Turn Me Like A Beast / Hold You To The Floor

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.

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.

---

to: tokyo. love, hyogo.

a/n: first time writing osamu in honor of my smol friend’s birthday ♡ thank you for prying open my colorblind eyes and being my go-to for advice. thank you for being a slandering tag team with me and always indulging me with your story times and going all mafia on mean coop jerks. i appreciate u more than u know and love u lots, aki :D <33

content: angst, fluff

word count: 15k+

[ osamu x reader ]

–––––

The whisper of a memory echoes through your mind when you read the painted sign above the doorway, hand shielding your eyes from the glint of the sun reflecting off the silver handles despite the wide awning and its generous shade above.

Your mind wasn’t tricking you when it caught sight of this name from across the street you rarely frequent; it remains the same name even as you stand directly below now and reread that sign again.

…I’ll meet you in Hyogo.

The same echo.

The same memory.

Keep reading

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🡦  minazuki mini series (COMPLETED) 🡦  F!reader x gojo satoru

genre. mild angst, action, psychological/thriller, mystery, romance, mature themes, enemies-to-lovers, very slow burn, arranged-marriage au (tokyo metropolitan arc to shibuya arc; canon compliant-ish). description. In which Y/N L/N is placed under a union she has no choice but to partake for the sake of her survival.

series warnings.  dark themes, very heavy manga spoilers, paranoia, future sexual themes/smut, violence, blood, heavy objectification of women,  mentions of rape, harassment, heavy themes on misogyny, child abuse, mentions of child destruction, heavy degradation, bride-market, breeding talks, compliance to abuse/harrasement/patriarchal system, false constructs on virginity, murder/man slaughter, blood, anti-hero!Y/N, mentions of suicide, self-harm, not beta-read. MINORS DNI (this story has a lot of questionable stuff)

Playlist + taglist is closed + main jjk masterlist + minazuki extras/omakes + Ao3 version

Keep reading

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One Last Chance.

Midoriya x F! Reader, Bakugou x F! Reader (partially/eventually)

WORD COUNT: 20.7k words

NOTE: Here is the ending to OLT. What do you all think? Please leave me some comments!!

If you guys would like to see side stories to this or have some questions, please send some asks! My inbox is always open. And if you have any other story ideas, please request as well.

TW: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, flashback scenes, hospital setting, mentions of prior and current injuries, death, talk about perceptions of death, mentions of suicide attempt/suicide, fluff, therapy, Bakugou has undergone therapy, childhood best friends, toxic friendships, unrequited love, happy ending, the voice leaves, a new voice appears (is personified), reader has a panic attack in a fancy restaurant, reader and Shoto are friends, Bakugou has genuine friends, the reader is loved, kind of ambiguous parts in the ending (must read first part to understand it), reader confronts Midoriya, reader kisses Bakugou

THIS STORY MUST BE READ WITH THE FIRST PART— IT IS NOT A STAND ALONE.

PART 1 / PART 2 (HERE)/IMPORTANT ASK

BAKUGOU OBSERVED your shaken figure as it faded into the distance, head hung low and fists clenched in agony. When you first pulled away from him and continued onward, your feet tapped lightly against every slab of concrete you trekked on, until after a few yards your brisk walk bursted into a hurried sprint. Nobody nor anything was spared a second glance as you fled from his presence.

Candidly, he couldn’t blame you. Bakugou had overstepped your boundaries and attempted to plow through the brick walls you had built around yourself for the sake of your welfare. He understood how you felt and how overwhelming such an invasion of privacy was, notably with his straightforward approach. Bakugou was notorious for diving headfirst into situations, but that didn’t mean it was invariably appropriate.

For instance, now.

Howbeit, he didn’t know what else to do. Bakugou may have gone through years of therapy and anger management courses (thanks to that spiky-haired idiot), but that didn’t mean he knew how to confront everyone about their personal endeavors.

Tackling his own issues differed from helping others address theirs. He had friends, family, and a therapist to talk him through his problems and conjure solutions with. Even his fellow colleagues wouldn’t mind lending a comforting shoulder for Bakugou to lean on; the people around him had read countless books on how to support loved ones who were struggling.

Bakugou had a support system that took years to discover, expand, and wholeheartedly trust. With thousands of hours of therapy under his belt, he was blessed with tools to aid him in the gloomiest and sunniest of days, with or without his therapist by his side.

In comparison, you were not armed with the same lessons and techniques as he was.

Not yet, at least.

Bakugou wanted to change that.

For all of his years of friendship with you, he analyzed your growth and development as a person: how you went from an adorable and frivolous child who was insouciant to the prying eyes of others into a beauteous, percipient young lady who shied away from any unforgiving glares. He remembered how decades ago you, him, and Deku would tussle around in your childhood playground’s decrepit sandbox playing Heroes.

Bakugou had invented the game when you and Deku had been laying against one of the thick blue poles that held up a patent yellow slide incised by impetuous teenagers that lurked around the park at the perturbing time of midnight. To his dismay, despite being in front of you both, none of you batted an eyelash at him. He wasn’t even aware of what you two were discussing, but all he cognized was that the ongoing chatter between you and the freckled nerd was irritating him and he wanted your attention instanter.

Looking back, Bakugou could admit that it was an impulsive suggestion and injudicious decision. In contrast to what any other sensible child or person would have done, as soon as the words ‘Let’s play heroes, Deku and (Name)!’ escaped Bakugou’s lips, the green-haired idiot accepted the request instantly, so eager to please Katsuki. On the other hand, you simply watched in silence as Bakugou beamed in pride with his hands on his hips and Deku enthusiastically pumped his arms in the air, jumping and squealing in both anticipation and delight.

Years after, Bakugou eventually understood why you sat quietly that day and made no move to even consider rejecting the idea. Exactly like Midoriya, you shadowed Bakugou’s footsteps and obliged to his every whim. Yet, unlike Deku, you didn’t quite concur with his exclamations even inside your head and heart. Cleverly, you chose to keep your mouth shut and follow in step because it caused you less trouble than if you voiced your opinion.

That didn’t exactly mean you always emulated that similar action and thought process. There were at times you spoke against Bakugou when you knew you would be reprimanded the least or experience little to no consequences.

Bakugou couldn’t deny that he didn’t enjoy those quirks of yours: your fight, your spunk— your tactical and logical thinking. They all were your qualities that Bakugou internally commended you for.

As children, whenever you three played Heroes, Bakugou forced you to take the role of the damsel in distress. Due to your bestowed position as a distressed maiden, the ash blond referred to you as “Princess” often, both during and outside the game. With every fictional mission the two boys conjured, they intended to save you from villains (which happened to be figurines of heroes with a small piece of dark cloth draped over it).

When Bakugou wanted to impress you (and spite the green-haired bastard), after he and the nerd rescued you, he would hoist you off your feet and carry you bridal style, your head tucked into the crook of his neck. Boastfully and vaingloriously, he would exclaim to the other boy with a smug grin, “This is how a real princess should be treated, Deku!”

The young boy would stare in awe, analyzing how Bakugou kept a firm grip on you and refused to let you take a step on your own, despite your occasional protests.

And the times when a small giggle would be heard near Katsuki’s chest, widened vermillion eyes would snap to your face and watch as you grinned up at him, eyes sparkling, glowing, and filled with adoration. Your ridiculously sweet and unfaltering smile never failed to make his chest puff out in pride, cheeks warm in fluster, and heart pound faster.

Katsuki craved to see that expression on your face again.

He yearned to be the one who flipped your entire world upside down and set you anew. Like a festering disease, that ardent desire plagued his heart. It urged Bakugou to be the hero in your life and pillar of strength- the one you were able to lean on for stability when your walls of welfare began to crumble and crash.

When you were merely arm’s reach away, at times in that freckled-dork’s arms, an unremitting voice rung remorselessly in his ears, imploring for him to pull you into his chest and conceal you from the world, to cradle your supple face between his callused palms and tenderly stroke your cheek in hopes his actions could describe an ounce of his perennial love for you. The vexatious voice begged Bakugou to press his lips against yours to convey all the unspoken emotions he could not fathom formulating into lucid and complete sentences.

Katsuki wanted all of the pieces of you: brain, body, and soul.

In bed, during the hours of dusk until dawn, Bakugou’s mind conjured vivid imaginations of a domestic life with you. In many of the scenarios, Katsuki would already be at home in the spacious kitchen, preparing dinner for you both before you returned after a strenuous day at work. Whatever meal he was cooking didn’t matter; you would love his cooking anyway.

He would be so absorbed with cooking that he wouldn’t hear the sound of the door lock clicking open, or the rustling of your clothes as you stripped off your coat. Your lethargic steps would fall on deaf ears as you snuck behind Katsuki, the corner of your lips curling in satisfaction and glee at the aromatic fragrance wafting throughout the house and at the sight of him cooking, no less in the apron you had gifted him for Christmas at the start of his hero career. The apron was black and had the words “THE BOMB” splayed across his chest in thick, white cursive.

Without hesitation, you would pounce onto Bakugou and smush your face into his back, wrapping your arms around his waist. He would quietly hum as you sighed and relaxed into his cozy warmth, mumbling a word of greeting.

After, small bits of chatter would be exchanged between you two until your voices died down and a comforting silence would permeate your shared home.

Eventually, when Bakugou would feel your eyelashes flutter shut as you fruitlessly essayed to stay awake and on your toes, he would lightly smack the top of your head with a wooden spoon and chide you to get your oil-stained arms off his apron and shower before he finished dinner.

The dopey grin that would spread across your adorable face would leave butterflies flittering in his stomach and blood rushing to the tips of his ears. When you noticed his bashful expression, you would raise your calves and wrap your arms around Bakugou’s neck to press a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth, before escaping his clutches as he processed your actions.

Irritatingly, he would wave a wooden spoon in the air menacingly at your retreating figure, screaming, “You shitty woman, if you’re going to kiss me, do it properly!”

Katsuki Bakugou was a selfish man; he knew that just as well as anybody else. All of his life, he took everything he could and prospered with whatever resources he had. Everything he did was done in his favor, to his advantage. The cost of his actions and behavior was never significant to him. Even presently, as a hero, he didn‘t bat an eye to his brash language on television or crass attitude. He never spared a second thought about what he did or was going to do.

Until now, when your life, your fate, was placed directly into the palm of his destructive, blood-shedding hands.

If he pursued the direction of which you ran and found you, what would happen to the two of you? To him? To you?

What were the rewards and the risks? Would possibly risking your life be worth it? If push came to shove and you threatened your life, could he save you?

His quirk wasn’t built for the typical rescue training; Bakugou was trained to ward off villains and allow the official rescue heroes do their work. He could handle the battle— the blood, the deafening blasts and shards of glass and slabs of concrete that would fly at him, the blazing ache in his muscles, the adrenaline from fighting and the reality of his eventual, impeding death.

Yet, he wasn’t created to dive into the murky and freezing cold water of the ocean and pull civilians from the bottom. Bakugou Katsuki, Dynamight, wasn’t the one who was meant to lift fissured buildings off of civilians to allow them to escape.

Of course, Bakugou could blow things up. Though, was it really the smartest for him to possibly detonate an already ticking time bomb?

Perhaps, he wasn’t the man for this rescue. But there was somebody else who he knew was.

Bakugou whipped out his phone, scrolling past hundreds of unobtrusive contacts, most lacking a personalized profile picture. Swipe after swipe, blurs of gray passed his vision before his eyes caught the name of a man he would never willingly speak to, not even for work.

You were an exception.

Always and forever.

Tapping the telephone icon with hasty fingers, Katsuki lifted the device up to his ear and began to trace your footsteps.

In his wildest dreams, never did he picture himself dialing one of his biggest rivals over a girl he loved for decades— over a girl they loved for decades— since as long as he could remember.

A confused voice answered on the other end. “Kacchan?”

“Deku,” Bakugou sighed, teeth gritting and fists clenched.

Hopefully, the world would reward him for not being selfish this once.

“I need your damn help.”

For the first time.

Contrary to popular belief, there were countless disparate ideas and thoughts of what death was like. For numerous individuals, it was foreseen as a riveting and transfixing experience. On the other hand, many voiced death to be an ongoing horror that terrorized them in the back of their minds. The twisted thoughts would trickle past the cracks of the mind, seeping into the limelight of their thoughts.

Certainly, there were opinions that fell between the lines and even strayed far from the common and classic perceptions of such an inevitable fate all would face.

Though, you had a rather specific conclusion about death.

Your declaration was that it was quite dull; banal even, considering everything to your vision (more so lack of it) was pitch black, akin to as if you had your eyelids shut— just permanently.

To be fair, you were dead. What did you expect? No one wanted to see the eyes of a rotting corpse, so it made sense that they would shut them.

You prayed your body was being prepared for your funeral. If they even found it, deep down below the surface of the ocean’s beguiling, glossy droplets of liquid transparency that lured innocent strangers to explore what was another’s liquid death.

