Laios' Right Boot

Paring: Nanami Kento x male!husband!reader

Summary: reader and Namami come home after over a year in a hospital.

Warning: relatively anti-climactic, everybody lives/nobody dies Au, post-shibuya incident, mentions of gojo and the first years, mentions of extended hospital stays, injury (to children and adults), and medically induced coma, short fic.

Word count: 1069

A/n: was I asked to write this? No, do I have 30+ request in my inbox, yes. Do I even write for jkk on a regular basis? No. And yet here we are.

The car ride home was deafeningly quiet. 15 months away from it made it feel…distant. You still went there, every other day or so, but you were never inside for more than ten minutes, you didn't eat or sleep there. Your books were untouched, your refrigerator was emptied months ago when you realized all the food had gone bad, your bed was still perfectly made, as he had made it that morning all those months ago.

You breathed in as you reached a familiar stop light. Tapping your finger against the steering wheel as you held it.

“Are you nervous?” was the first thing Nanami said since you left the hospital.

“A little.” you breathed out, “I wish I took better care of it- I know you loved it, now it's dusty and…sad.”

nanami never thought you’d cry over a sandwich.

you’re sitting cross-legged on the couch, bundled in your favorite oversized hoodie, sniffling into a tissue. your bottom lip is trembling. your eyes are glossy. there’s a pathetic little frown on your face as you stare at the now-empty plate on your lap.

“it was just… so good,” you say, voice wobbly. “the bread was so soft. and the mayo ratio was perfect. and the tomato wasn’t soggy at all, kento.”

nanami blinks at you. silent. slow. then blinks again.

“…you’re crying,” he says carefully. “over the sandwich I made.”

you nod. another sniff. you wipe under your eyes. “yes.”

nanami doesn’t know what to do with that. he honestly thought you had gotten a phone call with bad news, or stubbed your toe, or watched a sad video on your phone again (which was already a very regular occurrence). but no. you’re crying over lunch.

and not even a great sandwich. not one with slow-roasted beef or caramelized onions or aioli with a name too fancy to pronounce. just a tomato and cheese sandwich on multigrain.

“…was it the type of cheese?” he tries.

you throw yourself dramatically across the cushions and whimper, “you made it for me, kenny. with love. i could taste it.”

he exhales through his nose and rubs his forehead, fighting a smile.

the first time he saw you cry like this, he was worried something was very wrong. turns out you just rewatched a coming-of-age anime. then it was a video of a baby goat in pajamas. then a pigeon with one leg that found a mate. and then one time you cried because he looked really handsome in a blue button-up.

it’s always something with you.

and every time, he thinks he’s prepared. every time, he’s wrong.

“you’re ridiculous,” he murmurs, kneeling beside the couch. he tugs the tissue box closer and hands you a fresh one. “and overly sensitive.”

“emotional,” you correct, holding it to your nose. “i just feel a lot, okay?”

“yes,” he says dryly. “i’ve noticed.”

you reach for him—grabbing his arm, pulling him until he sighs and lets you fold against his chest. your hands cling to his shirt, your face buried against his collarbone. you sniff again. he wonders if he should invest in better-quality tissues.

“…but like,” you mumble into his shoulder, “you don’t think it’s a bad thing, right?”

he looks down at you. you’re still pouty and teary and a little snotty. but you’re warm. affectionate. soft in all the ways he’s not. and when he cups the back of your head, you lean into it like it’s instinct.

“no,” he says. “i don’t think it’s a bad thing.”

you lift your head, sniffling again. your eyes are a little red, lashes wet. “so you like that i’m emotional?”

he hesitates. your eyes narrow. he clears his throat.

“…i’ve gotten used to it.”

you scowl.

“fine. yes. i like it.”

“you love it,” you say smugly.

“i tolerate it.”

you’re already smiling through the tears, rubbing at your face with your sleeves like a toddler. he sighs again and gently pulls your hoodie sleeves away to clean you up properly, holding another tissue to your nose like you’re incapable of doing it yourself.

“blow,” he murmurs.

you do. very pathetically. he grimaces.

“god, you’re a mess.”

“you’re so good to me, heh,” you say sweetly.

he wipes your face clean with ridiculous tenderness and finally sits beside you, letting you drape yourself over him like always. one of your arms around his waist, the other holding the tissue box close to your chest. your cheek pressed to his chest now, soft hums escaping you as he rubs circles into your back.

“thank you for the sandwich,” you say, almost whispering. “it was the best sandwich i’ve ever had.”

he kisses the top of your head. “you’re welcome, sweetheart.”

you go quiet for a moment.

then—“wait—what if i never taste a sandwich that good again? what if—what if the next one is a disappointment and it ruins the memory of this one?”

“…are you crying again?”

“only a little!!”

nanami closes his eyes and counts to ten.

but his hand never stops rubbing your back. and when you inevitably get the hiccup-cry combo ten minutes later, he brings you a glass of water without being asked.

because you are emotional.

but you’re also kind. and open. and loving. and somehow, impossibly, you’re his.

and if loving you means tissues and tears and hand-holding through minor food-related meltdowns… then he’ll take all of it.

even the sobbing over sandwiches.

bonus:

gojo finds out one day and laughs until he cries.

“you sobbed over a sandwich?”

“shut up,” you mumble.

nanami only glares at him once and gojo stops laughing immediately.

you beam. “see? he gets it.”

nanami sips his coffee in silence.

he doesn’t get it. but he gets you. and that’s more than enough.

you find it behind a convenience store at half past ten on a thursday.

it’s raining, your umbrella is half-broken, and you’re soaked down to your socks. nanami is already irritated at the detour — you’d asked for five minutes to grab a snack — and even more irritated when you crouch down next to a stack of crates and go completely still.

he sighs, “what now?”

you don’t say anything. just shuffle sideways a little, and then turn to him with wide eyes.

