Wormwood | Gojo Satoru/reader

wormwood | gojo satoru/reader

Curious. His interest is piqued; you realize your mistake.

“Really, now?” He tilts his head, lips angling themself near your own ones; if either of you move, you’re certain something unfavorable would happen. “And how about you? What do you want?”

I want to live a life far from how my mother lived hers, is what you want to tell him, though no sound comes out from your mouth, no word of protest or affirmation or anything: you stare at him, dumbfounded, clueless as to what to say without breaking the rules inside this wretched, cruel clan. The Heiwa clan does not cause disputes. You repeat it in your head like a mantra. If I entertain this folly, people will come for my head. My mother is a widow because of him.

But another thought enters the forefront of your mind: I want to marry Satoru.

Absence festers in the presence of little yellow wormwood flowers, and you come to learn about how it goes hand in hand with lingering bitterness when you meet Gojo Satoru.

or,

As the young God's only friend, you are punctured with the burden of his companionship, regardless if you deem yourself unworthy of it.

―

pairing | gojo satoru/reader

tags | angst with a happy ending, canon compliant, childhood friends to lovers, emotional hurt/comfort, mutual pining, codependency, new beginnings, healing.

warning/s | domestic abuse, abusive parent/s.

word count | 25,270 words.

ao3 link | spotify playlist

―

The sun pierces through the crevices of the paddle. The light flashes across your arm as soon as the surface hits the hago, successfully sending it straight to the ground—and then your feet momentarily leave the grass, jumping high while hitching the ends of your kimono up—light shines brighter and it pools against the surface of your cheeks, gleaming. 

“I won!” It’s a joyful exclamation: your opponent, a cousin of yours, can only offer you a meek expression in return. “I’m the greatest!”

The hagoita slips off of your careless hand, though you find yourself not caring about it at all. You circle the nearest patch of flowers, cheering and skipping, tainting the hem of your clothes with mud and soil; you could almost hear the impending disdain that your mother would let you hear as soon as you were fetched for lunch; at the moment, however, you were far too consumed in your pride to ever dwell on what comes next. 

“That’s not true,” a voice, quite as small as yours, “I am.”

You slowly stop running around, your head tilting immediately to the side, a grimace overtaking your previously ecstatic expression. There’s a certain kind of blue in the distance, faint like ice cubes though they shine like glitters stuck in glue, and you think to yourself that it’s growing on you the longer you try to focus on what shade it is. “But I was the one who won at hanetsuki.” 

“I could beat you.” The boy walks closer toward you, taller people trailing directly behind him, wearing yukatas that bore a more muted shade of his attire. You didn’t know this boy. You didn’t know the women behind him, either. Though your previous opponent seems to know him, judging how she immediately ran away at the sight of him. “Do you want me to?”

“You’re mean.” You pop out your bottom lip, clenching your fists beside you. “I don’t want to play with mean kids.”

You watch him tug on the silk ribbons hanging by the hips of his guardians, ushering them to bend down to his size. You stand there, unknowing, oblivious to whoever this boy was and the purpose of his presence. You don’t question it; instead, you chant it inside your mind, the words of your mother: refrain from something-something questions. You’re visibly confused now. 

“She said she doesn’t want to play because I’m mean.” He copies your action from before, tilting his head to the side as well, almost as if he picked up the context of the gesture. This somehow only irritates you. “Is it because she’s weak?”

Your ears perk up, and you’re close to exploding, but the boy’s guardians immediately step in front of him as soon as you pick up your fallen paddle and wave it menacingly towards his direction. Barely six years old, and he was calling you weak! Your mind is going rampant; but you’re a kid, too, and you’re also barely six years old, but you deem that fact irrelevant inside your own brain. The women send you an apologetic glance, instead kneeling down to help straighten your kimono. The boy remains quiet with his shade of blue, uttering no words.

“Dear,” one of the ladies calls out to you, “I apologize for that. Would you like to take me to your guardian?”

You push your eyebrows together, hard as you could. The lady doesn’t waver. After a few minutes, you’ve convinced yourself already that she’s prettier than your mother.

“Okay.” You extend your hand towards her, though it’s too short to quite reach her person. “Will you hold my hand? I think I messed up the rocks in the garden when I was running around. I don’t want to trip. I’d scrape my knee if I did.”

She does not pause at all. You find her charming because of it. “Of course.”

Your opponent from earlier was long gone, but the boy with snowy hair was still there, and he’s behind you, and you’re forcing yourself to ignore him before you say something rude. That would show him.

“I can take you to my mother, pretty miss.” Your formalities are still a work in progress, but the woman shows her understanding when she pats your head, a beautiful smile casting itself on her expression. You’re in awe.

“Alright, little one. What should I call you?” She asks, soft as she could. You ponder on the question for a few minutes, blinking uncertainly three times before finally comprehending her query.

“My sisters call me [Name].” You smile at her. “I don’t know how to spell it, though…”

“Heiwa [Name]. That’s okay. I got it,” was her only response; you drop it after that. The sun is setting, you point out. Your little fingers are wrapped securely around the nice lady’s hand, and only when you smell the distant fragrance of the fireworks do you remember that it’s New Year’s day. You’re beaming, possibly more cheerful than you ever were before, almost as if you were not at all close to bursting into a fit of irrational irritation earlier. So, you twist your head until you can see the boy through the corner of your eye. You force yourself to remember his head of white hair.

“I won’t lose to you if we play! I won the first round, which means I have ultimate luck this year!”

You stick your tongue out, and he copies you again. You make a fool of him inside your head: you snicker to yourself when you address him as the boy who knew not of hanetsuki. Though this would not be the last time you’re meeting Gojo Satoru, you are praying silently, in that little head of yours, that it was.

―――

You’d come to know, later on, that the boy with hair much like snow has a personality that heats up quicker than the sun: not because he’s warm, but because he possesses the same kind of grandeur. Most powerful man alive. Your cousins whisper rumors of a young God walking within the estate, and you wonder if that’s what he is.

―――

There’s a patch of healthy soil in one corner of the garden directly outside of your quarters in the clan's estate; it’s empty, and it’s dying soon, but you don’t know how flowers work, and you’re too stubborn to ask for help. You’re past the age of eight but you’re still, undoubtedly, the one who fills the Heiwa clan with boisterous noise. The servants know better than to try and subject you to their scoldings; they know their words have no place in your mind.

It’s an unspoken fact around the estate. The only person whose words carry weight is your mother.

“Master Gojo will be visiting again later.” Your mother, with ugly wrinkles below her lashes, tells you over a cup of tea one morning. “You will play nice, won’t you?”

You stare at her and her empty brown eyes. Your mother was the eldest daughter of her clan; conservative, unspeaking, as though she was but a vassal with a ring on her finger. Her hands hold the tea cup as if it were the most precious thing to her at the moment, and you find it compelling—how she tends to clutch onto the most mundane objects in your household, how she does her duties with utmost urgency in spite of how little they matter, how she sees the importance despite the dull, gray, lifeless ceilings of the estate. The wrinkles under her eyes are prominent; the years of her exhaustion are painted keenly on her face.

In your head, you try to acquiesce her life as something you’d soon have in the future. It sends nothing more than shivers down your back.

“What does the Gojo clan want with us?” Your lips curve downward. “The Heiwa clan has nothing worthwhile to offer.”

Sharp glare; however accustomed you are to your mother’s piercing glances, the lingering fear remains, swirls unsteadily on the forefront of your brain—that if you do not keep your words in line, she will one day treat you as a duty and not a daughter: clutch you tightly until you’re suffocating from your lack of control. She knows you’re afraid of her. 

“Quiet, stupid girl.” She hides her lips behind the rim of her teacup, eyes fluttering close. “If they hear you, you are finished. Not even I can save you should that happen.” There’s a pause in between her words, a bitter lump in her throat. You nod slowly. Nor would I want to save you. Somehow, the words she left to die in her throat roared louder than the ones she spoke. Eyes down on the floor, no higher. Barely nine years old, and yet you are already grieving for the life you have to force yourself to be satisfied with in order to survive.

“The Gojo clan is the top sorcerer family,” this time, she gently pushes an empty cup toward your side of the table along with a woven rattan coaster, soon pouring tea resembling liquid gold in it. “They do not need us for anything at all except for companionship. We are the only clan who will not bring harm to that boy as he continues his education.”

You urge her to continue, taking in the aroma of the tea. Golden rooibos, most probably with caramel. Her favorite brew.

“Do not forget what I am about to tell you,”

The wife of the Heiwa clan chief stares at you with eyes that look as though they’re about to pop out; you’re terrified in the calmest way possible, unnerved by your mother’s demeanor. When you nod carefully after a few seconds, she eases her posture.

“Gojo Satoru,” she begins, ignoring the grimace that creeps up your expression, “will inevitably become the greatest sorcerer alive, if he is not that already. Do not think, even for just one second, that you will one day be worthy to stand beside him. You are here now only to entertain. You will be gone soon enough.”

You blink twice, and things start to make sense. The wrinkles beneath your mother’s eyes are not the results of years and years of hard work around the household: they are the proof of her responsibility, how she bore a child for her now-obsolete clan and how she was raised to act exactly as she is at the moment. Thirty-one years old and the values her clan engraved in her head are seeping out through the words she’s telling you now. You will not matter if you are not useful. You are unworthy because you are nothing. You will remain nothing if you do not fulfill your duty. 

You do not know how to tell your mother that you do not want to end up like her—so you keep your mouth closed. The silence is overbearing. You do not understand why you were already labeled unworthy before you could even prove otherwise. You do not understand the weight of your worth yet.

“My lady,” a servant interrupts, entering the room, “the Gojo family has arrived.”

Your mother sends the servant away with a flick of her wrist. Somehow, when she keeps her eyes glued to the floor, you are more terrified of her than before. You steal a glimpse of the garden right outside your open window, flowers and shrubs lined up neatly near an empty patch of soil, painting the landscape with vibrant green and dying yellow. When you hear your mother blowing away the steam of her tea, you gently stand up from your seat, bowing first before exiting through the door.

And there he is.

It’s the same head of white hair—like snow. Much, much like snow. He’s your age, you’re almost sure, though you are still taller than him by a few inches. You don’t feel like a kid when you see him: you feel as old as your mother, that when he waved you over, you imagined long, tired lines beneath your eyes, as though you bore the very same wrinkles she had on her skin.

Gojo Satoru notices your despondence, your bitter frown, though he does not care about you enough to ask. This is your sixth time meeting, and yet you feel as if you’ve known him for hundreds of lives prior to this one. Soon, the vestige of his pupils glean with arrogance; he’s about to open his mouth, but you decide to beat him to it.

“Are you really the greatest sorcerer alive?” You whisper.

The young God looks at you with interest, as kids often do. You pull painfully hard on the braid holding your hair captive, sucking the insides of your cheeks in until you were keeping your gums hostaged between your teeth. Gojo stares at you.

“I am.”

You do not allow yourself another second of hesitance. “Then teach me how to garden.”

He raises his eyebrow, “I don’t do stuff like that at home.”

“Then,” you turn away from him, eyes falling to the grass at the same time your foot prances on it. “Doesn’t that mean you’re...not that great at all?”

He whistles a tune, trailing behind you, and you recognize it as the nursery rhyme you often heard from your tutors. “Not being good at one thing doesn’t discredit my strength.” He points to the healthy patch of soil in the distance, and then he snaps his fingers, “though I bet I can still plant better than you even if I don’t know how to.”

You tilt your head, curious, “That’s just stupid. I watch our gardeners everyday. You are okay with losing to me?”

“I won’t lose to you.” His tone isn’t cruel, though his next words almost pierce through your heart. “You’re weaker than me.”

You point to the garden, now your turn to copy his actions. His blue eyes are reflecting the sun; you would find them to be a lovely shade if only you weren’t driven down underground every time you look at them. The shade is still lost in your head. Faint like ice cubes, though they shine like glitters stuck in glue. Hypnotizingly so.

“Let’s do it, then.” You flash him a small smile. “But you can’t call me weak anymore if I win.”

He laughs at your statement, his small fists stuffed neatly inside his haori’s pockets. Gojo does not say anything for a while, only stares at you with amusement. In the back of your head, you’re trying to ascertain whether or not he was patronizing you.

Gojo gets a hold of your sleeve and tugs you to his guardians. You find yourself thinking if the continuous act of obliging is what you were born for.

“Follow me.” On his lips is the widest smile you’ve seen him fashion out of the six times the two of you have met, “I saw a pack of wormwood seeds somewhere.”

―――

You are the second daughter of the Heiwa clan’s current head, though you can count the times you’ve conversed with him with only your fingers in one hand. That’s normal.

You hear he’s kind and soft-spoken in spite of his rugged exterior; your father has a scar, slashed straight across his left eye, and it curves all the way to the top of his head. You were taught, at a young age, that you were not to disturb the head of Heiwa unless you were at death’s door. The guards in the estate stood beside the entrance to his dojo, hands clutching the handles of their swords, almost as if they did not wish to waste too much time swinging them out of their scabbard when danger approaches. You understand, of course. Your father is an important man; although polite, he is still a diplomat first before he is ever anyone’s friend. The servants in the estate know that. The guards know. You and your siblings know; which is why his absence mattered very little to all of you. With only the recurring presence of your mother in tow, and occasionally the presence of your younger sisters, you were subjected to a life free from the company of a patriarch.

Even still, he constantly gave his daughters enough attention to inform them that he breathes the same air. Your father wishes for you to finish reading the Kojiki within the day; the book awaits you in the library. Your father requests that you perfect your Nihon buyō lessons in a week’s time. Your father is in the middle of preparing calligraphy lessons for you and your older sister, my lady. It was always these abrupt lessons, always interjecting when you’re trimming your bushes and watering your flowers. Truth be told, though, at age 12, you were only beginning to grasp the true meaning of what it means to be the second daughter; a secret known only by you—and, well, a certain friend as well.

The Heiwa family resides in Nakatsugawa, a quaint city nestled between Kyoto and Tokyo, with rivers and valleys that trail on for miles. The clan was established shortly after the peak of sorcery in Japan: the finishing years of the Heian period. Heiwa Tsukeniyo, the very first leader of the family, was on the run from life as a sorcerer when he built the foundations of the ancestral home. It is written in the transcripts in the library, in dark ink that’s been restored and printed on durable parchment.

Tsukeniyo longed to spend his remaining days in peace; growing trees, playing shogi, recording the compatible flora in the ancestral home’s surrounding area. Since then, the clan hasn’t been recognized to be particularly strong, though it’s well-known to be a family of great silence, comfort, as members do not stray from the ancestors’ traditional values. You do not know anything else about your family’s history—however, you do know that Tsukeniyo was said to be deaf, bleeding and half-dead, when he wrote the detailed description of the cursed technique that was to be passed down for generations to come among Heiwa women. Cursed Sound: Cacophony. The technique was out of your territory, however, as only the elders and as well as the inheritors of that ability were allowed to truly touch upon the topic.

As a non-sorcerer, your duty as one of the honorable daughters was to prove that you were a woman worth marrying. A bargaining chip of sorts, to maintain the peace that your clan upheld, to strengthen its relations with other sorcerer families. Your fate has been sealed, and yes, in spite of being only 12 years old, you dedicate most of your time to making sure that you do not disappoint the high elders.

A good wife is obedient and wise; though her intellect is needed rarely, there could be no harm in honing her brain with history and culture. That is all women are good for. No politics. Nothing of the sort. A good wife has a husband for those things. 

It’s baffling, really. History and culture are inherently political. Perhaps their brains are the ones in need of honing.

“What are you reading?”

Admittedly, though, you never expected that one of the bridges you would have to cross in order to become a Heiwa daughter worth honoring is the companionship of the boy who altered the balance of the world—that is, tolerating him and his annoying, silly questions whenever he visited you. 

“The Kojiki.” You yawn, not bothering to rip your gaze off of the page you were reading. “Have you not read this, Gojo?”

The male scrunches his nose, abruptly placing his chin on top of his palm as a means of support. Gojo huffs, leaning forward to catch a peek of the page you were on. Almost immediately, he ends up rolling his eyes.

“It bored me.” He shrugs. “Pay attention to me instead.”

You shake your head, grumbling. “What are you? A child?”

“I’m twelve. Of course I am.” Playful glare; you feel his focus glued on you. “And you are, too. Come on, act like one already!”

“No.”

“You are so boring.” He groans, rocking your chair back and forth with one hand. God, this kid is irritating. At this point, that was all you could think of; if he weren’t regarded as the most powerful, strongest, what -fucking- ever sorcerer in the entire world, you would have punched him square on the jaw. He’s relentless. “Play with me already, Heiwa!”

Light pink dusts the high points of your cheeks when he calls out for your last name; you brush it off before it gets worse. “Please stop. You’re making me dizzy. I still have an afternoon filled with lessons and assignments to trudge through.”

He cocks a brow. “Geez, what even for? They should just make you attend those standard elementary schools. You’re not a sorcerer, anyway. You’re so normal and boring and—”

“Weak. Yes, Gojo, you are absolutely correct.” In recent years, you took pride in the fact that his words never went past the guards around your soul; the boy, in general, is hard to predict and even harder to understand, though you were certain of one thing—the names he calls you, the insults, the words he utilized in order to remind you that he was stronger were said with little to no thought. Most times, he didn’t even mean them. “However, the lessons are necessary in order for me to fulfill my duty as the Heiwa leader’s daughter.”

Curious. Gojo pokes your side. “And what duty is that supposed to be, anyway?”

You fake a cough, covering your mouth behind the sleeve of your yukata. You refuse to look at him.

“To marry into a sorcerer clan,” you begin, voice going an octave lower, “in hopes of bearing a child who possesses our family’s cursed technique.”

Gojo’s eyes widened in surprise, almost as if your response was something he wasn’t at all expecting to hear. You get it. Just getting reminded of your responsibility is enough to make you pause and speechless; to this day, you could not wrap your head around the idea of meeting suitors and getting yourself mixed into an arranged marriage.

He’s quiet; that even when he speaks, his voice no longer has the same volume. “That’s stupid. You’re stuck in the seventeenth century. You’re no better than that Zen’in clan from Kyoto.”

You shush him, your eyes panic-stricken, quickly scanning if any of the servants tending to the shelves in the library heard Gojo. “Are you crazy? My family will hear you!”

“They can’t touch me.” He’s too confident, you tell yourself. “I’m stronger than everyone here.”

“That’s besides the point. Our family values tradition, they uphold it, I cannot simply just run away from what I was born for.” You glare at him, the book you were enjoying now lying idle on top of the table, closed and bookmarked. “You wouldn’t understand. As you’ve never failed to remind me, Gojo, you are strong. That is the difference between us.”

Gojo scoffs, soon getting a hold of the Kojiki, turning to a certain page and pointing at one of the illustrations. You follow the tips of his forefinger, and you recognize the drawing from the first volume. It was of Izanagi and Izanami, the deities who solidified the ocean in order to shape the first landmass; getting wed thereafter. It’s your turn to raise an eyebrow at him.

“We could be like them,” he beams at you, too irritatingly wide for your liking, “just marry me, then. So you can drop your boring book and pay attention to me all the time.”

You flush, losing composure. He does not yield. 

You do not bother pointing out that Izanagi, in their far off future, sees what remains of Izanami’s decaying figure in the underworld and denies her of his love; in your head, you wonder if he knew that, too. You wonder a thousand times with pink cheeks and a quivering frown if Gojo would leave you once you’ve grown out from your appearance; it stings. The thought of being left behind by your only friend to date. The fact that you knew anyway that Gojo could visit you each summer, spring, each free week without training, and still he’d always leave, regardless of your attachments.

You stand up from your seat, head held high and away to avoid his careful gaze.

“Gojo, you are so annoying.”

―――

Days after that, the young God asks you to call him Satoru. The rest of the world knows him as Gojo, he says, but Satoru is reserved for those he cares for. Gojo would carry on to be the strongest. Satoru would carry on to be the most beautiful; stringing along with him various packs of garden seeds, offerings for when he visits you. You think this must be what it feels like for divinity to cast its gaze on you.

―――

The anxiety that came with you when you strutted through the door of your father’s premises dwindles down when the entrance shuts close with a harmless squeal. You did not turn back, and instead chose to bow your head down, your knees indefinitely glued to the wooden floor. You felt his eyes on you; you understood on the spot that your father is a kind man to his constituents, his peers, although significantly colder when face to face with his children.

First, he recited your name in a way that made him sound hesitant, as if he was unsure if that was even your name; then, “Raise your head.”

You did as you were told, not quite eye to eye with him yet. It was his turn to understand.

“The Heiwa clan does not cause disputes. We do not participate in feuds.” He spoke calmly, a stick of cigar sandwiched between his lips. “That said, I am formally entrusting you with the task of keeping Gojo Satoru company when he is within our estate. It would be foolish to make him an enemy.”

You swallowed a thick lump of words you could not say down your throat, your hands practically shaking. He stared you down as hard as he could, and you were one step away from running away and succumbing to the punishments he would bestow on you thereafter. You crumbled under the gaze of the clan leader. Everyone did. Your mother, your sisters, the clan elders. 

“Do you understand?”

You do. The tension deviantly crawls out from your throat. The smell of smoke blew past you, your nose scrunching in instinct. “Yes, father.”

You feel yourself going back to earth shortly after, a catalyst breaking you out of your trance. You suck the insides of your cheeks. That memory was one of the longest, if not the actual longest, conversations you’ve had with your father. You’re 15 years old now, and it’s been quite a few years since then, but you still cower under the intensity of his gaze. Or, cowered, anyway. 

The worst has happened.

You direct your attention to the woman who forcefully pulled you back to the ground, staring at her unknowingly, unable to ascertain what your purpose is. She’s clad in black, her hair disheveled, and she’s ripping through the paper of the shoji in front of you. You do not know how to extinguish her anger; you do not know where it stems from.

“That fool,” she mutters, over and over, and there’s nothing else you can do except watch. “How dare he die before I did?”

She doesn’t stop repeating the words, each time speaking them with more venom, more spite. You don’t stop staring at her either. In the back of your head, you’re trying to figure it out. Your sisters are all standing beside you, it’s the first time that all of you remained in the same room for longer than 30 minutes. You wonder if they’re trying to make sense of what’s happening to your mother, too. But they’re just there: they’re like you, just standing there, barely keeping up with what she’s doing.

In the back of your head, you wonder if your mother hated your father. If she’s loathed him ever since, then you didn’t notice at all. It’s the end result of having to be married off to a cold man—of having to be forced to marry someone she did not love, of having to instill it in her mind ever since she was young that she had to follow what was laid out for her. Her responsibility, role, her lack of freedom and control of her own life. It is the end effect of now having to bear the weight of the duty your father left behind. The clan elders decided two days after his parting: your mother would assume the role as clan leader, and she was to fulfill the things he left untouched until a more suitable candidate presents itself.

The worst has happened. Your father has died.

“[Name].”

Someone tugs on the hem of your yukata; you have to coerce yourself to pry your eyes away from your mother, soon learning that it’s one of your younger sisters, Yasu. You kneel down to level with her, combing her hair, albeit you weren’t quite close enough to be doing so. She doesn’t seem to mind, anyway.

“What is it?” You whisper, eyes on the floor. Always on the floor.

“Someone’s waiting for you outside.”

You place a chaste kiss on her forehead, rendering Yasu just as surprised as you are, before nodding in acknowledgement and turning away from the scene you were fixated on. Your sisters send you reassuring glances, some even going as far as squeezing your shoulder as a means of comfort, and you find it endearing that they actually seem to be nice girls. You do not have enough space in your head to wonder if you would have gotten along with them smoothly if your circumstances weren’t so perplexing.

You escape through the back door, taking silent steps to not trigger your mother’s mania further.

It doesn’t take long for you to see your visitor, and in all honesty, it doesn’t surprise you at this point that it was none other than Satoru, without the presence of his usual guardians. He’s wearing a uniform, full-black, with round sunglasses of the same color adorning his face. Your lips quiver, and he notices in an instant.

“Hey,” he waves, pushing himself off of the wall he was previously occupying, “Let’s take a walk.”

As soon as you nod, he gestures to you to follow him. There’s a certain kind of silence that overtakes the surrounding atmosphere; not quite uncomfortable, though you can’t say that it didn’t leave your mind wandering off to obscure places. The night is growing darker with each step the two of you take towards the empty garden across the pond in your estate, in the left wing. The two of you are five meters apart and the bridge you have to cross in order to head to the flowers you frequently tend to doesn’t seem to be wide enough at all to accommodate your distance.

You’re walking side by side now, and he stops you, tapping your shoulder before leaning on the railing for support. You copy him.

“So,” he begins, voice flowing like honey, “how’d the old man go?”

You wince upon hearing the question. You don’t want to answer it.

“He was ambushed,” because of you.

“Any names come to mind? Did he have enemies?”

“No.” You sigh, instinctively smiling when you say your next words. “The Heiwa clan does not cause disputes.”

He was killed for protecting you.

Satoru immediately rolls his eyes, a small smile adorning his lips. The moonbeams carve through his hair and you take note, inside your head, of how it resembles the streaks of clouds in the sky whenever it’s bright. No longer like snow. You shake the thought away.

“What-fucking-ever. Sounds stupid.” He grimaces. “Your clan is too conservative.”

You stick your tongue out at him, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before soon trying to locate the sentences to speak next. That’s neither here nor there, you almost want to tell him; but the silence is back. You don’t like it. It feels empty, devoid of anything substantial.

“Did you come here to say goodbye, Satoru?”

He visibly flinches, concealed eyes directing themselves to your figure. You allow yourself to lean on the railings until you could swing your foot playfully out of the boundary, nearly slipping a few times.

“On the contrary, I came here to say hello.” Satoru grins fondly, pointing to one of the buttons on his uniform. “Before I leave for Tokyo again, anyway.”

“Jujutsu Tech, huh.” You hum in response. He watches you with his careful eyes. “One step forward towards taking over the sorcery world, I suppose.”

The boy clicks his tongue, one eyebrow raised. Fifteen years old and he still looked like the Satoru you met almost nine years ago; he’s never going to change. Not in your eyes, at least.

“Two steps forward, actually.” He shrugs. “If you decide to marry me.”

The tension is back to how it usually is when it’s just you two—sweet, light, almost with a hint of love mixed into it, though not the romantic kind, you assure yourself. He flicks your forehead, and you don’t quite register that into your head until his face is only a few inches away from yours.

“What’s it going to be?”

This is tradition, you tell yourself, and then you smile. “Satoru, please. I do not wish to give my father a heart attack in the afterlife. That is not what he would have wanted.”

Curious. His interest is piqued; you realize your mistake.

“Really, now?” He tilts his head, lips angling themself near your own ones; if either of you move, you’re certain something unfavorable would happen. “And how about you? What do you want?”

I want to live a life far from how my mother lived hers, is what you want to tell him, though no sound comes out from your mouth, no word of protest or affirmation or anything: you stare at him, dumbfounded, clueless as to what to say without breaking the rules inside this wretched, cruel clan. The Heiwa clan does not cause disputes. You repeat it in your head like a mantra. If I entertain this folly, people will come for my head. My mother is a widow because of him.

But another thought enters the forefront of your mind: I want to marry Satoru.

And you realize, almost as quickly as the thought arrived, that Satoru was more cruel than your family, your elders, your upbringing. He was cruel for dangling the idea of a good life alongside him with empty words. Cruel, evil, heartless of him to get your hopes up only to inevitably crush them in the end. You were weak, you are weak, and he knows that—you hate him for it. You hate him for being strong. You could hear his steady breathing, you could see his unyielding arrogance spilling out through his facial expression, and you can feel his hand slightly inching towards where yours was placed on the railing. He’s testing just how far you could go without breaking away from what your family taught you. You hate him for being strong. Maybe if he were weak—weak like you —then maybe you two could be together without being tied down to fear. Satoru is a cruel, cruel man and you want nothing more than to give in already to his petty games.

But the harsh truth is that you cannot— must not.

