” you say quietly. “It’s not fair to them both.”

There’s a silence that weighs heavy on you.

“Fushiguro,” your sensei suddenly says, voice taking on a lazy drawl you haven’t heard in a while. “Some name, ain’t it?”

You assume he’s referring to the meaning embedded in the kanji of the name.

“When I got hitched, anything was better than Zenin. Zenin Toji…” a harsh bark of laughter, lips twisting, stretching the scar on his lips into an expression resembling the one on his face when you first encountered the sorcerer killer. Ruthless. “When I first heard the name Fushiguro, I thought, what a perfect name for a Zenin failure like me. I was treated lower than trash in the Zenin compound where I grew up. The failure Toji, without a shred of cursed energy or talent. I would have spent my life a servant, apologizing for my sorry existence. There was nothing for me there, and in the end I became exactly what they thought I’d become, a lowly killer. The sorcerer assassin.”

The words are spoken with varying degrees of detachment. You find that you recognize the tone. You keep your gaze straight. It was well known that the Zenin’s valued cursed techniques and power, but it’s different to experience the reality firsthand than to simply hear about it.

“Megumi…Megumi’s not like me.”

“No,” you say. “He’s not.”

You aren’t referring to the development of Megumi’s cursed energy, or the cursed technique that he had inherited. You think of his small hand, curling against yours, and the warmth of his hand.

“Fushiguro is a flower,” you start. “They blossom in the wild during the summer, especially around Shimane. My father liked to visit Shimane a lot,” you swallow the growing knot in your throat. “We’d walk through the mountain trails together and he’d point out these small white flowers…” You briefly squeeze your eyes shut tightly. You had forgotten about it. Those trips, borne out of your father’s passionate interest in botany. You remember it now, with almost frightening clarity. Your father, seated on the ground, sketching away in the small notebook he had brought on trails while you sat on his lap and peered down.

“Satoru called you Zenin-sensei, but you said that…that your name was Fushiguro now. Fu-shi-gu-ro. Even though the flower is spelled with katakana…that’s what I thought of. The flower.”

Flowers that survive. That small white flower. The long stalks of the flower, gently swaying in the wind, and the warm breeze of summer.

Fushiguro-sensei doesn’t speak for a long time.

When he does, his voice is rough. “They’re taking him.”

You look at him, the tense silhouette of his figure, and understand. “You gave him up.” You feel sick to your stomach. So that’s what he had been doing in these months he had been gone. Selling his son. “How much are they paying you?”

“Millions.”

“You can’t.” You think of Megumi, of Tsumiki, both too old for their ages. You think once again, of bruised knuckles and distrustful eyes, and of how small Megumi’s hand had been in yours. Despite it all, you knew he was holding out hope that his father would be back. Maybe it would be months, maybe even years, but he’d be back.

You want to protect that hand, no matter what it takes.

He turns to face you, dark eyes threatening to overtake you. There’s a wounded feral animal in the surface of his eyes. An animal that has given up on pacing in its cage, an animal that is waiting to die. Fushiguro-sensei exhales, running a hand over his face. “This is the most I’ll ever be able to do for him.” He laughs mirthlessly. “They’ll treat him better than they ever did me. It’s the best place he could be. They’ll make him heir. He’s probably manifested it by now, hasn’t he? Not any of those second rate techniques, the inherited technique. The one they’ve been waiting for.”

Which means the Zenin clan will be coming for Megumi soon. You frown. “You don’t know that. You don’t even know what Megumi wants in the first place. He’ll never leave Tsumiki.” The Zenins would never take Tsumiki in. The Zenin compound was not a place for non-sorcerers.

“It’s too late,” he says, faraway, more to himself than you. “It’s too late.”

You straighten, stand, and square your shoulders. “No. It’s not.” Your fists squeeze shut. “When you can look Megumi in the eyes and tell him that you’ve sold him to the Zenins, that’s when you can say that’s the most you’ll ever be able to do for him. But don’t presume to know what’s best for your child when you’ve been avoiding him for over a year.” Especially when that child is still waiting for you.

You don’t know how your words will be taken, because the more you speak the more you realize that Fushiguro-sensei has already given up. Resigned himself to losing his son to the clan and people that had damaged him past repair. They can’t. They can’t take Megumi away. You know in your heart Megumi will never recover from the betrayal.

“He’ll never forgive you. If you do this, he will never forgive you.” You don’t know who you’re speaking about or who you’re speaking for. All you know is that this is the unmitigated truth. Hurt children grow into hurt adults.

Fushiguro-sensei stills.

“Did you love her,” your voice hitches in your throat. “Megumi’s mother?”

That stirs his attention, and his dead gaze slides to yours.

He doesn’t need to say anything.

“Then you can’t give up,” you say resolutely, though your words are choked. “Not like this. You have to…you have to…fight…”

You are wide-eyed and breathless and your chest hurts and you don’t remember ever crying, not like this. Not even when they had forced you to remove your cursed technique on your father’s corpse. He’s gone. He’s not coming back. Let him rest now. You angrily swipe a hand over your face and over your blurry vision. He won’t. He won’t fight for his child and you are reeling at the injustice of it, at how much you feel like a helpless child all over again. You might be sick.

He loved her and she left him and the same thing always seems to happen.

You think Fushiguro-sensei looks remorseful.

—————

You’ve found yourself out in the lake more days than not. In the summer, the lake seems to be alive, glittering under the bright sun as birds swoop up and down and the wildlife graze, but in the winter, the lake has frozen over and there is only quiet.

You don’t mind. The silence lets you think. At this time, the lake is isolated. There isn’t a single soul in the immediate vicinity, and you can finally feel yourself relax. Away from the crowds, away from the pressure of constantly being aware. You sit on the dock, and instead of swaying with the water, everything is still. The cold pricks at your exposed face and neck because you hadn’t dressed for the weather. After being dropped off at the school fresh from an assignment, you had just walked.

Megumi has been sold to the Zenin clan, and you know there’s little time before they come to collect. Megumi will be forced into the role of the Zenin heir, forcibly separated from Tsumiki, and it will destroy him. There’s little you can do. You hold little weight or sway in the jujutsu world, and it’s never bothered you. But now you are powerless, forced to watch Megumi be ripped from all he knows all for a future he had never asked to be born into.

The Zenin clans have been even more furtive than usual, obstructing all and any attempts at contact with someone of your station. Your options are dwindling, and it is seeming more and more likely that only one course of action is available to you at the moment. Fushiguro-sensei hasn’t responded to any of your texts, unlikely to surface. You wonder if he might even chance a glimpse at Megumi before condemning him forever.

You have to tell him. It’s too much for a child. It’s news that should be delivered carefully. You don’t want to hurt him more than he’s already been hurt. You don’t want him to be blindsided. You’re scared you won’t be able to help him. Resolve hardens in your veins. No, you have to help him. You’ll do anything.

Your pulse rapidly paces against your temples, throbbing. You take an unsteady breath and exhale shakily, feeling all too small for the grandeur of your issues. A prospect that must seem so much more daunting, so much more terrifying to an eight year old child.

When you turn around, it’s just in time to see Suguru.

Your lips tug into a small smile as he approaches; pants, black shirt, hair down, and when you see the bundle he carries in his arm, you light up.

“Yoru!” You exclaim, reaching for the yowling cat in Suguru’s arms. There are three, thin red lines across Suguru’s cheek. He carefully handles the cat. The slinky black cat immediately settles in your arms as he quiets, and you feel him rearrange himself to get more comfortable, face nuzzling against your upper arm with a purr. It had been a brief comment a couple weeks ago while the four of you had been walking to dinner in the city. To your great distress, you hadn’t seen Yoru around the temple or in the multiple shrines on campus lately. But now he is in your arms, green eyes blinking up at you as if he had never left.

You softly coo at him, fingers crooking to scratch at the cat’s neck.

“Suguru…” you breathe out, “You found him?”

Suguru sits down next to you with a half grimace half smile as he watches you. “With difficulty. I figured you could use a little happiness.” He looks happy and smug. “You’re not the only one who remembers things,” he says in response to your unspoken question. He had heard you back then, remembered that fleeting, passing comment. “Although I am a bit jealous.” At your inquiring gaze, he simply smiles. “You called his name before mine.”

You stare at him, Yoru nosing underneath your arm in an attempt to wrest your attention back, and he chuckles. “Just kidding.”

His head slightly tilts, studying you, and you cast your gaze away, nervous to meet his eyes. You’re only glad Satoru isn’t here. You don’t know if you could handle the combined scrutiny of both your friends. You’d think you’d fall back apart into pieces.

“Is everything alright?” He asks softly.

You take the time to look at him. He looks better, much more well adjusted, happy even. There’s a warmth to his eyes and the curve of his lips. It suits him. A small part of you hopes that maybe, a small part of that happiness could be attributed to you. Things have calmed back down into a normalcy rivaled by the days before Riko, and you revel in it. The clouds have passed, revealing sunlight. You still worry, about Suguru and Satoru and the days when tension had been thick, the two at odds. Shoko had only laughed, fixing you with a lazy smile. Couple fight.

Days go by, and Suguru and Satoru only grow in strength. It doesn’t go unnoticed. People have been more than enthusiastic to voice their concerns about the strength that had protected Amanai Riko from the merger while also overloading their schedules with missions with no chance to breathe. Tasks dutifully undertaken by Suguru while Satoru had threatened permanent leave. Sometimes the two of them are gone together, not for a mission, but to attend meetings in which the attendance of Special Grades are requested. You figure the elders and higher-ups have long figured out to rely on Suguru’s presence to guarantee Satoru’s.

You recall a loose comment (a grumble from Satoru’s end) about Suguru being too politically inclined for his own good.

Shoko is in and out, buried in bodies in the morgue or shipped away to some distant prefecture for a VIP. Sometimes, if your schedules align, she slips into your bed and you fall asleep to her breathing.

Part of you wishes that the days where you were all together so often had been longer, but that would be selfish.

You’ve lied so much these past few months that one more lie shouldn’t hurt. But he’s worried about you, and it feels wrong to reciprocate his sincerity with lies. So you stay quiet, and stare at Yoru, who playfully bats a paw in the direction of your face.

Your path to becoming a jujutsu sorcerer was less a path, less a choice, more than a natural course of action. Your life had ceased when your mother died, and when your father had joined her a year later, there had been nothing else. You admire Suguru and Shoko, and even Satoru. You even envy them.

If anything, you suppose it’s comforting. To know that there would be people who would remember you in death. Suguru would remember you. Suguru, Satoru, Shoko.

You don’t realize Suguru has been calling your name until you look up.

“Just wondering where you slipped off to,” he murmurs, not unkindly. “In that head of yours.”

There is a square shaped padded bandage attached to your face. A semi-deep cut by a whipping appendage of a curse you had been sent to exorcize just a few hours prior. A slice that would have taken off your head had you been a second too late to dodge. You are suddenly all too aware of the bandage when Suguru’s hand cups the side of your face, hand easily taking up the length of your neck too.

You can feel the heat of his hand against your neck, thumb running down the exterior of the bandage, feeling out the cut. It seems these days that you are the only one coming back with limbs awkwardly wrapped in bandages, or (luckily not as often), carried back in an iced carrier. If anything, Satoru and Suguru come back more tired than anything; Satoru proclaiming his burning desire to sleep to anyone who will listen before knocking out on the nearest surface whether that be your lap or Suguru’s shoulder or one of the beds in the infirmary.

At night you run your fingers over the scars your body has accumulated and wonder about the smooth unblemished skin of Satoru’s neck. You know any remnants of his encounter with Fushiguro-sensei has faded to the untrained eye. But you know exactly where on his body he had sustained injuries. Could identify the areas by touch alone. It’s different now though. Satoru doesn’t get hurt easily, not anymore.

You wonder if he bruises easily. His neck especially.

Suguru has scars from Fushiguro-sensei too. But others, some on his hands, his arms, his chest, his back. You wonder about them all; the ones that have healed and the ones that haven’t.

It makes you feel bad, so you don’t think about it often, but it brings you comfort to know that in some way you are all connected. Inextricably bound together by shared marks on your flesh. Permanent.

Your fingers involuntarily flex, as if your body is keen to remind yourself that all your bodily functions are in working order, even the fingers that Shoko had reattached after a lengthy bone chilling glare a few weeks prior.

“You should get Shoko to look at that,” Suguru says, drawing you out of your thoughts, voice tinged with worry, as if he can see through the bandage, at the blood that the wound had drawn. “It might scar.”

Your eyes flutter shut, and you lean into his hand. “It’s fine, I don’t mind. Besides,” your smile turns wry, “it’s not as if there’s anyone who particularly likes looking at my face.”

Fushiguro-sensei’s words resound in your head. A remnant from a drunk night months ago so absurd it still feels like a fever dream: What’s your type?

The absurdity and timing of it draws a huff of laughter from your lips. You say teasingly: “You don’t like girls with scars?”

Well, if you have an abundance of anything, it’s scars.

There’s an odd look on his face. You straighten away from his hand. His lips part. Then purse, in a way you’ve seen when Satoru does something to warrant his disapproval. Your heart sinks, wondering if you’ve let him down or made him uncomfortable in some way.

“If I were your boyfriend,” he finally says, “I’d tell you that you look beautiful everyday.”

You blink, wondering if this is another joke. Suguru evenly meets your gaze with no trace of amusement on his face, and you stare, long and hard.

There’s an odd sensation in your chest. As if someone is wringing your heart dry. You almost raise your hand to your chest to make sure your heart is still beating. It must be the guilt. You had forgotten about your imaginary boyfriend. And now you are guilty of both the crime of lying to Suguru, but making your (fake) boyfriend out to be a neglectful lover. Now Suguru is forced to attempt to cheer you up with compliments that he assumes your boyfriend is not giving you. These things come naturally to Suguru because Suguru is a good person, with much more experience in the romance department than you. So natural that you almost, for a second, believed it.

You briefly wonder what it would be like to have an actual boyfriend. But then realize it’s a completely irrelevant thought.

Suguru coughs, clearing his throat and the remains of his flustered state. “I meant, is he giving you trouble? He isn’t—” he looks pained, “— pressuring you or anything?”

That has you tilting your head. “Pressuring me? Into what?”

“...”

“...?”

“...”

Ah. You get it. Yoru lightly nips at your fingers. “Into things like sex?” The thought has you amused.

You’ve never seen Suguru as taken aback as you do now.

“If my boyfriend wanted sex, I’d give it to him. I don’t think I’d feel pressured or anything.” You are touched by his concern. Your smile is reassuring. Suguru stares at you. “It’s just sex. Is it necessarily something I have to want too?”

Maybe you’ve said something wrong. Maybe you just don’t understand it. It really is just sex. A reaction to a bodily response. You could further dissect the action in scientific terms. Logically, you understand it. You think you’d be happy with your faceless lover deriving pleasure from your body. Though whether or not there would be someone able to stomach the almost revolting scar on your side is another question altogether. The thought makes you unexpectedly sad, even though you’d like to think that you aren’t that vain.

Suguru’s blank expression gives away to something deadly and silent. It’s the look he gets when he’s focusing hard on something, or stewing in hard anger.

“It is,” he says quietly. “Something both parties have to want.”

You’ve never quite thought of it like that. You’d be content with less than that, you know you would. Content to give, instead of take. You look down at a sleeping Yoru in your arms. Longing. Desire. Love. You don’t know if you’ve ever wanted anything that badly in your life, but then you think of Suguru, of Shoko and Satoru, and know that you have.

“Have the two of you—” his face darkens like a stormcloud, framed by his long, loose hair “—has he ever—”

It’s as if he can see right through you and all of your internal panic. “No,” you say quickly. Then you smile. Now the guilt is back, twisting your insides. You’ve lied to Suguru and you’ve said all the wrong things and made a fool of yourself. Suguru is upset, and it’s your fault. You said something you shouldn’t have, and you are six years old all over again, begging for forgiveness on your knees. Your face falls and Suguru falters. You squeeze Yoru to your chest.