Your death would also explain why you were frozen like a corpse. Your mouth remained clamp shut, your limbs stayed in place no matter how much you fruitlessly shrieked at your brain to move the lifeless limbs, and every inch of your body felt stone cold despite that if you were alive, warm blood would be flowing through your veins to keep you functioning.

However, there was one minor issue that made you question your predicament and if you were truly dead— you could still hear. What you were able to hear in the oblivion of black that surrounded you was debatable, but it vaguely reminded you of muffled chatter, similar to if cotton stuffed your ears.

Perhaps, if you focused enough you could distinguish the words, possibly even the syllables in hopes of discovering whether or not you had truly met death face-to-face.

All you had to do was listen- stay silent. Just like a dead person. You were dead. You could do just that with ease.

So, you let your conscious fade into the abyss of surrounding black, let the hold you had on the remnants of your soul slide lower and lower, the tight grip of your finger slipping so only the tips of them could reach the sole part of you that held you inside your body— your prison. You let the comfort of your humanity rest and the blaring silence of death deafen your ears.

Unexpectedly, the small, high-pitched voice of a child is what you hear first whose words die at the end of their sentence.

“If you need help, you can just ask for it.”

You want to ask who they are and what they’re talking about, and you try— you pull your dangling humanity closer and repeat the questions like a mantra until you’re screaming them, but they never exit your throat.

When your soul slips from your fingers again, the child remains quiet. Light footsteps begin to echo in the abyss of darkness, faintly reminding you of the days you used to spend in your room listening to rain splattering against your window, the atoms of hydrogen and oxygen splitting as they made contact with the clear surface.

This all seems like a sick, cruel joke from the universe.

Was this the voice messing with you?

Was the voice that haunted you still here with you, even in the after life?

But it didn’t sound the same.

That ominous voice in your head was your own voice. It had the exact same pitch, the same quirky pronunciations you had, even down to the accent. Possibly at first, it had been the voice of others and the words that were spat at you were theirs.

To begin, they were theirs; their crude thoughts, their deleterious words, their abhorrent statements and opinions.

Not yours, not at all.

Those noxious words laced with the deadliest of poisonous toxins gradually infiltrated your mind, the traces of their presence faint. As time passed, the once small stains became vast and covered the expanse of your once kind thoughts, turning each present one bitterer from the last. Once upon a time, the voice in your head was the voice of others.

Until it became yours.

In contrast, the speaker in the pit of eternal darkness had a voice of a naive young girl whose heart was just as pure and innocent as it was when the day she was born. It was filled with glee and utmost care, one that most lost to their greed for coin and success. Genuine people— those who constantly gave back and assisted others out of the goodness of their heart had long gone extinct, or were an endangered species. Those who got ahold of these rare beings either sunk their canines into their flesh for a finishing blow or kept them safe under their thumb, a primordial part of them vocalizing their need to keep someone so precious in the safety of their arms.

The girl moved closer to you.

“The attempt to escape pain is what creates more pain. At least, that’s what my parents tell me.”

That voice . . . It was once yours. The little girl who was speaking to you was you, or the shell of who you once were.

Although the memories of your childhood had lost their precision of detail overtime and existence as the years trudged by, you had always considered them the apex of the years you spent alive. The naivety of being a child and the blanket of being sheltered protected you from the corruption of the real world was a sensation you missed dearly.

“Instead of trying to avoid your troubles and problems, they say to resolve them so nobody gets hurt anymore!”

Your recollection of this particular encounter as a child was not the most prominent, as the once vivid and animated details of that day slowly evanesced from your brain with time.

The interaction had occurred nearly two decades ago in the commonly favored season of saccharine spring in Japan, when the sun’s rays gently kissed your skin and the soft gusts of wind weaved through your hair and brushed it back. You were there solely because the mothers in the city of Musutafu always met up during the spring to gossip about their husbands and children and revel in the scenery of blossoming Sakura flowers that swayed gingerly in the wind from their delicate stems that connected to the branches.

It hadn’t been the first time your mother had dragged you to an event like this with the enticing promise that you would be able to make new friends; that had been the deal-breaker for you. Hence, it had led you to the park funded by the richest of the local heroes and civilians.

The place could only be described in one word: perfect. Gossip from the mothers of the town declared it was kept in pristine condition by countless gardeners who would sweat over every blade of grass they sliced. The shrubbery was luscious, vibrant, and full of life. One would say it was just as youthful as the children that roamed every acre of the greenery.

The mothers had stationed themself near the entrance of the park, where the benches that were bolted into the ground to set down the dishes, snacks, and desserts they brought for everyone to snack on. Further in was the actual playground, which contained the children of the many attending mothers.

After kindly asking your mother for permission to go to the playground by yourself, you waltzed your way over.

That was where the interaction began.

You weren’t sure how you even noticed this peculiar person— nothing about them stood out. Not their hair, not their eyes, not their face.

Absolutely nothing differentiated from the rest.

That much you remembered.

Maybe it was a stroke of luck that brought you to them, that fate decided to pull your strings together and wrap a knot around you both for a moment.

They had been sobbing uncontrollably, their arms hugging their knees and small hiccups of desperate gulps of fresh air had reached your unsuspecting ears.

It was odd how out of all the children there, you were the only one who could hear their muffled cries of pain.

The background, your surroundings, the calls of the other children to return to their side as they watched you step towards the outcast was all a haze to you. You couldn’t recognize or process anything other than the child that sat alone in tears.

It was a complete blur from there.

“Forever doesn’t exist, that’s why you should apologize before it’s too late!”

Why am I remembering this now?

Tears fell that day.

When have they not?

Unspoken words lingered in the air, thick and heavy on your tongue.

How many days have been like that? How many days have I lived like them?

Your mind answers for itself.

In the past, you had labeled them minor inconveniences. They didn’t matter to you.

They were minor inconveniences, you tried to convince yourself like so many times before.

Were the tears you shed over so many lost ones just minor?

Would you just toss them away?

Would you belittle the memories of one of your former closest elementary friends, years of friendship washed away in the downpour due to a nasty little rumor spread about you? Erase the little drawings and cards they made for you, each one describing how you would be by each other’s side forever?

Would you forget about the best friend that got away, the one that was forced to move away at the end of your primary years? The walk around the field, the stories you both wrote together, the secrets you entrusted with one another— were you going to toss that all away?

Would you forget about the one who you worked vigorously to build a friendship with when everyone was forced to split ways in junior high? Did you really think so little of the late night conversations, the occasional but rather spontaneous (and sometimes one-sided) heart-to-hearts, the long hours spent chatting away, learning about a love that stemmed deeper than the plants whose roots dipped beneath the soil under your feet? What about when they had chosen to push you out of their lives— manipulating you to keep you attached?

Would you be willing to forget when the empire you had fought endlessly to build and protect collapsed on you after quakes so powerful the once granite walls fissured and crumbled right above your head when you were at your weakest?

Would the scars that remained from the knives that were stabbed into your back, your chest, your heart, finally heal? Would the nasty and discolored marks fade from your skin like water slipping down a drain?

Would you forget about your family? The ones who raised you, who were by your side, near your side, even when it felt like they were miles away?

Would you forget about those who loved you unconditionally— for every one of your flaws, mistakes, and imperfections? The loyal ones who stood close enough to catch you if you fell, even when you didn’t deserve it. Even when you took them for granted.

What about Izuku and Katsuki? The ones that at one point in your life or another, meant the world to you?

Could you erase the memory of Katsuki’s passionate carmine eyes, irises the colors of the ripest of strawberries in the patch, filled with unspoken emotions that only the most observant and attentive of people could detect? The number of fingers on your hands could not come close to totaling the indefinite amount of days you spent staring into his eyes, (e/c) piercing through the thin panes of glass behind his eyes that sheltered his heart and soul, learning lessons that words could not formulate, that he would never dare let leave his mouth.

Would those minuscule yet intimate moments with the blond escape you at last?

Ironically, your calmest and most content moments resided with the boy from your childhood who always claimed one day he would be the greatest hero in the world. These tranquil times didn’t stem from your days as kids in primary school or pre-teens in middle school, but rather when you both were studying at UA.

Unbeknownst to Midoriya and nearly the entirety of Class A, Bakugou would constantly sneak you into his room late at night when neither of you could sleep or only wanted to bask in the the other’s presence. He always grumbled and complained about the unruly times you chose to sneak out of your room and how dangerous it was for you to risk injuring yourself just to see him, but every time you countered his argument with a simple smile and a “I missed you” before proceeding to hug him tightly.

The first few times you told Bakugou this, audible explosions began to crackle from his palms and immediately he shoved you off of him (after wiping his sweaty hands on his pants) and barked curses at you. Eventually, he welcomed you silently with open arms.

During those quiet nights, you both would lay on his bed, limbs intertwined. At first, you and Katsuki sat at a distance, until he began to lay down on his bed and hissed at you to follow suit. Then, you made the first move to cuddle Bakugou after he called you over because of a nightmare— the rest was history from there.

Brushing fingertips was your first taste of intimacy with Bakugou, until he gained the courage to hold your hand. Afterwards came the long hugs. Then, those hugs transformed into Bakugou pulling your head to rest on his bicep. Next came intertwined legs and gentle caresses. And the cherry on top was when his walls finally came down and he allowed you to be his rock, the shoulder he cried on when his studies and hero work caught up to him and left him doubled over in hopelessness, desperate to put himself back together.

But what about Izuku?

What about the boy you spent practically every year of your life with, the man that plagued your mind in the early hours of dawn and the late hours of dusk?

Were you ready to remove him forever? Were you truly ready to give up on the one you loved fearlessly for all those years, even in the face of adversity?

For ages, Midoriya was your beacon of hope. When the world felt like it was caving in, when you shoved everyone out and suffered in solitude, he stood unwavering and unrelenting to listen to your command; he defied your expectations and exceeded them.

Though, good things cannot survive for eternities.

At one point Izuku Midoriya, the one who claimed your heart long ago, slowly began to fade right in front of your eyes. He prioritized his work— he made saving others the reason why he breathed.

When that realization dawned upon you and you understood that he would never fawn at you the same way you did with him, you drowned yourself.

It felt like death.

You didn’t want to think about this anymore.

I want the pain to finally end.

It was pointless to clutch onto the minuscule semblance of mortality you had left before you completely rested in the grave. If you accepted the hand the reaper held out to you, sleep would be eternal.

That’s what I always wanted, right? So take it. It’s not like I ever had anything to lose. Whatever I once owned will never be mine again.

Succumbing was always easy. Succumbing to desires always rewarded you, albeit only temporarily. It was simpler that way— to fall under the umbrella of constantly accepting demands.

“Let go.”

You did; you drank every night until you were blackout drunk.

“Hide.”

You did. You pushed everyone away and isolated yourself.

“Suffer.”

You did. You never sought out help when your thoughts became too grim and dreary to bare alone.

“End it.”

You did. You jumped off the cliff and into the ocean.

“Accept it.”

Slowly, you were.

Slowly, you let your thoughts disintegrate into the dark, emptying your mind of coherency. Of rationality, of humanity.

That lifeless feeling of iciness within you traveled across the expanse of your body until you wholeheartedly believed you had always been a glacier of ice and not once a living being.

Like a sinking boulder, you slipped from consciousness to never resurface.

And like a gentle kiss, a speck of warmth formed on your skin before disappearing.

“Please don’t leave me, (Name). I love you.”

“Don’t do that again, idiot.”

The voice is warm like apple cider on a winter day, mixed with a twinge of sweet, sugary cinnamon that permeates the expanse of your tongue. It feels so welcoming, so safe despite the harshness lingering in the undertones of the voice— akin to if a thick and heavy spoonful of honey coated your tongue like syrup flowing off a stack of fluffy and golden-brown pancakes. You craved to have the sugary sap reach the back of your mouth and slide down your throat before it saturated your system with the sticky sweetness.

A tepid and sweaty hand enveloped yours, coarse callouses sheltering the dry and peeling skin of your knuckles from the bitter cold breeze blown from the air conditioning.

More words fall deaf on your ears as the strings of consciousness tie themselves back together in effort to push you out of your drowning slumber. The soothing and homely voice continues to repeat broken and fractured phrases that you try to reach, pushing yourself out of the sinister hold of the tendrils.

Enraged by your defiant behavior, the obsidian tentacles wrap themselves around the tied strings and tug harshly in an attempt to tear you apart, to send you back to where the worst of your melancholy and despondent thoughts resided.

“Come back, don’t leave me here!” the voice cried. “You and I, we’re both the same. Wherever I go, you come with. We are one.”

Were you the same as that evil voice that had plagued your mind like a virus, worming its way into your bloodstream in hopes of controlling your body and fatally killing you?

Would you ever do that to someone?