“I want…” You look away, gently pushing his chest until there is finally enough space for you to breathe again. “I want you to have an enjoyable time in Tokyo.”

Satoru looks almost disappointed—you refuse to believe in that, however. He shrugs, now raising his head to turn towards the sky, carefully picking out his next course of action.

“I’ll visit every week, you know.” He states confidently. “So don’t get too lonely.”

“Every week? There’s no need for that. You act as if we will no longer be seeing each other because of your big move.” You poke his sides teasingly, red filling your cheeks. “Besides, Tokyo is only four hours away.”

He hums in agreement. “You say that like you have plans to visit me.”

“What do you know? Maybe I will.”

“And risk your flowers getting mishandled by your sisters? Yeah, right.”

There is no more serving of awkward silence, no more traces of uncomfortable air. In the corner of your peripheral vision, you sneak a glance at your garden; the growing flowers on them. Satoru whistles a tune beside you.

“I’ll be busy over there.” He says.

You nudge him lightly with your shoulder. “I know.”

“You should write to me if you have time.”

You turn to face Satoru and you meet him with a grin, the thought of your father now only idle in your head. You’d have to pay your respects later, you think to yourself, as you do not know just yet how to make Satoru leave your brain. He’s a cruel man. He doesn’t even think of just how lovely his presence is, how he affects you more than he should, and how he makes you want to tell your responsibilities to go to hell, so you can pull him until you’re but a cusp of a breath away from each other.

“Satoru,” you mutter. Your voice captures his attention; he’s wrapped around your finger, though you do not have even the slightest idea, “I don’t need to write to you, idiot. We have phones.”

―――

Your days, ever since your father’s passing, consisted of tending to what needed attention inside the estate. Your eldest sister had been married off as soon as she turned 18 years old; your mother sat as the matriarch of the clan, which meant that the mundane was left for no one except you to take care of, being the second daughter of the current clan leader, anyway.

Even though they passed by relatively fast, certain days felt like long seasons filled with only the harshest wave of winter; you wake up to the cold, the chill, you are freezing even when you’re wrapped in your delicate kimono, even when you’re under the heat of the sun. Between working, working, working, and non-stop studying of your history and other prerequisite lessons needed for you to get a certificate that indicates your completion of home-education, frankly you’ve been exhausted: as though the bags weighing underneath your eyes would gradually grow to be the same lines that your mother had beneath hers.

At 17 years old, however, your days of working will not come to an end yet, nor will it disappear so easily.

“Sister,” Your sibling calls out to you. She looks similar to how you look, the main difference being her wide eyes and distinguishable mole. She goes by Ichika; ten years old, barely even scratching the surface of what it means to be a Heiwa daughter. You tilt your head to the side.

With a hagoita on hand, you hit the incoming hago, successfully receiving it and watching it flutter towards your younger sister’s side of the game. “What is it?”

She lunges forward, struggling to hit the hago with her paddle, though she manages to do so anyway. Her hair blocks her eyes for a moment, disheveled and curly, urging a small smile to creep up your lips. Over time, you’ve learned to develop your relationship with your sisters, one by one befriending them until they feel comfortable enough to search for your company. You do not want them to grow up like you did: alone, terrified, shackled only to responsibility without a means of leisure in tow.

The eldest daughter is known as Kameko. She’s older than you by a year, bearing the same hair color as you, although her eyes are much more similar to that of your father’s. You are the second daughter: [Name], with features that automatically associate you to your clan. The third daughter, one of your younger sisters, is Yasu; four years younger than you, freshly 14 years old. She’s quite quiet; the most elegant one out of all of you, in your eyes. The next one is Yua, just a year younger than Yasu. Intelligent; she had her nose stuck inside a book all the time. The next one is Ichika, the one you’re with right now—as said before, she’s ten years old, being only three years younger than Yua.

The sixth daughter is possibly the one most detached to the rest of you: Chiasa, seven years old, plagued with the burden of inheriting the cursed technique. She’s typically busy inside the Heiwa dojo; if not with her combat, then with her music lessons, with her fencing lessons, whatnot. The youngest ones in your family were Ikuyo and Chiyoko, a pair of lovely twins that had a habit of poking fun at everyone in the estate, manners be damned. Two years younger than Chiasa; five years old, though they were only two when your father passed away.

“Your birthday’s coming up, isn’t it?” Ichika’s voice is as high-pitched as a ringing bell, but it’s eloquent all the same. You ponder on it for a few minutes all the while keeping your head in the game.

You affirm with a hum. “You’re right. I wouldn’t have remembered if you didn’t point it out.”

The sun rains its fury down on the both of you, kissing your skin fervently, each time burning the surface of it until you want nothing more than to wallow under a shade. Your sister remains rather enthusiastic, however, rendering you unable to satiate your exhaustion. She has her focus on the hago swinging back and forth between the both of you, though you could safely say that she’s planning to tell you something, judging solely on how she keeps opening her mouth and closing it in order to focus on hitting the target with her hagoita. You find it endearing.

“You’re turning eighteen this year,” she pauses. “Doesn’t that mean you’ll have to find someone to marry soon?”

You fall apart slowly, and then all at once.

Slowly: your eyes glimmer when they see the sun and your lips instinctively curve up to a smile, a formality. You kiss your teeth.

All at once: your world cambers over and you’re given insufficient time to realign it to its rightful place. You stop dead on the spot, your eyes fixated on the incoming hago, though you cannot feel your hand doing anything to receive it and pass it toward Ichika’s side. There’s a subtle ringing against your ears. You feel your throat closing up, and when the hago finally hits the pavement, you flinch away from your sister. Ichika frowns.

You smile at her, a formality, though it comes out stiff.

“Ah.” You rub your nape. “I lost. That means you’ll have great luck this year.”

Her eyes stay glued on you, and you know that she’s noticed just how uneasy you’ve become. She takes a few steps forward, her hand extending to reach out for you, but you refute her actions by turning your back on her and walking away.

“Sorry. I have to go make a call.” You take note of your hands, how they were gradually growing more numb the longer you stayed there, “I’ll leave my hagoita here. Maybe ask Yua to play for a while.”

You bolt out of the area, crossing the familiar bridge, skipping through the puddles near the pond. You run and you refuse to heed the calls of the servants and relatives you’re passing by, most of whom are asking if you’re okay, why you’re running away, but you don’t need their comfort—not when they’re not going to stand up for you when the time comes, not when they’re all accomplices to this wretched tradition of marrying away children in order to maintain the peace that they all disgustingly uphold, when they’re never going to be willing to help you. You hate it here. You hate everything. You can’t breathe.

Your knees give up on you behind a particularly tall shrub, your skin now riddled with light scars that came from the rocks you slid against. Hot tears cascade your cheeks: you look ridiculous, you’re almost certain. Not marriage-worthy in the slightest—which still remains irrelevant in the grand scheme of things; this family will not, will never, fail to see their goals through when they put their minds to it.

In a flurry of panic, you take out your phone, flipping it open and quickly skimming through your contacts until you finally reach his number. You’re flippant. Angry. Explosive. You want nothing more than to accept his offer and live a life free from the hands of your family; always dragging you by the ankle, down, down, down until you ultimately turn into the likes of them. The Heiwa clan does not cause disputes. You are a Heiwa daughter. You must not let us down. You must not fail your duties. You must not be the first to rebel.

The plants around you are blurred out by the tears: it reeks of herbs, freshly watered, and it reeks of wormwood, rosemary, and sage.

[name]: satoru, i am accepting your marriage proposal.│

You stare at your email. You can no longer rein yourself towards your responsibility: not when it’s too difficult. This is the last of your patience.

[name]: satoru, i am accepting yo│

You can’t bring yourself to click the send button.

[name]: satoru, i am acce│

You’re running out of time; something’s chasing you. You’re running out of time and you do not know how to get to the finish line: when will it all end? How long do you have to endure, endure, endure?

[name]: s│

The last of your message dissipates into the screen, the backspace hitting its limit. Your tears are still apparent, staining your cheeks, but the remnants of your desperation fade alongside whatever resolve you had in the past. You are shackled to your family and running away from your fate is as futile as it could be: destiny has cast its gaze on you and it told you to endure, endure, endure until your dying breath. You know better than to involve Gojo Satoru in your own fate. Why would a young God trifle with a life as pathetic as yours? No reason for that at all.

[name]: i hope you are doing okay there, satoru. visit soon.

sent 01/01/2008

―――

Gojo Satoru does not visit for a while, and you hear whispers of a man named Geto Suguru going rogue. The sorcery world is in shambles. When Satoru returns to you, he is splintered and bruised and drowning in insurmountable grief.

―――

You do not know how you ended up in this position.

Or, more specifically, you do not know how you ended up standing on the peak of Mount Ena, 45 minutes past one in the morning, huddled over on the ground with your head buried in Satoru’s chest. You’re shaking, though it’s not because of the cold breeze that December often brought with it, and the ground, as far as you could ascertain, is as stagnant as it could be; so it couldn’t be because of that. Your limbs are numb. Satoru is staring at you cluelessly, having no idea how to comfort you.

Twenty-two years old, and you’re falling apart against the chest of the most important person in the world. His arms are flat beside him, however, as though he does not know which parts of you he can touch without breaking.

“I’m a failure.” Your voice is riddled with choked sobs, breaking open each syllable to the point that you’re barely coherent, “I’m a failure, Satoru, except I do not know what I did to deserve to be one.”

That rings the truth. You’ve paid your dues. You have done good deeds, you have strayed away from the bad, from anything that could possibly instigate your downfall, and yet still you are 22 years old, deemed unmarriageable, all because the world thinks you have been dirtied by Satoru’s hands. Your life is over. Your mother, the elders, they’re all looking down on you and you have no choice but to keep your head low: eyes on the floor, always on the floor, as you are always the one cowering under their stares. You are always the one inconvenienced by their traditions.

“I have done everything. I have studied, I have trained myself, I have forced myself to accept my fate and I have tried, Satoru, I have tried so hard to endure.” You’re speaking quickly. You can’t help it. The words are spilling out and there’s no way to stop them now—almost as if the dam has been broken open and the water will keep gushing past, regardless if you want it to stop—and they wrack your body until you could feel nothing else.

“Stupid girl,” he whispers, though it’s softer than he probably intended for it to sound, “your first mistake is letting them dictate your life for you.”

You clutch the fabric that clung on to his torso, a bitter laugh escaping your throat. He doesn’t say anything more. “Big talk, hotshot. You act as if you are the one who chose to bear the weight of the shaman world.” You shake your head. “You will never understand, no matter how hard you try. You and I live in different worlds. Vastly different worlds.”

Satoru huffs, one hand reluctantly finding its place on the top of your head. “Stupid girl.” He says, this time with more emphasis, “that’s irrelevant. You choose to be weak. You have me. You can tell me to have your clan dissolved and you’d be free. But you’re too weak for that. Weaker than you’re supposed to be. You can’t handle it.”

Even with each stab of his knife, you could not bring yourself to hate him and his words, regardless of how cruel they are when they reach your ears. You’ve endured so much. All you did in that house was endure, accept, endure again until you’re sucked dry with no ambition left inside your body. Until you’re an empty shell they can easily fill with their own desires. Satoru’s right. He could have the Heiwa clan dismantled if you so graciously asked him; he’d probably do it faster than an apple could reach the ground, even. 

But you are too dragged in, too scared. Gojo Satoru notices your dejection, debility, your suffering, and he does not know what to feel about it. There’s something similar to anger—the loose threads of it, the beginnings of it, though you’re too worried of the outcome if ever you were to aid him in unraveling it. “I’ve always known that I’m weak.” You mutter. He clicks his tongue. “So allow me just one night to grieve for the life I will never come to have because of it. One night, Satoru, and I will go back to enduring,” slight pause; the tension is strangely palpable, “and you can go back to not caring at all.”

The breeze carries something terribly sweet in the air as though it is mocking you for being so undeniably angry at the world during the beauty of winter. Your sobs are worsening, his jacket’s absorbing most of them, and he’s shushing all your cries by stroking your hair awkwardly. He doesn’t do this kind of thing—not well-versed in the art of caring, art of comforting. Caring is one step away from loving. Satoru thinks he is meant for a lot of things, nearly everything, except that. He doesn’t do love. Not since Suguru. Perhaps not at all, perhaps never once more. A cruel thing.

You’re speechless against him. You want him to put his arms around you. You know he won’t.

This began during the early hours of the morning: initially, you were going to be summoned in the main hall to meet a few suitors from middle-rank sorcerer clans hailing from Kyoto. You were up at around six in the morning, in order to begin the preparations, to tidy up yourself before the meet; after all, three years have passed ever since you began looking for one, and you were still left with no viable options. You were growing restless. You wanted things to be over and done with already.

Come lunchtime, or at least an hour before it, representatives arrived in your suitors’ stead, all poise and held certain candor in their person. They spoke of their sudden disinterest, their reluctance to be associated with your name specifically, all because they heard that Gojo Satoru had his eyes set on you, and that he had tarnished you already. It’s all over the sorcerer world, Heiwa. Do you truly expect your daughter to marry at this rate? Try your luck with the next one. No one would want to marry those who have been touched by that Gojo.

Your mother made sure that you could feel her disappointment, her utter aggravation because of how worthless you are in the end; she made it clear when she slapped you straight across your face with her cane, leaving the color chartreuse on your cheekbone, eyes red from how hard you cried in front of her. As I expected. No one wants to marry Gojo Satoru’s whore. What am I supposed to do with you now?

Eventually, after hours of crying, you found yourself dialing Satoru’s number a few minutes past 11 in the evening; he answered with the same glee, though he was met with the sound of your whines. He almost instantly hung up on you, leaving you to your thoughts, but you’d come to realize that Satoru could warp now—which was hard not to figure out, seeing as he made it from Tokyo to Nakatsugawa in a matter of seconds.

A few hushed whispers inside your room, and you had your arms thrown around his shoulders, feeling his all-consuming cursed energy surround the both of you until you were, undoubtedly, on the peak of Mount Ena.

Currently, you could feel his chest reverberating with light laughter. An hour has passed.

Satoru repeats his words; warranting you no time to get hurt by them. “Stupid girl.” He faces upward, nose held up toward the sky, eyes staring at the sublime as though he had an idea of what the constellations across the heavens were even called. “Stop being so stubborn and marry me instead,” he says in gentle waves, almost careful. He pushes you backward in order to meet you eye to eye. “What better way to fuck with them than to marry the strongest man alive?”

You sniffle. This is tradition. Keep your eyes on the ground.

“I cannot marry you, Satoru.” 

Your mother’s words echo in your head, like distant gunshots, You are unworthy. You will never live up to Gojo Satoru. To bask in his presence is a luxury. Know your place.

Satoru looks at you displeased. You scoff inwardly. He is so, very, terribly cruel to you even when you’re most vulnerable. You want to hate him so much that it hurts—but you don’t know how to. You’re wrapped around his finger and like him, unaware of just how far you’d go just to appease him, just to feel as though you could have a place in his world.

You are nothing and you will stay nothing. You are worthless. Know your place.

“Why not?” Toothy grin. You were trying to stifle your tears, and he’s out here looking as if this is just another day in his life. The moonbeams never fail to weave wonders whenever they shine on his hair; he looks exceptionally, undeniably lovely. Like milky streaks of the lune. “Think about it. You’d get out of there. We can reform the world however we please. Maybe I’ll kill your mother for you. You won’t miss her.”

You stare at him as if he’s a mad scientist professing profusely incoherent formulae of topics barely comprehensible; and although you know that that’s exactly what he is, he couldn’t possibly be serious. There was no way in whichever universe that his words rang true—not when he’s always been cruel. Not when he’s said these before and done nothing to show for it. Not when his promises have always been empty, hollow, selfish.

You deflate alongside with the wind. “You should choose the people you associate yourself with. It would be too much of a burden for you to marry one as weak as me, no?”

There’s a shift in his reaction, a sudden surge of irritation, it’s palpable and thick that you couldn’t bear to even remain near him so much that you take a step back. It happens quietly. A breeze swishes through and he purses his lips into a thin line, bathing underneath the light of the sky once more, but unmoving this time. It happens quietly. You wonder if this is his anger—if it is, then it’s just as beautiful as he is, and you hate it—or if this were just another one of his cold, blatant personas, reserved for those he despises. It happens quietly. Maybe he despises you.

A hitch gets caught up inside his throat, and you barely notice it. “Since when has that been,” Satoru hisses, wrapping one arm around your back, “for you to decide?”

The wind whistles past again and the two of you are near the edge of the cliff, free to fall anytime if either of you choose to make the wrong move, but instead you’re focused on each other, both fiercely trying to figure out what to make of this conversation: you’re certain now that you hit a nerve, but it’s unfair—he’s been insufferable, for almost two decades now, but you’ve never been in the position to complain. His eyes meet your own and you fixate your gaze on the space in between his. Decades have passed, and yet you are unable to look at him, still. You stare each other down, neither of you refusing to yield.

Until—surprisingly enough—he does. It’s his turn to keep his eyes glued to the ground.

(Satoru is the first one to look away, but the both of you know who truly lost.)

“Doesn’t matter if you’re weak or strong.” I’m always going to be stronger. An unspoken thing. He interlocks your arms together, drawing out a small squeal of surprise from you, “I still have to do my job, either way.”

Before you could ask him what happened, the same feeling from earlier surrounds your body; the flow of his cursed energy rendering you speechless for the nth time that night. In a matter of seconds, you’re back to your room, and the clock is only further adding to your anxiety with its constant ticking. 

“Satoru.” You mumble out, tugging on his jacket. “What’s going on?”

When Satoru quickly lets go of your arm, the cold seeps through your bones more quickly this time.

“Whatever. It’s nothing.” He whispers, getting ready to part ways, “just think about what I said.”

―――

In dreams, the both of you fall off the cliff in Mount Ena and you are able to experience what it feels like to be at peace. In dreams, Satoru is as strong as he says and he does not hold back from saving you; he is not broken and torn and as weak as you are. He is whole, he does not mask away his mourning, and he does not put you on the receiving end of his cold blue eyes. 

―――

“Okay,” You reach out for a hair tie, leaving it hanging on your lips while your hands work to comb your hair, “and then what happened?”

Looking forward, you watch the sunshine bounce on the frame of your silver laptop; although the corners were riddled with scratches from being overused, you brushed over that detail and stared at your screen once more. Painted across the surface of your monitor, Gojo Satoru looks even more unreal; the years have made themselves apparent on his skin, but not in a way that made him look unflattering. Not exactly. Not in the slightest, even.

“I exorcized it, of course.” He shrugs. Based on the interface, Satoru was inside his room, wearing an exhausted white shirt with noticeable folds on it. “When a curse is about to swallow a colleague, I don’t think there’s anything else you can do.”

You roll your eyes, sticking your tongue out at him. “Smartass. I was making an effort to sound invested in your story over here.”

Satoru feigned offense, his hand clutching the left part of his shirt. If you could see through the bandages wrapped neatly around his eyes, you knew you’d be facing the most sour eyebrow furrow in the entire world. You chuckle silently at the thought of that.

“Are you telling me you’ve been faking the whole time?” He shakes his head. “And here I thought we were having a nice conversation. Am I not enough for you these days?”

You hum in response, watching him spiral down within his faux dejection even more. “These days? Please, Satoru. You know I never would have been interested in you if not for my family duty.”

The both of you throw your individual arguments back and forth, not once pausing to take in a breath in fear that you’ll be forced to log out of your Skype account again any second now. The blue frames in your screen taunt you as you brush your hair: and you stare at them, at Satoru as well, memorizing each pixel as though this would be the last time you’re seeing it.

Life within the Heiwa clan estate was humbling, but not frugal. Of course, your family lived off of generational wealth and as well as the livelihood of the sorcerers in the clan; there weren’t many, but there were some. You knew that your older sister was one—Kameko, who was recently widowed—and you knew that one of your younger sisters was set to become a sorcerer as well; a few aunts and uncles, but none relevant enough to remember the name of. Technology was still widely new to the clan, and quite frankly, it wasn’t as accessible as you and your sisters had hoped. Even the laptop you were using now was a present from Satoru nearly a year ago.

Now, at age 24, over two years after the events in Mount Ena, you put on your most vibrant satin dresses all for the sake of landing a suitor. Your name was still clouded with bad rep, and yet the search did not yield; your mother, ever stubborn and ever prideful, would not let one of her daughters forget, after all, that they will suffer the same fate she did. 

“You are so dramatic.” You finally say after a while, leaning comfortably against your chair. You watch the ends of his lips curve up to form a smile, unfolding his arms in order to lay them quietly by his side. 

“Theatrics have never hurt anyone,” he leans forward, his face taking up most of the screen. You scrunch your nose. “Not that you would know, anyway. Have you even stepped foot inside a theater?”

“Hey! You know I’m a homebody.”

“Are you? I think you stay at home because they don’t allow you to leave,”

Satoru grins at you even as your glare pierces through his screen. You choose to ignore it, instead basking in the comfortable silence that followed suit. You turn towards the mirror situated right next to your device, soon picking up your brush again and dabbing it lightly into the powder; soon bringing it up to dust your face with the mixture. Satoru watches you idly.

You know he’s about to ask what you’re preparing for again when he attempts to open his mouth; but you stumble over yourself, you sputter out words faster than he could, “Fushiguro! He’s—Well…how is he?”

He purses his lips to a thin line, studying you through his side of the screen. The warm breeze of summer swishes through your room, billowing the puffy cloak wrapped around your shoulders. You pondered if your screen had lagged again; but you knew Satoru simply took his time.

After a while, his shoulders slump down and he leans against his chair. “He’s doing okay. You can call him Megumi, you know. He doesn’t mind.”

“You sure?” You pout. “I haven’t met him in person yet. I’m not even sure if we’re friends.”

As soon as you finish talking, the sorcerer flares up with laughter, his laptop nearly falling off his desk when he slammed his palm on top of it. You tilt your head to the side, defensively holding your cheek brush in front of you. “What are you laughing so hard for?”

“Man, you’re really worried about whether or not you’re friends with an eleven year old.” Satoru combs through his hair, shaking his head. “You must have nothing to do over there.”

There are three blunt knocks on your door, and all too quickly, one of your sisters peeks inside your room to gesture you out, brows glued together. Yua’s fingers furl and unfurl themselves; you hear Satoru humming in confusion, something-something What’s the matter? What’re you looking at? You tune him out, surprisingly enough. When your sister finally takes her leave, your grip on your brush tightens. You dwell over that simple thing for a few seconds—you hate it, you finally ascertain, you detest the way you hold onto things tighter than you should. You peer at Satoru, and you realize you do the same thing with him. Your mother did it too. She held onto teacups, fans, wrists with a death grip as proof that she had control, authority over mundane things, as if mundanity was the only thing she had.

You put a pin on it. Spiraling down was out of the question today.

“Hey.” You start, finding it rather difficult to string your sentences together. “I have to…go. Somewhere. I have to get going.”

He stares at you for a while.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Satoru grins, propping his chin atop his palm. He shakes his head. “No, actually—you know what? You look like I just asked you to marry me again.”

When you laugh, it rings insincerely against Satoru’s ears. For a moment, his face twists into a brief expression of distaste, you immediately know he doesn’t like it.

“Yeah.” You raise your hand, waving dismissively. “Don’t miss me too much, okay? Be careful over there.”

Satoru clutches the left part of his shirt again, now without a look of disbelief to accompany it. In its stead, a smile rests on his lips, his other hand presumably reaching for his computer’s mouse. “Can’t promise you that. I’ll see you around.”

The line ends after that. It was an unspoken rule between the two of you: you could call him whenever you needed a distraction at any point of the day, but he has to be the one who ends it. Something about him knowing you’ll end it as soon as you start to shy away. Something about not wanting you to hide away from him as well.

You close the lid of your laptop. It was an unspoken thing as well, you thought; the way you knew, almost instinctively, that Satoru was always going to be careful for the rest of his life.

―――

The train hums down, the faint squeals from before blending into the sound of the bustling station in the heart of the city. You pull your hat further down, waiting for the other passengers to finish pushing themselves out of the train. In your head, you remind yourself that this is unlike quaint Nakatsugawa; no, Nakatsugawa had less than 100,000 in population—Tokyo had millions. If you lag behind now, you’re going to regret it for the rest of your life.

Still, you swallow thickly; it’s completely normal for your legs to feel like they’re about to give up, right?

You stand abruptly from your seat in the train, now holding onto one of the handles to keep your balance. The line towards the exit was relatively neat, but you could subtly feel people shoving each other in order to finally get out of the cramped space. You knew that Tokyo’s morning rush hour was hectic as hell, but you had nothing to base it on back at home; had you known it would have been this bad, you would have opted for an earlier ride.

You string together small Excuse me’s and Sorry’s as you make your way out of the crowd, clutching your bag closer to your chest. In exchange, you receive a bunch of Get out of my way’s and Watch where you’re going’s. Neat. City folks are interesting.

Once you are finally able to step foot outside of the public transport, you heave a sigh. Within mere seconds of your arrival, you see Satoru—clad in a black sweatshirt, plain black jeans, and a black mask over his eyes in lieu of the usual white bandages—waving at you in the distance, soon showcasing a small salute.

The sun was not at its peak yet, and you already felt like melting. Nine feet away, Gojo Satoru still resembled the annoying kid you grew up with. Though he was taller now, and maybe stronger as well, he looked no different from how you remember him. He fashions a shit-eating grin, his free hand hidden inside his pocket; you wave back at him, jogging towards his direction with a smile etched on your expression as well.

“Look at you, city girl,” he shoots you a wink, “How was your trip?”

You give him a light slap on his shoulder, more relieved than you are annoyed. It’s been a year and a half since you last saw Satoru in person; up until now, it had mostly been video calls on Skype or continuous emails. He’s been busy with work (“Tokyo’s a shitstorm right now. You wouldn’t get it.”) , and you’ve been busy with preserving the estate (“Clearly you haven’t seen Nakatsugawa during winter.”); so when the opportunity came up, the opportunity being your mother heading to Osaka to meet with some relatives, you contacted him immediately and got on a train bound to the beloved capital—consequences be damned.

“It was a bit cramped in there, but I managed.” You reply, proudly patting your bag as though it were your chest. “Do you mind if we eat first before I show you my itinerary, Satoru?”

Interlocking his arm with yours, he hums, “I do mind, actually. I have an itinerary of my own, so you better adjust your pace to mirror mine, sweetheart.” Satoru, ever the menace, drags you forward with him without even letting you protest—combing through the sea of people quickly, checking every now and then to see if you were still conscious.

You were going to kill him before the day ends. The both of you know that. You tug on his hand. He stops walking.

Then, Satoru cocks an eyebrow. “What?”

“I’m seriously going to pass out if I don’t eat,” you reply, your voice slurring around the edges, ”I know you’d hate that. So, please?”

It’s his turn to roll his eyes, dragging you to the nearest vending machine, slipping in a few coins in order to get you a tuna sandwich. You flick the back of his head.

“What was that for?” He exclaims, smoothing out the folds on his sweatshirt.

Grumbling, you reluctantly take the sandwich he acquired, stuffing it inside your satchel. “You’re so stingy, Satoru. Can’t even take me to an actual restaurant.”

He winks at you again, before nudging your sides. Your irritation slowly bubbles up inside.

“That’s for tonight, baby.” The nickname makes you blush, but you try to pay little attention to it. “I told you, didn’t I? I have an itinerary of my own.”

— ꕤ —

Your first few hours in the city go swimmingly. Satoru makes sure to hold you close enough to him, especially during hectic crowds, so that you don’t get lost and get stuck in the middle of nowhere.

As it turns out, Satoru wasn’t talking out of his ass; he did have an itinerary. He planned the whole day, in fact, down to the tourist spots to visit, to places to eat during lunch, snack time, and dinner. See, he’s never been one for planning—thinks that spontaneity has its own quirks to it, something something—so it surprises you, beyond reasonable belief, when he pulls out a sheet of paper (neatly folded, too!) from his back pocket. He doesn’t show you anything specific on the page, but you steal a few glances midway and make out the time slots allotted to each activity he had scheduled for the day.