Megumi comes first. You’d think about everything else later. You unsteadily rise.

“I just remember I promised Haibara that I’d look at the plant in his room.” Apparently, upon being inspired by the sight of Suguru helping you with the flowerbeds outside the dorm, he had bought the first large potted plant that had caught his eye. The plant is dying. Wilting away by the second.

It’s not a lie. You did promise him.

Suguru’s gaze follows you as you walk away.

—————

“He sold me.”

You try not to wince. “He…sold you.”

Megumi stares at you, face betraying no obvious other emotion but annoyance in the hard lines of his lips and eyes. The two of them sit by the kotatsu in the living area, you across from them.

Tsumiki’s eyes dart from Megumi to you, confused. “What…does that mean?” Her hands are wrung together nervously. “Toji-san…sold Megumi?”

You don’t look away. It’s the least you can do while you deliver the news. Tsumiki’s eyes are wide with hurt. “The clan Fushiguro-san belonged to, the Zenin’s, are…influential. Especially in the jujutsu world. They want Megumi because of—”

“This,” Megumi says tonelessly. You watch as the shadows on the table begin to move as if alive, breathing, before everything stills. You hadn’t talked at length about cursed techniques and what the jujutsu world entailed, believing that to be a job for someone else, but now you realize that ignorance here could be deadly.

“It’s an inherited cursed technique. A powerful one. Something that hasn’t been in the family for a long time now. Now that you’ve shown signs of it, they’ll want to make you heir.” You search Megumi’s face, effortlessly blank, and think about Satoru. It had been decided at birth to make Satoru heir, evidence of his power already recorded for the historical archives; the birth of the first six eyes user in hundreds of years.

“You’ll be provided for Tsumiki. But the Zenins don’t like non-jujutsu sorcerers so Megumi will be taken alone,” you swallow at Tsumiki’s crestfallen face, Megumi’s unreadable expression. “You’ll go to the compound to live, and that’s where you’ll be for training and your studies.” You look at him sadly. “It wouldn’t be a bad life. You’ll be taken care of in luxury. They’ll cater to your every whim and give you whatever you want.” You know you shouldn’t compare Satoru and Megumi’s circumstances, but if anything was assured, you suppose it would be material comforts.

“I haven’t given up. I’m going to do whatever I can do to stop this.” You don’t want to see Megumi in the clutches of the Zenin’s. You don’t want to see him made heir, powerless to do anything but accept it. These are responsibilities too large to rest on his shoulders.

The room is silent.

Megumi speaks. “When I go—”

“No!” Tsumiki’s outburst is uncharacteristic, her face red. You’ve only ever seen her smiling. Her fingers are fisted shut as she stands. She looks seconds away from tears. “I don’t want this! I don’t want Megumi to leave!”

She runs to her room, slamming the door shut. You close your eyes.

Megumi’s gaze is set upon the table. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“Nothing is final yet. Not until they come.” You don’t have to tell him that it seems more and more likely with every passing day. But you won’t let it come to that. You’d do anything.

You call his name. “Megumi—”

“He told you.” It’s not an accusation more than it’s a statement. “When did you see him?”

“Roughly two weeks ago.” It feels futile to say anything else. Like how Fushiguro-sensei had looked like a man on death row.

“My mother died last week." The words hold little emotion. You’ve never seen him look so sad. “It’s her anniversary.”

Your father, bowing at the altar, weeping. Always weeping. I can’t do this without you.

He had been frantic in the days leading up to his death. One day you were a stranger. One day you didn’t exist.

Why did it have to be you?

You forcibly pull yourself out of your thoughts, blinking harshly to readjust to the light.

“I see,” you say with a dry mouth. “I’m sorry.”

Megumi doesn’t respond.

—————

The door to your room swings open so harshly that you’re caught off guard, blearily blinking awake in wild alarm from your nap. Shoko slams the door shut and strides over to you, seating herself on your bed.

She scans your face. “Repeat after me.”

You can’t do anything but nod.

“No means no.”

You stare at her. “No… means no?”

“No means no!”

You are very confused.

She leans in. “If a guy ever, and I mean ever tries something you don’t want, that’s when you kick him in the balls. Even if it’s Satoru or Suguru, alright?”

You look horrified. “That’s—”

“ Even Satoru or Suguru.”

You meekly nod.

“Shoko.” You bow your head, avoiding her gaze. “I was lying. I don’t actually have a boyfriend.”

Shoko gives you a short, amused look. “I know.”

Oh. Of course she knew. Suddenly, it all makes sense.

She flops onto your bed. “Satoru and Suguru don’t though. But I’d save that conversation for until after you finish what you have to do.”

That’s all she has to say to tell you that she knows. With that she slips underneath your covers and yawns, and you join her without another word.

—————

It’s…surprisingly difficult to leave the campus of Jujutsu Tech.

You turn a corner and Suguru is there, greeting you with a smile, and for the rest of the day he is glued to your side. You can’t help but wonder if Shoko texted him to keep you company while she was in Fukuoka for the weekend.

You can’t help but wish it could be like this all the time. Selfishly. You are selfishly luxuriating in Suguru’s attention and affection for as long as it lasts. There’s no hint of the stormy expression that had been present on his face during your prior conversation. In fact, Suguru had greeted you normally, as if nothing had ever happened in the first place.

It feels foreboding. But, you neither mention it nor do you make any move to.

You had been lucky though, the other day when you had dropped in to relay the news to Megumi and Tsumiki, everyone had been called out. But Suguru is gone now for the weekend, leaving you alone with your kouhais. You had taken the chance to catch up to Nanami and Haibara.

You are in the middle of a pleasant conversation with Ijichi about the possibility of a curse user’s involvement in a missing person’s case when Ijichi stops talking mid sentence and turns pale.

You follow your kouhai’s line of sight to find Satoru storming towards you, looking not at all happy. You blink, wondering if you might be imagining it. You didn’t know he was set to come back from Nagano almost one week early. He had only left four days ago. Somehow, you feel unprepared for the daunting task you face.

When you turn back to face Ijichi, there is no trace of your kouhai. Just air.

“Satoru—”

Without even so much as a greeting, he takes you by the arm, and in the next second you are transported to a secluded classroom. You take a few seconds to reorient yourself, realizing Satoru’s grip is still secured around your wrist.

“Hi,” you say. You knew he could transport short distances, but you didn’t know he could take others too. Another skill gained. “Is everything alright?”

You’re backed into the wall, Satoru towering over you, and you are taken back to that night he had found you in the library.

His eyes gleam down at you. “Strip.”

“...”

He’s serious. You slowly go to unbutton your dress shirt. Satoru scowls and slaps your hands away.

Now you are severely confused.

He grits his teeth, irritation spreading over his features like flashfire. “Just gonna strip for any man that tells you to?”

When you open your mouth, he shoots you a glare.

Chastised, you close your mouth. Satoru pulls your arm straight and tugs the sleeves of your shirt back to your forearm, inspecting your bare arm with narrowed eyes. Then he does the same to your other arm. Nothing but scars long faded, both invisible and not. He briefly looks you over, from your face down to your shoes in a restless fashion. You don’t think he’s satisfied by the results of his impromptu check up because he looks even more agitated, still holding onto your arms.

“What’s this about?” You finally ask, when he’s done.

Satoru ignores you. There is anger written in the fine lines of his face, in a way you’ve scarcely ever seen. “If he’s pushing you around, I’ll kill him.”

You pull your arms down. He’s not joking. If you were less bewildered, you’d be even more confused than you are. “Nobody’s pushing me around.” You don’t understand why Satoru seems to believe your imaginary boyfriend is abusing you, but you figure something must have gone very wrong in your attempt to cobble together a semi-believable story about obtaining a boyfriend that has led both Satoru and Suguru to believe the worst. This is everything you wanted to avoid.

His gaze is flinty as he stares you down coolly, picking you apart. Maybe he doesn’t believe you, but he also knows you’ve never been a good liar. Not to him.

You stand there, across from him, blankly blinking at him. His face goes pinched with something sullen, jaw working.

“I’m not done.” You are left utterly unprepared when he asks, “What business do you have with the Zenins?”

You still. “Who told you?”

Satoru’s lips curl into a derisive frown. “Did you really think I wouldn’t hear about you going over to that lot? There are eyes everywhere, especially with those old school paranoid—”

“Satoru.” All you can think of is how you had never seen Megumi sad. And then you think of Fushiguro-sensei’s empty gaze. It’s not right. Someone has closed a fist in your chest, wringing out all the air from your breath.

His eyes narrow, voice hard. “If this is about Fushiguro—”

“It’s not.” Well. You hesitate, and that’s all that it takes for Satoru to ascertain the majority.

“Tell me everything,” he demands, tone snappish, stepping closer, forcing your gaze to his with a magnetic intensity. “No more lies.”

You close your eyes, throat thick. “I have a favor to ask you.”

His eyebrows furrow, the confusion evident.

“Next week the Zenin Clan is going to take custody of Fushiguro Megumi. Megumi is Fushiguro-sensei’s son. He inherited it.” You dimly realize with a questionable clarity your hands are shaking. “Ten Shadows. He’s only eight years old. They’ll take him from Tsumiki and he’ll be miserable and he’ll grow up thinking he was thrown away, sold to the Zenin’s. He’ll never—”

He’ll never forgive his father.

The hurt only grows. The words never leave your throat. You realize it’s because you’re biting your tongue, and that your teeth have drawn blood. You swallow the copper. “Please,” you say hoarsely. “You need to help him. They won’t listen to me…”

But they’ll listen to you.

Satoru doesn’t say anything. When you bring yourself to look at him, you don’t know what to expect. Anger, maybe. Annoyance. Even a curt No . Instead, he observes you.

It’s a disquieting feeling. You think you would prefer an immediate no to this.

“I don’t,” your fingers curl, nails digging into flesh, “I don’t want to beg. Because we’re friends, and I don’t want to beg for a favor from a friend.” You finish tightly. It’s true. The two of you are friends. Satoru is one of your best friends, and your relationship with him, although rocky at first, is one of the most important things in your life. You don’t want to beg, but you would. If your friendship meant anything to him…

It briefly enters your thinking that you are betting your entire relationship on this, but Megumi deserves the help Satoru can give him. The help you know could potentially change the course of Megumi and Tsumiki’s lives. This is the only thing you can do.

You’re terrified, but your resolve refuses to weaken.

“Please Satoru,” you say. “Help me.”

Satoru simply looks at you. His lips shift, as if there’s something unpleasant in his mouth trying to pry its way out. Nothing comes out. Then he closes his eyes, fingers pinching the bridge of his temples, hiking his sunglasses up.

He exhales.

When he looks at you again, he distinctly looks worn, as if you’ve shaved years off his life. He also looks greatly exasperated. He runs a hand through his mussed hair.

You unknowingly relax.

His lips peel into a scowl. “If you needed something in the first place, you should’ve come to me. Not the Zenin’s!” He’s not done. “Of course the first thing you would ever ask me for wouldn’t even be for you. You’re infuriating, you know that? It’s never just nothing with you! I thought you were dying—”

A slow smile spreads over your face. You can’t stop it. You’re positively beaming.

“—it couldn’t even be something normal—”

Satoru has taken out his phone. His thumb dances over the keyboard, texting away while he complains. The phone snaps shut and he slides it into his pocket.

He opens his mouth, but you rush forward and wrap your arms around him, burying your face into his chest. You don’t know if he knows how much it means to you and your arms tighten around him. He returns the hug silently, oddly silent.

The tremors return, enveloping your body. The relief of it has your body weightless. You don’t realize you’re crying into Satoru’s shirt until he unceremoniously yanks your head up with both hands cupping your face. Your tears run into his thumbs that he brushes away.

“If you have any problems…Suguru and I will take care of it for you. Always.” His throat bobs, as if he wants to say more, but he doesn’t.

You might be laughing. You don’t deserve him. Him, Suguru and Shoko. You don’t know what you did to deserve them. “Satoru, Thank you.” Your smile is wobbly and crooked. “I love you.”

He’s red-faced, glasses askew on his nose. “A guy’ll get the wrong idea.”

You mean it though. You throw your head back and laugh, and one of Satoru’s hands lightly cups the back of your head.

“It’s my turn,” Satoru says, blush slightly dying down. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

You’d do anything. You try to pull away from him, but his arms are still locked around you. You settle on resting your arms on his chest as you look up at him.

“Anything.”

Satoru smiles as if you’ve handed him a million dollar lottery ticket. He smiles as if you were the one doing him a favor. He smiles as if you’ve already done him the favor. It’s a pleased, cat-like thing, leaving you feeling as if maybe you should’ve hesitated.

—————

“I should be in there.”

You smile. “Then I’d be out here all by myself. You’d leave me here alone?”

Megumi closes his mouth. A morose look settles upon him. “I didn’t say goodbye to Tsumiki.”

The younger girl had been trying not to cry, but you heard her sniffling. You had kneeled down, briefly taken her hands in yours, and then hugged her, her small body trembling in yours. Everything would be fine.

“Have faith. Satoru won’t let us down.”

Megumi doesn’t look convinced.

You bump his shoulder with yours.

“If you don’t trust him, trust me.”

Megumi’s silence says everything he doesn’t. The two of you resume staring at the large building in front of you. Naobito, Satoru,and countless others inhabit the grand meeting room, located in one of the many complexes in the Zenin compound. Inside, Megumi’s fate is to be decided.

Three hours ago, you had texted an unknown number.

It’s been over an hour, and though you and Megumi had come late, the anticipation unnerves your stomach. Whatever you feel though, you know it must be worse for Megumi. So the two of you sit on a bench located a couple of yards from the entrance of the building located right in front of one of the many zen gardens, staring in silence. Servants robed in non-decorative yukatas steal furtive glances at you and then at Megumi. Not a second too long though, before they duck, heads bowed, and press forward.

“Sorry,” a voice calls. “We’re a bit late.”

You rise from the bench and make your way towards the two people walking over to you, breaking into a smile. “No worries. Everyone’s still inside.”

There’s a plastic bag in Suguru’s hand. “I got drinks.” He hands it to you. There’s an energy drink and a chocolate milk for Megumi. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” you sigh out. You glance at Megumi, staring blankly at rocks. “I’m just worried about Megumi.”

Suguru’s smile is sympathetic. “We’ll just have to put our faith in Satoru for now.”

Shoko looks over your shoulder at Megumi. “He sure looks like Fushiguro-sensei.”

The fact has ceased to surprise you. Suguru nods, silently appraising the younger boy.

Shoko huffs, a hand on her hip, another fiddling with an unlit cigarette. “I hate this place. Gives me the creeps.” A smile inches at her lips. “Hey, hear this. Guess what the servants were calling this guy.” She elbows Suguru.

“Shoko—”

“All the maids were fawning all over him! Practically fighting to serve him. Geto-sama this, Geto-sama that!”

That has you goodnaturedly laughing while Suguru lights up red.

“We’ve got a real lady killer here. Surprised you didn’t get any proposals or whatever they do around—” Shoko’s mouth drops open. “You didn’t.”

Suguru chokes. “No—”

“Liar!”

Suguru sighs, briefly closing his eyes. His face is still red. When he opens his eyes, he’s looking at you, although the words are directed at Shoko. “I’m a little too young to get married, don’t you think?”

You wonder which Zenin daughter has been offered to Suguru, or maybe you should wonder how many. As long as Suguru is happy. And Suguru is happy with Satoru.

Shoko snorts, giving you a side glance. “Yeah, right.” She shakes her head. “Well at least you have options,” she chuckles. “Satoru on the other hand…he’s a hopeless case. A charity case, more specifically.”

“I’d like to see it,” you say suddenly, drawing their attention. You’ve never paid too much attention to what the future might hold. You’ve never thought about it. It hurt too much. But you realize that you want to see what the future holds, not for you, but for the people dearest to your heart, more than anything you’ve wanted in your life. “Your wedding,” you complete to Suguru. You want to see the three of them happy and fulfilled and then you’d be ready. “You’d make a wonderful husband. Anyone would be lucky to have you, Suguru.”