You’d like to think not.

“You better not leave me behind. You need to be there when I become number one.”

There was that familiar voice again— it was so warm. It felt like hugging a toasty bag of freshly baked bread in the chilly morning, or sitting down on your couch with a steaming cup of hot cocoa on a rainy day, slowly sipping at the aromatic and creamy chocolate that made your stomach squeal in pleasure and delight.

You craved to feel like this forever.

With the threat of betrayal, the tendrils furiously tightened their bruising grip on your limbs, unwilling to part ways with you.

“I was there for you when nobody ever was! I stuck by your side when you isolated yourself and had nobody— when everyone ignored you!” the voice reminded you, enraged by your defiance.

Why couldn’t you just submit to it?

But weren’t you the one that caused it? If it wasn’t for you, would I really be here now?

The idea is a sudden one that sends you reeling, heart pumping and sweat beading at the top of your head. The once cozy heat that flooded your body boils, burning hotter than the fiery and explosive stars above. An audible sizzling sound can be heard where the tendrils meet your skin.

“You better fight back, damn nerd. Everyone’s been waiting for you out here— they dropped everything to come see you.”

Everyone? Your classmates and friends?

But weren’t they the ones who knew of your suffering and still refused to extend a helping hand to you?

“They all come and go, you know that. Why would you go back to them? Don’t go back on the promise you made. Just for Midoriya, remember?”

Promise? Midoriya?

Your mind was too muddled to comprehend the voice’s words.

“That dumb Deku is here too. He’s worried sick about you, wouldn’t stop blubbering like an idiot the minute he saw me.”

The sight of emerald eyes filled with tears flashes through the darkness of your mind, a blur of a murky white, lifeless black, and a faded green.

You should react— you should feel something. Anything.

But you don’t.

The imagery fades as fast as it arrives, leaving you to reside with the black of your mind. There’s no fluttering of butterflies or red rose petals swirling in the air out of the corner of your eyes. The thought of Midoriya doesn’t warm you further— it only leaves you colder than before.

In the pit of death, it’s just you and the last of your humanity.

“He never liked you anyway. You never mattered. You knew that, didn’t you?”

A meek part of you wants to disagree, argue that he had to have appreciated you at least in the slightest to have stuck around you for as long as he did. But the majority of you solemnly nods in agreement, aware of the countless times where you blindly reached out to Izuku Midoriya.

He simply tolerated you because you constantly suffocated him with your presence. Midoriya never had a mean bone in his body, he would never speak up if someone was a nuisance to him.

“Yes!” the voice hissed, delighted. Slowly but surely, you were falling prey to its hold; to the negativity it had spread wide throughout your mind.

It was only a matter of time before you succumbed.

“Wake up, (Name). Please.”

It isn’t worth it, is it?

“I know I haven’t been the best, but I’ll make it up to you. Promise. Just please, please don’t leave me.”

The warm voice cracks, its words quivering, and there’s a shaky intake of breath. It sounds pained.

“You caused that pain.”

You did, didn’t you?

“Just let it all go,” the voice sung. “Come with me and it’ll all go away. Everyone will be okay. You will be okay.”

You should.

You know you should.

You know you should finally let go. You’d lost everything. You’d lost your life and were trapped in this bottomless pit of black.

If you just let go, you could be free.

“Then do it. Stop listening. Ignore it all. Let me take over.”

There’s words that are being spoken to you from the voice beside you, some louder and intenser than the last, but you block them out. You ignore and let the ferocious tendrils wrap around you and pull you down.

The thin string that holds you together snaps.

And finally, finally, it all stops. The noise, the voices, the thoughts, the feelings, the aches and pains.

At last, it’s all over, you tell yourself.

But do you really believe it?

You would never know.

You don’t think you’ve seen this many people crowded into a single hospital room.

For you, no less.

All of the former Class A students from your years in high school have flooded your room, some of them even stuck in the doorway. From Grape Juice to Creati, the space is absolutely cramped.

Beside your bed are mountain-high piles of gifts and letters from your friends as well as others who could not attend in time for the visiting hours. Without a doubt, some of those presents contained articles of lavish and luxurious gifts you could only afford in the wildest of your dreams if you had the money of a top pro-hero. (Money that these heroes had, considering some had been born into wealthy families while others had become filthy rich after making bold headlines as heroes in the media.)

Not to mention, all their attention had been focused entirely on you since the moment you awoke.

Uraraka had been the first to pounce on you, spewing words that flew past her mouth with such vigor and rush that you could not keep up. Like a koala, she clung to you— arms wrapped around your neck in a vice and warm grip as she sobbed uncontrollably into your shoulder. Tsuyu had pried her off apologetically, but you merely continued to stare in a daze, the countless medications that they had pumped through your blood still in effect.

One by one, each visitor came up to your bedside and sat down beside you to speak while the others watched. Each interaction differed from the last.

Mina had buried your head into the crook of her necks as she brokenly whispered words of endearment and utmost adoration into your ear, rubbing your back softly as salty tears spilled from her eyes and onto the pillow behind you. Eventually, Mina clasped your face between her hands and grinned through tears at the sight of your face between her hands, further cementing the fact that you were alive and still with her.

After a couple more shared moments with some of the others, Todoroki had stepped up to you with an indecipherable expression painted onto his features before sitting down and opening his arms in a silent offer of a hug. You lifted yourself up and leaned into his hold and he held you delicately like glass, murmuring a gentle “I’m so sorry” and “Thank you for not leaving us.”

Once Todoroki left your side, Momo immediately took his place and buried your head into her chest. At that point, your eyes had begun to sting in response to the endless tears your friends had shed and you were sure they were just as red as Momo’s bloodshot ones.

After Yaomomo came Eijiro Kirishima, your personal golden retriever.

He had lunged at you, scooping you into his arms. Squeezing you tightly, Kirishima could not help but sob into the crook of your neck, shaking while doing so. Apologetic words were whispered brokenly, his voice cracking and changing pitch every syllable.

For someone so sturdy, so stable, you never thought the unbreakable Red Riot could crumble quite so easily.

At the hands of your own, no less.

Finally, the tears began to flow from your eyes, overpowering the dam that stubbornly refused to budge whenever it splintered. Wrapping your arms around Kirishima’s back, you clutch on for dear life, crying into his shoulder.

You almost died.

You did die.

The horror of your situation finally settles.

Your behavior and actions, it really did matter. It affected others, not only yourself. If these people were barely holding it together from seeing you now, alive and safe in a hospital, how would they have reacted if you did indeed die?

If the voice had truly beaten the odds, what would have happened to those around you?

You’re glad, you conclude, that you’ll never know and they’ll never really experience it either.

Death may conclude your story, but it doesn’t end theirs. You just close the book of their life and stop reading their story.

Glancing up from Kirishima’s quivering shoulders, you inspect the body language of everyone there. Some are hunched over, hands clasped over their mouths with tears staining their face. Others comfort each other, tenderly rubbing their backs.

However, there’s one person in particular that catches your eye.

He broods alone in the back, carmine eyes staring daggers into the ground. Dressed in his infamous black skull t-shirt and black sweatpants, his ash-blond hair stands out like a sore thumb.

You know that hunched figure like the back of your hand, even despite his immense growth over the years.

“Bakugou?”

It’s a quiet croak, a frightened whisper. But like the hawk he is, his head whips up, eyes widened in surprise.

And it is then, you see the true damage you’ve caused.

The rims of his eyes are a soft red, like the powdery light red of blush. Below his eyelashes lay streaks of fallen tears, their traces as evident as a bear’s footprints in still snow. His eyebrows are pulled together, wrinkling the space between his glassy eyes. It’s uncanny seeing Bakugou showing an emotion besides anger or neutrality, especially one akin to despair.

You’ve never seen such a hopeless expression visible on his face before.

You’re a monster.

For doing that to someone like him, you know you are.

Kirishima raises his head up and gives a small grin, glancing back at his companion. “Bakugou’s been here since you arrived at the hospital. He was the first person to contact us all about . . . this.”

You wince, pursing your lips at his not-so-subtle tiptoeing around your attempt. He means no harm, but the sting is just as intense at the reminder of your breakdown.

He moves off you and motions Katsuki to move towards your side, patting the blond on the back as he trudged over.

His steps are hesitant and slow— like a zookeeper approaching a wounded, rabid animal. Vermillion eyes inspect the tears that cling onto your eyelashes, the trembling at the corner of your lips, and the shallow intakes and exhales of breath from your throat.

The air between you is thick, but no matter how tense, you open your arms for Bakugou, staring at him teary eyed. He hovers above you, unsure of closing the distance between you both.

“Please?” Your arms tremble mid-air, and the tears on your face stream down faster. You don’t look decent— no one would look their best in such a weak, raw, and vulnerable moment, but you don’t care.

You don’t care because you know surviving is worth so much more than a presentable exterior.

Bakugou swallows thickly before moving into your embrace. His warmth contrasts the iciness in your bones and brings the blood rushing to the rest of your body. Your heart pounds rapidly and your lungs expand further and further, desperate to inhale all of Bakugou Katsuki in.

You stay like that for a few moments before he breaks the silence. “You idiot.”

Your breath hitches in your throat.

“If you need help, you better ask for it next time.”

And then, a small bit of warmth blossoms in your cheeks.

“Yeah, I know.”

MIDORIYA IS FRAGILE.

Midoriya is weak.

No matter how much time had passed and no matter how strong he became, he would always be that same helpless kid he once was. It was an innate part of him— Defenseless Deku would always be the child that existed in the corners of the Number One, Symbol of Peace Pro-Hero Deku’s mind.

Those thin, shaking arms and glassy, red-rimmed eyes all sewn onto a young boy would always be the reflection of Midoriya whenever he stared at the mirror.

Years of scars, fractured bones, and matured features would always fail at hiding the truth about the soul that lived within the body of the greatest hero in all of Japan’s history.

It’s something that lingered in his mind at the late hours of dusk and early hours of dawn— the harrowing truth about the Symbol of Peace.

How could one man be so strong, so powerful, yet be so weak, helpless, and vulnerable?

The thought bounced in his mind as he sat tiredly in the rickety chair of the hospital after receiving a panicked, cryptic worried message from Kacchan.

“‘She was tired. Bleak— dull. She wasn’t herself. She needs our help.’”

His words floated in Midoriya’s head, crashing into the sides of his mind once they resurfaced ashore, only to slip from the sandy outskirts of the beach and back into the rippling waves of the ocean.

“‘She needs you, Izuku.’”

(Name), his (Name), was in danger. You needed help- his help.

He wondered why Kacchan hadn’t just followed you himself. He had always loved you, long before Midoriya even did (or knew he did, for that matter). Midoriya had always known that.

Why didn’t he just play hero as he always would (just like when they were kids and Bakugou always wanted to be the one to only rescue you), and take all the glory for himself? It would end as it always did in those Hollywood films— the hero would save the girl and get her, and they would live happily ever after.

Isn’t that what Kacchan wanted? To live happily ever after with you?

At least, that’s what Midoriya had always concluded whenever his thoughts would trail back to the rather confusing relationship between you and his biggest rival.

Kacchan had always held a soft spot for you. Although the brashness of his actions and pointed words would’ve pierced anyone (like they soon did with him), those icicles simply melted before they could touch the surface of your skin.

And at first, that love was platonic (he believes, but Midoriya is unsure. He may have been able to read Kacchan like a book after years of knowing him, but he could never grasp his concept of romantic and platonic love. He didn’t know him like that.)

Gradually, however, it blossomed into something deeper than just a friendship. In the soil of his greatest rival’s heart, the roots of that love penetrated the layers of dirt before it overtook his heart and became something much stronger than either of them could have fathomed.

Kacchan would deny it all, though. Even to Midoriya.

Distinctly, Midoriya recalled watching Bakugou walk off to your dorm when you both were in your second year at U.A. He hadn’t thought much of it then (as it wasn’t until months afterwards did he begin to suspect Bakugou’s true feelings for you), but it became a frequent sight as the weeks passed.

In due time, Midoriya realized that Bakugou had been meeting up with you more than just those moments he saw Kacchan heading to your dorm room.

A polite voice snapped Midoriya from his spiraling thoughts.

“Mr. Midoriya, you are free to see (Last Name) (First Name).”

He gave a kind smile, bowing his head before he rose. Mindlessly, he walked down the hall until he found your room number the nurse gave.

Your room is secluded off into the end of the hall, beside nothing but a sterile white wall. It’s lonely out here— there are no people or gifts waiting outside the patient’s doors; just sterile, white walls and tiles.

You don’t belong here.

When Midoriya entered your room, the sight of your still body laying unceremoniously on the thin white bedding of the hospital greeted him. Not even a paper blanket had been thrown on you.

An IV drip is lodged into one of your arms, with wires of other sorts filling out the rest of the space on your forearms. Your hair is tangled and matted together by the salty water that once absorbed your body whole. There are fresh, pink cuts laying all over your body, no doubt sterilized by alcohol.