It’s precise and actually coherent.

(You have two theories. First: he somehow got Megumi to draft it out for him, either through coercion mixed with extortion or annoying persuasion. Second: trip-planning is unexpectedly another one of his natural, god-given talents.)

(The latter is most likely the answer, but it feels ridiculous to admit.)

He took you to the former Yasuda garden, firstly. He had signed the two of you up for a full tour beforehand, and he even took you straight to the stalls lined up near the entrance in order to purchase a variety of memorabilia and souvenirs. You were opposed to the idea of visiting a garden at first, especially since you already see enough plants back at home anyway, but Satoru promises to make it worth your while.

And, he delivers. You end up crying amidst the shrubberies. The green is so terribly, wonderfully healthy that you fall apart. (“Don’t you think it’s poetic, Satoru? Healthy roots still run through the ground of this land, in spite of the blood and anguish it’s witnessed before.”) (“Please stop crying. The other tourists are staring.”)

You end the tour on a good note. He buys you pastries from the vendors nearby. 

Next, he warps the two of you down to the Kameido Tenjin Shrine in Koto City, which wasn’t a far jump from Sumida, but he insists that there isn’t time to lose today. The token purple flowers from the garden there were out of season, but he pulls out a shard of hardened resin from his pocket: inside, there are violet wisteria flowers, pressed and dried and pretty, it makes you swoon. There’s a chain attached to the top of the shard, and you realize shortly after that it’s meant to act as a necklace. (“It’s unorthodox, I know. But I heard it’s trendy these days to propose without a ring.”) (“I’m not marrying you. Thanks for the necklace, though!”)

You take a lot of photos with him. Next to a random tree, next to the tall walls surrounding the shrine, next to the field of not-so-blossoming flowers. In most of the pictures, you and Satoru smile as wide as the other, and his arm is covertly wrapped around either your shoulder or your waist.

Nakamise shopping street was the third place on the list, apparently. Before you went there, the two of you spent a few minutes (close to an hour) wandering around the food vendors, trying out street food and beverages. Satoru pays for everything, unsurprisingly. Something about being ‘loaded as hell’? You tried your hardest to tune out his cockiness, so you remain unsure.

Once you reach Asakusa, minutes begin to drift to hours. The two of you spend an awful lot of time hanging around each nook and cranny of every intriguing store.

By the end of it, Satoru warps out momentarily to drop all of you guys’ shopping bags to his apartment. His absence is brief, but you feel it strongly. When he returns to you after no more than five minutes, you cling onto his arm as you weave through the busy crowd.

The afternoon sun strikes through your pupils, but you think it to be lackluster next to the way Satoru smiles at you. 

— ꕤ —

Hours after that, you feel your entire body closing in on you. 

And that shouldn’t even be possible.

After visiting the busy shopping district, Satoru teleports the both of you to a restaurant. Chanko Tomoegata. Sumida again, according to the sign, and the aroma immediately flows through the air when you enter, so much so that it makes your mouth water. You don’t realize just how tired you are. Not until you sat down in one of the empty booths, your feet finally finding some remedy beneath the warm cloth of the kotatsu. 

When your forehead meets the top of the table, it’s enough for Satoru to realize that you’ll be out of it until further notice: so he orders on your behalf, beaming at the waiting staff. You tune him out.

Minutes later, when the steam worms its way to cloud your face, you raise your head only to be greeted with the sight of your companion watching a video on his cellphone. You yawn, before stretching your limbs out. “How long was I out?”

“About fifteen minutes. The pork’s almost done cooking.” He tells you, stirring the pot situated in front of you two. 

You blink twice, adjusting your eyes to the light of the room. “Are we heading to your place after this?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I’ll pour my soup down your pants. Tread lightly.”

“I’m joking!”

“It wasn’t funny!”

Satoru pokes you with his elbow, a smile gracing his lips. He shrugs after that. “We’re not heading back just yet. We still have to visit one more place. And then I’ll let you steal my bed for the night. Alright?”

Satisfied, you nod. “Alright.”

You don’t say much after that, too exhausted to strike up another topic. You’ve been talking to Satoru non-stop ever since you got to Tokyo, and although the two of you were technically catching up because you haven’t seen each other in months, his affinity for being absolutely insufferable for no reason drained you out impeccably. 

When you feel as though you’re back to being a functioning human being (and not an empty battery shell), you take in the ambiance of the restaurant. Chanko Tomoegata is a fairly small restaurant, with quaint interiors and a lively staff to juxtapose the plain, cozy feel of the place. The cloth entrance to the restaurant is bordered with a red wooden doorframe, a few festive ornaments positioned near the windows and doors, signifying the coming holidays. The place is crowded tonight, mostly by couples and families. It has a certain familiarity to it—this restaurant, as though people have come here time and time again and worn out the furniture enough to make the room scream home. It’s a silly thought. You get lost in it, anyway.

“You okay?” Satoru asks you, after minutes of evident silence, momentarily dropping the stirring spoon down on the small plate right next to the pot. “Are you really that tired? You want me to carry you later?”

His question elicits a small laugh from you. “No, it’s fine. I’m just a bit tired.” Shaking your head, you think you like how he cares about you. Satoru is typically very affectionate, but often he hides it under the guise of being unbearable, so it appears unapparent. But you know he cares, he shows it during moments that matter: maybe not through words all the time, but it’s always been enough for you.

It takes you back to your childhood with him, more than anything. Cheek pokes in the library, distasteful jokes when you’re crying, hiding your plant seeds from you when you’re sick. Tasting food first for you, getting you a glass of water when you’re tired. Folding your blanket in the morning.

You sigh. He does a lot for you.

“Do you ever miss it?” Choosing your next words, you lean your head against his shoulder. “Nakatsugawa, I mean. Our estate. You used to stay there a lot.”

Satoru sends you a questioning stare. “I don’t go there for the estate, so why would I miss it?” After that, he flashes you a cheeky grin, his chin perched atop his palm. He plays with the straw of his drink. “Is that your silly way of asking if I miss you?”

Your cheeks flush a light shade of red. Embarrassed, you turn away from him, training your focus on the bowl of food presented neatly in front of you. You huff. He was being annoying, as usual. It’s not like you wanted to know if he missed you just as much as you missed him. No, not really. Not at all. You pick up your chopsticks, deciding to dig into the hot pot already as a way to ease the feeling of having his attention fall all on you. “No. I was just wondering, idiot. You’re so full of yourself.”

Satoru pouts. “How can you say that, when I’m paying for this sick ass meal?”

“I can say what I want!”

“And you say I’m the one who’s full of myself.”

You stick your tongue out at him after that. He chuckles lightly, taking hold of one napkin and using it to wipe the broth beside your lips. It’s a simple thing, and you’re used to it, so your cheeks cooperate with you this time around. You don’t blush a deep shade of red, but you feel your pulse beating through the cuffs of your jacket. Satoru hums a tune under his breath. You try to focus on that instead.

“Have you been eating well?” He asks, suddenly. “Or are you skipping your meals again?”

You ponder on his question for a bit, before answering, “I’ve been eating better, I suppose. You know, I cook my own food now.”

The young God grins again, and then he reaches out to pat your head. He keeps doing this when you two are together—touch you, hold you, anywhere. Satoru is typically very affectionate. It could just be his pinky finger grazing the back of your hand, it could be his palm finding its place on top of your head, or his arms snaked around your waist. It was always like this, in recent years. You’re used to Satoru living loudly, but you’ve come to notice that he lived especially obnoxiously around you. It’s an intimate thing. You understand why, but it’s foreign, still.

“That’s good to hear. Don’t want you passing out under the sun when you’re gardening, now, do we?” Satoru chuckles, later straightening his posture and picking up the chopsticks that were laid out for him, too. He breaks it apart, before blowing the steam off the bowl he served himself. “You’ve got to cook for me sometime, nerd.”

You roll your eyes. “Why would I do that?”

“‘Cause I told you to, of course.” He sips his broth. “Can you say no to this gorgeous face?”

“Quite easily, actually.”

“Come on!"

— ꕤ —

The darkness combs through the sky faster than you’d realized, and the cool air it brought along squeezes itself through the slits of your clothes. You stare down at the world, from over 400 meters above the ground, with your hands clasped tightly on top of your chest.

Below you, the city twinkles like minute christmas lights, flickering all over. In fractions of different hues, blinking towards the next and the next and the next, until it all blends into a portrait of frenzied gradients. They glimmer all over, and it’s difficult to find a focal point.

So, you choose to stare at the most beautiful thing, instead. You lean the back of your head against the glass, and then you train your eyes to Satoru, beaming. “I don’t know how I can enjoy my hometown after this. I love it here.”

“I keep telling you.” He bumps his shoulder against your own one. “You should just marry me. You won’t need to go back there if you do.”

Before exiting the restaurant earlier, Satoru specifically waited for the daytime sun to dip down the horizon. The setting sun colored the clouds with a duller shade of orange as you were walking towards your next destination, blending into the golden hues of the sky perfectly as eventide neared. You remember distinctly—he reached out to take off the fabric masking his eyes, eyelids relaxing upon being touched by the sun’s rays. The blue in his eyes mirrored the vibrance so perfectly well; it fluidly circled around his pupils each time he directed his attention elsewhere, pristine and wonderful and startlingly beautiful. 

Satoru has always been lovely; his eyes, most especially. Unmasked, they looked up from the depths and immediately caught the sun: and somehow Satoru was able to shine along with it. Somehow somehow somehow. 

You sigh in displeasure. Now, at Tokyo Skytree, the top floor is devoid of other people. The halls are empty, save for the two of you, and it evokes a specific kind of anxiety and peace at the same time. You're not quite sure what to make of it yet, but you know there's satisfaction underneath it all. In that moment, in the one you’re in now, and perhaps in more moments to come, you could think of nothing else that you would want more than being able to be an onlooker for the way Satoru effortlessly dares to be the most beautiful man alive. You think you might deserve it. You would like to feel like you do, maybe one day, maybe now, maybe soon enough. 

But you don’t. What have you done to deserve someone as grand as him? Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Your head throbs, so much so that you remember the words of your mother. You think you might deserve it—what? What do you deserve? Remaining to be within reach enough to watch Satoru from afar? A scoff wants to escape your throat, and you hate how easy it is to mock yourself over your desires. Meek as they are. When it comes to him, there is no question of what you deserve. The only thing that matters is if he has gotten tired of having you around. It is not a question of whether or not you are worth something to him—no, not really—because so long as he thinks your companionship is necessary, then there should be no complaints on your end. You don’t deserve to be his friend, and yet you are, so you swallow the pain even if it tastes like tiny shards of glass. You are worth nearly nothing, and yet he spends his money on you as though you aren’t. So, what? Be thankful, then. Say nothing and be thankful. That’s all there is to it.

You do not deserve him. It doesn’t make sense for you to deserve him. One as weak as you and one as strong as him? No. No. No. It wouldn’t make sense. No. Not really.

You should just marry me. He says it so often, but he doesn’t mean it. Satoru doesn’t owe you honesty; that’s why he keeps asking, no? On some level, he knows the tradition just as well as you do. He keeps proposing because you keep shooting him down. Your rejection is inevitable, and he gets to live normally the next day. Satoru does not love you enough to take you seriously. He cares about you, that much you are certain, but he does not love you enough to offer you truth. 

But you do.

“I am already engaged to a man from the Zen’in clan.”

Quiet.

You refuse—no, incorrect—you can’t look him in the eye. You can’t bring yourself to. “We are to be wedded in two years.”

You say this in a way that evidently shows that you’re waiting for a reaction from him. Anything, really. Satoru knows you more than anyone in the world, which meant that he knew the ins and outs of everything that went on inside your head. He probably already knows that you don’t want this marriage. He knows that you’re doing this for your mother. 

He knows that you cannot verbally tell him all of these things, and he knows you are waiting for him to make the first move. It’s a silly thing, really. Awaiting his compassion. As though you deserve to have it. 

(You don’t. Nobody does. Gojo Satoru does not owe the world anything at all.)

The city lights continue twinkling underneath, and it’s starting to feel more like chaos.

Though Satoru’s grin stays plastered on his expression, and it grounds you. “That doesn’t sound like a no.”

―――

I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m s-

The hurt does not subside regardless of how relentless your pleas are. You keep your eyes shut: as though doing so would help you tune out the world around you.

It doesn’t. It will never.

“Should’ve known you would be a failure,” the ghastly widow says, loose hair curled up against her sweaty forehead. She nibbles on the tips of her fingernails, pacing around the room tirelessly, the heavy pounding of her steps posing as enough reason for one to avoid the room the two of you were locked in. Your yukata rises above your knee, barely covering each patch of cold violet; they are reminders. Reminders of all the times you have failed the family. “Should not have put it past you to be such a disgraceful whore. Had I intervened sooner, I—” Your mother clutches the skin of her cheeks tighter than anything else she’s ever touched. “—I could have stopped this from happening. You could have been sold off to another clan. I would not have to be stuck with you.”

I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I never meant to-

The wedding has been postponed. Somehow, the announcement hurts the mother of the bride more than it should— way more than it should. The elders from the Zen'in clan are on the brink of pulling out your supposed fiancé and calling off the ceremony altogether as soon as they found out about your trip to Tokyo with none other than Satoru. The rest is history. Now, your mother yells as if she has no more daughters left to pawn off to disgusting rich men; like she has realized that her appearance alone is enough to scare a toddler; like she has finally gone mad, once and for all.

Inwardly, you snort. No. Heiwa’s widow has been mad long before she was the clan’s matriarch.

“They think two years is enough to tighten you up.” 

Tighten you up because you have been sullied by Gojo Satoru. What good is having a whore for a wife? Give her two years more. That ought to make her clean enough to marry. 

Gojo Satoru. Satoru. Your Satoru. He’s not here, he’s not anywhere, he’s nowhere to be found. Where is he? You don’t bother whispering it out; your voice can’t take it, anyway. Where is he? He’ll get here soon. I know he will.

“How long will I be stuck with you? How long until you run back to that arrogant man and restart the process all over again?”

She walks closer towards you, kneeling on the floor. It’s quick. She makes it quick enough. She gathers her hands and she places it around your cheeks. Takes hold of your temple soon enough. Quick. She makes it quick. She runs her hands through the sides of your head and then she pulls your hair—you hear your scalp tearing out, and a scream dies down in your throat—she cries with her forehead placed directly in front of yours. Quick. Quick. Quick. The pain lingers but her fingers leave the scene in an instant.

The ghastly widow stands up and she turns her back on you, her face nears the crackling embers of the fireplace. You pray for her to be one with the ashes.

“You will never learn, will you?” She shakes her head. You watch from your corner in the room, folding yourself smaller and smaller and smaller and smaller. “What must I do to make sure it sticks?”

Her hands find a home in the fire poker beside the spare wood in the room, keenly soaking it into the flames. 

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I never did anything wrong. Where is he? I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.

“Yes, yes, yes, that.” She cackles. Sobs wrack through your whole body. “If I write it in seething characters, maybe he’ll leave you alone.”

I never did anything wrong I never did anything wrong I never did anything wrong I never did anything wrong I never did anything wrong I never did anything-

Your mother has always had sharp eyes, and you used to think they burned you like no other.

She makes you eat your own words when the poker carves through the skin of your shoulder, hot and sharp and slow. She hums a quiet tune under her breath, her free hand holding you in place as she engraves your skin with marks that’ll stay. It burns. 

Quick. Quick. Quick. The pain is slow but your mother is quick with writing. En - Mei. The name of your betrothed. 

The ghastly widow looks like your mother, but she is anything but. You stay rotting in that corner for weeks. The ghastly widow forgets where she left you. 

―――

The name forged on your shoulder continues to sting months after it was burned. Not because the scar still hurts, but because you’re unsure of what Satoru would think if he knew you had a man’s name eternally drawn on your skin. Could you still be his? Would he even want you?

―――

The crown molding is barely visible now that the ornaments are there to cover them. Truth be told, no amount of gold in the world could make you like the interiors of this place, anyway. The guests were widespread across the hall, each one either trapped in conversation with clan elders, stuffing their faces with the food served on nearly a dozen tables, or gushing about the portrait of you and your betrothed on the wall.

The party’s boring. You’re sitting beside your supposed husband; people are rushing over to talk to Enmei, and you’re barely there to them, they barely spare you a minute of their time, much less a second glance. You fear the day you’d get brushed over completely and be regarded as nothing more than just his wife, albeit you already knew that this is ultimately the beginning of the rest of your life.

“Why the long face?” You snap your head immediately to the source of voice, already feeling more upbeat. “You’re going to get uglier if you keep at it.”

“Satoru…” You smile, your shoulders relaxing. “You’re here.”

“Well, obviously. Did you secretly have me banned, or something?” Satoru doesn’t even look at Enmei, but you can see through the corner of your eyes that the latter’s not too happy to see your friend.

“I’d ban you as loud as I can, if possible. Surely, you know me better than that?” You patronize.

He doesn’t take his sweet time trying to humor your request for an argument, instead offering you his palm, now standing upright in front of you. “Why don’t we take advantage of the music,” he gestures to the dance floor, “for old time’s sake?”

Politely, you give your fiancé a small smile, only to acknowledge his presence, before reluctantly placing your hand on top of Satoru’s. There’s friction at first, and you feel almost scared to completely graze his skin; but he takes the opportunity to beat you to the tackle by fully entwining your fingers together, now trailing behind him as he led the both of you to the middle, where the other dancers were.

“You allowed me through infinity again,” you smile at him, sounding almost solicitous, though he knew you well enough not to let it get to him. “I must be very special, huh.”

“Not really.” He clicks his tongue, playfully spinning you around, readying himself to reiterate the same thing he’s been saying since you two were six years old. “You don’t pose a threat. You’re still much weaker than me.”

He puts his free hand on top of your waist thereafter; the music slows down, and the both of you melt into it. The silence is obscure tonight. He’s not talking, though he doesn’t at all look disinterested; you like him better when he cares, you take note, enjoying the way he’s hesitating to pull you towards him. You don’t miss a beat—you’re the one who takes the initiative this time, the desire to spread the remnants of his cologne on your dress growing at a rapid rate. You’re dancing with Gojo Satoru, unarguably the strongest man alive, but you want so much more of him that it still doesn’t feel enough.

“It isn’t too late to take me up on my offer, you know.” He grins, it’s frivolous and light, far too casual that you want to wipe it off his expression on the spot. He sways you on the dance floor, lips moving dangerously close beside your ear, “Why don’t you marry me instead?”

The world is steadily crumbling down and you’re letting it. The walls aren’t walls at this point, they’re something out of a dream, or a nightmare, and the paper’s tearing off with each step the two of you take in sync. The whispers around the room are dying down; you’re trying to think of the time that the voices weren’t so brittle. 

You don’t want to look around the room and lock eyes with the people you could never disappoint; so you keep your gaze on him, on Satoru, your Satoru, with your lips quivering ever so lightly. He does not miss the way it does. 

“Satoru.” Your breathing is growing erratic. “I’ll do it.”

He looks pleasantly surprised; almost satisfied with your answer, though the way he dips you down is quick and brisk and it does not spare you a second longer to figure out exactly what expression he adorned as soon as you responded. The world is continuously shattering into smaller pieces: he isn’t ready to pick them up for you just yet. Satoru’s clutch on your waist tightens; he’s getting so painstakingly close, you could feel the intensity of the room thickening. All eyes on the two of you.

“Just what is your family subjecting you to,” he pauses, his breath tickling your neck, “for you to become so desperate?”

You should hate him for that, but you reserve your anger for the day he doesn’t speak the truth. He’s right. You were desperate. He knew how to get the answers out from you with just his stupid, little jokes. They hurt less than staying in this life: than staying and taking all the burns and reading every single book they ask of you all because you must, and not because you can. Sick and tired of tossing and turning every night, wishing for some miracle, wishing to wake up in another person’s body. You were—you are—so, so desperate to get out. You’ve endured long enough, haven’t you? The burns on your shoulders are an indication of all that you have given up. Have you not paid more than what you are worth? 

You try to give him a genuine chuckle, though it falls flat. As if I could tell him all of those things. “Am I engaged to two people now?” 

He holds you closer than ever; even with the fabric around his eyes, you could make out his impossibly perfect pupils, wishing inwardly to see it—one last time, before the walls of Enmei’s abode cave in to gradually replace the world you’ve worked so hard on to establish. In the end, it’s true: Gojo, however strong, however powerful, is not mandated to save you, will not benefit from wasting time in order to pull you out of your situation, will never marry you no matter how many times he asks for your hand.

“No,” Satoru’s close, too close, and he’s getting your hopes up with every second that his fingers remain wrapped around yours. “Just one.”

―――

But Satoru doesn’t come back for you after that.

You lay still in the cold corner of the estate, where the empty patch of soil used to be, watering the flowers, the shrubs, the seedlings that would eventually grow to be trees. Hours spent curling and uncurling your toes on steel dry grass, green and prickly and riddled with weeds you’re too exhausted to pull out. Hours spent starting the day seated on the bridge across the pond, hours spent staring at the sun until the light couldn’t pierce through your irises anymore. Days pass by until they turn into grueling weeks that you wind up forgetting. Satoru doesn’t come back to you. Weeks turn into colder months and you think you’d soon forget the shape of his face—eternally erased from your mind, but only because attempting to remember it only further contorts the idea of him you’ve built up for two decades now.

The young God looks human, and most days he is.

In hush murmurs, the servants gossip about Gojo Satoru and the adventures he gets himself into each day: he exorcized a curse in the middle of the sea, he paraded around an abandoned village killing curses left and right with no second to spare, catching rays of the pale moonlight in his eyes each time he fights someone at dusk. Master Gojo probably won’t be visiting for a while. Did you hear? He brought in a new student. Took him in this month even though the kid stuffed a bunch of his classmates in a locker.

Everyone was keenly updated with everything that he did: he lived loudly, unapologetically. Occupied an unusually large space. If he had most of the world wrapped around his finger, where did that leave you?

Maybe you were coiled around his arm, obsessively finding a place to melt in on his palm. Hands roaming around his shoulder, clinging onto it for dear life, because that’s all you’ve ever known. You grew up knowing you could never be worthy of him and yet you think you are important enough to save. You aren’t.

Gojo Satoru has always been unblinking, restless, and you have always been easy enough. Back then, it used to feel like he was millions of worlds away from you, and on some level you know that to be true, but he has been close to you more times than you can count: the young God, although untouchable and great and heavenly and strong, has always been incredibly human beneath it all. Made for grandeur, too weak to take it. Onlookers watch his every move, and yet they fail to see how frail he is at the end of it all. The young God who has everything only has everything because people give him what they think he’s worth. Maybe he used to take, but now he is unmoving and relentlessly yearning, and you feel you are the only person in the world who is able to understand that.

It’s a fickle thing, his desires. He wants something one moment and then he doesn’t the next—because he thinks that is not something he should dream of deserving, thinks wanting small things would be an insult to the people who have given him more—and the cycle goes on and on. He burns like crackling firewood. Fueled by everything people drop on him.

Where did that leave you?

In Nakatsugawa, of course, hands deemed too stained and dirty so they’re tucked inside your pocket at all times. There is a ring in your finger, but the boy from the Zen’in clan thinks there could be no harm in waiting a few months longer before pushing through with the wedding. 

(He says you are past your prime, anyway. What’s a few months more?)

You don’t think he is cruel. You think he’s on the same boat as you are. Nursed with care growing up, to make imprinting clan values easier in your head; only to be tossed aside, treated like dirt, forced to face the reality of everything years later all at once, but never rebelling against the traditions you were instructed, all your life, to follow and uphold. In turn, it makes you either miserable or angry, sometimes both, sometimes numb, so it’s neither. Enmei has grown to be the spitting image of his clan elders. Snarky remarks in exchange for a few laughs. Glares that fall flat, because he is not as angry as they are. In fact, when you saw him for the first time, he looked almost as pitiful as you did—cowering underneath the gaze of those that mattered to him, shoulders slouched and tense, hands tucked inside his pockets. Like you.

But, still, he is a man, so the circumstances are different. He is treated like a savior for marrying you. You are taught to be grateful. He doesn’t understand it yet, but he is not as favored as he thinks himself to be. Because if the Zen’in clan valued him so much, then why would he be engaged to you?

His words sting, but you can’t bring yourself to resent him. It doesn’t feel worth it.

“How are your plants?”

A tiny voice, soft and beautiful, unlike anything you were used to. You don’t take your eyes off of the empty flower pot in front of you, too invested in the intricate ways it was made. You hum. “They’re fine. I can’t say much about them.”

Her shadow looks over you, until you could finally make out the silhouette of her person. Kameko, your older sister, crouches down beside you, poking through the garden tools that you had laid out on the ground earlier. “Why not?” She asks. “You don’t like them?”

“I do. I just don’t have anything to say right now. They’re fine. That’s all.”

Kameko offers you no rebuttal after that, choosing to find a place beside you on the grass in the end. She moved back into the estate a little over a week ago, and you know she’s unused to being back to this place. Kameko, your older sister, was forced to return to her little life in Nakatsugawa after her husband passed away at age 28. She’s been unsociable ever since. Cooped up in her old room, painting on empty canvases, though rarely finishing them. Or maybe you were wrong. What do you know about art? When do brushstrokes end, and when do they begin, anyway?

Your ears ring incessantly. Don’t think too much. Kameko, your older sister, probably sleeps wide awake. Encumbered by grief, dragged down by her mourning. You wonder if her baggage is heavier than yours.

After a few careful seconds, she speaks again. “Yua called me the other day. She said she’s settling in at her new house.” 

You nod. “Is that so?”

A smile takes over her lips, albeit solemn. She takes hold of the garden trowel. “Yes. She and Yasu are set to visit sometime next week, hopefully. A few days before Ichika’s wedding. That should be fun.”

You nod again. There is nothing else to draw from you.

“Are you okay?”

Another nod.

“Have you grown to resent me, too? For leaving?”

Kameko, your older sister, perfect eyes and perfect hair, the most desirable among you and your sisters, looks vulnerable and dejected but pristine and untouchable all the same. She asks you in a way that makes her voice shake, a decibel lower than usual. She had to leave; how could you hate her for that? She followed through with her obligation, duty, responsibility. Whatever. You turn towards her. An act of defeat.

You shake your head. “No, of course not.” You push the flower pot away from your hands. “Have you?”

She copies you. “No. Why would I?”

The sun kisses your forehead. You cross your legs atop the grass. Then, “I want to ask you something, if it’s alright.” She urges you to continue. “How have you been?”

She smiles at you, and you feel it might be genuine. Kameko tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, hitching the hem of her cardigan up so as to not tarnish it with dirt. “Better. Mornings are still difficult, but I’ve been missing the sun lately. I’ll be okay.”

“Are you grieving?” It’s a stupid question, you note. “Did you love him?” Better.

She looks down. “He wasn’t cruel to me.”

You tilt your head. “That’s not an answer.”

Kameko smiles vaguely at you before shrugging. You turn your focus to the grass.

God, it all felt so indisputably miserable. A life such as this. Having to settle for a husband, having to grieve for his death regardless if you loved him or not. He wasn’t cruel to me. Like that’s enough reason to grieve. He made sure I was treated fairly. Like that’s enough reason to leave home and start a family. You think, No. You don’t start a family because you are asked to carry over a bloodline. You start a family because you are ready to have an extension of yourself, to love that extension, wholly and unconditionally. You think, you think, you think. You start a family because of love. The absence of cruelty doesn’t make it love. That’s tolerance. Tolerance isn’t love. It’s one step closer to hate.

No. Don’t think too much. You do, anyway. Your mother has a penchant for grievances; thrives when other people are just as lonely as she is. That’s why things had to be this way. Kameko knows this. Yua and Yasu will come to understand soon enough. Ichika, too. Each and every one of your sisters will come to realize that being a Heiwa daughter means being forced to be one with the ghastly widow—her pain, her joy, her grief—and there will be no way around it, unless someone finally breaks the cycle. Internally, you scoff. None of you will.