Suguru blinks, off guard. He swallows. “Is…is that right.” Then he’s blushing all over again.

You turn to Shoko, grabbing her by the shoulders. “But you can’t get married too soon.” Even the thought of it has you spiraling. You feel your face warm. “You have to be mine for a little longer, okay?”

Shoko grins. “I’m yours.”

Relief.

“But I’m not the one you should be worrying about.” Her grin is marked by something mischievous even as you gape at her. “Out of all of us, you might get married first.”

Suguru stiffens.

You clear your throat, rubbing your suddenly sweaty hands on your skirt, when you feel Megumi’s gaze on you. “I’ll be right back.”

Megumi hasn’t moved a muscle since you left. With every passing minute he grows more tense. You kneel down in front of him, fishing the chocolate milk out of the plastic bag and handing it to him.

“Here. Or do you want the Pocari Sweat?”

“It’s fine.” He stares at the can. “They aren’t done yet.”

“It’s just procedure,” comes Suguru’s voice from above you.

The words are reassuring, yet Megumi stares at him like he’s a cockroach. The two of them size each other up.

“Shouldn’t be long though,” Shoko angles her head towards the building. “I think they’re coming out.”

True to her words, someone is shuffling towards you, shoulders hunched as if to minimize his presence. Satoru follows right behind him, hands stuffed into his pockets casually with a wide grin slapped on his face.

You straighten. And stare. Next to you Megumi stiffens.

“Wow,” Shoko gapes. “You look just like a certain deadbeat teacher who went MIA on us a couple months ago. Turns out he’s a deadbeat father too, ha! Know him?”

“Shaddup,” Fushiguro-sensei says without heat. He doesn’t meet Megumi’s gaze.

Satoru catches up. “Deal’s canceled!” Jazz hands. “Brat’s been returned for a refund! Instead of living his years out as a hostage in this miserable place, he’ll get to go home. How sweet. Now, I’m starved—”

You lightly squeeze the hand attached to the arm wrapped around your shoulder, pulling you away. You don’t need to say anything for Satoru to understand. He scowls, throwing Fushiguro-sensei an annoyed look.

Suguru grabs one arm, Shoko the other. As Satoru is dragged away, you hear Shoko say: “Suguru’s been propositioned.”

Satoru splutters out a what!? It’s been four hours!

Fushiguro-sensei exhales, looking around the compound with a guarded expression. “I never thought I’d be back here.”

Megumi grips your hand tightly. “What do you want?” His usual toneless style of speaking sounds tighter.

Fushiguro-sensei stares at his son, as if seeing him with new eyes. “You’re bigger,” he says hoarsely. “Taller.”

Megumi glares at the ground.

“I wasn’t sure you were coming.” You hadn’t expected it, to say the least. Fushiguro-sensei looks…tired. The rough edges of his usual expression have lessened, replaced with a bone deep weariness. There are nothing but bad memories here, and you can see it in his eyes. He loathes this place.

“Someone said I should fight for my kids.” He slides his hands into the pockets of his windbreaker. “‘Sides, it’s impossible for me to lose any more face around here. Might as well burn any final bridges.”

“Did Naobito-sama give you any trouble?”

That earns a snort. “‘Course he did. Raised a ruckus about a Gojo intervening in Zenin affairs. Loverboy sure didn’t do himself any favors with the Zenin’s, that’s for sure.”

You aren’t worried. “Satoru will be fine.” You’ll thank him long and hard later.

The two of you fall into silence. You gently squeeze Megumi’s hand in your as he stares intently at the ground.

Fushiguro-sensei inhales, exhales, and then drops down. His jaw works, looking for the words.

“I’m sorry, Megumi.” The words are rough in a way that tells you that I’m sorry are words that had long been discarded from his vocabulary.

“...You didn’t come back. You never came back. You abandoned us.” Megumi squeezes your hand.

“I did,” Fushiguro-sensei accepts. “I’m not going to give you excuses. You don’t have to forgive me.” A wry, self-deprecating smile. “I’m sure my word means nothing to you by now either.”

“It doesn’t.” Megumi sniffles. You try not to look.

“Yeah,” Fushiguro-sense sighs, rubbing his neck. “I bet.”

The three of you start towards leaving the sprawling compound, and as you navigate through corridors and doors and rooms that all look alike, the estate is surprisingly empty. The Zenin estate is beautiful, but it’s a cruel beauty, hiding secrets and whispers of bloodshed. If it bothers your sensei, then he doesn’t show it. He moves with purpose, light, quiet steps guided by muscle memory.

You hope this is the last Megumi ever sees of the Zenin compound, even though you know it’s unlikely. In the end Megumi is inextricably linked to the future of the Zenin clan. A hard truth to digest.

“Do you want to go home with your dad?” You ask with a small smile when you reach outside at last, standing in the street. The sun is already setting, streaking the sky in orange and indigo. “Tsumiki’s at home waiting for you.”

Megumi nods. You give his hand one final squeeze before he slips away.

The boy reluctantly goes to stand next to his father. When you move to turn towards the direction of the bus stop, Fushiguro-sensei stops you.

“Hey kid. Thanks.”

“It wasn’t for you.” You hold his gaze and smile. To Megumi, you say: “I’ll drop by tomorrow, okay?”

He makes a noise of affirmation. As the two start to walk away, you think of walking home from school with your father, back to your mother, hands entwined. You hadn’t known what it meant to be alone, back then. Back then, you had been loved.

You don’t know if you can relearn what it means. You don’t know if you know how.

Fushiguro-sensei had come back though, hadn’t he? In the end he had fought the best he could.

Your father had…given up.

“About time!” Satoru exclaims from behind you.

When you look up to see Satoru, Suguru, and Shoko, you’re crying. Satoru gapes while Suguru pales. Shoko wraps her arms around you. You lean into her, burying your face into her neck as you sob. Your chest cracks open, aching in the wake of memories you had never wanted to remember.

“I wish,” you choke out, “I wish he had fought for me too.” Your words are incomprehensible, barely coherent. Your heart is in shambles, and now, only the truth remains.

You wish…you wish your father had fought for you too. You wish he had thought you important enough to fight for. That he had loved you enough to do it. You had seen the devastation loving your mother had wrought in her death, and you were terrified of inflicting that on anyone else.

It had always hurt too much to think about it. But now, surrounded by the people you love the most, it hurts a little less. You think you are crying for the child you had once been.

Shoko pats your head and rubs your back. To Satoru and Suguru she mutters, “stop hovering.”

When you quiet down, your eyes are red and sore.

“Everything alright?”

You make a noise, nodding. You’re embarrassed as you pull away, face warm. “I’m sorry.” You don’t remember crying so much in your life. It feels as if the events of the past months have taken their toll. You’re exhausted. Now that Megumi is safe, you feel like you can finally breathe.

You stand back a little unsteadily, swaying.

“I—”

You black out.

—————

Two Weeks Later:

“A refill?”

“Please.”

Fushiguro-sensei eyes the special glass pitcher reserved just for you in Marie’s hands like it’s a bomb. “Maybe slow it down a bit,” he chortles. “You’ll kill the girl with that shit you call booze.”

You down the remainder of the mug in a single swig and push it forward. “Please!”

“Who am I to refuse my best customer?” Marie says, red lips curving into a grin. Today she’s wearing a silk emerald dress that shimmers in the light and moves like smooth liquid on her figure. “You’ve been replaced, Toji.”

He shakes his head. “You can deal with the two lovesick fools who’ll turn me into minced meat if she gets drunk off her ass again.”

“Oh?” Marie looks intrigued as she refills your mug. “It’s like that?”

He nods. “It’s like that.”

She throws back her head and laughs, circling around the bar counter to greet a drunk customer at the entrance. She pats your shoulder and Fushiguro-sensei’s in a quick goodbye.

When she leaves, you frown. “I’m no lightweight.” It’s true. While you couldn’t outdrink Shoko (nobody could), you think you could outdrink Suguru if you really tried. Satoru on the other hand… “Satoru’s the lightweight.”

That piques Fushiguro-sensei’s interest. “Who would’ve thought. The Six Eyes brat can’t hold his liquor.”

Satoru prefers soda. Juice. Sweet things. He’s never been one for alcohol. When Satoru is drunk, he gets touchy and stubborn, insistent on all the things that have never been denied to him. Like the spoiled rotten child he had claimed himself to have been. He’ll demand your attention, talk your ear off, and fall asleep in your bed. Even if you move him to his own bed, you’ll be woken up by Satoru clambering into yours like it’s his own.

“Speaking of,” Fushiguro-sensei says, “where are your guard dogs? They finally letting you out of their sight?”

The day after Megumi had returned home, Fushiguro-sensei had been reinstated as a teacher on the campus. You had missed class for a week because Shoko had declared you unfit to do anything but laze around and sleep.

“Guard dogs…” you repeat. You guess that’s what it had been like. You had fainted that day, and woke up three days later, feeling better than you ever have in the eighteen years of your existence. “They’re just worried.”

Besides, it wasn’t as if you needed Satoru or Suguru’s permission to leave the premises. It wasn’t as if they would’ve stopped you had they been at the campus instead of in Chiba.

Fushiguro-sensei acutely eyes you. “They don’t know you’re here, do they?”

You lift the mug to your lips, averting your gaze. “I told them I was going to the apartment,” you mumble. It wasn’t a lie. You did stop by the apartment earlier with dinner for Megumi and Tsumiki and Fushiguro-sensei. After Megumi and Tsumiki had gone to sleep, you had decided to drop by the host club with Fushiguro-sensei to see Marie. Then one drink had turned into two and then three and then there had been a large pitcher and you had lost count.

Which brought you to the reason you had needed a drink in the first place. You take a long drink.

“I’m in trouble Fushiguro-sensei.”

He raises an eyebrow.

You feel miserable just thinking about it. “I lied. To Satoru and Suguru.” You deflate, gripping the glass tightly. “Satoru asked me to break up with my boyfriend. But I don’t have a boyfriend.” You blurt out.

Fushiguro-sensei stares at you. “Start from the beginning.”

It spills out before you can help it. You tell him about meeting Megumi and Tsumiki in secret, the misunderstandings, Satoru and Suguru’s overreactions, telling Shoko the truth, Satoru's favor. When you’re done, you heave a breath and close your eyes.

“The truth is…” you say gravely. “I’m so embarrassed I could die.” You bury your face in your hands.

The utter disbelief on Fushiguro-sensei’s face transforms until he’s laughing so hard he nearly falls off his seat.

“It’s not funny,” you’re completely serious. “I’m terrified of telling them the truth.”

“You shouldn’t,” Fushiguro-sensei replies, fixing himself upright and wiping away a tear. “They’ll probably be a lot of things, but mad won’t be one of them.”

You eye him suspiciously. “How do you know?”

He shoots you a lazy smile. “Gotta say kid, didn’t think ya had it in you.”

“...I didn’t think…they’d take it so seriously…” At times you envy Satoru and Suguru’s decisiveness. You wish you could have a little of their courage.

You might’ve said something out loud, because Fushiguro-sensei looks thoroughly amused.

“Courage, huh.”

“When they put their minds to it, I don’t think there’s anything they can’t do.” You mean it.

Fushiguro-sensei looks seconds away from breaking into laughter all over again. You take a little offense to that.

He only brushes off the look on your face with a slant of his lips and a chuckle on his breath as he says, “I can name something.”

“What’s tha—”

“Never mind that,” he takes the pitcher and refills your cup. “Drink up.”

Comfortable silence reigns, background noise taking control of the conversation. You stare down at the pale liquid, swirling it around in your mug.

“Suguru was proposed to.” You’re just making conversation.

“Interesting.”

“Shoko said the Zenin’s want him to join the clan.” Through marriage.

“There’s very little the Zenin’s value over bloodline,” he drawls. “Cursed techniques happen to be one of them.”

And Suguru happened to have a very valuable one. Would Shoko get marriage requests too? There were only so many reverse cursed technique users. You knew Satoru had been asked to various omiai’s, set up by various clans and his own—all of which he dutifully avoided like the plague.

Fushiguro-sensei leans back in his chair. “Bothered?”

You snap back to reality, blinking.

There’s a smirk on his face that you don’t understand.

“I am,” you say slowly, sincerely. “I don’t want Shoko to get married yet.” You fiddle with the condensation of the glass. “But that’s just me being selfish.”

The idea of marriage is something you’ve never really had to contend with. You can’t imagine getting married. You had forgotten that for many others your age, for normal people, marriage is just the next step in life. A natural progression.

Shoko is one thing. Satoru and Suguru are another. People would expect Satoru to get married, to settle down, to have kids. What Satoru actually wants is another thing altogether. Suguru would be a good father. You can imagine Suguru with children.

Deep in your thoughts, you don’t notice Fushiguro-sensei waving someone over.

Arms wrap around your neck, soft lilac hitting your nose along with the scent of a freshly smoked cigarette. You squeeze Shoko’s wrist, looking up at her.

“I didn’t know you finished your shift early today,” you say, delighted.

She’s still in her lab coat, drawing curious gazes from businessmen as she slides into the unoccupied seat to the other side of you.

“There’s only so much work I can do,” she replies dryly, finishing off the rest of your drink. She makes a face. “Soon, I’ll be the corpse.” She regards the man next to you. “So, Fushiguro-sensei, what’s up with you bringing underage girls to hostess clubs?”

He snorts. “There’s a host club next door if that’s more your style.”

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” Dry amusement. “What do the two of you talk about?”

You think. “Horse racing.”

“The weather.”

“Megumi and Tsumiki.”

“My annoying students.”

“My love life.”

“Her love life.”

Shoko says plainly: “You haven’t told Satoru and Suguru yet, have you.”

You choke on your spit. “No.”

“Thought so.” She eyes you, discerning. “What was Satoru’s favor?”

You almost fall off your chair, although that may just be the alcohol. You hadn’t told her about what Satoru had asked of you in return, or that he had even asked one of you in the first place, and the embarrassment comes flooding back. “I— How did you—”

She waves you off. “He’s not that altruistic. Let me guess. Something like: break it off with your boyfriend?”

You close your mouth, feeling your face warm. You nod.

“Christ.” And then Fushiguro-sensei is laughing all over again.

—————

You’ve gone to the washroom to sober up when Fushiguro-sensei turns his gaze to her.

“If you had to choose…”

“Neither,” Shoko says immediately.

Fushiguro-sensei doesn’t believe her. “Everyone has favorites. Just like every mother has a favorite child and the one she wishes was never born.”

“Speaking from experience?”

He simply smiles.

“ Truthfully,” she stresses. “Neither.”

Neither Satoru nor Suguru deserve you, she thinks. You deserve someone nice, gentle, and understanding. Maybe even a little timid. Someone who matches your temperament. Someone that would love you with patience, in a way that would heal the scars on your battered heart.

Satoru is too rough and too demanding in a way that only you and Suguru would indulge. Suguru can pretend to play as a gentleman all he wants, but in the end he can be just as selfish as Satoru, with the potential to be even more unreasonable. Unfaltering in some justifiable way he’s cooked up in his head.

It’s all made even worse by your inability to say no. You would do anything to make them happy, and it only feeds their entitlement.

You are the kind of person that thinks that Satoru asking you to break up with your boyfriend (imaginary or not) is a reasonable favor to be asked, and Satoru is all too cognizant of it.

You aren’t gullible. Just extremely shortsighted when it comes to certain people. An implacable faith in the people you love. It often works to your detriment. You deserve a peaceful life, out by the country, where you can live out your years unbothered and surrounded by all the things that have caught your fascination.

“There was a boy,” she starts. “Our Kyoto Goodwill event last year.”