The scene reminded Midoriya of the many times he had landed himself in the hospital critically injured and on the verge of death.

You shouldn’t be in his place.

Never should you be in his place.

He loved you too much to stand seeing you so injured. You were a support hero— you stayed in the background to make the heroes of the public stronger. You belonged in an office where you would be safe and protected. Midoriya made sure of that when he requested you work for him.

But he let this happen.

It’s an unfortunate truth he doesn’t want to accept.

Midoriya knew about your feelings the whole time. He had seen the lovesick, dazed expressions you gave him. He saw the way you would grin happily after each passing interaction with him, how your eyes would light up whenever he stepped in the same room as you.

He knew because he would do all the same for you.

Every time he stepped into the office, his eyes would search for any semblance of you. It had always been like that.

He had always sought out for you, even as kids.

That’s why as he got older and realized the grasp you had on him, Midoriya attempted to flee his emotions. The longer he was around you, the deeper he spiraled in his endless pit of love for you. Butterflies would erupt every second he thought of you— they covered every inch of his being until he became a colorful mess of emotions.

And as he neared the number one spot, he realized the danger that came with such feelings. He would place a target on both your backs. Any villain looking for revenge against him would find you first as a means to get to him. And if they did— if they hurt you— he would have shattered

He would shatter.

That’s why he fled from your life: to protect you.

And himself.

Selfish Izuku.

But he failed to realize the affect it had on you. He never cared to look back and see how you took his sudden disappearance.

Look where that got you both, he tells himself.

You, in a hospital bed barely alive and him, guilty and torn apart at the seams.

Izuku Midoriya may be a hero, but he is a villain all the same.

Whether or not you’re aware of it, he is the villain in your story.

But he is— and that is enough to send the strongest man alive sprinting out of your hospital room and into the night, far away from you, his emotions, and the reality of your lives. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, blurring his vision as he soars in the air, pouncing from rooftop to rooftop.

The world will always remind Izuku Midoriya that while your worlds were meant to meet, they were meant to collide together and cause destruction.

He just never meant to damage yours as much as he did.

But Midoriya is weak. He is as fragile and helpless as they come, even if he is trapped in the body of the most powerful and capable being known to man.

The cruel universe continued to laugh at him, bathing gloriously in his misery.

Dumb little boy, it condescendingly cooed.

Helpless Izuku, it reminded him.

And he let it torment him, as he always had. Because while he may be the closest thing to God, even he cannot defy fate.

The world doesn’t welcome you with open arms after you’re discharged from the hospital.

When you step outside of the hospital doors, the weather isn’t warm and sunny with a gentle breeze that kisses your skin in those Hollywood movies. The ends of your clothes and hair don’t flutter majestically in the wind. Birds don’t swoop down and tweet enthusiastically at you, hopping to inch near you. There aren’t people happily chattering as they trek down the sidewalks and kids squealing as they sprint freely across the street.

Instead, it’s a sweltering kind of heat that causes sweat to form in every crevice of your body; it’s the kind that burns your skin the moment you step outside, tearing apart your dry, AC-adapted skin. Hair sticks to your face at unflattering angles and your wrinkled clothes are impossibly uncomfortable with every step you take. The polyester of your shirt rubs uncomfortably against the cuts and bruises located all around your body, making you wince. Animals and critters skitter away into the shade in hopes of cooling down. There are no pedestrians on the street or giddy kids. All you can see and hear are cars honking at each other, angry drivers, and speeding motorcycles.

Life is hideous, unfortunate, and cruel. Life is reality. Life is the truth and the truth was never meant to be kind or forgiving. It was meant to kick you off your high horse and humble yourself. It was meant to remind you no matter the strength you possessed, no matter how perfect you were perceived, you would always have to bow your head to the hand above. It was meant to teach you to never bite the hand that feeds you, or else dire consequences will come from those who are disobedient.

And you disobeyed it. You defied fate. You chose your own death, against the death the world had planned for you. You sunk your canines into the hand of life and tore its fingers off, letting the blood spurt over your face.

Now, you are paying for it by living through misery.

Before and after death.

Always and forever.

“Pathetic,” the voice whispered. “How pathetic, (Name). You can’t do anything right, can you?”

A sleek black cars rolls to the curb and a tinted window is rolled down. Ash-blond spikes stick out of the window and you are met with Bakugou’s gleaming eyes.

“You getting in, Princess?”

He sticks a thumb behind him, signaling for you to go to the back. Nodding your head, you step into the back of the vehicle and shut the door behind you, buckling your seatbelt.

You’re right, you agreed with the voice, I can’t do anything right.

Beside Bakugou in the driver’s seat is Todoroki, who sends you a charming smile when he looks back at you. Bakugou turns over as well.

“Hello, (Name).”

You softened at the sight of his body’s tension melting under your gaze. “Hi, Shoto. How are you?”

“Better now that you’re here.”

A bright laugh escapes you— it’s abrupt and loud— the kind that makes you roll around in your bed rethinking your every choice at the crack of dawn.

Yet, somehow for the first time in months, nearly years, you feel a little bit lighter.

The world seems a little brighter.

The voice boils in rage.

“Aren’t you just a charmer, Todoroki?” your hand waves teasingly as you press your head to the glass, swooning to the side. “I always knew your were my Prince Charming waiting to sweep me off my feet!”

Bakugou sucks air through his teeth, huffing loudly. Shoto’s eyes twinkle in amusement as he peers over at Katsuki, his eyes crinkling as his smile grows wider and the pearls of his teeth begin to show.

“If you have something to say Bakugou, you should communicate with us,” Todoroki stated matter-of-factly, glancing behind him before reversing out of his spot. “We’re friends, after all.”

Bakugou scowls, rolling his eyes before turning back and staring at you from the dash mirror. “You got all your stuff, (Name)?”

You nodded, watching as he turned to look off into the distance.

Bakugou had changed drastically from the teenager he once was in UA and even though you saw his development each year, never did you focus on each of his features as he matured.

Your mind wanders to the memories stored of the nights you continuously spent with Bakugou, drinking in his features. The images of the moonlight glowing on his skin like a gentle kiss from a loving mother. The slight curl of his eyelashes, always so long and full that the girls in middle school would jealously whisper over how pretty he was. The deep carmine of his eyes that resembled the reddest of apples, so shiny and perfectly polished that even the fruit trees strewn across Japan enviously would turn away, swaying their branches in the opposite direction just to look away from his breathtaking features.

Those features remained as an adult. Though, the only difference between younger Bakugou and your current one were their builds. Katsuki was taller, bulkier, and somehow even leaner to the point every angle of him appeared sharp. His jawline, the outline of his shoulders, his calf muscles, and everything inbetween. You had gotten accustomed to hearing the fangirls and fanboys of Dynamight ramble about his striking appearance, but you never noticed it properly until this moment.

He’s healthier.

Happier, too.

The once permanent scowl on his face has toned down to a stoic expression and his eyes seem purer than they ever had been before. His soul is kinder, his intentions are gentler. It’s evident with the way he interacts with the world around him, how his touch is less sudden and rough.

You’re glad to see him flourishing in life.

He deserves nothing but the best.

“You don’t,” the voice sneered.

A catchy tune permeates the air and you snap back to the present to find Shoto fiddling with the radio. Slender fingers twisted the black knob back and forth, lingering on each different station for only a moment before moving onto the next.

Shoto cleared his throat. “Are there any radio stations you both like?”

Bakugou shook his head. “I only listen to music from my phone.” He tilts his head back to look at you, cocking an eyebrow.

“Not really,” you tugged at your shirt, trying to distract yourself. “I’m kinda like Bakugou.”

Todoroki lets go of the knob and returns both hands to the steering wheel. “Well, I suggest one of you pull out your phone because we have a long way to go.”

His head bobs in Katsuki’s direction and Bakugou whips out his phone.

Quizzically, you peer at the two. Raising an eyebrow, you reiterate, “. . . A long way to go? My home isn’t that far from the general hospital. It’s not more than 10 minutes driving.”

Immediately, you look outside, reading the names of the streets that pass by. Street names you’ve never heard before pass by and you are met with unfamiliar roads and scenery. Instead of the usual shrubs you’re used to walking by, there are blossoming trees on every corner. This part of the city is far nicer than what you’re used to.

They aren’t taking you home.

“Hope you like animals, princess,” Bakugou chuckled, patting Shoto on the shoulder.

“Road-trip,” Shoto said in the most monotone voice possible.

You gulp.

Geez, maybe I shouldn’t have gotten in this car in the first place.

You grumble, pulling your legs to your chest.

Bakugou cackles loudly and Todoroki emits a small chuckle.

You crack a grin and close your eyes. The voice fumes.

Your smile brightens.

Life gradually begins to slow down as the months pass.

Time doesn’t go as fast, memories don’t escape your mind as much, and moments seem to last long enough to engrave themselves into you. No longer do you live life through your eyes as a spectator in your own body, but as an actual human being present in the moment.

In short, you’re recovering.

At least, that’s what your therapist says. Your friends too.

Not everyday is perfect. You’re not productive every morning, afternoon, or night. Sometimes, you can get out of bed with ease and settle into the little routine you’ve built for yourself. You can wake up, make your bed, change your clothes, wash your face, perform a skincare routine, make breakfast and commence with the day. You might be productive the whole days and run errands, make phone calls, book appointments, and catch up with friends and family. In other instances, your day is much more mundane. You lounge on the couch, hangout with friends, or treat yourself to some nice takeout or a nice walk to that local cafe or bakery. You end the day with a nice movie and popcorn, and even desert if you’re feeling something sweet. Then, you go to bed and the process repeats.

Other times, it feels impossible to even crack your eyes open. You can’t bring yourself to break through the state of slumber. All you can pray for are for those black tendrils to pull you back under into a dreamless world to distract you from reality. Getting out of bed is nearly impossible; it requires hours of coaxing yourself, frustrated tears, frantic thoughts, and maybe a pair of helping hands. The distance from your bed to your bathroom is infinite and the idea of even picking up your toothbrush has you collapsing on the spot. The tears bleed from your eyes and pile onto the sink and your pained sobs echo throughout the halls. The water of the shower is too much and you have to just sit there and wallow until a nagging feeling, a sliver of an authoritative voice reminds you there are bills to pay and there is a life to live. The day is filled with long hours of work and unrest and agony, but it only takes one text to guarantee a pair of warm arms will pick up the pieces of your pain when you get home.

Those days are the hardest, but you’ve survived each one. That in its own is a feat that you’re reminded of everyday you stare in the mirror. You imagine the faces of those who remain with you today whenever the thought dwells and you continue on.

Guilt sparks in your chest when you think of all of those who had suffered in the way you had but received no support and were left to suffer. Your heart cracks, but you know you must do this.

If not for you, for them. For those who were not as fortunate. You will live to tell the tale they could not.

You will remember them in life while they are remembered in death.

Your therapist says trial and error is how you succeed in life. Learning from mistakes is how you grow into someone greater than you were before.

To conclude each session, she reminds you consistency is key. Each time you tell her, “‘Frankly, that’s the hardest part about recovery.’”

It’s hard to be consistent because nothing is consistent in your life. Nothing is consistent in life. The world is ever-changing. Everyday, the Earth spins and something changes around you. A child grows a year older. A baby is born. A loved one is lost. Life dies. Life is reborn. Love blossoms and love dies. A new creation is discovered while another is destroyed. A heart is broken while another is mended.

Someone changes. And at one point in time, you were that person who changed.

Without a beat, she sends you that wistful smile of hers and that one sentence that leads you snorting out of her office.

“‘You like to surprise the world, (Name).’”

For the longest time you had thought she was going mad listening to you, but you eat your words now.

“Did you love him?”

A voice snaps you out of your thoughts.

Slender fingers wrap around the end of the teaspoon, digging the head into the cup of sugar. Another few reach for the China teacup placed in the middle of the table, gently moving it forward to meet the now full spoon of sugar. The grains of white tumble out of the rounded metal and into the warm water, sinking to the bottom until the same spoon hits the water and stirs them around, dissolving them.

The fresh cup of tea is handed to you.

“Who?” The ceramic’s temperature is a favorable kind of warm— the type that spreads from your fingertips into the rest of your body until you’ve melted in a comfortable pile of goo that brings a content feeling swelling in your chest.

The tea is even warmer, steam hitting your face as you go to sip it. The liquid slips past your lips and over your tongue, coating every crevice of your mouth. The hints of mint and Jasmine blend perfectly with each other, the sweet floral balances out the spice of the mentha.

It reminds you of him.

“Don’t be coy, (Name). You know who I’m talking about.” You want to decline her assertion— to argue that her generality is misleading and she should specify who the man she suspects you have fallen in love with is. But this lady is one you have known for your whole life, one who you believe may just know better than all the rest despite your drastic differences. She was always there to keep you in check between reality and fiction.