“How about you? How have you been?” You’re back on earth when your sister taps your knuckles. Lightly, hesitantly. “Your friend, too. Gojo. Has he visited lately?”

The young God has other worldly problems. He does not have time to entertain you and your silly desires, whims, wishes. You wonder if Kameko knows this as well as you do. “I’m okay. Not much has changed ever since you left.” You glue your lips together tightly. “And, no. He has better things to do over at Tokyo. He hasn’t visited in a while.” A year and nine months. That’s how long it’s been.

You hear a hum from her, and then a sigh. “Do you miss him?” She asks.

Don’t think too much. You do, anyway. Gojo Satoru is fleeting and fickle and there is no one else on earth you miss more, and you want to tell your sister this—you want to tell everyone, really—but you won’t, because your longing does not have a place in this world. Don’t think too much. You miss Satoru like how the moon chases the sun. Irretrievably. You miss him because you know nothing else than that. Pining is the only thing you were allowed to do when it came to Satoru. You miss him, but this is also tradition: him leaving, you waiting for him. Satoru always comes back. Waiting has always been worth it. 

Quietly, you say, “I do.”

“Why don’t you seek him out, then?”

Because seeking him out means the hurt will be tenfold if he decides to leave. There is a certain kind of devastating vulnerability to be found when one seeks out a god, after all. You stare at your garden shears. You wish you could tell her the extent of your feelings, but your throat could not echo such words anymore. You’ve been out of commission for a while now.

You tug the sleeves of your sweater closer to your body, and you feel the etched mark on your shoulder sizzle lightly underneath. A reminder. There is a certain kind of devastating vulnerability to be found when one seeks out a god, only to be met with cold desertion.

“What would be the point of that?” The trees rustle. “He’ll leave in the end, anyway. He always does.”

“But he returns, doesn’t he?”

Don’t think too much.

“Sometimes.”

She frowns. “Are you okay with that?” It’s a stupid question.

You look down.

“He has better things to do over at Tokyo.”

Kameko tilts her head. Solemn.

“That’s not an answer.”

―――

Ichika gets married three weeks before you do and she is whisked away from the estate, quicker than you could bid farewell. The young God does not return to you, and you think yourself to be irrelevant now, so you forget the way his first name sounds on your tongue. Like commonfolk, like everyone else.

It burns you like no other.

―――

He watches you shake your head timidly, the sound of your chuckles repeating inside his head. Somewhere deep inside his ribcage, something aches terribly.

You’re all I’ve ever known. You’re all I know, nowadays, too. Each day, he finds more and more words to say to you. But I’ll lose you too, won’t I? But he speaks none of them out loud. He thinks there would be no meaning in doing so—no satisfaction, either. Just a desperate attempt to humanize himself.

He feels your hand cling tightly on the sleeve of his sweatshirt, your head finding its place on his chest. “I just thought you should know that. You’re invited, after all.”

It feels like a sick joke he doesn’t have the capacity to understand. Something aches. “I haven’t told any of my sisters yet, but I’m sure they know already. I just,” you pause, sucking in a deep breath, “I wanted to tell you this in person. I feel like I owe you that. Does that make sense?”

It does. He’s your best friend. There’s no doubt about it. He nods silently, wrapping both of his arms around your torso.

You’re all he’s ever known. But he’s losing you, too. It's happening too fast. It's happening again.

“Thank you for taking me here, Satoru.”

He hums in response. “Don’t mention it.”

“All the flowers we saw earlier were lovely, too.” You begin, the cracks in your voice growing more audible the longer you speak. “But I love this part the most. I've always wanted to see all of Tokyo with you.”

It feels like farewell. Satoru holds you tighter. “You still haven’t seen it all, you know.”

“I know.” You smile at him. He doesn’t want to let you go.

So don’t go just yet. “We’ll get together some other time, then. I’ll take you sight-seeing again.”

“You don’t have to, Satoru.”

“I’ll take you everywhere. Don’t worry about it.”

“You’ll be there with me?”

The view of the city from the top of Tokyo Skytree will come to haunt him in his dreams, after this. A poignant reminder of that which he left unfulfilled.

“I will. I promise.”

Gojo Satoru is twenty-eight years old and he feels as though he will grow to be no more than that.

Within the comforts of his ancestral home, he washes the blood off of his clothes. Gojo Satoru is twenty-eight years old and he is too young to have killed the one most dearest to him—but life has a way of fucking things over until the fruit is too rotten to eat, so he accepts his sins and he shoulders Geto Suguru’s suffering as well. He thinks there might be a meaning to that. Doesn’t know what it is yet, quite unsure if he’ll ever find out, and still he holds onto the sliver of hope that he will.

Unlike his boarding in Tokyo, the Gojo clan’s ancestral home in the countryside houses tall trees and dull grass, untainted with blood. The security within the estate was strict to the point of suffocation. He was the only one who knew how to bypass it. Teleport straight to the center, nine feet to the right. His designated place in the garden. A blindspot—covertly hidden from the eyes of those watching. Snow covers his hair and it soaks through the garments of his clothes as it melts slowly. Gojo Satoru is twenty-eight years old and he is filled with grief much bigger than the space he is used to occupying. Geto Suguru lies idle inside his head: his rotting corpse, the blood on his chest. Geto Suguru dies idle inside his head. Over and over. Gojo Satoru puts him out of his misery. The only person he curses is himself.

First, Gojo Satoru buries himself underneath waves and waves of his coldest regrets. One way or another, he knows he’s bound to do this; drown, that is, under a sea of everything he’s come to fall short on. So much for being the strongest sorcerer alive. He carries the suffering of everyone he has met. Doesn’t understand the weight of their crosses, though he carries them anyway. The burden that comes with wielding power—people start to forget you can only carry so much, too blinded by the light of salvation, that they disregard your well-being altogether. I will carry your crosses as if they were mine. But I will not pass onto you the weight of my pain because it is too heavy for anyone else. He is on the receiving end of everybody’s sins but he is forced to carry his own all alone. The peak is the loneliest part of the pyramid.

Second, he basks in the stillness of the wind. The trees rustle in the distance. During winter, stars are often out of sight in the sky because pounds and pounds of clouds cover them up; not a problem for the young God with Six Eyes—not a problem at all—but he wishes he could see them without feeling the ache of his ability. The hurt takes away the beauty. He knows beauty is supposed to hurt; thinks it shouldn’t be that way.

Third, he weaves through memories he’s long since forgotten while he sits in the middle of an empty garden. The servants are eating inside. It’s Christmas eve—his cousins are probably quietly whispering inside the dining hall, he wonders how many of them he’s actually spoken to. Wonders if anyone is still alive. It’s been ages since he returned to this place; Nakatsugawa had nothing to offer him, and he knows that returning here would only bring him more things to fret over. Nakatsugawa is nestled between Tokyo and Kyoto. Nakatsugawa is quaint and small, and he grew up traveling back and forth and back and forth all because people wanted to be able to meet the young God with Six Eyes. Six Eyes that glew a dazzling shade of blue. He weaves through memories but he has forgotten them long ago. He remembers only snippets of a girl and the packs of seeds he used to send out at the start and end of each season.

Gojo Satoru is twenty-eight years old and he has not allowed himself to think of you for the last two years. He can’t. The same ache resides in his heart whenever you enter his mind—even more palpable each time he remembers Geto Suguru. Two people he has lost all because of things he had no control over. So much for being the greatest person in the world. So much for being a young God. I carry so much. Too much.

You, to yourself. Suguru, to time. Gojo Satoru has lost it all and he feels his hands growing more numb by the second. The snow blankets his arms until he could no longer see the droplets of blood on them.

Gojo Satoru is twenty-eight years old and yet he feels as if he were back to being twelve. Lonely. Freezing. Indifferent. He is too young to have loved this much. Too young to have lost so much.

Last, he takes off the bandages wrapped around his eyes and he opens them and he sees the stars. Through the misty white clouds. Through the tears streaming down his perfect porcelain cheeks—chiseled and beautiful, like he was crafted by deities—and he thinks that the pain is worth it sometimes; even if it tires him out, even if it sucks him dry. He lies down on the snow until the cold has swiveled through his clothes, until the wind has carried itself in through each crevice of the fabric.

Today he had killed his one and only. Tomorrow he would see the one he wanted to love get taken away from him by another man. So much for being the strongest. I can’t even protect the people I care for. How could he deserve good things when he doesn't even know how to inflict anything other than anguish?

Today he had killed Geto Suguru and he has forced himself to stop mourning. Tomorrow he will grieve for the loss of someone else: inside his head, he imagines a version of you clad in white clothes, ornate golden jewelry, smiling through gritted teeth with makeup covering the dark bags underneath your eyes. He imagines someone else holding you close and he imagines the wince you’ll be choking yourself over for years—he knows you can’t be heard sighing, whining, complaining: knows you’re only supposed to be prim and proper—and he imagines the rising and setting of the sun and the dread that creeps in each time you wake up, only to do it all over again, over and over, tirelessly, no end. Left with no choice to endure. 

Today he had killed the second person he has ever had the pleasure of growing with. Tomorrow he will lose the first one as well.

Gojo Satoru laughs at his misfortune, the irony of it all; the bitterness coats his tongue until it’s all he could taste. The only salvation he could ever know is the end of the knife.

―――

The mirror bears your reflection, and you see the years taking its revenge on your skin.

You resemble your mother, and your loathing is spilling through the hollowness of your irises.

After Ichika’s wedding, you’ve had little to no time to care very much for yourself. Day and night, you’re out and about preparing for your wedding, getting accustomed to the traditions they so greatly uphold in the Zen'in clan. For a while, the most fulfilling thing you could do in one day was to watch the gardeners trim away the grass outside of your residence; listen to the sound of the soles of their boots crunching the crisp grass during summer, their shears flattening out the long leaves during spring, the sound of sweeping when it’s autumn.

The mirror bears nothing interesting today. It’s the day of your wedding, you’re dressed now, you have all of your jewelry embellished on your skin. All that’s left is to seal the deal and live forever as someone who can only look out of the window.

And throughout months of leaning on the window pane, hitching your kimono higher from your knees, staring blissfully as each flower blossoms and falls with the changing seasons—you’ve imagined a life where Gojo Satoru came back for you.

Most days, you imagine him knocking on your door at night, with a pack of flower seeds in his hand. He’s too prideful to give you a bouquet. You know he’d flatter you with an excuse—something, something You could grow better flowers, anyway —and you imagine him telling you to run away with him, leave everything behind the both of you and never look back; in the house you live in, nothing was worth sparing a second glance. Not since they subjected you to a forlorn life of being kept indoors. Most days, you imagine Gojo pulling you out of your prison and helping you get back to the world you carefully crafted with him in the past, when you were children.

Much to your dismay, he never did do any of those things. After years of always falling like putty in his palm, you don’t have the capacity to think that crumbs of reciprocity were ever present in even just a sliver of his person.

It’s real this time , you force yourself to think, I hate him to the point of no return.

He’s a hypocrite. He’s told you over and over and over again—you can only save those who want to be saved. You used to believe him, too. Maybe that was your fault. Or maybe it was his. Maybe your mother was right, in the end, that nothing good will bear fruit from continuing to frolic within Gojo’s world. Everything you could juice out of that pipeline was gone as soon as he graduated high school; he dignified that truth the moment the assassination attempts ceased. And while it was generally a good thing to stop fearing for your life every goddamn minute of every day, it was solemn and painful all the same: it was as though the world was made aware of how irrelevant you were to him. Maybe he screams it out. Or maybe he doesn’t talk about you at all. You don’t know which would hurt more.

Maybe that’s why he never understood. Maybe it’s his fault. Maybe it’s not yours, even though it is. How many times has he given you a chance to escape? Plenty. And yet each time he inches closer to asking the right question, you put a firm hand against his chest and you push him away: there is always hesitance, you’ve come to observe, there is always hesitance whenever he backs away. Like he could save me any time but I have always been stubborn and I have always been careful of how to be with him; because being with him is all that I know how to do and I fear that it will change the moment I say yes to the things I’ve always said no to.

Like Satoru lets himself get pushed away because love is something he does not know how to put an end to; because if he dives in, there is no guarantee that he won’t drown me with him; because I am terrified of what comes after and he knows that I am too weak to take a chance on what happens next. 

Like ‘I could save you any time, but what if I forget to love you?’

You’re pulled out when you hear the blunt sound of something solid knocking on the glass you’re too familiar with. It’s inevitable. His return, that is, because that has always been tradition. 

Your eyes fall to the floor. No higher. You try so hard to tell yourself that he's too late. 

Even in the moment, you’re reminding yourself that he's taken too many things from you. To the point that you're sick and tired of just the sight of his hand, always appearing to be there to help you, only for them to quickly turn into instruments that ultimately only mock your entire existence. Gojo has taken too many, too much, and he's about to reach out for you and add insult to injury. And you're sputtering around the room, absolutely ready to do what he asks of you. Give what he requests from you. It's not an honor anymore to be friends with the greatest man alive; it's a curse.

But he slides the window to your room open, so you begin to list down everything he's stripped away from you. The ability to accept your fate.

He's stepping closer, dusting off his shoulders, moving forward with a smile on his face and you hate it. “It's been a while, hasn't it?" 

You’re pinching your arm underneath your sleeves, wondering if you’re imagining him again, but that doesn’t even seem relevant anymore. Waiting has always been worth it, but you’re unsure if that still rings true. His return to you has always been inevitable. It’s tradition. It is. But you waited too long this time, so you remain unmoving.

“What are you doing here?” The despair you grew up with. You're breathless, you feel almost hopeful, pulling on your wedding attire to inch away from him. It does nearly nothing, but Gojo takes note of your apprehension, anyway. You do the same thing. Hope is something difficult to resist, more so when it is given by the young God.

It’s the morning after Christmas eve, and somehow the room is increasingly colder not because of the winter air or the yuletide snow: it’s the two of you, whatever pathetic tension’s circulating the area you’re both in. He’s quiet; so are you. You dislike it.

You watch him carefully analyze the room, and before you know it, he's opening your closet, he's rummaging through your clothes. But you're still there, awestruck and angry at him, for leaving you all alone for almost three years right after his promise of a tomorrow you can live with. You don't know what to say. The ability to breathe when he's around.

“Take it off.” His focus is fixated on digging through all the clothes you have. “Take off your dress.”

You don't know what he's saying—you have no idea what he's doing here, what he's referring to, what he's tormenting you for. You could hear the distant ticking of the clock on your wall, taunting you of the minutes left before you're successfully given to the Zen'in clan, but even still, you refuse to budge.

Gojo snaps his head to your direction. “Can you not hear me?” He's tilting his head to the side again, and now you want nothing more than to run to him. Gojo picks up casual clothes for you to wear and pushes them in your direction.

“Change out of your clothes.”

Nearly all of your words.

You reluctantly stand up from your dresser, loosening the knots of the ribbons tied around your dress; your waist feels free after short moments of tugging—after a while, you've stripped down to only your undershirt and white shorts, your confusion growing with each second. You haven’t seen him in three years—you’ve gone on longer with little to no contact with him, but somehow he’s returning to you this time and he’s changed; for the better, you’re still unsure, but you can see yourself in him; the dark bags under his eyes, covertly hidden beneath his mask, the faint lines on his face. Gojo looks as exhausted as you, if not more, as though he was mourning for something that he could not rest without.

“Gojo.” You whisper. “Where are you taking me?”

He helps you put on the sweater he picked out, his fingers combing through your presently-ruffled hair. He carefully places your arms through the sleeves of the top, straightening the crumples. You can’t pry your irises away from him, you realize, as though he was the flurry of fireworks that flash across the heavens during summer festivals. Not before long, he opens his mouth to respond, and in the process, raises a portion of his blindfold that covers his right eye.

“Getting you out of here.” He pauses, his breath lingers on your forehead; he’s freezing cold. “We can live in Tokyo.”

Every ounce of love you're willing to give out.

Tears are streaming down your cheeks now and he's wiping them away for you; you can't move, can't feel your legs, you feel so happy that it's utterly nauseating. He understands. Wordlessly, Gojo—no, Satoru assures you a lifetime filled with reparations of his past mistakes when he gently aids you in dressing up; sliding the jeans up to just below your torso, buttoning them close, not even attempting to joke around to thin out the tension. He takes off his mask entirely like he's done caring for whatever consequence his Six Eyes brought him. You stop yourself from counting after that. His eyes are blurry in your vision; the tears are taking up too much space, but you tell yourself with certainty anyway that his shade of blue puts to shame all scenic views you’ve seen in your life.

And he's done it, you realize, you're a goner. Satoru has taken everything from you and you're in love with him; or you were, and it’s been years since then, but now he's ready to give it all back.

Though the fight's not over, far from it—he's acting as your support as you walk around inside your room together, packing only the important things inside the duffel bag he found somewhere. Your eyes are swollen from welling up with tears. Satoru’s laughing at you. He's squeezing your hand. Calling out your name. You let him. It feels right for once, because it is, and the way it slips off his tongue reminds you of when the two of you were younger: every time he jokingly proposed, all of his antics, the competitions the two of you created and your wins and losses. The fight’s not over, though it certainly feels like time is ready to provide you two with the rest you need. The road has been treacherous, and it has been cruel to the both of you—whether together or apart, that was irrelevant. 

You think you hear him speak; low whispers of I’m sorry for leaving. You’re never going to lose me again. Promises. Short ones. I won’t leave you this time. I’ll make you happy again. We can start over. Apologies. Promises. Ones that you knew he’d fulfill. I won’t forget to love you. I won’t.

The minutes are catching up, but you have all the time in the world, and you're ready to waste it all hand in hand. The walls are falling away, the world is steadily going back to its axis. He’s aligning himself with the stars in your sky and still he’s the one scooping you in his arms. 

There’s a container in the corner of your desk, and it doesn’t take long for you to realize that he’s retrieving the pack of freshly pressed flowers, carefully placing them inside his pocket before tightening his grip on you. Then, the window slides open with a squeal again, and you're inside his arms; his shirt smells like summertime, the scent of the wind when the annuals are blooming, the distinct fragrance of wormwood—except there’s no bitterness anymore, nor will there be absence. Satoru, your Satoru, is soaring up the winter clouds with the snow blending into the shade of his hair and you decide, then and there, that you are never going to let yourself look away from him again.

―――

“Plants must hate me.”

“That’s silly. Plants don’t hate you. I’m just better than you at gardening.”

The young God shrugs nonchalantly, rattling his new pack of seeds in his hand. You are kneeled down on the ground with your knees carrying the weight of your person, desperately trying to ignore the way they ache. Gojo watches you with his shade of blinding blue, and yet you could not bring yourself to hold his stare. 

Among the two patches of soil, only one had sprouted beautifully into a herb. Yours grew to be small and short; vaguely resembling weeds more than shrubs. You recall your deal from half a year ago. ‘No more calling me weak if I win, okay?’

“This means I win, right?” Gojo starts, plopping himself down on the ground, “I win and you lose,”

Evidently, it doesn’t sting when he says it like that. You lean closer to him, trying your hardest to ascertain whether that coy smile of his was genuine or laced with mockery. He doesn’t yield, his smile growing wider the longer you keep your eyes on him. You had pretty eyes. You knew he liked your eyes just as much as you liked his.

A question comes to mind. Followed by another and another and another; until you are eye to eye with Gojo, intently focused on seeing just how long you could keep his gaze without faltering; without letting your eyes fall back down to the ground, no higher. You wonder if young Gods entertained questions from kids like you. You wonder if you two were friends. If you were, then could he keep coming back for you? Maybe he would want to.

“Are you angry?” He asks.

You shake your head, later tilting it to the side. “Why? Would it bother you if I were?”

Curious. He slowly nods his head.

“I think it would,” he musters out, poking your nose with his forefinger. You find it endearing. “Maybe. I’m not sure if I care for you yet. What do you think?”

You hum. “I think you like me.”

He gestures to you to proceed, silently pursing his lips into a thin line. You think Gojo looks best when he’s not gloating or moving. Like a neat porcelain doll. Thick white eyelashes that made him look otherworldly: he stood out, that much was true, especially considering that your clan consisted of heads of long, dark hair. He was beautiful. Always has been. You always knew that, too.

You shrug, in the end. “Not because you want to like me, but because I’m the only person you know. Can’t really like anyone else if you don’t talk to anyone else, right?”

“Okay.” Gojo pauses, almost like he was trying to make sense of what you were saying. “Then what about you?”

“I don’t know if I like you.” You test carefully, afraid of being on the receiving end of his anger. Gojo doesn’t react to that; he only keeps staring at your pupils. Like they were the most interesting things in the world. And they were. “You never seem to take me seriously.”

He’s about to respond to that, batting his eyelashes at you as though he was about to rebut your last statement. You don’t let him. Instead, you cut him off before he could even begin.

“But I like your eyes,” it’s your time to smile. “I love your hair.”

You’re betting he’s lost inside his own head, because he leans forward and you don’t want to believe that he’s doing that knowingly. You raise your hand, tracing the edges of his messy fringe, lightly patting the top of his head thereafter: and when his hair flows along the gust of wind that follows, the sunlight seeps through the strands.

You force yourself to look away from him. 

“And whenever I look at them, I think to myself—” slight pause, your finger taps his chin carefully, “maybe I could like you, too. As you are. And not because of your family name.”

The first and last time you hold his stare, Gojo decides that he’d like it if you thought of yourself as worthy of him. He’d like to be worthy of you, too. 

Salvation comes to you in the form of an empty garden and an even emptier bedroom, though Satoru promises you a lifetime’s worth of flower seeds and memories. He promises to tell you about the man he loved before. You’re unsure of who Satoru is to you, but you know you used to love him. You’re unsure if he loved you back then as well—but you know he could love you now.

The timing is off, but the two of you are happy. There is no room for complaint.

The Heiwa clan has long since banned you from ever returning to them, and you’re certain that a few of your sisters have grown to resent you for leaving; however, you know that your older sister understands, and you know that she’s working earnestly in order to help the rest of them understand as well.

Your mother has subjected herself to total isolation, and now there are rumors of the clan being dismantled altogether. Unsurprisingly, you haven’t decided yet if you’re concerned about it. Life has been slow. You’ve been walking alongside the pace it follows. None of your family members seem to be extremely concerned with getting you to come back; understandable, really. You know you wouldn’t want to come back for someone who was taken by Gojo Satoru. You know they think it best to just finally leave you alone. 

Though, even still, you think you miss the estate. Tokyo carries a vastly different aura. It was unlike Nakatsugawa. Much unlike the valley you grew up in. You think you miss the patch of dried soil there, barely fertile enough to house the flora you’re interested in growing, and you think you miss all the rooms in the estate where Satoru and you used to hide in as kids. And Satoru thinks it’s funny— hilarious, even—that you are sentimental enough to miss the literal dirt of the home that never gave you any other option than to endure. And he thinks it’s ridiculous of you to miss the rooms. He thinks it’s ridiculous of you to reminisce. If you keep holding onto the past, how are you going to move forward to the future? The past gave you nothing but grief. 

(Most days, you wonder if you could tell him the same. The past gave you nothing but grief as well, Satoru. You cannot move forward without mourning. You know that as much as I do.)

You curl your toes on the grass, barefoot and satisfied, the prickly points of the green lightly scratching the soles of your feet. How many hours a day do they try to justify their excuses? To satiate the lingering guilt, rapidly swirling inside them somewhere, because even though they did not take part in chasing away the esteemed young God’s most longest companion, they chose to watch cruelty unfold in front of them? You wonder if they resent you, too. Your grandmothers, your uncles, your cousins. Or if they blame you for having the sorcery world’s eyes on them now. Or if they even feel sorry enough to carry half the crosses you were forced to bring with you when you left.

The last one seems far-fetched, but you give them the benefit of the doubt. You forgive your mother a thousand times over because you find her pitiful the most. You forgive, in the end, even if the thought of doing so alone ravaged the entryways of your throat until it burned.

The sunlight glimmers in the distance, and you could only squint. Winter is not as harsh this year. You could make out the intricate linings of the sun even through the misty white clouds.

“Get your head back in the game, stupid girl.” Satoru waves the paddle to your direction, tossing the hago up and down to catch your attention. He’s clad in beige and muted green, the ends of his yukata trailing just below his ankle. His hair frames the sides of his eyes—shaped like rough paper cranes, folded amongst themselves. You nod in response, shrugging off the nickname he used on you as though his words weighed nothing. Sometimes, you believe that’s the case. Most times, you know he says that out of love, or at least something vaguely similar to that.

“Ultimate luck again,” you whisper cautiously, daring him to serve the shuttlecock. “Hit me. I bet I can win this time.”

“You used to say that every year,”

“Don’t get too cocky now. I had some help back at home.”

The word slips out before you could even analyze the repercussions of what it implied: home, that is, and you do not know what you think of when you say it. Your mind paints a pretty picture of a garden—nourished and delicate, with hanging flowers and crawling fruits, lovely pink, yellow, purple, and orange overpowering the green of it all. Your mind goes back to a decade back: the paddle you dropped to the ground, the sister you left there calling out for your name, the message to Satoru that you erased long before you could even send it.

Your mind is reeling. You say home but you really mean something else. A house, the estate; more than four walls, safekeeping memories both good and bad. Your sentiments feel foreign on your tongue. You think of home, and you wonder if you could paint a different picture. You wonder if an empty room and an emptier garden could be the something new you’d been searching for all your life. 

The world stills down, but you stay moving. The brightly colored shuttlecock is passed around between you and Satoru, the tapping ceaseless. The sun drips down in the form of light. Kisses your skin until you could feel no other.

Home. Maybe this could be. Or maybe you were cursed with never having one. Maybe Satoru was the same—or maybe he had it, once, like you did, and he ended up having to search for a new one as well. Maybe the both of you could be something similar to each other—like warmth in midwinter and coats and bottles of scorching alcohol; like wooden closets and worn out socks and hair down the shower drain; like freshly cooked meals, detergents spilling outside the washing machine, broken clothespins. Like having both of your names written on a mailbox, mails addressed to the two of you, words meant to be shared between the two of you, the two of you.

When you pass him the hago with your hagoita, he doesn’t swing it back with a paddle. He catches it with his hand.

You stay adrift, barely awake. “What are you doing?” Confused, you tilt your head to the side. “You know that means you lose, right?”

He emits a low hum, strutting over towards you with his hands stuffed neatly in his coat’s pockets. You watch him with careful eyes, a smile on your lips, and a flushed nose. When you look at him, you remember everything you went through. You remember your old laptop, the Skype calls, Tokyo tower from years ago. The bridge in the estate; the library, the garden, the peak of Mount Ena. When you look at him, you think of the way you used to choke on your own breath all because he took up an unusually large space: he lived rather loudly, one of his charms. Always worked to his favor.

You look at him, you see hope. You used to see nothing.

“Aren’t you cold?” He leans forward, now tossing the hago up in the air and catching it immediately, doing so for a few more times. “We can head back inside if you are.”

“No, it’s okay,” you whisper, fixing your gaze on his hands, “I’m okay. Are you?”

He throws the hago towards your direction, and it flies past your shoulder. “I am.” He says.

You turn around, forefinger pointing towards the shuttlecock. “What are you doing?”

“Cold hands.” Satoru laughs softly. “Must have slipped.”

You roll your eyes fondly, later flicking his nose, and twisting around to pick the hago up from the ground. The feathers are fading out, and you knew that this one’s nearing the end of its cycle already. You’d have to craft a new one before winter. Somehow, it’s comforting to have something to look forward to.

You hold the hago in your palm. Steady and still. When you turn back to face him, Gojo Satoru is down on one knee with a box sitting neatly on his hand. 

“Satoru, what are you—?”

“I want you.”

You pause.

“And for as long as I live,” he continues, neither corner of his lips curving up. The silence is palpable. You stare at him, wide-eyed, charged with fireworks coursing rapidly through your veins, “I will continue to want you.”