He had been some heir to a minor clan who had, like everyone else in the team battle, balked at Satoru’s and Suguru’s strength. Shoko doesn’t even remember his name, but she does remember that he liked you in a blushing, tongue-tied way. She watched the two of you from the rooftop of the school building, a cigarette in hand, when he had worked up the nerve to approach you. She had been smiling at your own endearingly awkward attempt to make conversation.

She wanted that for you, to meet new people. It was good for you to expand your tiny, insular circle.

Fushiguro-sensei is quick to understand. “Scared him off, did they?”

He hadn’t lasted a day.

Shoko only sighs. She needs a smoke.

When you come out, you’re sober enough. You wave goodbye to Marie and Fushiguro-sensei and tell him you’ll be around the apartment on the weekend.

It’s dark out when the two of you depart. Late enough that the main crowd has thinned and you can comfortably walk. You’re smiling brightly, the two of you shoulder to shoulder as you walk.

“Shoko,” you say, breath misting over with frost. Your eyes are bright with the strung lights and flashing billboards of the night. “You know I love you, right?”

When you say it so sincerely, so genuinely, it makes it hard to doubt you. One doesn’t have to wonder twice about why Satoru and Suguru are both lost causes when it comes to you.

It's a disaster in the making. Because truthfully the two of them are not fit to be in relationships with anybody but each other.

“Mhm. Of course.” She leans into you. “As long as you don’t forget me in favor of those two knuckleheads.”

You are distraught. “I’d never forget you.” You stare ahead, eyes almost unfocused. “Satoru and Suguru have each other. Just like we do,” you say plainly. After a few seconds, you bite your lip, looking embarrassed. “I plan on being by your side forever…if…if you’ll have me.”

“Is that a marriage proposal?” She teases.

You fluster, and Shoko laughs. She winds her fingers through yours, and squeezes tight.

A/N:

-this is literally 19k words of rip!mc working through her daddy issues by projecting onto megumi and HIS daddy issues, crying every other day, and dissociating through traumatic repressed memories all while toji plays the deadbeat father. it was ORIGINALLY supposed to be lighthearted with riko playing a much bigger role but then i went fuck it let's bring out all the daddy issues and it spiraled. are the daddy issues completely resolved? no way. but it's a step in the right direction. that's really all you can hope for.

-gojo: it will NEVER work out. (implied: with a civilian. But it WILL work out with me and suguru.)

-shoko ending because i say so <3

#jjk !!#amazing writing op i was so invested #literally sucked into the world you built #also in love with the way you characterised satoru and esp!! suguru #and also loved that shoko was so involved in this #fic recs !!

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anseoo · 1 year

Text

lover be good to me: part two

You meet Kita Shinsuke on a rainy summer day, with a sea of hydrangeas swirling at your feet. You know him instantly, as only a soulmate can. He seems like a good man. Like a good soulmate.

But it’s your wedding day.

minors and ageless blogs do not interact.

<- part one - part three ->

pairings: kita shinsuke x f!reader, oc x f!reader

notes: and part two is here! i am once again so excited to be able to share this fic with y'all. thank you again to everyone who has sat thru me yelling at them about this fic—it means the world!

title and part title are from hozier’s “be” and “nfwmb”

tags for this part (contains spoilers for fic): soulmate au (first words), this is a very reader-centric story, slow burn, pining, hurt/comfort, reader and kita are implied to be around their 30s, non-graphic partner death (not kita), anxiety, borderline panic attack, food consumption, love as a choice.

wc: 16k

Shinsuke almost catches you.

You’re still whirling around to run, a jewelry box ballerina wobbling in place, desperate to stay on her feet, when his fingers graze your wrist. They’re warm. Callused. They trace along the delicate skin there, sending sparks skittering beneath your skin.

His fingers flex, start to close around your wrist.

But they don’t.

They fall away until there’s only the ghost of him lingering on your skin. He speaks, too, his steady voice almost pleading, but your thrumming heartbeat is filling your ears, echoing inside you, a wild hymn of instinct.

His touch falls away, and you’re through the shoji before you realize where you’ve gone. You whip past your friends, their shocked expressions blurring at the edges like watercolors, and into the hallway.

It hurts to breathe.

You dart into one of the shrine’s empty tea rooms, chest heaving. You slam the shoji shut behind you and sink to the floor, your shiromuku pooling around you, gleaming like moonlight in the dim. You knot your fingers in the fabric. Your fingertips brush over the heavy embroidery, over the graceful sweep of a crane’s wing, and your grip tightens.

Your chest aches, a bruise of a thing, the red string of fate wound fast around you, your ribs its spindle, cinching tighter with each passing moment. The world wavers.

You come back to yourself on the other side of the room. You’ve shed your shiromuku; it’s in the middle of the room, an empty husk, a cocoon broken open too early. Your next breath is shaky.

Faintly, you can hear people rushing through the hallway. Their voices wash over you like waves on a distant shore. You bury your face in your hands.

You don’t look up when the door opens. Abe and Yoshikawa have always been able to find you, no matter where you hide.

The door shuts, and then—

“Hi,” Takao says.

You go stiff.

“Hi,” you say, refusing to look up.

You feel Takao settle next to you; the fabric of his kimono is soft against you. He sets his hand on your knee. He’s warm, as always. It’s the soft heat of freshly washed sheets, of the spring sun’s tender touch. You curl into him.

It feels like home.

Quiet falls. It settles between the two of you like the night, a shroud of your own making. Takao leans back. He sighs; it sounds like it comes from between the gaps in his ribs, from the very depths of him.

It sounds like saying goodbye.

“Please don’t leave me,” you say, and you sound small even to yourself.

“I think that’s my line.”

You wonder if the words taste as bitter as they sound. If they linger sour on his tongue. Takao seems to realize it at the same moment, but he doesn’t apologize, and you don’t ask him to.

“I’m not going to leave you,” you say.

He hums skeptically, low and resonant, and it chips away at your bones, scrapes you down to your very marrow.

“I’m not,” you insist, low and desperate. You barely recognize yourself. But you want to keep Takao, to keep this man you’ve spent years learning, spent years loving. Leaving him would carve you open, and Kita may be your soulmate, but even the most careful stitches can’t always keep a wound shut. “We said it didn’t matter.”

“We did,” he says. “But I think it might.”

“He’s a stranger, Aoshi,” you say. “I don’t know him, not the way I know you. Not the way I love you.”

“It’s different, though, isn’t it?” he asks. “With soulmates.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“But it is.”

You swallow down the sob.

He shifts next to you, giving you more space to curl into him. You take it, burrowing into his side and pressing your face against the soft fabric of his haori. He sighs.

“Do you feel—” he starts. You can feel the way the words rumble in his chest. He stops and runs a hand through his hair; he blows out a big breath. “Do you feel connected to him?”

You bite at your bottom lip. You remember Shinsuke in the sea of silken hydrangeas, the deep blue of them eddying around his legs like the tide as he moved through them. You think of how your eyes had caught on him then. How his companion had faded into the background.

How well you’d known the taste of his name on your tongue.

“I don’t know,” you say.

“Yes, then.”

“I don’t know, Aoshi,” you snap. “I don’t know anything except that we were supposed to get married today and now it’s all—”

“Fucked,” he says when you trail off. “It’s all fucked.”

You nod, sniffling miserably.

“I think we need some space,” he says.

“From?”

“Each other.”

You pull away from him.

“What?”

“I think we need some space from each other,” he repeats. He’s not looking at you, his dark eyes focused straight ahead, as if he can see through the shoji and find all the answers right there.

You want to shake him.

“I don’t need space from you,” you bite out. “I need you.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Fine,” he says. “I need space from you.”

“Aoshi, what? Please, I don’t understand.”

He blinks. His eyelashes are wet; they’re clumping together. There’s a stray one caught on his cheek like a dandelion seed. You catch yourself before you reach for it.

“You have a choice to make,” he says. “And I don’t think I can watch you do it.”

“My choice is you!”

He looks at you, then. He looks at you, his eyes night-sky dark, and there is something terribly tender to him when he says, “I don’t think you know that yet.”

You sob.

It’s pulled from somewhere deep inside you, an animal sound that you didn’t know you were capable of making, something that lives behind your bones. It guts you, that sob, flays you open from neck to navel.

Takao sucks in a sharp breath. His hand flexes by his side. You sob again, softer this time, but no less wounded for it.

“You’re not being fair,” you tell him.

“Neither are you.”

You grit your teeth, wondering if there’s such a thing as fairness, in a moment like this. You think it’s unlikely.

“You don’t get to make my choice for me,” you snap.

“There are no choices being made today,” says a new voice, and you close your eyes as your mother’s perfume wafts around you. She smells of summer irises and the honeyed earth of saffron, and you breathe her in as she gathers you into her arms.

You curl up into her, a child once more, and start to cry in earnest.

“Go,” she says to Takao. If she says anything else, you can’t hear it over your own sobs, over the great, gasping breaths wracking your body.

You feel Takao leave, the warmth of him fading away, and it takes everything you have to not reach out to him. You sob again, choking on his name.

“Oh, tadpole,” your mother says. She presses a kiss to your temple. “Let him go for now.”

“I’m supposed to be getting married,” you tell her.

“I know, tadpole.”

“Why is this happening?”

She cradles you close. “I wish I knew.”

“You said—”

“I know.”

“Mama,” you murmur. “Mama, what do I do?”

“I don’t know, tadpole,” she says, and you feel one of her hands shift to press against her stomach, to cradle her own soulmark’s blackened kanji. “I don’t know.”

You turn your face into the crook of her neck and cry all over again.

She hums to you, soft and soothing, but lets you cry your fill. She pets at your back, her strong hand firm, keeping you grounded in your own skin.

Your sobs have just started to abate when the phone rings.

It cuts through the heavy air of the tearoom like a knife. Both of you jolt with it, and you furrow your brow. It’s a classic ringtone, the one all phones come with, and you immediately know whose phone it is.

You push yourself up and out of your mother’s arms, glancing to where your shiromuku still lays, a collapsed chrysalis. You chew on your lower lip, but go to it, kneeling in front of the beautiful fabric and picking it up carefully until you can see Shinsuke’s utilitarian flip phone. It jingles, the ringtone continuing, and you reach for it with trembling fingers.

Miya Osamu, the lit screen reads.

You sit with the phone cupped softly in your hands, your pulse thrumming. You trace a finger over the edge of it.

You flip it open before you can convince yourself otherwise.

“Hello?” you ask.

“You picked up,” Shinsuke says.

You suck in a sharp breath. You had known, but it’s so different, hearing his voice. The steadiness of it, even though the edges of it sound worn down.

“I did.”

“I wasn’t sure you would.”

“Me neither,” you confess.

“Are you alright?”

You close your eyes. This would all be so much easier if he wasn’t good. But you know he is—you can hear it in his voice, in how earnestly he asks.

“Not really,” you say. The least you can do is give him the truth. “I assume you need your phone back?”

He goes quiet. You listen to him breathe, and something in you aches, like a healing bruise being pressed. You wish you were better, that you were kinder, that you could handle this with grace instead of inelegantly side-stepping it.

“Yes,” he says. “And I’d like to talk.”

You bite your lip. “Yeah,” you say. “We probably should.”

The two of you agree to meet in the tearoom in thirty minutes. Which is good, because even with your shiromuku shed, the kimono you wear is clearly wedding garb. It’s beautiful in its simplicity, stark white and painstakingly stitched, and you desperately need to be out of it.

It’s your mother who helps you disrobe, her fingers careful as she unwraps the pristine obi, the gossamer fabric as delicate as a spider’s web, gleaming in the low light of the room. You stare out the window as the attendant takes it and folds it up for storage. She’s glancing at you occasionally, her dark eyes wide, and you wonder what she’ll tell the people she knows. How she’ll spin the story of your misfortune. If she will tell it as a blessing instead.

The obi is followed by the kimono itself, slipping from your shoulders like water, and your mother brushes a hand against your cheek before she hands you your street clothing. She and the attendant leave you to remove the rest yourself. You leave the nagajuban pooled on the floor as you dress.

Once you’re dressed, you wander over to your kimono, carefully hung next to your shiromuku. The attendant has smoothed most of the wrinkles from the silk, and you trace a finger over the long lines of it.

You wonder if you’ll ever get to wear it again.

By the time the attendant returns to retrieve the garments, you’re sitting by the window, staring out into the pouring rain. The lush plants of the courtyard—heavy, ruffled ferns with massive fronds and vining shrubs with blossoms like little stars dotted between verdant leaves—sway under its touch, dancing to a tune that only nature knows.

Behind you, the shoji clicks open and shut.

You turn around.

Shinsuke gives you a soft smile. It’s wan, but there’s still a sweetness to it, somehow. His hat is gone; his gray hair gleams silver in the light, the black tips all the darker for it, and you think again of thunderclouds.

“You’ve been crying,” he says, his brow furrowed, and that almost sends you into a fresh wave of tears.

You let out a watery laugh. “A bit,” you admit. “It’s fine, though.”

He watches you, those vulpine eyes shining. He clearly doesn’t agree.

“Here,” you say, reaching out. “Your phone.”

He moves closer and takes it from you with quiet thanks. He lingers there, and you bite your bottom lip, trying to figure out what to even say to him.

“I’m sorry for running,” you say.

He smiles, soft and sad. “I understand.”

“I just—I don’t even know where to start.”

“That’s alright,” he says calmly. “We have time.”

We. He says it so easily. Your stomach roils.

“I can’t,” you say. “I can’t do this.”

Shinsuke’s expression doesn’t change, but he’s different, suddenly, like a guttering flame finally blowing out. You swallow down a sob.

“I understand if you need space,” he says. It’s barely there, a wisp of a thing, but there’s pain in his voice. “I know this isn’t easy.”

Your laugh is wild at the edges, an unraveling stitch. “If we’d met an hour later, I would have been married.”

His fingers flex.

“I just—” you catch yourself as your voice cracks. Your lips are tingling; you bite down on the bottom one to make it stop. “I can’t do this right now. Please. Shinsuke, please.”

The tilt of his lips is edged with sorrow. “It’s fine,” he tells you. “We’ll trade phone numbers for now.”

“Thank you,” you whisper. “Thank you.”

He nods. You trade phones, his fingers sweeping over your palm. They’re callused, rough against your skin, and you feel the ghost of them long after he’s drawn back. When you take your phone back, you’re careful to keep from touching him.

Kita Shinsuke, his contact reads, and you can’t help saying it aloud, letting your tongue roll over each inch of his full name, now that you know it.

Shinsuke—no, you think, he’s Kita, stranger that he is to you—smiles. He says your name too, his voice soft like the spring sun. Your stomach churns.

“Thanks,” you say, drawing back into yourself, curling up like a fern frond. “We’ll—we’ll talk soon.”

He looks like he wants to say something else, but he must see something in your face, because he simply nods. There’s something you can’t quite understand tucked up secret in the corner of his mouth.

“Alright,” he says. “Soon.”

He glances back at you once, just before he disappears into the hallway.

The shoji has barely clicked shut behind him when it’s opened again, and Abe and Yoshikawa tumble into the room. They sweep you into their arms without a word and your knees give out. They cradle you as they lower you to the floor, and Yoshikawa hums quietly as you knot your fingers in their kimonos.

“C’mon,” Abe says, the gentlest you’ve ever heard her. “Let’s get you home.”

“Aoshi’s not there,” you sob.

Yoshikawa’s grip tightens.

“That’s fine,” she says, as steady as the sun’s rise, “because we will be.”

***

You wake to sunlight streaming in through your window. It cradles you like a lover, plays gently over your face, and you wrinkle your nose.

“Aoshi,” you grumble, “you forgot to close the curtains last night.”

There’s no response.

You crack an eye open, peering to the other side of the bed, only to find it empty. When you press your hand against the worn cotton sheet, it’s cold.

It all comes pouring back in, a riptide of memories, washing over you like a stormy sea.

“Oh,” you say quietly, curling up so that your knees are pressed against your chest. You blink back the tears. “Right.”