Finally, you look up.

Astute and inquisitive eyes the color of carmine align with yours. Mitsuki grins slyly, her eyes twinkling in amusement. “There’s those pretty eyes. Glad to see you’re still in tact, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not fragile, Mitsuki. And you’re starting to sound like Katsuki.”

The woman’s eyes soften at the sound of her son’s name and crinkle at the edges in thought. “He got his language from me, y’know. I was the one who called you all those sweet things when you were young. I mean, you were just the cutest little girl!” She wears an adoring smile on her face as she gazes at you with so much motherly love that you can only fidget under her gaze, lowering your eyes in embarrassment.

You never got used to the fireball known as Mitsuki Bakugou, nor her affections. From your earliest days, you could recall the way she would just coddle you. Whenever her son seemed to be talking your ear off or you were overwhelmed, she would simply pluck you out of Bakugou’s reach and walk away from his vicinity, cradling you in her arms cooing quietly at you. No matter how much he would protest, Mitsuki would be your getaway from any situation you couldn’t seem to defuse yourself.

On the weekends, she would take you out shopping with her as if you were her own kin, doting on you like a second mother. She would buy you clothes, books, get you icecream and take you out to eat. Your parents liked to joke that she was their own free babysitter, to which she would always exclaim that you would always be the daughter she never had.

As you got older, that powerful kind of love Mitsuki possessed was one you saw less and less of. That growing rift between you and her son was greater than ever, and the chances you had of seeing her was minimal, minus the outings she would frequently invite your folks to. Even then, she would always be mingling with the crowd.

Sometimes, you wondered if she was there with you through your hardest years would your life have turned out differently. It’s a thought to entertain, but the consequences of misery and despair flare at the idea.

You push the concept down whenever it pops up.

She continues.

“Katsuki simply followed suit. He’s my boy, after all.”

“Your own personal carbon copy,” you agree, stroking the intricately painted patterns of the fine China. The thought of Mitsuki’s question lingers in your head, prodding at a hidden part of your mind you had tucked away for ages now.

The topic of Izuku Midoriya was one you stopped entertaining after the night at the cliff. You had ripped it from the forefront of your mind, shoved it deep inside a metal vault, locked it shut, and tossed the key away.

The relationship between you both was messy— it was a lack of communication, a tangled mess of emotions and one-sided care. The bubble of your affections was filled with mistreatment, betrayal, selfishness, and greed. It was take, take, take from Midoriya and give, give, give from you. It wasn’t healthy for you nor Midoriya.

After you had opened the can of worms that was the man you once loved with your therapist, it wasn’t possible for you to ever see him in the same light. You could never stare at Midoriya with that blindly lovestruck gaze through those rose-tinted lenses. All that flashed before your eyes at the mere mention of him was the horror, sympathy, and guilt that swirled in her eyes as she listened to you. The shaky hug she had given you made you quiver in your shoes and the tears that fell from her eyes made your own slip past your hold.

That was the first time you had seen her professional facade break.

The thought that even the most experienced and knowledgeable of people in the world breaking at the seams from your supposed love story sickened you to your core.

“Was it that obvious?” Truthfully, you’re curious. Did everyone around you know how you used to feel about him? Were your affections for him that palpable?

“Very,” she nods, bringing the cup to her lips once again. “None of us saw it at first when you were kids. Not Inko, myself, or your family.”

Mitsuki sets the cup down, leaning her head on her hand. “But as you all grew up, we all realized that whenever you were with Izuku, you lit up in a way none of us had ever seen before. It was puppy love in our eyes, so we didn’t think much of it at first.”

A noncommittal hum leaves your throat and you inspect Mitsuki as she speaks.

“I mean, you were obvious. It was sweet,” Mitsuki laughs, the vermillion irises of her eyes shining in glee. Suddenly, she placed a finger to her cheek in thought. “Have you spoken to him as of late, (Name)?”

“Midoriya?” you blink, surprised. She doesn’t know, (Name). Stay calm.

You shake your head before going to down the rest of your tea. Mitsuki waved her hand in the air, her face morphing into an indecipherable expression.

“The brat told me about how worried the both of them were over you when you were still in the hospital,” she begins, and she looks down, lowering her voice. “He . . . He was scared.”

You still.

“Scared?” you parrot. “Why? He’s seen worse, hasn’t he?”

The eyebrows of Mitsuki’s face furrow and she sets her teacup down, clasping her hands together. It’s as if the air around you stills and time begins to freeze, pausing the orbiting of Earth itself.

Mitsuki hesitates. “He called me in tears when he was waiting for you to wake up— he was terrified. And when your heartbeat flatlined?” Mitsuki shakes her head. “He couldn’t hold himself together anymore. That Todoroki kid and Kirishima had to take him outside to console him.”

She stares at you, smiling sadly. “The last time he was that petrified was when he was a child, (Name).” A small exhale leaves her lips. “If he lost you that day, he would have lost everything.”

“Huh?” you sweat-drop. “Katsuki has a lot going for him in life, Mitsuki. I don’t think my . . . disappearance would be the end of him.”

Mitsuki shakes her head with a solemn smile, the low curl of her lips hinting at a secret unbeknownst to you. “You just don’t know how much you mean to my boy, (Name).”

She sighs. “I wish he would just tell you already. But I suppose now isn’t this time, is it?”

Mitsuki stands from her position, moving over to pat your head affectionally before leaving the kitchen.

A small part of you claws at your throat, screeching at you to stop her fading figure. It itches at you, desperate to scratch at the surface of your curiosity.

What does Katsuki need to tell me? And why won’t he?

“Curiosity killed the cat, (Name),” the voice giggles in glee. “You don’t want to meet that same end again, do you?”

A booming voice cuts through the clouds in the sky, sending you falling back to the ground.

“You ready to go?”

Leaning against the frame of the hall in all his glory is Katsuki Bakugou, dressed nicer than you’ve ever seen him. He’s wearing a fitted black polo from a brand far too expensive for you to name off the top of your head and a pair of tailored khaki pants. Placed on his right wrist is a black Vacheron Constantin watch with intricate carvings and stones within the clock that looks far too expensive for you to even fathom purchasing or even browsing through.

Like a moth to a flame, Mitsuki steps over to her son, fussing over him like a mother bird with her chick. She huffs as she adjusts the collar of his shirt accordingly, and he groans as his mother who was nearly a foot shorter than him pranced around and fixed his appearance.

The sight was heartwarming, sending a wave of nostalgia through you.

“You expect to go out with (Name) looking like that? I raised you better than this, Katsuki! You’re the son of a fashion designer!” Mitsuki scolds, combing out his hair.

He grumbles, swatting her hand away. “You hag—! I look fine!”

The bickering between the two continues, both of them going back and forth. She swats at his shoulder, even going as far to beat him with her slipper.

Bakugou takes each hit, not moving to fight back. You know he could stop her if he wanted. After all, he was the second strongest hero of Japan and pure muscle. No woman or man stood a chance against him.

Though, when you see Bakugou wince as his mom smacks him for the nth time, you’re left thinking that maybe Mitsuki might be the exception to the rule.

The thought bubbles a giggle in your throat that leaves you chortling to the point of tears. It’s a sound that hasn’t escaped you in ages.

Your chest feels full. Your body feels warm— not the restricting kind, but the comforting one.

They both turn to the sound, their expressions softening as you doubled over in joy. You look up and find Bakugou’s eyes swirling with an emotion that sends your heart fluttering and a brighter grin growing on your face against your will.

The expression reminds you of one you always stared at Midoriya with.

Could it be . . . ?

Heat spreads across your body and your heart skips a beat.

“No one could ever love you, (Name). No one ever will. You’re unlovable,” the voice smirked. “Foolish little (Name). Lovestruck already for another man you’ll never get? How humiliating.”

You recoil back into your timid shell, causing Mitsuki to give Katsuki a look.

The look.

It shouts at him, “Go comfort (Name)! How else are you going to win her heart?”

The one Katsuki returns barks, “What do you think I was going to do?! You’re bothering me, hag!”

Mitsuki rolls her eyes before slapping his shoulder with a huff. “Well, you better go now Romeo, or else I’ll whisk her away from you first!”

He breaks eye contact first, rolling his eyes as he nears towards your hunched figure. From the lowering of your head, he suspects your eyes are trained on the table in front of you. Though, his vision is obscured by the hair that falls in front of your eyes that he so desperately desires to tuck behind your ear.

Be selfish, his mind screamed. Take what you want the most.

But for you, he swore to never bite the hand you fed him from. He would always be grateful for the attention, affection, and care you gave him. You were always so generous with him and the twerp.

Perhaps this time, he would become the hand that did not feed you, but pampered you. Loved you. Took care of you. He would prove that he was not a man greater than the world when he was on his knees beside you. You were his equal, his other half.

He would treat you better than Midoriya ever did. While the Symbol of Peace was blessed with countless chances to end as yours, to take off running with you into a never-ending fairytale, he always left you to eat dust and dirt. Even when Bakugou sacrificed the one chance he had for Midoriya, he refused to atone for his sins. Instead, he only ran further.

This time, Bakugou would not wait for the world to give him a chance. He would create his one last chance with you.

He would love you right. Properly, fully, and unconditionally.

Unlike Midoriya.

A calloused hand gently pushes a few strands behind your ear before cupping the side of your face, bringing your eyes back into focus. Rough palms lovingly caress the apple of your cheeks and instinctively you lean into their hold.

From their touch alone, you know who this is.

Kneeling beside you is Katsuki Bakugou in all his glory, vermillion eyes and all trained on your face. Delicately, you move your hand to wrap around his wrist, giving him a small grin at his delicate behavior. It reminded you of the nights you spent back at UA together.

The syrupy feeling in your chest swirls faster.

A sudden flick smacks your forehead and instinctively you grab your head, face morphing into a glare. “You done prancing with your head in the clouds? We got a reservation to meet.”

You playfully scoff, standing up. “You can’t be nice for once, can you Katsuki?”

He laughed. “Never, Princess.”

The two of you head towards the front door, hugging Mitsuki as you leave. As you both enter Bakugou’s car, she waves you off with a “stay safe name! And protect her Katsuki!”

“We will, Mitsuki!” you shouted, waving. Bakugou grumbles and affectionately, you ruffle his hair. “He says he will, too!”

Mitsuki emits a hearty laugh as she walks back inside the comforts of her own home.

“So where are we headed to eat?” you trace the end of your dress, twirling the loose fabric. “You said to dress nicer than normal, but I’m not too sure what to expect with you pro-heroes.“

Bakugou snorts. “What makes you say that, sweetheart?”

You side-eye Bakugou, cocking an eyebrow. “Take a wild guess.”

“Half-N’-Half took you to one of those rich restaurants in Tokyo?” Bakugou doesn’t even glance over. He’s right and he knows it.

As always.

You grimace, melting into your seat. “I wish I could have evaporated into thin air the moment I stepped inside.”

The occurrence had happened not even a week ago. Only hours before you were meant to hangout with Todoroki, he had sent you an ominous text to simply dress well. When he picked you up, all he would tell you was that you both were attending somewhere nice to dine for the night. And as clueless as ever, you assumed it would be a slightly more upscale restaurant than you both typically frequented.

But boy, were you wrong.

The restaurant was at least fifteen stories tall with clear panes of glass covering every inch of each wall. Chandeliers covered each foot of the high rise ceilings and the floors were glassy, gargantuan tiles that were a pale color of hessonite. The furniture in the establishment were expensive— mulberry silk, plush cushions, bocote wood and all.

The patrons appeared to be just as wealthy, if not more. Dressed in the finest of suits and dresses, adorned with flashy and gauzy jewelry, each and every one of them burned brighter than last.

Shoto too, fit right in. Elegant and classy, they all gawked at the Number Three Pro-Hero.

And you, in comparison to them, stood out like a sore thumb. Meek, humble, and intimidated. You could hear their whispers about you, that night. But you chose to suck down your raging emotions to enjoy the night and tasty dishes.

Well, for as long as you could.

“Was the food good? Shit like that is either hit or miss,” Bakugou commented as he took a right turn, peeking at the GPS set up in the car. “We’re almost there.”

You nod, watching as the once filled roads of the highway cleared into empty streets of residential neighborhoods. “The food was fantastic, but the portions wouldn’t have even fed an infant. I don’t think I’d ever go back, though.”

“Why not?”

You blink, scratching at the skin of your arm to distract yourself from Bakugou’s question. Maybe, just maybe he would ignore your silence—

He repeats his question, opting to now stare at you. You shrink further back into your seat.

There’s no point in lying now, is there?

“I kind of freaked out,” you admit, leaning against the window. The glass is cool against your skin and you let your eyes close momentarily. “I was thrown into an unknown environment and I could feel all their eyes on me. They weren’t trying to hide the fact that they were talking about me.”