The grass is covered with melted ice, but still you could feel the warmth of it all. You wonder why you’re not freezing yet; instead allowing your toes to curl against the ground again, almost as if you weren’t close to completely going numb. You kneel down in front of him, too, cupping either side of his cheeks. You nod, a response enough to urge him to continue, bringing your forehead closer to his.

He breathes carefully, calculated, almost afraid. “I’d give you everything if I could.” Slight pause. It’s him who can’t seem to hold his stare this time—you tell yourself that he kind of looks like you; eyes plastered to the ground, no higher. Always to the ground. Were you worth that much? You’d never know unless he’d tell you. You’d never know unless you learn to believe him. “I’d give you everything if that’s what you’d want.”

Then, a thought. His question from before. The day of your father’s burial, atop the bridge, lost in the very little time that had already passed. And how about you? 

“If you’ll have me,” Satoru takes the ring off its box, letting the cube drop down to the ground afterwards. He’s careless when he’s not fighting. He’s careful when it’s you. “If you could love me again,” he hasn’t changed at all, you note, and you think you could affirm his statement after this. You could love him again. “Then I wouldn’t want anything more.”

What do you want?

It happens quietly.

You stare at his shade of blinding blue, his hair covered with snow. You take the ring off his hand and you slip it through your finger.

I want to marry Satoru.

There is no harsh truth this time, you note. No room for that, no room for cruelty. There is only sincerity and grief and forgiveness and peace—and more room to grow in, too. More room to learn and relearn everything that he has come to forget. More room to get used to saying Satoru again.

Over the years, the sun has proven itself to be grander than the both of you, and yet you still bask under its loveliness when he kisses you in the end. Your mind paints another picture—this time, more beautiful than the last. Caged within his arms: no more absence, no more bitterness. You’re through with searching. Home.

turn me like a beast / hold you to the floor

tags: nanami kento x reader, princess!reader, violence, injuries (minor), non-graphic descriptions of hunting, medium burn, sort of enemies to lovers but mostly scared strangers to unfortunate lovers, the fall of a dynasty, character death (sorry), reincarnation, bittersweet ending. mdni.

wc: 6.5k ish

notes: for @medusashima’s collab—indulging myself (and y’all) in my take on one of my favorite stories. i hope you like it 💘 this is based on the tale of the two fossils found wrapped up in each other in an unlikely pairing (which is made even better by the fact that it is not fiction and it happened!! love is real nerd!!). there’s a really phenomenal webtoon called burrow (by saige9) that makes me cry and that y’all should read immediately. anyway, enjoy. love u

summary: the world is at its end, and an unlikely pair finds solace in each other. to love is an animal thing.

it shocks you, how gentle a tug it takes to unravel everything that you were. only a thing between two others—before: a princess on a hill, the unraveling, and who you’ll be after.

your feet stomp clumsily over dirt and jagged rock—softened soles split open easily with each stride. but, ever your grandmother's frightened little rabbit, not even that searing pain is enough to thwart you in your descent down the hill—away from what is surely certain death. nothing but the animal need to survive pushing you forward—to get to whatever comes next.

it happened too fast—the only way a dynasty can fall to those privileged enough not to notice the slow decline of the society around them until it's too late. your family spoke of pockets of uprisings as if they were fictitious and theoretical—some grandiose, far away prediction of the old crone that haunted the village below your compound, and certainly not the men concealed by shade of trees that had been pruned by your family for centuries, salivating but patient for the perfect moment to strike.

and then they were dead. all of them but you.

a childhood of exploring the grounds of your family home proves useful in knowing without much thought which paths lead farthest from the carnage at your back, but your fright makes you uncoordinated—mechanical in your stride. the price to stop for even a second is far too high, and the hounds that howl after you in the dark serve as a constant reminder of the consequence of hesitation. so, bruised and bleeding, you keep on.

you run until your lungs threaten to collapse and then on farther. your feet carry you through unfamiliar wood, but in your rush, your brain rationalizes that the repercussions of trespassing cannot be much worse than what's behind you. and that seems to be the truth—right up until the real consequence drops out of the tree above you and pins you to the earth below, a blade to your throat.

gritted teeth snap too close to your face. you hear a deep voice—maybe a deeper threat, something to raise the hair on the back of your neck if you could only focus on the words. the world spins and your mind struggles to make sense of the sudden stop in motion, but something far more animal inside you decides that it's had enough. against any remaining survival instinct, you feel all tension bleed from your body—the stranger's face comes into clearer view right as you go limp underneath him. resignation wins out—your limbs wouldn't move if you pleaded with them to.

blond eyebrows meet hairline as your attacker is caught off guard by your forfeiture. "what are you—"

once distant howls growing nearer cut him off. he looks over his shoulder, eyes narrowed at something he cannot yet see. you watch from outside yourself as he turns back toward you. dark eyes meet your own and you see the decision make itself—in one instant you are free of his bodyweight, and in the next you are weightless as he hauls you over his shoulder.

he makes it no more than 10 feet down the path before the last bit of adrenaline leaves you and is replaced by a sudden, blinding pain with no identifiable source. you feel it everywhere—all of the seemingly inconsequential injuries catching up with you now that you've stopped moving. the receding tree line is the last thing you see before the world goes dark.

.

..

the warmth that surrounds you is decadent. you curl into it, reluctant to break the spell of sleep. but then you remember.

you shoot upright, sending at least three layers of blankets rolling off of you. you pinch the fabric of the top one between your fingers—alpaca. not native, but farmed here over the last century or so. you know (and had been told) that it was unbecoming of a princess to hold so much commonplace knowledge. but then again, status matters little now, and this blanket is soft. you're grateful to know the beast it was made from.

it hurts, but you coax your head into swiveling around to survey your surroundings, surprised when you find that it's very clearly someone's home. it's old—some of the wooden boards that line the walls have started to bow against the nails that drove them into the framework of the house, and daylight peaks through the cracks. the bed you rest in can barely be called that—an old futon cushion atop bundles of straw. but it's warm, and you slept. someone has been taking care of you. the thought is sobering; the anxiety that comes with it is enough to hold you to the bed for the foreseeable future.

but your stomach growls, and the bodily betrayal forces you to move. you do it slowly, kicking both feet out from under the blankets. to see them bandaged is startlingly unexpected.

your memories until now are fuzzy at best, but the last thing you distinctly recall is the feeling of sharpened metal biting into your skin. there are few ways you can fathom connecting the dots from that moment to this—swaddled in blankets with your wounds tended to. it leaves you on edge.

on two feet, you sway a bit—the hunger feeds the vertigo that spins the surroundings in your peripheral. one hand braced on the bed now behind you, you blink until things settle. you take a step forward, and the pain is shocking—your feet are clearly more injured than they'd felt at the time, but there is only one way out of this room. you press on.

the heavy wooden door opens into a one room cottage. it's old, and not in the well-loved and well-lived way—the dilapidated structure and lack of any real homely qualities tells you immediately that it's current inhabitant is more of a recent opportunist than a longtime homemaker. that distinction mattered little now, though, and you suppose you should be grateful for your stranger's resourcefulness.

you creep further into the room without a sound until you find yourself in the middle of it. crouched and defensive, until the realization hits you—you see all four walls and are perplexed to find that you are completely alone.

the room is little more than a crooked wooden table and a futon pad on the floor. there are remnants of a fireplace in the center of the room—mortar and brick crumbling up wooden slats toward the roof, but still useful with still-burning embers inside. truly, it's more primitive than livable—there are weapons and tools strung up along the wooden panels of the walls, and animal hides hang in any space between metal and wood. but it's warm, and it's a reminder of what is at stake. what should spur anxiety brings only confusion—when cost of survival is so high, why add another body to the burden?

you forget yourself until the heavy fall of footsteps outside the door reignites your adrenaline. you watch, wide eyed and frozen, as the door picks a fight with whoever is on the other side of it. a weight smacks solidly into it once, twice, and a third time before it opens with a heavy groan. in the daylight, your captor is revealed to you.

hard eyes widen slightly at the sight of you, and then narrow in suspicion. you're still as he takes in all of you, and suddenly very aware of the nightgown you escaped your home in, still hanging off your body. you fight the urge to withdraw into yourself—you know it’s not the time to cower.

he eyes you for a moment more, and then drops a heavy pack on the floor next to him, and busies himself with unloading. you watch as he pulls out tools that look unfamiliar to you—though you suppose any tool would. it's not as if you or your family ever had a need for them.

you watch him work and are surprised to find that he's...handsome. jaw set at a hard angle with scars that wrap around the slope of one side, he's rugged in a way you'd never been taught to find appealing. he is unlike the men that sought after your hand with promises of riches and comfortable living. he is unlike anyone you've seen before, truthfully.

"um—"

"is there something you need?"

his coldness stuns you for a moment. you're not sure what you were expecting—you'd no real reason to anticipate any kindness from the man, but the care by which your feet were wrapped had led your mind in that foolish direction anyway.

you fight the urge to draw your limbs into yourself like a startled turtle. "oh—i just. wanted to thank you, i suppose. for helping me."

he looks up from his sorting to meet your eyes, and the disdain in them feels like a physical wound. he drops the tool in his hand with a sharp thud against the floor, and it makes you jump.

"once you've healed, you will leave."

you exhale sharply. it makes sense, of course—it is no small ask of him to allow you to stay even until you're healed. even so, the reality of the world that awaits you carries a weight to it—it lurks around the periphery of the tiny cabin, waiting for you to poke your head out.

then comes the loss—the blood that still stains your fingertips and the hem of your nightgown. you bow your head—out of shame or grief, you're not sure—and turn on your heel, right back into the room you came from. you shut the door behind you quietly, and you don't make it to the bed. you sink to your haunches and gravity pins you there, head in hands as your mind reintroduces you to each of the ghosts that now have a tight grip on both your ankles.

.

..

it's dark when you emerge, once again driven by hunger or thirst, or some other base need to stay alive despite every glaring sign not to.

you commit yourself to stealth—to staying out of your stranger's way, as much as you can before you take your leave. the dark of the cabin hides you in your trek out of your hiding place—unfortunately, it also hides the solid object on the floor, laid directly in front of your door. your foot catches it and it clangs, the metallic echo ringing in your ears.

you curse under your breath, bending down to feel around in the blackness for whatever you hit. you startle when your fingers hit something unexpectedly soft. you squint, and suck in a breath when you realize what you're holding—a piece of bread. rather, half of a loaf, with a cut of meat nearby, on the metal plate that you’d kicked. you blink, like if you do it enough, the mirage will dissipate and leave only dark wood behind. but it doesn't—the bread gives some as your fingers squeeze around it as if to test it's trustworthiness. you decide to stop looking the gift horse in its mouth, and recede back the dark of your room, food in hand.

.

..

oddly enough, it becomes a regular occurrence. you grow accustomed to expecting a plate of food by your door every night—a seemingly ironic luxury, given your reality now. you hardly see your stranger—you've no idea when he has the opportunity to leave food by your door unnoticed, give his penchant for absence. puzzling still is that the food you're given varies, as if he intends for you to have a fully balanced diet in the middle of a societal collapse.

he doesn’t stop at the food, either—after a few nights spent in your room, he makes his first real appearance in the daylight. a knock at your door rouses you from what’s become a habit of mid-afternoon naps, in lieu of staring at the splintered walls of what was quickly beginning to feel like a cage instead of a place of healing. you pull the door open to find your stranger towering over you—leering down at you with the same discontent he had before. only now, he holds something in his hands, and extends them to you.

“there’s a stream at the edge of the boundary.”

he thrusts what’s in his hands to yours, and you realize that it’s clothing—not in the best shape, but certainly better than the blood-crusted nightgown you still wear. he says no more, and for once you’re grateful for his curt demeanor. he turns on his heel and stalks out of the cabin, back to whatever the outside world has to offer him. after a moment, you follow his path, for the first time since you’d arrived.

it stuns you for a moment, how sinister the land looked in the dark, and how different it looks now. the sun shines hot down on the wheatgrass that sways gently in the breeze. it picks up a lock of your hair and you feel lighter with it.

you walk where you assume you should—down a thinly-worn path between the grass. you find it eventually: a small stream, just wide and deep enough for you to bathe in if you crouch. you turn your head to each side, squinting in your search for prying eyes—you find no one, but it’s still wholly uncomfortable to undress in the open like this.

your reservations leave you the minute you step into the water. warmed by the sun with a sweeping current, you let out a guttural moan that would’ve certainly earned you a chastising from your grandmother for its crudeness. you can’t help it—the caked on dirt and grime dissolves under your fingers and leaves you feeling better than you ever have. there is a slight sting in the soles of your feet—that it is slight is surprising to you, and a harrowing reminder of the clock that continues to tick out of your favor.

.

..

days bleed into weeks. your feet heal earlier than you expect them too, and the guilt you carry is worse than the wound. you know you’ve reached the end of your stay, but you can’t get yourself to leave. not when your stranger still insists on taking care of you. the anticipation is sickening—instead of sitting and waiting to be shooed away, you decide to earn your stay. hard work for someone who’d never worked a day, but the determination proves stronger than the fatigue.

you clean. it’s the only thing you can think to do, and truthfully, it’s necessary. you haul water in old containers on your shoulder from the stream, and you wash the dust away until the floors shine and the windows are clear again. you do this everyday—finding something to clean and fixating on it until the sun reaches the other side of the horizon. today is no different—you set your sights on the ash in the fireplace, using a metal pan to scoop it into a stray tarp to carry outside when you’re done.

you’re almost finished when you hear the now familiar sound of boots scraping the stone outside. you tense, but you don’t stop, pulling another pile of stale smelling soot onto the tarp as your stranger opens the door. you hear him stop behind you, but you don’t turn.

“what are you doing?” the tone is not as harsh as you’re used to—a little fatigued, mostly inquisitive.

“cleaning,” you say softly, pulling up at each corner of the canvas and watching the ash collide into neat little heaps in the center, “i’m almost done—i’ll be out of your way.”

you get to your feet, discard in hand, and turn to look at him. his strong brow furrows as he looks at you, like there’s something about what he sees that he can’t understand. against your best interest, your curiosity gets the better of you.

“i’m sorry, it’s just—i never learned your name.”

the look he levels you with makes you wish you’d never asked. his expression gives away nothing, but it tells you enough.

“how are your feet?”

your stomach drops—all of your attempts at earning your place for naught after all. but you stand in front of him now—to lie to him would be foolish at best.

you can barely raise your voice above a whisper. “healed.”

he studies you for a moment more, and it’s too much for you. your eyes fall to a crack in the floor, and distantly you wish you’d shrink down to slip inside of it, never to be seen again.

“tomorrow i will show you how to trap.” he gruffs, finality lacing his tone. your eyes snap to his but he’s already turning, half way out the door before he stops. he turns his head, eyeing you over his shoulder.

“kento,” he mutters, barely audible and strange meeting your ears, “my name is kento.”

and then he’s gone again—leaving you standing there with a hand full of dirt and no way to discern your left from right as your world tilts on its axis, if only slightly—but noticeable and disruptive all the same.

.

..

you don’t sleep well that night—startled out of a twilight sleep in what appears to be the dark hours of the morning by the rapping of knuckles on your door. kento nods to you in a greeting of his own, turning swiftly on his heel and heading toward the front door. you follow him dutifully, pulling over your shoulders the blanket you’d snagged before you left the warmth of your bed for the chill of the morning. the grass is cool and dewey under your bare feet, and it’s a quiet luxury you find yourself reveling in as you pad along behind him. you can hardly see him in the dark and yet you keep up, somehow—you know there’s too much at stake to lag behind.

true to his word, he teaches you how to trap. solely by doing—few words are exchanged between you as he trudges into the stream and hauls out a weaved basket attached to a rope, fastened to the shoreline by a stray branch. the light that creeps over the horizon begins to illuminate his work—silvery tails gleam as they flick back and forth from inside the cage. you know better than to be sad, but you feel it anyway. it’s silly to feel a kinship with the creatures, not even sentient enough to know that there is no escape for them—but you know, and the weight of that is a tangible thing.

he teaches you how to prepare the fish, then—and you get through it, if not only through sheer determination to not throw up in front of kento. the sun rises and illuminates other opportunities to learn—he teaches you about the native plants, only in simple directions of pointing to a patch of green with an accompanied “don’t touch”, or “fine to eat”. it’d feel patronizing if it wasn’t all so overwhelming—he had a knowledge of things you’d never dreamed of before. all you can feel is excitement that he’s willing to share it with you.

as the sun begins to set, he brings you to the garden—a small patch of land, seemingly unassuming until you step inside. there are fruiting plants everywhere you look—fat, red tomatoes and vining, prickly cucumbers, complete with rows of leafy greens and cabbages. you can’t begin to imagine how he’d managed to grow all of this by himself. his nightly food gifts start to make more sense.

you work side by side, pulling ripe crop from each plant and placing them into a metal canister—usually used for mechanical purposes, but at the end of the world, you find many uses for what you have. you feel emboldened somehow with your hands in the dirt next to his, and the words leave you before you have a moment to reconsider; you tell him of where you’d come from, and of your descent down the hill. you think of the kin you’d left behind, and you feel detached as you tell him of the loss—an observation if nothing else, as if you’d sat on a shoreline and watched the tide flood in.

he doesn’t react—not to your noble status, and not to the death—he’s quiet as he moves on to each plant, only the pattering sound of what he harvests hitting the tin bottom of his canister. you don’t mind—there’s no reaction you’d expect or find helpful, and for some reason, his presence is enough. you find it odd that weeks ago his footsteps incited real fear in your veins, and now he’d spent the day teaching you new ways to be useful. it was a strange and intimate gratitude, but one you felt nonetheless.

you find you see him more now, with your newfound ability to contribute and the determination to do just that. days are spent hauling fresh catches out of the stream, and hunting down small mammals to supplement your diet. you watch him closely—the flex and twist of his torso with the pull of the bow, the way he narrows his focus to the fluffy little thing that scurries among the leaves. with the twitch of a finger, the arrow flies toward its target—there is a screech, and then a sobering quiet. for the first time in your life, you pray—quietly, for the creature with the same instinct to survive that drives you to take its life.

“here,” kento says, handing the bow to you, “try it.”

you wrap your fingers around the wood and do as he asks. it’s deceptively heavy—the tension of the bow makes it nearly impossible to draw back with your own strength. focused and determined not to fail in front of him, you nearly jump out of your skin when his hands cover your own.

“there’s no trick to it,” his voice is gruff but gentle and far closer to you than he’s ever been, “just pull back, like this.”

he guides your hand backward with his own and the tail of the arrow follows—at your back, you feel the muscles in his chest ripple with the effort.

“focus,” he breathes, and you fight a shudder at his proximity, “listen.”

and it’s hard to hear anything over the roar of blood in your ears, but you try, blinking in an effort to snap out of whatever trance kento has put you in. it takes a moment, but then you hear it—the crinkle of leaves beneath tiny paws.

“take a deep breath.” kento allows you to move the bow where you want to, and you try to focus your aim. a bushy tail flicks up behind the underbrush—you train the point of the arrow right below it. your heart thuds wildly in your chest, and suddenly you’re worried that the bow might slide out of your sweating palms, impaling you instead.

“let it go.”

you do as he says, and the ringing in your ears drowns out the sounds of short-lived suffering. he lets go of you then—you don’t notice he’s come to stand in front of you until you feel the rough pad of his thumb swipe gently across your cheek. you blink, your own fingers reaching up to find tears you don’t recall ever shedding. your eyes meet his, and they burn with an intensity you’ve never seen in him before. but he’s not angry—you feel no compulsion to apologize for whatever is happening to you. he takes the bow from your hands, and slings it over his back.

“we’ll go back now,” he says quietly. you follow him up the path, and the tears don’t stop until you reach the cabin. you wonder who exactly it is that you’re crying for.

.

..

you don’t know what it is about the nights that follow that lead kento to decide to stick around, but there’s a part of you that’s glad he does. above all else, you knew better than to question it. he doesn’t say much—he never does—but you’re more than happy to fill the silence. you suppose you owe him the opportunity to know you, after all he’s done for you—you’ve no idea how to quantify the gratitude you’ve felt over the last few months. you do what you can.

“there’s a story my grandmother used to tell,” you murmur, eyes to the fire that crackles in front of you, “i used to sit at her feet while she brushed my hair. she only ever told it to me—it was like a secret between us.”

the wood pops and spits an ember at your feet. you watch it blaze bright, the tiny thing—one last attempt to catch before it snuffs itself out. “there was a princess that lived high in a tower built to protect her from the bandits of the neighboring empire. she was only ever allowed to walk the grounds of the palace under the safety of a full moon. one night, as she crept out of the tower under the cover of the dark, she’s lured into the dark forest by a witch. she promises to grant the princess any wish, for a price.”

your eyes catch kento’s, and for once, his expression is not indifferent. he is here with you in this moment, and it warms you more than the flame. “of course she wishes to be free,” you continue, waving a hand at its inevitability, “and the witch turns her into a hare. and in the original story, that’s the end of it. there’s a lesson there, right?”

“but in my grandmother’s story, it’s the best thing that could’ve happened to the princess. she’s free to hop around to her heart’s content. all she does is eat greenery and lay fat in her den until she dies a natural death after a long and happy life.”

you hear what you think is a scoff from the man next to you. your eyes roam kento’s face, and you think there might even be a hint of a smirk there. it thrills you.

“the tale of an optimist,” he offers quietly, and it’s not bitter.

“she was,” you murmur, “until the end, she was an optimist.”

it’s quiet between you for a moment, save for the crackle of the fire.

“i’m sorry you lost her.”

you smile, and it hurts. the tears well up before you can stop them.

“it’s unfair,” you croak, despite yourself. you’d done well to put up a good front in front of kento—humbling, to see how quickly it could be undone.

you startle when you feel a warm palm close around your clenched fist. “it is unfair,” he says, eyes meeting yours.

the warmth is profound, again despite the fire that heats your cheeks. you find yourself leaning into it until you’ve tucked yourself under his arm. he’s tense, but allows it.

“tell me something about you,” you whisper thickly, needing to think of anything else. he hums, tipping his head back. you sneak a glimpse of the curve of his jaw, glowing between shadows cast by a flickering flame. scar tissue curves and shimmers as it tenses.

“we were a group,” he murmurs, still looking up at the old, wooden boards, “myself and some of the neighbor children. there were no family units, there— we created our own.”

you’re so quiet you think you can nearly hear him piece together the memory in his mind. you know he’s gifting you something precious, so you don’t dare speak.

“we were too young to be running around alone, but there was nowhere to go. we knew enough to dodge the militias that would burn through each village. we thought we did, anyway.”

“the elders were kind. they brought in as many of us as they could on nights when the trucks would come down the road. but we didn’t have parents or homes, and they couldn’t take in all of us.” he pauses, sucking in a long breath. it shifts you when his chest expands. “i was small enough that i was able to fit through a hole in the crawl space under a home. Yu tried, but he wasn’t fast enough.”

“he was my best friend.” kento’s voice is quiet, and more fatigued than you’ve ever heard it. it’s unnerving, seeing his humanity laid out so plainly. “he tried to run, but they caught up just as quickly. they would’ve just taken him to a work camp, but he put up a fight.” he says it with a small smile, like he’s proud. “they shot him and left him there to die.”

if there was a way you could be closer to kento, you’d have found it by now, but you find yourself trying to sneak up under his ribs anyway. trying to find a way to siphon his pain into yourself, if only for a moment.

“you were brave,” you whisper, having nothing else to say except for that—for what feels obvious and true. he scoffs, but you can hear the grief behind it.

“maybe,” he says, arm tightening around your shoulders, “i don’t think i’ve ever felt that way.”

you hum, a low and sympathetic thing, fighting the urge to nuzzle into his chest. it’s strange, how easy it is to default to such animal inclinations when there’s no need to abide by arbitrary customs. there is only the two of you here, and the urge to comfort kento is strong.

“will you let me do something?”

he glances down at you out of the corner of his eyes—narrowed in distrust, despite baring his most tender bits to you only a moment ago. you push past it.

“here,” you say, sitting up and out from under his hold, “sit here.”

“on the ground?” he’s not so much incredulous as he is confused—and you’ll take what you can get. you nod, an appeasing sort of grin teasing the corners of your mouth.

his eyes are still narrowed when he goes—crouched in defense like you wait with bared teeth instead of open arms. still, he moves to sit before you—facing you. you laugh a little, endeared.

“i meant for you to turn—“

“no.”

you’re snapped back to reality then—to the present moment, with this man that kindly took you in but does not trust you. you take in a slow breath, careful not to flinch under the weight of his stare.

“okay,” you murmur, reaching up to pull free from your hair the comb that tethers it in its knot, “that’s okay.”

your hair slips down over your nape as you pull the teeth of it free—hard and familiar in your fingers, you offer it to him like one would a scrap of food to a feral dog. an heirloom made of deer bone—your family’s own commitment to using all that you were given, even if it was in excess. a reminder of a luxury that never felt like one until now.

“is it okay?” you ask, pulling up on your own bravery to keep his stare. after a long moment of careful deliberation, he nods tersely.

you lean forward slightly, careful of his space, and let him see the comb as you reach up. he jumps when the dulled prongs meet his scalp, but you stay the course. you pull it through the blond strands—longer than they were when you first met, the dulled ends slipping through with each pass.

you sit back to look at him after a moment. there’s no resistance, nor is there any enthusiasm—but you trust that he’d stop you if he was uncomfortable, so you keep going.

you lose yourself in the task, pulling (or pushing, from where you sit in front of him) the carved bone through his hair. you allow him the privacy of a reaction—eyes focused only on the strands that flit away from the teeth of the comb.

so focused, it seems, that you have to suppress the jerk of your leg when he leans up against it. the quick glimpse you allow yourself gores you—his eyes now closed, head cushioned by the soft of your thigh. looking more childlike than you’ve ever seen him in the months you’ve spent every minute with him. you see flashes of him as a boy—small and without scarring or a reason for haunches to raise in fear or rage. you think of him laughing—rolling in mud and being scolded by an otherwise kind woman instead of squeezing his way through jagged, wooden boards to save his life. never knowing the sound of a shot ringing out in the street.

you tuck your face into your shoulder—determined to hide the tears and your grief on his behalf. determined to let him feel this, whatever it is, and be a safe place for him to do it. to be the strong arm and the kind hand for him now—the one he can give his precious trust to.

the fire crackles and the mourning is heavy in the air—but kento is alive beneath your fingers, and your own heart beat is a heavy and reassuring thud inside your chest.

.

..

he is a rose in bloom, in the nights that follow. tightly coiled and still with all of his thorns, but in bloom nonetheless.

he becomes something of your shadow. where he lingered out of distrust he now hovers with intent—comically so, his large body folding itself in the small confines of the makeshift kitchen while you wring out linens in the sink. it’s clear that something has shifted between you—though what, you’re unsure. your mind tells you he is finally coming around to you. your heart yearns for something more than just his trust, though you are not unaffected by the weight of that trust alone.

he is never more than an arm’s length away. he leaves in the darkened hours of the morning to hunt, and is somehow back before the sun rises to wake you. that was another shift—he hadn’t asked you to join him on a hunt since that night. he hadn’t asked you for anything after that, really. he sleeps nearer, too—you’d been under the impression that he’d been sleeping outside until he wound up at the foot of your bed, sleeping still like a guard dog. you didn’t have the heart to ask him about it—you just left the candle burning and turned away from the door. he was owed privacy in his vulnerability, and you give him that.

and however hard to read the man may be, you feel some discontent at not pulling your weight, so you try your best to anyway. patching up holes in the wooden exterior of your home. sealing the windows with fur and fat to beat the chill of the creeping fall. you know that the garden tending is cyclical with the seasons—the cold calls for heartier vegetables. you pull and preen until your fingers swell, aching.

and there he would be—watching you, as always.

“hard work for a princess,” he mutters through something suspiciously similar to a smirk. you level him with a glare—the heat of which is immediately snuffed out in comparison to the heat of the cloth that he wraps around your wind-bitten hands. the heat of his body before yours is a close second to the warmest you've ever been despite all of the holes you'd still yet to patch.