“kento,” you whisper, too dramatically, “she’s a baby.”

his face is flat, neutral. unmoved. until he steps a little closer and sees what you’re crouched next to.

a tiny kitten, soaked and shivering, its fur all stuck to its bony body. it lets out a pathetic mewl and tries to hide further under the crates, but you gently offer your palm, murmuring soft encouragements.

“we are not bringing it home,” nanami says immediately.

“we can’t leave her here!”

“it’s an animal. it’ll find its way.”

“what if it doesn’t?” you shoot back, still whispering. “what if she’s too small? what if she dies?”

nanami pinches the bridge of his nose, already wet and annoyed and just trying to get you back home where it’s dry and warm and cat-free. “that’s not our responsibility.”

but your lip wobbles a little, just barely, and you blink at him with such soft, wet eyes that he instantly feels like a villain in a children’s movie. you pick the kitten up, wrapping it in your scarf. it lets you, too weak to fight.

you don’t say anything as you walk back. you just sniffle. once. nanami glares ahead and pretends he doesn’t hear it.

then he wordlessly hands you the umbrella and shrugs off his coat to hold it over the kitten instead. on the way home you babytalk the kitten and try to convince nanami of it’s cuteness, but he is too focused on not driving into a curb with the heavy rain to even respond to you.

and naturally, you name her tuna mayo. after the onigiri you gave her that night. nanami winces every time he hears it.

“you’ll be lucky if she responds to a name like that.”

“you’re just jealous i didn’t name her kento jr.”

“please don’t.”

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

the first few weeks are awful.

the kitten scratches the couch, which makes a vein pop out on nanami’s temple every time he sees the furniture and the receipt flashes before his eyes. then your arms. then nanami’s pants leg — which he handles with unnerving calm, surprising even you. you keep her in your apartment, because nanami “has carpets,” and because “i am not spending a single yen of my salary on vet bills or food or toys.”

you’re okay with it. you don’t need help.

still, every time he comes over, there’s a pause. a breath held in the middle of his complaining. like he’s listening.

for the tiny paws, the chirpy meows, the soft jingle of the collar you got her.

“you’re ridiculous,” he says, watching you play with her on the floor. she’s batting a rolled-up receipt around while you cheer her on.

you grin up at him, lying flat on your stomach in your pajamas.

“you love her.”

“i do not.”

“you so do.”

“i tolerate her. ”

you turn back to tuna mayo.

“don’t listen to him, baby. he’s just shy.”

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

he thinks you don’t notice the little things.

like how he always brings treats now, “because she’ll stop harassing me if she’s full.”

or how she once crawled up on his lap and he froze like he was being held at gunpoint — but didn’t move her. read in that uncomfortable position for half an hour before considering it “enough” and pushing the kitty off gently.

or how he picks her up with two hands and mutters in a low, soft voice when he thinks you’re asleep. looks over her face, scratches behind her ear and compliments the shade of her fur.

he calls her “cat.” you call her “baby girl.” tuna mayo answers to both.

one night, you come home to find them asleep on the couch. he’s slumped back, arms crossed, and she’s curled into the crook of his elbow. it’s the cutest sight ever and you feel like squealing, but instead, you take a photo and don’t bring it up until weeks later when you need to blackmail him into buying her a fancier litter box.

he doesn’t argue.

just mutters “how much?” and looks away while you laugh.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

and then she’s gone.

you wake up to the window open and the curtains flapping, and no tiny paws on your chest, no soft purring, no little creature blinking at you with sleepy eyes.

you check every corner. call her name. shake the treat bag. you search the building. knock on doors. check under cars, behind fences, around the alley where you first found her.

nothing.

when nanami gets the call, he’s still at work.

you don’t mean to cry, but you do. just these tiny, breathless sobs that make him go silent for a long second before he says, “i’m coming.”

you’re sitting on the kitchen floor when he gets there, surrounded by a dish of food, one of her toys, and her collar.

“i should’ve kept the window closed,” you whisper, eyes swollen. “i should’ve— i don’t know. i should’ve been better.”

“don’t do that,” he says, kneeling beside you. “you did everything right.”

“then why’d she leave?”

he exhales, rubs a hand over his face. then, slowly, wraps his arm around you. you press your face to his chest — to that warm, quiet place between his pecs — and cry harder.

he doesn’t say much, just holds you. fingers rubbing slow circles over your back. chin resting on your head and letting you fall apart.

“you’re allowed to be sad,” he murmurs.

you sniffle. “you are too, you know.”

“hm?”

“you loved her.”

he pauses. then, so softly you almost miss it—

“…yeah.”

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

you make flyers. call shelters. set up alerts.

you walk the neighborhood every morning and every night. nanami goes with you when he can. he pretends like he’s just there to keep you company, but sometimes you catch him crouched by bushes and corners, calling gently into the dark.

he doesn’t say her name, doesn’t even think she’ll respond to that from his voice. just hey.

and you little menace.

and come home already.

he holds your hand on the walk back.

. . . somehow, a week later, she’s waiting by your front door.

thin and dirty and loud as ever.

you collapse to the ground when you see her. she immediately climbs into your lap and yells.

“i should’ve known,” nanami says flatly, crouching next to you. “only a creature with no survival instinct would come back here.”

you laugh through tears. tuna mayo sneezes and you laugh harder. he wipes your face with the sleeve of his coat, gentle, grumbling under his breath.

“don’t look at me like that,” he tells you, ears a little red. “you’re lucky she likes you.”

“she likes you too!”

“no, she doesn’t.”

“kento.”

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

you keep the window shut from then on, tensing every time your kitten goes near it, curious as ever. nanami buys her a new bed and still calls her “cat.”