You kicked off your heels, sitting your legs up on the seat. “Halfway through, I just couldn’t take it anymore. I told Shoto I had a call to take and nearly sprinted outside to get some fresh air.” You open your eyes, looking at the dashboard in front of you. “It’s humiliating to think about it now, but I left for nearly an hour trying to calm myself down. I must’ve looked insane to anyone walking by.”

The imagery of you sitting on your bottom in front of a Michelin star restaurant with your head in your hands breathing erratically and on the verge of tears made you cringe at the idea. You definitely got some dirty looks, even if no one approached you.

Timidly, you peered at Bakugou. His expression was blank and his lips formed no response.

Your heart constricts itself in your chest.

I should’ve kept my mouth shut, you chastise, curling deeper into yourself. Dread filled your stomach. Why did I even open my mouth?

“Why did you?” the voice taunts. “Everything is easier when you just stay quiet.”

Tears bud at the corner of your eyes and you curl deeper into yourself, focusing on the scenery flying by outside.

Despite the two of you entering residential roads, the area looks familiar. The quiet streets eventually delve into a busy intersection filled with grocery stores and small businesses. The scene looks familiar, but you can’t quite place your finger on it.

“Stupid, little (Name),” the voice coos patronizingly. You grit your teeth. The dread that once resided in your stomach transforms into a festering anger that dribbles into your bloodstream, spreading like pure poison.

The voice beams, spinning circles around your mind eagerly. “Didn’t we go over this last time, (Name)? I’m always right. You’re always wrong. That’s just how it is. That’s life.”

That’s not true— you’re nothing but a filthy liar! you seeth, digging your nails into your skin. I believed you and look where I am—

The thought freezes you. As soon as it comes, it dies. You can hear the voice giggling in delight. Horror creeps into your chest. You tremble in return.

I thought I was getting better. That hopelessness you thought left your system months ago seeps into your bones, attempting to crack the wall of sanity you had spent months building. I thought I was supposed to be healing.

The mantra that rung repeatedly in your head that evening at your office plays again, mimicking that dull little tune. I can’t, I can’t, I—

“We’re here,” Bakugou turns off the ignition of the car. Swiveling your head, you are met with carmine irises and narrowed eyes inspecting your features.

You gulp.

Choke it down, (Name). You’re ruining it for him. Don’t cry, don’t cry. You’re okay. You’re fine. You’ll be okay. Just get out. Just leave. It’s only a few more hours and then you can kiss the bed goodnight and never wake up again.

Finally, when you turn to see where you arrived, your heart plummets.

To your side lay swaying blades of grass, swinging to the current of the evening breeze. They dance in the wind, luring the unknown to enter their arcane kingdom. In between the luscious planes of evergreen grass is a dirt road, soiled with muddy tracks from those who had come before you two.

The idea that some of those tracks could have been yours sends you reeling.

I can’t do this. This has to be some sick joke the universe is playing on me. A nightmare.

Suddenly, Bakugou is in front of your door, unlocking it for you. No words are said, except for the calloused hand he has laid out for you. You can’t see his eyes, but you’re sure he must think you’re insane.

If he didn’t before, he surely did now.

Just get the night over with, (Name). It can’t be that bad, right? You’re just overthinking it. It’s not that big of a deal.

“You’re too naive,” the voice sings. Slowly, the inky tendrils of despair emerged from the crevices of your mind, circling your brain. Latching onto any expanse of mind, they pulled and pushed. “You’re hopeless. Why do you even try? You failed once. You’re nothing. You’re worthless.”

I’m not worthless, you argue back, taking Bakugou’s hand. He’s saying something that you can’t pick up, but you don’t care enough to. Rage bubbled beneath your skin. I’ve made it this far. I survived. I can do this.

Storming off, you walk on the trail. Each step you take is filled with fury and steam, gallons upon gallons of boiling emotions that you can’t wait to scream into the night.

When you walk along the curves, twists, and turns of the trail, you don’t picture the nights you spent running up the path with Midoriya. You don’t envision locks of green rooted with black bouncing with each step, galaxies of freckles or the craters you call dimples. Those stupidly bright red shoes the color of maraschino cherries aren’t what form in your mind as you stare at the ground, watching one foot go in front of the other.

Instead, those memories are replaced with the days you spent drinking yourself into oblivion, desperate to drown your sorrows. Flashes and flickers of empty beer bottles strewn across patches of damp, crushed and curled grass play in your head. The sight of filthy and grimy white tiles and a pair of shoes dragging themselves repeat in your head like a broken tape, the beep of a scanner continuously breaks each train of coherent thought that attempts to enter your head.

“‘Would that be all?’”

Thousands of voices ask, some more feminine, some more masculine, some exactly in-between or strewn off into the left or right. Their faces are blurs and unrecognizable blends, obtuse and acute shapes. Their noses are thin, thick, long, short, stout, round, curved up or down, broken or centered perfectly. Their faces are long, round, slender, puffy, soft, rough, bony, or chubby. It’s angles and curves, proportions and disproportions. There’s marks— dots, lines, squiggles, blobs— imperfections in their eyes, but they’re just shapes in yours. Their strands of hair are slicked back, falling forward, parted down the middle, sides, sticking up, down, left and right, or to the side. Their eyes come in different shapes— circles, ovals, diamonds, almonds, pistachios. The outlines are round, big, small, sharp, soft, thin, delicate, tough.

There’s billions of them.

But you never cared enough to truly study their features, instead opting to let a hum and snatch the alcohol from the counter, disappearing in the night.

Now, you wonder if you had cared to stare them in the eyes for a moment longer, to peer past the veil of darkness before your eyes, would you have been saved? Would you have been stopped in your tracks, staring at glistening eyes filled with life, youth, and humanity, disturbed at your disgusting, reckless behavior?

“No one could have saved you,” the voice reminds. “No one can save you. No one will save you.”

Your blood boils and the sense of reconciliation shatters, leaving you sourer than before. Frustrated, you stomp faster, ignoring Bakugou.

The only thing audible is the blood pumping in your veins, the angered huffs from your mouths, and the stomping of your heels against the trail. Each step causes the ends of your shoes to stick further into the soil, making each motion more exerting than last. At the rate you storm up the path, sooner or later fate will bring you down on your knees to kiss the dirt.

With every few feet, the soil beneath your feet hardens. The layers become dryer, returning every step with enough abrupt force to keep you resurfaced. No longer do the pebbles littering the ground sink in; instead, they slide with the specks of dirt, tumbling up and down with the breeze of the wind. You ascend further and further, rise higher and higher. No longer do you fall to your surroundings.

Instead, you rise above them.

“Just like the waves,” the voice beams. “But this time, will you fall below them?”

Time seems to slow to a stop, and you are brought back to reality, frozen in your tracks.

The sea sings its song, the one it always has— the lullaby that sailors fall asleep to and creatures far below the surface awaken for. Each wave crashes against the rocks littered around the cliff wall, the impact of every hit resonating in the air. The droplets of salty water fly high into the air, dropping as fast as they bounced from the cold stone.

The once comforting noises of the deep blue haunt you, seeping into your ears and drowning your heart.

“Don’t step too close to the edge, or you’ll fall off, Princess.”

A sudden warmth blooms on your wrist and when you turn your head, your gaze meets Bakugou’s. Carmine meets (e/c), the two melting into the other.

He wears a cocky grin, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. It looks forced, dare you say, nothing like the bright and deadly grin that adorns his face on the battlefield or when he jokes with friends.

You want to ask, “Are you okay?” But your mouth is glued shut and your body is too heavy to move, so you opt to stand in silence with your wrist in his rough palms, allowing the heat of him to bleed into the coldness of you.

“You’re missing the main attraction, sweetheart,” Bakugou nods his head to the side and your gaze follows suit.

Laying a few feet away from you is a picturesque picnic, straight out of any girl’s Pinterest board. There’s a large black blanket laid out with fairy lights spread all around it, lighting up a pathway for you to enter its soft kingdom. Plates of pastries, fruits, and different foods rest around each inch, goading you to come and take a bite. There’s a wooden basket woven to create the finest pattern, a heart, centered in the middle filled with ice and two bottles of what you believe are champagne and wine.

Your stomach lurches and the tea you had earlier churns in delight to make a reappearance from your gut. You swallow thickly.

“Wow,” is all you manage, but you see the corners of Bakugou’s lips turn just a little bit higher at the words. He doesn’t seem to notice your inner turmoil.

“Did you really think he would? After he hid the fact that he knew you were suffering all this time?”

You answer with memories of going out with friends, with him distracting you from your crumbling life after you escaped the hospital. The voice scoffs at each one and with every noise of disappointment, you hole yourself further and further into your mind.

Bakugou gently tugs you forward, leading you to the picnic. Moving to the side, he guides you to sit down, to which you curl your legs into your side. Carefully walking around the fairy lights, he takes a seat, crossing his legs.

The air between the two of you is tense, awkward. None of you make the first move to speak or eat. You just sit in silence with your hands in your lap, fiddling with your fingers. Never once do you dare to peer up and see how Bakugou reacts to the feel of the room.

Selfish.

He makes the move to pick up a piece of food, and you follow suit by grabbing some mochi. At least that would keep you busy.

Bits of conversation fall between you two, but no sparks fly. It’s lifeless and dull— the fireworks that once blew up beside you two now blew up between the two of you, creating a rift greater than the Nile River.

The mochi is soft as it is sticky, refusing to tear from its body. Though, when it finally breaks, it resists your teeth as you chew it slowly, fighting to keep itself whole. The doughy inside burst into your mouth, sweetening your tastebuds.

Though, the saccharine goodness does little to cancel out the bitterness in your heart and the sourness on your tongue.

“You should see the water. Looks gorgeous when you’re up close,” Bakugou sets down a piece of strawberry cake he had bitten through, nearly halfway done. Rising from his position, he extends a hand to you, goading you to follow in his steps. You mindlessly take the bait, allowing him to drag you like a little girl with her dolls.

Each step closer is painstaking. A nasty feeling latches itself onto your mind, eating through the walls of your sanity. Long, thick, silver drills press into the cement, chomping with all its might to destroy the structure.

“Isn’t it just nostalgic?” the voice prances, jumping back and forth in ecstasy. “You and me, just like from day one.”

You wonder if the glass shards from the broken beer bottles remained spread across the plains of grass, nestled deep between each patch of blades. Had others whom trekked these hills let the glass crunch beneath their feet, shattering the sticky, translucent material? Did they ever consider the story behind the pile of broken bottles, wondering if a soul was suffering the way you were? Or did they merely scoff at the sight, commenting about how reckless others were at the sight of haphazardly tossed glasses with the image of a group of teenagers drinking and giggling into the night?

Did they treat it kindly, lifting each individual piece and storing it to toss away? Or did they kick it to the side with a huff, stepping around any other messes nearby?

Would they have believed a soul if they told the story about a woman drowning in her own agony, her own lovesick foolery? Would they have empathized with the lost soul tethered together by a vile voice, haunting her every living moment?

Would they have listened to the soul beneath their shoes and the sky above their heads sing the tale of misery?

“Would you believe them?”

No, you answer, now peering at the water that soared to the edge of the cliff. I wouldn’t have even listened.

The salty liquid crashes against the boulders, flooding every crevice until the dips overflowed, spilling back into the ocean. Algae resurfaces with every wave, creeping further upon the cliff. Different creatures slip from the holes, desperate to escape the vicious cycle of life and Mother Nature.

Some drown, some drift off into the abyss of black, and others survive. It’s as beautiful as it’s painful and horrific.

Life is cruel. Life is unfair. Life is unforgiving.

Life is a rose— deceptively gorgeous with its bright lights, warm skies, cool breezes and pretty organisms. But with every creation comes its thorns— its threats and consequences for such beauty.

Life is you. You are life.

You are living.

Your throat constricts and your fists clench.

The sky is no longer a melting pot of warmth. There are no hues of burgundy, honey, or marmalade. All that lingers in its tracks are the sinister obsidian, with streaks of berry blue and a deep indigo that looks nearly the same as the vantablack that permeates the entirety of the atmosphere surrounding you. It is freezing cold and frigid.

The twinkles of fluorescence in the air are the only symbol of warmth left, but they are just as cold as the world around you is. They never lit up in the cozy tones of color. They were overshadowed, for they thawed under that gentle glow it emitted.

Static trickles into your ears, blocking out the noise of your surroundings. The control of your own body slips from between your fingertips, tipping into the ocean below. The sight of the world around you blurs and finally, you are rendered helpless.

Bile comes up instantly.

The world seems to nearly tip over as you hurl, coughing up all the liquids and food that had once churned within your stomach. Thick, corded arms wrap around your waist, stabilizing you and soothing your pained body.