“i hardly remember ever being one now,” you murmur, leaning into his side as his thumbs swipe over your palms—needle pinpricks left in their wake, even through the fabric.

he scoffs, his hands engulfing yours in his warmth. "are you not still?"

"i suppose, technically." you shrug, letting him crowd you over to the old, torn up futon that you'd been using as living room furniture. he'd been doing a lot of that lately—pushing you to relax. itching to take a weight from you. he arranges you to his liking, wrapping one of the woven blankets around your shoulders. "i was meant to be made into more than that, you know. before the uprising."

kento only raises an eyebrow at you. you shrug, past the point of shrinking from his silence. "my family had paid a sizeable dowry to have me married off. an heir in a neighboring village, supposedly. only my grandmother was against it, in her own, quiet way. she took to calling me her rabbit, after her story. she wanted differently for me."

there's no mistaking the way kento stiffens. there's no reason for it, nor is there a justification for the way you want to placate him. you do it anyway.

"maybe it's for the best," you say, waving your hand as if to dismiss the whole thing entirely, "i'm not exactly the noble type, now."

you watch him deflate. he nods sagely, the smirk pulling at his lips again. "surely you're the most frightening princess i've ever met."

you turn your head to watch him settle in next to you—another new behavior, seemingly unbothered by the proximity that he no doubt was unfamiliar with. "what's that supposed to mean?"

his teasing grin fades into something a little more forlorn. "when i found you, i expected you to be afraid. i wouldn't have harmed you—i only wanted to scare you off."

you huff. "that wasn't very nice."

"you weren't afraid though. it was unnerving."

"oh?" you grin, reaching to poke him in the ribs. "you were afraid of me?"

he reaches for your hand and pulls it to his lap. "i was sad for you. it wasn't a resilience—it felt as though you were broken."

it hurts, you decide, to be known like this. how simple things had been when he'd only left you provisions at your bedroom door and left you be. now you'd gone and allowed your heart to run freely ahead without a tether. you'd no way of preparing for the injury that freedom would cause.

"you pitied me," you mutter, unable to keep the bitterness from your tone. the mood shifts between you, and something inside you wants to resent him for it. how warm it had been inside the delusion—the world in which you both exist in this space as equals, brought together by fate and want and nothing else.

"no, not pity." you startle at the feeling of his fingertips as they brush a tendril of hair from your face. "you reminded me of myself. i didn't want you to be alone."

"why take on that burden?"

kento hums, pushing his fingers through the hair at your temple. despite yourself, you lean into the touch. "maybe i didn't want to be alone, either."

you blink, the sentiment working its way into your head. it lands significantly south—deep in your chest with an ache you can't describe. you reach for the wrist in your peripheral, stopping his movement and keeping him close. "is that all?"

"no." his admittance is a whispered, strained thing. you're close enough that to tilt your head back brings his jaw to your lips. the ghost of your breath along his skin makes him shudder, and you feel the fingers in your hair flex into a grip.

"what else, then?"

he ducks his chin to nose at your cheek. your eyes flutter closed, mind empty of all that swam around in it only a moment ago.

"my rabbit," his bottom lip brushes against your own, "what else is there but you?"

.

..

the weather changes and the gods grow restless.

you both feel it at the first chill of the year. there’s no graceful turn of the seasons—the air is bitter and cold, and you know something is coming. there’s little time for play, so on the last few warm evenings of fall, you take advantage of it. or you try to—you drag kento into the stream to soak in the dwindling rays of sun, but the knowledge of what is to come weighs heavily on you both. he holds you up in the current—body to body, only breathing. you can't get close enough—to reach inside him and carve out a space for yourself would still not sate the longing you feel.

that wretched something shows it’s face soon enough. the first snow is harsh, collecting in heavy banks against the roof of the house. the wood sags under the weight and the cold creeps in through the wood until the fire is no longer enough to warm the house in it's entirety—only the small space in front of the mantel that you crowd around. you and kento don’t talk much these days—to speak takes energy you don’t have to spare. he is doting as he always is—making sure you are covered in every layer of fabric and fur he can find, but something is wrong. you know the worst is yet to come. you feel it in the way kento holds you too close during the night; it’s never warm enough.

at first there is hope. kento has his food reserves and you'd preserved some of what you’d gathered. but a week of snow turns to two, and two weeks turn to two months. the rations get smaller and the two of you get hungrier. by the third month, you understand that you will not be spared the gods’ wrath. you see the punishment for what it is—a utilitarian consequence to all of the bloodshed by man. you do not have the energy to mull over the unfairness of that. even if you did, the gods do not concern themselves with what is fair—you know that now. the light inside you fades with every new inch of snowfall.

but kento is kind, despite your insistence that he be otherwise. he pulls from his own warmth to add to yours. your dinner portions are always bigger, even if it means he goes without eating entirely. it’s in vain, of course. neither of you will live through this. you scold him for pushing the last of his food on your plate and he doesn’t bother to respond. he only watches while you eat, like he can’t rest until he knows for sure that you have eaten all he has to offer you. you chew through tears and the only comfort is the hand that reaches to wipe them from your cheek. it’s a painful end, wasting away like this. watching kento fade away.

it's when you can smell death's approach that you know with certainty that your humanity has fled for a better place. the thing that remains in you—that keeps your heart beating, that coaxes your lungs to inflate—is purely animal. and it's out of that same primal need that you close the distance between kento's frail body and your own. in the silent chill of the night, the warmth between you may be merely a hallucination now, but you feel it all the same. there is no pain anymore. only a pull into a sleep you want so badly to slip into.

you don't cry—you use the last of the strength in your body to tuck yourself under kento's chin and curl around him in some intimate display of what exists between you. of what has existed this whole time.

"if this is the end," you murmur, knowing that it is, "i'm happy that i'll leave this world with you."

the knuckles that brush against your cheek are sharp and gnarled now. you've never known a touch so tender. it’s odd to speak—to shatter the intimacy of the silence that’s floated around the both of you for much of the last few weeks.

"do you know now?"

if you close your eyes, you can pretend that the man in your arms will live to see the morning. that this is merely pillow talk, and the sun will wake you with warmed skin in a few hours.

but you don't let yourself turn away. it's striking, how even with his last few breaths, kento manages to use them worrying about you. you wonder if he's done it the whole time. you do know; you realize with unmistakable clarity that you'd know his love anywhere, now. you nod, feeling his thready pulse against your forehead.

"i do. you'll have to forgive me for not seeing it sooner."

you feel him scoff—an inappropriate use of dwindling breath that makes you laugh, too. "there will be plenty of time to show you in the next life, my rabbit."

a brief bitterness curls up your spine—the unfairness of all of this creeping back up like a rising tide. how cruel it was to have settled on the loneliness of a life without love, just to be shown the magnitude of a life with it in the final months of your own.

but it recedes in the next moment, because there is no more time to grieve. you can only feel grateful, now—to leave this world saturated in all that kento has given you.

cracked lips brush the skin of your temple—he has no real energy for a proper kiss, but the desire to comfort is strong between you. you spend the next few, precious moments counting the breaths that rattle inside his chest, grateful for every one cycled through.

in the silent hours of a darker morning, there is a light only the two of you can see. shrouded in the glow, he is so beautiful.

with all of your strength, you call him by his name, one last time. "until next time, my love."

epilogue

if the notion of certainty is alive in anything, it is in the way that fable and folklore are sure to be born and born again out of gatherings of beings with mouths to speak it. one such example is the jagged, snow capped hills of Akaito—a new village comprised of all walks of life, the one commonality between them being their displacement during the fall of the Zaiaku dynasty almost one hundred years prior. built overtop the remnants of survivor settlements crushed under the Great Snow, all who inhabit the land know well of the blood that has stained the soil and pay mind to honor the loss of life in their own ways—namely in storytelling. this great coming together eventually gave way to a new mother tongue for the telling of a new bed time story to bleary eyed babes in the middle of the night: the tale of the Akaito lovers—the wolf and the hare.

as the story goes, villagers who have been bestowed some unearthly dose of luck by the gods may catch a glimpse of an unlikely pair—a formidable looking white wolf with scarring across its broad body, and its counterpart: a fluffy and downright regal grey hare. one might catch them romping around in the dusting after a fresh snow, or preening one another under a shaded tree in the heat of the summer. depending on who tells the tale, it might be the case that if a person is truly fortunate and determined to wait out the dark of night, they might even be gifted the sight of the duo curled around one another, sleeping peacefully in a protective and loving embrace under the light of a waning moon.

as with all fables, the story is altered with every new tongue that speaks it, and one day the tale will vanish from the minds of the younger generations completely. but for now, it is ripe in the minds of the young and old, the latter of which are very certain that it is no mere fable at all.

---

miya atsumu and the chronic lovesick disease

୨୧ ━━ ❛ what am i to you, atsumu? ❜

word count ⋆ 12.6k (12,607) genre ⋆ fluff, slight angst, friends to lovers, college au ━ gn!reader

the question comes to him one autumn night, surrounded by his friends and the chilly november breeze, asked by, who he assumes to be, just another nobody looking for money: what is it that you desire most, boy? the psychic asks, her saccharine smile forgotten when he looks into the crystal ball and all he ends up seeing is you. alternatively: miya atsumu is not in love. what the hell? who would ever suggest something like that?

warnings ⋆ alcohol consumption, mutual pining, denial of feelings!!! lots of it!! and with this denial comes some stupid decisions!!! author’s note ⋆ ive actually like never been to the psychic before so if its inaccurate im so sorry ..... it’s not really a big part of the plot though so hopefully u can overlook it 😭

o. Desire

This is a scam, is Atsumu’s first thought when he takes a seat inside the tent and finds himself face-to-face with a crystal ball.

People like this are dangerous — his twin brother never lets anyone forget it. They take advantage of an individual’s fear of the unknown and they make money off it. It’s genius, because even the strongest people can become weak to something as mundane as self-proclaimed clairvoyants setting base near a college campus.

Atsumu supposes he’s no exception. Even if Bokuto was the one who forced him to do this in the first place.

“Hello,” the woman greets, her hair pinned into a tight bun. “You’re here for a reading?”

“Sure,” Atsumu huffs, shivering when the cold breeze sneaks into the tent. He really should’ve worn a thicker jacket.

When he looks up from the table, the woman gives him a smile. It’s analytical, as if all he needed to do was sit down for her to know everything about him. He fidgets in his seat, growing more uncomfortable under her gaze.

“So,” she says, clasping her hands together and resting them on the table. “What is it that you desire most, boy?”

 “I’m sorry?”

“Your greatest desire,” she repeats patiently.

Atsumu blinks before tilting his head. “Um, I’m not—”

“I’m sure you know,” she says. “Is it strength? Power? Love?”

All colour drains from Atsumu’s face. The psychic smiles wickedly.

Atsumu thinks this may be the end of him. He never liked it when people acted like they knew more about his intentions than he did, and it only took mere minutes before the woman figured him out.

His hand twitches. He would feel a lot better if you were here—

“Ah,” she clicks her tongue, “bingo.”

i. Strength

After a borderline homicidal game of rock, paper, scissors, Sakusa lands himself a new roommate.

Move-in day comes two weeks later and Atsumu sits in the lobby of the building, waiting for your car to pull into the parking lot.

He notes the time — it’s five minutes past 8:30, making you more than half an hour late — before grumbling under his breath and continuing to scroll through his feed. When Instagram notifies him that he’s all caught up, he exits the app and opens Twitter in hopes that something will be able to entertain him until you show up. He likes some tweets, retweets a few more, and terrorizes Suna before he grows bored at the lack of anything interesting on his timeline.

Another glance at the time. He scowls. It’s only been two minutes.

Atsumu debates asking Sakusa if he knows what’s happened to you. When he opens their message thread, he raises an eyebrow at how unbelievably one-sided their conversations are, but he decides that’s a problem for another day. Your absence is more important to Atsumu than Sakusa’s terrible conversational skills ever will be.

(He’ll bother Sakusa about it later).

He’s about to send a long string of emojis when an incredulous voice reaches his ears.

“Tsumu?”

He looks up and immediately pockets his phone with a grin. “You’re late.”

You adjust the box of donuts in your hands and squint at him as if his smile is as blinding as the sun. “I slept through my alarm. What the hell are you doing here?”

Atsumu gestures to his outfit. “What does it look like?”

You stare blankly.

“Seriously?” he scoffs. “I told you last night I’d help you move in. How’d you forget? Am I that forgettable? You wound me, I—”

“Shut up,” you say, shifting your weight. Atsumu’s eyes flicker to the sticker on the box, and he tries his best not to frown when he notices you’ve written Sakusa’s name in calligraphy with a heart at the end. “Of course I remember you offering to help because I spent my entire night telling you it was fine.”

“You expect me to believe that you can bring all your shit in by yourself? You look like you just rolled out of bed.”

“Thank you, Tsumu, I can always count on you to make me feel like I’ve been shot by Cupid’s arrow,” you quip, brushing past him to get to the elevator, and as if it’s second nature, he follows. “I can’t believe people walk around campus calling you sweet.”

“I never said you looked bad,” he says. “I think the dried drool on your chin is pretty cute, actually.”

“Whatever,” you hurriedly wipe your face. “Speaking of bad, what on Earth are you wearing?”

Atsumu knows full well you’re not complimenting him, but he decides to treat your comment as if you have. He beams, picking at the sweatpants you eye with disgust before walking into the elevator with you.

“It’s my mover outfit!”

“Your mover outfit,” you deadpan. “Disregarding whatever that means — those sweatpants are baggier than Kenma’s eyebags. And they do nothing for your ass.”

He smirks. “You were checking out my ass?”

You avoid eye contact, feigning indifference, but Atsumu’s known you for too long and immediately recognizes your fluster by the way you tug at the hem of your clothing.

“No,” you deny curtly, straightening your posture when the elevator doors open to show Sakusa’s floor. “It’s just hard not to notice when those sweats are ridiculously baggy. Seriously, are you trying to put something in there? I could fit a month’s worth of groceries in those.”

You’re walking swiftly, eager to get to your new apartment and end the conversation. The both of you are well aware that Atsumu’s more than capable of catching up with you, but he hangs back, preferring to watch you babble while he trails behind.

You clutch the donuts closer to your body as words tumble out of your mouth — a list of things that could fit in his sweats, including two jugs of milk and a family size pack of chips — and Atsumu can’t stop the lopsided smile from appearing on his face.

“Maybe a carton of eggs, too,” he suggests.

“Oh, I wouldn’t trust you with eggs,” you say sharply.

“Why not?”

“Are you really asking me that? Last month I lent you my blanket and you gave it back to me with a hole in it.”

“For the last time,” Atsumu begins, quickening so he’s side-by-side with you, “that was Samu’s fault, not mine.”

“…Alright.”

“Y/N,” he whines. “I’m serious! None of that was on me — I even bought you a new blanket! Would Samu have done that? I don’t think so—”

“Actually—”

“The point is,” Atsumu interrupts, throwing you a glare before continuing, “blame Samu. Whenever something bad happens, blame him. That’s what I always do.”

“Spoken like a true, responsible individual.”

“Hey!” he protests. “I’m responsible!”

You open your mouth to deny his claims, but the pout he plasters over his face is enough for you to give in. Too tired to give him something as golden as a verbal agreement, you opt for changing the subject. “Do you think Sakusa will like the donuts?”

Atsumu frowns. “Why does it matter? They’re donuts.”

You grow annoyed at his impertinence. “I want him to like me, you moron.”

His expression sours further. “He’s your friend.”

“And I won a game of rock, paper, scissors, so now I’m his roommate,” you remark. “There’s a difference between being friends with someone and living with them. I mean, would you want to live with Bokuto?”

Atsumu’s answer is swift. “Hell no.”

“Exactly,” you say, “I need us to get along.”

You stop in front of a door and begin searching your pockets for your key. There’s a pinch between your eyebrows, the box trembles as you struggle to balance it with one hand, and your clothes are a mess, but underneath the fluorescent light of the hallway, Atsumu can’t help but think you almost look angelic.

He shakes the thought away, squashes it beneath his foot until the remnants of it have been absorbed by the carpet.

“The last time I saw you this nervous was when you asked out that barista,” he muses.

You dig your hand into the breast pocket of your shirt and huff when you find nothing. “What are you implying?”

Atsumu stares pointedly at the sticker on the box. Your face morphs into one of horror.

“Are you dense?”

“Calligraphy, Y/N. I’ve never seen you write calligraphy in my entire life.”

“I was trying something out!”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

You smack him on the shoulder. “I was being thoughtful,” you grunt, softening when Atsumu winces and rubs the spot where you hit him. “He’s my friend, and that’s all he ever will be.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

Your eyes leave him for a millisecond, flickering to somewhere else on his face before returning his gaze once more. “Of course,” you say softly, “Besides, I—”

The door swings open.

“You’re loud,” Sakusa deadpans in the doorway. His eyes travel down to the donuts. “Are those for me?”

You hand them over to him. “Yeah, I didn’t know what you liked, so they’re all assorted.”

Sakusa hums in thanks before tilting his head at Atsumu. “Why’re you here?”

“To help them move in,” Atsumu grins, placing a hand on your shoulder and squeezing it. “I know you’re going to the drycleaners, and I couldn’t let Y/N do this all by themselves.”

Sakusa shrugs and turns to go further into the apartment. “Sounds good to me. I’d rather not have to press those nasty elevator buttons multiple times just so I can come down and get your stuff,” he gives you the best apologetic look he can muster. “Have fun, though.”

Before you can go on a tangent about how Sakusa should be more welcoming, Atsumu pipes up, “Yeah, don’t worry! ‘S all in good hands,” he nudges you with his elbow. “Right? Your stuff can’t be that heavy.”

Atsumu, not for the first time and certainly not the last, stands corrected.

Not only is your stuff heavy, but there’s much more than he expected.

With each trip down to the parking lot, his muscles grow strained, and he feels the fatigue threaten to droop his eyelids shut. But, in the corner of his eyes, he sees your persistence to get this over and done with, and Atsumu decides it won’t hurt to push through.

His complaining and wailing can wait until later.

After you place the last box into your new bedroom, you turn to him while wiping the sweat from your forehead. “Thank you,” you say breathlessly.

He goes to tease you, to say that you owe him now, that you’ll be indebted to him for life.

But what comes out of his mouth instead is: “‘Course. Call me whenever you want, and I’ll be there.”

Atsumu calls it a housewarming gift. Sakusa says there is hardly anything warming about it.

It referring to the group of boys gathered in the living room — your friends on good days, the bane of your existence on all the others — with their limbs strewn about and their soda cans sitting too close to the edge of the coffee table. It’s an odd sight for Sakusa to have this many people over on a Thursday night, but Atsumu insisted, and he caught Sakusa on a good day when he asked if he could hold a movie night at the apartment to celebrate your new accommodations.

You’re sure Sakusa regrets it now. He sits in his armchair with a permanent scowl, swatting Hinata away when the boy reaches to fix the crease between Sakusa’s brows. If looks could kill, Atsumu would’ve been dropped dead ten minutes ago.

He covers his fear with a grin, but out of the corner of his mouth, he says to you, “Help me.”

You snicker. “You’re on your own, dude.”

“I thought I told you to stop calling me that.”

“What? But Bokuto calls you that, too!”

“Yeah, but it’s Bokuto.”

“I have no idea what you mean by that.”

Atsumu only tsks, forcibly ending the conversation by suggesting to the room that they should all play a game to decide who’ll prepare all the popcorn. A chorus of agreements is what he gets in response, along with someone complaining about how he should be spared due to his gruelling volleyball practice, and another person expressing his sympathies for the future loser.

Atsumu prepares the ladder game, and after he’s done, he looks at everyone with fiery hot intensity, an expression similar to one he wears during a match. “Remember,” he declares, “whoever loses can’t complain.”

Luck isn’t on his side tonight.

“What the hell!” he screeches once the reality of his defeat settles in.

Osamu, far too smug for Atsumu’s liking, quips, “I thought you said no complaining.”

The noise that leaves Atsumu’s mouth is something akin to a pathetic but animalistic growl. He goes to protest, even raising his hand to list off reasons why he’s been wronged — someone must’ve cheated, or maybe everyone in this room has a ruthless vendetta against him — but just as the words are about to leave his lips, his eyes land on you.

You challenge him to complain with a look, and he suddenly gets a much better idea.

“Y/N,” he says sweetly, growing pleased at your uneasiness. “As the host of this housewarming party, it’s only fair that you help me, too.”

“What?” you squawk, leaning forward as if you’ve misheard him. “But you were the one who suggested doing all of this! How is it now on me to help—”

“Well, he wouldn’t have done this if it wasn’t for you,” Sakusa muses.

You stare at him in disbelief. “Are you taking his side? What happened to roommate solidarity?”

“You just made that up,” Sakusa replies. “Besides, this thing will go by faster if two people prepare the popcorn, and I don’t think Miya wants anyone else other than you.”

Atsumu shifts uncomfortably at the implication, and he involuntarily commits your surprised expression to memory.

(When he goes to sleep later that night, your surprise is all he sees against the darkness of his eyelids).

“Other than me—?”

“To make the popcorn,” Sakusa drawls matter-of-factly.

You blink. “Right.” You look at Atsumu, and he shrugs dumbly, unsure of how else to react to your sudden change in behaviour.

To him, you have always been easy to read, but right now, he’s not entirely sure if there’s a word for the expression on your face. He yearns to press a hand to your cheek to melt the malaise away, to be rid of it forever so he can see you smiling again.

Something in his chest twists.

“Right!” you repeat, more loudly this time, and startling the rest of your friends. You slap your hands on your lap before standing and grabbing Atsumu’s wrist to pull him away. “I guess I’m helping you make popcorn. You owe me one, Miya.”

Your skin is warmer than usual, threatening to burn him until your fingerprints are marked onto his skin.

(Behind him, Suna stage-whispers, “You are so whipped, Y/N.”)

Your touch disappears the moment you’ve both crossed the threshold into the kitchenette. Atsumu flexes his hand, trying to get rid of an urge in his veins he can’t quite explain.

“Hey,” you say casually, back turned to him as you dig through the cabinets for the popcorn packets. “Did you finish that essay for literature class?”

Atsumu awkwardly clears his throat and begins playing with the settings on the microwave. “The paper?”

“Yes, the paper,” you say. “The one I told you to start two weeks ago so you wouldn’t end up sending a half-assed essay two minutes before the deadline?”

“Why are you talking like you think I didn’t start it yet?”

“Because I know you, Tsumu,” you reply, shutting the cabinet with your elbow and ungracefully dropping the packets onto the counter beside him. “And I lost faith in your ability to listen to me a long time ago.”

“How rude. I always listen to you,” he sticks his nose in the air like a scorned, evil, cartoon antagonist, “I just don’t take all your suggestions. There’s a difference.”

“You make my life so much harder,” you huff, inputting a minute-thirty into the microwave. “I honestly think I lose ten years of my lifespan whenever you tell me you’ve gotten yourself into another dilemma.”

“Don’t be dramatic. I’m sure you only lose, like, three at most.”

“No, it’s definitely ten,” you say. “You worry me too much, Miya.”

The smile on Atsumu’s face, previously smug and confident, softens.

“Seriously, though,” you continue, jabbing a finger into his sternum. “The paper? It’s due tonight.”

He flicks your nose, snorting when you pull a face. “I sent it in this morning.”

“Seriously?”

“Hey! Don’t act so shocked!”

“Well, this is, like, the first time you’ve ever done something even remotely responsible, so—”

“I thought we both agreed I’m a generally responsible person.”

Your silence is enough of a response.

Atsumu gasps just as the microwave beeps, allowing you to ignore his stunned expression in order to begin preparing another bag of kernels.

“Give me one reason—”

“The blanket—”

“—that isn’t the blanket,” he says sourly. “That doesn’t count. I told you that was Samu’s fault, not mine.”

“Do you want a list? Because I have one.”

“Are you serious or are you just fucking with me?”

“Osamu and I have a Google Doc.”

Another gasp. You roll your eyes.

“Now you’re in kahoots with my brother? What’s next? Planning my downfall with Suna?”

“I’m sure he’s fine doing that himself without my help.”

He whines, stomping his foot when you only stare back in amusement. “Don’t be so unrepentant, Y/N!”

You dump the contents of the hot popcorn bags into a large bowl for everyone to share. “Unrepentant? Was that the word on your word-of-the-day calendar?”

“Shut up. You know only Kuroo has lame stuff like that,” Atsumu grumbles, throwing the last popcorn packet into the faulty brick of power you and Sakusa call a microwave. “I used it in my essay. Thesauruses are a godsend. It really came in handy when I was writing about the flower symbolism in the book. Y’know what’s even better, though? SparkNotes.”

You tilt your head, studying Atsumu with furrowed eyebrows. “Huh.”

“What d’you mean huh?”

“Nothing,” you say innocently. “I just didn’t think you’d choose that essay topic, that’s all.”

“It was the easiest one,” he states. You hum in agreement, but he can sense you falling into a state of pondering before it even happens, so he lightly pokes your shoulder in hopes it’ll be enough to keep you from drifting too far from his reach. “Why, what did you think I picked?”

He can tell you’re debating what to tell him, letting a few seconds pass before you give in. “I thought you’d do the one that centred more around…” you trail off, clenching and unclenching your jaw, “the love aspect of it all.”

He blinks. “Why?”

Childishly, you retort, “Why not?”

Atsumu licks his lips. “Well, you’re always telling me to write what I know. And I may not know a whole lot about flowers, but I know more about those than, y’know, love.”

Something passes over your face, the same thing he saw when Sakusa said something — implied something — in the living room. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he answers. “I’ve had relationships, sure, but none that made me feel anything like— like that.”

You drum your fingers against the bowl. “None at all?”

“None at all.”

You click your tongue and stare at the microwave. Its buzz has become more prominent in your silence, a mocking hum hanging over the air as you contemplate and Atsumu stares, waiting impatiently for a word to slip past your lips.

But there’s nothing. Instead, the microwave beeps again, indicating that the last of the popcorn is ready.

“That’s good to know,” you say lightly. At least, that’s what you attempt, but you sound different, like a parasite has found solace in your vocal cords and fiddled with everything Atsumu’s familiar with.

“It is?”

“Yeah,” you nod, handing the bowl over to him. Popcorn threatens to spill but Atsumu can’t bring himself to care. “Hey, be careful. What, is it too heavy? Are you too weak to carry it?”

“It’s popcorn,” Atsumu rasps.

You eye him oddly, as if he’s the one whose behaviour should be examined under a microscope. “Don’t spill it everywhere. Sakusa’ll get pissed, and we’re already pushing it with this movie night thing.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Of course,” you agree. “But if you need me—”

“I know,” he interjects.

Simple promises are often uttered during private moments between you and Atsumu — an oath to be there for the other, to stand by their side no matter what. The words soothe him when they’re said aloud; he knows, underneath all the teasing and the bickering and the irritated eyerolls, is your pinky and his, intertwined.

And despite the voice in his head taunting him about a secret he’s unaware of, he allows the promise to enchant him.

I’ll be there for you.

“Do you need help?”

Atsumu grunts, adjusting your arm around his neck as he opens the car door. “No, I’m fine.”

“Thanks for picking them up,” Aran says, voice loud above the frat house’s music, “I know you were tired from practice, but—”

“It’s fine. I probably would’ve killed you if you didn’t call me, anyway.”

“Osamu said you’d say that.”

Atsumu expertly brushes off the statement, gently ushering you into the passenger’s seat and putting your seatbelt on with gentle fingers. Behind him, Aran watches the movements with thoughtful eyes and a quirk of his eyebrows.

“The last time they got this drunk was at the fall festival last year,” he muses. “For your sake, I hope it doesn’t happen again.”

“What does that mean?”

“Hm?”

“For your sake,” Atsumu echoes, turning to face Aran once the door’s been shut and he’s made sure you’re sleeping soundlessly with your head resting against the cold window. Atsumu stands pin-straight, his posture contrasting the way Aran stands opposite him, relaxed with his hands stuffed in his pockets. “What’s that mean?”