The sunlight thickens, pools like molten gold around you, and you turn your face up to it, a winter flower searching for warmth. You don’t know how long you stay like that; you’re only roused by the faint sound of clattering in the kitchen, followed by the purr of your coffee maker. The scent of it fills the house, and you put on your house slippers.

When you enter the kitchen, your father is snipping away at your neglected bonsai, trimming the needles back with careful, sure hands. He glances up at you.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hi,” he says. “You’re terrible at taking care of this.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, putting down the pruning shears. “Did you sleep?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Good.”

“Yeah,” you say, and quiet falls.

His lips have a faint downward tilt as he watches you, like a waning moon, and he sighs, thumbing at the soil of the bonsai. There’s a flash of his soulmark, blackened into a charcoal smear, a gravestone all its own. Your eyes catch on it.

“Did you love your soulmate more?” you ask. “Was it better with her?”

“Oh, tadpole,” your father says. He comes over and takes your hand, squeezing it lightly. “It was different. Not better, not worse. Just different.”

“But did you love her more?”

“I loved her differently.”

“You keep saying that, but what does it mean?” you ask, pulling away from him. “Either you loved her more or you didn’t!”

He sighs. “It isn’t that easy,” he tells you.

“It is!”

“It isn’t, tadpole.”

“It has to be.”

“It’s not black and white when it comes to soulmates,” he says gently. “You know that.”

“I want it to be,” you whisper. “It’d be easier.”

“It would be,” he agrees. “It would be.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

He sighs. “You don’t have to know, not right this minute.”

“What if I never know?”

He hums, picking up the pruning shears again. He brushes a soft hand over the bonsai tree, tracing over a winding branch, his fingers reverent against the old bark. A few blue-green needles come loose, pattering down to the counter. He sets the pruning shears against a branch, and the blades flash, catching the light as they come together. He catches the little branch as it falls.

When he looks up, he looks right past you. You think of early morning mist, how it swallows a person down.

“You will,” he says.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. His gaze flickers to you, and when he smiles, it feels like something you aren’t meant to see.

The coffee pot gurgles. It breaks the spell, and your father’s smile warms at the edges, smoothing out the tender gash of his mouth.

“I made it the way you like it,” he says. “I thought you might need it.”

“Yeah,” you say. “I think I do.”

You’re halfway through your first cup when your mother emerges, already fully dressed for the day. She looks you over from head to toe, and her face softens, goes sweet at the edges.

“Did you sleep?” she asks.

You nod.

“Good.”

“Where are you going?” you ask.

“The shrine,” she says.

You wince.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Take care of what?”

“There’s a soulmate clause in the contract,” she says carefully. “They’re required to refund you. Mei is meeting me, though, and she thinks the clause is loosely worded enough that she can get them to hold a different day for you instead, if you’d like. It’ll likely be a less auspicious rokuyo day, but—”

“But if I marry Aoshi, it might be the best I can get.”

She nods. “At least you’ll have options.”

“I guess. Mei’s going?”

Mei is an old friend of your mother’s, and one of her prime sources for her study, a veritable treasure trove of data. She’s made for the courtroom, tiny and calm and whip-smart, and her grasp of soulmate law—tricky at the best of times, highly scrutinized as it is—is unparalleled.

“Yes,” she says. “We’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you.”

She comes over to you and cups your cheek. You lean into the touch, into the saffron scent lingering on her skin. “You aren’t alone, tadpole,” she murmurs.

You close your eyes. “I know.”

She pats your cheek lightly. “Good,” she says.

You miss her warmth when she pulls away.

She takes her purse from your father; they murmur to each other. Your father leans forward to press his forehead against hers and you look away.

The door clicks shut behind her, and your father starts to hum, low and off-key. The quiet, off-beat snick of the shears accompanies him. It’s like being a child all over again, and you settle into the hazy familiarity of it.

The morning stretches on. Yoshikawa and Abe appear during your second cup of coffee, and they drag you out to the new cafe you’ve been meaning to try. It’s a creperie filled with hazy pinks and soft greens, the warm air scented sweet. The three of you squish into a small booth as you have so many times before.

They keep you busy, plying you with sugary crepes dipped in rich, thick chocolate and decorated with fresh, perfectly red strawberries. They’re cut into little fans, pressed softly into the chocolate, almost like small flowers in the dough. The three of you peel them out of their paper cones, licking at your fingertips like little kids. You swap flavors, trading bite for bite.

You close your eyes as you reclaim your own crepe from Abe, sinking into the taste of it, letting the sugar wash everything away. Abe laughs, loud and bright, accompanied by the low purr of Yoshikawa’s voice. You let the sound of them encompass you and wonder how you ever got so lucky.

You check your phone as you leave the creperie. You bite at your cheek as your phone screen comes to life, Takao’s little smile carving out a piece of your heart. It’s an old photo, from when you first got together, and it’s still a favorite, even after all these years.

Abe takes your free hand and squeezes it softly. She doesn’t say anything, but then again, she doesn’t need to.

There’s still no message when you go home. Dusk is falling, the last fingers of sunlight playing across the horizon, and you hesitate on your own doorstep. Yoshikawa coaxes you inside with a firm hand on your back. When you glance back at her, her dark eyes are sharp but kind.

Once you’re inside, you can’t decide what is worse: Takao not being home, or the fact that he was. His favorite jacket is missing from the closet; his to-go mug isn’t by the coffee machine. One of the dresser drawers is still cracked open.

Yoshikawa and Abe talk to you, but you can’t quite hear them. They bundle you onto the couch and stay until late, when you finally shake the cobwebs from your thoughts. Abe bites her lip when you shoo them out the door, but she goes without a fight.

The house is quiet as you get ready for bed. The bed feels vast, too big for just you. You reach for your phone, perched carefully on the nightstand, untangling the charger from the trailing vines of the pothos it’s by so you can pull it closer. You squint against the brightness, texting Takao a simple good night.

He doesn’t reply.

You hadn’t known the living could haunt, but you go to sleep curled up around a ghost.

***

You go back to work.

There’s still days left of your soulmate leave, but you need the distraction. You ignore the quiet whispers and bury yourself beneath a new project. Caught up in your work, you float through the day, only coming up for air when your phone vibrates. You snatch it up each time, but it’s only stray notifications—a news alert; a pop-up saying that the recipe blog Yoshikawa likes updated; your IC card balance.

It’s never what you want it to be.

It carries on for two days; each day you wait for the ping of Takao’s text, but you receive nothing. On the second day, you wrap up your day late, staying behind to finish off a few notes on the new project. It’s not as if you have anything better to do.

The sun has set by the time you’re on your way home. The city has bloomed into a neon wonderland, little shocks of color blazing through the night. You watch a black cat scuttle across the sidewalk, its fur glinting fuschia from the nearby izakaya’s sign.

Your neighborhood is quieter, but it still has the hum of the city to it, a familiar song. There’s a sweet scent on the breeze, courtesy of the night-blooming flowers that coat the building next to yours. You trace your fingertips over a delicate petal. It’s silken against your skin, and you sigh, turning to your home before coming to a quick halt.

Golden light is slanting out your kitchen window. It pools warmly on the ground, and you suck in a harsh breath, almost running to your door. It opens with a click. You step inside and for a moment, the genkan looks undisturbed. But then you see Takao’s shoes tucked carefully into the getabako; his house slippers are missing. There’s a quiet rustle from the kitchen’s direction.

You slip off your shoes and drop your bag into its place.

“Hello?” you call out, wincing at how timid you sound.

The rustling stops. It starts again, and Takao rounds the corner just a few seconds later.

“Hi,” he says shyly. “You’re home late.”

“Worked late,” you say. “You’re back.”

“I am.”

You’re across the room in seconds, and he wraps you up in his arms as you barrel into him. “Please stay,” you say, knotting the soft cotton of his shirt up in your fingers. You can feel the slow rise and fall of his chest. Something in you warms. “Please.”

He cups the nape of your neck, the warm span of his palm soft against the tender flesh there. You breathe him in, still nestled in tightly against him.

“You didn’t respond to me,” you murmur.

“I said I needed space.”

“It was just a good night text.”

“Let’s not do this,” he says.

Something in you wants to drag it out. To make him hurt the way you hurt. But you bite back on that part of you, swallow the poison down.

“Are you staying?”

He sighs and you go very, very still.

“I am.”

You slump into him with a sigh of relief. He cradles you close.

“You scared me,” you tell him.

“I know.”

“Don’t do it again.”

“I’ll try not to.”

“Good.”

“You know, this is what I was afraid of, all those years ago,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss against your hairline. “That I wouldn’t be able to let you go if your soulmate came. And that I’d have to worry about you leaving me.”

“How many times are you going to make me say it?” you ask, gritting your teeth. “I’ve told you, I’m not leaving you.”

“You might.”

“We’ve been together for years,” you say, pulling back so you can meet his dark eyes. “He’s a stranger. He wants an idea, not me. Not really. So no, I’m not.”

He sweeps his thumb over the apple of your cheek. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to.

You kiss him then, a featherlight brush of your lips that lasts for just a breath before you pull back. He cups your jaw and chases you. He kisses you again. Deeper, more solid. When he pulls back, you open your eyes and look at him.

“I’m not, Aoshi,” you say. “I know. Trust me.”

He watches you. His eyes remind you of a summer’s night, encompassing and pitch-black, but warm. Always warm. He searches your face, his gaze so intent that it feels physical.

He nods.

You let out a low, soft breath.

Now you have to talk to Kita.

***

It takes time.

Your work’s soulmate leave is generous, but Kita is at the whim of his farm. The rice paddies don’t care about soulmates nor do they pay attention to weekends. And devoted as he is, he heeds their call, nature his kindest mistress.

It makes you think of Toyooka. You know the song of the fields, the rustle of the rice in the countryside breeze, an age-old tune that’s sunk into the soil. This close to harvest, the verdant fields go Midas-touched, gilded with the sweetest hint of gold.

You wonder what Kita’s farm looks like. If it looks like the summers of your youth. If he sits on the engawa in the hot months, eating crisp watermelon down to the white bone of the rind, juice dripping sticky down his fingers. If the taste curls thick on his tongue, sweet with the countryside’s unique freedom.

He’d offered his farm as a meeting point early on, but without a car, it’s too far. It’s too personal as well. He’s sown into the soil there, living in each grain he’s tended to. You think his hands were kind against the rice shoots, his long, thick fingers careful as he planted them.

It’s too much, the idea of being surrounded by him.

Your home is out of the question, because it’s not just yours.

You couldn’t do that to Takao, not when he’s stitched into every seam of your home. He’s in every atom of it—the slight imprint of his form in the memory foam mattress; his toothbrush, half-flattened by how hard he brushes, tucked neatly into a cup by the sink; the photos that line the walls, a tapestry of silken years woven together.

It’s also the one thing Takao’s asked of you.

(“Don’t bring him here,” he says one night, his voice flat.

You pause in the middle of drying a dish. He holds out the next, still soaked to the point that it’s dripping on the floor, and you hurry to finish. It almost slips through your fingers when he lets it go.

“I wouldn’t,” you say fiercely, even though you’d thought about it for one brief second. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Okay.”

“Do you think I would do that to you?” you ask him, setting the dish onto the rack. He hands you another, and you take it without thought.

Takao blinks. He turns to look at you, and his expression is beautiful and terrible, a tender underbelly flayed open.

“No,” he says. “I don’t, not really. I just want this home to have always been ours. Just ours. I just—wanted to be sure, I guess.”

You reach out and cup his face, cradling it between your palms. “It is,” you tell him. “It’s just ours. It’ll always be ours.”

He considers you. “Good,” he says, and he catches your hand in his. He turns his head; he presses a kiss against your palm. It’s devout, that brush of softness from his lips against the ley lines of your skin, as if he’s an acolyte at your altar, laying offerings at your feet.

The two of you press together for a moment, the warmth of his lips searing through your skin to settle in your bones. You take up his hand and press your own kiss to the center of his palm. His eyes go half-mast, and you can feel his smile against your skin.

He pulls back. Squeezes your hand softly, and then he’s turning back to the sink, already reaching for another dish.

You stand there for a moment. Your hand has gone cold without the heat of his skin. You flex your fingers, trying to make sense of the dread creeping over you.

Takao glances at you. He smiles, sweet and fleeting, a dandelion tuft caught in the breeze. For a breath, you’re in high school again, gazing at a boy you’ve never spoken to but spent hours with, the two of you balanced on a precipice. And then the past fades, until you are left with who Takao is now. With who he has become to you.

You smile back, and then take the next plate he hands you.

It’s easy, after that. He washes, and you dry, a rhythm you’d know anywhere. Takao is swaying, humming along with the radio, and he laughs when you start to sway with him, your hips bumping each time.

He doesn’t bring Kita up again.)

With both your homes off-limits, you’re back to square one.

Finally, Kita decides to drive to you.

You choose a little coffee shop on the outskirts of the city, both to shorten the drive for Kita and for its familiarity, a cradle of comfort for a conversation you’ll never truly be ready to have.

It’s a charming place, more rustic than modern, with little wooden tables and shelves draped with plants, their lush vines hanging down behind the counter. It’s always warm, the sunlight streaking through the windows to paint the counters golden. The shop is studded with flowers, too, bright buds spilling over the lip of water pitchers in a froth of color. Coffee is heavy on the air, but a note of sweetness threads through it, a sugary bite of fruit. The pastries are made in-house, and you know they’re sinfully good, little melt-in-your mouth slices of heaven.

You’ve eaten three since getting here. You’re on your second drink, too, having gulped down the first one—scalding your tongue in the process—so quickly that even the barista had seemed surprised.

It’s your own fault, really—you were almost a full half hour early. With nothing to do but wait, you’re all tangled up in yourself.

The woman tapping away on her laptop in the corner pauses to eye you warily as you shred another napkin. You’d folded this one into a lopsided origami bird before beheading it. You send her a polite smile; she turns back to her laptop without a word.

You try to make another origami animal, but you can’t remember any other patterns. You could make an army of birds, you suppose, but after the fifth one, you run out of napkins. When you consider getting more, the look on the barista’s face keeps you in your seat. You slouch down into it, your cheeks warm.

You look up just as Kita enters, the little bell at the top of the door chiming quietly. He finds you instantly, his amber eyes settling on you as soon as he’s through the door. He smiles, warm like the spring sun, his eyes crinkling with it.

He’s as handsome as you remember, leanly muscled with broad shoulders and casually graceful as he walks to your table. In the cafe lighting, his gray hair goes silvery, bright against the black tips of it, and you think of a moon being eclipsed.

“Hello,” Kita says, holding out a hand when you start to get up. “S’fine, you don’t need to get up.”

“Oh,” you say, caught awkwardly between sitting and standing. A smile drifts across Kita’s face like a summer breeze, a quick, soothing thing. You cough and sit back down. “Hi.”

The two of you are quiet for a moment. He’s watching you, drinking you in, and his eyes remind you of a sunlit forest, of the way the sun’s rays drip down between the trees like honey. It aches, the way he looks at you. It’s soft and sure. Steady and open and earnest.

Kita looks at you like you help make the world make a little bit more sense.

His gaze flickers down to the tabletop, and that same small smile blooms on his lips.

You suddenly remember your mini-army of origami birds, including their headless leader. You fight the urge to close your eyes in mortification.

“You should order something,” you say, fidgeting with your cup. “Their coffee’s nice.”

“Alright. D’ya want another?” he asks. “I’ll get it for you.”

You shake your head. “No,” you say. “Thank you, though.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” you say, and he nods.

When he goes to the counter to order, you hurriedly sweep the remains of your shredded napkins away, wincing as they flutter into your purse. Some of them stick to your sweaty palms, and you rub them vigorously against your thighs until they curl up into little paper pearls. They patter to the ground quietly. You send out a quiet mental apology to the cafe workers.

“You alright?” Kita asks. He settles down across from you, and you envy his assuredness, how serene he looks.

You nod, not trusting your voice.