Choked coughs escape your throat as you are forced to expel all the contents of your stomach, burning your throat. A tang of bitterness is heavy on your tongue and your mouth is impossibly dry. Grabbing at your throat, you perform a poor hand motion of drinking and instantly Bakugou hands you a glass.

It’s clear— it looks close enough to water. You down it.

It’s sweet, bubbly, and nothing like water. Once again, you vomit. It rushes back through your nose and out of your mouth, leaving you shuddering in place. A surprised “Shit!” leaves Bakugou’s mouth and he tugs you to him, rubbing your back with those large calloused palms of his.

You cough, inhaling every bit of air. “You— god— you gave me champagne?”

Bakugou hissed. “I didn’t realize that we didn’t have water— I was trying to help!”

It burns, stings. Your throat is on fire, your chest is constricting on itself and your heart is pounding. The heat of Bakugou only adds to the coldness of your skin, the iciness that seeped from your insides to your skin. Your eyes demand to fall shut, the lids drooping with every breath. The world feels dead around you, your head is heavy, and you are limp.

You are dead. You are a dead man trapped in a living body.

Bakugou shifts. “Are you . . . okay? Fuck— that’s a dumb question but—”

The thumping of Bakugou’s heart brings your eyes to shut. “I thought I was. Yanno, I thought I was recovering and all that. I was making progress. That’s what everyone said.”

A warm finger slides under your eye, brushing the puffy skin gently. “But?”

“I guess I didn’t. Or I did and I fell backwards. Took one step forward and six steps back.” You push your head further into his chest in a poor attempt to allow the exhaustion of your body to seep into the heat and disappear. “Lately, it feels like I’m back to before the hospital. I don’t reach for the beer like I did before, but that misery and hopelessness still lingers within me.”

Does it ever go away? you want to ask. Do I ever heal?

Nobody can answer. Time can only tell. Life can only smile.

You glance up at Bakugou and watch as his face contorts into a confused expression, lost at your words. A sad smile graces your lips. “You know, it was here where it all happened. I don’t think you even knew— I don’t even know how you knew about this spot— but I guess that’s what I get. I mean, it’s what I get for not telling you the entire truth, I guess. The world likes to make people pay for their actions, huh?”

Bakugou remains silent.

“I hate this place. It reminds me of him.” You both are aware of who you’re referring to. “We found it together. When we were kids in UA. Maybe even before, I don’t really remember.”

Bakugou shifts the two of you so you’re both laying down, inching away from the cliff and back to the cloth. He brings his hand to your back, rubbing soft circles and figure eights. You bury your head into his chest, words muffled by his shirt.

“There’s so many memories here. Good and bad. And I kept coming back all this time to relieve them because of him. But he never cared. It’s stupid now— I can’t believe I never saw it. I was holding onto something that had died long ago and I was dying because of it. I think I’m dead now, anyway. I don’t feel alive.”

You choke on your words. “I want it to all go away, Katsuki,” you say plaintively like a child, clutching his shirt. “Please.”

The waves smash against the cliff and you curl closer to him. He’s warm, so impossibly warm, but you can’t seem to seek equilibrium and match temperatures.

The noise won’t be drowned out.

Stop, please. Stop, stop, stop.

“I can’t save you,” he begins.

Your heart falters in your chest. The dam in your eyes splinters, the wood that held the water behind your eyes begging to flood.

“‘M a hero, but some battles aren’t meant to be fought by all.”

You whimper.

“I can try to help you, (Name), but no one can save you. You have to want to get better to heal. It’s not going to be easy and you won’t be alone, but you have to be willing to hold yourself together. We can only support you, but you have to be the change you want to happen.”

He tilts your head to him, pointer finger under your chin. The soft carmine bleeds into the blurry (e/c). “I know you can do it. You’re strong and you flourish even when everyone around you tells you you can’t. You’ve outdone the best of the best in your fields.”

You sniffle. “That was once. Hatsume just made a dumb mistake.”

He rolls his eyes. “You’re capable, (Name). But you need to trust and believe in yourself. It’s hard; I know. But you’ve gotta if you want to move on.”

Your lip quivers. “Did— did you know?”

His eyebrow raises.

“About Midoriya?”

His face falls into a neutral expression and you swallow thickly. He nods.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“If I did, would you have listened? I think you knew but refused to accept it.”

You sigh, wiping your eyes. “I guess that’s true.”

Silence settles before he breaks it.

“(Name).”

You look at him and watch as he hesitates, looking away from your eyes before speaking.

“I—”

The words fade into the steady sloshing of the water, drowning into the night.

“Don’t give me that look.”

Kind, cerulean eyes follow the twitch of your fingers as you twirl the ends of your hair between your fingertips, until you let it fall back to its original spot.

She lets out an amused hum, spinning her machina fountain pen between the area where her thumb and pointer finger connected. The expensive pen had a pointed tip with edges sharper than the tip of a freshly-shaven knife, curving beautifully into a fine line. The body of it was a gooey, deep decadent chocolate brown mixed with a tint of crimson and carmine that left a particular shine when placed into the light. Thin strips of white and a blush, baby pink spilled onto the body, twisting and curving until it wrapped around the top of the pen.

Wealthy people, you shiver.

“If you continue to burn holes into the pen, it might as well explode.” She tosses the pen up for good measure, showcasing a number of spins before it slips right between her middle and index finger, securely settling it in a perfect pencil hold. “My late husband bought it for me.“

Your heart twists. “Oh.”

She chuckles, lowering her gaze to the pen held in her right hand. “He always spoiled me with lavish gifts. I was so frugal and stingy when I was younger, but he wanted nothing but the greatest for me. Everything I own now is all from him.”

A thin glaze coats her eyes, the pale sapphire flooding into a deep, engulfing azul. The flecks of silver seem to brighten against the cerulean tint, the blacks of her pupils tracing the intricate lines carefully. Long sections of white hair fall around her face, covering nothing more than the corners of her eyes and the highest end of her cheekbones.

“Is that your quirk?” The question jolts her out of her mind, eyebrows furrowing at your directness. You swallow, peeking at the window to protect your mind from her piercing eyes. “You’re young— or at least you look like it. Your husband passed away. Your quirk must stop you from aging, right? Because you don’t look older than 26 at most.”

There’s shifting in front of you, but your eyes refuse to look back ahead. Embarrassment burns in your cheeks and the fear of overstepping swirls within your gut.

“You should have stayed quiet,” the voice reprimands. “You’re so dumb, (Name).”

I was so dumb, why did I say that? She probably hates me now. She’s going to kick me out and I’m going to be stuck here forever and it won’t stop and—

“You’re more observant than you let on. But you also like to avoid confrontation, don’t you?” It’s not condescending or patronizing; it’s a factual statement— the truth. There’s no tone other than neutrality and genuinity. “That’s why you’re here today. A bit earlier than I expected you to come around, but you did nevertheless.”

Your lips purse. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She picks up the clipboard, flipping through some pages. “You weren’t completely honest about your past when we first began chatting, were you?”

The silence that lingers answers her question.

“Why not?”

You sigh. She smiles.

“I just . . . didn’t want to.”

“You’re not a burden, (Name),” her hand grabs the delicate pen and begins to trace unintelligible shapes onto the paper. “I understand why you closed yourself off. I read your file, you know. Spoke to Dynamight and Deku about you.”

You still.

What?

The knife of dread, fear, and panic slices it’s way into your heart, carefully tracing the outline of your aorta, atriums, and ventricles. The pointed tips glides over each ridge, caressing the soft tissue and flirting with the idea of piercing its way inside, only to send blood spurting everywhere and leave you cold inside out, once again.

She continues. “They both care for you a lot, in their own ways of course. Deku is much more vocal about his concern, but Dynamight is the silent, brooding type. He expresses his concern through his actions and behavior.”

She spoke to them? To him? Why didn’t anyone ever tell me?

Why didn’t Bakugou tell me?

“Yeah,” you breathe out, averting your eyes to the window outside. Your heart palpitates inside your chest. “That, uhm, really sounds like them.”

The sky is a bright blue today, with not a single cloud in sight. Buildings decorate the slopes of blue, with light shades of gray and dark shades of a hybrid of obsidian black and white.

“What a shame,” the voice pouts. “The view is obstructed. Wasn’t it just so lovely?”

The collar of your shirt is suddenly a tad bit too high, too tight, and suffocating. It clings to your throat, wrapping its fuzzy tendrils around the base, before slowly gliding across the expanse of your skin.

“Doesn’t it just remind you of those beautiful waters? The one near the cliffs, you know. Don’t you just want to go for a swim?” the voice purrs. “I, for one, think it sounds refreshing.”

The tentacles speed their movements, rushing their efforts to close their tendrils around your throat. The inky black swallows your throat, leaking into your lungs. Faster, they move. Tighter, they squeeze. Together, they suffocate you.

“It’s not fun when you’ve gone right back, y’know. Takes the fun out of your misery. Now, you’re all lifeless like a doll. You have no hero to save you. Just what will you do, (Name)?”

The sight in front of your eyes fades from a lovely sky and high rise buildings to a murky, endless bank of water screaming at you to fall below. Like a siren’s call, the kelp sings to you by teasingly waving its green body, luring you down below.

Sweat pools on your forehead, threatening to drip down your neck and onto your shirt. You can see it all now.

You remember it all now— vividly.

The beer. The cliff. The staff worker. The evening sky, the water, the spray of the salty sea, the stabs of the grass. The incessant nagging of the voice— the reminder of him, everything about him and how little you meant to him.

It all washes over you like a tide, overflowing with the means of drowning you to snap you back to reality.

“‘Wake up!’” it screams.

“—(Name)?”

Virdescent eyes bore into yours, pupils dilating as they continue to hold your gaze. The flecks of obsidian and rim of a deep, mysterious amethyst capture your attention.

The kelp twirls.

“(Name)?” A gentle, unnatural hand places itself upon your shoulder. The aroma of distilled rose water permeates your nostrils. “(Name), are you okay?”

The toxic green melts, burning through to reveal a set of pure, bright ruby red eyes.

The sky glimmers.

You blink.

She grins.

He doesn’t react.

You don’t know if that’s good or bad, really.

But the words continue to tumble.

“I— I loved him. That’s what hurts, Katsuki. I loved this man who returned an unobtainable love and I was too blind to see it.”

How foolish am I? How stupid do I have to be to not have seen this further?

“How stupid are you, (Name)?” the voice parrots.

It hurts. You’re tired. Everything is dark. The sky, the grass, your vision, your mind, your thoughts.

The stars in the sky are so faint, so dull. You miss their shine.

You miss the bright lens that were placed above your eyes, lighting up the sky.

Slowly, your world crumbled. Now, it was tumbling, shattering into millions of pieces.

Your chest tightens, and it feels as if you are back in the office, curled into a ball on the verge of suffocation.

You can remember the warm traces of tears spilling from your eyes, trickling down your cheeks. If you close your eyes, it feels as if you’re there, in those stuffy office clothes with the haphazardly thrown stacks of papers and splayed out tools, shattered pieces of glass, and a throbbing heart.

You’re dying. Lifeless. Hopeless.

I just want it all to end, please, please, please—

Warm hands snap you out of your thoughts. Large, calloused hands cup your face, tracing the dull tips of its fingers along the outline of your jaw, thumbs circling comfortingly under the bags of your eyes.

It’s cozy and loving, like warm cider on a chilly autumn day. Your heart pounds in your chest in excitement. Goosebumps erupt on your skin, and an older, kinder voice whispers at you to simply open your eyes.

When you feel the tickling of hair against your head, your eyes flutter open. A warm head bumps against yours, resting itself in the very center of your forehead, as if it fit there. The remedial hands of warmth continue their trek of tracing the outline of your features, encapturing your face in their hold.

Boring into your eyes are Katsuki’s, in all their cherry red glory.

“Bakugou . . . ?”

A hint of doubt flickers across his features. The corners of his eyes crease, and the middle of his brows furrow.

“You’re a cruel monster, (Name).”

“Always hated when you called me that, y’know,” is all he replies with.

He’s close.

“Too close,” the voice reiterates.

Despite the warmth radiating from Katsuki, goosebumps erupt on your skin like a volcano’s molten lava bursting through the surface to cover the earth’s surface in its flames.

Is it from the cold?

“No,” a foreign voice answers.

Red eyes flit to your lips and a shaky exhale leaves your nose.

Is it anticipation?

“Yes,” it responds again.

“Lean in,” it goads. “Give in. Don’t hold back.”

“You’ll hurt him, just like you hurt yourself,” the voice chimes. Your heart plunges into your stomach

The quiet lull of the other voice drowns out the terrors of the voice. “Be his. Just for tonight, let him have you.”

“Okay,” you breathe. The doubt and hesistance leaves you.

He press his lips against yours.