Aran laughs, like he’s unsure if this is a serious question. “Well, I mean… they’re always asking for you whenever they get drunk like this.”

“I guess so, yeah.”

“That’s why you got here in record time, right?” Off Atsumu’s questioning gaze, Aran continues, “I called you five minutes ago, and your place is a fifteen-minute drive away. And you’re not in your pajamas, even though you said you’d change into them the moment you got home.”

“I was in the area,” Atsumu says weakly.

“Doing what?”

“Getting dinner.”

“Why didn’t you just get something delivered to your apartment?”

“Is it illegal to want to pick up the food myself?”

Aran raises his hands up in defence. “No, it’s not, but it’s also not illegal to say you knew this would happen,” he shrugs. “You knew they’d need you Atsumu, so you came. Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

Before Atsumu can force a response from his throat, Aran has already slipped back into the party, leaving Atsumu alone on the street. With an annoyed huff, he stomps to the driver’s side, muttering irked questions under his breath about what Aran could possibly mean. He opens the door with more aggression than necessary, only softening when he sees you stir underneath the jacket he’s draped over you to keep you warm.

He unlocks his phone when he feels a buzz in his pocket.

[00:30] Atsumu: are you still awake?

[00:48] Sakusa: Yes. Why?

Atsumu knows that your apartment’s farther from here than his, and he’s sure that by the time he arrives, Sakusa won’t answer the door because he’ll grow tired of Atsumu’s lack of response and go to bed.

The decision is made when he takes a right instead of a left, when he pulls into a parking lot that isn’t yours, when he carries your body up the stairwell and into his bed with ease.

Everything else comes as routine. He tucks the blanket under your chin, moves the glass of water so it’s too far for you to accidentally knock over in the morning, and leaves a change of clothes at the foot of the bed.

Atsumu likes routine. He likes the predictability of it all.

A groggy voice stops him from leaving the room.

“Tsumu?”

“Hey,” he whispers, crouching so he’s eye-level with you. “I hope you don’t mind I brought you back here.”

You blink sleepily at him, too inebriated and fatigued to acknowledge his words. “You’re a really good person, y’know,” you say languidly.

He smiles, amused. “Really?”

“Yeah. Thank you for picking me up.”

“It’s nothing,” he murmurs.

“It’s not.”

“I’m sure you would’ve been fine without me. Omi could’ve picked you up, couldn’t he? Samu could’ve, too.”

“I know, but you’re the one who always does,” you respond, nuzzling further into the pillow. “You’ve—you’ve helped me a lot.”

You shakily reach a hand to his face, playing with the strands of hair that fall to his forehead. He relaxes, eyelids growing heavy at the feeling of your featherlike touch against his cool skin.

“You’ve brightened up my life, I think,” your voice is muffled, but it rings in Atsumu’s ears clear as day, almost as loud as his quickening heart rate. “I appreciate you a lot more than you know.”

ii. Power

He watches with bated breath as the ball cuts through the air while gravity begins to pull Hinata back to Earth. Everything unfolds in slow motion; everything has faded into white noise.

With a slam, the volleyball connects with the ground, and it’s only when he’s pulled into a hug does the reverie shatter. Like being hauled out from underwater, the roars of the crowd flood his ears as Bokuto begins jumping on the balls of his feet and Hinata comes rushing over to them with a triumphant shout.

On the other side of Bokuto, Sakusa smiles, rolling his eyes fondly when Hinata and Bokuto begin making post-game plans to celebrate their victory. Atsumu, on the other hand, is uncharacteristically silent as he searches the bleachers with a cloudy look in his eyes.

He’s snapped out of it once again when Bokuto tugs on his wrist so they can go and listen to what their coach has to say.

Atsumu isn’t a stranger to winning — he used to get drunk on this sort of stuff, the exhilarating rush that shot through his veins after every successful game. He basks in the crowd’s excitement and admiration, because to be fawned over is the closest to love he’s ever been (if he could even call it that), but once the adrenaline cuts him off and he’s left alone in the locker room, it all fizzles out.

Something’s missing at the end of all this. Usually, the void in his chest is insignificant enough for him to brush off. However, today is different.

It’s abnormal for the power of the win to dwindle into nothingness only minutes after the game ends, but the blue moon has risen tonight, and now everything feels weird. The cheers aren’t enough to keep him from searching the gymnasium for a familiar face, and he itches to get to his phone in the locker room when he can’t find who he’s looking for.

“Why do you look like we’ve lost?” Bokuto asks. “C’mon, man! Smile! We just won! Aren’t you happy?”

“Of course I am,” Atsumu grunts.

(But…)

But.

The adrenaline shoots through him again when a voice he knows all too well catches his attention over the noise.

“Hey!” you rush towards them, dishevelled. “Before you get mad, I know I missed the game, I took a nap and slept through it, fuck, I am never going to stay up late playing Fortnite with you again, Tsumu, you’ve ruined my sleep schedule, but—” you huff, trying to catch your breath as you hand Atsumu a bag, “I’m sorry that I didn’t come. Congrats on winning, I heard the shouts from down the street.”

Atsumu smiles and peers into the bag. “What is this?”

“Mochi,” you answer. “A celebratory gift for my favourite setter.”

“I’m the only setter you know.”

“Which is why you’re my favourite.”

Atsumu snorts but hugs the bag to his chest, like it’s his most prized possession and he’d drag it along to the grave with him. “Thank you.”

If someone were to ask Atsumu if he liked the pedestal he’s put on after a match, he’d say yes. Of course he does. He quite likes it on top of the world.

But you match his joyful smile with one of your own and Atsumu finds himself rethinking his answer. “Anytime.”

The top of the world may be nice, but it is nothing compared to being on the ground next to you.

“You know what they say. With great power comes great responsibility.”

“Would you relax?” Sakusa snarls. “You’re in charge of us for a day. Get your head out of your ass.”

On the floor, Hinata lays like a starfish as he stares up at the ceiling, cheeks tainted a bright pink hue. “I think power’s gotten to your head.”

Atsumu waves him off. “I think this is the best practice we’ve ever had.”

Their captain had to run out five minutes into practice — relationship problems is what he grumbled to Atsumu before leaving him in charge without a second thought, much to the rest of the team’s dismay.

“I hope you’re never put it in charge again,” Bokuto complains before downing the rest of his water.

“Don’t be dramatic—”

“Do you know how gruelling this practice must be for Hinata to be tired?”

“Give us a break,” Hinata pleads, shifting his position so he’s on his knees. “Please. I’ll buy you lunch for the rest of the month if you end our suffering.”

Atsumu pretends to ponder the offer and grows more amused as Hinata begins to twitch nervously. “Okay, fine,” he relents.

Hinata cries with glee, hugging Atsumu’s legs before pushing himself off the floor and rushing out of the gymnasium — whether it’s to refill his water bottle or hide until he’s found, Atsumu may never know. With a snort, Atsumu grabs his own bottle amongst the rest on the bench, promising Bokuto absentmindedly that he’ll go easy on them for the rest of the day.

“I want to have at least a little energy left for the party at Kuroo’s tonight,” Bokuto adds, his smile widening when Atsumu nods in agreement. “See, I knew you’d get it!”

Sakusa takes a seat on the bench. “Are you going to the party, Miya?”

“Yeah, Y/N’s forcing me to come with,” Atsumu says. “How about you?”

Bokuto answers for him. “I’m making him come!” he exclaims. “You’ll have so much fun, Omi, you don’t have to worry.”

Sakusa deadpans, “I’m only staying for five minutes.”

Bokuto waves off his iciness with a flippant hand. “I’ll convince you to stay longer.”

“I really doubt that.”

“Don’t underestimate me!” Bokuto huffs. He turns away from Sakusa before he can continue to argue and focusses on Atsumu. “It’s good that you’re coming too, Tsum-Tsum! Maybe you can finally meet the guy Y/N’s going on a date with.”

Atsumu halts, hand tightening around his bottle. “What?”

“Some guy from their Psychology class asked them out a few days ago,” Bokuto says obliviously. “I think it was the night you picked them up? I don’t know. I think he was nice, though. Y/N probably already told you about it.”

You didn’t.

Atsumu forces a grin on his face. “Right, they did.”

Sakusa studies his expression with pinched eyebrows.

Atsumu’s cheeks hurt for the rest of practice, a consequence of the cheerful façade he’s plastered, but the pain subsides — if only for a moment — when he sees you outside the gymnasium, carrying your favourite boba drink in one hand, and his favourite in the other.

“Hey!” you greet, handing him the drink. “How was practice?”

“Awful,” Hinata mopes with a pout. “Your boyfriend here was running it like the navy.”

You frown. Atsumu blanches. “My boyfriend…?”

“Yeah!” Hinata slaps Atsumu on the back. “Him.”

All colour drains from your face. Your grip on your cup loosens for a split second before tightening it again in panic. You look from Hinata, the picture of innocence, to Atsumu, who only stares back, just as bewildered.

Hinata seems to take the hint as his eyes flicker between the two of you in confusion. “Sorry, I… I overheard Bokuto saying you were going on a date with someone, so I assumed—”

“Date?” you interrupt frantically, arms flapping to deny the words that have recklessly tumbled from Hinata’s mouth. “With who— with Atsumu? He’s not— we’re not— I’m not— we’re—”

“We’re friends,” Atsumu finishes, saving you from your stammering. You look at him gratefully, and he can only offer a weak smile in return. “I don’t know why you’d think we’re dating, Shoyo.”

“Sorry—”

“They’re going on a date with someone else.”

You narrow your eyes. “What do you—?”

“Oh, hey,” Sakusa says as he walks out of the doors. He tugs on the string of his mask to make sure it’s secure before nodding at you. “Did you stop by the grocery store yet?”

Atsumu’s words are long forgotten when realization engulfs your figure at the speed of light. “Oh, no! I took a nap and—”

“You really need to fix your sleep schedule.”

“I’ll have you know I slept four hours last night.”

“…That’s not a good thing.”

“It’s an hour more than usual.”

The genuine concern is evident in Sakusa’s eyes before he rubs his temples with a sigh. “Okay, whatever. Let’s go to the store before we head home, I need to buy more protein powder.”

“Ay, ay, captain.”

“Don’t call me that.”

You snicker then turn to Atsumu with a smile he’d move mountains for. “I’ll see you later, Tsumu?”

“Yeah, sure,” he murmurs. “Don’t take too long to get ready.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you say, patting his cheek. “Thanks for agreeing to drive me there and back.”

He finds himself involuntarily leaning into your touch. “Don’t mention it.”

Your touch lingers for a second too long before you salute him in goodbye and rush to follow Sakusa to your car. Atsumu watches as your figure gets smaller and smaller, a smile on his face as you glance over your shoulder and stick your tongue out when you catch him staring.

He flips you off and makes sure to stick his tongue out, too, in hopes that it’ll make you laugh loud enough for him to hear.

(He doesn’t notice the mischievous glint in Sakusa’s eyes, nor does he catch his name slipping past Sakusa’s lips).

(But he does notice you tilt your head, lost in thought, before you look at him again, attempting to figure him out despite the distance.

He thinks nothing of it).

Just after his 9am lecture, someone asks Atsumu out on a date.

She’s nice and easy on the eyes; a little timid, but he supposes that’s just the affect he has on people. Big man on campus is what he’s always referred to as, until they realize that he’s nothing if not a goofball off-court. Still, the girl — Miwa is what she said her name was — doesn’t know that yet, so Atsumu gives her the benefit of the doubt.

And he says yes.

At 11:00, the whole team has caught wind of his evening plans, and Sakusa texts him to tell him he’s an idiot. Atsumu frowns, asks why, but Sakusa doesn’t reply.

At 6:00, an hour before his date, he shows up on your doorstep with a bag of clothes and a tie loose around his neck. His left pant leg is tucked into his sock and the other is haphazardly cuffed; his hair is all over the place, sticking up at the back as the result of a hair-gel disaster.

You stare at him with pinched eyebrows. “What do you need?”

“I’ve got a date,” he explains frantically. “I need your help.”

You hesitantly let him in.

At 6:15 is when the argument occurs. The reason why is something Atsumu can’t recall, only that it was something so small and insignificant that the argument shouldn’t have even happened in the first place. He thinks you may have been in a bad mood before he even arrived, but that doesn’t change the fact that you haven’t talked to him in the past five hours.

Oh, right. And the power goes out at 6:45.

He texts Miwa to cancel, promising to reschedule on a day where they won’t be talking to each other in the dark, but his phone dies before he gets a response. With a shrug, he tosses it onto the coffee table and makes a mental note to charge it as soon as the power comes back on, knowing full well that he’ll forget the reminder the second he makes it.

He should feel more guilty about the fact that he cares more about your absence than his postponed date.

Atsumu stares at your door for far too long before deciding that he’ll apologize to you — for what, he doesn’t know, but apologize first, ask questions later is his motto — once you’ve left your room. He’ll grovel and get on his knees and even humiliate himself if he has to, as long as it gets you to talk to him again, because God knows he’ll never survive this outage by himself.

(Also, you’re his best friend, and — Atsumu has never told anybody this — the last time you gave him the silent treatment, his chest physically hurt from not speaking to you that he vowed to never anger you again).

It’s 11:35, and you still haven’t left your room.

For the past few hours, you’ve been watching Netflix without headphones to torture a bored Atsumu, but the noises stopped about ten minutes ago, meaning your phone must’ve died too, so it’s only a matter of time before you leave your room in hopes of finding something to do.

Atsumu’s almost giddy at the thought.

At 11:50, he makes his move.

He hears the creaking of your door and your socked feet softly padding in the hallway. Atsumu’s always tried going to sleep early so he can hit the gym before it gets too busy the next morning, so you must’ve waited the latest you could bear with the assumption that he had fallen asleep on the couch.

Atsumu tiptoes to the end of the hallway, teeth bright compared to the darkness of the apartment, and his grin only widens when you finally see him.

You blink before scoffing, brushing past him to enter the kitchenette.

“Y/N,” he says, attempting to be stern but it comes off as a whine in his desperation. “Look at me.” You spare him a glance. Atsumu deems that’s good enough. “Listen, I’m sorry.”

He watches you open a cupboard and fill your glass with water. The seconds that pass by are agonizingly slow and Atsumu shifts uncomfortably when the silence drags on.

Finally, you look at him, unamused, and say, “What exactly are you sorry for?”

He purses his lips in thought. “Uh…”

Rolling your eyes, you turn to make your way back to your room.

“Wait! Wait,” Atsumu shouts, rushing over to block the exit. His eyes dart all over the kitchen in hopes the walls will have the answer to your question. You tap your foot impatiently, and it’s only when you go to open your mouth to tell him to move that he blurts out, “I’m sorry for eating the rest of your chocolate cake.”

You look at him incredulously. “That was you?”

“Yeah, I— wait, you’re not mad about that?”

“I am now!” you huff, using an arm to try and shove him out of the way, but he catches your wrist.

“Then I don’t get it!” he groans. “What did I do?”

You give him a once-over. “Well, what didn’t you do?”

“This is about the outfit?”

“You’ve cuffed your slacks, Tsumu. They’re cuffed. No sane person cuffs their slacks.”

He struggles to wrap his head around your response. “You’re mad,” he repeats, then gestures to his outfit confusedly, “about what I’m wearing.”

You seem to realize just how ridiculous it sounds uttered out loud, because you pout. “Not just that.”

“Then what else?”

You stumble over your words before you coherently state, “You’re going on a date.”

He frowns. “Yes.”

“You’re going on a date,” you say again when it’s obvious he’s not catching on to what you mean. When all Atsumu can manage is a perplexed sound, you add frustratedly, “You’re going on a date, which I don’t understand, since Sakusa told me that I didn’t need to worry anymore, but I guess he’s wrong because you came here asking for my help with looking nice on your night out with Miwa and—”

“Wait,” Atsumu interrupts, still puzzled. “What did Sakusa tell you?”

“He told me not to worry.”

“Worry about what?”

That snaps you out of it.

You open and close your mouth like a fish out of water. Then, you cross your arms over your chest, muttering out a response with feigned nonchalance, “Whatever.”

Atsumu protests, “Hey, I—”

“Where were you even going to take her?” you swiftly change the subject, and Atsumu decides that he’ll let it go — that’s what he’s been doing for a while, anyway, and another day really couldn’t hurt, could it?

“Dancing,” he says.

“Dancing?”

“Yes,” he responds, relaxing at the sight of your amusement. “I searched up unique date ideas and Google told me to take her dancing.”

“You should’ve just taken her to dinner,” you say. “Because you can’t dance.”

“That’s not true at all.”

“You were born with two left feet.”

“Quit lying, you’re only saying that because you’re mad at me.”

“I’m only telling you the truth!”

“I’m a good dancer!”

“You really aren’t. I thought that was established two weeks ago when we were playing Just Dance and you knocked over Aran’s vase.”

“That says nothing about my ability to—”

“Yes, it does.”

“I’ll prove it.”

“Yeah, okay, sure.”

“I’m serious,” he says, stretching his hand out for you to take.

You look at his palm and back up at him. “You’re kidding.”

“Not in any way, shape, or form.”

“We don’t even have music—”

“I’ll sing,” he shakes his hand. “C’mon, hurry up, my arm’s getting tired.”

Without a second thought, you interlace your fingers with his as he whisks you around the kitchen, his laugh loud when you yelp at his fast movements. He places his other hand on the small of your back to keep you from slipping on the tile as he leans to whisper into your ear.

“Any song requests?”

“None. You’re an awful singer,” you retort, bristling at the warmth of his breath.

“So, what are you saying? You’d rather waltz in silence?”

“Yes. And I wouldn’t even call this waltzing. We’re just sliding around the kitchen.”

“We’re waltzing,” Atsumu says firmly, daring you to argue. You only sigh, letting him pull you closer as you two clumsily move around the room. He sings your favourite song despite your insistence for him not to, humming the parts he doesn’t know and doing his best to hit every note.

You laugh into his chest, and he makes sure the sound is trapped in his ribcage so he’ll never have to go a day without it.

When the song reaches its end, you place your head on his shoulder, your breath piercing through his blazer and skin. “I’m sorry that I got mad at you,” you whisper despite the quiet, as if making your voice any louder will shatter the atmosphere. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“It’s okay,” he murmurs.

“It’s not, but thanks for trying to make me feel better,” you say timidly. “I guess I just got my hopes up.”

Atsumu tries to get the information out of you again, the very thing that’s been bothering you — and, as a result, him — for weeks. “About what?”

Your fingers tighten around his. “Nothing,” you answer, and if you notice just how much his posture deflates then you say nothing of it. “Can we stay like this for a little while?”

“Yeah, of course,” he says, rubbing circles onto the back of your hand. “We can stay for as long as you want.”

iii. Love

“You’re gonna get it in my eye!”

“Then stay still!”

“Just promise not to poke me.”

“I’ve already promised five times.”

“Then promise again!”

“Tsumu—” you sigh, slumping your shoulders as you meet his defiant gaze. “I promise I won’t get anything into your eyes or your mouth or your nostrils. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Atsumu narrows his eyes. “For some reason that doesn’t make me feel much better.”

You groan. “We’ve been over this millions of times—”

“Sue me for thinking you’re still mad at me.”

“I told you—”

“Sakusa got into my head,” he explains for the umpteenth time that evening, “he keeps on saying I’ve done something wrong, but he won’t tell me what, and he keeps looking at me as if I’ve committed a felony. His face keeps me up at night, it’s the reason why I’ve had so many nightmares recently—”

“Sakusa’s being a nuisance. Trust me, you haven’t done anything wrong,” you assure, your voice echoing off the walls of your tiny bathroom. “You have nothing to worry about, so stop acting like I’m trying to kill you with this face mask.”

He stares pointedly at the tub sitting next to you on the sink. “It’s scarily green,” he whispers conspiratorially. “Like, it’s Hulk-green. Nothing should be that green.”

“If you’re implying it’s poisonous, it’s not.”

“That’s what they want you to think.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you grumble, spreading the mask across his cheeks, ignoring his murmured whines about how cold it feels on his skin. “You weren’t acting like this last time.”

“You were using a different face mask last time,” he rebuts. “I liked the other one better than this one.”

“Well, I’ll keep that in mind the next time I go to the store,” you hum. “Maybe I’ll even take you with me, so you can choose the face mask. It’ll save me from your complaining in the future.”

“You love my complaining,” he replies quickly. “But I really should. I’d make your grocery trips so much more fun.”

“You’d get us kick out.”

“Would not!” Atsumu scoffs when you don’t even bother to hide your unconvinced mien and places his hands on either side of the marble countertop, trapping you against him and the sink. “I’ll prove it this weekend.”

You shake your head. “I’m not going this weekend. The fall festival is on Saturday, remember? I’m holding off spending money this week so I can buy a ton of cotton candy without feeling guilty.”

“Really?” he snorts. “You’re not gonna get wasted this year?”

“Definitely not. Last year was a nightmare.”

“You don’t even remember what happened.”

“Exactly,” you say, smoothing out the mask. “And you’re always taking care of me when I’m drunk, it makes me feel bad.”

Despite his proximity, you don’t seem to feel the intensity of his stare. His demeanour has softened in the past five minutes, smiling warmly at the pinch between your brows and the way your lips have twisted into a focussed frown.

This has happened countless times before — on all the other self-care nights, Atsumu finds himself in the four walls of your bathroom, free to admire you all he wants without the company of his friends and their teasing remarks. Though he’d never admit it, he prefers the quiet, because here, the both of you aren’t brushing off comments made about your relationship; here, it’s just you and him, pressed against the bathroom sink, worries left behind on the other side of the door.

Here, it’s so peaceful that Atsumu believes, for a few short moments, that everything will be okay.

“Don’t feel bad,” he says breathily, dreading the moment when you finish and he’s forced to pull away. “I like taking care of you.”

“You’re required to do it because we’re friends.”

“No, I like doing it,” he says again, ingraining the statement into your brain so it’ll stay there forever. “You don’t see me letting Bokuto or Hinata — hell, even Suna, stay over at my apartment and sleep in my bed.”

You pause your movements, eyes flickering to his. “What does that make me then?”

“Huh?”

“Bokuto, Hinata, and Suna are your friends, but you don’t pick them up from parties and let them say the night at your place.”

“Well, that’s cause I can’t be bothered most of the time, since they’re usually going to on-campus parties and my place is so far from—”

“But you picked me up a few nights ago,” you interrupt, and Atsumu is drawn to the determination in your irises more than he wants to admit. “And a couple weeks ago too, I think. You’ve been picking me up before I even moved in with Sakusa, and my old place was thirty minutes away.”

“What are you saying, Y/N?”

“What am I to you, Atsumu?”

He grips the countertop so tightly his knuckles are as white as the marble. His heart drums against his ribcage, so loud in the cavity of his chest that he wonders if you can hear it too.

“You’re my friend.”

“Like Bokuto? Or Hinata, or Su—?”

“No, of course not,” he scoffs. Comparing yourself to them is absurd. “It’s diff— you’re different.”

“Different how?”

Suddenly, everything feels stuffy. Tension floods the room until he’s neck-deep in it and drowning, all while you stare up at him, awaiting an answer.

“I—”

Someone knocks loudly on the door.

“Hey!” Bokuto. “Is someone in here?”

You don’t answer. The ball is in Atsumu’s court.

There’s an answer that lingers in his mind, one that he wants to give you despite the risk that it could destroy everything he’s ever known. But as his hesitation grows, the ring buoy that is Bokuto’s voice becomes more tempting — something to save him from this situation where he’s flailing in hope and what-ifs. Something to save him from your want and his dread and all the other sharp objects that could slice your friendship in two.

(Aren’t you the one who’s always saying he should be more responsible?

Doing this is the most responsible thing he could do, isn’t it?)

“We’ll be right out,” he responds, and just as he replies, you pull away from him in defeat.

Everything in his body tightens.

You turn to wash your hands. Through the mirror, he can see you blink rapidly and clench your jaw.

When he finally goes to exit, Bokuto stands impatiently on the other side. His eyebrows rise when he spots the hairband keeping Atsumu’s blond strands out of his face.

“That’s cute,” Bokuto coos, poking at the heart that sticks out from the material.

“Thanks,” Atsumu says, adjusting the band and letting his fingers brush against the plush heart. “It’s Y/N’s.”

The sun had set a long time ago.

In its absence is the moon, its light barely sufficient to lead you and Atsumu home — home being his apartment, but you’ve been there so much it might as well be your own. It’s alright, though, he thinks; your arm is interlinked with his, and that’s all he’ll ever need to guide him.

Your hips bump his as you both walk down the sidewalk, the air a melody of your laughs as he retells a childhood story about him and Osamu. You fail to refrain the teasing comments that fall from your lips about how he’s always been a troublemaker, long before you ever met him.

“You’re supposed to be on my side,” he’d said a couple minutes ago. “Since I’m your favourite and everything.”

You smile, and every time you do so, the more he believes that the bathroom incident has been forgotten.

But Atsumu’s not stupid. He senses your discomfort — it’s miniscule, but it’s there, and deep down he knows it’s all because of what happened last night.

Every Tuesday, you wait for his evening lecture to finish before you both walk back to his place to watch a movie. Some nights you leave before the clock strikes ten, most nights you stay over. It’s a routine that’s been implemented since he first met you, and never once has it ever felt tense.

Atsumu itches to fix it.

“Hey,” he pipes up, hoping to avoid any uncomfortable lulls in conversation. “You never told me how your date went.”

“My date?”

“Yeah. Bokuto says some guy from your Psychology class asked you out.”

“What?”

“At the party.”

You crinkle your nose in thought before a light bulb goes off in your head. “Are you talking about Kuroo?”

Atsumu’s eyes may as well bulge out of the sockets with how much they’ve widened. “Kuroo asked you out?”

“No,” you say quickly. “Well, yes. But he didn’t mean it. He only did it to get someone to stop bothering him.”

Atsumu frowns. “Then why did Bokuto say—?”

“Bokuto was drunk,” you snicker. “Plus, you know how much of a lightweight he is, and Hinata just kept on giving him drinks, so you can imagine how that went.”

“Not good, probably.”

“Nope,” you say. “Just imagine everything that could’ve gone wrong then double it.”

“Did he puke on Akaashi?”

“Yeah, and on Kuroo too.”

“See, that’s why I never let him stay the night.”

Your smile wavers and he pinches himself for saying anything in the first place.

“That’s probably the only good idea you’ve ever had,” you eventually say, but your voice is weaker than you intend it to be.

Atsumu can’t find the energy to argue.

He allows himself to be pulled down the street, your footsteps hasty compared to how he tries to drag his feet along the cement. Atsumu assumes you want to get this night over with, to spend only an hour — maybe two — with him before bidding goodbye, and the thought causes an ugly feeling to root itself into the pit of his stomach.

The wind whistles in warning. He should’ve expected something like this.

All good things come to an end is something he’s heard far too many times to count, but Atsumu is nothing if not an optimist, and even so, he never thought a saying such as that could ever apply to his friendship with you. Despite the hardships, the two of you have always pulled through.

But the clouds begin to drift over the moon, hindering its light, and his stomach churns at what’s to come.

Your voice, disguised as a remedy to soothe his unease, carries him forward. “Listen, I think I’ll head home after the movie.”

He blinks. “What?”

“I just want to sleep in my own bed tonight, y’know?”

“You can sleep in mine,” he suggests, his tone bordering on a plea. You always sleep in mine. “I can sleep on the couch.”

“It’s okay, Tsumu,” you reply. “You’re probably tired of seeing me all the time, anyway.”

“I’m not,” he insists.

You give him a tight smile in response.

Atsumu’s always believed he was good with words. His voice has failed him before, sure, and it’s not like it’s a secret that sometimes his carelessness lands him in undesirable situations, but he’s usually so quick on his feet. He knows what to say, and if he doesn’t, he can crank up the charm until everyone in the vicinity begins to suffocate on his charisma.

Miya Atsumu is rarely ever speechless.