He eyes you for a moment, those golden eyes all too knowing. But he doesn’t say anything, choosing instead to wind his hands—lightly tanned and slender, with a constellation of small scars scattered over his skin—around his cup.

It’s tea, you think, the faintest hint of it reaching your nose, and it fits him in a way you can’t quite put into words. There’s a hint of a smile on his lips as he takes a small sip and you look away.

“I’m glad we could meet,” he says.

“Yeah,” you say, already wishing you had another napkin to shred. “I think it’s important to talk.”

“It is, but I just wanted to see you.”

He says it so simply. Kita speaks with the surety of the sun’s rise; he means every word he says. There’s a sweetness to him that could only come from earnesty. He leaves no room for doubt.

You break in the face of it.

“I can’t be with you,” you blurt out.

He goes still. The smile on his lips fades. “What?”

“I can’t be with you,” you repeat.

“We’re soulmates,” he says, and it’s the most rattled you’ve ever heard him. His fingers flex. He looks lost, those amber eyes hazy, and you think of the morning mist, how it swallows down the sun. There’s a tiny quiver to his lips.

“I know.”

“We’re supposed to be together,” he says.

You ache for him.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out. “But that’s not enough. I can’t leave him. I don’t want to leave him.”

Kita’s quiet. The silence stretches on. And then—

“You love ‘im,” he says softly.

You nod.

“You’re happy?”

You nod again.

Kita leans forward and cups your cheek. He skims his thumb over your cheekbone, a careful glide. It comes away wet, his skin salt-kissed, and you lean into his calloused palm.

He wipes away another tear. His touch has the same aching tenderness of a fresh, swollen bruise.

“Okay,” he says. “I can live with that.”

That quiet, easy capitulation makes it worse. You can see he means it; it’s reflected in his eyes. If you’re happy, that’s enough for him.

Your stomach hurts.

You sniffle, pulling away from his warm touch and wiping at your eyes. Your cheeks are hot, and they get hotter as you see a few people glancing your way. Kita lets out a slow, deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” you say, staring down at your coffee cup. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know.”

It’s not an “it’s okay,” but you suppose that would have been asking for a lot from him. You look at him from underneath your eyelashes, and find that his amber eyes are distant, like the sun at the very edge of the horizon.

You wonder where he’s gone, and then think that perhaps it’s best that you don’t know. You fidget with your cup. The porcelain of it scrapes against the table, and Kita’s eyes clear. Still, they’re not as keen as they usually are, and you shift in your seat. He takes in a soft breath, a whisper of a thing, and then his eyes flicker to you.

“I’d like to stay in contact with you,” he says.

You jolt, almost knocking your cup off the table. “What?”

“I would rather have you in my life.”

“Shin—Kita, that’s not fair to you.”

“Please call me Shinsuke.”

You ache for him, something bone deep, that no salve will help subside. “That’s exactly why this isn’t fair,” you say gently. “You’re going to want more than I can give you, and we both know it.”

“I know,” he says. His eyes are keen as they flicker over you; the tilt of his mouth makes you look away. “And I’m sorry. But I won’t ask anything of you, except for this.”

“Kita—”

His fingers flex, but he doesn’t correct you.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” you ask. Your hands are trembling; the words are sour on your tongue, the lemon tang of a promise that’s going to hurt.

“Yes,” he says, steady as stone.

You sigh. “Okay,” you say. “Okay.”

“Thank you.”

You nod, toying with a sugar packet as he sips at his tea. You fold and unfold the edge of the package, until the paper starts to wear thin, a few tiny crystals of sugar spilling loose to plink against the table.

The silence that falls is heavy, weighing you down like an anchor. There’s the quiet background noise of the cafe: the chatter of the barista and other customers, the soft tinkle of the bell as someone else enters, the hiss and purr of the espresso machine, but it seems distant.

“I’m gonna go,” you say abruptly. “I think that’s for the best.”

You’re already starting to gather up your things when Kita stands. “It’s okay,” he says. “You should stay. I need to be gettin’ back to the farm anyway.”

“You just got here,” you say helplessly. “You drove all this way.”

He glances at you. His expression is complicated; you can’t quite parse it.

“I drove here for you,” he says gently.

You open your mouth and close it again, a koi-like gape. You sit down slowly, settling into the booth again. He picks up his cup of tea—still piping hot, little wisps of steam rising from it like smoke—and gives you a little smile that doesn’t quite reach his striking eyes.

“Get home safe,” he says.

“You too,” you say faintly.

You watch him leave, the way each of his steps is steady and sure. You don’t think you’ve ever known someone so at home in their own skin. But there’s a curve to his shoulders now, the broad width of them collapsed inward. It’s minute, but it’s there, and your stomach roils again, a sour brew of emotion welling up in you.

He pauses to ask the barista something; she gives him a to-go cup and watches as he carefully pours his tea into it. He hands back the other cup with a little nod of his head.

The cafe door clicks shut behind him, bell chiming, a clear, porcelain sound that cuts through the chatter of the cafe. You resist the urge to bury your face in your hands, choosing instead to look down into your nearly-empty cup. The dregs of it are dark, and you wonder if your future is written out in them.

You blow out a soft breath and scrub at your face with your hands. When you glance up, the barista is carefully not looking your way. To avoid seeing the way her lips have twisted, you glance out the window, into the haze of the mid-morning sun, still spilling golden over the tiny parking lot. You immediately balk.

Kita’s still there.

He’s in his truck, half-hidden by the glare of sun against the windows, but you know it’s him. You can’t see his eyes, but you can tell he’s staring straight ahead. His mouth is a thin, tight line. You chew on your lower lip.

One hand comes up to scour beneath his eyes. It comes away with a wet sheen catching the sunlight and shining bright. You wince, glancing away.

You stare down into your coffee cup again. When you down the last of it, the dregs of it, it’s sharp and bitter on your tongue.

It almost erases the heavy, metallic tang of guilt.

Almost.

***

Your phone pings.

You grab it without looking away from your monitor, typing in your passcode one-handed as you mutter the last line of the email to yourself. You flick the notification to pull up the text without checking the name and pause.

It’s a picture of the rice fields, rippling in the breeze like a current, the stalks going gilded as harvest draws closer. Beyond the sea of them, there are rolling hills of green, with only a few power structures—standing tall on their metal legs as they reach into the sky—to mark a human presence. It’s all framed by the bluest sky you’ve ever seen, filled with puffy white clouds that you think are likely being whisked along by the breeze.

It’s so vivid you can almost smell the fresh air.

There’s also only one person that could have sent it to you.

Trying to keep in contact with Kita has been an exercise in awkwardness. You feel bad, but you’re trying to figure out how to temper it, since you’re caught between what you know he wants and what you’re capable of giving him.

To his credit, Kita never pushes. You suspect that he prefers calling—he seems the type—but he mainly texts, following your lead.

(“I feel like I owe him this much,” you tell Takao one night, when Kita has texted you while the two of you are curled up on the couch watching a movie.

“I don’t think you owe anyone anything,” he says, but he never asks you to stop.)

There’s still a hint of stilted awkwardness to it, but it has gotten better than it was.

It’s stunning, you text back. It reminds me of summers in Toyooka.

He doesn’t reply until dusk is settling, but that’s not unusual, considering how diligent he is with his farm. You reply quickly, bored with the TV show you’ve been watching as you wait for Takao to pick up dinner, and the two of you fall into conversation.

He asks about Toyooka and you tell him. You tell him about catching summer fireflies and playing in the fields with Abe. You’re about to tell him about Abe’s duckling that followed her everywhere one summer when you realize exactly how long of a paragraph you’re sending.

Before you can second guess yourself, you delete the paragraph and send a different message: I think this might be easier as a call.

I’d like that, Kita replies.

You hit call, knowing you’ll balk if you give yourself time to think.

He picks up instantly.

“Hello,” he says.

“Hi,” you say, a little awkwardly. “How are you?”

He chuckles, but it’s kind. “I’m good,” he says. “How are you?”

“I’m good.”

“That’s good,” he says. Silence falls for a moment. It’s not a comfortable one, and Kita shatters it by saying: “You were talking about your summers in Toyooka?”

“Yes,” you say, and you launch into the tale of Duck (“She named the duckling Duck?” “We were six.”) and how he’d followed Abe through the sea of paddies, all the way up to the genkan of the rented house each and every day.

Kita’s a good listener. He seems happy to let you chatter away. He asks questions here and there, and tells a few stories of his own, but mostly he’s quiet, just the soft whisper of his breath echoing on the line.

The two of you talk until you hear the door to the house open. Takao calls out a greeting, a familiar song, and you call one out in return. Rustling accompanies him and the faint scent of spices starts to waft into the living room.

“I should go,” you say into the phone. “Dinner’s here.”

“Alright,” Kita says softly. “Have a good night.”

“You too.”

Takao comes into the living room as you hang up; he presses a quick kiss to your lips. He tastes suspiciously like your favorite appetizer.

“Hey,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him. “Did you eat some on the way home?”

“Yup,” he says cheerfully. “A toll for my labor.”

“You haven’t finished your labor yet. I set the table, so go unpack the food.”

“Yes ma’am!”

You bat at him; he dodges with a little laugh. He leans down and gives you another quick kiss, this time at the corner of your lips, sweet and fleeting. When he pulls away, he heads towards the kitchen, lightly swinging the bag of takeout as he goes.

You’re getting to your feet to follow him when your phone vibrates in your hand, buzzing along your skin. You glance at the notification and see that it’s Kita. You flick it open.

It was good to talk to you, he’s texted.

You pause for a moment, chewing on your lower lip. You can hear Takao humming to himself in the kitchen.

Yeah, you reply. It was good to talk to you too.

It’s easier, after that. You stop agonizing over each word. It doesn’t completely fade; you will always be more careful with Kita than you are with anyone else. It’s the kindest thing you can do for him.

The two of you start to text more, each message a string drawing you closer to each other. He texts you photos of his ducks. You repay him with photos of the conbini’s cat, a spoiled little thing often found lounging in the front windows, little face turned up to the sun.

You start to call too. It’s sparse at first, often a continuation of a text chat that simply would be better on the phone, but it grows more frequent as the weeks pass. Some nights it’s short; other nights, you feel lost in time, as if only seconds have gone by when you’ve talked for much longer.

You grow used to seeing Kita’s name pop up on your screen. It’s nice, if you’re honest. You like talking to him.

“What’re you makin’?”

You glance towards where your phone is propped up. At some point, today’s call became FaceTime, mainly so you both have your hands free to make dinner. It gives you a glimpse into his kitchen; a glimpse into him.

His kitchen is meticulously clean and inherently practical. Everything seems to have its space, whether it’s a row of well-maintained pots and pans or a knife block with an assortment of handles jutting out from it, a sharpener carefully tucked in beside it.

But there are other little touches of Kita scattered about: the apron hanging from the rack is embroidered with tiny rice paddies, each stitch painstakingly made by his grandmother’s steady hand; the strawberry plant in the window is heavy with small, glistening berries despite the season; there are neatly folded handkerchiefs tucked loosely into a drawer by the cleaning supplies.

Even through a phone screen, it feels warm. Homey in a quiet way.

Kita moves back into frame with a bowl in his hand. He’s got a brow raised, and you remember he asked you a question.

“Nikuman,” you tell him, gliding the cabbage over the mandolin’s shining blade. You work it carefully, watching the ribbons of white-green flutter down onto the cutting board. “Oyakodon too. You?”

“Tofu hamburger.”

“That’s your favorite, right?”

A small smile blooms on his lips. “You remembered.”

“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

“I’m not,” he says. “It’s just nice.”

You hum, finishing up with the cabbage and dumping it into a bowl. Kita keeps chopping as you pour rice into a pot and start to wash it. “Ugh,” you murmur to yourself. “Almost out of rice.”

“What rice do you use?” Kita asks.

You point at him with a wet hand. “No,” you say. “You’re gonna judge me.”

“Over rice?”

“You’re a rice farmer!”

He chuckles. “And?”

“That means you know rice secrets. Like better brands.”

“I could always give you some.”

“Some rice secrets?”

“Some rice.”

You hum. “Thanks, but I don’t want you to have to go out of your way,” you say. “Shipping it seems inconvenient.

“I was thinkin’ I could bring you some. I have a delivery in the city soon.”

You pause. Kita’s stopped preparing his dinner, instead turning his gaze on you. Even through the phone, his amber eyes almost glow. You think of the last vestiges of a sunset, of the deepest sheen of gold threading across the horizon.

“Kita…”

“You can say no,” he says quietly. Quietly, but no less steady for it.

You sink your hand into the rice that’s settled at the bottom of the pot, still covered by water. When you flex your fingers, the grains slip through them like darting little fish. You do it again. The water ripples around your wrist.

“I can’t, Kita,” you say.

He nods, his gray hair a lightning strike gleam. “Alright,” he says. His shoulders dip low, an exhausted Atlas, and you sigh.

“Not yet,” you say. “But one day.”

He nods again. For a moment, you think he’ll say something else, but he simply gives you a crooked little smile. When you change the subject, he doesn’t fight it. The two of you settle back into conversation as you cook.

You hang up as Takao returns home. Dinner has just finished cooking, the oyakodon perfectly golden, the scent of it lingering savory in the air. You settle in at the table, talking about your day as you eat, until you finally put your chopsticks down.

“Kita asked me to meet up.”

He puts his chopsticks down as well.

“I said no,” you say, meeting his gaze. “Well, I said not yet.”

“Not yet? You want to see him?”

“I think I’d like to,” you tell him, because you will always be honest with him about this. “But I won’t if you don’t want me to.”

“I don’t want to stop you from doing something you want to do.”

“I will, though.”

He runs a hand through his hair; it flows through his fingers like water, little rivulets of dark hair catching between his fingers. “I know,” he says.

“I’ll choose you, Aoshi,” you tell him. “As many times as it takes.”

He reaches over and cups your cheek with a warm hand. “I know,” he says. “It’s not my favorite thing, but if you want to see him, you should.”

You cover his hand with your own and turn into his touch. You press your lips against his palm, against the leylines that are carved there, a future you don’t know how to read.

You press another kiss to his palm, a quiet gratitude for his trust.

He leans over to brush a whisper of a kiss to the corner of your lips.

As you turn back to your meal, you think of the waver to Kita’s smile, like the sun hidden behind passing clouds.

One day, you promise him. One day.

***

One day comes quicker than you’d thought.

It’s early, the sun still hovering over the horizon as the blue of dawn fades away into something brighter. The sunlight catches on the city buildings, the windows shimmering like a mirage, a promise of what’s hidden behind them. The streets aren’t empty—they never are—but the frantic pace of them has slowed to something leisurely, as if the city is still waking up too.

You weave your way through the streets. The route is familiar and you pay little attention to where you’re going, choosing instead to watch the vendors begin to open their stores. The florist is already putting out buckets of flowers, a riot of color, from the dawn hues of a ruffled ranunculus to the deep purple of the elegant, leggy irises rising over the rest. He’s half-lost in the blossoms, pushing his way through petals to lay out more of his wares. Some of them catch in his hair.

Next door, the conbini is still aglow. It’s always a beacon in the night, but it’s softer in the day. You head in and grab a quick snack for later, giving the half-asleep cashier a little smile.

The bustle of the street has grown when you leave the conbini, the stream of people burgeoning into a river. But you still hear it when someone calls your name.

You glance around and find Kita just a door down from you, coming out of a small grocer’s. He smiles at you softly and you almost duck back into the conbini.

He waits there, leaving the choice of approaching up to you, but you’ve run from him enough. You slip through the crowd and join him by a flat of dusky peaches, the air around them faintly sweetened.

“Hi,” you say. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

He nods towards the inside of the grocer’s shop. It’s small, clearly family owned, but it’s well-stocked. There’s a kid—no more than ten, you think—carefully putting shining apples into a basket, their face scrunched up in concentration.