The kiss is a warm caress, one that lets warmth blossom on your own. It’s soft but so sweet, so gooey like maple syrup dripping down your throat. A tinge of cinnamon bleeds into your mouth and the smell of caramel floods your nose.

You pull away first, but Bakugou’s hand keeps your head touching his, staring into the other’s eyes.

Am I going to hurt him? Is this fair to him? Am I using him?

“You’re a horrible person, (Name),” the voice says. You want to agree.

The foreign voice speaks up. “Listen, (Name). Stay quiet and listen, please.”

“I know you still love him.”

His voice breaks and you feel your heart follow.

No, I don’t. You want to answer.

“But how much of that is true?”

You’re not sure.

“I know how much he matters to you. Izuku matters to me too.”

You want to cry.

“But I won’t give up on you. I never have and never will. Not— not unles you want me to. I won’t chase you if you don’t want me to. But if you’re willing to have me, even just for a bit to let me love you whole, I’ll stay.”

“Katsuki,” your voice breaks. The tears flow. Calloused fingers rub off the tears.

“He may have been your first love, but I intend to be your last.”

You panic. “But what if it takes too long? What if I take too long to lose feelings and you have to try again to make me fall in love with you?”

A warmth envelops you. “As long as you want me, I’ll work as hard for as long as I have in this life to be your final love.”

The heat is familiar and gentle; it doesn’t set your skin aflame, but instead adds a slight increase with every second, adjusting you.

It’s accommodating and loving.

It feels like home.

“It’s him, isn’t it? It always was.”

I was just too blind to see it.

The new voice whispers, “He could never hold it against you; he would always forgive you. All he wants and needs is you. Remember what Mitsuki said? You’re his everything.”

And he is the same to me.

——————————-——————————————

Midoriya is kind.

“Are you sure that’s all you want to order?” A large, scarred hand settles itself upon your smaller one, rubbing the area of your wrist with slow, gentle strokes.

Midoriya is kind in the way that he would help an elderly lady cross the street with her hand wrapped around his arm, guiding her safely to the other side. He is kind that when a child cried in the middle of the sidewalk all alone, he would approach them with nothing but a gentle smile on his face and kneel down to their height, offering his help.

Midoriya Izuku is a good man with a big heart and a bright smile. He is the sickly saccharine type of person— a man who despite being made of hard muscle, is truly all marshmallow and gumdrops.

He is a glorious man who chose to devote his life to saving the world— but that in itself is what made him so utterly selfish.

“He loves you, (Name).” the soft voice whispers. “Do you know that?”

His love is not enough for me to stay any longer.

“I ordered a whole bowl of pasta, Midoriya. I think that’s more than enough,” you grin, sliding your arm out of his grasp. He pouts like a kicked puppy who was just scolded by their own for eating one too many dog treats.

Maybe long ago, your heart would have squeezed at the expression. Now, no butterflies erupt in your stomach. No heat spreads to your neck and to the tips of your cheeks. All that churns in your stomach is the acidic sips of a mocktail you had and the glass of water you downed before going to meet Midoriya.

“You know, you can still call me Izuku,” Midoriya begins, retracting his hand from your side of the table. You dig your fork into the pasta, swirling it around in the plate. “I’m still your Izuku, right?”

What am I supposed to say to that?

You peer up, watching as his emerald irises swim with a fondness and intimacy you could only picture thousands of women would die to see Izuku Midoriya, Japan’s greatest hero, to gaze at them with.

But to you, it is meaningless.

“Do you pity him?” the gentle voice asks. “Do you pity yourself for how blindly you behaved as him, too?”

In front of you, you hear a group of girls squeal, “Oh my gosh, it’s Pro-Hero Deku!”

A big bite of pasta with a pointed smile is all you offer Midoriya as he turns to face the approaching group of gals murmuring in excitement, asking to take photos.

At least the pasta is good.

——————————-——————————————

“Say it,” the voice utters.

The city lights at the ripe time of midnight are a beautiful sight, filling the world with a plethora of icy and earthy tones. Giggly couples stumble down the street, hand in hand, high off of joy and young love. Teenagers skate down the sidewalks, hollering profanities and excited cheers into the night sky.

The whole world is bright and alive around you, despite the pit of black surrounding it.

“Will you let this moment slip? After all you’ve gone through?”

Midoriya’s hand once again reaches for yours, scarred fingers entangling themselves with yours. The pupils in the greens of his eyes seem to shrink as your palms make contact, and a faint blush sprouts on his cheeks.

In the moonlight, Midoriya Izuku is alive.

He is glowing brightly in the light of the city, with his unruly mess of curls draping over the tops of his eyes.

But beside him, you stand in the darkness of his shadows. In the presence of the Symbol of Peace, Izuku Midoriya, you are nothing more than the spirit that he is championed to destroy.

Once again, you are nothing more than a lost soul falling into the hands of death.

“Is that all you will ever be? Will you let all of your hard work dwindle to waste? Will you fall back into his arms only to repeat this same miserable cycle?”

Tips of blurry blonde spikes materialize in the depths of your mind. The crashing of waves against rocks bleeds into your ears and the pricks of blades of grass send tingles exploding across your skin.

“How much will it take until you truly break, (Name)?”

A pair of loving carmine eyes stare back at you, a bright twinkle in the corners of its pupils. They are a reminder of the gentle kiss and the tender love you had experienced only days before.

‘I want you, Katsuki.’

He had cried, when he heard those words.

‘Please, will you let me love you the way you loved me?’

You never thought you could reduce a man as powerful as Bakugou into a mess of joyous tears. But life has a habit of surprising people in the most unexpected ways.

I’m sorry, Midoriya, you long to say. I’m sorry you are slipping down the path you forced me to tumble down. But I’ll save you in the way you failed to save me in before. I’ll right your wrongs.

Not for you, but for me.

“I can’t do this,” you rip your hand out of his grasp, stepping back. “I can’t do this to you, Midoriya.”

He jumps, startled by your abrupt movements. He opens his mouth to speak, but you interrupt.

“I can’t live with you in my life— not anymore.”

“(Name), what? What are you saying right now?” Midoriya reaches his hand out to anchor you— or himself— but you widen the gap between you two.

“I’m talking about you— I’m talking about us,” you gasp. The waves slosh in the bottomless pit of the sea. “You can’t tell me you didn’t see it like everyone else did. You can’t lie to me and say what you did wasn’t purposeful!”

Boots smush into the wet mud, slipping off the bottom of your foot. “_____________!” Midoriya exclaims.

The beating of your heart smashes against your ribcage and blood rushes to your face. “You were given so many chances, Izuku,” you cry as the tears finally slip. The bottle fissures and the dam explodes; the beast is unleashed. “You gave up. You gave up on yourself, you gave up on me, you gave up on us. You always have— you always will. You never took a single chance because you never cared enough!”

There are tears streaming down his own face, distorting the sight of those freckles you once adored so much. You had once believed them to be kisses from the gods themselves. Now, they seemed nothing more than a painter’s deception of beauty.

Midoriya weeps. “________________!”

No longer do you crumble under the weight of Midoriya’s tears. You stand proudly under the pour of your own.

“You’re forgetting someone, aren’t you, (Name)?” the voice curls around you, peering at you gleefully. She giggles. “You should go and surprise him, (Name).”

Katsuki. Your heart shines, despite the pain of the tears.

You turn away from Midoriya, sparing nothing more than a turn if your head. “Thank you for giving me the story of a lifetime, but this is the end of us. Our chapter closes today, Izuku.”

Around you, the city blurs. “The story of us wasn’t meant to last a lifetime. It was meant to be for only a moment.“

And slowly, so does Midoriya. You laugh, “But it is one I’ll never forget.”

Stuffing your hands into your coat, you move away, preparing to cross the street. But you pause before your foot meets the pavement.

“Midoriya,” you murmur, glancing side-to-side as the cars fly by, before looking back at him.

He stares at you, petrified, as if you were a ghost of his past.

Maybe, you are.

Maybe, you have truly become another ghost in his world.

“Do you remember me?”

The Symbol of Peace stares at you like a deer in headlights, frozen and lost. For the first of many times, Izuku Midoriya is clueless.

A smile plays on your lips.

“Who knew you could bring the most powerful man to his knees?” she pinches your cheek affectionately.

Fractured excuses and phrases of rambles slip past his lips, sending circles spinning upon circles.

You know the truth.

So does he.

“Don’t think about it too hard, Izuku.”

As you step onto the street, the moonlight falls upon you, covering Midoriya in its pit of dark.

Finally, you burn brighter than the stars above.

——————————-——————————————

The clock reads 2:37 AM.

You remember this road and the corner where Bakugou caught your arm.

You remember running and running until you got to the convenience store, pouring liquor while sitting on the hill. Downing bottle after bottle, bleeding away into a pool of water.

You remember the lights flashing, the salty spray of sea against your skin.

But you don’t remember the feeling or the pain of your broken heart.

It’s all gone.

It’s over.

The memories remain, the sleepless nights, the sober-less dreams.

But the pain does not.

For the first time, it’s gone; the wound has healed. The rift in your heart has shut.

“Call him.”

Frozen fingers reach into the depths of your purse, unlatching the metal clip to reach your phone as you trek down the street. With a few swipes, you press the call button.

Two rings pass before you hear a click and a groggy, gruff voice. A warm grin plays upon your lips.

“Hi, Katsuki.”

You chatter into the night, walking with a pep in your step. Muffled groans can be heard on the other side.

The voice sighs wistfully, resting her head on your shoulder. “Young love,” she twirls her hair around her finger, lips curling into a pleased smile. “How romantic it is, to be so young and utterly in love.”

Unwrapping her limbs from yours, she slips away into the dark, melting into the shadows of the moon. The wisps of her hair fade into a glimmer that twinkles in the streams of light and her body blows away with the breeze of the night.

You check the time in your phone.

2:37 AM, the clock reads.

The edges of your eyes crinkle.

He knew.

——————————-——————————————

#© platrom, plot / writing / banners & headers. do not repost, reblogs are appreciated! please consider leaving a comment and a heart! <3

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━━ 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐅𝐓 ;; 𝐁𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐆𝐎𝐔 𝐊𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐈

✧ cw :: gn!reader, angsty (heh), there is arguing and yelling here, reader is called 'clingy'

✧ a/n :: fun fact, this started out as a kirishima piece, but the dialogue said 'bakugou' so i changed it :D haven't written arguments before methinks, but i hope this is good !!

part 2 !

you knew how abrasive of a person he was, but you'd never felt it for yourself. every sentence felt like the sting of scraping your skin, and he just wouldn't stop.

the person standing in front of you looks like him. the same eyes, the same blond hair, the same voice that once never said anything to you with such poisonous intent.

but the bitterness in his words? the volume in them— a volume you dared to match with your own voice— it wasn't the loudness you knew.

and, as katsuki goes on and on, you wonder when the last time was that you could claim to know him.

you fall silent, eyes glassy and you stare. he notices the shift in the air, the shift in your face, and he snaps out of it.

"what are we doing here, katsuki?"

it's barely above a whisper and you're thankful your voice remains steady. you hope he can see how the hurt looks, draped across your face, and you wonder if he can feel it too.

"the hell do you mean, y/n?"

"what are we doing here, katsuki? how much more are we going to yell at each other like this? half the time i— i don't even remember why we're arguing. do you enjoy it?"

katsuki's face is unreadable. "enjoy it? you think i enjoy being like this? that i want to come home to endless problems, that i want to have every little thing psychoanalysed because you just can't leave me alone?"

it's a red-hot slap across the face, but not one hard enough to render you speechless.

"coming home? you want to talk about coming home, when you're never here? you're never here, katsuki!"

you clap your hands with each word of the last sentence, and it only escalates the situation.

his eyebrows are permanently creased and he scowls— it's ugly and malicious. you've never known him to be so ugly. "it's no wonder when you act like this all the damn time! always yapping away with your clingy ass— home isn't home when i know i have this to come back to," he gestures at you.

silence stabs, but it doesn't compare to the sharp, dagger-shaped words you've hurled at each other. you feel cemented to the floor with how heavy your body seems, and all you can do is look at him.

"i see."

in that moment, it becomes apparent to you just how close the end of everything is. the lump in your throat is as heavy as you feel, and as much of an invader as you are to his home and his peace, apparently.

there isn't much else to be said.

when you try to swallow the ache in your throat, and make to move to the door, katsuki understands just how harshly he's stomped on your heart. he watches you through glasses of fading anger, and as red becomes normal he understands the gravity of it all.

"i— i've overstayed my welcome, it seems. i'll go." you throw over your shoulder as you leave.

"enjoy your home, bakugou."

you don't slam the door— but he wishes you had. he wishes there was rage in how you left— rage was what he could deal with. instead, he hears the soft click of the door— he hears the hopelessness and the surrender in your departure— and along with it, the end of your relationship.

✧ — thank you for reading !! rbs and feedback are greatly appreciated &lt;3

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