But then you started acting different, and suddenly he couldn’t decipher your expressions or predict your every move. You would dance with him in the kitchen and tenderly apply skincare products on his face, but no matter how much he pulled you close, you would drift further away. You’d open up before brushing everything off as if he had nothing to worry about.

It's like you haven’t been paying attention at all. If it involved you, Atsumu would always worry.

The question slips out of his mouth too quickly for him to control. “Are you ever gonna tell me what’s wrong?”

“What?”

He stops walking, and as a result, so do you. “Something’s been bothering you,” he says hoarsely. “And I was waiting it out because I thought you’d tell me, but… I feel like you never will.”

You lick your lips — to stall, he thinks, but doing so only spares you a second. “Do you have any guesses?”

“Huh?”

“You’re not an idiot,” you sigh. “You must have some idea.”

(And, perhaps, maybe a small part of him does. You’re his best friend, and he is yours, and you each earned that title by knowing the other like the moon knows the stars, like the stars know the sky, like the sky knows the sun.

He knows, you know he does. But this is irresponsible. It threatens everything).

“I don’t,” he lies.

“Atsumu,” you exhale, as if he’s entangled in your system, “do you really need me to say it?”

He doesn’t answer. You continue, anyway.

Three words are whispered into the dead of night, and the world tilts on its axis.

This was never part of the routine.

“Maybe I should just go home,” you murmur when he doesn’t speak. His fingers twitch, screaming at him to reach out for you as soon as you pull away. “I’ll see you when I see you.”

“Y/N—”

“Just let me go,” you say — you beg. “Please.”

His body screams, his nerves flare, but the messenger between his spinal cord and his brain fails to relay the message that he should do everything in his power to prevent you from leaving.

“Okay,” he responds. His voice sounds like it hasn’t been in use for years, tainted with defeat.

You turn to leave, and for the first time since you’ve met him, Atsumu doesn’t follow.

Atsumu’s moody, he has been for a while, and it doesn’t take long for everyone to realize it’s because of you.

Or, more specifically, the absence of you.

You’ve been spending more time by yourself than you have been with anyone else, cooped up in the safety of your bedroom and listening to — according to Sakusa — music that ranges from soft, heartbroken ballads, to hardcore fuck-you anthems. The lack of your presence is strange; you’ve always been a constant in Atsumu’s life, and to live without it leaves a lingering emptiness in his chest.

He'll catch glimpses of you sometimes on campus, and he feels, what he assumes to be, the same emotion people feel when they claim they’ve spotted Bigfoot.

For a moment, everything feels a little more bearable.

But then you disappear, leaving sorrow in your wake, and reality washes over him like an ice-cold bucket of water.

His moping is how he ends up tagging along with Bokuto and Hinata at the fall festival, trailing after them like an upset puppy while they frolic down the streets, gawking at all the stands and taste-testing every snack they come across. The plan was to have them cheer him up, to make him smile even if it’s only for a second, because when Atsumu is upset, it becomes everyone else’s problem.

Hinata offers him some funnel cake and Atsumu absentmindedly murmurs about how it’s your favourite. They all buy friendship bracelets and Atsumu buys one for you too because he knows how much you’d want one. They all clamber onto the carousel and Atsumu wonders if you’d fall off if you rode the horse.

Bokuto and Hinata get tired of it all eventually.

“He’s hopeless,” Bokuto cries when they reunite with Suna and Osamu. “He won’t stop whining.”

Atsumu opts for standing on his toes to look over the crowd in hopes of finding you instead of replying to his friend. His eyes drift first to the ring toss, then to the man selling cotton candy, then to the spinning teacups.

Nothing.

Osamu says something that finally catches his brother’s attention. “Well, Y/N’s not coming,” he waves his phone in the air, which is open on his message thread with you. “Said they were busy.”

Hinata huffs. “They’re only saying that cause Tsumu’s here.”

Bokuto slaps his arm. “Shoyo!”

“What? It’s true!” he exclaims defensively. “You know how they’re always on top of their assignments, I doubt they’re doing anything but watching TV and—”

“Yeah, but still, don’t say that! Isn’t Tsum-Tsum heartbroken enough?”

“I am not heartbroken,” Atsumu snarls.

Suna gives him a look. “Well…”

“I’m not!” he flails, frantically gesturing to himself to show that he’s perfectly fine. “I mean, yeah, am I a little upset? Yes. But heartbroken? You guys are just saying anything at this point, like—”

Osamu interrupts him before he can continue rambling and digging himself into a bigger hole. “What did you even do, anyway?”

The Miya twins are notorious on campus for their bickering, but Atsumu thought that in this situation, at least his own brother would be on his side. “What makes you think this is all my fault?”

Osamu raises an eyebrow, mocking and patronizing. “Well, for one—”

“If anything,” Atsumu continues, hurriedly cutting him off, “I should be the one avoiding them. Not that I’d want to, I’d never want to, obviously, but if we were getting technical then they should be the one worrying about me and not the other way around.”

Hinata speaks, mouth full of the last of his funnel cake. “Who says they don’t worry about you?”

“I— wait, what?”

“They’re always asking me and Shoyo about how you’re doing,” Bokuto chirps. “How screwed up could things be that you won’t talk to each other?”

Atsumu inhales, and he feels the world begin to collapse into him. Unsure of what to say, unsure of what to think, unsure if it’s fair of him to reach for his phone and hope you’ll answer his calls. He knows why the two of you have found yourselves here, standing on opposite sides of a field of regret and hurt. He knows, that in his attempt to dodge change, he blew something up in the process.

Suna tilts his head in question. “Atsumu. What happened?”

Atsumu exhales. “They told me that—” the words lodge themselves in his throat, unwilling to leave.

But they all understand.

“Huh,” Suna hums. “Didn’t think they had it in them.”

“What did you reply with?” Osamu asks.

Atsumu prepares himself for their rage. “Nothing.”

He’s met with silence. Then, incredulously, Suna asks, “Are you stupid?”

Osamu answers for him. “Chronically so.”

Atsumu doesn’t have the heart to respond to the jab, and the severity of the situation significantly increases.

Hinata bites the inside of his cheek in thought. “I think he’s broken.”

Bokuto leans forward to study Atsumu’s expression as much as he can before the latter waves him off. With a frown, Bokuto steps back and looks around the grounds, hoping to find something that’ll cheer Atsumu up and make tonight not a complete bust.

A tent, flashy and sparkly and enchanting, lures him in.

Osamu looks like he’s about to say something, but before he can utter a word, Bokuto tugs on Atsumu’s sleeve and drags him to the tent, ignoring his protests. “I have an idea,” he says reassuringly, but it does nothing to calm his friend. “Trust me on this.”

Atsumu snatches his arm back and rubs it as if Bokuto’s harmed him. He cranes his neck around to look at the sign just outside the tent, and scowls at the pink and yellow doodles on the chalkboard.

“This is a psychic.”

Bokuto nods vigorously. “Yes.”

“Your idea of cheering me up is having me scammed?”

Bokuto pouts. “You love stuff like this.”

He’s not wrong. If it were any other day, this place would be Atsumu’s first stop. He’d be the one begging people to join him despite the fact that he knows the consequences involve a dent in his bank account, but today, predictions of his future are the last thing on his mind. Today, convincing people to get their fortune read is the least of his desires, because you aren’t trying to convince people with him.

There’s no point being here without you.

Atsumu moves to get out of line.

“Hey, dude,” Bokuto whines and holds onto his arm to keep him in place. “Just give it a try. It can’t hurt, can it?”

“Boku—”

“It’ll be fun!” he says cheerily. “Maybe it’ll give you some insight on how to apologize to Y/N.”

Atsumu wants nothing more than to move — to leave — but Bokuto mastered the art of the puppy dog eyes long before he could talk, and the moment he flashes them Atsumu realizes he has no other choice but to stay.

When he steps into the tent, the atmosphere changes.

He tugs on the sleeves of his windbreaker when the autumn air threatens to pierce his skin, and reluctantly sits down on the chair across from the psychic. She eyes his every move, trying to figure out what type of customer he might be — someone who’s just doing this for fun, or someone who’s going through a rough patch, or someone who needs a stranger to light the path they need to walk down.

Atsumu fidgets in his seat.

“You’re here for a reading?”

A shrug and feigned indifference are what she receives as an answer. “Sure.”

His mask of nonchalance begins to slip when the reading starts, growing restless as he checks the time on his watch and calculating the probability of you still being awake. He glances over his shoulder, praying to whichever deity who’ll listen that Bokuto will come in and drag him out once he’s realized that this is the last thing Atsumu wants.

You are not here, and his body stings whenever the reminder worms its way into his mind.

His uneasiness must amuse the psychic, because when he finally looks back at her, she’s grinning, knotting his stomach in worry.

She asks him a dreadful question, made of nuts and bolts and things that rub salt in the wound of his heart.

What is it that you desire most, boy?

Atsumu freezes, plastering a confused smile on his face. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m sure you know. Is it strength?”

Definitely not, Atsumu wants to say. He’s more than capable enough to lift heavy boxes, he doesn’t have to take multiple trips to move things from point A to point B, he doesn’t struggle carrying his friends’ slump and inebriated bodies into a bed.

Atsumu is strong. He’s proved it during his frequent trips to the gym and by winning arm-wrestling contests. He wears the trait like a badge of honour, a reminder.

He does not need any more physical strength.

He checks his watch and wonders if you’ve brushed your teeth and dragged yourself to bed.

The psychic pushes. “Power?”

Atsumu briefly shakes his head, a movement so miniscule it’s a surprise the woman catches it.

It used to be such a thrill, the popularity that came with his volleyball reign. He used to ride that horse and sit in that throne with pride, he let the excitement course through him and, for a while, let himself believe the squeals that came with victory was interchangeable with love.

But power does not compare. He was foolish to believe nothing could beat the rush that came with the admiration — the shouts of his name in the bleachers, the ever-growing follower count, the people confessing their infatuation whenever they caught him alone.

They do not know who he is underneath the volleyball uniform. They don’t know that he likes to go to the diner after games and order a strawberry milkshake, or that his bottom drawer is filled to the brim with spare clothes for you, or that his favourite nights are spent with you applying a face mask to his skin.

They will never know him as much as you do.

The psychic leans forward. “Love?”

Atsumu clenches his jaw. Yes, would be the short answer, but to say that without an explanation would mean to lie, and he’s never been a good liar. Because Atsumu’s always been loved — not by the crowds or the student body — but by his friends, his family, you.

You gave your heart to him, and he noticed too late that the bleeding organ resided in the palm of his hand, cracked and yearning and brave. And after he realized this, he selfishly craved for more, even though he knew it scared him. He has been in relationships before, but none of them crossed the threshold of what truly mattered — the intimate conversations, the dances in the kitchen at midnight, the confessions murmured under the duvet.

So, perhaps, yes, Atsumu desires love, but the one thing he supposes he wants more is courage.

The psychic smiles. “Ah. Bingo. So—”

“Miya.”

Atsumu whips his head around to find Sakusa standing at the entrance, skillfully ignoring the protests behind him to get in line and wait his turn. Sakusa raises an eyebrow at the situation Atsumu’s found himself in, but saves him from his judgement to state, “Bokuto told me you were in here.”

“Excuse me,” the woman chirps. “We’re in the middle of something.”

“If you think a scam is what’ll solve your problems, then you’re stupider than I thought,” Sakusa says.

Atsumu sighs. “You came here just to tell me that?”

“Well, yeah,” Sakusa shrugs. “There’s a simpler solution to all of this.”

“Okay, well—”

“Talk to them,” Sakusa interrupts, exhausted. “Before they give up.”

Atsumu kisses his teeth, changing his position in his chair so he’s fully facing Sakusa. “Since when were you the type to give advice?”

Sakusa ignores his retort with a shake of his head and a roll of his eyes.

“I have never seen you cower before, Miya,” Sakusa says, and the words are like needles on his skin. “Don’t let the first time you do so be now.”

Atsumu inhales shakily. “I don’t—”

“They got Hinge a few days ago,” Sakusa deadpans. Atsumu stiffens. “Don’t lose to some hack they found on a dating app.”

Atsumu looks from his friend to the clairvoyant before flashing her a sheepish smile and shooting clumsily out of his chair. The words that tumble from his mouth are barely coherent, and the last thing he hears before he exits the tent is Sakusa mumbling moron under his breath.

The journey from the festival to your apartment is a blur. He vaguely recalls running past his friends and returning their questioning shouts with a wave of his hand and getting angry at least two cars who cut him on the road, before he ends up in front of your door, nose tinged red from the cold.

His knocks are insistent.

“I’m coming, God, be patient,” he hears you say before you open the door to see him, and your annoyance is wiped away in seconds.

“Hi,” he says, out of breath from running up three flights of stairs after he got impatient waiting for the elevator. His eyes land on the blanket you’ve wrapped over your shoulders, and his lips quirk up at the familiar pattern. “Didn’t I get you that?”

You tug on the material defensively. “What are you doing here?” you ask. “And what the hell are you wearing? Did you not look at the weather before you left the house? It’s freezing outside, you idiot, you should be wearing a thicker jacket. And your face is so red! And your hands! They’re gonna get all dry if you don’t wear gloves! How many times do I have to tell you to dress for the weather otherwise you’ll get sick and…”

Atsumu rasps, “And?”

You gulp, taking a step back to distance yourself. “And you shouldn’t be here,” you say, sending a knife to his chest. “I thought you were at the festival.”

“That’s why you didn’t come,” he concludes. “Because I was there.”

“Well, what do you expect me to do?” you snap. “I told you I loved you and you looked at me like I was crazy.”

“I didn’t.”

“Whatever,” you bark. “My point still stands. You shouldn’t be here.”

He nods. “I know.”

“Then why are you?”

Eight letters are whispered into the darkness of the entryway, and the world is thrown off-balance.

“I love you,” he says, surprising himself with just how easy the words escape after he lets them, “and I’m so, so sorry.”

Your lips part in surprise. “What?”

“I love you,” he repeats. “And I should’ve told you sooner, but I— I was scared—”

“Then why are you telling me now?”

“I don’t know,” he whispers. “Love conquers all, I guess. My fear included.”

“You came all the way here to tell me that?”

He risks a step towards you and his heart flutters when you don’t move away. “I ran out of a psychic’s tent, too.”

“What?”

“I’ll tell you later,” he murmurs. “That’s not important right now.”

“It sounds pretty important, I mean, you mentioned it and everything.”

“It’s not.”

“What exactly is more important than that?”

“Your forgiveness, actually.”

You huff. “Believe it or not, forgiveness doesn’t come so easily, Atsumu.”

“Can I kiss you, then?” he questions innocently, placing a hand against your cheek. “Will you take that as an apology?”

You still, licking your lips as you try to maintain your defiant stance. “…That won’t work every time you make me mad, you know.”

He tries his best not to smirk. “Is that a yes?”

“I hate you.”

He lets his lips hover over yours, and he’s not sure if the loud heartbeat ringing in his ears is his or yours (or maybe a mixture of both). “Is that yes?” he asks again, searching your eyes for any signs of discomfort.

Your eyes flicker to his mouth and then you mumble, “Yes.”

Atsumu pinches himself before capturing his lips with yours, eager and desperate, to kiss you with enough pent-up want and need to cause you to stumble. He’s gentle in the way he cradles your face, as if the world has found itself in his hands, still beautiful despite how much he’s hurt it.

He’ll make up for hurting you later, but for now he’ll allow himself to be selfish.

I love you, he whispers into your mouth, and you capture the confession with your own and let it live in your beating heart.

I love you, he whispers into your neck as you both stumble into the kitchen, making sure to tattoo the words into your skin so you’ll never forget.

“I love you,” he whispers one last time as the blanket covers you both and he’s sure you’ve lulled to sleep with your ear against his chest and his thumb drawing hearts on your shoulder, “so, so much.”

Slumber takes over you both, blanketing your smiling figures with hope and love.

© fushisagi, 2023. do not translate or plagiarize my works.

---

shouto wakes up trapped underneath a collapsed building, only to find himself also trapped in your embrace.

warnings: both Shouto and reader are hurt pretty badly </3, blood, immediate threat of death lol?, description of a broken leg, mention of vomiting but it doesn’t happen and isn’t explicitly stated, this is cheesy and unedited

border by @cafekitsune :)

dedicated to andie if they happen to see it because I thought of them while writing my very first Shouto fic 💘

Whenever Shouto awakes, it’s to a pounding headache, intense pain throbbing along the right side of his body, flickering lights, and something soft holding him tightly.

Groggily, he opens his eyes, wincing as the flickering light blinds him for a second. There’s a steady drip drip drip of water falling onto concrete though it’s too dark to make out much of his surroundings as the light flickers off again. The last thing he remembers is coming to an office building, where a villain with an unknown quirk was holding people hostage. A teary sounding gasp makes him look upwards weakly, only now noticing he is laying down.

He sees your face for the first time then. Eyes puffy and red from crying, with a trail of blood dripping from your hairline and down your nose, past your lips to where it becomes smeared as you wipe it away hurriedly.

“You’re awake!”

Your voice is soft, and slightly trembling as you gaze at him with wide, wavering eyes. They’re very pretty, he thinks dazedly. Framed by wet lashes, he also thinks he could look into them forever. Shouto moves to shift only to have his vision flash as pain erupts like molten lava traveling down his side.

“D-don’t try to move! A beam fell on you before you passed out. You were barely able to get out from under it.”

Feeling woozy, Shouto has to close his eyes for a moment to keep the pain from escaping through his mouth. There’s a sickening crack, and he realizes he’s cradled in your arms whenever you whimper and pull him closer, so that his head is resting against your chest and you’re basically hovering over him. He hears rubble begin to hit to ground, and sees you flinch as some small bits of gravel bounce off your head and fall beside him. Your eyes are clenched shut, and a fresh line of blood runs down your face and drips onto his own. No rubble ever hits him.

He’s confused. Why is a civilian, a hurt one at that, putting their life at risk for a pro hero? He’s supposed to be protecting you, yet here you are shielding him with your soft body. He must make a noise, because suddenly you’re looking down at him again, eyes wide with concern, bravely holding back tears now that he is awake.

Softly, you move one of the hands you had cradling his head to wipe at the blood that has dripped onto his cheek. Apologizing quietly, you begin talking again, the almost whispers coming out of your mouth seemingly echoing through the space.

“Your walkie talkie still worked thankfully, for a little while. Deku is here, and so is Red Riot and Uravity. They should have us out of here in no time, so don’t worry ok! Dynamight is also here, but that’s more worrying than anything honestly.”

Shouto can’t help but laugh at your candor, wincing as it makes the pain throbbing through his body flash intensely. You pull him even closer in your lap, now petting his bangs soothingly. Your fingers are soft on his sweaty skin, and he almost purrs whenever you begin to trace the lines of his face in a mesmerizing manner. He doesn’t remember the last time he was comforted like this when he was hurt. Usually it’s himself alone in his untouched apartment, picking up the pieces and taping them back together. He can never quite get them to fit right.

“Are you hurt badly?” His gravely voice seems to surprise you, and quickly you shake your head. He sees you regret it instantly, as you wince harshly afterwards.

“Just my head, and my leg. But not nearly as bad as you are.”

Another crack shoots through the space, and you look up worryingly at the unsteady beams ominously hanging about you. Shouto can see them looming when the light flickers on again. He can also see you. You look a little rough, he’s not going to lie. But at this moment, he doesn’t think he’s seen anyone more beautiful. His own personal angel, sent to comfort him and protect him when he’s been hurt so badly he can’t move.

You make quiet conversation after that, trying to ignore the drips and the cracks. He learns that you’re an ordinary boring office worker, your words not his, but you like your job and your coworkers so it’s not that bad. You learn that Deku has been his best friend since their first year at U.A., and that friendship is still just as strong. He learns that you don’t particularly care for cold soba whenever he brings it up, which makes him look at you in mock horror. It’s funny, seeing the normally stoic hero make such an exaggerated face that you can’t help but giggle.

The conversation dies down after a sickening pop! is heard and suddenly sunlight blinds you both. Looking up, you see shocking red hair and sharp teeth grinning at you and feel relief course through your body. Shouto feels your body relax against his, though you don’t let go. Red Riot reaches for you, but you shake your head again.

“Take Shouto, take Shouto.”

As he is lifted from your arms and into his friends, he sees you smile at him tearfully and give him a little wave. He can see you fully now, and can also see how your leg is bent at such an unnatural angle it had to be agonizing for you, but he never once heard you complain. The last thing he sees before you’re out of sight is Bakugo lifting you into his arms, with a surprising gentleness, saying something that has you nodding before you rest your head on his bare shoulder, relieved tears flooding from your eyes.

A couple days later, as Shouto is scrolling aimlessly through his phone in his hospital bed, he sees a headline that makes him stop.

PRO HERO SHOUTO KEEPS CIVILIAN SAFE WHILE TRAPPED UNDER COLLAPSED BUILDING!

Thinking of your eyes, which so bravely stared into his own, he can’t help but disagree with the article. It was you who kept him safe.

---

━━ 𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐑 ;; 𝐁𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐆𝐎𝐔 𝐊𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐈

✧ cw :: gn!reader, angst + comfort (bc y'all asked nicely), reader cries a little :), it's a part two to this (please read first) !!

✧ a/n :: @ka0ila & @iam-thevillain-of-thisstory + the ppl asked for a pt two, so here it is !!

“you're late.”

you nearly jump at the voice, not expecting any sounds to come from the dark place, way too cold to call home. you only note the laziness of his words, and how deeply they come from him.

it's past his bedtime, and he's exhausted. the hurt part of you hates how deeply his mannerisms are engraved into your mind.

you walk towards the stairs, determined to make it to bed without sharing a singular word with him. it's then when you see his figure sitting right there, blocking your path.

“where were you?” the red of bakugou's eyes is tinted darker, more bloodshot as he looks at you. you hope your own aren't as red after having cried your soul out at mina's. you half wish you'd accepted her offer to crash there for the night, for you didn't know how exactly this night could go.

“away from you. isn't that what you wanted?”

the response nips at him and he remembers the words he'd spat at you. you watch how he plays with his hands, smoothing over the rough skin and the thought is almost hilarious— he looked nervous.

“i— i didn't mean it, y/n. any of it. i was angry— and i'm sorry.”

while you were burning in hurt and rage and bitterness and overwhelming sorrow as mina hugged you, you'd listened to your heart beg him for an apology. and now, after it being thrown out, it doesn't hold the same weight as you'd like.

“until when, bakugou?” he winces at the use of his last name— he was never ‘bakugou’ to you. “you're sorry until something goes wrong at work again? you're sorry until i ‘start yapping' again? until you can't stand to look at my face?”

while he can't look you in the eyes anymore, let alone answer you, you feel the lump in your throat solidify.

“move out of the way, bakugou. i need sleep.”

you climb up a step, and the only movement bakugou makes is to stand up.

“y/n, please. please— stay.” the fragility makes itself known in both your voices and you're too tired— your heart is too heavy to fight, to protest.

“ba— katsuki, i'm tired. you yank me about at your will, and i'm so tired. all i've done is stay— endure— and all it has gotten me is here.”

he inhales sharply at the sorrow in how you say his name and it shatters him to see just how hopeless you look— all because he can't keep his damn temper in check.

“i'm sorry. please, i'll— i'll do anything— just don't leave. i'll get help, i'll come home earlier— i'll listen. just, one more chance, please.”

moments pass and the tears well up looking at his face, the prettiest face you've ever laid your eyes on. it pricks at you, watching him ask so softly.

you're weak, and you're so helplessly in love with him.

“i only have one more chance in me to give.”

bakugou exhales, moving slowly toward you. it's when you feel his arms wrap around you for a hug, that you feel your muscles ease up for the first time in so long. your own arms wrap around him, hands grasping at the back of his shirt, and he clings onto you like his life depends on it.

the smell of him— of home— is what causes the tears to finally fall. his shirt catches them and you nuzzle more into him, the thought of letting go seeming unfathomable. you can't remember the last time he'd touched you, let alone held you so close, but you try and hold onto what it feels like. what being at home feels like.

katsuki shuts his eyes, keeping his tears in. as he whispers his apology, he swears to himself he'll never make you cry so much again.

it's the sound of his heartbeat that stops your tears and lulls you to peace, and the warmth seeps back into your home that allows your broken hearts to mend in silence.

✧ — thank you for reading !! rbs and feedback are greatly appreciated <3

---

☆– a.n; here's a lil piece for valentine's day, even tho it was yesterday <3

Your first kiss with Bakugou was nothing like you expected. You thought, because of his fiery personality, that it was going to be fireworks and heat and passion all over. 

How wrong you were.

Bakugou Katsuki was a massive bundle of nerves, completely clumsy even in his walk–and Jesus, seeing that big mass of muscles trip on his own feet each two or three steps in your walk home from your date, gave you several heart attacks thinking he might kiss the ground at any minute. 

You were not expecting this at all. He was so confident when it came to his job, to his friends, to any situation he was in. Except you. Least to say, it took him for-fucking-ever to ask you out, and when he did, he stumbled upon his words and instead of asking you dinner he asked you, "would you like t'go hungry wit' me?" It took you a minute to understand, he almost backed down due to the embarrassment. Obviously, you grabbed his arm, avoiding him to run away –or better said, explode himself away– and said yes. That night, at the door of your apartment, he tried to kiss you. He bumped his forehead with yours in the rush to get his face closer down to you. He apologized and left.

You remember thinking, that was all. He was not going to speak to you ever again, or at least until his embarrassment backed down a bit, which could be months. It surprised you to see him the next morning entering the little coffee shop you owned with a bucket of roses in his hand, cheeks cutely tinted pink and a funny scowl in his face, lips slightly pout.

You decided then that it was your turn to ask him on a date. Of course, he said yes. But this time, you decided to eat something at your apartment and watch movies. Something easy and comfy. No need to let the pressure of going outside invade him, considering who he is and what it means to be seeing outside on a date with the Number Two Pro Hero. You still didn't know how people hadn't already said something about your first date, when Bakugou took you to a very expensive and recognized restaurant.

After dinner, clearly prepared by him and shared in between cheeky jokes, laughs and innuendos, you were finishing washing the dishes while he dried them. It was that domestic kind of view, him smiling relaxed and amused, his big hero body taking a big portion of space in your small apartment kitchen, his hip resting on the counter, hands busy with his task, the lines at the corner of his eyes showing how happy he actually felt, it was all of him that made you realize…

It’s him.

Bakugou Katsuki is the one.

When he finished, he folded the cloth he was using to dry the last plate and placed it on the counter behind him, before he turned to you, the amusement of the last funny thing you said still printed on his face. “What?”

“I’m going to kiss you, Bakugou Katsuki, so don’t move.” You don’t want a repentance of last time and the bump he left on your forehead thanks to his nervousness.

He visually gulped and you chuckled, but still gave him time to assimilate your words, and your actions, so you moved slowly as if it was a scaredy cat you were dealing with. His breathing was loudly heard with each movement of yours and his hands grabbed the counter strongly like his life depended on that grip. He was serious now, concentrated even in not moving. And that was so cute, that even if he looked that desperate to get close to you, he also wanted to do as you said.

You stepped closer, hand coming to rest just above his heart, and his chest loosened. Katsuki let go of his anchor at the kitchen counter and slipped his hands around your waist immediately and tugged you against him, brushing your noses together. Choosing to dive into whatever ocean you were living as a siren in.

 “If you don’t want to…”

Oh, yeah. You were going to make him say it. Because he was Bakugou freaking Katsuki and you were on fucking cloud nine at the knowledge that he wanted you as much as you wanted him.

“If you don't kiss me right now…” he murmured, voice trembling, and you couldn't avoid the smirk that appeared on your face.

“Then what?” You whisper, your other arm surrounding his neck as your fingers interlace with the short hair at the back of his head, and he breathes out loud.

“Then I'll… I’ll have to do it myself.”

You looked up at him through your eyelashes, smiling one more time, before your lips finally pressed over his. This time softly, generously and carefully loving.

His arms around your waist tightened just as his heart beated fast and strong under your hand. A clear sign that he was as human as you. And he felt as deep into you as you to him.

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