“Tsukada stocks my rice,” Kita says, and now that he’s said it, you vaguely remember him mentioning this neighborhood when you’d talked about his delivery route a few weeks ago. “I’m very grateful for it.”

A scoff comes from behind the register. An older woman peers out, her brow raised. Her eyes are wrinkled at the edges, her crow’s feet papery, but the thickest line is clearly a laugh line.

“It’s good rice,” she tells you. “Simple as that.” She eyes you curiously, tilting her head to the side. Her thick black braid thuds against her shoulder; it’s streaked with gray, like pebbles just visible through a river’s darkened waters.

Kita inclines his head to her, a small smile on his lips. “You’re kind,” he says.

“Just tellin’ the truth.” Tsukada settles back, disappearing behind the register again. “Take some fruit with you when you go. I know your granny likes peaches this time of year.”

“I will,” he says. “Thank you.”

She waves him off with a gnarled hand, barely visible from your vantage point.

Kita returns his attention to you. “It’s good to see you,” he says, all summer warmth. “I don’t suppose you have a little time? My next delivery isn’t until later.”

You purse your lips. He tracks the movement, his eyes dimming, and you sigh.

“I have a little time,” you say. “Coffee?”

He lights ups. “Perfect,” he says. “D’ya know a place near here?”

You nod. “I think it has tea, too.”

He smiles at you. Then he’s calling a respectful goodbye to Tsukada, gathering a few of the peaches to put in the bag slung over his shoulder. You watch him pick them, his long fingers tender against the soft flesh. He brushes his fingertips along a stubborn leaf still attached to the stem. You half expect him to tear it loose, but he leaves it in place.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

The two of you wind through the streets. He stays by your side but gives you space, only pressing close when the stream of people on the sidewalk thickens to a river.

The coffee shop isn’t far. When you duck inside, the scent of coffee billows over you, sharp and thick and a little bit bitter. You both order—Kita offers to pay, but he doesn’t look surprised when you decline—and then find a little booth tucked away by a small window. The sun has warmed the seats. It streams through the glass in whirling colors, catching in the stained glass decal pressed close to the window. It dapples Kita with pink, like he’s been flecked with sakura petals, and you hide your smile in your coffee cup.

He seems to notice, an answering smile tugging at his lips, but he doesn’t mention it.

“How’s the farm?” you ask.

“S’good,” he says, taking a sip of his tea. You can smell it faintly, even through the coffee, an earthy kiss. “The ducklings are fully grown now, since I know that’s what you really want to know.”

“You caught me,” you say with a laugh. “Can you blame me? They’re so cute!”

“Yeah,” Kita says, his gaze steady on you. “They are.”

“And you’ve been skimping on the pictures.”

“I sent you one just yesterday.”

“Yes, exactly! Just one!”

He chuckles softly. “I’ll do better,” he promises.

“Good.”

“And how’re you?”

“Working a lot,” you say. “It’s starting to feel like it’s all I do, but my project should be done soon, so I can have a bit more time. I want to meet Abe’s new girlfriend, but I haven’t had a chance yet.”

“I’m sure you’ll meet her soon.”

“Hope so. How are your Olympians? This is what, their second one coming up? I’m looking forward to it.”

He grins. It’s broad and bright, brimming with pride and joy. “They’re not mine,” he protests, but his grin doesn’t falter. “But yes, their second, and they’re good. Workin’ hard. It’s off season, though, so hopefully they’ll come ‘round to visit.”

“I’m sure Aran will.”

“He doesn’t have a choice,” he says. “Granny’ll go get him herself if she’s got to. He’ll get an earful about it, too.”

You smile into your cup. “I’d like to see that.”

“It’s sure something.”

“I can only imagine.”

Kita takes a sip of his tea. Not for the first time, you’re struck by the way he moves, the careful surety of it, steadiness edged in grace. You wonder if it’s from his time playing volleyball, or if he was always like this.

“Do you ever miss it?” you ask.

“Sometimes,” he says. “It made sense, y’know? Learning something, repeatin’ it, then using that repetition to move forward.”

“It doesn’t sound that different from farmwork.”

He chuckles. It’s low and warm, like the first true rays of light pouring over the horizon. “I suppose they have similarities.”

“Seems like it to me.”

The two of you keep chatting. It’s easy to pick up the thread of the last time you spoke, and you weave it into today’s conversation.

You bask in the glow of the morning sun as it streams over the booth. Under the sun’s warmth, the world goes honeyed, a slow, sweet drip of time. You shift sleepily. Kita breathes out what could be a little laugh at the sight, but when you look at him, he’s got his face tilted up into the light. It gilds him, his half-closed eyes going from amber to pure gold, as if he’s Midas-touched.

You sigh.

He blinks, the fan of his long eyelashes casting a soft shadow on his tanned cheeks.

“I have to go,” you tell him. “But this—this has been nice.”

“Very nice,” he agrees.

“Let’s do it again sometime.”

His breath catches briefly. You pretend to not hear it.

“Yes,” he says, a quiet hope lining his voice. You hate yourself a little. “Let’s.”

You give him a little smile as you rise to your feet. He gets up too, despite his unfinished tea, and the two of you head out the door together.

The humid air rolls over you; you can already feel the heavy stickiness on your skin. You huff, rolling up your sleeves, and a tiny smile appears in the corner of Kita’s mouth. He doesn’t say anything, though, and you bid him a quiet goodbye.

He returns it, his eyes soft, and you head down the street.

When you turn the corner, you can’t help it. You glance back at where you left him.

He’s already gone.

***

Autumn makes itself known.

It encroaches on the hazy, honeyed nights of late summer slowly, a creeping first frost. The cold is soft edged, more a kiss than a bite. Still, the hydrangeas that line the path to the municipal office have faded under its touch, the blossoms leeched of color and gone brittle at the edges. They rasp out a dry, harsh song as the breeze picks up.

You shiver and lean into Takao’s warmth as the two of you walk to the office, your kon-in todoke clasped tight in your hand. The ink of your seals is still fresh, done hurriedly at the kitchen table when you realized that you were going to be late for your appointment. Abe’s seal is almost too far out of the witness’s section to count; she’d still been bleary-eyed, her first cup of coffee only partially drunk. Yoshikawa’s seal is perfectly in the box for it. She was still teasing Abe when you and Takao left.

“Nervous?” Takao asks, twining his fingers with yours. His palm is slightly sweaty; you hide your smile in your scarf.

“A little. You?”

“Who wouldn’t be?”

“Yoshikawa,” you say promptly. “I don’t think marriage would rattle her at all.”

He laughs. “Yeah, I can see that.”

You slip inside the office; the chatter of it settles over you. You shrug off your scarf as you orient yourself, reading the signs plastered all over to figure out where the two of you need to go.

The clerk who processes your kon-in todoke is young. She has a kind smile, and she flashes it as she takes the form from you, along with your koseki tohon. She holds out a hand for your IDs and her nails are baby blue, dotted with tiny white clouds, a perfect summer sky. You can’t help your smile.

You lean into Takao as she scans your forms. He gives your hand a little squeeze; when you glance up at him, the tips of his ears have gone dusty pink. You almost laugh. He seems to realize it, delivering a nudge to your side that makes you pinch at him.

“Everything looks in order,” the clerk says. “You have your soulmate form as well?”

“Yes,” Takao says. He hands it to her; you stare at the bulletin board behind the clerk’s head so that her face is blurry. Her keyboard clicks away, but she doesn’t say anything, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

She examines your forms again, her eyes sharp as she reviews them, and then she’s shuffling them together and forming a neat stack. She flashes that same sweet smile.

“Congratulations,” she says. “You’re officially married.”

Takao squeezes your hand before letting go. He turns to face you and he’s glassy-eyed, his lower lip trembling. He cups your cheek and pulls you close to brush a barely-there kiss against your lips. You chase him when he starts to pull away, deepening the kiss for a brief moment.

“Hi,” you say when the two of you break apart. “Husband.”

“Wife,” he replies. There are roses blooming in his cheeks, the blush spreading from his cheekbones up to his ears. He nuzzles his nose against yours.

The clerk coughs, but when you glance at her, your cheeks heating, she’s still smiling.

“Thank you,” you tell her.

She nods, gathering the rest of your paperwork and handing the small stack to you. You collect them carefully before handing them to Takao so he can put them in the small folder he’d brought.

The entire trip home feels unreal, the cityscape swirling together in a watercolor blur, neon melting into the harsh sheen of metal, softened by a hint of greenery. Takao’s touch is grounding, though, and you squeeze his hand from time to time, as if making sure he’s still there.

He always is.

The two of you exchange rings in your sunwarm kitchen. You have no vows, but you think you don’t need them. It’s enough to see the look on Takao’s face as he slips the ring into place; it speaks a language from long ago that you still know by heart. Abe and Yoshikawa cheer when you’re done, and then the rest of the day rushes by, filled to the brim with mini-celebrations. Your friends have gone out of their way to provide what the shrines will not, and you once again wonder how you’ve gotten so lucky.

Dusk is falling when the last of your guests leave, the sunset spilling over the horizon like fire. The last dregs of light fade as you curl up next to Takao on the couch. He presses a soft kiss to your hairline; you chase him for a real kiss. You lace your fingers together when you break apart. You thumb at his wedding ring idly, the metal warmed by his skin.

“We’re married, huh?” you say.

“Seems that way.”

You laugh. “Don’t sound too excited, now.”

He pinches at you. “I’m not excited,” he says, deftly avoiding your return pinch. “I’m happy. There’s a difference, you know.”

You lean into him. “I think you’re right.”

“It happens sometimes.”

“It does?”

He pinches at you again. You shove him away, but he pulls you back in and cradles you close. You play-struggle for a moment and then finally relax into him when he tightens his grip.

“Are you?” he asks softly.

“Am I what?”

“Happy.”

You turn in his arms, reaching out to cup his jaw. You stroke your thumb against his cheekbone.

“Yes,” you say. “I am.”

He kisses you then, his mouth soft and sure. You would know his touch anywhere, you think. It settled beneath your skin long ago.

“Good,” he says. “Good.”

You bury your face in the crook of his neck, tasting the salt of his skin on your parted lips. His breath wavers. You press a kiss to his pulse.

“I have a phone call to make,” you murmur into his skin. “And I need to do it soon. It’s important.”

He tugs you back up so that you’re looking at him. His eyes—as deep and dark as the night sky—flicker over you. You wait. His brow furrows for a moment and then understanding blooms on his face. He leans forward to press a ghost of a kiss to the corner of your lips.

“Okay,” he says, letting you go and getting to his feet. He pauses, as if he wants to say more, but he heads to the kitchen without a word. You watch him go before grabbing your phone and dialing.

You take in a deep, slow breath as the line rings.

Kita picks up quickly. The two of you exchange pleasantries for a few minutes, catching up with each other briefly. There’s an easy flow to it, but he pauses after a moment.

“Is something wrong?” he asks.

You bite at a hangnail.

“I got married today,” you say softly. “I—I thought you should know.”

He’s quiet. It reminds you of the deepest parts of winter, when even the air is still. You ache with it. He’s a bruise that will never quite fade, you think, and you can only imagine what it’s like for him.

“Thank you,” he says eventually, his voice soft but steady. “For telling me.”

“It didn’t feel right to not,” you confess. “I’m sorry, Kita.”

“I know.”

The call doesn’t last much longer. There’s not much left to say after that, and your husband is patiently waiting for you.

Once you’ve hung up, you head into the kitchen and find Takao slicing up a small cake. It’s a froth of delicate frosting topped with crystalline spun-sugar flowers. Abe had insisted that you have a wedding cake and you hadn’t bothered to argue.

He glances up when you wander in. His smile is incandescent, a starlight thing, and you go to him with a matching smile tugging at your lips. You kiss him once, then again, and then a third time still. He laughs.

You wind your arms around his waist as he finishes cutting the cake, pressing your forehead between his shoulder blades. He smells of home; there’s the faintest hint of his cologne under the scent of your laundry detergent. You press closer.

“Hard call?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say, muffled by his shirt.

“It’s over now.”

“So it is.”

He puts down the knife and turns around in your arms. He draws you close. “I love you,” he says. “Enough that I’ll even share this cake with you.”

“Oh, wow.”

“I know.”

You laugh. “You’re ridiculous,” you tell him, knowing you sound terribly, disgustingly fond. You start to pull away but he tightens his arms around you. “Aoshi!”

“You gotta say it back.”

“I love you,” you tell him softly. “I really do.”

His smile is tender and fleeting, a dandelion seed caught on the wind. You kiss it from his lips. His hands come up to cup your jaw; you feel the metal of his wedding ring against your skin.

It feels incredibly ordinary.

You hope it always will.

***

You shiver as you pull the door to the onigiri shop open, burying your face in your scarf even as you step into warm air. A gust of wind whips in behind you, carrying a few rare snowflakes—fat and fluffy, a perfect pure white—inside. You pull the door shut behind you quickly.

It’s blessedly warm in the shop and the air is spiced with enticing, savory aromas. For a moment, you think of your father’s kitchen: the clutter of ingredients spread across a chopping board, an organized mess; the weight of a worn soft apron; the warmth of a heating stove. You open your eyes, not realizing you’d closed them as you breathed in.

It’s a cozy shop. There are plush looking booths and a few small tables, plus a handful of stools at the counter the chef is working behind. He’s a broad man, his forearms flexing as he shapes an onigiri. He snaps something at one of the men sitting on the stools, reaching out to smack the blond’s hand as he tries to grab something behind the counter. The blond squawks, pulling back and looking deeply offended.

You cough out a laugh.

Both of them snap their gazes to you. They’re twins, you realize, encountering two identical faces. The chef’s furrowed brow smooths out into something placid. He pushes the blond back into his seat with a big hand.

“What can I get ya?”

“Oh,” you say, caught off guard with how easily he’s switched up. “I’m not sure yet, I’m sorry.”

“Menu’s over there if you need one,” he says, pointing to a stack you hadn’t noticed. “Sit wherever you like.”

“Thanks,” you say, and suddenly, the man next to the blond looks up. He’s handsome, tall even while he’s sitting down, his shoulders just as broad as the chef’s. He’s also oddly familiar; he says your name and you blink.

“Aran?” you ask.

He beams. “It is you! It’s been a while. Are you staying to eat?”

You glance between the three of them. The twins are staring at you now; the chef has a brow raised but is otherwise placid, while the blond gapes. You put two and two together and realize that they must be the Miyas. No wonder the name of the shop sounded familiar.

“You’re Kita’s soulmate,” the chef—Osamu, you remember—says. He sounds bland, but there’s a bit of a sneer tucked into the corner of his mouth.

“That’s her?” the blond—Atsumu, then—says. He looks you over from head to toe, his honey-brown eyes shining in the low light. His mouth twists into something lemon-edged, a faint hint of sourness lining his whole form.

Osamu ignores him, looking at you instead. “Kita’s here,” he tells you. “He’s droppin’ off some rice in the storeroom.”

You glance at the door of the shop.

“Dontcha want to see your soulmate?” Atsumu asks, a little bit mean.

You wince. You twist your scarf around your fingers, spooling it around your knuckles.

Aran sighs, looking very, very pained. “Don’t be rude,” he chastises.

“M’not being rude! I’m just asking! She’s not—”

“Atsumu.”

Kita emerges from the back, coming up behind the counter. His sleeves are rolled high on his forearms; there’s a light sheen of sweat on his brow. It turns his hair to the dark gray of a summer storm cloud. His mouth is drawn taut, a gash of a thing.

Atsumu goes pale.

“I’ll have the other part of the delivery for you later this month,” Kita says to Osamu. The dark-haired twin nods. There’s a little smirk on his lips, the bitten down delight of watching a sibling get in trouble.

Atsumu’s fidgeting, tugging at the hem of one of his sleeves with long, strong fingers.

“Hey,” Kita says, turning to you. “S’good to see you.”

“Yeah,” you say, still looking at Atsumu, who looks like he’s waiting for a death sentence.

