KISS OR KILL?

kashima wasn’t an anxious person—not at all. meticulous, that he was. he liked to have a plan A and a plan Y and everything in between covered.

but you didn’t care for his plans; you raged through his life like a storm. you changed the flow of the air and the colour of the sky and you were a factor he couldn’t predict; a factor that made him, by extension, more unpredictable.

and maybe that was part of what made him love you so. you kept him on his toes, pulled him out of his comfort zone, kept him alive despite the steel and wires that were housed under his skin.

thus he wondered: was it meant to be so hard to keep you alive? when you breathed life into him, was this the repercussion of his greed?

he pondered all this in silence, watching you, watching the show he’d put on as a distraction. truthfully, he had no idea what he even put on. kashima himself hadn’t entertained television in many years, had cared for it even less (he was blissfully unaware of which actors were famous right now, what shows were all the rage and which movies won any awards), but he would do anything for you even if it meant he had to listen to the grating voice of this actress that was trying to sound like a high schooler when she was already in her 30’s, even if he wanted to rinse his ears with soap and maybe turn off the ability of hearing altogether. and, even with the mild annoyances of the shitty shows you indulged yourself in, there was a big payoff in it for him too, for he was able to hold you and feel your weight press against his body and study you without any interruptions.

these moments were rare, for you were a restless little thing; he couldn’t keep you in the same place for longer than five minutes at a time and your mouth babbled on like it was a paid service—paid by the word, that is. sometimes he wondered how you were able to keep on running like this, seven days a week, almost three hundred sixty five days a year, but it was days like these that he’d known the answer.

because you crashed and burned every so often, and the wreckage was catastrophic to say the least. how glad he was to be there to pick up the pieces, at least this time.

stitched fingers threaded through your hair carefully, making sure he wouldn’t pull on any tangles in it by accident. you wouldn’t mind, but he did.

he watched closely as you blinked every once in a while, long lashes casting shadows over your skin. your weight against him was light as a feather given the make-up of his body, but he enjoyed the feeling nonetheless. it was strange—he’d never once craved for your kind of touch, or so he thought, but now that he’d received it, he couldn’t get enough of it. if he could, he would intertwine your bodies, soak in your scent, have your entire being engulf him.

but alas; kashima was a man who could get a lot done, but that was unfortunately not one of them. so he took what he could get and that was your late night cuddling on the couch as you played a game or watched a show. never movies, because you couldn’t concentrate on them, you said (he found this very strange, because your show episodes were typically not much shorter than one movie, but it’s not like he cared).

“are you enjoying it, my love?” he whispered eventually, wanting to check in with you. sometimes, you’d go nonverbal for several hours, and that’s when he knew it was really bad. his lips gently ghosted over your hair. he wondered at times if his stitches felt uncomfortable for you, but you never complained. not even once.

your eyes didn’t waver from the screen, but he wondered if you were really watching—they were empty, glossed over with a matte finish, it felt like. but you responded by adjusting your head on his chest and your arms pulled on his waist a little tighter. “it’s alright,” you answered non-committally.

it wasn’t much, but he’d take it.

he was silent for a few more beats, trying to think of something to keep your engaged in conversation, but he came up empty. under other circumstances it wouldn’t have bothered him. he was happy to sit together in silence, but that was usually not an option with you, and now the silence felt like it was pulling words out of his body with a needle and thread.

you didn’t seem to notice this quiet at all, still glued to the screen, the lights dancing in your eyes. despite that, they were empty. not like you. there was no life to be found; even their vibrant colour seemed to have faded into grey.

he sighed. stared at the ceiling for a while. then shifted, gently lifting you from his chest so he could sit up. you only briefly looked at him, turned away again, and he felt his heart clench (there wasn’t much left of him; but there was a heart). with utmost care, he grabbed onto your jaw and turned your head towards him. your cheeks squished in between his hands. were his hands that large, or your face so small?

“talk to me,” he said. it was a rope he threw out to you, hoping you’d catch on and pull yourself out of the water by leaning on him. tilting his head a little, he searched your eyes. “what are you thinking about?”

kashima hoped you were thinking about something, at least. anything was better than when you shut down entirely, unfeeling.

it happened, sometimes. they scared him. though, by now, he’d grown to understand you, to see your patterns, and it was a relief, but once upon a time, he’d feared the worst. that you didn’t feel anything for him anymore. sometimes, he would still feel a sliver of anxiety, worried that this time, you wouldn’t perk up at his presence again. that you’d grown tired of him, had your fun and moved on.

they were irrational thoughts, he realised. not only were they irrational, he also found them utterly disrespectful. you weren’t that kind of person.

even now, when he saw little in those eyes that resembled anything close to love, he knew you weren’t. the love he’d felt from you had been so pure, it could only have been a gift from god himself. not that he believed in one.