“I didn’t realize you came here, I would have told Osamu to look out for you.”

“It’s my first time. A coworker suggested it.”

Atsumu’s shoulders are slowly lowering. There’s the slightest twitch to Kita’s lips, a little half-smile that you recognize. There’s a layer of mischief to it that you’re still getting used to.

“By the way, Atsumu,” he says, and the blond chokes. “Didya have something you wanted to say?”

Osamu snorts as his brother wildly shakes his head. It’s quiet but obvious and Atsumu scowls at him. Kita clears his throat and both brothers snap to attention.

Next to Atsumu, Aran looks like he’s holding back laughter. It’s a good look for him—he glows with it, his barely contained smile bright and true.

“Ya sure?” Kita asks, that same little mischievous tilt to his lips. Atsumu nods. “Alright then.”

He rolls down his sleeves as he steps out from behind the counter; he comes over to you and gives you a crescent moon smile, soft and sweet. The two of you step away from the group slightly.

“Hi,” you say, quieter this time, something just for you and him.

“You stayin’?” he asks. “You should join us.”

You shake your head. “I have to get back,” you tell him. “Another time?”

“Of course.”

Kita stays by your side as you order; he radiates a gentle heat, like the bricks of a hearth long after the fire has died down. You watch Osamu make the onigiri, placing each filling carefully. His big hands are gentle as they mold the rice. There’s care and pride in each movement and it lives in his face, too, in the swell of his smile as he completes each one.

They’re a lively group—Atsumu is growing louder and louder as he argues with his brother, something like a pout on his expressive face before it’s wiped away by indignance.

“Oi!” he says, pointing at Osamu, halfway out of his seat. “Take that back!”

“Nope,” Osamu says.

“You—”

Aran grimaces as he pulls Atsumu back into his seat. “You’re so loud.”

“Am not!”

“Ya are,” Osamu says. “Now shut up, you’re bothering the customers.”

Atsumu makes a noise that reminds you of a cat that’s fallen into water as Osamu hands you your order. The box is rather simple, with Onigiri Miya stamped onto it in a deep, rich ink, but it somehow reminds you of the bentos of your childhood. You think it might be how carefully the onigiri are tucked into it, each one nestled close to the next, a little mountain range of rice.

Kita walks you to the door after you say your goodbyes to the rest of the group. He holds your onigiri box as you put your scarf back on, looping it around your neck.

“Sorry you couldn’t stay,” he says. His fingertips linger when he hands the box back. “I promise my friends don’t bite.”

“Maybe not Aran.”

He laughs softly. “The twins are all bark and no bite,” he says. “Besides, I can keep ‘em in line.”

“I noticed.”

He smiles. “See you soon?”

“Yeah,” you say. “See you soon.”

He holds open the door for you; a gust of wind sweeps over you, tugging playfully at the end of your scarf. You carry his warm smile into the cold winter afternoon.

You’re almost halfway down the street when you hear a familiar voice.

“Hey!”

You glance back over your shoulder. Atsumu is powering after you; he catches up to you in an instant, tugging you back until you’re both out of the way of other pedestrians. You’re halfway into an izakaya’s doorstep, the winter peonies surrounding it swaying around your ankles. A few early customers peer out the door at you but Atsumu pays them no mind.

“What’re you doin’?” he asks, a little too loud.

“Miya—”

“Kita’s traditional,” he says roughly. “It’s only ever gonna be you for him. You know that, right?”

Your stomach roils.

(I’ve been waiting.

He still is.)

“I’m married.”

He throws his hands up into the air. “He’s still your soulmate!”

“I don’t love him!”

“It’s Kita,” he shouts, startling a few passersby. “Everybody loves him!”

“I’m not in love with him,” you say, the words bitter on your tongue. You are so, so tired. “I’m married. I’m happy. Kita’s accepted it, so why can’t you?”

He snorts, honey-brown eyes narrowing. “You really think he’s accepted it? Or is that what you tell yerself so you can sleep at night?”

“Fuck you.”

The words snap out of you, brutally frigid, like river ice cracking beneath its own weight. To your utter horror, there are tears pooling hot in your eyes, threatening to spill over. Atsumu looks almost as horrified as you feel, but it’s of little consolation. You can feel a sob welling up inside you, rippling through you like oceantide.

You manage to bite down on it when it leaves you, muffling it just enough. Then the tears finally fall, carving their way across your cheeks like snowmelt, already bitterly cold from the winter air. You rub them away with the back of your hand.

“I didn’t mean ta—”

“But you did,” you say, knife-sharp and drawing him up short. “You did. Goodbye, Miya.”

He doesn’t follow you when you walk away.

***

The neighbors’ little girl loves the summer rains. She spends them running around outside, the murky puddle water splashing under the soles of her banana-yellow boots. She has a matching umbrella and sometimes you and Takao can see it from your bedroom window, whirling like a top.

“We should do that,” Takao says, his chin hooked over your shoulder. It’s pouring out. The rain hums against the roof, nature’s oldest song, and the neighbors’ girl—Aiko, you think—is dancing to it. You can just make out her long braid bouncing as she hops from puddle to puddle.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, getting to his feet and tugging you with him. “Let’s go.”

“Aoshi, it’s pouring.”

“Yes, that’s the point.”

You laugh and let him drag you through the house. He shoves your raincoat at you, shrugging on his own before the two of you race to the genkan, giggling as you go. You slip your boots on and run outside.

The rain sluices down on you, the humid summer heat already sneaking its way beneath your raincoat, the beginnings of sweat starting to gather. You pay it little mind, sucking in a deep breath instead, taking in the scent of the wet concrete as Takao grabs your hand. He tugs you towards Aiko.

Before you know it, the two of you are swinging her back and forth between you, her little wrists clutched tight in your hands. She shrieks with delight each time she comes up off the ground; each landing creates a tidal wave in the puddle she crashes down into.

Takao is laughing, low and sweet, and when you glance at him, he’s already looking at you. His dark hair is plastered against his forehead. Water droplets are beading on his long eyelashes before he blinks them away.

Your breath catches for an instant. And then Aiko is tugging on your hand, wanting to go again, and you glance away from your husband with a little smile.

You stay outside with Aiko until her father calls her in. Then the two of you tumble back into your house, stripping off your wet clothing with groans.

Takao cooks dinner as you lay everything out to dry. You’ve just clipped the last clothespin into place when he calls to you; you take the extra clothespins and clip them along the little storage space you’d added to the balcony for them, a short length of bright blue twine.

He’s made curry, the type that warms even your bones. The two of you curl up together on the couch to eat. You lean into him, ignoring his groan as you accidentally elbow him in the stomach.

“We should go on our honeymoon,” he says after a moment. “It’s almost been a year and we still haven’t gone.”

“We should,” you say, scraping your bowl clean and licking the last of the sauce off of your chopsticks. “Where do you want to go?”

“Haven’t thought that far.”

You snort. “You’re the one who brought it up!”

“It’s a step by step process, you know. First we have to decide to actually go, then we pick the place.”

He easily evades your little pinch.

“It’s gonna be hard to pick,” you tell him.

“Maybe.”

“We’ll figure it out, I guess.”

He leans in and presses a kiss to your temple.

“We always do.”

He’s right, you think. You always do figure it out.

Together.

***

The farm is dusted with snow.

It reminds you of powdered sugar, light and fluffy and easily blown away in the slightest breeze. It’s the first snow according to Kita. The true frost set in over the last week; the paddies have iced over, a cobweb of winter. You listen to the crackle of it settling and shiver, pushing deeper into your scarf.

“Ya warm enough?” Kita asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “It’s just a little more mild in the city.”

He hums his agreement. The two of you keep walking along the worn dirt path, weaving through the slumbering fields. The snow crunches softly underfoot. In the distance, you can hear the rumble of a truck; it purrs and groans as it putters down one of the other roads.

“I’m glad you came,” Kita says softly.

He’s invited you several times, never pushing, but you’ve always said no. You don’t know why this time had felt right, but it had. You watch a crow circle overhead before it lands in a bare tree, a spot of darkness against the pale blue sky.

“Me too,” you say. “I’ve never been out here in the winter.”

“Pretty, ain’t it?”

“It is.”

The two of you lapse into a comfortable silence as you wander further. You pass another farmhouse where two small children are playing outside, both of them bundled up to the point that they’re waddling more than walking. One of them has a crimson scarf, the deep color of poppies at night, the ends of it fluttering in the gentle breeze.

They’re sliding a puck back and forth on ice that’s creaking ominously. They wave to you with the branches they’re using for hockey sticks.

“Should we stop them?” you ask, waving back.

Kita shakes his head. “There’s only an inch or so of water, this time of year. They’ll be fine.”

“Okay.”

“Did you ever do that?”

He laughs. “Course.”

“Play or fall through?”

“Both, actually,” he says. He takes hold of your arm as you slip on a patch of ice, keeping you upright with ease. “Careful now.”

He waits until you’re steady before he lets go. He presses a bit closer after that and you let him. The wind is too constant to really feel the heat of him, but you think you feel it anyway.

You fall back into comfortable silence. The wind is whistling softly through the bare trees, stirring the last clinging remnants of the leaves. You watch one of them tear free and blow away. It carries across the fields, which stretch as far as the eye can see.

You turn back when you get to the edge of the paddy you’re walking next to. By the time you’re back to the farm, you’re chatting about what to make for dinner. Kita’d taken you to the local market earlier in the day, letting you browse through the piles of daikon and leeks, each of them fresher than anything you would see in the grocery store.

“Oden?” Kita suggests as you enter the genkan and you nod.

“Sounds perfect,” you say, using the wall to balance as you start to take off your boots. Kita stops in the middle of taking off his jacket and kneels down in front of you to get the buckle you’re struggling with. “Kita, you don’t need to do that.”

“Already down here,” he says with a smirk. “So I might as well.”

You sigh. “Thank you,” you say, slipping off your jacket and hanging it carefully.

He nods, tucking his outerwear away neatly before getting to his feet. After he’s sure you’re all set, he heads down the hall, turning on the small kotatsu that sits in his living room. It’s an older one, the blanket slightly worn, patterned with white cranes. It was his grandmother’s, you think.

“Get warm,” he says. “I’ll start cooking.”

“I should help—”

“You can after you’ve warmed up a little bit.”

“Fine,” you say, ignoring the little smile on his face as you pout. You sit at the kotatsu and melt into the warmth as he heads into the kitchen.

You join him not long after. He gives you leeks to chop as he peels daikon; you spend a few minutes at his pristine kitchen sink, washing the grit out from between the leaves. The two of you chatter as you cook. The kitchen is slowly heating, until it’s like a banked fire.

His kitchen is small but set up well and the two of you move around it easily together. You rarely bump into each other, and hand off ingredients as the other needs them. It’s seamless and it doesn’t take long before the oden is done.

The two of you settle at the kotatsu to eat. Kita hands you a pair of well-worn chopsticks.

“You should come for longer next time, if you can,” he says.

“I’ll try to,” you say, knowing that you’ve only touched the surface of the farm. Of the life he’s built here, in the wide expanse of the countryside.

He smiles warmly. “Good.”

Time flies by, until Kita has to get up to turn on another lamp as night encroaches. When you peer out the window, the night sky sprawls endless above you, softly lit by the tender touch of the waning moon.

“I should go,” you say. “It’s late.”

He hums an agreement. The two of you bundle up in the genkan; Kita lends you a too-long scarf that’s messily knitted. You wrap it around your neck several times before you are willing to brave the cold.

The snow glistens under the moonlight as you trudge to Kita’s truck. There’s a stillness to the night, as if you’re on the cusp of something unreal, something otherworldly. You tilt your head back and gaze at the stars, scattered throughout the plush darkness, glinting like ice.

Kita cranks the truck’s heater to high as it rumbles on. It blows out a gush of cold air that makes you shudder, but it’s already warming by the time you’re pulling out of the driveway.

“Where does your farm end?” you ask.

“Just here,” he says, flicking on his blinker as he makes a turn down the road towards town. “Then it’s Suzuki’s place.”

“Do they—”

“Have ducks?”

“...Yes.”

His eyes flicker to you, the amber of them aglow in the silvery moonlight. “He does.”

You must look pleased, because he laughs, the sound low and warm, filling the cab of the truck like billowing smoke. The smile on his lips is wide and you think of the horizon, how it never ends, and hope that his joy never ends, too.

“Kita,” you say, unable to help yourself.

“Mhm?”

“I’m glad we’re friends,” you say softly.

Kita’s smile dims, the summer sun hidden behind thin, wispy clouds.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. He sounds a little sad. “Me too.”

The rest of the ride is silent.

***

Winter melts away in the face of spring’s burgeoning warmth. The crocuses come early this year, pushing up through the dregs of frost, unfurling quietly, steadily. Yoshikawa paints them; they’re bruises against the soft white of her canvas, the yellow stamen cradled between petals like golden treasure.

She gives you and Abe the paintings one day at the park. They’re carefully wrapped, no bigger than your hand, tied up with a piece of twine that you think she snipped from your gardening supplies.

“What’s this?” Abe asks.

“Find out for yourself,” Yoshikawa says, as if Abe isn’t already tearing into the paper. She hands you yours as you sit up from the pile of blankets you’d laid out on the grassy knoll of the park. You pull it open carefully.

“Pretty,” you breathe, tracing a finger over the long, elegant curve of the stems. “Are these the ones behind the house?”

She nods.

“These aren’t your usual style,” Abe says.

Yoshikawa shrugs, laying down on the blankets and shielding her eyes against the sun. “I’m trying something new.”

“It’s nice,” Abe says. “You should do more like it.”

“Maybe.”

“When are you going to paint me?”

“I already painted you,” Yoshikawa points out.

“That was in high school!”

“It’s still painting you.”

You tune them out and lie back down. You curl up so that you can pillow your head on Yoshikawa’s stomach. She shifts to give you more room. She smells like sweet, wet earth. You think of a garden after rain, when it’s gone lush and green. You sink into the oasis of her.

Abe wakes you up as the sun is starting to set. You groan but let her coax you up. The three of you gather your items plus a few things you hadn’t had at the start of the day: a heart shaped rock Abe tripped over; a box of okonomiyaki that’s perfuming the air with a savory, spicy scent; a few golden wildflowers, tied carefully together with a hair elastic.

You know the walk home by heart, so you spend your time looking at the city as it comes to life, a night-blooming flower. Next to you, Abe is chatting merrily at Yoshikawa, who is looking at her with a smile you know well. She glances at you and drops you a sly little wink.

“What was that?” Abe asks immediately.

“Nothing,” Yoshikawa says, taking your keys from you and opening the front door.

“It was something!”

“It really wasn’t.”

“Yes it was!”

You listen to them bicker all the way to the kitchen, trying not to laugh. Abe whirls on you. “Tell me,” she whines.

“It really was nothing,” you say. “She’s just winding you up.”

Abe huffs. “I hate you both.”

“You love us,” Yoshikawa says, opening up the box of okonomiyaki and grabbing three of her favorite plates.

“Sadly, I do.”

Your phone rings; when you glance at it, it’s an unknown number. You silence it and grab a plate from Yoshikawa. The three of you eat and chat, swapping bites here and there since you all got different fillings. The sun sets; the golden light pours in through your kitchen window and haloes your friends.

Your phone vibrates and you pull it out of your pocket, expecting it to be Takao. Instead, the same unknown number is calling you again. You frown and pick up.

A woman says your name. There’s something to the way she says it. You let out a soft, shaky breath as you listen.

You hang up. Your phone sits heavy in your hand.

“That was the hospital,” you say, sounding too calm even to your own ears. “Aoshi was in an accident.”

Abe and Yoshikawa’s heads come up.

“Is he okay?” Yoshikawa says, blade-sharp.

Your vision is going black at the edges, a slow, steady swallowing. You sit down carefully, the wooden floor cold even through your clothing.

Abe says your name.

She sounds scared.

“No,” you say evenly. “He didn’t make it.”