“i’m just tired,” you replied softly, and he knew you didn’t mean physically. “sometimes i think it would be better if i wasn’t here anymore.”

his heart stopped, just for a moment. one. two. three. and then it kickstarted again, beating irregularly. stuttering like an old engine in the harsh winter.

“what do you mean?” he asked then, realising his voice trembled. “of course it wouldn’t be better. the world needs more people like you. kind people. i need you.”

he’d known—he had. you would sometimes tell him bits and pieces of what you talked about with your therapist. only scraps though, because as open as you were with him about anything, that part was one you’d kept a tight lid on. and he’d tried, god knows he had, but every time he pressed further, you seemed to retract into your hard shell, often-times running away from him entirely. there was always something to be done; trash to be thrown out, food to be made, bills that were just due today.

still, the image that flashed through his mind hurt. a world without you wasn’t a world at all. you knew that, didn’t you? had he not made it very, very clear that you were his universe? the planets, the moons, the very stars in the sky?

“i just don’t contribute anything,” you whispered, “everyone does something. sakamoto contributes to the town. you are constantly working on devices that change something. i’m just… here.” at the very least, as your words tugged on his heart painfully, there was emotion in your eyes now. sadness. sadness was good. it wasn’t good, but it was good.

with ease only a cyborg could muster, he curled his arms underneath your armpits and pulled you closer into him. you were now almost face to face, legs tangled with his. as much as he’d wish he could become one with you, that was impossible; so he settled with engulfing you tightly in his arms. “you contribute so much, dear, you have no idea.” he sighed and breathed in the scent of your hair with closed eyes.

the show played on in the background, but the screechy voice of the actress had long faded into nothing.

how had he ever lived before you?

“you are kind,” he remarked, rubbing your shoulder with his thumb. the stitches were a little scratchy always, but you didn’t mind. “you try your best to help create a better world. you’re a good friend. and you’re my salvation. i don’t want a world without you anymore.”

you didn’t say anything. that was fine with him. but you held on just a little tighter, buried your head in his collar.

he didn’t say anything more either. there was a lot that didn’t need to be said by now. how different it had been once, when he was still so unfamiliar with love. for months, all he knew to do was run away from you. pretending he disliked you, acting like your interest in him annoyed him.

maybe it did, at first. it was uncomfortable. kashima had revered, he had idolised, but he’d never loved. had he ever been loved?

no, he was sure that he hadn’t. he was sure in the way that he was sure the sun would come up tomorrow. if he had been, he’d known; maybe he wouldn’t have rejected you so violently like the antibodies in your system rebelled against the virus in your veins when you got your latest booster. because, as it turned out, kashima loved being loved.

so much had changed.

he hoped he had changed something in your life, too.

with closed eyes, he let his head rest on yours. you were warm. and soft, in many ways. he enjoyed holding you, very much so. inwardly he chuckled, hardly being able to picture a time that he loathed affection, but he knew it was there.

“i love you,” he murmured into your hair, “you know that, right?”

there was silence. a sniffle, and he felt something wet trickle down his neck. yet when he tried to look, you held onto him tighter.

of course, with his strength, he could easily force you to look at him.

he didn’t.

you knew that, knew that he had so much strength over you, and yet you trusted him anyway. “don’t look,” came from below him, meekly, but at last, already more lively than before.

he could live with that, is what he thought. “alright,” he conceded, “i won’t look.”

it was enough for him to relax. pressing a kiss into your hair, which got a few strands of them tangled in his stitches, he felt you relax too.

funny. he never thought he’d be the type for romance, but he found he was needy. desperate for your affection. your acceptance had saved him; saved him from himself, perhaps, when he thought he was no longer worthy of living. never did he think he would heal from his mistakes.

never had he thought he would ever be able to live a life after his crimes, with his legs tangled between yours, listening to the wind howl and the rain splash against the windows.

you were a miracle, and he hoped maybe he could become yours too. salvage all the broken pieces that had been scattered around over the years and puzzling them back together.

maybe you two could heal each other, for the rest of your lives, he hoped?